I will not fold,
she's in control.
Of everything.
Of everything and everyone
-The Lumineers, "Scotland"
They left Winterfell before the sun was up. The motorcade of cars traveling along the Winter Road to White Harbor, the closest thing the North had to a city. It was also the only town in the North to have an airport large enough for commercial aircraft.
Barrowton had a small one for bush planes and small private jets and some lords had hangars on their properties but the Starks never felt the need for such luxuries. Their commercial flight got them to King's Landing just fine.
They were never ones to flaunt their money, mostly to appear relatable to their citizens. The North was a poor country. What would it look like if half the people were starving in winter but the royal family had a private jet? According to Ned, it would look tacky and selfish. Lord Manderly on the other hand, owned three and his fleet of yachts was rivaled only by the Redwynes of the Reach.
But the Royal Starks weren't saints, they had their weak spots. Specifically, fancy cars that weren't built to drive the speed limit. Those extravagant purchases were only on the occasion of an important birthday. Arya and Bran were the last ones to receive their tricked out vehicles and they were still waiting for their first race with their older siblings.
The King's Landing airport was huge and flashes of cameras greeted them. A far cry from the welcomes they received at home. In the North, the tabloids weren't interested in the Starks. And the Starks worked hard to keep it that way.
They were escorted by men in white and gold uniforms to a line of black cars waiting for them. One for the King, one for his children, and a third for any extra security detail.
The capital city of the United Kingdoms of Westeros was much larger than Jon anticipated. There were so many cars and people, White Harbor was a mere hovel compared to the sprawling grid of high rises. It expanded past the jumbled gathering of squat buildings comprising the Old City and into the definition of modernity and industrialization.
Sansa gazed out the window, giddy as a young girl on her name day. Robb tried to hide his amazement but he'd never seen buildings so tall in person either. Jon would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed by them too.
He couldn't hold back the feeling that the large buildings were mocking them. This is what happened when your ancestor was too stubborn to bend the knee, they taunt, the world moved on and left you in the past.
Curious pedestrians looked at their cars as they passed as if their eyes could see through the dark tint. Jon couldn't shake the feeling they were animals in a zoo. Wild northerners out of their native habitat.
The buildings got shorter the closer they got to the old city. The road narrowed, just wide enough to allow their vehicles through. The disappearance of the skyscrapers did little to lessen Jon's apprehension.
The Old City was poorly planned. The influx of people after the establishment of the southern capital didn't allow for proper city planning and the construction of the low buildings was rushed to accommodate the people. The streets were still cobblestone like they were in ancient times and the facades on the buildings crumbled. It felt like a different city entirely.
"I read that the old city isn't anything more than a tourist trap now," Sansa remarked.
"I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to live here when there's a shining city just feet away."
Robb sunk back against the seat, eyes still glued to the Old City.
"They remind me of White Harbor," Jon commented.
The one massive difference between White Harbor and King's Landing lay ahead of them. The detached mood of the car brightened when the gates of the Red Palace came into view.
They were impressive. A high wall of red brick interrupted by an iron gate flanked by two silver dragons with widespread wings. As the cars drove around the courtyard they got a view of the large fountain. Three dragons spouting water from their jaws instead of fire. It was obvious the fountain was meant to convey the greatness of the Targaryens but the absence of fire made it less fearsome.
The fountain didn't need to be menacing. The facade of the palace rose above them, intimidating in red marble. Hundreds of windows and dragon-shaped gargoyles leered at them. It was as if Jon stepped through the gate to another dimension. He couldn't imagine a structure with dominance disguised as opulence.
If the front of the palace was breathtaking, the entrance hall was even greater. The high ceilings painted like the sky with dragons resting on clouds and flying between them, Targaryens atop their winged backs. A chandelier descended from the false sky, the clear crystal sparkled in the natural light from the high windows. At the back of the room stood a large staircase of red marble, just like the floor. The walls hosted large paintings in front of the intricate blood-red wallpaper, interspersed with busts of important figures. From the picture frames to the delicate filigree moulding along the edges of the room, everything was accented in silver.
It was overbearing and Jon suffocated in the gaudiness. Something in him wanted to run but the King awaited them.
"That's not how I imagined Rheagar looking," Sansa commented.
Jon remembered the Targaryens having silver hair. The man who stood before them was short and sharply dressed, his cropped dark hair streaked with grey.
"Welcome, your graces, to the Red Palace. His Majesty apologizes for his absence but he had important matters to attend to but he looks forward to meeting you at the gala tonight. I'm Petyr Baelish, Palace Coordinator."
"We understand. Rheagar is a very busy man. Tell him-"
"No need, I'm right here."
Descending the staircase was a thin, tall man with silver hair, his posture erect. That man was a king. He had a charming smile and moved as though he wore a heavy crown on his head, though there wasn't one there.
"My apologies again, Your Majesty, some matters can't be handed off to an eager assistant."
"I understand entirely."
"I trust your journey was well?"
"It was, thank you," Ned smiled, "This is Jon, my eldest."
Rhaegar turned to Jon, "Your father tells me you spent time in the armed forces."
"I was stationed at Castle Black for four years with the Night's Watch."
"Good," he affirmed, "Military service makes for good kings. I was stationed in the Stepstones for a time. That was an experience I'll never forget."
"My next eldest, Robb."
"And you've just graduated from University?"
It was strange. The way Rhaegar spoke to them as though he'd known them for years even though they'd never met once before. There was no etiquette or formality. Jon tried to catch Sansa's eyes to see if they were picking up the same feeling but she was too focused on Rhaegar.
When he was done with Robb, he complimented Sansa on her grace and beauty, as everyone did.
"A pleasure to meet you all. I would have more people to introduce but it appears they're all too busy preparing for the gala tonight. Baelish, would you please show our guests to their rooms, I'd like a moment to talk alone with Ned."
Rhaegar gave a knowing look to the Northern King before Baelish ushered them out of the hall.
"Did you get the feeling there's something else going on here?" Jon whispered as they trailed behind the palace coordinator.
"They weren't even trying to hide it," Sansa agreed.
The assistant showed them the guest rooms, which were just as decorated and saturated as the entrance hall. Jon got lucky with the room he was assigned.
It was much quieter with simple white marble instead of red and significantly less decor. He set himself to work unpacking the three-piece suit required for that night's gala and trying to not get distracted by everything around him.
"I've never seen so much stuff," Robb said, strolling through the door connecting their rooms.
"They've been here forever."
"We've been in Winterfell for centuries and we don't have half as much."
"You obviously haven't been to the first keep recently," Sansa entered and lowered herself onto the plush bed, putting her feet up in the air.
"They have a marble bust of every ancestor. Isn't that overkill?" Robb asked.
"We have a marble bust of every ancestor too. We just keep ours in the crypts," Jon remarked.
"By the way, Jon, dad wants to talk to you."
Sansa rolled onto her stomach to look at her older brother. As if he knew what was going on.
"About what?"
"He wouldn't tell me so it must be really important."
Jon sighed and abandoned his suitcase, heading off to find his father.
The study of the guest apartments was another overdone room with green and gold walls and marble floors. There was even a mural of a luscious orchard set between rolling green hills with a far off castle. Ned sat behind the imposing mahogany desk, a manilla folder in his hand.
"Please close the door and sit down."
Jon did as told and awaited his father's words.
"Is there anyone special in your life right now?"
Jon chuckled, "No."
"Well what about that girl who works at the Smoking Log, Ygritte? What about her?"
"There's nothing there."
Maybe once, when they were eager teens who spent a lot of time around each other, but not anymore. Jon was sure she wasn't crown sanctioned and approved. Being the daughter of a local diplomat put her on the list (at a very low position) but she still had no real title and her current job was a strike against her.
"What does my romantic life have to do with this meeting?"
"Do you remember why we're here?"
"You said the charity tonight is an environmental conservation we support," Jon said, unable to take his eyes off the folder.
"Yes, but that's not the only reason we've come. A couple of months ago I received a report from Maester Kennet that crop yields for this year are significantly low compared to last year. He also included in his report, a prediction by the weather service that this winter will be the longest and harshest we've endured in the past hundred years."
"We'll have enough for ourselves and Wintertown. Surely the other great lords can figure something out."
"The great lords are already asking for more supplies and it's only the middle of summer,"
"What can we do?"
"Patience, Jon. Let me finish."
Jon sat back in his chair, eyeing his father.
"I reached out to Rhaegar to see if we could reach a trade agreement. Something that would allow us to import food from the Reach but still recognize our sovereignty. And he agreed. A week later he contacted me and told me that the Senate refused to send us aid without us joining their union. They claimed the original treaty was so well thought out that there weren't any loopholes."
Jon wanted to speak up but he remembered that he had to be patient. He was not a politician and this was a political game.
"But there is one exception."
Ned placed the folder he was toying with in front of Jon. He opened it carefully. An official portrait of a young woman with white-blonde hair and violet eyes. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, first of her name, Princess Royal of the United Kingdoms of Westeros and Lady of Dragonstone. The look in her eyes and a hint of a smile on her face reminded Jon of the famous painting of a Braavosi Lady, haunting and mysterious.
He looked at his father in question.
"Association by marriage. If an important royal family member is linked to our country they will send aid. Marriage is the only way to do that."
"What?"
"Since we are in desperate need of support, Rhaegar offered the marriage contract between you and the Princess without hesitation."
"Isn't this archaic?"
"It's old-fashioned, sure, but it's necessary."
"It can't be," Jon protested.
"I know it's shocking-"
"That's one way to put it," Jon huffed as he turned over her photo to look at the rest of the dossier.
There were a few other words Jon could think to use in that situation. Earth-shattering and heartstopping, to name a couple.
The report listed all of her charity work, schooling, and family. Jon remembered Sansa talking about a gossip column from one of the tabloids she liked to read. That tidbit was strangely absent from the information. No doubt the Red Palace wanted to smooth over the rough parts of their princess.
"What about Robb?"
"I suggested your brother first. He's certainly the better choice, politically. Their union wouldn't cause a fuss since she's not inheriting the whole kingdom. But Rheagar insisted that it be you."
"They'll never accept her," Jon stated.
"They don't have to. She's the key to our survival and she gets a say in the treaty. Tonight, your job is to impress her, get on her good side and convince her that we are worth the sacrifice."
"What if I can't?"
Jon had to be honest with himself, he was not a "lady's man". That was Robb's department.
"You don't have to sweep her off her feet like Prince Charming. Arranged marriages aren't uncommon for people of our status, if you make her feel comfortable and understood we shouldn't have a problem."
"I can try," he promised.
"That's my boy."
Taking another look at the princess' portrait, he ran his hand over her title printed at the bottom of the page. When he was younger, and still a bastard, he dreamed of proving himself to his father and gaining a title and lands. When he was legitimized he thought the need to prove himself would go away but there he was, with another test to face. And Jon knew he was going to do everything in his power to pass it.
"You can't be serious! We can't have a southern queen!"
"We know Sansa. The situation isn't ideal but it's what dad thinks is best."
"Did he tell you about her scandals? She's been spotted with dozens of different men, not to mention her nipple was all over the internet! The small council will have a field day with her." Sansa paced back and forth, the train of her dark green dress swishing.
"Our own people will mock us," Robb objected.
"You act like I have a choice in the matter!"
Jon ran his hand through his messy curls, disrupting the gel that held them back.
"We're not saying that," Sansa assured him, reaching out to fix his hair.
"It's upsetting."
Robb stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his suit jacket. He picked up the folder with the Princess's information in it.
"She is beautiful," he mused.
"Don't let her looks fool you. She's … calculated." Sansa smoothed out the shoulders of Jon's jacket.
"Calculated?" Jon asked.
"When she wants something, she'll do anything and everything she can to get it. That's what the Dothraki Khal said about her in an all-access interview."
"A Khal? Oh, you've got competition buddy," laughed Robb.
"I doubt measuring up to a horse lord is the thing to worry about. The Maester claims that if we don't get aid we won't survive. And we all know the Boltons are looking for a crack in our armor."
"And marrying a Southerner is supposed to strengthen that armor?"
"It's better than letting our people die."
"What about the Kingdoms in Essos? Couldn't we arrange trade deals with them?" Robb interjected.
"Not without paying them. And our economic situation isn't in the best place either."
"The last thing we need is to be indebted to other countries."
Sansa pushed Robb out of the way so she could fix the gold butterfly pins in her hair. She'd forgone the tiara, wearing her hair down. She always thought she was too young to wear her hair in the complicated updos favored by the older ladies.
"So, what's our plan?"
"Our what?"
"Our plan," she enunciated, "We need to secure this alliance for our people and, let's face it, Jon's conversational abilities are subpar."
"Hey!"
She gave Jon a sympathetic look.
"We've got to win over the princess."
Dealing with the soul-crushing weight of his future marriage would have to wait. There was only one mission for the night, to impress the princess.
This whole thing wouldn't matter if you blew it tonight. The errant thought danced across his mind and Jon took no joy in the fact that he even considered it. If he slipped up in the slightest, his people wouldn't get aid. And they wouldn't survive the winter.
"Sansa, what was that tabloid picture you mentioned earlier?" Jon questioned.
Her phone was in her hand before he finished his sentence.
"The tabloid issued a statement that the photo was doctored and offered an official apology to the princess. They also took the photo down, but not before I could screenshot it."
She held her phone out to Jon, the article in question displayed. He read the caption and a name stood out.
"Who's Daario Naharis?"
"Tyroshi tech millionaire."
"A millionaire and Dothraki horse lord? Jon doesn't stand a chance," Robb laughed.
"Well, he has one thing they don't."
"And what's that?" He handed her phone back.
He wished this evening long roast by his siblings would end.
"You're going to be a King."
