Let me tell you a story.

Let me read you a romance.

I will read.

You will listen.

And this terrible night will pass.

When Sansa Stark had first come to King's Landing, as a foolish little girl with a foolish head full of foolish fairy tales and little else, she'd thought that the lights of the city were extraordinary. No matter what time of day or night, the city glowed with lamps and candlelight, shining out into the dark world like a beacon.

Now, as she stood out on the parapet outside of her temporary chambers in The Red Keep—or what was left of The Red Keep, anyway—she knew better than to appreciate those lights. Brighter light only meant deeper, darker shadows. And she knew the shadows of this place better than anyone. Staring out at the sea, she rested her hand upon the stone and wished that she could see the stars here like she could in The North. At least there, she could count the constellations and know Jon and Arya and all the family she'd lost where connected to her by them.

Here, there were no stars. No constellations. And nothing but the sounds of her own thoughts.

Or, there had been nothing but the sound of her own thoughts. Until a confident, cocksure voice reached her ears.

"A beautiful night for a stroll, is it not?"

Sansa started at the intrusion but recovered quickly. She was now practiced at composing her face into a regal, detached mask, and she put that training to use. The voice was a new, but not unfamiliar one, and she didn't give him the dignity of turning to face him. "A nice night if you like the sight of destruction, I suppose."

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. May I join you, your Grace?"

After a moment of consideration, she dipped her chin in the slightest of nods. The man's presence moved forward across the stone pavers of the parapet, until she could feel the warmth of his body cutting through the night wind off of the sea. Before she ever looked at him, she knew who he was. Dorne. He smelled of sand and saltwater and heat radiated off of him as if he'd carried the desert sun all the way with him from his homeland. "With all due respect, it takes quite a great deal to frighten me."

"Yes, I have heard that you are not easily frightened."

Sansa blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

For the first time, she offered him her attention, only to recoil slightly when she realized just how near he stood. He'd joined her at the edge of the parapet so close that she could count his eyelashes and catch the slight twinkle—of torchlight or of amusement?—in his eyes. The man was handsome, almost disarmingly so, in a kind of ruggedly regal kind of way, so unlike the other men she'd known in Westeros. She'd noticed all of this, of course, when she'd first made his acquaintance before the Council to decide the fate of the Kingdoms, but then there had been a veil of modesty and decorum separating them. Now, there was no barrier but the soft air between them.

His smile was easy, unrehearsed, and it focused solely on her. In another life, his presence might have been intoxicating. But Sansa knew better than to get drunk off of men anymore. It gave them too much power—power that, as a Queen, she would never again surrender.

Dorne—whatever his name was, she couldn't remember much of their introduction, given that she was absorbed in the business of saving her brother's life and her family's kingdom—shrugged. She noticed that he did not speak with the practiced airs of a nobleman; his gentle, lightly accented voice hummed on the wind, smooth as a whistle. "The Hand of the King was right. Stories matter. And yours has travelled across the sea to my people. A woman who watched her father die only to be used as a pawn and plaything for the most cruel men Westeros ever saw. You survived them all and the armies of the dead. I am impressed."

Sansa's lips thinned into a line. She returned her gaze back to the broken city below and the sea beyond. He noticed.

"Does that displease you?"

"Believe it or not, I did not survive my own life to impress you," she intoned. "Or anyone."

"I would never accuse you of that. But you have won my respect and admiration just the same."

For a brief moment, warmth fanned across Sansa's chest. He, a perfect stranger who'd only heard her stories, thought her brave and strong?

But just as quickly as the sensation arrived, it disappeared under the weight of a lifetime of learned cynicism. Over her entire life, there were only a handful of men who'd ever complimented her. And they'd all wanted something in return. This man was no different. How boring. Sansa pressed her palms into the cool stone railing in front of which she was currently standing, hoping that the cold seeping through her hands would remind her of home, of the reason she'd fought and survived in the first place.

She did not become Queen so some man could charm his way between her legs. She would not be conquered for some pretty words. Not anymore.

Her eyes left the sea and found his. "If you believe your flattery will get me into your bed, you should know that you are wasting your time."

The man had the audacity to lean forward, to smirk, to meet her flat gaze with something like confidence. "If I wanted you in my bed, we would already be there by now. And I wouldn't need to use flattery to get you there. No, your Grace, I offer you flattery only because you have earned it."

Now, she knew that it wasn't his own warmth making heat collect beneath the fur wrapping around her collar. She was generating that heat all on her own, her steeled porcelain skin flushing at his attention. Somehow, even with her mask in place and her defenses fully raised, he was getting under her skin.

Talking about going to bed with him would only end in disaster, not the least of which because his words—we would be there by now—awakened heady, carnal, forbidden images in her imagination. She'd never known sex to be fun or pleasant or pleasurable. Most of the sex she had wasn't even had. It was endured. Then again, she'd never known conversations in dark corners in King's Landing to be fun either.

…But she had the sneaking suspicion that this smiling, easy, warm man could make the best of things that used to hurt her.

She changed the subject. No good could come out of that line of thinking.

"For someone who so admires me, you were silent during the council. You could have spoken for me if you thought I'd earned a place on the throne."

"And you could have spoken for me," he countered, though not harshly. Almost as if he were teasing her.

"I didn't know you. Or your story," she said, barely able to hide her annoyance with her former husband's little speech about the importance of tales. She knew better. Tales had given her hope as a little girl; if she hadn't spent so much time believing in them, perhaps she wouldn't have been torn apart by this wretched world. "For all I know you could have been a terrible king."

"Then allow me to introduce myself. You may have known me once, in another life, when I was a stupid nobleman's son." She didn't remember him, but that was neither here nor there. He pressed on. "But as the conflict in Westeros spread and infected Dorne, I opened up my family's estate as a kind of sanctuary for those who had been hurt—widows, orphans, refugees…It didn't win me any favors with the nobility or The Sands, but it did win me the love of the people. When our last ruler was killed, they rose me up to take her place. I am Prince Terras Gadrios, leader of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear. And I would have been a great king."

Terras. Of the Earth. It suited him. The name was almost as disarming as his story. She could think of a time or two during the war when she would have killed for a protective sanctuary; if he was as noble as he seemed, then he was the first and last noble man in all of the six kingdoms.

"And yes," he continued. "I could have spoken for you during The Council. But I didn't believe you wanted to be Queen."

"Oh?" she questioned, grateful for the affront to her pride, because it kept her from liking him too much or thinking too deeply about what it meant that Dorne had a good prince sitting on the throne. "And what do I want then, since you're such an expert?"

"To be free."

Her heart stutter-stepped. She was used to being underestimated, misjudged. She wasn't used to someone being so right about her. Clearing her throat, she tore her eyes away from him and focused on the silver, needlepoint direwolf growling at the edges of her gloves.

"A Stark should always guard Winterfell. And I will be the greatest ruler The North has ever known."

"I have no doubt. Your people shall love you."

When I am Queen, I will make them love me. Sansa couldn't stand here anymore, couldn't be trapped beside this man any longer. The sea and the city now seemed oppressively close, and Terras seemed too close to the mark. Leaving the wall behind, she started to walk the parapet, knowing he would follow.

"Why have you sought me out? You don't want me in your bed—"

"I didn't say that. Only that I would never use flowery lies to get you there."

She swallowed, hard, shoving down a wave of desire that threatened to rise up inside of her and wash away her carefully composed mask. "—What, then? What do you want? An alliance with the Free North?"

"I sought you out because you got nearly everything you wanted—freedom for The North, a crown, your brother's life and a Stark on the throne of Westeros—and yet, at supper… You looked so sad. I wanted to…" There was a pause then, one she couldn't read. "It's on a man's honor to ensure that a Lady is well when he sees that she is in distress."

For many moments of quiet footfall, Sansa considered lying to him. She didn't owe this man—or any man—the truth. But her mind had been a locked tomb for days now; she would go mad if she didn't open the door for someone. Considering she would never see or speak to the prince again once she left for Winterfell and he for Dorne, he seemed as good an option as any. Clearing her throat, she fought to remove all emotion from her voice. "I have not been back to King's Landing in years. These hallways are full of ghosts."

"Whose ghosts?"

"Mine."

Ghosts of the girl she had been and the woman she fought to become. Ghosts she still danced with, even now.

"Then why are you smiling now?"

Her gloved hand flew to her cheek. Sure enough. Smiling. She hadn't even realized she'd been doing it.

"Because…" She stopped their walking at a burned-out corner of the castle, where further passage was impossible. Her plan had been to turn back, but now, the stones caught her between their unforgiving stillness and Terras' warmth. This time, she did not flinch or shy away from him or his abrupt stare. "I came back a Queen, a liberator. And everyone who hurt me is dead."

Terras considered that. Sansa's chest momentarily tightened, afraid he might call her mad like they'd all called Daenerys mad. Sansa had no love for the dead Queen, but after all, she'd wanted her enemies dead. And what was more mad to a man than a woman wanting justice? But, no. There was no threat of murder or of tossing her off of her throne from Terras' lips. Instead, he offered her his hand. And, to her surprise, she took it.

Even with her gloves protecting her from his touch, Sansa shivered. She allowed him to lead her back towards her chambers, hoping he didn't notice. "Have you ever been to Dorne, your Grace?"

"No. I don't do well in warm climates."

"Well, there is a flower there called the Acarcis."

"A botany lesson. Just what every Northern girl lives for," she snarked, under her breath.

"The Acarcis is the most beautiful flower in all of Dorne. When birds leave the safety of civilization, they die in the desert, and the seeds in their decaying bellies bury themselves in the dry ground. In a land where everything goes to die, the Acarcis takes root and blooms, more radiant and more beautiful than any tenderly cared for Rose. And you, your Grace, may not have ever been to Dorne, and you may not think you do well in warm climates, but…"

They stopped in front of her chambers then. Their faces mere inches apart. His breath playing against her lips. It should have been terrifying, should have brought back memories of the horrible men who'd abused and betrayed her. But there was softness in his touch and respect in his eyes and he spoke to her as if he wanted her to believe as deeply in what he said as he already did.

"You are an Acarcis if I've ever seen one."

Sansa felt as if she'd waded into the sea with pockets full of stones. She could have handled the sweet words if they were lies. She could have dismissed them or laughed at them or tossed them—and the man who spoke them—aside. But he believed them. He was telling the truth. And that, she could not tolerate. Sansa removed her hands from his. Her body regretted the loss of his warmth, but she had no choice. Her mask returned. Her indifference rose up like a shield. And she dismissed him.

"I wish you a safe journey back to Dorne, Prince Terras."

"And you back to Winterfell, your Grace," he said, offering her a deep, reverent bow. "May the winter be kind as her Queen."

The look he gave her then could have melted anyone else's heart. But Sansa kept her heart locked away too tightly for him to reach her anymore.

Six Weeks Later

There was no longer a Queen In The North, but a Queen of the North. And Sansa bore that responsibility as she knew she always would: with the wisdom of her father, with the grace of her mother, with the honor of her brothers, with the ferocity of her sister, and with the experience of a life spent fighting for the right to live it.

Her duties kept her so busy she usually forgot to think about her brief time with Terras of Dorne or what he'd said to her, except for deep in the night when his words breathed in her tired ears and her imagination conjured up how that deep, soft voice of his would sound spilling out her name as he whispered it against every inch of her bare body.

But that changed the afternoon Elisa, one of the many orphans of The War against the Dead who Sansa had taken under her wing and given employment in the castle, ran into her high offices, huffing and puffing as though someone was about to invade.

"Your Grace?" the girl asked, her braids still swishing against her shoulders as she skidded to a stop in front of the great desk covered in Sansa's maps and papers.

"Yes, Elisa," Sansa replied, used to the exuberance of the castle's children, who always thought what they had to say was the most important thing anyone had ever said. "What is it?"

"A courier has arrived."

That got the Queen's attention. "A courier? From where?"

"Dorne. He wasn't ready for the cold. His shoes are soaked through and his clothes are useless up here. I tried to make him comfortable as I could. I gathered up every fur I could find and put him in front of the fire, but he won't stop trying to protect whatever it is he's carrying—"

"That's alright. I'll see him now."

"Yes, my Queen."

Sansa collected herself from her desk and moved to the Throne Room as her every thought and as every fiber of her being tried desperately to escape from her tight control. What could Terras want with her now? Soon, a Dornish man in traditional clothing—and shivering from head to toe—walked in, alone, carrying a box covered in pelts and furs, concealing its contents from her.

A stab of shameful disappointment speared her gut. The man wasn't Terras at all. She took a long sip of mead to help still her shaking hands.

"Your Majesty, Queen of The North." The shivering man managed a flourishing bow. "I come bearing a gift from the Prince of Dorne, Terras Gadrios, the Protector of The Innocent and Conqueror of The Deserts."

This could be a trap. Sansa's hand traveled defensively to the knife Arya gave her before the Battle of the Dead.

"Leave it," she said.

"What?"

"Leave it with me. I shall open it alone."

"But I was to report—"

"Report back my reaction? No." Sansa sniffed, trying to keep her emotions at bay while her heart threatened a revolt in her chest. "If I have any reaction, I will inform your master myself by raven. My ladies will outfit you appropriately for the North and send you on your way."

The courier bowed and allowed himself to be removed. And it was only when the commotion outside of the locked doors of the throne room died out completely that Sansa felt safe tearing away the furs from the box.

With a heave of her arms, they fell away, leaving only a glass box standing there in the middle of the room, absorbing the sunlight streaming in through the windows. She gasped.

Inside, a small patch of desert had been constructed, a terrarium of sorts, and out of that tiny desert bloomed a flower stretching its petals out towards the sun, soaking up its rays so that the light could dance through the vibrant green stalk and the pinks and yellows of the flower itself.

She'd never seen anything so beautiful. More vibrant than any jewel, more striking than any sunrise.

It wasn't a trap. It was a gift.

In her haste to rip away the furs, she'd missed a card baring sprawling, masculine script. She picked it up and read it.

Queen Sansa, Wolf of The North, Liberator of Her People, and Guardian of Winter,

I have seen the flower that blooms in the snow. I thought you might like to see the flower that blooms in the desert.

Yours,

Terras.

Carefully—oh, so carefully—Sansa folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket sewn into the inside of her corset's breast. It rested just over her heart, which, despite her best efforts, had broken its shackles and started beating again.

Wow! That Game of Thrones ending, huh?

Well, I'm very mixed on it but one thing I KNOW is that I want Sansa to fall in love with the badass, kind, wonderful man she deserves. So, I wrote the outline for a super long Sansa/Prince of Dorne fic that I wanted to write, but then I got worried no one would want to read a long fic about them! So, this first chapter is kind of a test. If people like it, I'll continue and do a full length fic, but if people don't, I'll leave it up as a one-shot!

So, let me know in the comments if you want a full-length fic of these two and what you think of this chapter! I can't wait to hear from you!