Author's notes: Thanks once more to notyourfuckingalatea, who goes over my drafts with a fine-tooth comb and helps me game out the characterization when I get stuck! You're amazing. :)

Beyond thanks, I wanted to give some insight into how this chapter starts. Sansa has an intense PTSD/panic reaction at the beginning, which might come as a shock - but please remember the circumstances of the prior chapter and try to have sympathy for her in this. Dany and Jon didn't really do anything wrong (though Jon has been a bit foolish in how he's handled the marriage question), but in the society of Westeros they took a big risk and one that, due to how it happened and how she found out, triggered some things for Sansa.

One of my greatest frustrations with D&D's writing for her is that they have not really addressed the long-term fallout of having survived what she went though. I'm trying to do my best to address that. But that means depicting her in an altered state - and while there are fair points she could make in objection to the way Jon handled things in Chapter 3, I'm not writing that, I'm writing her speaking out of her own fear, grief, and trauma. She's scared and "catastrophizing." I hope that by allowing her to go there as honestly as I can I might bring some resolution that eases her burden somewhat going forward, though it's not the kind of thing that ever truly goes away. Sometimes just knowing that you're loved and understood can make moving forward easier. And, as Jon shows, he does understand, because he has his own experiences with trauma.

Anyway, this one took a lot of work, please let me know what you think! :)

Sansa felt as if someone had cored out her chest and replaced it with a long, dark tunnel, which she was being sucked into, deeper and deeper. Her hands were so cold, they ached, and slick with sweat at the palms. She laced them together, to warm them and stood, as if she was awaiting the gallows, in the hall outside Jon's bedchambers.

She'd thought that Jon loved the queen. He spoke so highly of her, adoration in his eyes. It looked like something pure and good, if a bit naïve. Like Jon himself. All she had to do was persuade them to marry, and they might be happy, as her parents had been happy, secure in a gentle love that warmed without burning.

That was what she had wanted for Jon when she had pled her case to him the previous night. Trying to persuade him he was worthy of marriage. But he hadn't cared a whit. He'd gone straight from her room to the queen's and dishonored her.

He probably thought it was funny, what a stupid little girl Sansa still was. How little she understood men, no matter how much evidence she was given. Lost in her silly dreams.

If anyone else had found them, it would have dealt a blow to the queen's reputation. Ladies lived and died by their virtue. As ladies across Westeros told their daughters, men respected a pure bloom, but a tattered flower they trampled in the dust. Even Littlefinger had shown the decency of restraining himself to stolen kisses, if only so she could be intact for sale to Ramsay Bolton. But Jon had treated the queen as if her very survival meant nothing to him.

Jon could not possibly be confused about the gravity of what he'd done. It was their father's greatest sin, to have dishonored his mother outside the bounds of marriage. Their entire family had carried that burden, but none so much as Jon himself.

What she had seen was not pure and good and he knew it. He must have done it on purpose. She recalled the rumpled look of the queen's nightgown, her hair in disarray from pawing hands, the guilt in her eyes. And Jon standing there, the cause of it.

Sansa swallowed hard around the knot in her throat. How could he treat the queen like that? If his love was not pure and good, then what did that say of him?

And why did the queen permit it? Sansa had heard that the men of Essos demanded more from their ladies than the men of Westeros. There were tales, whispered among girls, of ladies being made to serve a year as a women of easy virtue in their wanton temples. When Sansa heard this talk at the Red Keep she'd known that she'd rather die. It was almost more than she could bear, being the plaything of one man and his family. To belong to so many, and for a whole year…

Had the queen been subjected to that? Perhaps she had grown accustomed to enduring men's demands. She might not know how dangerous it was to her here. She might have thought she owed it to Jon, for his kingdom, and he had taken advantage of it, as it seemed any man would. There was none good enough to resist the cruelty of desire.

Foolish as she was, Sansa still couldn't understand it. She tried to bring her image of Jon together with the things men did to women in lust. Tried to imagine the same hands that held and comforted her pushing the queen down, forcing her legs apart... Sansa gripped her hands tighter, clutching them to her chest as if to still the sickness in her stomach, the sour heat at the back of her throat.

Some women did seem to enjoy the act. Aunt Lysa had shrieked in long, horrid howls of pleasure when she'd lain with Littlefinger. And Myranda had enjoyed Ramsay's games as much as he did. Relishing the opportunity to tell Sansa how they would use and mutilate her, until there was nothing left of her but a womb to grow sons in. But they had been awful, twisted women, full of madness and rage. Sansa had seen nothing of that in Queen Daenerys.

The queen was such a small, pretty woman. Her hand on Sansa's arm had been light and delicate. How could Jon want to hurt her?

There was still time. She could return to her room and forget. It could be like some cruel dream that came only to lift in the morning light. But it wouldn't go away; it would wait, another doom that might fall on their heads at any time while she stood idle, too weak to face it. She couldn't let that happen. Not again.

She saw him round the corner then, his steps slowing as he came toward her. When he reached her, he gave her a short nod and continued toward his bedchamber. She watched him, the way he moved, with easy power and a kind of rugged grace, and tried to understand. She had seen him beat Ramsay Bolton nearly to death, the bones of his face giving way under Jon's fists, but Jon was like Ghost in her mind. Their power arose from love, not cruelty. Their violence was reserved for wicked men. It made something frightened inside her relax to be near them, and know that she was safe.

But how long had she truly known him? He might have spent his years at the Wall putting his knife to the throats of captive Wildling women. Making them do things. Surely even Joffrey had been gentle with his sister, if only for love of his mother. But that hadn't protected Sansa from him.

If I don't watch over you, she recalled Jon saying, gentle humor in his eyes, Father's ghost will come back and murder me. Was that all that stood between her and something dark inside him? Were all men cruel to the women they desired?

Sansa felt like weeping for the person she had been stupid enough to think she loved. Someone noble and kind, like a knight in a song. Still, he had never hurt her. The thought gave her the courage to follow him into his bedchamber, though not to stand too close. She went to the window and stared at him, her hands clenched together in front of her.

"Must we discuss this?" he asked, standing near the hearth. There was naught but embers there, another reminder of where he had spent the night. He wasn't meeting her eyes.

"I pleaded with you to marry her," Sansa gasped out, heart in her throat. "How could you do this?"

"It's a private matter," he said, still not looking at her.

"You told me you could never find a better queen, not in a thousand years!" she cried. She looked over him, the stiff line of his back. He had sounded like a man in love. But, then, so too had Littlefinger. Was love of a woman always something ugly in men? "Did you mean it?"

He turned his head then, and there was hurt in his eyes. "Of course I did. How can you doubt it?"

"You've dishonored her in our own home!" Sansa said, her voice cracking.

He turned to face her fully, mouth opening and then closing, his eyes wide. She looked over his rumpled clothes, the curls he hadn't caught up in his hastily arranged bun. Again her mind tried to put together a picture of what it might be like, what she knew of him, gentle and warm and strong, and the beautiful little queen, soft as silk and just as fine, combined with what she knew of... that. She felt hot and unsettled, feverish and angry.

"What if I hadn't been there? What if someone saw?" She stepped closer, heart hammering as she felt compelled to approach. "They'll call her a whore, Jon. They'll turn their backs on her. She'll never be queen, not in any way that matters. She won't be loved and admired. She'll only hold power through fear of her dragons and one day someone will kill her for it."

Sansa's head felt light with sickening visions. There was a tremor in her chest, like a bird beating its wings bloody against the bars of an iron cage. The tremor spread out across her body, making her voice and hands shake. If she and Arya could make plans for the queen's death, so could others. The queen would be under constant threat. She would have to sit in the Red Keep and become twisted and hateful. Her beauty and clever wit would be shattered, the pride that glowed within her quenched. For every man she burned as a traitor, three more would rise up in his place. Long before they finally killed her, she would die inside, watching everything she hoped for turned to ashes in her hands.

"Don't think that they won't," Sansa warned him. "They will ruin her and then they'll kill her. And for what?" she demanded. She was so close to him now she could see the flecks of amber, sweet as honey, in his gentle brown eyes. Where was the monster, hidden in this man that she loved? She feared and hated it and felt compelled to force it into the light. "For some base lust. A few minutes of..." ladies did not swear, but she said the next words with all the hatred of a curse, "stupid, hateful, ugly…"

His eyes were wide and concerned. "Sansa," he said, gently. "Please..." He reached out to her.

She smacked his hand away, as hard as she could and then flinched back, her breath coming in short pants, terrified of what he might do.

He moved away from her, until he found himself at one of the chairs near the fireplace. When he backed into it he steadied himself with a hand on the arm and then sat, staring at her. She couldn't find the thing she feared in him, no matter how hard she looked. The tremor in her chest stilled, even as her mind did not. Nothing made sense, her love and fear twisted together into a hard knot. Which was true?

"We'll stop," he said, quietly. "No one knows. None of what you fear will come to pass, Sansa." His eyes tracked over her. "We'll stop," he repeated.

Sansa's breath eased. She wrapped her arms around her waist. "Don't you love her?" she asked, and her voice sounded very young to her own ears.

"I do," he said, earnestly. Sansa couldn't see a lie in it.

"Men always say that," Sansa said, speaking the sorrow deep within her heart. So much cruelty, and they called it love. Why did it have to be that way? "But the things they do aren't loving."

He looked sad. "I've never hurt her," he said. "Last night was foolish but—" he heaved a breath, "not base lust." Saying the words seemed to pain him. "That is not fair to either of us, Sansa."

"Then what was it?" What else was there?

"Soon we will face the Night King," he said. "And we fear losing each other." He swallowed, a terrible heartbreak in his eyes. "I cannot protect my queen, who I love. Instead, I have to send her into battle. Can you understand—" his lips thinned. "I know Daenerys looks strong upon her dragon, but the Night King felled Viserion with one spear. One shot." He looked at her hard, searching her face. "She will not be a queen triumphant in the air, Sansa, she will be a target. And I have to be the one to send her up there. My battle plans require it."

She imagined Jon and the queen holding each other all night, as innocent as children afraid of the dark. With no family left, did the queen have anyone else to love her, truly love her as a woman rather than a queen? Sansa could recall what it was like to be that alone. She had clung to Jon so tightly after she got him back. Fear of Ramsay drove her determination to die if Jon fell in battle, but so did the knowledge that there would be nothing left for her in this life. There was so little love to be found anywhere. And the queen was such a warm person. Sansa could feel it, even in the casual touches they had exchanged. The more she thought about what a comfort they must be to each other, the more shame she felt for what she had said, what she had thought.

Sansa found her way to the other chair, resting her shaking hand on it and easing down to sit. Her other hand was still pressed to her chest, but there was nothing left to hold back. Just minutes ago, there had been so much ugly feeling inside her and now there was just a hollow emptiness.

This made sense. This was who he was. Everything else was a wicked lie, brought up from the depths of her own wretchedness. She had behaved like a mad woman, raising her voice and striking at him. Accusing him of vile things, when he'd spent his entire life proving he was more than the stain of his birth.

There was so much filth inside her. Ugly, disgusting, hateful things. And she'd poured them all out before him. He'd seen everything. She felt naked and ashamed and so cold. "I'm sorry," she said, and heard the shake in her own voice. "I didn't mean it. I—" she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, wishing she could take it all back, so he would never have to know, never have to see how ruined she was inside.

It was her love that had been twisted and made corrupt, not his. The men who had used her had left that inside her and nothing could ever wipe them away, no matter how hard she tried. The filth would always be waiting inside to destroy everything she loved.

Jon stood and moved away. She thought he was leaving her there and felt despair choke her, tears heating her eyes.

But then he returned, carrying a blue wool blanket from his own bed. He leaned over and put his hand on the arm of her chair, in a silent question. She'd given him reason for concern, striking out at him just minutes ago. But he hadn't left her. He still cared. The heat of her tears was sharp in her eyes. She forced them back, nodding her acceptance.

Jon wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, tucking it warmly into place. She clutched at it, holding the weight of its comfort close. He knelt in front of her on one knee, smoothing a hand over her arm through the blanket. After a while, he began to speak, gently, as if he was telling her a story.

"For a time, I thought all of you were lost. Stannis offered me Winterfell, but only if I tore up the heart tree by the roots and burned it in the name of his god." He looked pained. "That made it hurt more," he said, "until it was like there was an animal inside me, a dark, shadow thing made of all my grief and rage. During practice one day, I attacked a brother of the Watch. I could have killed him." He shook his head. "I don't even remember it. Just the two men pulling me off him and how… ashamed I felt, after. It was monstrous, to strike at a brother after he had cried yield. But no one held it against me." He took her cold hand in his, which felt as warm and toasty as a hot brick at the foot of her bed in winter. "The things that happen to us don't just live in our minds, Sansa," he said, "they live in our bodies, our hearts. And they must have their say." He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it. "You've been taking care of everyone," he said. "You've been so strong. But they must have their say."

He wasn't disgusted or afraid. Instead, he was letting her know that he understood. She gripped his hand and closed her eyes, convincing herself that this was true. She'd fallen and instead of being dashed on the rocks, he caught her. Sansa felt the shame lift from her heart, not entirely, but enough. As he had intended. She opened her eyes and reached out, stroking a loose, silky curl back from his forehead. "Let me speak to the queen on your behalf," she said, cupping his cheek, the coarser hair of his beard tickling her palm, "please. Then you might spend all your remaining nights together, without shame."

A soft look came over his face. "You are most determined," he said, faint amusement playing at the corner of his lips. He seemed relieved that she was acting more herself.

"She will not find a better husband," Sansa said, stroking his cheek with her thumb, "not if she looked for a thousand years." She believed it, with all her heart, and was satisfied to hear the strength of her own voice attest to it.

She saw pink color his cheeks. "You are kind," he said.

"I am honest," she said. "And something of an expert in husbands," she added, risking the joke. The humor felt freeing; there was relief in her heart when she saw him give a little smile in response. She was not so very strange or ugly. She could still be herself.

His hand came up, to cover hers where it rested against his face. "Speak to her," he said. "But promise me that you won't ask more than she is willing to give and," he leaned into her palm and looked at her, such warmth in his eyes, "promise me you will take time to rest first."

"I will," she said, glad to swear anything to secure his consent in this. "I promise." She stroked the same curl, which had fallen again across his forehead, back. "You must neaten yourself and go speak to the lords before they fret."

He heaved a gusty sigh. "I'll miss your noble protection," he joked. "You are," he sketched a circle in the air with his free hand, "a most fair shield to shelter behind." He finished the gesture with his fist across his chest, as though he wielded the shield he'd named her.

Sansa laughed and gently poked his shoulder. "Go," she said, "you've faced worse."

"Aye," he said, smoothing the blanket around her one final time as he stood. "We'll speak later."

The blanket smelled like the cloves and sweet fennel of the soap Jon preferred. Sansa cuddled it close around her, staring into the dead embers of his fire a long while. She'd shown him something terrible and he'd given her only kindness in return. It was still there, inside her heart, the monster she feared, the dark thing made of rage and grief Jon had spoken of. But Sansa wasn't just a liar barely keeping it at bay anymore, terrified that a single glimpse would drive love away. It had come out and they had tamed it, just a bit. She was bigger and stronger than it. And she had a job to do.

She would see Jon and the queen happy, so they could be a comfort to each other in these darkening days. They would battle the dead together and find rest together too, holding each other in the night. She pictured them cuddled close, the queen cradled against Jon's chest, his hand gently stroking her hair. She knew how good it felt, to be safe in his arms, and she had felt something of the queen's warmth too. Her soft, dainty hands and the way she could be so perfect, so small, and yet so grand in spirit.

She wanted to cup her hands around their beauty, their sweetness, and protect it from harm. She was not a warrior, not like they were, but she would make sure they had that. They would have all the strength and love she could secure for them, so they would be fully armored for their fight. She would do everything in her power to keep them alive, body and soul.

Sansa took the blanket with her when she returned to her own chambers. After throwing the bolt on her door, she curled up on her bed. Ghost climbed up beside her, the bed sinking under his weight, and flopped down in front of her. The warmth him was comfort made solid against her body. She buried her face in his soft fur and let her tears fall. They were gentle, tracing cleansing paths down her face as the monster in her heart found a newer, softer way to settle. After a while, she slept.

OoO

The morning was not as excruciating as Daenerys feared. Jon was very good at this. She had known it from the moment she had seen the light of respect come into Jorah's eyes as they discussed strategy and she saw it now with his lords. They listened attentively and asked thoughtful questions. Because of the nature of the Night King's recruitment of the dead, the goal was to prevent as many losses as possible. It was the only way to diminish the enemy's ranks.

Jon's plan was for her Unsullied to maintain shield walls while archers fired dragonglass arrows from behind them and she burned the undead from above. Only once they were softened up would a direct attack be made, first by cavalry and then by foot soldiers to mop up. Prior to that, he had plans for ambush sites throughout the North. He knew his land better than anyone and knew areas where the topography might be used to divide the enemy. Places where oil traps could be hidden and then lit on fire as the dead had marched through, burning hundreds at once.

Daenerys was pleased, but she keenly felt the absence of Lady Stark's bright presence at her side. It boded ill for her plan to unite their families. And it meant that she was without good company; she knew the plans already and would have enjoyed Lady Stark's sharp wit on such a dreary, grey morning.

She had known that Westerosi sexual mores could be conservative, outside of Dorne. But it was not until she saw the cold anger on Lady Stark's face and the depth of guilt in Jon's eyes that she realized how sharply felt those rules could be. In must have been even more difficult than she had thought, to grow up a bastard in such a place. But, if this could be smoothed over, it would be a good lesson. Dany had to consider the feelings of her people in this. She must forego Jon's company as she worked to secure the marriage. Hopefully, she would not have to be without him for long.

As she watched Jon circle the war table, Daenerys was reminded of the last time she had met to prepare for battle with her allies. Around a table a Dragonstone she had held a court of great women: Olenna Tyrell, Yara Greyjoy, Ellaria Sand. In their faces Dany saw hope for the future she wished to build, one where anything was possible. Even an alliance of women, standing together.

In Olenna, especially, Daenerys saw the mothers and grandmothers she had never known. Young women like Missandei and Doreah had taught her much, but what must it be like, to be guided by women of age and experience? She longed to learn and bring what comfort she could to the lady who had lost so much.

Then, one by one, they were taken from her. Each time she heard the news, she felt there must be gods, for random chance alone could not be so cruel. Raining down fire upon the Lannisters and their allies, burning those who had betrayed Lady Olenna, brought some relief. You are a dragon, she'd said, be a dragon. And so Daenerys had been a dragon for Lady Olenna, in memory of her. But the relief had faded too soon, along with the scent of burning flesh.

For all that Jon's plans were calm and wise, the truth beneath them was ugly. Within a few short days, Daenerys would allow her two remaining children, her soldiers, and her lover to face the monster that had killed Viserion. Their world would become nothing but biting cold, struggle, and death. They may be reborn from it and step into a better world. Or they might fall.

Many of them would fall.

If only they could go straightway to the weirwood and marry before Jon's gods, so they might enjoy their time before the battle. There would be no more need for conflict or absurd pantomimes in the morning. Just the honest affection between them, a circle of warmth in long, cold days. And the chance to learn more of the family she had made hers. She admired the Starks. They had a way of loving each other and their people that she wanted to learn from so she could incorporate it into her own reign.

As the lords left the hall, Jon came to sit beside her. "They will acquit themselves well," he said. "We can only hope the plans suffice." He was cooler and more appropriate than he had ever been with her. It saddened her, but was also cause for relief: it would be easier to stay away if he did his part. Dany had known sophisticated men who wooed her with courtly ways. He was all the more charming because he made no attempt to charm. Instead he expressed honest adoration the likes of which she had never known. She had never been loved so deeply as both a woman and a queen. Men tended to prefer one or the other. Jon found no contradiction in holding the woman when she needed to be weak and yet still serving the queen absolutely when she stood strong.

It was difficult to resist.

"They are good plans," Daenerys said.

"Thank you, your grace." He did not look comforted.

"If they weren't," she said, her tone arch, "you can be sure your lords would say so. At great length." Perhaps that was one of the only good things about having such insolent nobles.

He cracked a smile at that. "Aye," he said, "they are generous with their opinions."

Daenerys was reminded, with sadness, of Lady Stark's sharp tongue yesterday. Were she with them, she would have something disarmingly clever to say, on the subject of the lords. Daenerys regretted her absence. "I missed Lady Stark's good company this morning," she told Jon, probing at the topic. She needed to know the extent of the damage they'd done.

He frowned. "She wishes to speak to you."

"Oh?" she asked. And then added, quiet enough so prying ears would not overhear: "Should I worry?"

"She likes you," he said. "And I know you will be kind to her." He bit his lip, his expression full of concern. "But you must do only what you think best."

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. She had no idea what he meant. What could Lady Stark want for him to speak of it like this? The possibilities were worrying. "I will be kind," she promised, "but I am not prone to being persuaded against my best interests in any matter, Jon."

"Of course not," he said, looking uncomfortable. "I only meant –" he drew a short breath, "I am honored to serve you, your grace. In whatever capacity you deem fit." There was pure truth in his in eyes, as there had been the first time he swore to her. His word meant more to her than that of ten thousand men who would swear an oath and hold something back. When he swore himself to her, he gave her everything.

Daenerys felt a rush of affection for him warm her heart.

"And I am honored by your trust," she said, sincerely, though she was confused about why he felt it needed to be said again. How angry was Lady Stark, precisely? Before she could inquire further, Lady Arya came in, sitting on the table beside Jon's chair, her legs swinging loose.

"We'll lose the light if we don't spar soon," she said, snatching a piece of cheese from Jon's plate and tossing it in her mouth. "Morning, your grace," she tossed off in Daenerys' direction, casual as ever.

Daenerys nodded back. "Good morning, Lady Arya."

"How's the weather?" Jon asked, taking a bite of cheese for himself, apparently inspired by his sister's theft.

"Just some light flurries kicking up."

"All right," Jon said, standing. "I'll have to fetch a practice sword first."

Lady Arya rolled her eyes and extended a foot, poking him in the leg. "I can hold my own, Jon."

"I don't doubt it," he said. "Sansa told me of your bout with Lady Brienne."

Lady Arya smiled. "Did she?"

Jon patted her knee. "She's very proud of you," he said and Daenerys was reminded of the way he assured her of Lady Stark's good opinion of her. He wanted to nurture a circle of kindness and understanding around himself, between the people he loved. Was he recreating the family life he had known or trying to create something he had wished for and not known? Daenerys suspected it was both, and felt for him. She wanted a family like that too.

"But I won't raise Longclaw against you, Arya."

"Well, you won't catch me without Needle," Lady Arya said. "Which means you'll be at a disadvantage." There was a warning lilt in her voice, and she aimed another swing of her foot toward him.

Jon casually grabbed it mid-swing and gave it a gentle shake before releasing it. "You can learn a lot," he said, "at a disadvantage." There was an instructive note to his voice and Dany thought that must be what older brothers sound like, when they're good men. A little too paternal for a girl of Lady Arya's age not to be annoyed at, but she let it pass with little more than a roll of her eyes.

Daenerys imagined having nieces and nephews who were so easy with each other, so comfortable and capable. One of them might make for a good heir. Perhaps even one of the girls, if they took after Jon's sisters.

"Fine," Lady Arya said, hopping down and grabbing his arm. "Are you coming, your grace?"

She was interested in seeing more of them; it was pleasant just to observe their affectionate banter. But she wanted to address the matter of Lady Stark as soon as possible. "I have matters to attend to," she said, standing. "But I look forward to hearing the outcome."

OoO

Daenerys returned to her chambers and sent word through a maid that she was available to speak to Lady Stark. She had considered seeking Lady Sansa out herself, but preferred to meet on more familiar ground. She straightened herself in the mirror and then sat to read a raven from Tyrion. If fair winds held, her fleet would be here in a matter of days.

When Lady Stark arrived she gave her customary dignified nod. She declined to sit, instead standing before the hearth, immaculate in her fine grey dress. Her hair was loose, apart from two small braids pulled back from her temples. The daylight was fading quickly, though it was barely noon, and the maid had stoked a fire for Daenerys. The light reflected in Lady Stark's hair, so it seemed that liquid flames poured down her back.

Dany noted that her manner was, as it had been with the lords, a touch theatrical. Her posture and words designed to convey that the lady was worthy of respect. Dany watched her closely, wondering how she would play this. After a while the lady turned, her gaze cool, assessing. "Do you intend to proceed by taking kingdoms from men on their sickbeds, your grace?" It was a sharp question and Lady Stark did nothing to soften it.

She was as cool and austere as the North itself, looking down at Daenerys. There was great courage in her, to address a queen in such a manner. There were many times Dany herself had played this game, drawing her pride around her and facing down an unforgiving world. Daenerys kept her own expression closed, but felt kinship with this brave lady.

There was something to be admired in her honesty too. This was the first time they had spoken in private together and Lady Stark was treating her the way Dany had tried to persuade her advisors to behave. Respectful but open and direct. Until now, only Missandei had perfectly understood her heart in this. If no one honestly raised their concerns in private, how could she become a good monarch? Dany had seen in her own brother how flattery and false words had made him weak.

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. "You speak of your brother." She was pleased that Lady Stark had chosen to overlook this morning. The nature of this complaint was confusing, however. That conversation with Jon was such a tender, pure moment in Dany's own mind.

"Yes. He's told me of how he came to bend the knee."

"His pledge was given freely," Daenerys explained. "I offered my armies and dragons first, without any stipulations." Jon might have explained it badly to his sister, but there was nothing in it for Dany to be ashamed of.

Lady Stark looked disappointed in her. "You must know how tender-hearted my brother can be," she said, her words carefully phrased to highlight the injustice she saw without accusing Dany directly. "He made his pledge while feverish and without counsel. He felt responsible for the loss of your child."

It had been an unusual circumstance, now that Daenerys tried to see it from Lady Stark's point of view. She should have called Ser Davos in, at least. But it had felt so natural and intimate. The way Jon responded to her moment of weakness with nothing but support, his hand tenderly squeezing her own. He was determined to be strong for her and she had needed that so much it was easy to forget his own vulnerability.

Perhaps she had taken advantage.

"You come to tell me this," Daenerys said, weighing the matter, "but Jon has not. He has expressed no reluctance to me."

"He gave you his word," Lady Stark said. "Even given under duress, he would never go back on it. Or try to renegotiate the terms of your alliance." The corners of her lips turned down. "You may have noticed that he is not in the habit of putting himself forward politically?" she asked. There was just enough fondness in her voice to soften her evident frustration.

Daenerys struggled to keep from smiling. It must be difficult for Lady Stark to stand back and watch her brother at times. Daenerys remembered her own fondness and annoyance in the Dragonpit as he struggled to deal honestly with Cersei Lannister. It was as absurd as trying to appeal to a wight's better nature, but his own good nature required it.

She and Lady Stark might build from this shared feeling, Daenerys thought. She had convinced herself that she would have to persuade Jon's family to welcome a marriage. But that was the direction Lady Stark seemed to be steering them toward now. All Dany had to do was sit back and let the lady persuade her. If only everything could be so easy! "But you have no such reluctance, I see," Dany said, keeping her own expression cool, determined to play her role here. "You seek to put him forward – but for what?"

"Marriage, your grace." Lady Stark spoke the words plainly and then let them stand as the silence dragged out, her expression unchanging.

Daenerys gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "That is a great deal to ask," she said. "As you know, I must choose carefully."

"Our family has extensive connections in Westeros, your grace. Our lineage goes back thousands of years and our kin have married into all the noble bloodlines." Her arguments were carefully laid out. From the way she stood, hands clasped, shoulders back, she seemed to have a whole host of them ready at her command. "Of the remaining sons of great families, Jon is the best candidate. He is near to your own age, gifted in the art of battle, healthy, and kind." A wry glint came into her eye then. "I have married one of your other options myself," Lady Stark said, referring Lord Tyrion, "and considered the rest. I regret that I cannot speak so highly of them."

"Our prospects overlap," Daenerys observed, amused at the thought of the two of them circling the same small group of noblemen. After all the bloodshed, it was a small group indeed.

"They do," Lady Stark said, but did not criticize anyone specifically. It was wise to not try to tarnish other houses directly, especially not when there was a clear issue with her own.

"And what of Jon's legitimacy?" Daenerys asked, raising the clearest objection.

"That would be an easy matter," Lady Stark assured her. "The common acclaim of the lords which crowned him king effectively recognized him as Ned Stark's heir. You need only formalize it."

Lady Stark had gotten the chance to display her fine arguments and Daenerys had the opportunity to admire them as she tested her future sister-in-law's mettle, but there was no need to go further with this charade.

"Marriage," Daenerys said, "very well, then. I had planned on it. And if you're here, Jon is willing." She remembered then how earnestly he had sworn himself to her this morning, so she would know that a rejection would not diminish his service to her. Indeed, the way he'd phrased it made her think he had even expected a rejection. It was endearing, how he presumed nothing of her, yet stood ready to give her everything. She might spend a lifetime surprising him with joy. It was a happy thought. She watched as Lady Stark's lips parted in shock. That was rather endearing too.

Before Lady Stark could collect herself, Daenerys pushed further. "That's what he and I want," Daenerys said, "but what do you want, Lady Stark? Why are you here? This cannot be the ordinary way of things, in Westeros."

Since the issue of marriage was resolved, Daenerys could begin to forge a bond with her sister-in-law to be. Lady Stark was a woman of intelligence and clearly had a great deal of influence over Jon. Dany didn't wish to have her husband caught between them. Not when she might have the benefit of both. Might they be sisters in truth, as the Stark siblings were with each other, or would they be separate realms co-existing in an uneasy peace?

"I wish to advocate on his behalf, for the well-being of our people—" Lady Stark said, looking uneasy.

Daenerys shook her head. "But what do you want, Lady Stark?" she asked again. Sometimes the best way to see a person's true nature was offer them anything and see what they made of it.

Lady Stark's mouth opened and then closed. "I pray you forgive me, your grace. I don't understand."

There was so little room in the world for women to want things. Daenerys intended to change that. If she could draw out Lady Stark's true heart and give her what she desired, they could become a family forged in joy. It could be as strong and nourishing as Winterfell itself, warming and sustaining all of them.

"Everyone wants something from a marriage," Daenerys said. "When I was just fifteen my brother sold me for an army." She saw shock register on Lady Stark's face, and then quiet sympathy. They had both been bought and sold and understood each other in this without needing to say more. Dany's heart rose at that feeling. She continued, convinced she was on the right path in trying to unearth the truth of Lady Stark's heart. "Are you selling your brother for a finger of influence," she said, raising her index finger, "with the Iron Throne?"

"I love my brother," Lady Stark replied, heat in her tone. "If I tried to use him to influence you, you would come to resent him. I swear, I would never want that."

Daenerys noted that the lady swore that she would never want that, but not that she would never do it. Dany suspected that, like herself, if Lady Stark was forced into it, there was very little she would not do to protect what was hers. "Then what do you want?"

Lady Stark's eyes were fixed on her and full of wariness. Daenerys had pulled her far beyond any script she had composed for this meeting. "A Stark has always been Warden of the North," Lady Stark ventured, finally.

That was more than fair. In fact, as with the marriage, Daenerys had already planned on it. Lady Stark had proven she could do the job well and it would be unpleasant to try to find anyone so capable among the Northern nobles. "I agree," Daenerys said. "You will make a very fine Lady Paramount."

Again, Daenerys had the privilege of stunning the cool and collected Lady Stark. She actually raised her hand to her chest in shock, staring at Daenerys as if she'd gone mad. "But no such title exists, your grace."

"I am the queen," Daenerys said, "and I say that it does." She smiled, fierce joy rising in her heart. There was no power like the power to be generous with those who were her own. Even the satisfaction of destroying her enemies was but a pale shadow of that true joy. "My dear Lady Stark," she said gently, "I'm afraid that Jon is not the only Stark who is not in the habit of putting himself forward."

Lady Stark came over to the couch then, and sat beside Daenerys, her hands folded on her knees. "Truly?" she asked, a look of desperate hope on her face.

It was a vulnerable side of the lady that Daenerys had not seen before. She felt honored, to have succeeded in drawing such a reserved lady out, and eager to secure her affection. Daenerys reached out, clasped her cool hand. "Truly, my lady." When she had first called Jon 'my lord' he had not understood the implied message. Lady Stark would take it for the assurance it was meant to be. Dany leaned in, as if to share a secret. "You have the respect of the people already," she said, repeating Lady Stark's own words back to her. "I need only formalize it."

There were tears shining in Lady Stark's eyes and Daenerys felt a lump in her own throat at witnessing the beauty of it. It was so rewarding and so easy to be generous with her dear Starks. They had known so little appreciation and so much cruelty. She would take great pleasure in changing that.

"And if I were to marry—" Lady Stark began, her quick mind already working at it.

"You would remain my Lady Paramount, regardless. I intend for there to be titles women might possess for themselves and pass to their children."

Lady Stark was shaking her head, concern filling her expression. "Westeros has only known the rule of men, your grace. They will not ease their grip without a fight."

"I am the queen," Daenerys repeated, stroking her thumb over Lady Stark's fingers. They were long and elegant, and very soft. Sansa's hands were larger than Dany's, but so pretty. An artist's hands, she thought, recalling what Jon had said of her talent with the womanly arts. "Jon says you are very good with your needle. I've never had a sister or mother—" or grandmother or aunt or lady cousin, she thought, and swallowed her sadness, focusing instead on the joy before her, "to teach me. Would you be so kind?"

Lady Stark took a long moment to marvel at her, blinking in surprise. "I would," she swore, "gladly. Arya never—" she started, then caught herself. "Arya's talents lie elsewhere."

Daenerys looked down at her own hands. "You don't suppose it's too late to learn?"

Lady Stark turned her hand over, so Dany's was cradled in her palm. She looked closely at each finger, her expression grave, tapping them lightly in turn. It was as if she was a maester examining an ancient tome. Warmth bubbled up in Daenerys' chest, charmed by this gentler side of Lady Stark's playfulness. "All present and accounted for," Lady Stark said, a sparkle in her eyes. "All you need is interest and a little time to practice. We could begin with your sigil, if you like."

Daenerys felt joy blossom in her own heart. "I warn you," she said, matching Lady Stark's gentle humor with her own, eager to play along, "I am a proud Targaryen. Once I have learned to leave my mark upon fabric you may struggle to find an item that I do not claim with it, from pillowcases to handkerchiefs."

"As long as you restrain yourself in the matter of smallclothes," Lady Stark replied, clearly fighting a smile as she tried to sound like a wise mentor giving advice, "which would not befit the honor of your house, I am sure it will be all right, your grace."

Daenerys laughed, unable to keep the pretense up any longer. "You might call me Daenerys in private," she said, "if we are to be sisters."

Lady Stark's fingers curled tenderly around Dany's hand. "I will. But you must give me time to make the adjustment," she said, "and you might call me Sansa in return, to ease the way."

"Of course," Daenerys said, "Sansa."

"Daenerys," Sansa replied, the name sounding lovely on her tongue.

They lingered in the moment together, at the beginning of a lifetime as family, appreciating the distance they had crossed in but one conversation. If they could come so far in such a short time, what might they accomplish in the years and decades ahead? Daenerys felt that finding out would be one of the great delights of her life. But that was the future, for now they had a marriage to organize.

"So," Daenerys said, steering them back to the matter at hand, "how do you suppose my husband-to-be fared in his bout with Lady Arya?"

"Why don't we go find out?" Sansa stood, extending her arm. "I would like to see his face," she said, smiling at the thought, "when you give him the happy news."

Daenerys shook her head. "We will soon announce it to everyone, to boost morale. But I would like to give him my answer in private." Though the proposal had been shared with his sister, she wanted to give him her answer where she alone might cherish his joy in it.

"Very well," Sansa said. "I'll fetch him for you."