Hey! Here's chapter nine guys, hope you enjoy it. Btw, thank you all SO much for the reviews, which I love reading, and favourites, follows too, they just make me all warm and happy :D I do now have an outline for this story, although it is quite brief and vague, but I figured since so many have invested themselves in this fic that I should at least make sure there is some direction. I feel like I've made the characters (Jon, especially) quite OOC so so,e input on that, I'd really appreciate. Also, if you'd like updates on this fic, or spoilers, or the chance to just fangirl with asoiaf or got then please, please find me on Tumblr at melaniechester or PM me. And lastly, have a merry christmas.

Chapter Nine

Jon

The wind was harsh and whipped Jon's cheek and blew his hair back out of his eyes. The height and the silence gave him a sense of peace he hadn't felt the past three days—the past month really. He felt tranquil, almost, empty but in a good way, and had been flying nearly tirelessly for the past day, resting only once. Rhaegal flew at immense speeds, covering hundreds of miles in what felt like minutes, yet Jon was as at ease as he would walking on the ground. Despite his calm being blatant evidence, he still refused to believe that he preferred the dragons in his moments of stress and frustration rather than Ghost or simply sword fighting as it had been at the Wall. Gods help us all if I do, Dany wouldn't let me hear the end of it.

Sometimes it amazed Jon just how close he and Daenerys had become in the space of a year and some, he couldn't believe that the woman who he'd initially been frightened off and resented due to the news she carried had now become one of his closest confidants and friends. He would gladly put his life in her hands and vice versa. His feelings were similar towards Tyrion Lannister as well. Never in his wildest dreams had Jon imagined himself calling a Lannister his best friend, but in his mind Tyrion had certainly earned the title. Upon his impromptu departure, Tyrion had been the only person Jon went to speak to. In his haste, Jon hadn't even thought to bring his sword: Longclaw.

"I cannot believe you are truly doing this, Jon. It is so . . . Southern of you," Tyrion said, amused.

"We northerners can be spontaneous, you know."

"Well, you definitely prove yourself right on that one."

"So you'll do it, then?"

"I run these bloody seven kingdoms for you," the man exclaimed. "I can handle your aunt."

Jon rolled his eyes. "You'll tell her to leave immediately, and to take Sansa with her?"

"Yes yes, and make sure Arya receives her sword fighting and reading lessons as soon as she arrives, yes I remember."

"And keep an eye on Rickon, too, make sure Osha doesn't let him roam too freely."

"You're beginning to sound like an overprotective mother, Your Grace."

"Just make sure you remember, alright?"

"I will, don't worry. You just go save your damsel."

And save his damsel, he would. He only hoped he didn't arrive too late, for he had no idea what he'd do if some Maester told him Margaery was dead. Do not think like that, she is alive as can be.

III

Sansa

"Is it true, Princess Sansa, that the king has fled on the back of his dragon?" One of the lesser ladies at court asked during breakfast.

Jon leaving had been the talk of the Red Keep the past twenty-four hours, and had left Sansa feeling unnerved, nervous and exceedingly anxious for a number of reasons. The first being that Jon wouldn't survive such a long trip on the back of his wild dragon, with no straps for safety; the second that once he reached Margaery, he'd find out that she had sent the lady away and have him hate her for it. If I had just kept my mouth shut, Margaery would be here, alive and well. The third, of course being how she'd survive by herself with Queen Daenerys. Still, she knew she had to keep the façade up for the benefit of everyone else, pretend that Jon's disappearance was planned and came with a good reason.

Sansa swallowed before answering, they would never dare ask Queen Daenerys this. "His Grace has left to see Lady Margaery."

"Whatever for?" One of the older women sneered. "She is nothing but a disgraced harlot; she doesn't deserve our king."

"Oh, Hannah don't be so cynical, Lady Margaery's beautiful. You're simply jealous," the first girl quipped.

"Beauty is nothing, it will soon flee her as her honour has," Hannah said, pursing her lips.

"Like yours has, you mean?"

"Ladies," a clear, loud voice interrupted. "Gossiping at such an early hour?"

Sansa's head turned to see one of the many bane's of her many nightmares stood behind her, silver hair tied into an elaborate braid, with her fear-inducing bloodriders behind. I'll never understand how she feels safe around savages like the Dothraki. The few left with Daenerys in the Red Keep turned Sansa's inside to jelly whenever she saw them. I suppose the mother of dragons would have no reason to fear them as I do.

"Your Grace," all the women at the table rose quickly to curtsy.

"Pardon our impertinence, Your Grace," Sansa said quietly. "The ladies were only curious as to where Jo—His Grace has gone."

"I know," Daenerys responded. Then to the rest of the table, "The king has left to pay his respects to the daughter of his Master of Ships. Her injuries are near fatal and the king and Lady Margaery were good friends during her stay here: it would've been rude for His Grace not to go and see her in light of these most tragic events, and offer his support to her family, his good friends."

"See, I told you it had nothing to do with her being beautiful," whispered Hannah loudly.

"Lady Hannah is correct, beauty has nothing to do with it. And, if His Grace has decided that he'd like to court Lady Margaery after his visit, then he is free to do so. Without the judgement or remarks of his own guests," Daenerys said sternly, giving each girl a hard glare.

Why do these ladies always insist on getting me in trouble? If only they'd keep their mouths shut I'd have no bother here.

"Of course, Your Grace," Hannah said. "Excuse my lapse in decorum and gratitude."

"It is excused. Now, off you go and spread the good news. You might all do well to arrange a little get-well basket for Lady Margaery, should she return here with the king."

"Yes Your Grace," the girls echoed as they haphazardly fled the room.

"You stay, Lady Sansa."

Oh, what have I done?

The shaking girl faced the queen, trying very hard to keep her hands still and retain her grace and dignity. I am a Princess, and not Joffrey's, I am Jon's, I am a Stark.

"It's been a while since we last spoke," Daenerys began. "Are you avoiding me, Sansa?"

"No, of course not, my queen," Sansa stammered. "I would not want to annoy or interrup—"

"Hush child, it was a jest," the queen sighed. "You should really work on your eager-to-please habit. It's awfully boring and frankly, irritating."

Sansa gulped, wondering what the woman would do if she allowed herself to burst into tears, as she so dreadfully wanted. "I am eager to please, my queen, it is my duty to—"

"Ah, Sansa," Daenerys pinched the bridge of her nose tiredly. "I don't like you, but that does not mean you have to be so visibly scared of me. Or so visibly wetting yourself. Anyhow, we're bonded through Jon, so I would not presume to hurt you unless you make a traitorous action first."

Really? The sharp admittance that Daenerys did not like Sansa came as no shock, but her wanting Sansa to grow a spine did. "But you're the queen, and you hate me so—"

"Yes, I know I'm the queen, but you're also a princess: so act like one and not some lowborn lady who needs to kiss the arse of everyone in order to be liked or tolerated. Secondly, I've found that I do not hate you. I hate Cersei Lannister. I hate Tywin Lannister. I hate his monster, the mountain was it? I hate him. I hate the slave masters back in Mereen and Astapor. You I merely dislike for mistreating Jon when he was younger."

"I am truly sorry for that."

"I've heard. But that is beside the point right now; Jon's run after Margaery and we need to stick together in in order to keep everything under control until we set sail later today."

"Set sail? I don't understand."

"What is there not to understand? Tyrion has told me I need to meet Jon in Highgarden, bring the rest of his belongings along with about ten Maesters, and then go to Dorne from there."

"Oh."

"And Jon told me I had to bring you, so we're going to have to feign tolerance or even love for each other while on the ship."

"Ye—yes, my queen."

"Queen Daenerys is fine, it makes you sound less like a servant."

"Sorry, Queen Daenerys."

"So you go pack, say goodbye to your brother and be ready by noon. We'll go to the Great Sept, receive a blessing, make a show of it and then leave."

"Yes, Queen Daenerys."

The dragon queen briskly left the small hall where Sansa had been confined to eating breakfast and lunch, her bloodriders following dutifully behind her, sparing Sansa not one glance. It's as if they have no feelings when I'm around, for whenever Sansa or anyone else for that matter, happened to catch a quick look in on one of Daenerys' weekly meals with her soldiers, freed slaves, and small khal, the normally statuesque men seemed to liven up and laugh with their wives and their queen. Even Daenerys was much less frightening and scary around her own people.

Sansa was shockingly quite serene and poised, as she strolled towards Rickon's chambers. Daenerys' advice had struck some hidden chord in the Northern maid, reminding the girl of her background, her status and how she needed behave in order to resurrect her family's last name. Cersei's years on the throne, Ned Stark's murder, and Sansa's humiliating imprisonment had managed to diminish any respect for her House. It had been regained some with Jon's reign, but most people knew him as the Targaryen sent to save them all, only Jon, it seemed, remembered that he was of the North. With everyone else, the only North in him they seemed to remember was his time on the Wall, which he was almost revered and glorified for. But not his Stark heritage. It is down to me, and maybe Bran, down to us to make House Stark what it once was. Determination coursing through her veins, Sansa held her head high without it being forced or uncomfortable. Though, she wasn't sure she would ever stop quaking in fear whenever in the presence of Queen Daenerys, the woman just shook Sansa in a way she couldn't control.

III

Olenna Tyrell

The widowed Queen of Thornes had scarcely left her granddaughter's bedside since the maid's injury, a week ago. Two broken ribs and both legs broken, the woman could hardly believe it. Margaery had always been a fantastic rider, and normally the one who would always be able to manage an untamed horse, which is why Olenna had quickly come to the conclusion that her granddaughter's injury's must have been intentional. The thought saddened her, and she couldn't understand how Margaery had become so depressed that she would purposefully throw herself to death. Not death, these Maesters will fix her if it's the last thing they do in their miserable lives.

Each day Olenna would replay the last few weeks in her head, wondering just when things had become so unbearable for Marg. She laughed and talked and ate and even dressed the same, the girl hadn't shown one sign that she wasn't truly happy. I'd even been surprised by how upbeat she'd been, I'd thought she'd be even slightly subdued at having to leave her kingly love. Only after His Grace failed to show up at our dinner had Marg been sad, and even then it had been more silent than sad. Then we got home and she brightened and I assumed family had quelled any unhappiness.

"Do you not wish to eat something, Mother?" Mace Tyrell asked, as he waddled into the room he'd dutifully avoided the past week, keeping his eyes well away from the sleeping form of his beloved daughter.

"Do you not wish to summon those other Maesters you heard about?" She snapped. "Broken bones shouldn't leave her this unresponsive."

"Mother, you know Maester Lomys does his best—"

"She hasn't opened her eyes in a week, you fool!"

"Mother, please calm down—"

"Gods, I must've committed some great sin to be given a son like you," she said. "Fetch the Maesters, Mace."

Mace puffed his chest. "You have no right to speak to me in that manner, mother, I am the Lord of Highgarden, and Head of this House."

"And your daughter is on the brink of death, my lord, so why don't you summon the Maesters of all your vassals and bring her back to life."

"I cannot just take all the Maester's of every House, we already have the one from Redwyne that you sent for, so do not just sit there and presume you are the only one grief stricken about this, Alerie has barely slept and Loras—"

Olenna tuned her son out, sighing, she already knew that everyone else was unconsolable about Margaery's fall, especially Loras, but no-one was doing anything about it. She turned to her sleeping love, and raised a wrinkled hand to stroke Margaery's cheeks, willing her touch to somehow bring the maid back to consciousness. It was moments after this tender exchange that she saw it, Olenna had only looked up to see if her spineless worm of a son was still wittering on, but a dark shadow which crossed his face distracted her. She whipped her head around desperately praying that Margaery had risen, only to see some great beast soaring through Highgarden's blue, clear skies. It took Olenna only two seconds before her son to comprehend what was happening.

Oh gods Marg, the old woman smiled, you are a treasure.

Sorry this is kinda short but I felt that this was a perfect place to finish rather than go to Arya's POV which I planned which would've basically been two/four hundred words of her moaning about Ser Jorah or hiding in some corner, eavesdropping.