Scale of a Dragon, Tooth of a Wolf
"A man can never outdo a woman when it comes to love and revenge…" — The War of the Roses film, 1989
I.
"Tell me again why I must do this?" Jon bristles, narrowing his eyes across the table at his aunt.
The soft glow of the candelabras shine upon her silver-colored hair, giving her an almost ethereal look as she narrows her own sharp gaze down the long stretch of table that separates them.
Of course, Jon knew there was nothing ethereal or delicate about Daenerys Targaryen. At least, not anymore. It had been a long and hard road to Westeros, stacked with pain and loss and bloodshed, and her sacrifices had given way to the shrewd and capable woman who sat before him now, gingerly sipping her wine.
At times, it was easy to forget they were of a similar age — that the meek, soft-spoken girl he'd grown up with in Pentos, had somehow managed to orchestrate and execute a plot to overthrow the pretender king — succeeding where even her brother and the supposedly better men who came before her, had failed time and again.
Had the line of succession not passed her by, she would have made a formidable queen. But alas, it had, placing the weight of his family's vengeance — and then the realm — squarely upon Jon's unwilling shoulders, amidst a war their ancestors had waged for decades. North versus south, Stark versus Targaryen, kingdoms divided, and copious amounts of blood spilled, all for want of an ugly iron throne.
It was his birthright, by the old gods and the new. That's what his uncle Viserys had drilled into his head since Jon was barely old enough to wield a sword, preparing him for his return to Westeros to take back the throne that was stolen from his father — from their family.
"It is your destiny, Jon Targaryen, blood of the dragon. The people drink toasts to your good health and cry out for the return of their rightful king."
Empty and hollow, Viserys' words had meant little to Jon then, as a lad, barely old enough to understand the ramifications of what his birthright actually entitled. And even now, as a man — even as his uncle had forfeited his own life, falling in battle for a cause that Jon still wasn't sure he believed in — what truly made it his right?
As far as he knew, Westeros had been in relative peace these last seventeen years — sixteen of those under Stark rule. So wasn't it he who was the usurper now? He, the foreign invader who had marched across Westeros under the long-forgotten standard of the Targaryen dragon and struck down the Stark-made king at the battle of High Heart?
And yet, had it been left up to Jon, he'd have happily stayed in Pentos where the father he'd never known had exiled him from a babe — far from the reach of the assassins meant to snuff out the Targaryen line for good. Out of politics, out from under the stifling weight of a crown he didn't want, and the stuffy restrictions of court that held little interest for him.
"Would you please stop being so insufferable?" Daenerys sighs dramatically over her second goblet of wine. "You know very well why, and besides, it is done. We have already initiated the summons, so your melancholy brooding is all for naught."
Jon scoffs. "Am I not a king? I would not be the first who has broken faith and —"
"You are not simply a king, you are the king. You gave your word, raised your army and staked your claim on that very word, and that is why you'll be true to it. Otherwise, you would be no better than those who have come before you, and then, my dear nephew, what would be the point?"
"And here I thought you had all the answers," Jon mumbles sarcastically into his own goblet, his stomach growling and his patience dwindling ever thinner with every moment their absent companion holds up the evening meal.
"They say she is a beauty, you know?" Daenerys continues, seemingly unaffected by his sour mood and the jab that accompanied it. "An exquisite Northern rose… fair of hair and face."
"That is not all they say. You've heard the rumors, same as I have."
Daenerys flicks her wrist dismissively. "A rumor is nothing more than the wagging of loose tongues and small minds. A dragon does not concern himself with the ramblings of sheep."
"And when those sheep snicker behind the dragon's back?" Jon scrubs his beard in frustration. "When my own men — the very ones who have supported my claim — jest about the traitorous whore I would take for a wife?"
"He was to be her husband —"
"And yet, he was not," Jon interrupts.
"What makes you think she was afforded any choice in the matter?" Dany's tone is waspish as she slams her goblet down upon the table, causing Jon to flinch at her unexpected outburst.
It is the briefest of slips and then, smoothing out the crimson skirt of her fine silk gown, she is again composed. "I most certainly was not."
Jon is well aware of the fact that his aunt does not love her husband; at least, not in the way of passionate love. True, they share a certain affection, and Lord Jorah Mormont — though nearly twice her age — is good to her, but it was his Targaryen loyalty and political ties to Westeros that forged their marriage alliance. Dany's true heart remains far across the Narrow Sea in Pentos, buried in an unmarked grave — where a stablehand named Drogo, and a babe that sadly never made it to term, lay in eternal rest.
Jon softens his tone. "Dany, I know what you have sacrificed —"
"Do you?"
"I only meant that surely there are other Northern girls I could take for a wife? Why must it be this one? The daughter of the man who brought our house to ruin — the woman who would lay with my own enemy?"
Before Daenerys can gather her reply, a velvety voice sounds from the dimly lit corridor, just beyond the dining hall. "If I may, Your Grace?"
Jon flinches at the title. For the life of him, will he never get used to being called Your Grace?
"So nice of you to finally join us, Lord Varys." Daenerys summons him forward. With a flick of her wrist, the servants begin scrambling to fill the table with their evening fare.
Lord Varys floats like the smooth timbre of his voice, moving with ease in a swath of colorful robes to bow first before Jon— "Your Grace" — then Dany — "My Lady, the King's Aunt" — addressing her with the ridiculous title she had insisted upon since Jon had emerged victorious at High Heart.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but you seem to have answered your own plight," Varys continues with a sympathetic tilt of his head. "You have pledged to unite the country, to marry the Stark princess and unite the warring houses. If you refuse princess Sansa you will insult her, and the Northern houses will rise up against you in her defense. You have staked your claim to the throne on peace, and now it is peace you must bring."
"Forgive me my ignorance, Lord Varys," Jon bristles as Varys takes up the chair beside him, "but did my father not attempt to do the very same thing? I was only a babe, of course, so you'll excuse that my recollection of events is a bit hazy, but I don't believe —"
"'Twas a different set of circumstances, Your Grace," Varys offers quickly, his eyes flicking nervously towards Daenerys.
"There you have it." Dany nods with finality, already filling her plate with a variety of fruit and cheese and effectively changing the subject. "Take a mistress, take several. You can fuck whomever you like, but you will wed the Stark girl, and put our heir in her belly first."
Jon sighs, knowing defeat at the hands of his own fateful vow. "And when am I to meet her?" He reaches for a crust of bread and tears into it violently, his hunger giving way to the sudden heaviness seeping into his gut — the realization that he is no longer in control of his own life.
"She arrives two days hence. Lord Mormont has already ridden out to meet their procession."
"There shall be a masque!" Daenerys claps her hands giddily, and for a brief moment Jon glimpses the young girl of his memories.
"A masque?"
"Yes, dear nephew," she smiles coyly over her goblet. "A masquerade ball to celebrate the return of the rightful king of Westeros… and where we will formally announce your betrothal."
II.
"I will not marry him."
Sansa crushes the scroll within her fist. She's read it half a hundred times since Lord Mormont joined their procession the morn before last — and crumbled it twice that many times.
The once-tidy strokes have long since been reduced to nothing more than a wrinkled blur of broken words that are barely even legible. They echo in her ears against the clop-clop-clopping of the horses' hooves, now etched firmly upon her memory: a demand to bend the knee, to fall upon the court for mercy and beg His Grace for forgiveness of her sins — like all the traitors who had loved and sworn fealty to Renly Baratheon after the death of her father, the one true King.
These were not the same words his aunt had exchanged with her lady mother prior to the battle of High Heart — words of peace and unity, words of joining the houses in the name of all that was good for the prosperity of the realm.
No.
These words were cold and insulting — words intent upon her subjugation, words meant to shame her over the whispers of what had transpired between her and the man who had briefly proclaimed himself King before her own brothers, the true Stark heirs.
"Lower your voice," Lady Catelyn scolds, straightening her spine — ever the proud and regal dowager queen, despite the solemn circumstances and the jostling gait of their carriage. "You knew you would marry whomever was victorious at High Heart…"
An accord struck with the enemy without her knowledge or consent, born of her lady mother's political ambitions and the dowager queen's intentions for House Stark to survive, no matter the outcome. Sansa could not fault her mother for that. With the disappearance of her sons, Lady Catelyn was struggling to keep what remained of her family and their once great house from disappearing completely before fading into Westerosi history.
And what had become of her little brothers? Sansa wondered. Of gentle Bran, so wise beyond his seven years, and sweet Rickon just barely five, with his mop of messy curls and skinned knees?
The same tongues who whispered of her love for Renly Baratheon also whispered of his hand in their disappearance. Chances are they had succumbed to the same fate as he — their would-be Lord Protector who had settled the crown upon his own head in their stead, and all for naught, for death had swiftly come for him on the end of a Targaryen blade.
Perhaps it was true? If so, Renly's death was well-deserved. That, however, did not negate her feelings on the new Targaryen king, and his blatant show of disrespect for her.
"Why should he want to marry me?" Frustrated, Sansa waves the scroll in her hand before crumpling it once again. "Clearly he believes that I am naught but a Stark whore who laid with his enemy and —"
"Bite your tongue!" Catelyn inhales sharply, squeezing her eyes shut as she exhales and then fixes Sansa with a pointed stare — may clearer heads prevail.
"You are a Stark princess of the North, the daughter of King Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and the blood of the First Men flows through your veins. It is not a matter of him wanting you, my daughter, he needs you. He has based his claim for Westeros on you being by his side. Without you, he is just another pretender who cannot unite the houses."
"And this is what you want for me?" Sansa demands, choking back the hot tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks — but gods, she's so tired of crying! "What do you think father would have wanted? His daughter on the throne beside a Targaryen after all that has passed?"
Catelyn leans forward to tangle their fingers together. "What I want —" she squeezes their hands around the crumpled scroll, her grip tightening until Sansa begrudgingly lifts her gaze "— is for you to be queen."
It is Sansa's turn to inhale sharply. She holds her breath as she holds her lady mother's stare, until her lungs burn and her head feels fuzzy.
"I shall no longer be a Stark if I wed him." She releases her shaky words upon exhaling, hating the weight defeat.
"You will always be a Stark," Lady Catelyn counters and, with a nod, releases Sansa's hand to bury it back in the hair of her youngest daughter, sleeping on the bench beside her.
Sansa's eyes follow the gentle stroke of her mother's fingers to the face of her little sister Arya — so peaceful in her slumber — and cannot help but envy her of her youth and freedom. For Sansa's own choice had long ago been removed and the gods would not grant her prayers, so she would have to find a way to work around them.
Let the new king think she'd lain with Renly. Let him think her a whore — she would not argue otherwise. He is just another man who only wants her for her title, anyway.
So she will bow, she will be gracious and do as her lady mother and the new king had bid. A lady's courtesy was her armor, after all.
And Sansa Stark, princess of Winterfell, is nothing if not a dutiful lady.
A/N: So, this is a War of the Roses AU (if the title had not already given that away). The parallels between Jon and Sansa and asoiaf in general were so striking, I just couldn't resist!
Just a few things - There is no Robb in this story, and obviously, I have played with the younger Stark siblings ages to suit my needs. Dany is a stand-in for Henry Tudor's mother, posing as the matriarch for his family. I have also decided to omit Ned's younger brother Benjen, in favor of Robert's youngest brother Renly. Why? I don't know, but it's my world and you're just living in it! lol
Also, a dowager queen is a widowed queen, and as a little fun fact, Margaret Beaufort (the mother of Henry Tudor) did insist upon being addressed as 'My Lady, the King's Mother".
See you next update! xo