authorsnote: chapter 20! and actually one of my favs, short but sweet!
we really start to see a dynamic unfolding ...
and yes I can confirm 'jons theme' was in my spotify wrapped top 100 for the fourth year running!
songrecs: I bet on losing dogs - mitski (honestly sansas theme tune in my fics)
Two Keeps later, they decided to return home.
Two Keeps bathed in fire, powerless, helpless against their dragons. In another life the Dornish had resisted, rallying under the cry of the Martells, in the Targaryens hesitancy to face scorpions, in this life they had two ruthless dragon riders who did not flinch from battle, they charged, led by Jon, who in this life had changed history already and not in an insignificant way.
Jon changing time, to ensure they didn't follow the same mistakes of history, a nation divided, a people torn apart.
It only cost them hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands of lives, and perhaps a piece of Jons soul.
One he would give, willingly on an altar to the Gods, if it kept Sansa safe.
There was little he wouldn't do to keep Sansa safe.
What did his soul matter in comparison?
But it did have a cost, how could it not? He could feel something, a flicker of something inside of him, a flame, that this was so … easy, thousands of lives saved at the expense of thousands lost, his Mother roaring into the sky proud, the dragons cried, a country subjugated.
And they'd gone with a whimper.
It was so different, so different from a bloody battlefield, men dying but with a groan, with an agonizing scream as metal met flesh. The blood spilled over snow, the wailing of wargs as their birds were shot from the sky, the pain as bodies gave way to wounds, but it took hours for it to end, hours of groaning and pain, and bandages running out, and wounds shut with flame, hours of pain and suffering.
All gone.
Jon was under no illusion that what they'd done was more humane, there was no humanity in the fields of fire they'd left behind, it was a different kind of warfare, but warfare all the same.
But against the dead? Was this the weapon Jon needed?
Was this why they'd been sent back?
As Ceraxes soared through the sky with a screech, another Keep burned behind them did his mind wonder, would meeting the dead not be of men with dragonglass against limbs of ice, but dragonfire obliterating the snow mean they win?
Could Jon do it alone? Not drag in innocent men to die, as he had for this war, could he go and root out the Others as they lay slumbering in the Lands of Always Winter?
Was this his destiny?
One he'd happily give to keep Westeros safe, his family safe, Sansa safe.
That was all that mattered in the end.
And perhaps just some his soul could be eased, never redeemed but at least given some relief, in the end.
Whenever that may come for him.
"To home!" His Mother cried, one of the many he'd had, and he followed, the trees still smoldering behind them, but there were no screams.
None at all.
Not one.
Westeros was silent as the dragons took the 7th Kingdom.
And would be silent for a while more.
The dynasty of the Targaryens had begun.
Whilst Jon was gone, she did not pray.
She had no idea which Gods to turn her thoughts to, no idea if they all existed or none that they knew. No idea if she should speak to the trees, the sea, the flames or the statues. Who would rend judgement on them? Who would hear her prayers?
Would any of them?
None had listened to her when she'd been trapped here before, when she'd begged and prayed for hours on end, when she'd wept, screamed at the sky, tears dampening her cheeks, hands in her hair, ribs poking out, pleading with them to do something, anything.
She'd only been met with silence.
And so why would they listen now?
Instead, she sat, alone, in her rooms, embroidery materials in hand, and yet she couldn't force her fingers to stitch, couldn't find the will, she could only think of Jon, a country away now.
Two thoughts came to her.
Her first for Jons safety always, was he okay? Was he alive? When would she receive word? Any word? Would she? As a Princess she could have asked the King, but Sansa had been a fool to trust Kings before, she wouldn't do so now.
The next King she would trust in that Iron Chair would be Jon and Jon alone.
The second thought was of what Jon was doing; if he lived, if he was well, as she wished with her whole heart and everything she could give he was, what was he wreaking?
Fields of fire, killing innocent men, women and children for the sake of unity. She knew it had to be done, she couldn't argue that but it stung her heart.
She thought of the North, thought of how it had wanted to resist dragon rule, but Torrhen Stark, still living in the North had bent to save his people, she thought of the North, of their people, thought of the anger she would feel, the vengeance she would promise for invaders, that was how the Dornish felt now.
That was how they felt about Jon.
He was the invader, invading their homeland, killing their people, burning their crops. His motives were good, she knew that, and yet why was it always violence?
Why was it the only answer in this world of men?
She didn't doubt him, but the thought of Jon, of the Dornish telling their children to behave or Jon on Ceraxes would descend, the thought of them asking their Gods to smite him down, of cursing him in the sky, of family tales of the evil Prince of Dragons, it made her stomach hurt.
But then she thought of the cold, of the snow creeping over the Godswood, of the Others approaching, a mindless, faceless hoard, of what they would do to Westeros, how even fire wouldn't warm this continent if they took over. She thought of the sword in her belly, of how shocking the pain had been and yet so brief, she thought of blue chipped eyes, and thought of needing to do anything to stop that again.
These were the choices that were made, and she admired Jon for making them.
He'd never place the burden on another, he was out there now, staining his reputation, hurting himself, and she was here alone, relegated to worrying, helpless.
She would not be useless again.
On the second day Jon had left she dressed, she smiled, she walked the corridors, she kept her head high, she allowed a tear at dinner as a Southern Priest blessed the Targaryens conquest, she played her part, and she did so perfectly.
Sansa Targaryen fretting over her husband she adored, the future King.
She couldn't ride a dragon, she couldn't wield a sword, but she could do her part.
Winning the public was half the battle.
She had seen Margaery charm these corridors, and knew the same would be expected of her. She didn't have the same charms, but she was kind, she smiled, she remembered the servants by name, she sat next to the King at dinner, she spoke to Ladies, and held their hands in prayer for Jon.
She was the perfect Princess, her role, as Jon fought on the battlefield.
And she listened.
She would not be a silly simpering Lady again, there was more to her than that now.
There always had been, it had just taken her a while to find it.
She walked the corridors, a guard at either shoulder, but she did so quietly, caught snatches of conversation, it was harder now, not a traitors daughter, but the future Queen, to go unnoticed, but she worked in other ways, encouraging conversation over embroidery, picking a Lady to sit with her at dinner, chatting to her maids as they brushed her hair, gleaning secrets, silly rumours and gossip.
All useful.
Jon had his role, as did she.
She would support him until death, if it came once more or many more, she would, even as she imagined him, dragonfire at his back and it made her nervous, never for Jon, she knew he'd die before he hurt her, but for the people he would kill to protect her.
Was she worth it?
Was this world worth it?
Was Jons soul?
On the last night before he returned, she prayed for it, his soul, to no named God, only anyone listening, hoping someone was.
As usual, she heard nothing back.
It wasn't a question of running to him, it just happened.
The second a maid came to her room in the middle of the night, having hurried the stairs (Sansa inspired loyalty, and continued to cultivate it), saying dragons had been spotted overhead, Sansa hadn't even thought.
There was no conscious thought, there was no question, she was on her feet, throwing on a robe, slippers and then she was out the door in a whirl of fabric and red hair.
Paintings of Princees Sansa Targaryen, future Queen, would be sketched that night, of her emerging from the Red Keep, dressed in her night things, hurrying so fast she near lost a slipper, to the gates of Kings Landing, so desperate to see her love, she didn't care for a maid running after her with a shawl and guards hurrying to catch her up.
Like a bird in flight, a red dove on the wind, the people she'd spoken to over the past moon watched, the people she'd smiled at and chatted to, enquired after their children, offered their babies a kiss, held their hands as they wished her well, they watched her, thundering down the stairs, whirling around the corner, a red bird, seeking out her dragon.
A picture so perfect even the artists thought it might be a lie.
But it was no lie as she hurried, her heart thudding, they'd had no word from the sands of Dorne, and in the one instance she'd plucked up the courage to ask the King if that was normal, he'd laughed and told her they didn't take ravens on dragonback.
And so, there'd been nothing, no word from Jon or the Queen, but both Vhagar and Ceraxes had returned, Sansa just had to hope their riders had too.
She ran and ran to the gates, ignoring a maid offering her shoes, guards telling her to slow, she just ran, Tully eyes wide, to get to Jon, to Jon, her Jon.
More than just the brother who turned out to be a cousin, more than a friend, her best friend, more than all of that.
Neither had fully figured out the extent of it yet.
They would.
But as Sansa saw Ceraxes land, she didn't flinch away from him, she didn't pause or slow, as Visenya swept down from Vhagar, and Jon followed down Ceraxes wing, Sansa met him at it, throwing herself into Jons arms only seconds after his feet hit the ground.
Her arms thrown around him, her feet lifted off the floor, a cry leaving her lips, long hair unbound, like a maiden of the North, a chill across her robed shoulders, she didn't care as she met Jon, felt him, well, alive, and let out a cry as he squeezed her back.
He was here, he was well, he was in her arms, he was hers.
"You came back" She whispered in a shuddering needy voice, but she allowed herself it, almost a moons worth of worry and fear and … longing built up inside of her as she clung to him, fingers digging in, not wanting to let go.
Jon held her just as close, as tightly as he could without hurting her, a hand going to the back of her head to cradle it, like something precious, his lips ghosting a kiss across her hair, clinging her close, his own heart racing in concert with hers.
Two halves of one whole.
Was that what they were?
Dragon and wolf meant to be at one another's side.
"I will always come back" It was a vow, alongside the ones they'd said at their wedding.
'Hen lantoti ānogar, va sȳndroti vāedroma'
'Blood of two joined as one'
'Izulī ampā perzī, prūmī lanti sēteksi'
'Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires'
"Always" It was a vow and Sansa nodded into his ink black curls, and pulled him closer and closer, never wanting to let go.
And so we start to see the dynamics unfolding.
but it will not be an easy rode to ruling!
The next plot point (small council meeting after our bbys reunite, have a slight crisis of feelings, lots of angst and such, you know the usual), will be something very very interesting! I am taking guesses in the reviews!