#he's like a mountain lion diluting his eyes at me

[mooneln0ne]

the Moon reflects the Sun doesn't it?

(click for better quality + Another version under the cut)

[kevanwithana]

City of Winter (12/16/2023)

Chapter I

Frost - Witness a Tradition - Floating Market

“who warns of the Umbra"

Frost stepped out of the skiff onto one of the floating platforms anchored against the river current. These landings served as the entrance to Temple Island’s famous Floating Market. He glanced up at the sky, blanketed in gray clouds that promised yet another off-season storm.

Picking up his pace, Frost hurried into the maze of floating walkways that wound through the numerous watercraft holding shops and wares of all kinds. He passed through the fish market and frowned at how sparse the offerings were. A few friends called out in greeting as he passed the artisan quarter, finally pausing at an old worn houseboat.

A counter was set up displaying clay pots holding a rainbow of different colored powders made from various dried plants. Sitting at another counter was a woman as old and weathered as her boat. She was busily using a mortar and pestle to reduce a small mountain of dried flower petals into a deep blue powder.

“Hello Grandmother Rain,” said Frost in greeting. “You’ve been busy I see."

The woman looked up from her work with eyes filmed white by cataracts. A smile beamed from her at the sound of Frost’s voice, hinting at a strength of spirit that defied her aging body. “It’s been far too long boy. Are you getting your dyes from someone else these days? Don’t tell me you’ve been shopping with that crusty old tortoise Flood,” her mouth twisting in mock distaste. She waved her hand dismissively, “His dye fades to nothing the second a ray of light hits it."

Frost laughed warmly at her teasing, “I wouldn’t dare! I can’t risk being cut off. Nobody else gets Skyfire Red other than you, Grandmother."

At this her smile dimmed a bit and her gaze dropped. “Yes well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck today. My normal supplier from the Lion hasn’t made the journey down from the Citadel this year."

A peal of thunder split the sky, making Frost’s heart jump. As the sound of raindrops hitting roof and water swelled, Grandmother Rain hurried to seal the clay jars containing her stock of dyes before her namesake could do much damage.

Frost lent his help, grabbing lids and securing them as fast as he was able. A flash of lightning blinded him for a moment and he fumbled the pot he was reaching for. The sound of clay shattering was swallowed by another crash of thunder. He looked down in regret at the black sludge the rain had made of the dye upon the planks of the walk.

He knelt down to collect the broken pottery shards but noticed something that sent ice through his veins. Instead of being diluted and washed away by the rain, the black mess was… congealing. Rivulets of inky black were flowing together into a pulsing mass. A mass that suddenly lurched towards Frost’s nerveless fingers.

With a panicked cry he stumbled up and away from the unnatural sight, only to feel Rain’s withered hand grip his arm like a vice. Her eyes, normally a filmy white, were now blazing a vivid electric blue.

“It comes,” she whispered, her words reaching Frost’s ears clearly despite the downpour. Her voice had an eerie sibilance, as if a thousand whispers from a thousand voices echoed each word. “The Umbra comes. Loss without hope. Grief without solace. It seeks to murder the moon, and swallow the sun. And we, the restless, the departed, cannot bear its gaze."

And as quick as the madness descended from the sky it was gone. The storm ebbed, the wind calmed, and Grandmother Rain’s white eyes looked up at Frost in confusion. And that… thing… was nowhere to be found.

[trashwarden]

Healing

Commissioned a fic from ticklishivories (twitter) some time ago and I love it. Do commission Kathy if you have a chance (:

Dorian Pavus x Vaxus Trevelyan (2229 words) | AO3

          For every heat spell that blasts through Dorian’s staff, a bit of the frost encroaching upon the bones in his fingers melts. A month disposing of demons and claiming Emprise du Lion for the Inquisition has him fondly reminiscing the sweltering summers of Tevinter, even the inescapable days where no amount of ice in a marble bath could soothe his cooked skin. He’s been spoiled by the magical elvhen dome that canopies Skyhold, which makes it a perpetual cool spring or fall during all times of the year. It’s a breeding ground for romantic idleness and daydreaming, his favorite pastimes– but none of that is possible here, with his ankles buried in snow and his socks soaked through in murky water, constantly swigging down lyrium mixed with herbal tinctures and his own tacky blood just to stave off an hour’s worth of soreness. Even he is starting to tire of hearing himself complain.

           “You’re rather fond of that spell today, aren’t you, darling?” Vaxus says over his shoulder, breathless as he swings his broadsword through the air one last time to shake off bits of crystalized red lyrium.

           Dorian brushes off the pet name, hoping Cassandra and Varric don’t notice the practiced casualty in the swing of his staff into a resting position, or the lack of necessity of it. “I thought everyone might appreciate my heated display in these trying times.”

           “I certainly appreciate it back here,” adds Varric. When the dwarf shakes his head like a wet dog, droplets of icy, melted snow diluted with someone’s (who knows) blood fly off from his ponytail in all directions. “To be honest, I’m hankering for a little more than a few lukewarm sparks from Sparkler. My trigger finger’s getting a bit slow and I’m not sure it’s because of overuse or the grape-like shade it turned a few hours ago.”

           “We can set up camp if you like,” Vaxus says. It’s off-putting watching him shake his spotless sword over the snow, as if some ghostly remnant of their battle might cling to it, but these enemies possess no flesh and blood to pierce nor any fat or fluid to stain a blade. Dorian’s magic seeps through their rocky exteriors and shatters them as if they were cheap glass figurines.

           Cassandra inspects her slightly dented shield, but otherwise it’s immaculate in the winter sunlight. “Camping here would not be reasonable; we’re exposed and positioned downwind from the mountain. Demons will most certainly attack us in the night.”

           “Right, so we should press on, then.”

           The four look at each other and nod, then press on.

           They’re eager to make it past the scene of the battle, but the longer they trudge through the snow the more they realize that the path is set on an incline, and the rock their feet find purchase under through all the piles of fresh powder is sleeted and slippery. After an hour of hiking, Dorian notices he’s no longer the only one stealing sly gasps for breath or pushing himself a little less; even their effervescent leader up front is lagging, falling at Cassandra’s side and keeping his head low. She mutters something to Vaxus that Dorian can’t quite catch. Vaxus shakes his head, waves her off. Cassandra seems to relent.

           But Dorian is keen to Vaxus’ tells. So he jogs to catch up with the two, and slips a hand over his shoulder.

           “Amatus,” he whispers, and he doesn’t miss the small second of delay that it takes for Vaxus to lift his head toward him. “I think we should stop. Enemies forbid, I think camping here might be–”

           “Tired, are we now,” he teases, grinning in the way that makes Dorian’s insides perform flighty dances, but the exhaustion lining his eyes turns it still rather quickly.

           “Yes, I’m tired.”

           At this point, their party has slowed to a complete stop. Cassandra moves to lean against a crevice not walled with ice and Varric waddles to a flat stone that he sits himself upon with a long, appreciative groan. But Vaxus makes no move to relax, standing straight with his hand on his hip as he faces Dorian, so Dorian does the same, crossing his arms over his chest.

           “I’m tired,” he repeats. “We’re all tired.” Vaxus is on the defensive, his hand tightening on his hip, but Dorian’s right, as always, the flash of fatigue that fills Vaxus’ eyes as he spoke the word ‘all’ not missed in the slightest. He speaks gently, embarrassed that they have an audience for something as silly as this. “We’ve been scouting at the point for hours. The sun is well over our heads. Let’s rest, shall we, Amatus?” He plays on the delicate, slightly guilt-impelling tone, maybe even pouting a bit. “Come now. For me.”

           It works, slowly; like snow melting from stone he seems to give to his exhaustion and unravel, his arms moving for Dorian and Dorian opening to be his pillar.

           They’ll camp here, enemies be damned. Just feeling the brush of Vaxus’ familiar heat makes him want to collapse into their bedroll.

           There’s a crash behind them then; before Vaxus’ hands can reach Dorian’s arms, the ringing sound of Cassandra’s sword being drawn turns them away from each other and behind at the men swathed in red and black running uphill towards their party. An explosion of battle cries erupts from all around, but one command booms like an avalanche in Dorian’s brain.

           “Kill the warrior!”

           He’s barely able to prepare his enchantment before Vaxus is barreling past him, smashing sword-first into the frontline of corrupt soldiers. His barrier doesn’t reach him in time; instead it covers all of them but Vaxus, who is left exposed at the head of an entire infantry of deranged, red-lyrium-corrupt Templars.

           Their slight advantage is that they’re uphill, and Vaxus and Cassandra can throw their weight into their attacks and push them back down the mountain, but they’re outnumbered four to fourteen at least. He can only cast so many spells at a time; their earlier battle had sapped a good portion of his mana and they had no lyrium potions left. The moment that energy bursts from his staff and into the atmosphere or the enemy’s body, he’s firing again and again until the spirits in his blood are so drained that he can hardly breathe. Varric is at his flank, shooting arrows that cut through the air past his ear. Cassandra is in front of them, guarding from the soldiers that leak past Vaxus’ barrage. The attackers split in half– one division for Varric, then Cassandra and Dorian, and the other all on Vaxus.

           He can only watch as Vaxus takes on seven men on his own. He can’t break away to run to his Amatus’ side. Cassandra is overwhelmed protecting him and Varric, leaving Vaxus’ back exposed. The second his mana replenishes he throws shield after shield up for him, hoping that Varric and Cassandra forgive his leanings, just this once.

           His ears are ringing. He hears the swish of his staff through the air, his breath filling up his dry throat, but nothing else.

           But then there’s a shout, like thunder striking in his head. It stops him cold. The build of his next spell dies as his power fades.

           Dorian’s heard it once before– in the middle of the night, a terror overcoming him within the safety of the Herald’s fur sheets as he’s bolted awake by the cry from beside him. The room glowed a sickly green as Vaxus curled on his side and clutched his pulsing left hand, and when Dorian touched his back it was tacky with sweat. It took minutes of gentle coaxing, but when Vaxus had finally fallen asleep in his arms, it was fitful. Dorian could not follow him, the sound of his cry of agony an echoing dread in his ears.

           He can do nothing. He watches, a helpless stake in the ground, as the last standing Templar goes down with their sword slipping with a wet squelch out of Vaxus’ ribcage.

           Vaxus stays upright. He looks out at the bodies he’s strewn in a bloody halo around him, and sheathes his sword.

           Dorian thinks he’s going to turn around. Before he can move an inch, Vaxus collapses. The snow plumes around him like smoke.

           Dorian faces the last corrupt shoulder in his path and uses all of his remaining reserves of magic to set upon them a conflagration that burns a bright crimson into the sky. When the bodies are ablaze, crystals of lyrium as dark as blood shattered across the snow into thousands of shards, Dorian lets his staff fall from his hand and runs to him.

           He doesn’t remember much from the next sequence of events. His mana had been drained so completely that he gazes upon Vaxus’ form beneath him in a fogged daze. Instinct draws his hand down to the exposed area of chainmail that’s hot and wet with blood. Vaxus is gasping, his neck red and strained.

           “It’ll be…it’ll alright…”

           He’s not sure who said it, but he chooses to believe it, for now. Dorian tries to reach his eyes, smile for him, but Vaxus is looking up and far, far away.

           The last droplets of energy in his body pool into the wound, all of his self, all of his being. As soon as he feels the flow of blood stoppered, he loses his remaining grip on his consciousness.

           Flickers of awareness slip in and out of his grasp, but he only clings to a few things; the warm solidity of Varric’s shoulder, the cool, collected affirmation of Cassandra’s voice. He’s safe– they’re safe.

           What he knows next is the soft length of his bedroll and the familiar blank, low roof of his tent. It’s dark and quiet– for a hair’s breadth of a second he’s sure he’s dreaming. He takes account of his extremities, one by one processing the movement of the breath in his lungs, the blood under his skin and how it moves, twitching his fingers and toes under the blanket. Yes, he’s been given a healing remedy, but the remnants of the battle echo in the throbbing aches of his muscles, in the sour taste on his tongue. He sits up slowly, wincing.

           “Age does not befit us well, it seems.”

           The voice beside him is burdened. Dorian seeks it out in the darkness, refusing to let the worry find him first. His hand rests upon a solid, bare chest. “Please, Amatus. You know age cannot touch this perfect specimen.”

           Vaxus laughs weakly. “Are you referring to me or yourself?”

           Dorian chooses not to answer. Instead, his hand carefully wanders down, sliding across his warm skin to come in contact with a bandage where a life-threatening wound should be. Vaxus’ breath catches in his throat.

           “Careful…”

           “Yes,” Dorian whispers. It was kind of their friends to do this for them; not just clean and bandage their injuries, but place them together in their tent so that the moment they woke, they’d be in each others arms. He couldn’t imagine an action more healing. Dorian exhales, his eyes slipping shut and allowing the magic to pour from his fingertips, knowing it’s reached him when Vaxus gasps and then sighs as if dipping into a steaming hot bath. As it floods through his veins, seeking out more hidden wounds, Vaxus’ large hand comes to rest over Dorian’s.

           Their eyes meet. His seem to shine, and somehow Dorian can see them perfectly in the darkness of the tent, how they crinkle tiredly when his mouth curves at one corner. Not taking his hand away from his bandage, Dorian bends down and presses his lips firmly to Vaxus’. Vaxus sighs, squeezing Dorian’s hand and bringing his other up to thread in the hair at the back of his head.

           It’s good. Dry, but so soft, and filled with the warm assurance that they’re touching with the majority of their blood inside their bodies and their spirits intact and whole. Dorian sighs happily, and delights in the soft tug at his hair, one of Vaxus’ small cues. If he were not exhausted as he was, did not feel the weight of his bones, he’d push further, allow their kiss to deepen, but he controls himself and reminds Vaxus of his state when he places the smallest bit of pressure on the bandage. Vaxus hisses quietly. Dorian breaks the kiss, pulling off in a sedate haze.            “You’re cruel,” Vaxus breathes, and Dorian’s hand comes up to brush across his sweaty forehead, relishing in the way his eyes flutter.

           “No,” he replies quietly. He leans down enough so that their noses touch, just barely, his heart aching. “It is you who is cruel.”

           He knows Vaxus doesn’t understand, wouldn’t. Or maybe he does, but regardless he says nothing, instead embracing Dorian against his uninjured side and allowing him to use his shoulder as a pillow.

           He’s had lovers leave him. They made it seem so easy. But Vaxus is different, in that tomorrow and forever seem the same. The how or why of it has changed, and with it comes a slow, sinking desperation, a quicksand of anxiety. Imagining what could’ve happened today is enough. It would crush him completely.

           “Your thoughts are keeping me awake, Dorian,” Vaxus says softly into the dark. Dorian tenses, but Vaxus doesn’t let him stay that way; his hand rubs up and down his arm, soothed like a child.

           “Sleep. Stay with me, in this moment.”

           It works. He hears the slow, even breathing of his Amatus, the soft flutter of his pulse under his chest. His warm, warm skin, his rich and earthy scent. Dorian sighs.

           He sleeps.

[carbonitekisses]

Unfinished.

Cersei’s fingertips thrum against the table. Her nails click against the dark wood. She is tired of waiting for men. The world would be better off without them, she thinks. They’re all treacherous scum seeking to feed off of the fairer sex. And once their appetite has been satiated they leave in search of something new. 

But a queen? A queen is so much more than a woman. A queen is power. And Cersei will burn anyone who stands in her way.

The Mountain’s towering presence draws her eyes to the door of her solar. Just behind him stands the sorry excuse of a pirate who would call himself her king. As if I would ever suffer another fool by my side. I’ll have the Mountain snap his neck before his breath ever so much as touches me.

“You’re back. Good. Am I to assume you were successful?” 

Euron Greyjoy tries to saunter towards her. He only succeeds in repulsing her. The weeks he spent away have diluted her memory of him. He is fouler than she remembered. The odor of stagnant ocean water can not be masked by the, rather obvious, perfumes he has brought back from across the Narrow Sea. Cersei looks towards her shield.

The Mountain strikes out a thick arm to stop his advances. Greyjoy lifts a dark eyebrow at her but doesn’t move any further. Cersei likes this. Who knew she would one day be able to command men with a simple tilt of her head? The Mountain drops his arm but stays standing next to Euron. 

“Yes, my queen,” his leer is more than evident in his voice, “I’ve brought back the Golden Company just as we agreed. Now, I expect to be properly compensated.” 

Cersei leers back. She is queen, and a lion. She will not be cowed by an irreverent squid. 

“Ah, yes. Your compensation...”

// 

It’s certainly not what I was expecting. Not that I know what I was expecting  to begin with but... Dany accepts Jorah’s hand as he helps her dismount the finicky Northern mare. Her eyes wander to Jon who is looking towards Winterfell. Nevermind that. I’m sure it is more inviting, warmer, on the inside. Much like its former king. 

“It is a sight I did not think I would ever see again. You have made one of my greatest dreams possible, my queen.”

Daenerys turns towards the old bear. She can see true thankfulness in his eyes. It is a homecoming for more than one northerner, today. In the flurry of action she had forgotten that Jorah would most likely be reuniting with family. She is glad one of her oldest supporters will soon fulfill their biggest wish because of her. 

“My dear friend, it has been a long journey but you are finally back home in the north.” She clasps his arm. “Mayhaps the north will become a home of sorts for me as well.” Underneath her hand she can feel him tense at her words. She knows her bear holds no love for the wolf that is slowly, but surely, melting the ice around her heart. Jorah’s jealousy is flattering but she knows what she wants. 

With a smile Daenerys leaves Jorah and walks towards Jon. The white landscape and the cold makes her uncomfortable but she will never admit it. What is a little snow and winter wind to a dragon made of fire? Jon remains facing towards Winterfell when she finally arrives at his side.

“We are almost there. I am eager to meet your family, Jon Snow.”

Jon hums his agreement. 

They’ve stopped to arrange any last minute details before arriving at Winterfell. Her children were sent somewhere close to the keep but far away enough to not cause panic. Jon had insisted. She was loathe to part from them but ultimately yielded. He probably knows the northerners better than she. Tyrion, and Varys are discussing some trivial matters with the Unsullied about what to expect in regards to their welcome. Details, details, details. I’m tired of waiting. 

Daenerys touches Jon and gently turns him away from Winterfell and towards her. He moves stiffly in the cold. I will be sure to warm him up later in his Lord’s chambers. “You have been awfully quiet. More so than usual. Should I be worried?”

Jon’s eyes slowly warm at her words. The corner of his lips upturn in a reassuring smile. No wonder Jorah is jealous. His worry over her is obvious now. In her very rare moments of worry, or anxiety he is always there to reassure her. She is quite sure he is in love with her. She herself doesn’t love him. Yet. I could. I am in danger of it. I feel it.

“No. There is nothing to worry about. I will speak with the Northern lords and make them understand that you are here to fight with us.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “They will see you for what you are.”

Those words again. Just like before they light a fire within her. He sees her for what she is. A liberator. A savior. A queen.

His queen. 

The breaker of chains looks up at the last King of the North. He looks like he is holding himself back from a great emotion. He must want to hold me now. Daenerys wouldn’t care but he has been adamant in avoiding any kind of public intimacy for fear of repercussion to their political alliance. She admires his patience and fortitude. As mother of dragons she forgets how it must be for the rest of the world. To always have to care what others think or do. To not take without asking. Always waiting for permission. What a bleak existence that must be. 

A shout from behind breaks their tension. It is time to move again. Jon nods at her and leaves to mount his horse.

Daenerys watches his cloak flap behind him like  black wings. Soon she’ll meet his people. His family. Soon she’ll learn more about the king who gave away his kingdom for love. For me. 

//

It’s cold and the days are getting shorter. Gilly is used to it so she doesn’t complain. Everyone is in a frenzy. A horn of some sort is signaling the arrival of Jon Snow and his aunt. Daenerys Targaryen. The name sounds funny to her but what does she know of queens and dragons? 

“Gilly, come! He’s here!” 

Gilly looks at Sam in mild bemusement. He sounds like a child in his excitement. Gilly adjusts Little Sam on her hip and follows him to the railing that overlooks the courtyard. There is so much noise that Little Sam squirms in curiosity but Gilly strengthens her hold. It wouldn’t do for him to leave her arms. Not with soldiers and dragons in their midst. 

“Where are the dragons, Sam?”

His eyes never waver from the action underneath. “Eh, I don’t know. Perhaps they’re waiting somewhere in the Wolfswood?”

Sam’s words do nothing to assuage her concern. She has never seen a dragon. But she has seen creatures of ice. She isn’t sure that creatures of fire are any better. 

There is a change in the air and Gilly focuses on the men and women in the courtyard. There are soldiers in black leather with dark, sun-kissed skin she has never seen before. Exposed skin and no furs? How are they not freezing? Their armor is useless this far north. 

A head of white, yellowish hair stands off by the entrance to the keep. She, for Gilly can see her fair features, is surrounded by guards. That must be the dragon queen. Then where is Jon Snow...

Gilly finds him. His head of black hair is walking towards Sansa Stark. Gilly inhales her surprise. The Lady opens her arms and holds Jon Snow in a welcoming embrace. In the small amount of time Gilly has been in Winterfell she has noted how restrictive Sansa Stark is with her affection and touch. Gilly brushes Litte Sam’s hair back. She doesn’t think she has ever seen the Lady of Winterfell touch someone so intimately before. 

She wonders where Lady Arya is. If Sam is correct, she was the sibling Jon Snow would talk about the most during their time at the Night’s Watch. It seems she is not here to welcome her cousin home. 

“...queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Oh.” Sam mutters. “Oh, no.” No one is kneeling in the courtyard. Isn’t it part of their customs? To kneel? She read that somewhere, she is sure of it. But no one is kneeling when Jon Snow introduces his aunt to the people of Winterfell.

Gilly is confused. Is he no longer king?

Little Sam pulls at his father’s cloak until Sam relents and carries him.

Daenerys Targaryen walks towards Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. Unlike her soldiers, the queen is dressed in thick white furs that surely keep her warm. Gilly feels sorry for the men. 

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.” Sansa Stark’s voice carries in the stillness of the moment. 

Gilly doesn’t believe her. She has seen this woman care for her keep like Gilly herself cares for Little Sam. Daenerys Targaryen seems pleased, though. “Is Winterfell no longer the Starks’? What is going on, Sam?”

Sam continues to look at Jon Snow as he leads his aunt to the inside of Winterfell. “I‘m not sure, Gilly. All I know is this complicates everything.” Gilly and Sam watch  how the dragon queen’s eyes follow Jon Snow everywhere he goes. “Jon, what have you done?”

//

“He’s almost here.” Bran says. “Observe and take in as much as  you can. Go.”

//

The serving girl leaves the godswood behind her. She picks up her drab skirts and makes her way toward the courtyard. The king is come back with a Targaryen. Her curiosity makes her run fast and nimble as she weaves her way through the soldiers and serving folk. 

“Watch it, girl. You near ran me over!”

Anis doesn’t stop. Her hazel eyes drink in everything they can. The horses, the people, the carts. She perched herself atop a stack of empty vegetable crates to get a better view. She anxiously awaits for a sign of dragons in the overcast sky. The Lannister imp is here, as is a bald plump man.

Varys. His name is Varys. 

Anis has never met them before. But names are easy to come by. She notices the soldiers are well trained. Even in their poorly made winter garb they show no signs of discomfort. 

That must be the Unsullied. 

There is another kind of soldier in the courtyard. They are quite different and seem to be faring worse than the Unsullied. Dothraki. They are speaking a strange mixture of the common tongue and a language Anis has never heard before. Nevertheless, she listens and understands a few phrases.

“Cold...Khalessi...Snow”

“...Gold...lions...burn”

“...food...food...food...”

Anis turns her attention towards the king. He has finally returned to Winterfell. 

He’s finally here. Will he recognize me after all these years? Do I want him to recognize me?

Anis pushes these strange thoughts away. She is a simple serving girl. She has no ties to the king. She is only here to watch and observe. And so she does.

[ These are little snippets from a s8 fic idea. I don’t know if I’ll ever get around to writing it. But I’ve had it in my drafts for the past couple of months so I might as well post some of it, lol. They haven’t been edited or anything so sorry for any and all weirdness! ]

[trinuviel]

Winterfell’s Daughter. On Sansa Stark (part 6)

This is the sixth part of my analysis of Sansa Stark’s character in Game of Thrones. (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5) and it concludes the analysis of Sansa Stark’s season 1 arc. This is where the story takes a turn against the Starks and where Sansa’s life becomes a nightmare.

LIFE IS NOT A SONG

In my last post, I showed how Sansa’s illusions about chivalry, court and love were restored after they had been undermined by the vicious behavior of Joffrey, Cersei and the Mountain. In the very same episode as Joffrey mendaciously woo Sansa with pretty words and a pretty necklace, Ned falls out with Robert over Daenerys Targaryen and decides to break off Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey and leave King’s Landing (ep06). Unsurprisingly, Sansa doesn’t react well when Ned tells her and Sansa that they’ll return to Winterfell.

Sansa: I can’t go. I’m supposed to marry prince Joffrey. I love him and I’m meant to be his queen and have his babies.

This is where Ned utters this oft-quoted line:

Sansa: I don’t want someone brave, gentle and strong. I want him! He’ll be the greatest king that ever was, a golden lion, and I’ll give him sons with beautiful blonde hair.

Arya: The lion is not his sigil, idiot. He’s a stag, like his father.

Sansa: He is not. He’s nothing like that old drunk king.

Out of the mouth of babes… Sansa unwittingly gives Ned the key to the mystery that his predecessor Jon Arryn was investigating: The true parentage of Cersei Lannister’s children. Sansa sounds like a complete ninny-hammer in this scene. Once again, she’s got her head in the clouds, imagining herself the star of a Westerosi fairytale. I have already mentioned that it is a shame that the show has erased existence of the songs and romances that are part of the cultural fabric of Westeros because this literature informs Sansa’s views on romance and chivalry. This literature therefore serves as a context for her ideals and her behaviour. Let’s have a look at how part of the exchange between Sansa and Ned plays out in the book:

“Father, I only just now remembered, I can’t go away, I’m to marry Prince Joffrey.” She tried to smile bravely for him. “I love him, Father, I truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies. […] We’ll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you’ll see…” (A Game of Thrones, Sansa III)

Sansa isn’t facing the reality of her relationship with Joffrey but is rather desperately trying to make it fit the shape of the stories she loves so much. However, Sansa doesn’t understand that the songs she loves so much leaves out or stylizes all the hardship and suffering that the characters go through. She thinks that Aemon the Dragonknight defending the virtue of Queen Naerys against slander is terribly romantic – and it is. However, she doesn’t understand is these epic romances that she adores dilute the grief, suffering and horror with pretty words and ear-catching verse. Sansa’s life may become the subject of songs and stories, but not in the way that her younger self imagined. It is a common theme in the books: that romanticism erases the suffering, the blood and the grief of the people and events that are immortalized in stories and songs. Life is not a song, but it can become the subject of songs: “We are all just songs in the end. If we are lucky”. Young Sansa wanted to live in a song – and she just might get her wish, but in the worst way possible.

THE LION’S “MERCY”

As noted above, Sansa’s little outburst about that “old drunk king” leads Ned to discover the truth: that Joffrey is the offspring of Cersei and Jaime Lannister’s incestuous affair. However, his handling of this explosive secret is disastrous. Not only does he inform Cersei that he knows her secret but he does so before getting his daughters safely out of King’s Landing. Thus, when Cersei acts against Ned and slaughters his household, both Sansa and Arya are targeted by the Lannister soldiers. Syrio Forel delays the attackers to facilitate Arya’s escape and Septa Mordane tries to do the same for Sansa though it fails. This unarmed woman stares down a bunch of soldiers with bloody swords, knowing that it most likely means her death and she doesn’t flinch. It is perhaps one of the bravest acts I’ve seen on the show.

Sansa is captured by the Hound and she is now completely alone and isolated in King’s Landing. Ned is in the Black Cells, Arya has escaped and the rest of the Stark household are dead. It is a frightened girl that is summoned before Cersei and the remainder of the Small Council (Varys, Pycelle and Baelish). They pull a good cop, bad cop routine in order to coerce Sansa into writing a letter to Robb Stark at Winterfell, begging him to travel to King’s Landing to bend the knee to Joffrey.

Varys: Your father has proved to be an awful traitor, dear.

Pycelle: King Robert’s body was still warm when Lord Eddard began plotting to steal Joffrey’s rightful throne.

Sansa: He wouldn’t do that! He knows how much I love Joffrey. He wouldn’t. Please, Your Grace, there’s been a mistake. Send for my father. He’ll tell you – the king was his friend.

On the surface, this reads like a very self-absorbed thing to say – and it is, to a certain extent. However, it also shows that Sansa believes that her father would never hurt her intentionally. In her mind, her father would never hurt her – he knows she loves Joffrey – losing Joffrey would hurt her – ergo: Ned would never work against Joffrey because it would hurt her. It is a superficial way to approach this whole situation but it also reveals that she has complete faith in her father’s love for her.

Maester Pycelle: She’s a sweet thing now, Your Grace, but in 10 years who knows what treasons she may hatch?

Sansa to Cersei: No I’m not. I’ll be a good wife to him, you’ll see. I’ll be a queen, just like you (oh, the irony!), I promise. I won’t hatch anything.

Cersei, Varys, Pycelle and Baelish manipulate her skillfully.

Baelish: The girl is innocent, Your Grace. She should be given a chance to prove her loyalty.

Cersei: Little Dove, you must write to Lady Catelyn and your brother. The eldest – what’s his name?

Sansa: Robb.

Cersei: Word of your father’s arrest will reach him soon, no doubt. Best it comes from you. If you would help your father, urge your brother to keep the King’s Peace. Tell him to come to King’s Landing to swear his fealty to King Joffrey.

Sansa: If I could see my father, talk to him…

Cersei: You disappoint me, child. We have told you of your father’s treason. Why would you want to speak to a traitor?

Sansa: I only meant that… What will happen to him?

Cersei: That depends.

Sansa: On… On what?

Cersei: On your brother. And on you.

Sansa is led to believe that Ned’s fate rests on her slender shoulders. She thinks that her father’s life is dependent on her actions, which most likely provides the impetus for the next action she undertakes. Sansa publically pleads for her father – on her knees in front of the Iron Throne.

It is unclear whether she does this of her own accord or whether Cersei and the Small Council are in on it. Regardless, it is a lovely piece of heartfelt theatre and it shows that Sansa quickly has become familiar with the conventions of the royal court as she is exploiting the system of the king petitions publically.

Sansa: All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert’s friend and he loved him, you all know that he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand, until the King asked him. They must have lied to him, Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or somebody. They must have lied!

Joffrey: He said I wasn’t the king. Why did he say that?

Sansa: He was badly hurt. Maester Pycelle was giving him Milk of the Poppy. He wasn’t himself. Otherwise he never would have said it.

Once again, Sansa demonstrates her complete faith in her father’s innocence and honour. Most likely, she knows nothing about what really happened and tries to come up with her own explanation. She ends her plea with an appropriation of the language of Courtly Love:

Notice how her language changes at this point – it becomes formal, stylized. She is speaking a sentence that could come straight from one of the chivalric romances that she likes so much. Here she appeals to the conventions of Courtly Love whereby the lover should fulfill his lady’s wishes. Joffrey, in turn, knows this language and responds in kind:

Joffrey: Your sweet words have moved me. But your father must confess. He has to confess and say that I’m the king – or there’ll be no mercy for him.

However, where Sansa uses the language of Courtly Love in good faith, Joffrey operates in bad faith. Just as he did in the scene where he gifted her a necklace. To him the language and conventions of Courtly Love are empty words and gestures whereas they are very meaningful to Sansa. She has yet to understand that truth and honour are rare commodities at court. Here deceit and double-speak reigns supreme.

When the time comes, Joffrey’s mercy turns out to be no mercy at all! However, Sansa isn’t the only person who is blindsided when Joffrey calls for Ned’s head. Cersei, Varys and Pycelle’s reactions show that they, too, have been blindsided by Joffrey’s demand.

Sansa breaks down, screaming desperately for them to stop. She has to be restrained by an armed knight before she faints at the sight of her father’s headless body.

Unlike Arya, who is shielded from the sight of her Ned’s death by Yoren, Sansa is forced to watch her father die. This is the moment when the scales finally fall from her eyes. Throughout the season, Sansa has been willfully blind about Joffrey. It isn’t necessarily because she’s stupid but rather because she has constantly been told not to trust her own instincts. She was also purposely mislead by gestures and words designed to appeal to her romanticism. However, her final disillusionment is incredibly brutal and traumatic.

“HE CAN MAKE ME LOOK AT THE HEADS; BUT HE CAN’T MAKE ME SEE THEM”

Joffrey takes Sansa to the battlements of the Red Keep to show her the severed heads of her father and his household.

I have chosen to title this section with a quote from the book because it encapsulates how Sansa adopts a strategy of passive resistance in the face of the emotional abuse that Joffrey inflicts on her. What does this distinction between “looking” and “seeing” mean? To look means to direct one’s gaze at something (what is being looked at). To see can mean the same thing but it can also imply to understand, recognize or comprehend something. So what does this mean in relation to this scene between Joffrey and Sansa? It could refer to Sansa’s tendency to compartmentalize and supress things that are traumatic to her. Let’s have a look at the passage that follows the quote above:

Sandor Clegane took the head by the hair and turned it. The severed head had been dipped in tar to preserve it longer. Sansa looked at it calmly, not seeing it at all. It did not really look like Lord Eddard, she thought; it did not even look real. “How long do I have to look?” Joffrey seemed disappointed. – A Game of Thrones, Sansa VI

The way that Sansa disassociate “looking” from “seeing” can be read as both a coping mechanism and a form of passive resistance. The whole situation is incredibly traumatic for her – her father was murdered before her eyes and she is alone among people she cannot trust. On top of that, she has to contend with Joffrey’s vicious nature. He only brought her to the battlement to enjoy her anguish. Sansa refuses him that pleasure by not giving any outward reaction.

Sophie Turner conveys Sansa’s passive resistance perfectly through a stoic, emotionless countenance and an inflectionless, almost “dead”, quality to her voice. There’s even a subtle defiance in the manner in which she raises her head to look – at Ned’s head, at Joffrey. At some level, Joffrey knows that she’s resisting but he can’t put a finger on it and thus he’s rendered impotent. He doesn’t get the reaction from her that he wants. He wants her tears and she refuses to give them to him.

When she refuses to show her anguish, Joffrey tries another tactic: threats against her brother Robb.

However, this backfires as well when Sansa replies:

Then she coldly stares him down, daring him to challenge her. Joffrey is flustered, he even takes a step back! Then, as the coward he is, he orders Ser Meryn to strike Sansa. A grown man, wearing gauntlets, slaps her around and she doesn’t make a sound!

Immediately after this, the camera work shows the audience that Sansa ponders the ultimate act of resistance: killing Joffrey by pushing him off the battlements. She even starts walking towards him. The only reason Joffrey doesn’t die that day is because the Hound intervenes with the pretext of wiping the blood off her face. Sansa herself is completely prepared to die with him, as the book says: “All it would take was a shove, she told herself. […] It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all.”

The scene ends with Sansa standing on the battlements, alone. She lifts her gaze one last time, looking up  at her father’s head, whilst she fights to hold back her tears. This gaze, I’d argue, is different than the “look, don’t see” approach she adopted earlier. With this final look, she is committing the crime of her father’s murder to memory. She’s reminding herself never to be deceived by Joffrey and the Lannisters again. This time, she won’t close her eyes to the truth. 

Sansa is often criticized for being a passive character in King’s Landing. Many think her weak because she doesn’t resist violently. However, it is mistake to confuse helplessness with weakness! About his sister Lyanna, Eddard said: “You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath.” The same can be said of Sansa. Strength and resistance come in many forms. Sansa is not a violent person, she is not physically strong and she has no weapons training. It is ridiculous to expect her to fight off a bunch of armored soldiers. It would simply get her killed. Sansa’s resistance is more subtle and it is psychological rather than physical. The scene with Joffrey on the battlements shows how Sansa employs two different forms of resistance to Joffrey’s cruelty:

Active, verbal resistance where she talks back. That leads to a beating at the hands of the King’s Guard.

Passive resistance where she outwardly complies but refuses to let Joffrey enjoy her pain by schooling her face and her voice into an impassive countenance.

These two options are the forms of resistance that she continues to employ whilst she’s a captive in King’s Landing – and as the seasons progress, we see how she adjusts this resistance to more sophisticated and subtly manipulative forms. 

[carbonitekisses]

Alliances of Winter

Bran drops his hand from the carved face. The world is blurry before it rights itself to the present. It won’t be long, now.

Like a round of cyvasse, the pieces are all in place.

//

Cersei thrums her fingers on the throne, her nails clack against the darkened steel.

Daenerys touches Jon’s arm and gently turns him away from Winterfell and towards her.

The imp of Casterly Rock watches the eunuch watch the scenery pass by.

Lady Arya is nowhere to be found. It seems she isn’t there to welcome her cousin home. 

The Lady of Winterfell opens her arms and holds Jon Snow in a welcoming embrace.

Jaime squints at the sun. Two more days and he’ll be able to divest himself of one of the many guilts that taint his conscience.

//

Bran watches as a clump of snow crashes to the ground from above. The heart tree’s leaves are heavy, weighed down by Winter’s first true snowfall.

The final game has begun.

//

[Posting the little scarps I had helped me through the rut I was in with this. Thanks for the comments, they definitely pushed me to make this a more cohesive and full story!]

[Tagging @terriandmike , @swainlake , @a-lighted-window-at-dusk , @thedreamergirlofsummer , and @tubbylita . Thanks for saying you’d like to read more of this story! It probably would’ve just stayed in my drafts lol.]

Read on Ao3

Or click on keep reading for the full chap.

Cersei thrums her fingers on the throne, her nails clack against the darkened steel. She was never a patient creature and the crown that rests upon her head only serves to validate her impatience. She is tired of waiting for men. The world would be better off without them, she thinks. They’re all treacherous scum seeking to feed off of the fairer sex. And once their appetite has been satiated they leave in search of something new.

The throne room is empty save for the Mountain. Qyburn has just left, his message delivered and received. The remaining lords and ladies have already scampered back to their hovels. It’s better to be alone than in bad company. Much better.

In strides Euron Greyjoy. If rumors are to be believed, he’s the last male Greyjoy with a working cock. Cersei thinks the wannabe pirate brags too much about his sword. Of what she’s seen, her prisoner in the dark cells is more of a kraken than both remaining male relatives combined. But that is the lot of women. Their sex will always pull them under. She is the exception.

A crown and a throne work wonders. A queen is so much more than a woman. A queen is power. And Cersei will burn anyone who stands in her way.

“You’re back. Good. Am I to assume you were successful?”

Euron Greyjoy tries to saunter towards her. He only succeeds in repulsing her. The weeks he spent away have diluted her memory of him. He is fouler than she remembered. The odor of stagnant ocean water can not be masked by the, rather obvious, perfumes he has brought back from across the Narrow Sea. Even from atop the throne she can smell him.

As if I would ever suffer another man with an ego-complex. Cersei looks towards her shield. The Mountain will snap his neck before his breath ever so much as touches me.

The Mountain strikes out a thick arm to stop his advances. Greyjoy lifts a dark eyebrow and puts his hands up in a mocking gesture of surrender. He doesn’t move any closer. Cersei likes this. Who knew she would one day be able to command men with a simple tilt of her head? The Mountain drops his arm but stays standing next to Euron.

“Yes, my queen,” his leer is more than evident in his voice, “I’ve brought back the Golden Company just as we agreed. Now, I expect to be properly compensated.”

She peers down at him. He wants to marry her and be her king. She would be an idiot to trust him. There are others who have pledged themselves to her. Others who she can, and has, controlled better. But there may be some use to him, yet.

Cersei leers back. She is queen, and a lion. She will not be cowed by an irreverent squid. “Ah, yes. Your compensation...”

//

It’s certainly not what I was expecting. Not that I know what I was expecting to begin with but... Dany accepts Jorah’s hand as he helps her dismount the finicky Northern steed. Her eyes wander to Jon who is looking towards Winterfell. Nevermind that. I’m sure it is more inviting, warmer, on the inside. Much like its former king.

“It is a sight I did not think I would ever see again. You have made one of my greatest dreams possible, my queen.”

Daenerys turns towards the old bear. She can see true thankfulness in his eyes. It is a homecoming for more than one northerner, today. In the flurry of action she had forgotten that Jorah would most likely be reuniting with family. She is glad one of her oldest supporters will soon fulfill their biggest wish because of her.

“My dear friend, it has been a long journey but you are finally back home in the north.” She clasps his arm. “Mayhaps the north will become a home of sorts for me as well.”

Underneath her hand she can feel him tense at her words. She knows her bear holds no love for the wolf that is slowly, but surely, melting the ice around her heart. Jorah’s jealousy is flattering but she knows what she wants. With a smile Daenerys leaves Jorah and walks towards Jon.

The white landscape and the cold makes her uncomfortable but she will never admit it. What is a little snow and winter wind to a dragon made of fire? Jon remains facing towards Winterfell when she finally arrives at his side. “We are almost there. I am eager to meet your family, Jon Snow.”

Jon hums his agreement.

They’ve stopped to arrange any last minute details before arriving at Winterfell. Her children are to be sent somewhere close to the keep but far away enough to not cause panic. Jon had insisted. She is loathe to part from them but ultimately yields. He probably knows the northerners better than she. Nevertheless, she misses them. She fears to lose them ever since the incident beyond the wall. Her eyes search the sky for Drogon. She can feel his presence. He is still near.

Tyrion, and Varys are discussing some trivial matters with the Unsullied about what to expect in regards to their welcome. Details, details, details. I’m tired of waiting.

Daenerys touches Jon and gently turns him away from Winterfell and towards her. He moves stiffly in the cold. I will be sure to warm him up later in his Lord’s chambers. “You have been awfully quiet. More so than usual. Should I be worried?”

Jon’s eyes slowly warm at her words. The corner of his lips upturn in a reassuring smile. No wonder Jorah is jealous. His worry over her is obvious now. In her very rare moments of worry, or anxiety he is always there to reassure her. She is quite sure he is in love with her. She herself doesn’t love him. Yet. I could. I am in danger of it. I feel it.

“No. There is nothing to worry about. I will speak with the Northern lords and make them understand that you are here to fight with us.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “They will see you for what you are.”

Those words again. Just like before they light a fire within her. He sees her for what she is. A liberator. A savior. A queen.

His queen.

The breaker of chains looks up at the last King of the North. He looks like he is holding himself back from a great emotion. He must want to hold me now. Daenerys wouldn’t care but he has been adamant in avoiding any kind of public intimacy for fear of repercussion to their political alliance. She admires his patience and fortitude. As mother of dragons she forgets how it must be for the rest of the world. To always have to care what others think or do. To not take without asking. Always waiting for permission. What a bleak existence that must be.

A shout from behind breaks their tension. It is time to move again. Jon nods at her and leaves to mount his horse. Daenerys watches his cloak flap behind him like  black wings. Soon she’ll meet his people. His family. Soon she’ll learn more about the king who gave away his kingdom for love.

For me.

//

“He’s almost here.” Bran says. The low and long sound of a horn interrupts him. “Observe and take in as much as you can. Go.”

//

Tyrion had forgotten how utterly dull the North is. Everywhere I look, snow covers everything.

Varys has his hands hidden away, like always, within the confines of his sleeves. The muted colors of his robes only serve to remind him that summer is long gone. Tyrion turns to look outside of the carriage window. They are near Winterfell’s gates. Won’t be long before it all goes to the Seven Hells. The Northern fools are too stubborn to take kindly to a Targaryen queen. He doesn’t have high hopes for this alliance. Not since–

”You know, your face is doing that thing again.”

”I’m sorry but I’m afraid you will have to elaborate. My handsome features do many ‘things’. What exactly are you talking about?”

Varys looks out of the opposite window. The view is the same. Snow. “You used to be better at hiding your thoughts, your feelings. Not enough to fool me, of course. But now you’re an open book even an illiterate could read.”

Tyrion turns to look at Varys. “And what do you see on my face, hm? If I’m such an open book, pray, tell me.”

The imp of Casterly Rock watches the eunuch watch the scenery pass by.

Of course. Now he’s quiet.

The carriage rolls to a stop. They’ve arrived. “Fear, Tyrion. That’s what I see. You are wise to feel that way.” Varys pauses before fully exiting the carriage. “But a fool to show it.”

The serving girl leaves the godswood behind her. She picks up her coarse skirts and makes her way to the outside of the keep proper. The king is come back with a Targaryen! Her curiosity makes her run fast and nimble as she weaves her way through the soldiers and serving folk.

“Watch it, girl. You near ran me over!”

Anise doesn’t stop. Her hazel eyes drink in everything they can. The horses, the people, the carts. She perches herself atop a stack of empty vegetable crates to get a better view. She anxiously awaits for a sign of dragons in the overcast sky. The Lannister imp is here, as is a bald plump man. She can see them through the small windows of their carriage.

Varys. His name is Varys.

Anise has never met them before. But names are easy to come by. She notices the soldiers are well trained. Even in their strange winter garb they show no signs of discomfort. That must be the Unsullied.

There is another kind of soldier in the courtyard. They are quite different and seem to be faring worse than the Unsullied. Their ears are rust red and their long black hair swings wildly behind them. There aren’t many of them here. Thirty at most.

Dothraki.

They are speaking a strange mixture of the common tongue and a language Anise has never heard before. Nevertheless, she listens and recognizes a few phrases.

“Cold...Khalessi...Snow”

“...Gold...lions...burn”

“...food...food...food...”

Anise turns her attention towards the king. He has finally returned to Winterfell. He’s finally here.

Will he recognize me after all these years? Do I want him to recognize me?

Anise pushes these strange thoughts away. She is a simple serving girl. She has no ties to the king. She is only here to watch and observe.

The main party and King Jon are soon within the walls of Winterfell. The procession of Unsullied keeps passing by, arranging themselves around the keep. She watches them.

They are too many to house inside. The  Targaryen girl and her retinue will be housed inside. But what about all her men?

Anise swings her feet and, to pass the time, makes a game of counting how many carts of food and resources she can see.

Five,

Grain.

Ten,

Cloth, animal skins, a few furs.

Fifteen,

Weapons.

Twen—

A screech is the only warning she and the rest of the bystanders receive before everyone scampers away in fear. Anise doesn’t know where her courage comes from but she stands on the crates and bends her head back in awe.

Dragons. They’re real.

They’re here.

The dragon flies directly above Winterfell before flying into the mist and fog of the woods. She jumps off the crates. There is much one can learn from being at the right place at the right time. It’s time to leave her perch. Anise looks with wonder at the passing caravan. With wide eyes and a juvenile smile she follows the Targaryen procession into Winterfell’s courtyard.

//

It’s cold and the days are getting shorter. Gilly is used to it so she doesn’t complain. Everyone is in a frenzy. A horn of some sort is signaling the arrival of Jon Snow and his aunt. She remembers hearing it an hour or two ago when they had first been spotted by the watchmen.  Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen are here. Her name sounds funny to Gilly but what does she know of queens and dragons?

“Gilly, come! He’s here!”

Gilly looks at Sam in mild bemusement. He sounds like a child in his excitement. Gilly adjusts Little Sam on her hip and follows him to the railing that overlooks the courtyard. There is so much noise that Little Sam squirms in curiosity but Gilly strengthens her hold. It wouldn’t do for him to leave her arms. Not with soldiers and dragons in their midst.

“Where are the dragons, Sam?”

His eyes never waver from the action underneath. “Eh, I don’t know. Perhaps they’re away from the keep?”

She has never seen a dragon. But she has seen creatures of ice. She isn’t sure that creatures of fire are any better.

Gilly sets her sight on the newcomers. A head of white, silverlike hair stands off by the entrance to the castle. She, for Gilly can see her fair features, is flanked by soldiers. They are dressed in black leather with dark, sun-kissed skin she has never seen before. That must be the dragon queen. Then where is Jon Snow...

Gilly finds him. His head of black hair is walking towards Sansa Stark. Gilly inhales her surprise. The Lady opens her arms and holds Jon Snow in a welcoming embrace. In the small amount of time Gilly has been in Winterfell she has noted how restrictive Sansa Stark is with her affection and touch. When she first met her she had thought her to be Winterfell’s queen. Gilly brushes Little Sam’s hair back. She doesn’t think she has ever seen the Lady of Winterfell touch someone so intimately before.

She wonders where Lady Arya is. If Sam is correct, she was the one Jon Snow would talk about the most during their time at the Night’s Watch. It seems she isn’t here to welcome her cousin home.

In that moment a terrible sound meets her ears, and makes Little Sam cry. The courtyard is hit by wind and shadow as the sun seems to be momentarily smothered. In the covered walkway Gilly can only see the end of the beast’s tail as it flies overhead. She presses her son closer to her chest.

“Sam! A dragon! They—they’re real!”

What else could it be if not a dragon?

There is a change in the air after that small terrifying moment and Gilly focuses on the men and women in the courtyard. She wasn’t the only one scared by the dragon. Common and noble folk alike  are twisting and turning their heads to see if another dragon will pass by. Lady Sansa acts as if nothing happened but Gilly can see how the blonde lady knight moved closer to her lady.

“...queen Daenerys Targaryen. I promised I would...”

“Oh.” Sam mutters. “Oh, no.”

No one is kneeling in the courtyard. Isn’t it part of their customs? To kneel? She read that somewhere, she is sure of it. But no one is kneeling when Jon Snow introduces his aunt to the people of Winterfell. Gilly is confused. Is he no longer king?

Little Sam pulls at his father’s cloak until Sam relents and carries him. Daenerys Targaryen walks towards Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. Unlike her soldiers, the queen is dressed in thick white furs that surely keep her warm.

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.” Sansa Stark’s voice carries in the stillness of the moment. Gilly doesn’t believe her. She has seen this woman care for her castle like Gilly herself cares for Little Sam. Daenerys Targaryen seems pleased, though.

“Is Winterfell no longer the Starks’? What is going on, Sam?”

Sam continues to look at Jon Snow as he leads his aunt to the inside of Winterfell.

“I‘m not sure, Gilly. All I know is this complicates everything.” Gilly and Sam watch how the dragon queen’s eyes follow Jon Snow everywhere he goes. “Jon, what have you done?”

//

It’s strange, being here. He hikes his rucksack over his shoulder. I wonder if...

“This is queen Daenerys Targaryen. I promised I would come back with aid for the fight against the Others.” She begins to walk towards Jon Snow as he introduces her. “In bringing her to the North I have fulfilled that promise.”

Her white and red furs make her stand out against the stones, mud, and wood. Sansa Stark seems to lose some of the levity she had upon embracing her brother. He doesn’t blame her. Having a dragon flying above your home without warning and scaring your people is a bit rude. Then again, are there proper courtesies when it comes to dragons?

The Targaryen girl stops by Jon Snow’s side and faces Sansa Stark. He makes note that no one in the courtyard kneels before the mother of dragons. If the Lady of Winterfell doesn’t kneel neither does its people.

Well, this is awkward.

She doesn’t seem bothered. Or maybe she doesn’t see it as a slight. Considering her and Jon’s—

“Winterfell is yours...”

A servant squeezes past him and draws his attention away from the scene playing out before them all. His rucksack slides off his shoulder with her movement and thuds to the cold ground.

“Hey, look where you’re going,” he mutters as he bends to pick it up.

Quick as a whip the little maid turns her blonde head. Her mouth opens when she sees him. Her eyes shift from young innocence to something far too jaded for her age. The girl’s stare makes him feel transparent.

“What? You want to catch flies or something, kid?”

She looks down at his war hammer before looking back up at him.

“Gendry?” Her voice tilts at the end but it doesn’t sound like a question. She seems certain of who he is.

“Do I know you?” His eyebrows come together in concentration as he takes a step towards her.

Before he knows it she’s gone and lost among the Unsullied, Dothraki, and northerners.

The Hound hits his shoulder with a heavy hand. “Come on, Bull.” His voice is mocking. “Us beasts are far too low for them pretty creatures. She had one look at ya and ran away.”

He’s in Arry’s Lady Arya’s home, now. There’s no way he can forget how low he is. Gendry shoulders the offending hand away and follows the rest of the men inside. As if I needed a reminder of how low I am. I’ve known that my entire life.

//

Leagues away from Winterfell the fingers of winter are tightening their grip. Slowly and surely the grass and trees are stiffening with frost. Jaime squints at the lowering sun. Nightfall is drawing near. He would be worried but it has been more than a sennight since he left Kings Landing behind. The chances of being captured by his sister’s forces weaken with each step his horse takes.

“You know, it’s gonna cost you more than before. Now that there’s two queens who’d put your pretty blonde head on a spike.”

You’re wrong. There’s three queens. My father wasn’t wrong when he named Sansa Stark the Key to the North.

Jaime pulls on the reins of his horse and steers him towards an off-road clearing.

I’m only hoping Brienne will stay the hand of her red-haired queen.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d almost think you cared about me, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.”

The mercenary lets out a cackle into the thicket and trees. “Oh, I care. You Lannisters always pay your debts.” He unstraps the bundles from his horse. “But you can only pay them if I keep you alive.”

Jaime let’s the conversation drop. They’re close to their destination. Two more days and he’ll be able to divest himself of one of the many guilts that taint his conscience.

//

Bran drops his hand from the carved face. The world is blurry before it rights itself to the present. It won’t be long, now.

He watches as a clump of snow crashes to the ground from above. The heart tree’s leaves are heavy, weighed down by Winter’s first true snowfall.

Like a round of cyvasse, the pieces are all in place.

The final game has begun.

//