Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.

ooo.

It had come full circle. A Targaryen held the Iron Throne once more. Cersei, the Mad Queen, was dead. Slayed by her own brother. Yet this was nothing like Dany imagined. Yes, she was queen.

Queen of bones and blood and ashes.

Queen of murder, thievery and rape.

Queen of civil war.

Sometimes, it felt like this was all she'd been destined to do. Fight. She'd faught Warlocks and slave Masters. The Khals and the Lannister Queen. And still, the kingdom wasn't entirely hers. She had the Capital and the South. She had the Iron Islands under Yara's rule, although Euron Greyjoy was a constant threat. But everything north — her small hands fisted in anger and she whirled around to her Hand.

"I should ride North and obtain their submission," Daenerys hissed, "with fire and blood, if need be!"

"I see," Tyrion began, pondering calmly while he emptied his wine glass, "Let's be generous and assume you manage to conquer Winterfell," the Imp continued, "although marching 1,000 miles through WINTER makes it nearly impossible, but let's say you do," Tyrion's mismatched eyes stopped and fixed the young Queen, "It would be pointless." Dany's confused frown urged him to continue. "The North cannot be held, your Grace! Not by an outsider. It's too big and too wild!"

"The North must be dealt with!"

"Indeed it must," Tyrion admitted. "But diplomacy will spare you all sorts of troubles down the road. My Queen," he pleaded, reaching Dany's side, "conquerors are rarely loved. If you want to build a stable order, you must win the support of the Great Houses and their Lords."

"Their Lords?!" Dany's brows lifted and an ironic tone tinged her question. "What Great Lords...?! The Reach has none, now that the Tyrells are essentially extinguished. The Riverlands belonged to House Frey, but I hear Old Walder is dead and so are his sons. The Stormlands have no lord either — all the Baratheons are dead. And I already have the support of the relevant Lannister."

"—yet three Great Lords remain: Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale. Euron Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands and Jon Snow, the King in the North!

"A child. A filthy pirate! And —"

" —the second. most powerful. lord in Westeros," Tyrion finished for her, stressing every word. "He is governing over half the landmass now, and possibly more if the Vale remains with him." Daenerys turned and looked away annoyed, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. "He is a powerful man, Your Grace. From a powerful House."

"He's the spawn of the usurper's dogs..." Dany corrected, snorting her disdain.

"Usurpers or not, they're the ones with the taxes that will fund a government. They own cities. Ports. Navies. A successful ruler has to give them a place at the table." Dany took her Hand's words well salted, but the truth in them could not to be denied. Conquering the Seven Kingdoms was nothing like conquering cities. "Your Grace," Tyrion insisted, "the Starks are not your enemy."

"How can you say that?" she whirled around. "Have you even met this Jon Snow?"

Tyrion smiled at the irony. "I have, your Grace. It feels as if it was in another life, but I've met him."

Dany's interest pricked up. As of late, she'd been secretly wondering about this king in the North. The way people talked about him, he was the greatest swordsman since Arthur Dayne."

"You met him?" she inquired a little surprised, "And did you find him as great as they say he is?"

"He is ..." Tyrion stopped and pondered before speaking, "...honorable. That above all, just like his father. He's intelligent, a skilled fighter," the Hand continued, "—yet not the most cautions of men."

When were men cautious? Dany wondered, wordlessly turning away from her adviser. "What else?"

"Varys tells me he rose to his title and won the North's loyalty by fighting valiantly and doing the right thing. No matter the circumstances. It says a lot about a bastard boy, born in the South, don't you think?"'

"I think I should see this Jon Snow with my own eyes before making up my mind."

The day was grey and bitter cold. A heavy snow fell from the sky, but it fell slowly, and the wind had died. Jon took a breath of the crisp morning air and allowed himself a moment of peace. He was tired. So very tired. Ruling the North was tenuous at best: rounding up his men, manning all the castles, fixing up the abandoned ones.

The southern war had become irrelevant for him. With the night gathering, the true threat lied north. He'd sent two dozen men scouting for any sign of wights, trying to anticipate their assault. The bloodiest battle had yet to be fought Jon knew it and he dreaded it, for it meant more killing. And he'd done so much killing, it pained him to look back.

He'd killed wilddlings, whites and brothers of the Night's Watch. Men that he admired. He'd hanged a boy. A boy younger than Bran! And still, the nightmare was far from being over. "Jon?" the clear voice of his sister pulled him out of his thoughts. His eyes found hers and quickly registered the concern they tried to hide.

"What is it, Sansa?" Her fingers were clutching a small scroll.

"News..." she began with a faint smile.

"From Kingslanding?"

The young woman nodded. "From the Queen," Sansa clarified and her brows lifted slightly, "Deanerys Targaryen." Jon listened silently, the same concern now shadowing his eyes too.

Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark. They were all just spokes on a wheel. One was on top, then another, and another. On and on it spun, crushing those on the ground. His burned fingers closed into a fist and Ghost loped silently beside his master, leaving paw prints on the ground. His steaming breath warmed Jon's hand.

"She rides for Winterfell as we speak," his sister added then turned to look upon the frost covered fields. The wind swirled around them, stirring their heavy cloaks, while they stood, facing the snowy vastness.

"If she's coming this far north, there's only one thing she's after." More than anything, Jon sounded resolute. He knew this moment would come.

"What will you do?" Just by hearing Sansa's tone Jon could tell she understood the complexity of the situation, "Brother, we can't give up the North—"

"—we can't afford to fight her either," Jon pointed out, meeting her blue eyes. They made him soften his manner "There's only one thing we can do. Try to reason with her."

"I hear Tyrion Lannister is counseling her," Sansa informed, soft and curiously calm, turning towards the fields again. "This might work in our favor. This, and the winter that's finally here."

Jon looked up and smiled at the falling snow. Winter was not something to look forward to, less so in the North. But in the depths of their hardship, his younger sister seamed to have found strength and wisdom.

Seeing him, Sansa smiled too, and for a moment they were just two siblings bonding over a shared burden. The situation was tough indeed, but after so much time, they finally had each other to weather the coming storm. Winter had resumed it's reign, but so did the Starks in Winterfell.

That night Jon tossed for hours before sliding down into a nightmare. Ever since the Red Woman had worked her magic on him, what little sleep he managed to get was often plagued by nightmares. This time, he dreamed of a battle that turned the hills of Westeros as red as blood. He was in the midst of it, dealing death with a fiery sword. One that glowed red and yellow and orange, alive with light. The Wall itself had turned red, as waves of color danced across the ice.

Fire.

He dreamed of fire.

Fire and blood.