Despite her longing for Winterfell and what is hers by birthright, Sansa does miss the Dreadfort. Such a feeling is solely due to it being where Sansa exercised absolute discretion there as it's ruling Lady. Now she is within her brother-cousin's domain. Despite the Bolton name, her dresses are Stark greys and whites. A full display to every lord and commoner present, that she and not Jon, is the oldest legitimate Stark of Winterfell. She walked the walls, escorted by her personal guards. Entering the Lord's Solar, finding Jon behind the table with a frown building up with Arya staring into the fire warming the chamber. Bran, as he was, was in his warging state but she knows he is listening.
As she took her seat, she unclasped her cloak. Setting it to frame the chair. "To what do I owe this invitation for Jon?" Arya frowns, turning to Sansa as she sheathes needle. "Lord Jon," she corrects. Jon raises his hand to wave them off. "We have more important business here than sibling squabbling." He raises a scroll, she restrains her smile. When news was made that Daenerys Targaryen was dead. Assassinated at celebrations of her own reign, Sansa had a good hearty laugh. Her rival, dead before her prime. Though despite it, she toasted to the life of Daenerys Targaryen. A worthy foe, and in another life, she would have willingly bent the knee to the Dragon Queen. Pity, her children will be motherless. No child, notwithstanding their parentage, deserves such a life.
"A raven from the South," Sansa points out, she suspects it's a raven from Aegon inviting Jon to take up a post in the Small Council. Foolish, everyone knows Jon rather dies than step one more foot in the South. Unless it is official business of course. "Aegon offering you a position?" She asks, leaning back in the comfortable seat. Jon shakes his head, she quirks her brow. He passes it to her, she leans it to grab and read it. Line by line and she feels her jaw drop.
"By the Mercy and Blessings of the Old Gods and New,
I, Missandei of Naath, the Voice of Their Majesties the Dual Monarchs, bid thee Lords of Westeros good tidings in health and prosperity.
Dark wings bring dark words my Lords. A pale of usurpation hangs over the Capital of King's Landing. Aegon Blackfyre, Consort to the Late Queen has conspired in the assassination of the late Queen Daenerys. The rightful heirs are the twin children of the Queen. Prince Daeron and Princess Daenys of Dragonstone.
Consort Aegon has usurped royal authority, despite being just Regent, he has fancied himself as King of this country. He has taken up the regalia of Kingship and addresses his person as if he was King. This behavior is an affront upon the dignity of House Targaryen's true heirs.
King Daeron and Queen Daenys have been taken to Dragonstone for safety. The Unsullied and Royal Navy protects Their Rightful Majesties. Speaking on behalf of the crown in interest of rightful heirs, we the Small Council call upon the Lords of the Realm to rid us of Aegon Blackfyre.
We bid the Wardens to raise their banners and restore order and rightful legitimacy to the land.
In the name of Their Majesties, King Daeron, Third of That Name, of House Targaryen and Queen Daenys, First of That Name, of House Targaryen."
"This," Sansa pauses as she sets the letter down. Bran interjects, "is war and the land will bleed if it is prolonged." Sansa rubs her temples, she can feel the headache coming. "I plan to stay neutral. This is a Targaryen conflict." Jon states, and inside her mind Sansa senses an opportunity. "You cannot Jon, this is too big of a conflict to be neutral. Especially concerning the circumstances tying you with the Targaryens." She steels herself for the onslaught. Jon slams his hand, eyes focus in fury. "No one would have known if it was not for your foolish self sweet sister!" Sansa fights back, "I did what I thought was best for us, for our family and for the North! She was a conquering tyrant but I do admit," she calms down, "that I was mistaken. Daenerys has surprised me in her five years."
She takes Jon hands in hers and squeezes them to comfort him. "Jon, despite whatever Daenerys said, you are a Targaryen. Your relatives in the south are in danger. Daenerys' children are facing usurpation from their own father. They are mere children, they can't ride dragons like their mother. If you do not raise the banners and march south, you are dishonoring her memory. Please, consider that."
When she leaves, hours later when Jon holds court, she gets her wish. The North will march South in the name of Daeron the Third and Daenys the First. The banners are called. She writes to Dreadfort to summon hers to Winterfell. She writes to the Eyrie and Riverrun as well. Within 2 weeks, news reaches Winterfell. The table is now set.
Houses Lannister and Tyrell declare for Aegon. Dorne is set into civil war as Yronwood and Uller alongside Fowlers declared support for Aegon. The rest followed Martell and declared support for the Targaryen heirs. Similarly, the Stormlords are divided too. Baratheon declares for the heirs but Houses Caron, Dondarion and Buckler declare support for Aegon.
House Stark, Tully, Arryn and Greyjoy declare support for the heirs. The Narrow Sea Valyrian lords buck the call and align with Dragonstone. The two factions, the Blacks and the Reds. Reminiscent of the Dance of Dragons, are drawn into the sands. Sansa smirks, the game is set and the deck is stacked. She will enter this war as a loyalist and watch as dragon kill dragon, and rise from this war a Queen. The seven hells hath no fury like a woman scorned.
For now however, she must prepare for her wedding in Riverrun. She casually knits a dress new gown combining the colours of Arryn, Tully and Stark. She hymns and proceeds with the embroidery of Falcons, Trouts and Wolves. She does not notice the shadow in her room. "What are you doing sister?" She jerks her head up to the corner and sees Arya inspecting her blade Needle. Sansa holds a hand to her chest and exclaims, "why can't you just knock and enter the room normally Arya?!" Her wild sister smirks. "Answer the question Sansa."
She steels herself, "I'm sewing a dress Arya, surely you would know what I am doing unless you are blind," she rolls her eyes and sets to resume work. Arya's hands stop hers, the younger kneels before the seated elder. Grey eyes look into blue ones. "Do not betray Jon. Whatever you do, I care not, but do not betray Jon. Do not betray the pack. If you do, I will not defend you beloved sister." Sansa feels the rage bubble within her, the audacity of her sister to speak of her and to her as if she is their sworn blood rival.
"Get out." She quietly says to Arya. The younger smiles sadly, never truly reaching her eyes. As Arya is to exit, she turns back, "once I believed you were the smartest person I knew," she pauses, both looking at each other. Two wolves, the wild and the groomed. Two different peoples, sisters by blood but never have they been so different now. "Now, I only pray you do not overstep yourself." She closes the door and leaves.
Sansa turns to the table to her side. She pours herself a glass of wine, deep reds imported from the South. She drinks, slowly, and with pride despite the anger that bubbles within her soul. Arya has seen the world but has never left the home of their childhood.
Sansa who did not escape for a life of adventure, suffered worse than any of them. She was abused by Joffrey, shamed by Cersei and made a pariah in the South. Falsely accused of regicide despite how she wished she was the one who did it to Joffrey. That bastard deserved to die. Then she was sold to Ramsay to be a Bolton broodmare. Raped and defiled. Every night with that beast was hell. Now she wears his name and his colors, and rules his lands. One day, when all is right. When justice is served. She will burn the Dreadfort and raze it.
She has suffered and she has survived. What else does she not deserve. She is the rightful Lady of Winterfell, the North is hers. She is Robb's heir. The Winter Throne is hers! She calms herself and steadies her breaths. It would not do good to get into a raging mood when the Northern Lords get here. She must smile and spread good cheer. For family after all.
She observes from her window, the march of soldiers. A constant stream into Winterfell from all directions. Banners flutter. Manderly, Hornwood, Umber, Ryswell and many more. Jon's dragon, the snow colored Viserion flies overhead circling Winterfell. War will come and she will triumph. Whatever the cost, she is willing to pay. She smirks, taking one last sip of the wine.
When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.
Sansa will win. After all, has she not been taught by the worse and the best of humanity?
YOU ARE READING
Fire and Blood
FanfictionWhat happens if Daenerys actually took lessons from Targaryen history? What if the Daenerys that died in the finale was given a second chance, a chance to begin anew? Her reign has just begun.
