Spring was the world's truest ruler.
If the Iron Throne had not melted beneath dragonflame and wildfire, Westeros would've seen it overgrown by roots, swallowed up by great beasts of trees. The world's will, splintered into seeds beating beneath fragile ribs. Seeds that grew to catch their wooden fingers on winter's ice.
Spring's touch melted even the North, but Daenerys' fingers shook as she wrapped herself in another layer of fur. She would stay in the North and see the rebuilding of Winterfell through. The cold did not burn the people of the North. It etched its will upon the ice of their blood, but never found their hearts, solid and singing with sparks. They knew the cold, and burned against it. Though Daenerys knew a different fire, they had joined with her, and spring had come.
Sansa was the North's strength.
At the touch of her eyes, Dany had felt a spear of icy longing freeze her heart black.
And now that spring had come, it was Sansa who was first to offer her warmth, who offered succour as soil beneath snow absorbs meltwater. Her crown was built from feeling and worn with fire, the burdens of the grieving turned to alloys of precious metal and stone that coloured her heart with prismatic flame. The unfailing flame of the North that fights stubbornly against the cold. But she was cool as much as she was heat. The strength and softness of snow, the polish of ice, the unflappable quiet within fire's heart.
As the sun dipped lower, Sansa was not with them.
"She's not in the godswood," Jon said. His eyes were weary, his clothing dark with wet. Cloud had spiralled into storm, and rain was falling. Though spring was here, cold still ruled the North, and Sansa's crown of fire would be ice upon frozen skin.
"I'll find her."
It did not matter that Sansa would never need Daenerys' flame.
If they were to rule this country, they would need to work together.
If they were to work together, Sansa needed to be alive.
Drogon sliced through the air, and as he flew, raindrops turned to needles of ice nicking her ears and cheeks. Blue rivers cut through green-dotted plains of white, and it was only after they had flown for hours that a shimmering copper flash caught Daenerys' eye. She swooped down upon a shivering Sansa, barely conscious, with a bundle wrapped in her arms. Daenerys heaved them both onto Drogon's back.
"I heard her calling," Sansa said, and collapsed in Dany's arms.
Ghost came barrelling through Winterfell's halls, Jon quick at his heels. Daenerys, Missandei and Grey Worm carried Sansa in their arms.
The bundle Sansa carried was not a child or a spirit, but a direwolf pup, fur red as Sansa's hair, tipped with white. Daenerys had the selfish thought that this creature must be a part of Sansa, and so she should savour the feel of her soft fur, calm gaze, warm paws.
But there were more important matters than the novelty of a direwolf pup. A woman of fire and ice lay chilled by spring. Even the roaring fire they built might not be enough to bring pink back into her frosted cheeks.
As Jon and Dany reached to strip them from her, Sansa spoke.
"Daenerys." Red drops stained Sansa's cracked, pale mouth. Her voice echoed, its hoarse softness a spark Dany took into her heart. With the heat of her blood, she would feed it to a brightness hotter than the fire that filled the room with its crackling light.
The room warmed, and soon Dany was alone with Sansa's soft breath. She lay within furs soaked with melted ice, shivering.
Dany hesitated.
Of course she spoke my name. It was her gratitude and her courtesy.
And so they poured from her mind, her justifications, meant to distract herself from Sansa's form as she pulled away the ice-coated cloak, as her fingertips burned with the cold of the metal clasps of Sansa's dress, as her soaked shift stuck to Dany's skin.
And then when Sansa was fully naked before her, her white skin tinged with the blue and grey of cold, dripping with icy water and frozen with ice, the truth she knew was that spear of ice searing into her heart, blackening—
She wears courtesy upon her flesh as well as her heart.
Her flesh is the soul her heart aches to protect, and who am I to long for such things?
And within, the longing flashed like fire, and into her heart she took the vision of Sansa's body, before she closed once again—
—red hair shining like a sunrise on rain, darkly shining upon pale shoulders, arms true as lengths of metal in fighting fists—
—long fingers and pearlescent nails that fell upon hips and stomach soft and muscled—
—graceful legs, and between them a thatch of shimmering red—
This was no time for such thoughts, time only for Sansa to warm. Dany took down the fresh furs and the wide length of linen that had warmed over the fire. She unbound Sansa's ice-crusted hair from its braid, wrapping it to soak the melting water into the warm cloth. As she lifted Sansa to wrap her in the furs, each scar on Sansa's skin burned a black scar of its own into her heart. The dragon rose fierce to smoke and snap at Sansa's husband who had been no husband. If they were married, Daenerys would wrap her bride in silken smallclothes, in a shift of softest silk.
Silk would not be, but even without silk, Sansa was still comfortable. Her breathing had softened; within her cocoon of furs, she would fully warm. Sansa's direwolf leapt onto her bed, her fur gleaming in the firelight as she curled up beside Sansa's head. Daenerys took a fresh shift from where Sansa's clothes lay folded by the fire, laying it beside Sansa's pillow. In the chair beside Sansa's bed, Daenerys listened to the fire's crackling voice, and fell asleep to the easy rhythm of Sansa's breaths.
She woke to the clear blue of Sansa's eyes upon her. Sansa's hands stroked the wolf's fur. "What should I call her?"
"You are of the North," Dany said. She stared down at her hands as they worked at the cloth of her dress. "You know far more of wolves and their ways."
"Daenerys," Sansa said, "you know more of wolves than you believe." A gentle humour softened the blue of her eyes. "And me."
"You will rule the North well, my Queen. And the South."
And me. But never me.
"I do not speak of ruling." Ice closed upon the gentleness in Sansa's eyes. "But we are to rule the South together, as was decreed."
"As was decreed."
"Did I misjudge your regard for me?" Her tone was clipped; she was the Lady of Winterfell speaking to a warrior whose exhaustion required her mettle. "Was Jon's counsel false?"
"I only thought—"
What time had we to speak of the heart in a war for all of ours?
The frozen river of Sansa's voice rippled. "Did you imagine that I would take a husband?"
"I imagined you would," Dany said. She smoothed her skirts down and stared at her trembling fingers as she said, "I imagined that you would find a man worthy of your regard, and that if he did not see you, it would be only a failure on his part, and I would tell him—"
"As you told Jon." The ice cracked in Sansa's voice then, melting with the warm embers in her smile. "You would tell him who you imagined I was, but not how you felt for me."
"How I feel is of no consequence."
"It is of the greatest consequence." Her hand was warm on Dany's arm.
Sansa lifted her hand from Dany's arm to smooth down the wrinkles that had appeared on her shift.
"When you were—too cold to wake," Dany began, "I did not mean to look."
A small smile, but fear darkened the warmth of Sansa's eyes. "You were the first to see."
"We all have scars." Daenerys stroked each of Sansa's fingers, interlacing them with her own.
Sansa's voice quieted. "There are times—I don't want you to think—"
The curve of Sansa's hips was soft beneath Dany's palms, the shift warmed by the touch of her skin.
"There are times for me, too."
She brushed Sansa's cheek with a single finger, Sansa's skin soft beneath the bend of her knuckle.
Sansa grasped Dany's hand where it rested upon her cheek, bringing it to her mouth. Sansa's lips were full and cold-roughened, and her hair brushed against Dany's wrist and arm, a lingering copper flame. Dany's skin burned as Sansa pressed her mouth against the tendon of her wrist. She drew back, her eyes sky lit with her undying fire. They sat on Sansa's bed, and as she peeled away the straps of her shift, Sansa revealed the first of scars that spread across her skin in ropy, puckered welts.
Dany's fingers traced the red welt on her shoulder.
"I dreamt of letting Drogon burn the man who did this to you."
She looked at Sansa with a wicked smile. "But you had him torn to pieces yourself."
Her lips fell upon Sansa's shoulder, brushing softly, flicking with the gentlest touch of her tongue.
Daenerys had kissed Doreah, and learned to rule a khal. All her power had been in Drogo's skin, and it faded from her fingertips as he fell from his horse.
With Sansa, there would be only sharing, and they would learn to rule each other.
Sansa's mouth was gentle on her own, her long fingers pressing against the back of Dany's neck. She drew her hands through Dany's hair, loosening her braids.
Dany smiled against Sansa's mouth. "You'll have more success unbinding my hair if you can see it."
"Well, my queen," Sansa said, grinning, "perhaps I will enjoy the challenge."
"You will," Daenerys replied. She lay back, relaxing in the crook of Sansa's arms.
"You're so small." Sansa's laughter vibrated through Dany, as she wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close and resting her head on her shoulder.
As Daenerys let Sansa's scent envelop her, the ice in her heart receded, black shards softening to sweet red flesh.
Within the glow of their melded flame, she slept.