From a prompt on my tumblr. Jon has a little fun interrogating Gendry, and Sansa is suspicious of the Dragon Queen.

Winterfell had seen much in its long history. It had seen war and peace. It had seen loyalty and betrayal. It had seen the death of many a Stark, and even some returned from the dead. But never, in the thousands of years Winterfell had stood tall, had it ever seen a sight like this day.

Dragons. Or three, to be precise.

Arya stood in awe. It was something she didn't think she would feel again, after King's Landing; after Harrenhal; after the House of Black and White. But as soon as the air had warmed, the wind had picked up and whipped her hair about her face, and those three monstrous beasts had been seen circling above her ancestral home, she'd felt like a child again.

Viserion, Jon had called him, had landed in their courtyard. The Dragon Queen had sent her other two children to fly outside the walls. It snorted, and stomped and swished a tail she was sure could level a small army. She wanted to get closer, see if he could count its scales or see her face reflected in its eyes, but for the first time in her life, she didn't dare.

So she stood, and she watched.

Jon laughed. "He won't hurt you."

Gendry hadn't taken his eyes off the great green-scaled dragon since Jon had summoned him over. He trusted Jon, He'd chosen to follow him as his King. He'd fight for him and he'd die for him; but here he stood, faced with a monster long thought extinct which could swallow him whole. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought this was some kind of test on his loyalty.

As it was, he only managed a snort and a mumbled "If you say so, Your Grace."

Jon chuckled, and ran a gloved hand over the enormous scaled belly. "Well, I wouldn't be too surprised. He's in Winterfell because of you."

That at last got him Gendry's attention. Blue eyes, wide and startled and very nearly accusing, glared at him. "I – what?"

"Your raven," he smirked. "That the fires aren't hot enough for you to forge the dragonglass into weapons as fast as we need you to."

Lines creased Gendry's brow. "Beg pardon, your Grace, but I don't follow."

"Let me ask you, Gendry – what is hotter than dragon fire?"

Confusion gave way to horror and Gendry scrambled back, turning his back and striding away through the crowds. "Oh, no. No, no, no, Jon."

Jon howled with laughter. "Ge-Gendry!" He choked and chased after him. "Get back here."

"I won't be having no dragon breathing fire into my forge. There are kinder ways to kill me, Your Grace!"

Jon caught one of the blacksmith's massive shoulders and swallowed the last of his mirth. "That's not quite how it works, Gendry. You've nothing to fear."

Gendry's face was in his hands. "I'm going to have to tell Arya your mind's broken. You do see the dragon, yes? And I'm no Targaryen. I burn, Jon."

Jon managed to drag him forward a few heavy, reluctant feet, until he was again within arms reach of Viserion. "We'll have him light torches for us. I'll do it myself it that makes you feel better. He won't have to go near your forge and you don't have to be within ten yards of him if you don't want it."

Jon had whirled Gendry around to face the dragon. It started at him and huffed and stamped and he was fairly certain the rumbling in his ears wasn't from underneath the foundations of Winterfell.

Gendry swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. "I don't think he's too thrilled to be near me."

And to his horror, Jon looked more intrigued about that than concerned. "Mayhaps he senses your Baratheon blood," he whispered low.

"Seven hells," Gendry cursed. "Well if we could keep that from the Dragon Queen over there, I might make it through this war without being turned to ash."

Jon sobered and nodded grimly. "Aye. I don't plan on telling her just yet, at any rate. Wouldn't do to have Daenerys wake up in the middle of the night to Needle pressed against her throat, all because she decided to burn my sister's favourite smith."

Fear forgotten, Gendry blushed like a maid and studied his boots. "She'd do no such thing, Your Grace. That is – I'm not – she doesn't –"

Truth be told Jon was enjoying this perhaps too much. "What are you saying, Gendry? That you would disappoint my sister?"

"No! I would never –"

"Then you would hope to gain the favour of a Princess of the North?"

"No, I know my place, Your Grace. I'm just – we were just children and –"

"Mayhaps I should introduce you to Viserion properly," Jon said, and he was only half way teasing. "Protect my sister's honour and her heart."

But rather than blush an even deeper (and alarming) shade of red, Gendry's spine seemed to snap straight, and his eyes burned like ice and he stared back at his King.

"I would never do anything to hurt your sister, Your Grace. But she doesn't need your protection – or mine."

Jon stared back.

"When we were together, I promised myself I would look out for her – tiny little thing running around and getting into fights she had no business jumping into. But truth be told, she was the one protecting me, more often than not. She had so many chances to run – on her own – but she didn't. She never left me behind. Even when the Brotherhood sold me, she tried to fight two armed guards to keep me with her. And then I wasn't there to pretend like I was looking after her, and neither were you, and she learned how to do it for herself. Now's not the time to pretend like she needs us, Jon. But she wants us. And I'll do everything I can not to let her down again."

Jon stayed silent, but his heart was both aching with hurt and swelling with pride; and for a moment, he saw Gendry in plated armour, polished until it shone and engraved with the stag of House Baratheon, standing proud with his war hammer like his father before him. In the smith before him, he saw the Lord he could have been born to be, and he made a small promise to himself. Once the war was won, and the snow settled, and the realm had found peace again, he would seek out the smith. He would make the offer to him, once and once only because he knows of this man's infamous stubbornness, and perhaps he could do something to help a fellow bastard boy improve his lot in life. If Gendry happened to find someone's hand along the way to help him share the burden of Lordship, well, Jon would be delighted.

She heard the Dragon queen exactly eight steps behind her, before she saw her come to stand at her side. Even as slight as she was – little taller than Arya – she was almost as noisy as Jon when she moved.

"He's striking, isn't he?" She spoke, voice silky and calm.

"It's fucking magnificent," Arya had said bluntly.

She heard the small choking laugh the little Queen had tried to swallow, and could feel those curious eyes study her profile. "You are not afraid?"

Arya shook her head. "I'm not about to run up and embrace it, but I can appreciate it all the same."

"Would you like to meet him?"

Arya turned to face her – Daenerys, she'd heard her called – and studied the face for insincerity, or mirth. But none was there. Yet even so Arya shook her head. "Tempting, but not today. I have a legion of recruits to train and all of them are awful."

Daenerys tensed next to her. "Truly? Do the North's troops need so much training?"

Sansa spoke from Arya's side and the younger Stark let herself smile at the small jump she felt from the invading Queen. "Arya's definition of awful is very different to everyone else's. Only Ser Brienne has any skill in her eyes, Your Grace."

"Lady Stark," Daenerys inclined her head and gave as sweet a smile as she could. "I thank you for again granting me the hospitality of your home."

Sansa looked to the Queen, proffered a courtesy and remembered all her courtesies ("It is my honour, Your Grace."), but she looked at her with eyes as cold as winter and unforgiving like the snows that blew in on the harsh northern winds. She had been told by Lord Tyrion that the Ladies of Winterfell were like Summer and Winter – night and day. Arya, she'd heard, was wild and impossible to tame. Truly the fiercest of wolves. But Sansa, Lord Tyrion had spoken of her with a soft voice she'd never heard from him before and told her of the sweetest, truest of ladies, with a fortitude he'd never seen in anyone before, or indeed since. And yet, whenever she came to Winterfell, she was met with an aloof, wary host. One full of all the proper courtesies of course, but a Lady suspicious of her all the same. And she had no idea how to change that.

And then Lady Arya abandoned them. She barked her hellos at Jon, ordered Gendry to meet her for the noon meal, and marched off back to her waiting recruits, no doubt to make them work for the brief reprieve the arrival of the dragon had given them.

And so, Daenerys decided then and there to take a leaf from The King in the North's book, and approach the matter head on.

"My Lady, do I make you uncomfortable?"

The question was unexpected enough for a small flicker of surprise to blossom over Sansa's face. In truth, Daenerys had expected rushed assurances that nothing could be further from the truth, but again Sansa defied her. She found herself under scrutiny of those blue eyes and waited patiently for their judgment.

"I am not uncomfortable, You Grace," Sansa spoke at length. "But I do not think you belong here. Dragon's are as suited to the ices of the North as wolves are to the fires of the South."

Daenerys let herself marvel for a moment at the carefully chosen words. Honest yes, and not a note of rebellion or disrespect. But they were, unmistakably, words that wished her gone. Perhaps she too then, could surprise someone today.

"I agree with you," she said, and enjoyed curious look the Lady of Winterfell rewarded her with. "I do not plan to keep my dragons here, or drag a wolf back with me to the South."

"Jon declared for you."

"He did. And I will expect him to honour his half of our agreement. What I mean to say Lady Stark, is once the war's have all been won, I will allow this King in the North to return to these frozen lands he loves so much," she smiled.

"Provided he gives you the North."

Daenerys took one of Sansa's hands in her own and gently turned this Great Lady to face her. "Perhapss. Or mayhaps there are other ways to secure the peace of the realm. I told him you see," she squeezed those hands a little tighter, "before he left for that crazed mission beyond the wall. I'd come to like this King in the North, after everything. Even if he is honest and true to the point of fault."

Daenerys stepped forward and claimed kiss from Sansa's cheek. The Lady dipped into a courtsey as she stepped back and released her hands. Proudly, the last thing she saw before she moved to return to her beloved Viserion, was the faintest of smiles finally gracing the rose-pink lips of Lady Stark.

Truly, Daenerys thought as she walked away, she was coming to like these Starks immensely, stubborn, taciturn, odd little natures and all.