1251 words on the Queens of Westeros. Not canon compliant with the show.
Inspired by the Four Horseman GOT edit by maisie-w on Tumblr
Written for my 2019 Summer Prompt Challenge on Ao3.
The Harbingers
The White Horse: Conquest
There were some that called her usurper. They said that she was but a foreigner, supported by other foreigners and traitors. Three kingdoms knelt before a single drop of blood was dealt.
Others called her their true queen. They said that she came with braids in her hair and dragons at her back. Not even to speak of the armies that stomped and screamed for carnage. Two kingdoms were drenched in blood. The final two knelt.
At her coronation she invited both enemy and friend. Her castle had no roof now and three dragons perched upon crumbling towers. They roared as she came into their sight, calling for their mother, or cheering their queen.
It was all a matter of perspective.
She was not a woman with an imposing stature, but when she spoke whole kingdoms went silent. She floated across the floor, silken fabric dancing at her feet. They were bare and some stuck their noses in the air. That was fine, it made it easier for her soldiers to cut them off.
When she took the throne, she was but a speck of white against the black backdrop of an throne forged from iron.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains. Queen of Meeren, the Rhoynar, the First Men, and the Andals. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms."
Her voice carried over the crowd of gather nobles and peasants. The Unsullied and her Khalasar cheered. The people in the streets below followed suit. A smattering of applause from the nobles accompanied it.
It was the Southern lords who paused. They heard the shift. Those who'd knelt last were now relegated lower amongst her titles. The Dornish and the Northmen would hold the greater power now.
"My first edict as your queen," Daenerys called out, silencing the crowds, "is to call for a council. Each kingdom will send forth 2 representatives - one from the nobility and one elected by the people."
The room filled with gasps and grumbles.
"You have six moon turns to gather here," Daenerys continued , "And then the real work will begin."
The Red Horse: War
It was a shock to more people than it should have been when she appeared at the head of the northern army. Her red hair caught the little sunlight that had emerged after the long winter.
The south had not been ready, but the North always remembers. Winter is coming. Now that the snows had started to melt, it came again. This time in the form of a little bird who had never truly been a bird.
Red ran through the streets just as it ran down her back. The south fell, one keep at a time. They stopped at the mountains, where the Dornish had assembled to meet them.
"You've done no wrong to me or mine." Sansa Stark inclined her head to Arianna Martell. "I have no want for Dorne."
The Princess of Dorne inclined her head in return, "And what is it the Queen in the North does want?"
Painted lips quirked up in a smile, "Justice."
The northern host turned around. Tens of thousands of men and nearly so many horses trampled back over the land from which they'd come. They took with them only that which they'd come for: the bones of their fallen and the lives of those who'd slain them.
When Sansa Stark sat upon her wooden throne in Winterfell the crown placed upon her head was forged in iron just like the one worn by the Old Kings of Winter.
"The lone wolf dies," Sansa told the lords and ladies and peasants gathered in the godswood, "but the pack survives." Cheers rang out. Sansa did not smile, she searched the crowd for a familiar face. None appeared.
The Black Horse: Famine
With Tommen's death, Cersei abandoned her red and gold gowns. She dressed in black as if a member of the Night's Watch. Her watch was not of some barren wasteland covered in ice, but of a city filled to the brim with rats and people.
Personally, she preferred the rats. They didn't cry and beg at her door, they didn't scream or shout at her as she walked through the streets.
"Your highness," some snot-nosed lord was bowed at the waist as he addressed her. Cersei sipped her wine. The council all eyed the man with bored faces, "My people are starving."
Cersei snorted, "The whole of the seven kingdoms is starving." She snatched a grape from the dish in front of her, "What makes your people so special that I should open my stores for them?"
The lord eyed her table. The grapes were not alone upon the wooden surface, dishes of fruits and meats sat ready for the council to partake.
"I will give you the same advice I have given every lord who has graced me with this same request," Cersei stood from her seat. The council all straightened. "Ration well."
With a wave of her hand the man was taken from her sight by knights with red cloaks. He yelled. They all did. He cursed her. They all did.
"Might I suggest we take further requests for aid in the throne room, my queen?" It was her Master of Whispers, Cersei had long forgotten his name at this point. The Seven help her, she missed Varys.
"No." Cersei popped another grape into her mouth. She began to walk the table, "We will hear no more requests for food." She stalked from the room, "I am their queen, I have more important matters to deal with."
The council rose, bowed, and watched her leave. The Kingsguard followed after her, appearing like ghosts from around the room.
The Master of Whisper sighed, "So says the queen."
The Pale Horse: Death
No one in Winterfell batted an eye at the appearance of a man in rags. The winter had been harsh, there were many beggars. Even more now, with the border to the south clear.
Despite the shorter growing periods and the fewer people, the North had fared much better than the southern kingdoms through the long night. It worked to her advantage as she slipped into the castle.
She'd taken advantage of the horrors and dark of the winter. Her list had finished.
Cersei. The Mountain. The Hound. Dunsen. Lorch. Ilyn Payne. Trant.
They were all dead. House Frey with them. She'd visited the Dreadfor to finish, but had found it abandoned. Rumors on the road to Winterfell was that House Bolton had been ended by the Queen in the North.
Arya Stark. It had been a while since she'd slipped into her own face. She did though, as she entered the godswood.
Queen Sansa held court in the godswood, before the eyes of the gods. Arya hung back, listened as her sister heard the needs of her people. Their people.
Rickon had been returned from Skagos. Or so rumors said. But he was wild and illiterate and unwilling to take his sister's crown. The north had gone the way of Dorne then, changed the laws so that daughters held equal rights to their father's names and holdings.
Arya'd heard the grumblings in the courtyard. The assassin never got close to Sansa. Nor would any other.
The Queen in the North would be protected by the Lord of Death. This, she swore. Valar morghulis.
All men must die, but Sansa was not a man.
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