Day 4 – Hidden / True
In Plain Sight
When Tyrion suggests marriage as a way to solve their problems in the North he's deep into his cups and Jon almost laughs it off as a joke.
He has been named the Prince of Winterfell after Daenerys recognized him as her kin and made him heir to the throne, but the northern lords are neither convinced nor happy with the current state of affairs. It is only the threat of dragon fire raining across the northern landscape that has kept them in line, but it doesn't escape anyone's notice how fickle that control is.
It's the name, Tyrion says. Jon seems to have the wrong one for the role and it would have made Jon's mouth twitch in amusement if not for the solution that has been presented.
Marriage. To a Stark girl.
He'd be lying if he claims his heart hadn't thumped at the prospect, or that his blood isn't rushing through his body in heady anticipation when Sansa finally arrives at the capital. He has long since stopped viewing her as his sister, his mind at last accepting the truth his heart has surrendered to.
But his heart stops beating at the same time the blood freezes in his veins when they convene to discuss the terms of his marriage to Arya Stark.
"Arya is my sister," he snaps, with all the righteous indignation of someone being suggested they commit a vile sin, only for his words to sink in a moment too late, and he knows he has said the wrong thing.
Daenerys is looking at him, a shrewd look in her violet gaze, as though she's daring him to explain this sudden change of heart, taunting him to continue, but he cannot. He can't explain this to her when he knows what she'll do with such knowledge, how she will hold it over his head and use it as a mean to an end.
Sansa's face remains a stony mask, but he hasn't spent the better part of the last few years by her side without learning how to read her, how to see the cracks in the façade she so often presents to the world. It's the small things that give her away. The way her mouth parts in the slightest before pursing so keenly her pink lips turn ghostly white. The stoic form her hands remain locked in front of her, with only the barest movement of her thumb as it rubs over the back of her hand. Her blue gaze doesn't widen in surprise at his words nor does it narrow in promise of violent retribution the moment they are alone; instead it pierces him with a coldness that rivals the Wall itself.
She could kill a man with that look alone. But instead she chooses words and he braces himself for the brutal onslaught he's certain she's about to unleash.
"You're a Targaryen. How is that a problem?"