Chapter One
"She's the key to the north," Dany had told the men earlier that evening, as they had prepared to set out on their mission. "The Tarlys will pay any price to get her back, Varys told us that. It's the only way we'll get the gold that we need."
Dany wasn't wrong, according to Tyrion. Daario and Jorah were becoming too notorious among the clans; their faces were too known now and there were prices on their heads. They couldn't just keep stealing from the great houses forever. Their luck would run out soon; moreover, as Tyrion had pointed out, the great houses' coffers would run out, soon, too.
Some of the great houses supported their cause, but in turbulent times like these, there was little gold to spare. Wars demanded money that most of the North simply did not have. Now Jon found himself riding by moonlight across the moors to Winterfell, with Jorah and Davos on either side of him. Their horses were swift, and they did not make conversation.
For this, Jon was glad. They had spent nearly a fortnight in their latest holdfast, listening to Tyrion drink and start petty arguments between Daario and Jorah for his own amusement, with Dany stepping in only occasionally. Having the two men pitted against each other was strategically beneficial to a certain point, but not if they actually killed each other.
Jon had been glad for the chance to be in the open air, doing something of value to their cause. He'd spent most of his life out of doors, and being inside for so long felt unnatural to him. He knew Davos was the same.
It felt good to be doing something, though the honor of it was in question. Dany, sensing Jon and Davos' misgivings, had been quick to point out what Varys had told them: the Stark girl was technically a prisoner in her own home, having been sold like a broodmare to the Tarlys. She would merely be trading one prison for another. No harm would come to her, Dany had reasoned, and she had reminded them all that she too had once been forced into a marriage. Any respite from her captors would be welcome. They'd take the girl, scare the Tarlys into giving them the funds they so sorely needed, and then promptly return the girl unharmed.
If this truly would be a respite from captivity, then in a way, it seemed even crueler to Jon. The Stark girl would have a taste of freedom, only to have it snatched away. Then again, he doubted she would see the abduction as freedom. Dany seemed to think she'd welcome kidnapping with open arms—Jon was not so sure. After all, he knew what it was to be taken, even from a home to which you did not truly belong.
All in all, he'd be glad when this business was done and they had their gold and could continue on their path to putting Dany on the throne as the rightful heir. Once they had the gold, they wouldn't need to hide out in holdfasts, trapped amongst each other, whiling away the hours with wine and empty strategizing.
"Not far now," Davos said, his voice nearly lost on the wind. "Look at the frost."
They were well north now. The moors were frosty and the wind was howling louder.
Up ahead, the dark silhouette of Winterfell loomed. A chill ran down Jon's spine. He was the blood of Winterfell, and that was half of why Dany had sent him. He'd been fostered there when it had belonged to Lord Eddard Stark; his mother, Lyanna, was buried in its crypts. He knew the place, knew how to slip in unnoticed.
He barely recalled the Stark girl, though. With his mother dead and his father marked a traitor to the kingdom, Jon hadn't been allowed to play with the Stark children, and had grown up watching them from afar.
That was the other half of why Dany had sent him.
Convinced of the bad blood between Jon and the Starks, she wanted to give him the chance for vengeance. But Jon felt no ill will towards Sansa Stark. She had never been kind to him, but she'd never been unkind, either. She'd merely been a child raised to believe she was special—and did their mission not prove that fact? They were risking everything to steal her.
Eddard Stark, his uncle, had always been kind to him whenever he could. Had his mother not married a traitor to the realm, he might have grown up alongside the other Stark children, beloved and cherished. But as it had been, Eddard could hardly be seen showing affection to the son of a traitor.
"Lead the way, Snow," Jorah said, his voice wry with irony as they neared the walls of Winterfell. Jon reflexively touched his sword at his belt, and slowed his black destrier. He could almost make out the torches through the mist.
"We go around, toward the wood," Jon said, guiding them west. "We'll tie the horses there and go on foot the rest of the way."
Being the son of a traitor and an unloved boy had had its advantages: Jon had gotten to know Winterfell better than anyone else. How many hours had been chased away by walking the battlements, by exploring the crypts by torchlight? He knew every weakness in Winterfell's walls.
Daario might have blundered in through the front gate or tried to scale the walls. The man was skilled and fierce but blunt and temperamental. Grey Worm might have been a solid choice, but Davos had convinced Jon to pick Jorah instead.
"If we leave Mormont and the Tyroshi together any longer, we'll not have a holdfast to come back to," Davos had said under his breath, as they'd stood in the corner, surveying the men in the room and making their strategy. Jon had to agree. Besides, Jorah was cleverer than Grey Worm, and far more experienced.
They tied their horses at the edge of the wood, and silently made their way to the west gate of Winterfell. They were mere shadows in the mist. Bypassing the gate, they went north towards the glass garden.
There had been a crack in the stones of the wall behind the glass garden. It was unlikely to have been repaired, as no one had known of it when Jon had lived at Winterfell. If by some stroke of fate it had been blocked in, they'd scale the broken tower.
It was past midnight now. Jon walked along the wall, his bare hand grazing the stones as he walked. It had been near fifteen years since he had been here last, before the Targaryens had stolen him back. No one would have paid a ransom for him, and Dany had always fiercely told him that no price could have bought him back once she had him.
Jon wondered if this was true. He had been so happy to be taken to people that had wanted him, to people who had not cringed and looked the other way whenever they saw him, that it wasn't until he was older that he thought much of the fact that he was technically a prisoner as well.
"Here," he breathed, as they came to the gash in the wall. It was barely enough for a man to fit through, but they were all slender men, though Davos and Jorah weren't young anymore. Jon peered through the gash into the glass gardens. The vegetation was thicker than ever and it would give them enough cover. One by one, they crept in.
A low wall separated the glass gardens from the rest of Winterfell. On the other side, they could hear one of the Tarly men loosely keeping watch. In the old days of knights and maidens, two guards would have been positioned at each gate, prepared to take down any intruders, with more guards patrolling the grounds, but these were different times. The Tarlys were well off but they were from the south, where things were easier, where men worked in poison and treason and alliances—not with dirks and swords and shadow.
They melded with the shadows as they moved through the godswood, the stand of ancient trees where Jon had prayed as a boy. Raucous laughter was coming from the armory and each man held his breath and froze in place. A serving girl was giggling as a man led her toward the godswood, their breaths clouding in the air.
Distantly, music could be heard, coming from the Great Hall. The Tarlys had to celebrate the acquisition of Winterfell, after all. In two weeks' time when the Stark girl married Dickon Tarly, Winterfell would officially be Tarly lands. They would likely even rename it, to something more southron.
It was late now; the Stark girl would be in her rooms, as it would be improper for her to witness what a Tarly party looked like after midnight. "You know the southron lords," Varys had tittered. "They don't have quite the same definition of honor that the northerners do. One look at Lady Sansa Stark and she'll be spoiled goods before Dickon can marry her. She's as beautiful as her mother...perhaps even more beautiful," Varys had gossiped, his gaze lingering a little too knowingly on Dany's face.
Dany had spent the last fifteen years being the most beautiful woman in the room, accustomed to being adored by every man who crossed paths with her. At Varys' words she'd sat a little straighter, Jon noticed.
The Great Hall was still lit up with the party, with a few guests spilling out drunkenly.
Jorah went first. He'd shed his riding clothes, revealing a fine waistcoat. He had the look of a lord, and blended in well. No one took notice of him as he made his way across the courtyard to the entrance of the Great Keep.
Jon and Davos had dressed for utility, all in black. They soon followed, once they got Jorah's signal that the coast was clear and that he'd got what they needed for the next part of the plan. Inside the Great Keep, Jorah was waiting with stolen servant's garb and a cup full of wine. Jon slipped on the roughspun waistcoat over his own clothing and took the cup.
More likely than not the Stark girl had kept the same bedroom she'd had as a child. He walked swiftly along the hall, the cup gripped tightly in his clammy hands. He couldn't believe they'd encountered no trouble yet. This should have been harder. Had Varys betrayed them?
At the end of the hall, a man was positioned outside the Stark girl's door.
"Wine from Lord Tarly," Jon informed the guard as he reached him. The guard was tall and broad—probably a lesser Tarly, judging by his stature—and dressed in a fine brocade waistcoat. "To thank you for your service."
"I've never seen you before," the man observed, narrowing his eyes at Jon and puffing up his chest.
There was no one else in the corridor. His dirk was inside his waistcoat, for Jorah and Davos had taken his sword.
"I'm new," Jon told him. "Brought in special for the party."
"I know all of Lord Tarly's men," the man said, abruptly unsheathing his sword.
The cup clattered against the stone floor, the wine splashing everywhere. The man was fast, but Jon was faster. It would have been quieter to slit his throat but the man was too big and too tall; Jon wouldn't have been able to get behind him fast enough. His dirk sank into the guard's belly, as the guard started shouting. "INTRUDER!"
Footsteps were coming fast enough. Jon braced himself and launched against the locked door, barreling it down. His shoulder throbbed as he exploded into the room, keenly aware of the approaching shouts and footfalls. The dirk in his hand was bloody.
And there she was.
Sansa shed her pale pink silk dress, her cheeks as pink as the silk in the candlelight, her heart still fluttering.
Dickon had escorted her to her room just moments ago, after his father had decided that the party was growing too rowdy and wild for her presence to be proper.
They'd not been alone yet before tonight, not properly. Walking in the frosty night, arm in arm, she had felt his heat, and scented his skin. He had been nervous, stammering in a way that she would not have expected from him.
"Y-you look so lovely tonight, Sansa," he had finally said as they had reached the shadow of the Great Keep. Pausing, she had turned to him. There was no moon tonight, and his warm brown eyes had looked darker than ever.
As a little girl, she had loved the tales of knights and maidens, and in his fine red waistcoat, with his strong jaw and broad shoulders and lean waist, Dickon could have easily been a knight in one of her picture books that Father had given her. And he was so gallant, always so polite... "That is, you always look lovely," he hastily added in her silence. She couldn't help but smile at him. He was so sweet, so gentle.
"Thank you," she had demurred, looking down at the ground shyly. They were all alone in the courtyard, she realized, and her heart was pounding now. When she looked up, the sweetness had melted away and he was looking down at her with desire unmistakably darkening his eyes.
"I cannot wait until we are wed," he confessed breathlessly, taking her hands in his.
Until a month ago, she had thought she'd never be married for love, but there was no question in her mind that Dickon had fallen for her the moment he had set his warm brown eyes on her. It had been a whirlwind fairy tale since that moment they had locked eyes in court. "I want to kiss you terribly," he admitted suddenly. "It's all I can think about. I wish we could marry now, tonight."
Her heart had soared as a strange heat spread through her. After all the years, all of the pain, it almost seemed too good to be true: that she should get to marry a man as lovely and kind as Dickon, that she should get to return to her home, to live as husband and wife in the home she had thought she'd never see again. She squeezed his hands in hers, her eyes burning with the threat of tears, a lump rising in her throat. "What's wrong?" he asked softly, releasing her hands to cup her cheek. Sansa swallowed, feeling his thumb caress her cheek. His hands were smooth and warm.
"I'm happy," she replied, with a teary laugh. "I never thought…" she couldn't finish. Dickon's brow furrowed.
"May I kiss you?" he breathed, leaning in close, and she had wordlessly nodded, her blood pounding in her ears like a drum.
He had pressed his lips to hers, his hands on her shoulders, clutching her tightly; his desire for her barely restrained. She had curled her fingers into his waistcoat, felt the thick silk under her fingers, and the hard chest underneath. He was strong, and gentle, and kind, and he was kissing her tenderly, gently, even though she could feel that he wanted to do so much more. She wanted to know what he wanted to do.
They'd heard the sound of laughter, and broken apart abruptly, breathless and flushed. A few of Lord Tarly's men stumbled out of the Great Hall, clutching goblets of wine and making loud, inappropriate jokes. Dickon's blush had been visible even in the darkness.
"Come, this is no place for a lady, it seems," he had said sweetly, and with a gentle hand had guided her into the Great Keep. At her door, one of Lord Tarly's men had been waiting, stopping them from one last kiss. Breathlessly Dickon had bid her goodnight, and Sansa had all but swooned backward into her room.
Her maid had unlaced her corset for her, and then Sansa sent the woman away, wanting to be alone. She wanted to be alone to cherish that kiss, to see it again and again in her mind's eye, to feel his grip on her arms, his soft lips against hers, and to imagine what it might feel like to have himbe the one to unlace her corset.
She donned a nightdress and sat at her vanity table, brushing her hair out of its elaborate style, the jeweled pins scattered on her table. She dabbed on some of the perfume that Dickon had brought as a gift for her, on the inside of her wrists and on her neck, and in a fresh burst of ecstasy imagined his lips pressed against her neck, taking in the scent of the perfume he had bought for her on her skin.
And then, in an explosion of noise, her door burst open.
The Stark girl was by her vanity table, in a dangerously sheer nightdress. She rose from her chair shakily, paling, her unbound copper hair gleaming in the firelight.
Varys had been right. She was lovely. Jon wondered if she would recognize him. It had been fifteen years, after all, and he had a beard and a man's face now.
"Get away from me. My husband's guards will be here soon," she told him, moving backwards.
"You should come quietly. Take a cloak, it's cold," he told her. The Stark girl slammed back into her vanity table, feeling behind her wildly for something. Jon ignored her and went to her wardrobe, and found a thick traveling cloak. When he turned, she was holding a knife with shaking hands.
"Stay back," she whispered. Her bright blue eyes, bright as the center of a flame, took in the bloody dirk in his hand.
"Take the cloak," he said, ignoring her threat, tossing the heavy fabric to her. She didn't catch it, didn't move.
"Y-you killed him," she realized. "You killed the guard."
"We don't have time for talk," Jon told her calmly. He approached her. "Put down that knife; it won't help you."
The door banged open again, but it was Davos and Jorah, each holding bloody swords.
"We'll have some trouble," Davos said matter-of-factly as he turned around and locked the door again. Jorah was already sliding the wardrobe along the floor to block the door. A loud bang sounded on the door.
"OPEN UP," a rough man's voice called. Davos rolled his eyes, muttering, "Does he really think that'll do anything?" and helped Jorah block the door; the Stark girl backed up to her bed, still holding out the knife.
"What is it you want?" she demanded. "Is it money? My husband will pay."
"We know he will. That's the point of all this. And he's not your husband yet," Jon told her. "Put the knife down, now."
He went to her, and she ducked behind a bedpost. She was in tears.
"Don't touch me!"
He'd have to attack her; he'd thought she might come quietly. She'd always been the delicate one of the Starks, always flouncing around in pretty dresses and swooning over romantic stories of knights and princesses. He doubted she knew how to use that knife, but it was still a blade pointed at him and she could very easily get lucky.
And then her eyes widened.
"Wait," she breathed. "J-Jon Snow?"
His mouth went dry at the look of horror and betrayal in her eyes. In that moment, as they both froze, Jorah swept in from behind and hit her over the head with the butt of his blade, knocking her out.
"This is no time to be a gentleman, Snow," he said irritably as the girl collapsed into his arms. "Here, take her."
The Stark girl moaned as Jorah handed her to Jon. Annoyed, Jon hoisted her over his shoulder. Davos had dropped the rope ladder they'd brought out the window and secured it; the wardrobe in front of the door shook and trembled as the men tried to break down the door.
Jorah went first down the ladder with his blade ready, then Davos. The Stark girl was limp but she'd come to soon. He had to move quickly.
The rope ladder felt flimsy, especially under their combined weight. It wasn't a long drop but it'd hurt if they fell. There were shouts on the other side of the courtyard. They had mere seconds to escape.
They ran to the north gate. Jorah made quick work of the guard there, putting the body count at two. They'd wanted to do this without blood, as it would have made Tarly sweeter to the idea of paying a high price, but it was too late now. Fire and blood, Jon thought. I'm a Targaryen after all.
Jorah and Davos sprinted ahead to the horses to untie them and bring them to Jon. He looked over his shoulder, back at Winterfell, to see if they were close. The Stark girl was growing heavy and he could feel her shifting. Should've tied her hands, he thought unhappily as he saw the torches at the north gate.
They were coming after them.
Jorah and Davos brought the horses and helped Jon mount with the Stark girl. She slumped in the saddle in front of him, her soft body against his chest, and then they were riding into the woods.
Sansa woke with a gasp on horseback, her wrists tied, her face damp and cold, and her fingers numb. She felt a man's strong chest against her back.
The last thing she remembered was seeing Jon Snow holding a bloody dirk and advancing on her.
She hadn't seen him since her childhood, but it had been unmistakably him. He had the Stark face and Stark eyes. He had grown into a beautiful, terrible man.
Her head throbbed; she supposed one of the men had knocked her out.
Strong, scarred hands held the reins, arms effectively imprisoning her.
"Where are we going?" Her voice was nearly lost in the wind.
"South," came Jon Snow's soft voice.
"Why?"
"You're a hostage of Princess Daenerys Targaryen."
They want Tarly to pay for me, she thought dully. Just as Randyll Tarly wanted me for my name.
She was gold, nothing more. Only Dickon wanted her for her, not for her name or her status.
She was property to be purchased, to be stolen, and to be bought back. Even Jon Snow, her cousin, her own kin, would steal her for coin.
"You are dishonorable." She knew he had heard her, because she felt him flinch. "You're no true Stark. Father never would have done something like this. It's just like mother always said: there's too much Targaryen in you to trust."
"Half the country would put a Targaryen on the throne," she heard him counter. There was pain in his voice; she had wounded him. Good.
"Then why do you need to steal me?" she asked softly. He had no retort for that, it seemed.
He would not name her Sansa in his head. Calling her the Stark girl distanced her, made it easier to do this. Her long hair smelled sweet, and brushed against his skin as they rode into the wind. It irritated him.
It would be another hour to the holdfast; they'd had to go through the wood and around it to lose Tarly's men. Now that she was awake, she sat straight on the horse, attempting to put as much distance between them as possible. But she was shaking with cold; he could feel her trembling finely against him.
He might have offered her his own cloak, but her words burned. You're no true Stark.
Jon would not soon forget the memory of Catelyn Stark pointing at him, shielding Sansa from him as they passed. She had turned to look back at him, her copper hair fanning around her, her eyes filled with curiosity. The other Stark children had been warmer, but she had always taken after her mother.
"I suppose you volunteered to take me. As revenge," the Stark girl said, after a long while.
That burned, too.
"Don't speak," he ordered brusquely. "When we get to Princess Daenerys, you'll only speak when spoken to, and do as you're told. No harm will come to you, so long as you make no trouble."
"Aside from being brutally ripped from my home, and freezing to death, yes, I'm sure."
"No more speaking," he said through grit teeth.
She didn't speak again, but she still sat up straight as a rod, cringing whenever the horse jostled them enough to brush against each other. But her shaking was growing more violent, and they still had many miles to go. Ahead, Jorah and Davos rode in silence, keeping a swift pace even as they zigzagged and detoured. They'd outrun Tarly's men, to be sure, but they couldn't be too careful.
She wouldn't ask for a cloak, of course. Besides, he'd told her not to speak. He heard her teeth chattering, and he couldn't stand it anymore. With the reins in one hand, he shrugged off his cloak with the other, and clumsily draped it over her shoulders.
"What are you doing?"
"You're shaking," he said shortly. The cloth settled over her, and he did his best to smooth it out. He felt her shrink from his touch as his hand lingered on her shoulder.
He opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to tell her that he didn't want revenge, wanted to tell her that he wished her no harm, but the words wouldn't come out. They would be hollow words; after all, as she had said, he had killed to kidnap her.
For the rest of the journey, they did not speak, but the tension was thick, and her hatred for him palpable.
The holdfast was an old stone house in a boggy area, guarded by high stone walls and set behind woods as tangled and bristled as a wild dog's fur. Grey Worm was waiting for them at the gate, the soldier's posture stiff as a board.
"We were followed at first, but I think we lost them," Davos said in greeting as Grey Worm unlocked the gate. His dark eyes went to Sansa Stark.
"Princess Daenerys is awake and ready to receive the Stark girl," Grey Worm replied. The gate rattled as he dragged it open. Tyrion was coming out the front entrance, still fully dressed in an embroidered navy waistcoast, carrying a cup of wine, as usual.
"Lady Sansa Stark, soon to be Lady Tarly," he greeted. "You are lovelier every time I see you."
"Lord Lannister," she greeted coolly. Tyrion's mismatched eyes flicked to Jon so briefly, and there was something in his gaze that Jon did not like, though he could not say why.
Davos and Jorah dismounted and Grey Worm took the horses to the stable; the two men helped the Stark girl dismount as well. She stumbled a bit. Her legs were clearly stiff from riding.
"Come, Lady Stark. We have food and wine, and a hot bath and change of clothes for you before you meet with Princess Daenerys," Tyrion said, leading her—though he did not untie her wrists—into the house. Jon watched her for a moment, before abruptly jerking the reins and leading his horse to the stables.
Though it was cold, his blood ran strangely hot. He supposed that he was still angry from her words. He was glad to be free of her. His waistcoat smelled like her perfume, he realized as he stabled his horse. He'd change once he got inside.
You are dishonorable.
Furiously, he slammed the gate to the stables closed. Grey Worm glanced at him with vague curiosity, but then went back to his task, and Jon exploded into the courtyard. A light snow was falling, and the window to the parlor was visible from here, casting a square of warm golden light before him. Jon stood outside of its light, and looked into the window. The Stark girl was inside, still wrapped in his cloak, being served hot wine and a warm supper, though she would not eat it. He watched her shake her head, her cheeks still flushed from the cold.
He let out a long breath, watched it cloud in the air before him.
The Stark girl was worth money, and Dany's cause was worth everything to him. Dany had saved him from a life of ostracism, of always being the traitor's son. She saved people. He would do anything for her in return.
You are no true Stark, Sansa Stark had said.
I never was, he thought as he stared hard at Sansa Stark through the window. You and your mother made certain of that.
Perhaps Dany was right: perhaps some part of him wanted revenge after all…
There was a hot bath and a warm fire waiting in her room for her. A dark-skinned girl with a foreign accent led her to the room, with Tyrion Lannister's warning still ringing in her head.
You are a guest here, but make no mistake, you will only go home when we see fit. Take care to remember that, Lady Stark.
The door locked behind her. She was once again locked in a splendid cage. Sansa went to the windows. She could have jumped, but men with swords were stationed on the ground.
In the corner was a tub of steaming water, scented with rose oil. The furnishings were a bit dusty and worn but the wardrobe had a few silk dresses inside, clearly well made though they were well worn too. The Beggar Princess, they called Daenerys Targaryen.
She was still frozen, so she slipped out of Jon Snow's heavy cloak and her nightgown, in order to bathe. His cloak smelled of his skin, and the scent clung to her. She was eager to be rid of his scent; just the thought of his face filled her with rage. She tossed the nightgown aside and clambered into the hot tub. The water was scalding hot but felt icy cold at first; the skin of her wrists, still chafed from the rope, seared with pain as the hot water touched it.
After bathing, she changed into the underpinnings provided. She needed to call in the girl, Missandei, to help her into the corset. She then selected a pale blue silk dress. She looked best in blue. But the gown was too short.
"It is one of Princess Daenerys' old dresses," Missandei explained as she led her down the stairs. Princess Daenerys was waiting in the parlor now. Eyes gazed at her through open doors. The house was packed with people; she wondered whom they all were. Her hair was still wet and she felt self-conscious in her too-short dress, but she held her back straight. She would not show any weakness. "Presenting Princess Daenerys Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne," Missandei said as she opened the door to the parlor.
Daenerys was beautiful; with blonde hair so pale it looked silver, and striking violet eyes. She was reclining in a chair by the fire. The two men who had helped Jon Snow to abduct her were positioned across the room, and another man, wearing a powdered grey wig with a blue tint, was by Princess Daenerys' side.
Jon Snow stood in the corner, staring out the window. He was clad in a somewhat finer waistcoat now than before, though it was dark and nondescript. His hair was wet from a bath as well, curling against his neck and jaw, most of it pulled back in a low knot at the base of his neck. He did not turn to look at her, his gaze fiercely fixed outside at the darkness.
"Lady Sansa Stark," Daenerys said, regarding Sansa. Sansa gave a perfunctory curtsey. A lady's courtesy was her armor, after all. "Varys did not lie—she is lovely," Daenerys remarked to Tyrion, who sat beside her.
"I told you, Princess," he insisted. "Please, have a seat, Lady Stark. You must be exhausted."
Sansa did as told and took a seat in a slender chair across from the princess. "We have left word with your fiance on the amount we request. Should he comply, we will determine a suitable meeting point and return you at once," Tyrion explained.
"How much are you asking?" Sansa asked. She might as well learn her worth.
"Three thousand gold dragons," Daenerys spoke now.
"What will you do with the money, Princess?"
"That is unnecessary for you to know," Daenerys replied. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Jon look briefly, then quickly turn back to look out the window. "While you are here, you will be my honored guest. You will be given fine clothes and fine food and treated with utmost respect and courtesy. We wish you no harm."
"You are very generous, Princess," Sansa said innocently. Daenerys' violet eyes narrowed, sensing a cut, though she did not remark on it.
"You must be tired. Jon Snow will escort you back to your room. Should you have need of anything, he will be stationed outside of your room. You need only ask, and if possible, we will provide it."
Jon turned sharply. A part of Sansa delighted in his obvious shock; he clearly had not been made aware of this plan.
"Thank you, your highness," Sansa said, and rose to her feet. Jon Snow crossed the room, and led her out into the hall silently.
No eyes stared her down now; it was well after three in the morning, she saw from a clock on the wall. At the stairs, Jon paused, and gestured for her to climb ahead of him. Their eyes met briefly, and he quickly averted his gaze. He was not shy, she thought; he was enraged, his anger barely kept beneath the surface. She hoped her words had hurt him.
With a long, lingering look, she turned, gathered her skirts, and climbed up the stairs, back to her new gilded cage.
She should have been like Arya, and learned to wield a sword. Maybe that would have gotten her freedom, she thought numbly as she walked down the hall, Jon Snow's light footsteps behind her. Arya had been the closest to Jon, and had sneaked off to play with him when they were younger. He had taught her to wield a sword, to aim an arrow, to slit a throat with a dagger.
The rumor had always been that the Targaryens had kidnapped him, but she had always wondered if he had simply run away. Perhaps both were true in their own way.
Without looking back at him, she went into her room, and closed the door in his face.
At dawn, Daario finally came to relieve him of his watch. Daario had removed his powdered wig, revealing unruly dark hair beneath it, and was dressed in leathers. When he wasn't attempting to seduce Dany, he was practicing with his sword, which he must have been doing just now. Jon wasn't sure when the man slept.
"Your cousin is a beauty, Jon Snow," Daario remarked as he approached him in the hall. "You never mentioned it." His voice was sly, teasing.
"I hardly remembered her," Jon countered. He shifted away from the wall where he had been leaning. Daario arched his brows. "She was but a little girl when I left," he added defensively. When I was taken.
Daario's gaze lingered on the closed door. Sansa was asleep behind that door.
"She is no little girl now," he decided after a moment. "Even Princess Daenerys was bewitched by her."
"She is to be married to Lord Dickon Tarly. Half her value comes from that marriage contract," Jon reminded him. He did not like Daario's tone, and Daario, after all, had quite a reputation. "See that you remember that."
"You don't think Tarly has had a taste yet? I wouldn't be able to stop myself."
Jon wondered if Sansa was awake and could hear them. You are dishonorable.
"It doesn't matter," he said bluntly. "Stay out of her room and do your job."
He brushed past Daario before the Tyroshi could speak any more distasteful words and went to his own quarters. Being Daenerys' blood, he had been given his own room, unlike the others. Even Tyrion was forced to share. The house was just barely big enough for their group. It made it hard to remember that Dany really didn't have as many followers as they needed, when they were so overcrowded like this.
He shed his waistcoat and dropped it on his writing desk. The last of a fire was burning, embers barely glowing. At the window, he looked out at the misty dawn. Fatigue hit suddenly, leaving him breathless, and he leaned his forehead against the cold glass, closing his eyes.
He should never have gone back to Winterfell.
The door opened and shut quietly. He didn't have to look back to know who it was.
"Your cousin is beautiful." Dany's voice was softer than usual. He felt her stand behind him and wrap her arms around his waist. "You never said."
"Daario said the same," Jon remarked, feeling her hands trace downward. He reflexively reached down and gripped her wrist, stopping her progress. She liked when he was rough with her.
"He also said I am more beautiful than her."
Jon kept his eyes closed and his grip tight on her wrist. He felt her struggle to wrench out of his grip, and when that didn't work, she rubbed her body against his, her soft breasts pushing against his back.
None of the men who followed Dany were married. Davos had once been married, though he had lost his wife. All of them—perhaps even Davos; Jon could not be sure—would have died for the chance to feel Dany writhe against them. But she never entered their rooms. She only sneaked into his. Jon wondered if respect for his bloodline was really the reason he had his own room.
It was wrong, in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of god, but he wasn't sure why anymore. It had been so many years since she had first touched him. She kissed his back, and he felt it through his shirt. His grip on her wrist loosened and she flattened her hand against him and traced downward, and the blood rushed south, between his legs, as her hand found his hardness. He bit his lip. "You never say such flattering things to me."
"You have enough flatterers," he ground out as she stroked him.
It was wrong. He was dishonorable, the Stark girl was right. And the Targaryens had wed each other, fucked each other, for hundreds of years, so perhaps he really was no true Stark. His father had been Dany's brother. Jon braced a hand on the cold window. "Stop," he said suddenly. Dany abruptly halted her touches.
"What's the matter?" She sounded hurt.
"I'm tired," he lied. "I won't be of much use."
"I don't want to use you," she balked. He turned to face her; she was in her nightdress, and he could see her nipples through the sheer fabric. Her silvery blonde hair tumbled about her shoulders.
If she really wanted the throne, she'd have to marry. But would anyone suitable ever marry her, if word of their actions ever got out?
Maybe they wouldn't lose the throne because of guns or soldiers or supporters. Maybe what they did in bed would lose Dany the throne.
"It was just an expression," he said finally, Dany's violet eyes searching his face. "You should sleep too."
She never slept in his bed. They couldn't risk being discovered. Even her being here, at dawn, was a risk.
He wondered if everyone knew anyway.
He wondered what the Stark girl would think, if she knew just how dishonorable he really was.
Note: this is also posted at AO3.