Thank you to everyone who had faith that this story wasn't abandoned.
In addition to this chapter, I have two more written and will post them every other week, as usual. However, I don't know if/when I'll have time to write more after that. Be ye warned.
I have just now adjusted the bargain between Jaime and Jon substantially and it might be worth a reread. Thank you to Jubila for the feedback!
Sansa had been in Casterly Rock's war room so often that she was almost surprised to remember that Winterfell didn't have one. Instead, a long table had been pushed to the middle of the great hall. A map of Westeros lay unrolled down across it, the seat at the head of the table remaining empty for Jon. Bran sat on the right hand of Jon's empty seat, Brynden on the left. Then down the table sat the rest of the lords: Umber, Karstark, Manderly, Steelshanks, Howland Reed, Dacey Mormont, Tormund, and Galbart Glover. Lord Glover had returned from securing Deepwood Motte a moon back and Sansa couldn't have been happier to hear his pleasant report of how well Theon's ironborn had carried themselves. Well, Theon, at least. Glover had looked grim when speaking of the rest.
Sansa stood at the side of the room with the other important ladies and lesser lords, content to watch. The discussion hadn't fully begun yet, most people milling about the room as an undercurrent of discussion rippled through it.
It was talk of Jon, mostly, or Daenerys, second. The third most common topic was venom spat at the Greyjoys for daring to name themselves overlords of the North. Though, the curses usually fell silent at the sight of Sansa. Whether it was because she was a lady or because of her known affections for a certain Greyjoy, she didn't care to guess.
Through the dark colors and thick furs of the Northern dress, Sansa spotted a shock of chestnut curls and slipped through the crowd in that direction. Margaery looked even more lovely than usual, her dress a flattering Southern cut (made with warmer Northern fabrics) her curls spilling elegantly across her shoulders, two strands pulled back in a Northern style. Olenna patted Margaery's hand with a fond smile. With a wink at Sansa that she didn't fully understand, Olenna slipped away into the crowd toward Catelyn.
Sansa looked out at the room from her friend's side. "Familiar, isn't it?"
Margaery hummed. "Not particularly. Though I might be biased by missing the Tyrell forces." She shot a sly glance at Sansa out of the corner of her eye before looking away to stare straight ahead. "I must say, I'm looking forward to being your family again."
Sansa's frown was instant. "You're already my family. Who said…?"
A smirk curled the corner of Margaery's lips. "I'm your goodsister, yes. Though I suppose I'm now to be reduced in rank." Her look at Sansa was full of impish glee. "I'll only be your cousin, this time."
Sansa clasped Margaery's hand tight with the realization. "Truly?" she breathed, staring in excitement at her friend.
A blush lit Margaery's smile as she leaned close to whisper. "Yes. But Highgarden is too near to King's Landing. We can't say vows until Loras has his troops in the field, ready for open rebellion."
Sansa felt as if she were about to burst with excitement and simultaneous relief. She flung her arms around Margaery, who laughingly embraced her back. Not only did Sansa love her friend dearly, and thrill at the notion of securing Margaery forever, it meant fifty thousand Tyrell soldiers would join their fight. The North would not be alone – neither Jon nor Sansa, and not against dragons nor the Long Night.
And yes, Olenna's veiled hints had been correct. Sansa certainly hadn't discouraged Jon and Margaery's little flirtations. Not for one second had Sansa discounted the possibilities that had grown when her friend had come north.
New whispers started up through the crowd and Sansa strained her head to find their source.
Jon had strode into the room. A grim set to his face and the thick black furs around his neck gave him the strong look of a true king of the North. Sansa's heart lurched at how similar his bearing looked to Robb, but with the gravity of their father in the lines on his face. She hoped the differences would be enough. She hoped she, Bran, Margaery, and all the rest would be enough to spare him from Robb's fate. Not again, Sansa found herself pleading to the gods. Please don't put us all through this grief again.
For her part, Sansa would wrench at the very fabric that held the seven kingdoms together before she let the gods take another sibling from her.
But the whisperers weren't staring at Jon as he passed. Someone near Sansa muttered, "What the devil is the bloody Kingslayer–?!"
Jaime Lannister strode through the door a foot behind Jon, dressed not as a prisoner, but in full golden furs befitting an honored guest. Beneath the fur cloak, his sword hung openly at his hip, his blond hair shining, a cocky smirk fixed firmly on his face.
Jon took his seat at the head of the table, giving its occupants a solemn nod. "My lords." Jaime was left standing at Jon's shoulder. With a frown, Jon realized there was no remaining seat near him. "Ser Jaime–"
"Oh, don't mind me." Jaime was already striding off down the table. He grabbed a chair from the other end, near Tormund, walked it back to Jon, and thunked it down at the corner between Jon and Brynden.
Brynden frowned at Jaime, annoyance writ clear across his face. "Your Grace," he directed to Jon. "What is the meaning of–"
"I've named Ser Jaime the commander of my Kingsguard," Jon replied perfunctorily, ignoring the gasps his statement drew around the room. Jon tilted his head in his version of amusement. "Since he insisted upon me having one."
Margaery clutched at Sansa's arm. "Sansa," she hissed. "Is the Kingslayer… safe?"
"No," Sansa replied evenly. "But I suspect he'll keep Jon safe regardless."
For some reason, Margaery did not appear reassured.
Across the table from Jaime, Bran looked abruptly grim. Jaime turned ashen. He dropped his gaze to the table to keep from looking Bran in the eye.
"It's been centuries since we've had to fight dragons," Jon began. His steady voice echoed around the hall. "None alive remember how. But it's been done before – plenty of times. And we'll do it again."
It was short, as speeches went, and Sansa couldn't help her smile.
"How?" Umber started. "You've mounted weapons to the castle walls, but I don't see–"
"We will not be fighting her in castles," Jon replied. He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Not if we can help it." He drew a line down the King's road. "We'll split our forces into small groups. Agile and independent, trained to strike when they spot a dragon and vanish back into the trees the moment they're overextended. I've been talking to Lord Reed, as the Neck will be the first place we'll have to defend."
Howland Reed gave a stiff nod. "My people know the swamps. I'd pity the dragon or army that tries to get through there without running into our traps."
Jon nodded in reply. "The other method we want to focus on is our fleet."
Umber's snort of derision was immediate and inadvertent. He had the grace to look embarrassed.
Regardless, Jon turned to Manderly. "Lord Manderly has outfitted his fleet with scorpions. When on a ship deck, the scorpions aren't fixed to the ground, unable to move or turn with ease. If we can become practiced with the scorpions, a fleet with them will be our strongest weapon against her dragons."
"All we'll have to do is lure them to water," Manderly agreed.
"That and get a fleet," Karstark muttered to Umber.
"How many ships do you have?" Brynden asked Manderly.
"Twenty three," Manderly replied proudly.
Murmurs started up around the hall. Sansa could have sworn she heard Olenna's high, derisive laugh.
"Aye, and we will need every one of them," Jon cut in quickly, careful of Manderly's pride.
"How many ships does it take to kill a dragon?" Tormund asked from the far end of the table.
Jon looked down the faces at the table, searching. Then, with a frown, Jon glanced around the room. His eye landed on Sansa. She grimaced, trying to convey to him that it wasn't enough ships; not even by a quarter.
Jon looked away. "My lords," he announced to the table and the room at large. "My cousin, Princess Sansa Stark."
While Sansa was still standing stunned and confused, Jon gestured her towards the table. Sansa walked, feeling as if some unseen force were driving her feet. The lords at the table stared. The audience around the room stared. Jaime, and Brynden, and Brienne, and her mother stared and stared and–
Before Jon could attempt something foolish like asking to move a Stark bannerman in order to seat her higher, Sansa grabbed the chair near the foot of the table, across from Tormund. He shot her a wink. Sansa couldn't help her smile in reply.
She glanced back at Margaery, silently offering to extend her own invitation to include her. Margaery gave a slight shake of her head, her 'Not yet,' clear without saying a word.
"Sansa," Jon began. Abruptly, Sansa realized the table was still looking at her. He asked again, "How many ships do we need to take on a dragon?"
Sansa swallowed. Across the table and around the room, lords and ladies were whispering to each other, looking confused. Whispering, and staring at her, and–
Sansa worked spit back into her mouth. "More than twice that. And twice again, if we want to have enough of a fleet to spare for the other two dragons."
Jon gave a nod, looking as grave as ever. "Then we–"
"Pardon, Your Grace," Torrhen Karstark cut in. "But how does the princess knowhow many ships it will take to kill a dragon?"
Jon said absolutely nothing, looking at Sansa expectantly along with the rest of the room. From the barest raise of his eyebrow, Sansa was certain this was Jon's revenge for pressing him to claim his lineage. Damn his terrible sense of humor.
"I've studied them," Sansa replied, knowing it for a weak excuse even before the guffaws came from across the room. "I've read the reports. And other reports the rest of you couldn't dream of," she continued more strongly. "Daenerys just took on the Royal Fleet with her three dragons. Three dragons remain. How many ships are in the–?"
"Two hundred ships," her uncle Brynden replied.
Sansa felt her breath catch. Two hundred ships in the Royal Fleet. And those were now broken, battered, or foundering at the bottom of Blackwater Bay?!
"Almost a third were destroyed," Brynden continued, answering her unspoken question. "By the Lannister fleet, the Iron Fleet or by dragonfire. But Dragon Queen's fleets suffered heavy losses to do it. Balon Greyjoy won't be able to fend off much again for a time."
"What of the rest of the Royal Fleet?" Sansa asked.
"Thought you'd read reports," Karstark muttered. Sansa ignored him.
"Scattered," Brynden answered. "Or fled to Storm's End. They were Baratheon men. Who is left for them to swear to and fight for, with every last Baratheon dead?"
Not all, Sansa thought with satisfaction, knowing who had been steadily working Winterfell's forge ever since he'd left Arya's side and come north with the rest of the Starks. There are things a king's edict can fix.
Someone was shouting from a distant hallway.
Sansa ignored it as Jon began to speak again. "Our fleet is limited, it's true," he said steadily. "But we're going to use every weapon we've got. Until then…" He tapped squarely on Moat Cailin. "We secure the Neck. Once we've secured the Neck, it leads us to the south. If we're ever to be safe again, we have to strike at Daenerys herself."
Another shout answered the first.
"Sansa," Jon turned to her. "How do our alliances stand?"
"They stand well," Sansa replied. "Though I will need time to–"
"You asked assistance from Dorne," Jon cut in. "Have they replied?"
Sansa hesitated. "Yes, though not with enthusiasm," she eventually admitted. "I may have to… go in person to secure it."
"And sail right past the Dragon Queen herself?" Umber said, outraged. "When she's declared you're to be kept at Dragonstone as her prisoner?"
Glover was also shaking his head. "No, if we're to send an emissary to Dorne, it must be someone–"
The doors to the great hall burst open. A soldier stood panting in the opening, his face pale, his tunic stained with sweat.
"Dragon!" the soldier declared, even as his voice shook. "A dragon's been spotted!"
Every fighting man grabbed for a blade, shoving and shouting as they stormed through the doors and to Winterfell's battlements.
Jon grabbed Sansa's arm. "Stay inside!" he yelled to her.
"Jon!" Sansa protested. "I can help, I can–"
Jon leaned closer. "Aye. You can help by keeping the castle from panicking. There's no one I trust more than you to do that."
Sansa swallowed. "Yes, Jon."
With a nod, he strode away. Jaime, Brynden, and his advisors fell in around him.
Sansa turned to the women who had remained behind. "With me!" she declared, striding off down the hall.
But Catelyn was ahead and Margaery only a step behind her. "We'll head to the infirmary," Catelyn's clear, calm voice declared to the women following in her wake. "And make sure they're fully stocked on everything, especially bandages."
"Do you think…" a faint voice asked her. "Do you think the men will–"
"Only the gods know when men will need them," Margaery replied, her tone full of reassuring sweetness. "It's why we must ensure they will have what they need when they do."
Sansa let the party of women continue on ahead without her, knowing she'd rarely been less needed.
A boom sounded overhead. Two of the women screamed.
"Oh, hush up, you ninny," Sansa could hear Olenna saying as they retreated down the hallway. "You can't panic now, before the fighting's even…"
Standing alone in the great hall, Sansa could hear no more.
Another boom sounded. She thought it might be a scorpion firing, the release of the giant bow echoing through the stones.
The other halls, Sansa realized. There were bedrooms across the ramparts and they wouldn't have heard the news yet.
She ran, climbing up the endless stairs and flinging herself through the door. A walkway stretched before her atop an inner wall. She'd walked it a thousand times before but never while the scorpions were manned. Crews of five soldiers waited by every ballista. Sansa slowed to a quick trot as she passed them by, wary of panicking the men.
But as she passed, each group of men never spared her a glance. They were all looking… up.
Sansa followed their gazes. A grey, clouded sky hung overhead, with nothing visible for miles. And then, suddenly, she could hear it.
Like a soft drum beat came the steady, slow, flapping of giant wings.
In the distance, a black shape dropped from the clouds.
Drogon.
Each beat of the drums brought the dragon closer, the gigantic shape nearing–
He's smaller, Sansa suddenly realized. The thought wasn't as reassuring as she would have liked, as the dragon was still large enough to challenge a castle… but he was not yet what he had become the last time. This was not yet the successor to the Black Dread. This was a younger dragon, his scales thinner.
Sansa stood transfixed as the beast approached, the heavy wings keeping time.
She could see it in her mind's eye. The dragon would near, and swoop low, and flames would gush from its mouth. Whether they would consume everyone and everything she loved was any man's guess. Sansa would be powerless to do anything–
I've seen a dragon fight, she realized, her thoughts as slow and sticky as molasses. I'm the only one alive who has.
The final thought ripped her from her trance. She grabbed the arm of the nearest soldier. "Where is Jon!" she yelled to him over the sounds of battle preparations surrounding them. He looked confused. She yelled again, "Where is King Aegon? Jon Snow? I need to–"
A scorpion bolt punched through the sky. The crack of the string's release echoed through Winterfell. By the time the bolt reached the dragon, the beast dipped only a fraction in its flight; the bolt soared cleanly past it.
"I SAID HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Jon bellowed in the distance.
She took off at a run.
Across one wall, and then another she raced, her boots pounding on the stones beneath her. Soldiers looked askance at the running princess, skirts held up around her knees, but Sansa didn't spare them a moment's consideration.
Finally, Jon was before her. He stood on the main fortifications atop the walls, scorpions lining every inch of the stones facing the approaching dragon. His lords waited with him and the soldiers. Brynden studied the sky through a fareye. Jaime squinted, hand over his eyes in the glare.
"We've plenty more bolts," Umber was saying to Jon. "Let the men fire at her, take the edge off their nerves–"
"No," Jon replied. "We hold. She doesn't need to know what we can and can't hit–"
"Jon!" Sansa fell gasping towards him. Only Jon's hands on her waist steadied her.
"Sansa!" Jon frowned. "I told you to–"
"Mother and Margaery have the castle under control," Sansa said between breaths. "Jon, you have to–"
"Get inside with them," Jon replied, turning away. "Brynden, see if you–"
"It has to dive!" Sansa blurted out.
Jon turned back to look at her, confusion deepening his frown.
"The dragon," Sansa continued, her breathing steadying. "It has to dive before it can breathe fire. It can't fire down at us from that height, and can't risk approaching a fortified castle without speed. It has to dive."
The slow light of comprehension dawned across Jon's face. He squeezed Sansa's arm in thanks as he turned back to the men. "HOLD FOR THE DIVE!" he bellowed to the soldiers on scorpions surrounding them. "PASS DOWN THE COMMAND! HOLD TIL THE DRAGON DIVES!"
"HOLD TIL THE DRAGON DIVES!" Sansa could hear the command echoing down the walls in both directions.
Overhead, the dragon flew ever closer.
Jaime walked over to Sansa. "The Dance of Dragons had plenty of battles in the air where the dragons breathed fire every which way."
"Yes, but she wants to melt stone," Sansa explained, her information a bit more recent. She remembered watching Jon and Daenerys train on dragonback as if it were yesterday. "It won't melt Winterfell to merely graze us. She'll have to have a full blast from a close height. She'll have to fire at us after a dive."
And then the dragon's great wings furled. The beast plunged through the sky, a black streak racing for the ground and Winterfell.
"FIRE!" Jon roared.
And the dragon was upon them.
Jaime stepped in front of Sansa, for all the good it would do against dragonfire.
The dragon soared low enough that Sansa could see Daenerys atop its back, see as the dragon opened its mouth–
And suddenly, the stones of the castle boomed. Bolts shot through the air in a dense hailstorm. The dragon veered and rolled; a bolt ricocheted off the thick scales of the dragon's back. Daenerys barely hung on as it turned, flying away from Winterfell and back up into the sky.
"HOLD!" Jon called.
The dragon soared high overhead, wings outstretched like a hawk on the updrafts, wheeling and watching, studying the castle beneath.
The wings furled again. The neck stretched long, the body a sleek arrow behind as it fell toward the castle below.
"FIRE!" Jon bellowed.
Again, bolts peppered the sky.
The dragon's wings opened, careening away before it got halfway close enough to even open its jaws.
Brynden stepped closer to Jon. "You called it too soon," he said in a grave whisper that only Jon, Jaime, and Sansa could hear. "Close the gap so that she has less time to get away, and–"
"Risk a shot of dragonfire on Winterfell?" Jon hissed back.
Brynden's nod was grave. "No man ever rode two dragons."
The breath Jaime sucked in matched Sansa's own. If they could take down Drogon, Daenerys could never again take flight; could never again threaten their home on a whim.
They'd only have to risk death for all in their home to do it.
Above them, the dragon flew higher, slipping upwards into the clouds.
Jon turned away from Brynden, a muscle clenching and unclenching in his jaw. "HOLD, MEN," he called down the line, looking as if it pained him to do so. "WAIT FOR MY COMMAND!"
Brynden gave Jon a nod of confirmation. Jon looked away.
Every man looked to the skies, studying their grey banks for the sudden, terrible death that lurked above it.
They waited, and watched. And nothing moved.
All over Winterfell, the only sounds that could be heard were the creaks of leather armor and the quiet wooden groaning of the taut scorpions.
"Do you think she's gone?" Karstark hissed to Umber.
"No, lad," Umber replied. "Not for all the gold in Lannisport do I–"
The dragon plunged through the clouds. It came screaming towards them, its jaw opened and ready before it was even halfway to Winterfell's walls.
"HOLD!" Jon called.
Daenerys had flown much higher than the clouds, Sansa realized. Flown higher and dived farther, in order to already have such speed.
"HOLD!" Jon called again.
A hand slipped; a scorpion bolt flew toward the dragon. It soared wild. The dragon's dive continued, gaining, faster, closer–
Winterfell was almost within range of dragonfire.
"HOLD!" Jon called more desperately.
Another bolt fired. It never came close to the dragon.
Sansa could see Daenerys's white hair whipping in the wind as she lay flat against the dragon's back, urging it towards them, urging it to–
"FIRE!" Jon roared with all his might. "FIRE AT WILL!"
The dragon was too fast. The bolts flew every which way, trying to lead the dragon, trailing behind, aiming wild–
Above them, Sansa could see Daenerys's smile as the dragon dove towards them. "Dracarys!"
The dragon's wings unfurled, leveling off over Winterfell. Sansa stared up as the inside of the dragon's jaw lit orange. She clutched Jaime's arm, both of them staring into death–
A bolt punched through the dragon's wing.
The dragon's roar of fire became a scream of pain.
It wheeled away, even as more bolts filled the sky. But the dragon stayed low, barely skimming the snow as it flew.
"FIRE!" Brynden bellowed.
But the scorpions had difficulty aiming that low, or turning that fast, and their bolts flew harmlessly over the dragon's head. The beast continued flying low to the ground away from the castle, even as bolts flew past it.
And then, the bolts fell short. They fired again and again, but nothing could hit the fleeing dragon.
"We drove it off!" Karstark yelled happily.
"That'll teach her," Steelshanks said with a nod.
The dragon landed.
"It's wounded!" Umber said. "I'll saddle the men, and–
"It's not wounded," Sansa said. "Not seriously. Dragons can take far more damage than that." She strode towards the edge of the battlements, staring toward the dark shape in the distance.
Jon pressed the fareye into her hand.
Sansa put the tube to her eye. After a moment of searching, she found it. Drogon lay crouched on the snow, steam billowing from his nostrils. As she watched, the dragon pulled his wing to his mouth. With one bite, he snapped the scorpion bolt in half. The dragon shook out his wing and lifted his head, looking toward Winterfell in the distance.
And on his back, Daenerys sat, her face unreadable from this distance, white hair whipping around it as she stared back at Winterfell.
"They're not moving," Brynden said, after Sansa passed the fareye to him. "Why are they not…"
But Jon turned to Sansa, knowing she knew Daenerys better than any man alive.
"The Dragon Queen wants to talk," Sansa realized.
The lords stared at her in shocked silence.
"We don't give a damn what she wants," Umber said. "We mount the lancers, gallop towards her, and–"
"And she'll take to the skies," Sansa said. "Her dragon is not wounded."
"She'll burn the armies attacking her when we don't have scorpions to defend them," Brynden added, lowering the fareye.
"The dragon had to land!" Umber said, gesturing towards it. "Girl, we'll never get a better chance than this to–"
Jon held up a hand. Umber fell silent.
"You said she wants to talk?" Jon asked Sansa.
Sansa nodded.
"I'll treat with her," Jon said.
"No!" Sansa's fear was immediate and vehement. She ignored the other lords giving Jon similar advice and continued, "She's attacked people in treaty talks before! Jon, you're the one she wants dead more than any alive!"
"She's a Targaryen," Jon replied. "So am I. She's got to be curious."
"Yes," Sansa agreed. "She will be curious. And then she will kill you."
There was a hint of anger in his voice. "What do you suggest, then?"
"Send someone she won't bother to kill," Sansa replied. "Someone whose only use to her is bringing a message back. She's got a better chance of leaving them alive."
"And if she doesn't?" Jon said. "If you're wrong, and the message she wants to send is their burning corpse?"
Sansa shrugged. "Then it won't be you that she's burned."
Jon huffed annoyance. "Who do you propose to send? Someone I can trust enough to treat for me, and who can risk death in my place?"
"Send me, Your Grace," Umber said.
"No, me," Karstark replied.
"I believe I have seniority on both of you," Brynden added.
"They all command armies. You can't risk losing them." Sansa smiled. "Send me."
Jon stared at her, horrified.
"I'm the obvious choice," Sansa continued. "Any of your lords are too important. And I think Daenerys is less likely to kill a lady. I know her well. I've studied her for years, and–"
Jon nodded, his gaze hard. "You'll take a guard?"
"Yes," Sansa said, relieved that he'd seen reason so quickly. Though her proposal had her suddenly nervous. "And Lady. I won't be–"
"Emmet!" Jon called. A soldier raced over, snapping a quick bow. "Your shield," Jon commanded.
Immediately, the man handed over the battered Stark shield. Jon settled it on his arm, testing the weight. With his other hand, he unclasped the rich fur coat from around his neck and handed it to the soldier.
"You have your guard: me," Jon declared to Sansa, looking every inch a battered, average soldier. "Let's go."
"Your Grace!" Umber protested. "You're putting yourself in danger! You can't–"
"This defeats the point of sending me!" Sansa said. "I was supposed to be in danger so that you wouldn't, so that–"
"I want to get a feel for who I'm facing," Jon replied. "It's worth the risk. You said she was less likely to burn you, didn't you, Sansa?"
Sansa's mouth twisted in distaste, feeling as if she'd been played.
"At least take another guard," Brynden said, looking worried.
"Fine," Jon agreed.
"I'm the better fighter," Karstark quickly cut in, resuming the discussion. "If it comes to that. Surely–"
"Like bloody hell!" Umber began. "You haven't fought even a sliver of the–"
A loud sigh cut through the group.
Slowly, each of the lords turned to look at Jaime Lannister. His hand rested atop the pommel of his sword, weary resignation in his face. "Am I a joke to you?" Jaime declared loudly.
The lords blinked and frowned, not understanding.
Jaime tilted his head towards Jon. "Your king is putting himself in the line of fire of an angry dragon. He has exactly one Kingsguard. As Commander of that one-man Kingsguard, I refuse to let the second guard be anyone but me."
Brynden's frown deepened.
Umber glared at Jaime with every muscle in his face. "A Lannister?! You've got to be bloody fu–"
Jon clapped Jaime on the shoulder. "Let's not keep the Dragon Queen waiting."
...
Sansa patted her mare beneath her, pretending as if it were the animal who needed reassurance.
Madness. This was madness. They were all going to die, and end the war before it had begun, and it would be all Sansa's fault.
She was only glad Margaery wasn't around to glare at Sansa for getting roped into agreeing to this.
Slowly, the gates of Winterfell creaked open before them, and her party of three rode out into the thin snow.
On her right, Jon stared straight ahead, as if he could study the dragon all the way from here. On her left, Jaime looked unsteady on the back of his mount, switching the reins to his left hand with a grimace.
He caught Sansa's eye watching him and gave a falsely bright smile. "I'll be fine, Princess. Not rusty at all from a year of captivity. Worry about your own mount and your, er… companion."
Lady stood beside Sansa's horse, matching her every stride. The direwolf's back brushed Sansa's calf, more than half as tall as her horse.
"You'll be glad for Lady, before long," Sansa replied. It had been her only real idea.
"I'd better," Jaime muttered, far from friends with her wolf.
And as they rode across the snowy plain, towards where steam rose in the distance, knowing with every step what lay beneath the steam, Sansa's thoughts fell far to the south.
She wondered if Theon had received her message. Wondered if he had dared send a response, or if he still hated her too much for even that. Wondered if she'd live to see his response.
"We've got company," Jaime said.
A shape was running towards them through the snow.
"Ghost!" Jon called out softly as the direwolf came loping to join his sister. "Let Lady handle this one. Circle around and watch from a distance."
Ghost stared up at Jon on his horse as if Jon couldn't possibly understand the danger that he clearly needed Ghost's protection from.
"Go on," Jon insisted. "I'll be fine."
Jaime snorted. Jon glared and Jaime schooled his face into a look of perfect innocence.
But Ghost did as told, stalking away towards the nearby treeline.
The steam grew thicker as their horses walked onwards.
Then, without any warning, the steam parted.
A dragon stood before them. They stopped their horses immediately, thirty feet away, but even from that distance the size was breathtaking. More than twice as tall as a horse, scaly wings draped across the ground to either side of the beast. The dragon gave a long snort of steam, which billowed into the air.
And on its back sat Daenerys. Her white hair billowed like the dragon's steam, her fur coat as black as her dragon's scales. They'd made her wait quite a while as they departed from the castle, but she looked as if she would have waited for a year just as patiently.
Careful not to make any sudden movements, Sansa slowly swung a leg over her horse, beginning to dismount.
"What are you doing?" Jon hissed.
"Negotiating. What is it you're doing?" Sansa said pointedly back.
Jon slid off his horse to join her. The shield on his arm looked incredibly useless before an actual dragon.
On her other side, Jaime also slid to the ground. She expected reluctant grumbling, but he was as silent as the grave, his gaze fixed upon the monster and its mistress.
One foot in front of the other, Sansa walked across the snow, focusing on the satisfying crunch with each step. Lady, Jon, and Jaime walked with her, a step behind.
When she was halfway across the distance between her horse and the dragon, Sansa stopped. Jaime and Jon stopped ten feet behind her. Lady stayed at her side and Sansa sunk a hand into her fur, glad for the reassurance. But it couldn't last, not if she wanted Daenerys to approach. "Go on," Sansa whispered to Lady. The direwolf turned, moving back to stand between Jon and Jaime.
Sansa walked another ten paces closer.
"Queen Daenerys!" Sansa called out. "I assume you wished to speak?"
Daenerys eyed her steadily from the dragon's back. Then, seeming to take the hint, she slid from Drogon's back, landing easily in the snow. Her white hair shone, the black of her coat cutting a strong figure against the snow. She walked towards them one step at a time. Behind Sansa, she could hear as Jon shifted uneasily.
And Daenerys stood before her. Sansa had almost forgotten how short the Targaryen queen was; even at seventeen, Sansa towered half a head taller.
Daenerys surveyed the group who had come, her gaze coming to rest upon Sansa. Her eyes were wary, but not yet overtly hostile. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" Daenerys asked, her voice soft and hinting towards sarcasm.
"Sansa Stark, Your Grace," Sansa replied, offering a curtsy.
Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "Princess Sansa, I thought you were calling yourself."
"I let others call me what they please," Sansa replied, with a hint of her own amusement.
Daenerys seemed to appreciate the humor. She strained to look over Sansa's shoulder back towards Winterfell. "And your brothers, the kings, sent you to treat with me?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa replied. "I thought it was quite appropriate. One woman to another."
There was warmth in Daenerys's smile and it softened her face in an instant. "That it is. I see you brought guards with you," she added. "And a wolf."
"You have a dragon," Sansa pointed out.
Daenerys couldn't help but be amused. "I would like to see your companions try to protect you from it."
Sansa smiled, saying nothing.
And suddenly, when Daenerys studied her, there was a calm calculation behind her eyes. "I take this to be a refusal of my terms?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa said. "We take your attempt to burn our home to be an unprovoked attack."
"Your brothers tried to steal my crown," Daenerys said with fire in her eyes. "One claims a piece and the other claims the rest." Her lip curled into a sneer. "Whether he's a Stark bastard or a Targaryen one, it's a usurpation all the same. The throne is my birthright and I will destroy all who oppose me."
"He's not a bastard," Sansa replied.
Daenerys paused, losing the thread of the conversation. "What?"
"Jon – or, Aegon, rather – is not a bastard," Sansa calmly said. She couldn't help but enjoy the fact that Jon stood behind her as they spoke, listening all the while.
"Jon Snow–" Daenerys snarled.
"Aegon Targaryen," Sansa cut her off. "Sixth of his name. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the crown prince, and his second wife, Lyanna Stark."
"Don't talk to me about Rhaegar," Daenerys said. "He was my brother, whom your father took up swords against, murdered, and overthrew. Your family is the reason mine was exiled to Essos, the reason why I could only return to my home with an army at my back."
"And we have your family's heir," Sansa replied. "One whose rule you are currently rebelling against."
Daenerys stepped closer, fury on her face. "Dragons woke from stone at my call. You think the unverifiable claim of a bastard Stark can stand against that? I could burn you alive where you stand, right here, right word from me is all it would take."
"One word of yours could kill me," Sansa agreed. "As one word of mine could kill you."
Daenerys watched Sansa warily, not comprehending.
"Lady," Sansa said calmly, never looking away from Daenerys.
Daenerys frowned. "I am a queen, and–"
"–if I say attack," Sansa continued evenly, "You rip out her throat and don't stop until she's dead. Understand?"
A growl confirmed from the direwolf behind her. Ten paces was nothing to a sprinting wolf.
"Which do you think is faster?" Sansa said to Daenerys. "Your beast – or mine?"
And Sansa gave a smile of her own – beautiful and brutal, baring the fangs that would gladly sink into Daenerys's throat. Drogon would surely burn them if they tried it, but Daenerys would be dead. Winterfell and Westeros would be safe from her – though not from the Long Night.
Fire flashed in Daenerys's eyes. "I didn't come here to be threatened in a negotiation."
"No," Sansa agreed. "Nor did I."
Daenerys opened her mouth to reply, but whatever she had been going to say was lost as something over Sansa's shoulder distracted her. Sansa turned to follow her gaze. Ghost was circling slowly at a distance, his eyes locked on the dragon.
"A second direwolf to threaten me," Daenerys mused. "I knew the Northerners were an untrusting sort, but…" her voice trailed away as the wolf crept closer, hovering a stone's throw behind Sansa's right. And suddenly, Daenerys's gaze snapped to the guard who stood in front of the wolf.
Jon.
"You there!" Daenerys called to him. "Step closer!"
Jon looked at Sansa with raised eyebrows. She gave a nod, trying desperately not to find it so simultaneously terrifying to single him out and amusing to give a command to her king.
Jon crossed the space between himself and the ladies, coming to stand behind Sansa and at her side. And the moment he had moved, Ghost had moved with him.
Daenerys smiled. "Let's see. A direwolf follows you, yet you have use of your legs and are older than an infant. That would make you Jon Snow, would it not?"
If she'd meant the name to needle him, she didn't know Jon at all. Jon dipped his head in acceptance. "Pardon the ruse. Your reputation for hostilities in negotiations precedes you, Your Grace," Jon replied.
For a moment Daenerys looked confused. Sansa wondered if perhaps things had gone differently this time in Essos – or if Daenerys hadn't expected word of her misdeeds to spread so far or so fast. Then Daenerys looked pityingly over at Sansa. "Ah, so that's why they sent you. Risking death at my hands on their behalf, those brave brothers of yours."
Jon shifted, hands clasped loosely in front of him. "I believe I'm standing right here."
"I suppose you are," Daenerys mused. She looked him over with a hint of appreciation. "My nephew, as you claim. Yet I could end this war right now with one word to Drogon."
"Yes," Sansa reminded her. "As could I."
Before Daenerys could reply, Jaime strode forward. "It'll take two words for me." He swept Daenerys a deep bow. "Jaime Lannister – at your service."
The flash of anger in Daenerys's eyes was immediate and violent. All three of the Stark party noticed. Then it was gone as if it had never been, the Dragon Queen's face calm and placid.
Jaime somehow managed to even stand with a cocky swagger, his right hand shoved into the pocket of his breeches with insouciance. He flicked his head, sweeping his golden bangs from his eyes. "I believe we're to be betrothed," he said.
Daenerys made no reply, staring at the man who had killed her father.
Jaime shrugged, taking a step closer to stand beside Sansa as he spoke to Daenerys. "I'm ready to be taken home to my father, Your Grace. Turns out, I'm tired of pretending to be a Stark soldier. I'd much rather be a prince consort."
Jon turned towards his Kingsguard, furious betrayal writ large on his face. Yet Sansa thought she might have an idea what Jaime was up to. She caught Jon's gaze, trying to convey to him that she trusted Jaime. Reluctantly, Jon followed her lead, and looked away.
Daenerys caught none of it, her attention fixed entirely on Jaime.
"You're supposed to be in Winterfell's dungeon," Daenerys finally said.
"Yes," Jaime agreed. "That would have been easier for you, wouldn't it? But no matter." With a nod toward the dragon, Jaime stretched out an arm across his chest, loosening the muscles in it. "Must be a long flight to King's Landing. Deliver me safely to my father and I'll quell his anger towards the North and end the war for you. What say you?"
Daenerys did not move.
"I wonder what you'll tell him," Jaime continued. "That the Starks mistreated me? That you didn't see me? That–"
"I named Myrcella my heir," Daenerys said with icy fury. "That is what your father is fighting for. Not for you."
The Stark party startled. None of them had known that.
For a moment, Jaime looked shaken. But then he forced a flippant shrug. "I believe I'm still Father's favorite. I wonder what he'll say when I write to him."
"That he's glad I haven't burned Myrcella alive," Daenerys snarled. "Because that is what I will do if you turn him against me. You, Myrcella, your father, and every last Lannister on this continent."
"I'd be careful, if I were you," Jaime said calmly. "Your Hand of the Queen doesn't take well to threats."
Daenerys snarled. "Drogon–!"
"Get back!" Sansa yelled in terror to Jon and Jaime. "Get back to the castle! Leave me with Lady, we'll–"
In an instant, both Jon and Jaime had drawn their swords. Jon shoved Sansa behind him. She fell over into the snow, struggling to her feet as both men braced to charge a dragon. Lady snarled, ready to leap, but waiting for the command.
"Soves!" Daenerys commanded. Fly. With great, lumbering strides that shook the ground, the dragon crossed the distance toward them. Daenerys stepped onto Drogon's wing and the dragon scooped her onto his back. His great, leathery wings began to beat, and–
Jaime grabbed Sansa roughly by the collar of her dress and pulled her to her feet. "Run!" he yelled into her face over the roaring wind of the dragon's wings.
Sansa didn't have to be told twice. She ran back to the horses, her feet struggling through the snow. She was glad to see Jon and Jaime running beside her, Ghost ahead and Lady behind.
Her stiff hands fumbled grabbing the reins and only Jon's hands on her waist, lifting her into the saddle, got her mounted.
In a flash, all three horses were galloping across the snow, kicking up pockets of it with every pounding step across the frozen field.
A dragon was overhead. Its wingbeats echoed through Sansa's bones. Yet she did not dare look anywhere but at Winterfell before her, begging her horse for more speed.
If they were able to arrive back at the castle alive, Sansa knew it would only be thanks to Jaime. For all he'd said that he refused to be used as a pawn yet again, even Daenerys must know how long her alliance with Tywin would last once word got out that she'd burned his heir alive.
Simply by revealing his presence, Jaimehad protected Jon more thoroughly than a direwolf ever could.
The gates of Winterfell were open before Sansa and they had never been so welcome a sight as she raced inside.
Hooves scraped against the flagstones as the three horses and two wolves careened to a stop.
The gates of Winterfell clanged reassuringly as they closed behind them.
Sansa practically fell from her horse in her dismount, ignoring the servants' offered helping hands to rest her own in Lady's fur. Her direwolf stared at her, panting just as hard.
"You did well, Lady," Sansa breathed. "You were perfect."
Lady licked her face.
"She's gone, Your Grace," Brynden said, handing Jon the fareye. "Flew back to the south."
Jon looked to Jaime as both men caught their breath.
"You wanted to take her measure," Jaime said cheekily between pants. "And I tried to keep her from taking yours. Did I annoy her enough for you to have it, now?"
"You did," Jon said, too shaken and serious to appreciate the humor. "And I have her measure. Daenerys will not treat with us!" Jon declared loudly throughout the courtyard. "We will begin the march south! There will be no caravan column for her dragons to torch. We will move in groups, small and agile–"
"My lord!" one of the men called.
Jon turned, looking to him, but the man who spoke was just a common soldier standing on top of the wall. He pointed off into the distance. Smoke billowed as the horizon glowed a strange orange.
"Wintertown!" the man continued. "It's in flames!"