Author's Note: {AU} one-shot written for sansasource 'Sansa Week' 2018 Tumblr challenge.

Prompt: 'Politics'.

Where I'm Bound

From her vantage point in the window embrasure, Sansa watched with some unease as Jon welcomed Daenerys Targaryen to Winterfell, Ser Jorah Mormont nearby as always, Sansa not missing how Daenerys looked at Jon, her violet gaze holding his for a long moment, wrongfooting him. Discomfited, Jon hesitated before awkwardly offering her his arm, Daenerys accepting with alarming alacrity. As they approached, Sansa straightened up, resting her hand on the curve of her sweeping belly, the babe kicking in response to her touch, almost offering her strength.

"Sansa," Jon said simply, reaching for his wife with his free hand, drawing her to him. His lips chastely brushed hers, his beard rough against her skin, but as their gazes met, she could see her own repressed longing reflected in his eyes. "The babe?" he said quietly, resting his hand on the swell of her stomach.

"I swear he is never still," Sansa said, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face, softening the usual Stark sternness her subjects were familiar with.

"It's the wolf in him," Jon smiled in turn, "or her, perhaps."

"Tradition demands the firstborn heir is a boy."

"Do you ever heed tradition?"

Sansa contrived to look innocent, feigning a demureness that didn't deceive Jon one jot. "We are boring you with our domestic matters," she then said, turning to Daenerys, "my apologies, Your Grace. Please, sit down." As Sansa led Daenerys over to the dais, discreetly separating her from Jon, she signalled for the wine and lemon cakes to be brought forth, the servants immediately obeying, stepping forwards with trays held aloft.

Daenerys sat down in the place of honour at the High Table, exchanging a glance with Ser Jorah Mormont, hiding her unease at the informality of such an introduction. Ever since she had ascended the Iron Throne, she was used to being feted and flattered, even as she ensured she kept her ego under control, but nobody dared to cross the line that lay between sovereign and subject. Yet Sansa Stark was addressing her in an intimate tone that almost bordered on insult.

But Winterfell was a world in itself, existing apart from King's Landing, the Starks styling themselves as monarchs of the North. Such an arrangement ill-suited Daenerys, but so far they were loyal to her sigil, offering no opposition to her autonomy. When the Stark envoy had initially arrived at Dragonstone, led by Jon Snow himself, Daenerys had been won over against her will, seeing the advantages of such an alliance. But now her emotions were no longer political but personal, threatening to cloud her judgement, the dragon desiring the wolf.

As Daenerys studied Sansa with hooded eyes, she knew she was seeing the real power behind the Northern throne. It was Sansa who had been crowned Queen of the North, Jon merely serving the state in the capacity of consort, having no desire to be king. He was Sansa's cousin, a bastard no less, but love had led him here, not a lust for power. And it was this that threatened to conquer Daenerys Targaryen when nothing else could. Even as she held the reins of power of the Seven Kingdoms in her lap, making her wealthy beyond her wildest dreams, as she watched Jon take Sansa in his arms, Daenerys knew she was a pauper queen despite her power, possessing no love, only fear.

As far as I can see
all around is you
and me…