Dark Jon is coming to play!
The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness ― Victor Hugo
The tent was very silent.
Sansa was too shocked to move.
Lord Baelish smiled pleasantly, regarding her calmly.
He looked just like she remembered – a man with dark hair going gray at his temples, and eyes that didn't smile when his mouth did.
"You look just like her" – his smile was twisted – "My cat…"
She was never yours – Sansa wanted to say, but her mouth remained closed; her throat felt tight.
She had prayed to all the Gods, so she would not see him again. Apparently, they didn't listen to her.
Distance and time didn't make Lord Baelish forget about her.
Sansa knew that he never forgave her for choosing Jon over him. He didn't understand that there was never a choice to make.
Lord Baelish had tried to turn her against Jon, but failed. He had offered her empty promises and his dreams. Sansa only wanted him gone from her home and from her mind, but life had other plans.
Lord Baelish moved forward and she shrank back. She wanted to scream for help, but, somehow, she knew it would be useless.
She wished he was dead, so she could be free.
Her stomach contracted in terror as she met his eyes.
She felt like a puppet again. She could actually feel Lord Baelish pulling the strings and trying to turn her into something that she was not. He was trying to turn her into someone who was long dead – Catelyn Tully. He was trying to rewrite history.
Sansa felt an ache swimming down from her head to her stomach. Spears of pain shot through her, sharp enough to make her gasp.
"You haven't eaten anything in three days" – Lord Baelish pointed out – "That's probably why you feel sick"
Sansa's heart beat erratically. Faster and faster it pounded, as if to burst from her ribcage. Her breathing grew heavier and heavier.
"Three days …" – Sansa's voice scratched in her throat.
The breath caught in her throat and the taste of bile grew stronger.
She was starting to get dizzy as if her brain couldn't process the information that Lord Baelish was throwing at her.
She pressed her hands to her temples and closed her eyes.
Three days… She had been asleep for three days.
She couldn't understand a single thing that was happening.
How could she have been asleep for three days? She was supposed to be in Winterfell. She was supposed to be in the Great Hall, with Jon.
Sansa could hear her own heart beating as her thoughts traveled and she remembered the exact moment when a man grabbed her from behind and placed a scented cloth over her nose and mouth.
The Lady of Winterfell felt a stabbing pain in her stomach and a strange light-headedness.
Lord Baelish reached for her, but Sansa leaned away from his touch.
She stumbled on her skirts; her back hit a chair.
A bad feeling inside Sansa grew stronger as she met Baelish's eyes.
"The guards wearing helmets …" – she forced the words to get out of her mouth – "They were not from Winterfell, were they? Did you send them?"
She needed to know. Deep down she already knew, but she needed to hear him saying it.
Lord Baelish smiled a terrible smile. That was his answer.
The world tilted and Sansa felt her eyes stinging the way they did when she tried to hold tears back for too long.
A trembling had started in her fingers, so pronounced that she knitted her hands together tightly to try to stop them from shaking.
Suddenly, someone pushed back the flap of the tent.
A servant strode across the room; Sansa eyed him warily.
The man was carrying a jug of wine.
The Lady of Winterfell's eyes followed the man putting the jug down on a big table.
Sansa blinked. She hadn't noticed the table until now.
What's happening? – she wondered.
She took a deep breath trying to control her breathing that was beginning to escalate.
Sansa examined the wealth displayed on the table. There were several silver goblets and plates, all stamped with Baelish's personal sigil – a black mockingbird.
She gulped as she started to realize what was happening.
A chill ran down her spine.
He had planned her abduction methodically. This was not an impulsive action. All evidences indicated that he knew exactly what he was doing.
How long had he been planning this?
She looked at the stacks of food set out in front of her and her stomach grumbled.
There was bread, a fruit bowl full of apples and blood oranges, boiled goose eggs, lots of bacon, ham, olives and rabbit stew.
Lord Baelish took his seat at the head of the table and motioned for Sansa to seat at his side.
Sansa didn't want to sit, but she knew that any insubordination on her part would only make things worse for her. She bit the inside of her cheek and, obediently, she sat.
She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair.
Petyr fed Sansa some food at the table.
"Eat. Food always makes me feel better" – he said; Sansa didn't move a muscle – "Would you prefer some chicken?" – he asked; Sansa remained in silence – "You must eat. You're fading away" – he insisted.
"I do not know what cool trick you're playing, but I will not be broken by you" – Sansa spoke, lifting her chin.
"Broken? I thought this would be nice" – he laughed shortly – "At least you're not shackled" – he added, after drinking some of his wine.
"You expect me to be grateful?" – Sansa snapped – "For me to fall into your arms expressing my undying gratitude?"
She hated him. She hated him more than she thought it possible to hate anyone.
He was sick.
How could he have done this to her? What was he trying to accomplish?
"Anything you want you can have" – he said, calmly – "I'll give it to you" – he added.
An hysterical laugh rose and die in her throat. By the Gods, she hated him.
"I want nothing from you!" – she retorted, pushing back her chair, before standing up.
Why couldn't he understand that she only felt revulsion for him? Why couldn't he understand that she despised him?
She was tired of his games.
Petyr Baelish was a ruthless manipulator. He was a cold sociopath with an utter ambition. The man had no real loyalty or genuine affection for anyone. His love for her was not love. It was an obsession; a disease.
He looked at her, and all he could see was Catelyn Tully. He didn't see Sansa; he was incapable of seeing her as something more than a mirror of her mother.
Be brave – Sansa told herself – Be brave, like a lady in a song.
"Where are we?" – she demanded to know – "How far are we from Winterfell?"
"You're asking the wrong questions" – Petyr Baelish stated.
"Where are we?" – Sansa insisted.
"Moat Cailin" – he said.
Moat Cailin. Sansa mentally estimated the distance between Winterfell and Moat Cailin.
She tried to remember Maester Luwin's lessons about Moat Cailin.
According to Maester Luwin, and all the books she had read, Moat Cailin was one of the North's most important strongholds, though much of it now stood in ruins. It was located on the northern edge of the great swamp known as the Neck – the key to any assault on the North.
Sansa knew that it would take them at least five days to travel from Winterfell to Moat Cailin, but she also knew that a good rider might be able to get 200 miles per day out of the best horses, and Lord Baelish definitely had access to the best horses.
The confirmation that she was at least three days away from home brought a wave of nausea to the pit of her stomach.
Moat Cailin was an effective natural choke which had protected the North from southron invasion for thousands of years. The only way for invaders to effectively bypass Moat Cailin was to win the allegiance of House Reed.
Sansa felt her heart beat against her ribcage as Howland Reed's image invaded her mind. He was one of her father's closest friends and fought alongside him in many conflicts during Robert's Rebellion.
House Reed had strong ties to House Stark. Howland Reed and his daughter had accompanied Bran to Winterfell, so they could reveal Jon's true parentage.
The Reeds would never aid southerners. They were loyal subjects, which meant that they would never help Little Finger keeping her hostage.
Sansa's heart beat frantically hard, and a sickening fear clawed at her insides.
Did Lord Baelish order their death?
The realization that the man in front of her could have killed innocent people made nausea wash over her once more.
She tried to swallow and realized her throat hurt.
She was helpless, like the thirteen-year-old version of herself, prisoner in King's Landing.
Sansa tried desperately to find her voice and to cling to some hope.
This could not be the end. This would not be the end. She was meant to have a future with Jon.
Jon – her heart ached.
She tried hard to hold on to the memory of his voice, his warm hands, his gentle eyes, his soft hair, his rare smiles… She had to cling to that. She had to believe that she would see him again.
"Soon, they will be coming to rescue me and you don't have enough men to withstand them. You can't hope to defeat them" – Sansa had to force her voice to remain steady, otherwise it would betray her by shattering into a hundred pieces – "These men you bought, they are brutal men who kill and die for pay, but they won't be enough against a large force; against dragons"
"That may not be so…" – Baelish smiled.
Sansa's lips trembled, but she kept her eyes on his.
"How many men do you have?" – she asked – "The Knights of the Vale?"
"You continue to ask the wrong questions" – Lord Baelish said – "What you must understand is that much was planned so that the Targaryen lineage would cease to exist" – he explained, noticing the way Sansa's eyes widened – "The planning had begun even before the Great War. I carried it forward, knowing that in doing so I was taking one step closer to my picture" – he continued to say; Sansa knew what his picture was: Baelish on the Iron Throne and her by his side – "But the plan changed" – he added – "Because your feelings got in the way"
Sansa's stomach lurched.
She gulped, suddenly feeling vulnerable as his gaze fell on her. She knew that look in his eyes.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" – his eyes sparkled with malevolence – "How quickly you have grown to love him" – he commented, pausing in the middle of lifting his wine glass; he set it back down and stared at her – "I'll soon train you out of that"
Sansa opened her mouth to speak and found herself momentarily speechless. She closed it, tried again, but no words came out of it.
She felt a weight on her chest. Her body started trembling.
Lord Baelish's words struck her cold. He knew. He knew everything.
How quickly you have grown to love him – his cold voice echoed in her head.
He knew the depths of her feelings and she felt as if she were dying.
Sansa blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Too stunned for words?" – Lord Baelish stepped around the chair toward her; a smirk on his face.
Sansa edged farther behind the safety of the chair, feeling her knees trembling. She could feel the blood draining from her face.
Baelish stroked his thumb along her jawline, and Sansa suppressed a shudder at his touch; her lips curled in disgust.
"You're practically her" – he murmured.
A wicked smile twisted across his face.
Sansa felt the burn of tears.
Wolves never cry – she reminded herself.
Her brain was her best defense. She couldn't let his mind games control her. She was wolf, and she would not be afraid.
For a split second, she considered hitting him, like Jon taught her, but she changed her mind as a pair of guards entered in the tent.
The sound of footsteps caught Lord Baelish's attention and his hand left her face.
Still smiling, he drew back and walked out of the tent; one of the guards didn't, and Sansa felt the weight of his eyes on her.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down.
Slowly, the events of her time alone with Jon started trickling back into her head.
You're not a pawn – Jon had told her.
She remembered the feeling of his soft and warm hair between her fingers.
She remembered the intensity of his kisses that had her toes curling in her shoes.
You're a Queen – he murmured, his breath warm on her skin.
She remembered the way his calloused palms moved along the curve of her waist, touching her as only he could, and making her heart flutter with anticipation.
She remembered the moment Jon entwined their fingers together and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.
She remembered the way he rubbed his nose against hers in a tender motion.
My Queen – he smiled.
Sansa felt an ache in her chest at the memory of that night. The present was such a stark contrast to then and she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
She forced her brain to understand all that was happening, and failed.
Questions stormed her mind. She didn't understand Lord Baelish's plan.
Was he trying to repeat history? Was he trying to make a Targaryen fight to the death for a Stark?
It didn't make any sense. Petyr Baelish didn't have enough men to win a war. He could have bought mercenaries, but that wasn't enough against Daenerys and Jon's army.
Sansa bit her lower lip. She was missing something.
Baelish wouldn't risk his life for her. He might have developed a sick obsession with her, but he was not a fool. He was selfish. He only cared about himself – about his picture.
He said that he was planning to end the Targaryen lineage, but Sansa knew that he didn't have the means necessary to carry the plan forward… For the plan to work he would need help.
Sansa went suddenly cold all over. A bad feeling inside her grew stronger.
She looked at the guard and chills raced up her back and over her arms.
She was once more a prisoner. She was once more a pawn. She was once more alone.
Knights, servants and lords were on the trail, following tracks. Most men were southerners and they didn't know the North. They didn't know the roads, the woods or the villages. They were useless.
Whoever kidnaped Sansa knew that the Northern Houses had left Winterfell almost three moons ago.
Whoever kidnaped Sansa knew that Winterfell would be filled with southern men – men that didn't know the lands; men that would only slow down the searching.
Whoever kidnaped Sansa had chosen the perfect time to attack. Everything would be different if the Northern Houses were still present.
Jon was attempting to follow the tracks, walking his horse ahead of the group.
"It's getting too dark" – one man said.
"We'll keep heading east" – Jon said, cutting away at the branches in the forest.
Accidentally, he ripped his cloak on the thorns, leaving a piece behind.
Ser Davos looked at him with worry. The King in the North looked completely lost. He didn't sleep; he didn't eat; he barely spoke, and the men had to almost drag him out of the woods every time the sun started to fade, and the King insisted on staying in the forest. The nights in the North were cold. Not even his Targaryen blood and the warm furs would be enough to keep him alive.
Ser Davos's thoughts travelled and he remembered the first day after Sansa's disappearance: people were interrogated. On the second day, the dungeons started filling up.
Jon was desperate to know Sansa's location and who had taken her. He needed to know how the assassins managed to enter the castle; he needed to know if it had been an inside job.
Jon had tried to keep his composure, but failed. The lack of answers awoke the dragon that lived within him.
Ser Davos could still remember the way Jon unsheathed Longclaw and blood began to drip down the prisoners's arms. Howls of pain echoed through the dungeons for several hours as Jon made deep cuts into the men's flesh.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
Flashes of the King in the North plunging Longclaw into the men's palms, and twisting the blade, flitted through his mind's eyes.
Jon had purposely made men scream and bleed. He had tortured men who were chained.
Davos feared that the King was slowly losing his mind.
"We have lost the trail" – a knight of the Kingsguard spoke, interrupting Davos's thoughts.
"Then we'll retrace the tracks!" – Jon said, riding away from the group – "Don't stop!" – he roared.
As the hours passed, the men felt more and more wearied. Their clothes were wet with mud, and the prick of branches dug into their skin.
The men shivered as a light rain began to fall and quickly soaked through their clothing.
The horses became fatigued.
Jon walked over to a piece of red cloth.
He looked at his cloak and clenched his jaw.
His cloak was ripped. The piece of red cloth was his.
He angrily picked up his sword and threw it in to the ground
"We have gone around in a circle…" – Jon muttered – "We have wasted an entire day!" – he growled.
He felt like an amateur. He couldn't even find the trail. Pathetic.
Jon sunk to the ground looking defeated. He felt physically and mentally exhausted.
"Your Grace…" – Ser Davos approached him.
"She can't be far …" – Jon tried to sound confident, but his voice broke.
He knew that his words were a lie. They knew it was a lie. Sansa had been gone for three days. She could be miles away by now.
Jon was desperate. He didn't know what to do; how to follow her; how to find her. It was like she had vanished into thin air.
He rose from the ground; his knees felt weak.
"I know…" – Ser Davos said – "But we have to work together" – he added – "We need to return. In the morning we'll pick up the trail again"
"If I stayed with her…" – Jon tried to say as guilt unfurled in his chest.
It killed him to think that he could have prevented all that was happening. It made him lose his appetite and his sleep.
If I stayed with her – the words kept following him; the guilt hanging over him like a leaden cloud.
He failed her.
"You cannot blame yourself" – Ser Davos stated, putting a hand over Jon's shoulder – "We'll find her"
Jon was in his solar. He was prepared to spend another sleepless night, staring at maps and letters. There was no way he would accept that they were out of options. It couldn't even form as a possibility in his mind. There had to be a way to find her – he simply needed to see it. He couldn't lose his mind.
He looked around the room, trying to find Ghost, but the direwolf was nowhere to be seen.
Jon knew that Ghost was looking for Sansa, and somehow that made him feel a little bit more hopeful.
He had summoned all the Northern Houses. Many had already answered his missives and were making the journey to Winterfell.
Jon needed the northerners close. He needed them to patrol the woods and villages. The royal party didn't know the lands, like they did.
They had already wasted too much time. They couldn't afford to lose more. Every day that passed was a day farther from Sansa.
He ran his hands over his face, controlling his thoughts.
A memory invaded his mind:
A year earlier.
His feet carried him blindly through the halls of Winterfell until he found himself outside on the battlements.
Snow fell lazily down on him, sprinkling white flakes in his dark curls.
The North was by far the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. Cold and damp, that was how the southerners saw the North, but without the cold, a man could not appreciate the fire in his hearth.
Was that how he had fallen in love with her? By enduring her coldness first, and then finding the fire that lived, not only in her hair, but also in her body and soul?
He was gazing out at his childhood home and he was thinking about her. He knew he shouldn't, but she was a constant in his mind (and heart).
Jon thought he would never feel anything ever again after his resurrection. He didn't want to feel anything ever again, but something changed when he saw her standing in the yard of Castle Black. It was not love, but it was something, the beginning of something ... a warmth, a spark, a flame.
Ever since that day, he felt the need to seek her out. He had the urge to lean into her to count the twelve freckles sprinkled across her nose; to smell the sweet scent of her hair… Every kiss placed on her forehead was pleasure and torture.
No one could make him laugh and smile as she did. No one could comfort him as she did. No one could make him dream of a future as she did. No one could make his heart beat faster with a look or a touch as she did.
Jon did not know when these thoughts and feelings for Sansa developed into something more – into love. Castle Black? Bear Island? Deepwood Motte? Hornwood? White Harbor? Last Hearth? Winterfell?
The wind had picked up and the snow began to fall more heavily.
He sensed Ghost beside him. His constant in a very unsteady life.
He caressed Ghost's fur and the direwolf licked his hand.
Jon closed his eyes. He knew what he was feeling and he knew it was depraved.
By the Gods, Sansa used to be his sister!
But she's your cousin now – a wicked voice whispered; a pitiful excuse.
Sansa could be his cousin, but the self-incrimination grew stronger every day, because he knew that his feelings for her started before the truth about his parentage was revealed.
Jon tried to hide it the best way he could, but he couldn't simply kill his feelings or his thoughts.
Every time they were together, he schooled his features into their usual sullen lines so she wouldn't see how happy he was to see her… but he didn't know if he would be able to continue with this charade for much longer. He didn't want to continue with this charade.
Jon shook his head.
The charade must continue – he said to himself. Sansa couldn't know about his feelings.
Their song was not a song of fire and ice. Their song was not a song. Sansa would never love him, and he would never love anyone but her.
"There you are!" – her sweet voice interrupted his thoughts.
His heart thundered in his chest, and he forced his features to remain expressionless.
Jon's mind was racing. His heart was pounding and he was starting to panic.
He regretted that he had wasted so much time fretting about Sansa not returning his feelings.
What if he didn't see her again? What if he lost her before he had the chance to tell her exactly how he felt?
He felt like he had been a fool.
There you are! – he could still hear her voice; how he wished he could hear her saying those words again.
A realization made his gut twist painfully.
Sansa had found him in Castle Black. She had run away from Winterfell (from Ramsay), and she'd travel for miles to find him.
She always found him, but he never found her.
His chest tightened.
What if he didn't find her? What if he was doomed to fail her? What if he lost her forever this time?
Jon rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control his thoughts and fears.
A knock on the door made him open his eyes.
A servant entered into the room and informed him that Lord Lake wished to speak to him.
Jon frowned. The last thing he wanted to do was to look at Sebastian Lake's face, but the hope to find Sansa made him say yes to the man's request.
Part of him wanted to refuse his request, but the other part was glad for his arrival. Sebastian Lake's arrival meant more men – northern men – searching for Sansa, and Jon needed all the help he could get.
Sebastian Lake stepped into the room and bowed his head.
"Your Grace" – he stammered, not meeting Jon's eyes.
The King in the North noticed a slight tremble on Sebastian's hands.
Jon's mouth tightened; his eyes narrowed.
"I believe you're here to help finding Sansa" – he said, trying to understand the reason why Sebastian Lake looked so nervous.
"Yes" – Sebastian managed to say – "I am, Your Grace" – he added, clearing his throat – "I have information that may help us find Sansa"
Jon swallowed his pride after hearing the man addressing Sansa by her first name. He ignored the green-eyed monster of jealousy and rose from his chair, focusing only on the information Sebastian was sharing with him.
"What?" – he breathed, feeling his heart beating against his ribcage – "What, what do you know?" – he asked – "Do you know where she is? Who took her?"
Lord Lake gulped, avoiding eye-contact.
"Forgive me, Your Grace" – Sebastian Lake's voice trembled – "I, I never meant for this to, to happen…" – he explained – "You have to believe me…"
Jon's world stopped.
His eyes widened tenfold as Sebastian's words sunk in.
The King in the North glared at him with tight, trembling fists; his entire body was laced with a cold nervous sweat.
Rage flowed in his veins as he looked at the man in front of him.
Jon rushed forward, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. He was a storm. Sebastian Lake scarcely had time to blink before Jon grabbed him by the throat, slamming him into the nearest wall.
Jon was so enraged that he didn't even realize the man's feet dangled just off the ground.
Sebastian gasped and thrashed against Jon's hold.
"What did you do?" – Jon demanded. His rage was chilling – "Where is she?"
Sebastian choked.
"I don't know, please…" – he tried to say – "Your Grace…"
"Tell me!" – Jon growled – "Where is she?"
His heart was racing frantically and his breathing was becoming uneven.
"I, I don't know … She didn't tell me… I, I, I failed her behest…" – Sebastian stuttered – "She wanted me to marry Sansa, so she, she could marry you" – he tried to explain – "But you annulled our engagement and, and she –"
Suddenly, the door opened.
"Jon! I have news! A raven just arrived!" – Daenerys cried out as she rushed into the room – "Tyrion sent a letter and –" – she stopped talking abruptly, gasped, and placed her hand over her heart.
Her eyes widened as she watched Jon strangling another man.
"Jon" – she said, regaining her voice – "What on earth are you doing? Let him go!" – she added, walking towards him, before he strangled the man to death.
Jon did not let Sebastian Lake go.
The man's words echoed in his head.
She.
His mind stormed with questions.
Who was this 'She'? Who was this person? Why did she kidnap Sansa? What was her plan? What did Lord Lake have to do with any of this?
Emotions were assailing him from all sides.
Despite the amount of questions in his mind, Jon was certain of one thing: Lord Lake had conspired against him. He was a traitor. He knew that someone was planning to kidnap Sansa, and he chose not to share that information. He could have prevented all of this, but he chose not to. Sansa was in danger because of him.
All his letters asking for Sansa's hand in marriage had been an attempt to fulfill some sick plan. He was a fake. He only saw Sansa as a mean to an end; a pawn.
Daenerys placed a hand on Jon's forearm. She was astonished at his rigidity. Her hand seemed to be pressing on stone.
"Jon!" – she repeated his name, louder this time, and he looked at her.
His mind was reeling.
Was Dany the 'She' that Sebastian spoke about? Was she the responsible for Sansa's abduction?
No, no, no – a voice inside his head spoke – It didn't make any sense.
Daenerys didn't want to marry him (as far as he knew, she didn't want to marry anyone). She was barren. If they married, the Targaryen lineage would end with them.
According to Dany, he was the one who needed to find a suitable bride, so he could have an heir. He had the responsibility to continue the Targaryen lineage. Besides, Daenerys wouldn't betray him like this; she wouldn't make him suffer like this.
If she didn't approve his feeling for Sansa, she would have told him something. They were always honest with each other. He was her only living relative. She loved him.
He looked down into her trusting violet eyes. She had a worried look on her face.
Jon released the offender.
Sebastian coughed, struggling for breath.
"Guards!" – the King growled; a few seconds later, two guards stepped into the room – "Take him to the dungeons" – Jon said, coldly. When the guards did not move fast enough for the King's liking, Daenerys saw Jon's eyes darken – "Now!" – he roared.
The guards grabbed Sebastian Lake and left quickly.
Jon kept panting deep heavy breaths while his racing heart refused to calm.
"He will pay a hundred times over for this"– he muttered.
"Jon…" – Daenerys tried to say, but before she could finish her sentence Jon plucked the letter out of her hand.
Swallowing harshly, his hands shaking, he forced himself to read it.
My dearest Queen
My job here has proven rather difficult. The rose keeps delaying its return but I fear that spring is coming. A moon ago, the garden closed its doors and the city is slowly starting to be filled with dread. Flowers are essential to our survival, however, not all flowers are edible, and some can be dangerous to eat, even for dragons.
Beautiful petals can hide dangerous thorns which are perfectly placed to draw blood.
Your humble and loving servant
Jon frowned. He reread the letter another half a dozen of times.
"Margaery Tyrell didn't return to court as she said she would" – Daenerys explained, noticing the way Jon kept looking at the parchment – "It's been a moon since the last carriage carrying most of the food supply got to King's Landing. It seems that House Tyrell stopped sending food to the capital" – she added.
Jon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, feeling sick to his stomach.
Margaery Tyrell was the She. It had to be her.
Jon remembered his meeting with Margaery almost three moons ago.
He had offered her a seat on the Small council and she had accepted it. She didn't make any demands and she didn't talk about marriage prospects. She asked to travel to Highgarden so she could inform her brother about her new position, but she promised to return to King's Landing in less than two moons. She lied.
Daenerys and Tyrion's words echoed in his mind:
A high position at court is not exactly a crown.
She's in love with power.
He put his arms about himself as if he were cold.
How long had Margaery been planning this? Before the spring feast? After they offered her a seat on the Small council? What else was she calculating?
His heart was hammering. She had managed to fool them all.
Jon looked at Dany.
The Dragon Queen met his eyes and, somehow, he knew that she was following the same line of thought that he had.
"She's got Sansa" – Jon said finally, in a cracking voice.
She's got her and we have no idea where – he added to himself.
"Yes, I believe so" – Daenerys said – "She's using Sansa as leverage against us"
Jon turned pale as he faced reality. He could taste the bile in his mouth.
He tried to keep his composure, trying not to let Daenerys know how terrified he was, but he failed.
"We have to talk to her, negotiate …" – Jon said after a few seconds of silence.
"No, Jon. We cannot simply walk up to her and talk" – Daenerys said calmly, sitting on a chair before the fireplace – "She doesn't want to negotiate. She wants the Seven Kingdoms" – she stated, looking at the flames.
"She can have the Seven Kingdoms. I'll renounce my claim if she wishes. Publicly" – Jon said immediately, approaching his writing desk.
He would do anything for Sansa.
"Jon…" – Daenerys started to say, but Jon was faster.
"I'll give her whatever she wishes if it means I can have Sansa back" – he insisted.
"You're not thinking clearly" – Daenerys sighed.
That seemed to break Jon. He turned to face her quickly. His face was pinched in anger.
"You don't get it!" – he banged his fist on the desk – "I can't lose her! I love her!" – his voice broke on her.
"You're the rightful King, Jon" – Dany retorted.
"I don't care about the damn title!" – he yelled – "I'll give her whatever she wishes if it means I can have Sansa back" – he repeated.
Daenerys rose from the chair.
"And then what? Do you really think that she will let you live?" – she said, raising her voice – "That she will let us live?" – she added, her voice sounding more anxious than she intended – "She won't, Jon! As long as you and I are alive we are a threat to her reign"
Daenerys knew that Jon's fear of losing Sansa was growing, but he needed to understand what was at stake.
"She's clever. She chose the right moment to attack us" – she stated – "She waited for the Northern Houses to leave Winterfell and she waited for me to leave King's Landing, which leaves us in a vulnerable position, since we don't have an army fully prepared to …"
Daenerys continued to talk but Jon did not seem to hear her. He was trembling, his hands shaking with strain and tension.
He needed to find Sansa.
"… she wants Sansa with her when she confronts us. She's her leverage" – Daenerys continued to say – "And she must have the support of some Southern Houses. She wouldn't make a move against us if she didn't have some kind of reassurance that she could win" – she explained – "We need to find the oathbreakers and …"
Images, each one more twisted than the last, flitted through Jon's brain as he started to understand Margaery's plan.
Jon's fingers tightened until his knuckles paled. His mind started to show him images of Sebastian Lake and Margaery Tyrell plotting against him and his family.
The tension made Jon gasp for breath.
He stared down at his hands. They had begun to shake uncontrollably.
Jon closed his eyes and Sansa's smiling face invaded his mind.
If I lose her, I lose everything.
Suddenly, Dany and Jon heard the sound of flapping wings – a sound they both recognized very well.
A roar of a dragon resounded through the room. Rhaegal.
"We ride at dawn" – Jon stormed out of the room, not waiting for Dany's response.
She opened her eyes slowly.
The orange flames continued to consume the wood in the fireplace.
The room was occupied by a king size bed with a headboard and matching nightstands, two slat-backed wooden rockers and a small stuffed divan upholstered in dark brocade. Two small wooden tables, one on each side of the divan, held several candles. In the far left corner of the room stood an antique-looking desk.
Daenerys rubbed her temples, adjusting her eyes to her surroundings.
She sat up and looked around the room. It took her a moment to realize where she was.
The light coming from the fireplace bathed the bedchamber in a warm and reddish glow.
She looked to her right and saw a large glass door that led to a private balcony.
A piercing sound of a scream echoed through the room, startling her.
Daenerys threw the furs off of her and jumped out of bed. Her long blonde hair fell unadorned over her shoulders in gentle waves.
She walked towards the dressing table and tied her robe around her body.
The Dragon Queen stepped out onto the balcony and felt the cold night air caressing her skin, making her shiver. It was like the cold air was trying to reach her very bones.
The night was moonless and an impalpable haze dimmed the star-glow.
Daenerys missed the bright colors of King's Landing. She missed the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore, the smell of salt water and the sun warming her skin.
She stared out to the courtyard and saw a line of men chained up outside, against a stone wall. Despite the distance, she noticed that most men were badly injured.
Her mind whirled with confusion.
What's happening? – she wondered.
She could hear people shouting and screaming words that she couldn't quite understand.
Suddenly, she heard a roar and Drogon flew over her.
Daenerys felt her feet becoming cold and got back into her chambers.
The Queen slid her feet into a pair of dark brown knee-high boots; she grabbed her very heavy cloak and left the room.
Anticipation and dread rushed through her body. By the time she reached the courtyard she was breathless.
Dany almost lost her balance when she saw Jon. Her nephew's hands were painted red and blood was dripping from the sword in his hand. She could also see it splattered on his arms and up the front of his tunic.
Ser Davos was talking to him, but the King in the North seemed to be purposely ignoring him. Jon's face was stony and something was ragging behind his eyes.
Daenerys walked towards him.
The sound of dragon's wings flapping was loud and clear.
"It's freezing!" – a man shouted.
The Dragon Queen looked at the high wall in front of her. She immediately saw Sebastian Lake among the prisoners. His chains rattled; a steady trickle of blood coursed along his cheek and sticky blood coated his arms and legs.
A lump formed in Dany's throat.
Did Jon torture this man? – her insides seized.
"More prisoners are coming in, but the dungeons are filling up" – Ser Davos's words interrupted her thoughts, making her look at Jon; her nephew didn't move a muscle.
"You can't leave us out here!" – men cried – "We'll die... take us inside!"
Daenerys swallowed hard. The freezing night air felt like glass cutting her skin. Her teeth were chattering.
"They're right..." – she spoke for the first time – "It's too cold, many won't survive the night" – she explained.
"Many here didn't survive the night the assassins managed to enter the castle!" – Jon snapped – "Guards were killed and –" – his voice trailed off and he looked away, pain in his expression – "They got in because they thought us vulnerable" – he added, regaining control of his voice.
He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out Sansa's hairpin.
He looked at the small snowflake and fought to hide his anguish. Jon closed his hand around it and took a deep breath.
"I wanted to be one kind of king, but now I'm forced to be another" – he continued to say.
Rhaegal roared out angrily.
"Jon..." – Daenerys tried to say, but Jon ignored her.
"What is needed now is a king to be feared… and not just for the prisoners, but for all Westeros, and, by the Gods, I will give them one" – Jon stated; rage in his voice – "So that this never happens again" – he added, his expression dark.
Daenery's thoughts traveled and a quick image of Viserys's evil face flashed through her mind.
She shuddered.
She knew that some Targaryens appeared to be born mad. But Daenerys also knew that others developed madness as the years went by.
The Targaryens have always danced too close to madness, especially when circumstances encouraged it. For the Targaryens, madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin. According to some beliefs, House Targaryen carried the trait for insanity in its bloodline.
Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.
This knowledge of the alleged madness in the Targaryen bloodline always concerned her.
She remembered Ser Barristan's words about her father – King Aerys II Targaryen. She was aware that her father was called The Mad King.
Aerys showed great promise at the start of his reign, bringing peace and prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms, but later descended into insanity. His paranoia and cruelty grew out of control. 'Burn them all', had been his last words.
She knew that in the blood of the dragon there was a taint, but she didn't want to be like her father and brother. She wanted to be better. She wanted to be a good queen. She always put the needs of her people before her own desires. She always wished to rule with justice. She didn't want to be remembered as The Mad Queen.
Daenerys looked at Jon. His expression was dark, and she could almost swear that his gentle gray eyes had turned violet. They gazed at the men with hostility as pure and concentrated as acid.
Daenerys bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't want Jon to become The Mad King.
"Let them freeze!" – Jon roared.
Daenerys eyed him warily. His words awakened old twinges.
Her warm breath became a cloud, visible before her face in the chilling air.
A heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach leapt to her chest, and the words 'Burn them all' echoed in her mind.
So, I hope this chapter answered some of your questions (not all because that would be no fun, hahaha).
Please share your thoughts with me! I love hearing your theories (:
(You better prepare your heart for the next chapter! Something big is going to happen, and I'm so excited!)