Chapter Text
After the war, for one moment, when her siblings and cousin had all survived, she thought they could finally find peace. She thought they were safe. But, Jon had promised, and he was now a dragon, as their new queen was fond of saying; there would be no peace for him. There would be no happiness for her. He had kissed Bran and Arya's foreheads, but when he came to her, he took her hands, squeezed them, his face full of that tenderness he had always shown her. He was a dragon, and he left her as they do, on wings. A smile, a gust of wind, the receding smell of fire.
She could have cried, she wanted to, but when she thought of going to her room and weeping every one of her aches and fears into her pillow, she had an image of herself as a girl, who wept, who always wept, and she told herself she would never be that girl again. She was the Lady of Winterfell, she would be strong like her Lady mother.
There was grain that needed distribution, sick that needed tending, orphans who needed placement, new Lords to be recognized and placed in their holds, there was much to be done, and Sansa did it all with a ferocity that only comes from not wanting to have a moment to stop. Stopping would mean thinking and then thinking would lead to feeling. No, she could not afford that. Repairs were needed around Winterfell, so Sansa supervised rebuilding what they had in the past with her eyes determinedly focused on the future.
---
They took King's Landing. Daenerys could not be persuaded to take it in any way other than fire. The city burned; its people burned as well.
Sansa knew what that would do to Jon. She didn't need a raven to tell her that, but then a raven came.
Jon had fallen.
For a moment she felt she had fallen into that icy river again, she could hear the hounds baying, men on horseback shouting, and then Theon was rubbing her back. No, no, Theon had died in the War of the Dawn. It's a girl. Arya. Arya was holding her, speaking, saying something. "He lives, he lives, he lives." But Sansa was falling from the walls and the snow was so deep and she was so cold and the hounds were coming.
She woke in her bed, Arya's words in her head, "he lives, for now." She was in Arya's room in an instant, but there was no need for discussion. Arya had packed for them both. They would ride to White Harbor and sail immediately. "He's going to survive, Sansa" Arya offered at some point, but Sansa said nothing. Evil awaits Starks who go South, but then, Jon had always told her he wasn't a Stark.
---
When sailing into the harbor, Sansa did not look at the city. Whatever was recognizable held only pain for her, and what had been burned was worse. But as they wound their way up to the Red Keep, she could not help but see. It was fitting that the dragon made a home in tumbled, blackened stones, roamed soot soaked streets. The city was painted in fear, even when the people had suffered under Joffrey, the sound of life had filled the city, but now, there were no screams over dead loved ones, no rioting over their starving children. The sound before was the hope that there could be change, but what could sway a dragon? Not reason, not hope. The city silenced itself and embraced its death, well and truly conquered.
Daenerys sat where the Iron Throne once stood. It had been melted into a misshapen form, but the blackened bolder of a throne suited her better than any regal chair. Daenerys had been distraught when Rheagal and Jon fell from the sky. The dragon died that day, and her hopes of ruling with Jon had as well. Now she had only Drogon. Jon had been unresponsive after his fall, breathing, but mangled and broken, and Qyburn said it was only a matter of time. When Daenerys looked at him she saw Drogo, a body, not the man, an impersonation of a life that was gone. Still, Jon had not died, and unbeknownst to her, Tyrion had sent a raven North.
And now, here before her stood the Wardeness of the North, her head held as regally as if dragon's might meant nothing to her. As if her hem was not stained in the blackness of the burned.
"He will never survive the journey back to Winterfell" Daenerys said, displeased with the request. "You may see the body, but--" and she added the last almost kindly, "there is no use trying to take him from here."
Sansa Stark's icy eyes burned colder, "I want to save him, your grace."
Daenerys saw Drogo before her eyes. She hadn't stopped seeing him since the first, and only, time she saw Jon after the fall. She hadn't been able to visit again, not when he lay there, reminding her. "He's as good as dead already, I was merely being courteous to inform you, not making an offer for you to--"
"He's a Northman. Whether he lives or dies, he belongs in the North."
"I will not--"
"Your grace--" Sansa had begged for a life before a king, she would beg for a broken body before a queen. She sank to her knees, her heavy skirt brushing against the stone floor, falling into a circle of darkness around her, her hands firmly clasped together in her lap. "If he is to die, let me bury him in the crypts of Winterfell."
Daenerys felt a strange urge to pity the girl, but that other voice was so loud, it was hard to hear. Yet, she was affected by the sight of the Stark girl losing the absolute control she exerted over herself, the cracks appearing in her composure. Daenerys wondered if the North had some hope of gaining some status by asserting their claim over her heir. "I am to marry." She told Sansa, thinking she may not have know. "I will have children. He will no longer be heir to the throne."
"I thank the gods, your grace" Sansa replied quietly.
Whether that was humble acceptance or ignorant insult, Daenerys could not tell. She tapped her fingers against her steel seat. "It must be a powerful thing, this love you have for your cousin, to bring you here, to bring you to your knees."
Sansa's face, already pale seemed to lose all color, her skin momentarily so white, Daenerys thought there could be no red blood, only ice beneath her skin.
"My Queen, I am loyal to you. I serve at your pleasure. If it pleases you, give me the body." Sansa's eyes flicked up to Daenerys' face with a momentarily flash of unsheathed bitterness. "He is useless to you now."
His life is not a life Daenerys thought, and then she remembered how she had stopped Jon from breathing. No, that was Drogo, I haven't killed Jon yet. She shook her head, frightened by the thought. Drogo was dead, I didn't kill him. I released him. I would never kill Jon. But then that part of her, the Dragon, whispered He is as good as dead. Sometimes that voice frightened her. She nodded to the Northern girl. Let the nightmares be hers.
Sansa quickly rose, determined to escape before the Dragon changed her mind, before it was too late. Jon needed the clean air of the North, he needed the Walls of Winterfell. He needed to leave this city that smelled of fear and decay. As soon as she left the throne room, Arya stepped in place beside her, seething, "You had to beg that foreign-"
"As I did for another Stark." Sansa interrupted.
"Is he still a Stark then? Even after--"
"He is to me."
---
Tyrion sent Qyburn away as soon as he saw the Stark girls. There were no greetings beyond a bow and curtsy between him and Sansa, the other sister did not acknowledge him. He had not permitted Qyburn to try any strange cures on Jon, but he had not intervened beyond that. What did he know of medicines and broken bodies? Yet Sansa immediately felt up and down Jon's arms and legs, checking for the locations of broken bones, looking at Tyrion when Jon made no sound beyond small grunts or groans. "He has not been responsive since the fall, and due to the severity of his injuries he's been given large doses of milk of the poppy." Sansa began to pull the bandages from Jon's face, "my lady, perhaps you should not--" Sansa silenced him with a look and examined the injured face. "One learns things in war" she said, calmly assessing what she found. Tyrion turned away, nearly missing how Sansa leaned forward and whispered into the muddle of dark hair, blood, and linen, "The North is calling, Jon. You are coming home."
Tyrion saw them to the docks, the sisters expressionless as their men followed with their cousin. To see Sansa in King's Landing again brought many memories of the time she had been there before, and he felt overwhelming shame and regret. Every time their lives touched he seemed to only be there to tell her of another family member's death. He felt he had taken Jon away from her, that he had caused Jon to lose his life. He regretted that life more than all the others his Queen's victory had cost.
He was afraid of the dark Stark girl, she was too quick, too alert, too aware of every royal guard for him to feel at ease in her presence. He had no jests. He had done what he was able, very little, for Jon and was relinquishing what was left of him as quickly as he could. All said, he was nearly as sickened with his own actions as Sansa was. "My Lady" he began as Sansa moved to embark, "If there is ever anything--"
"I thank you, Lord Tyrion."
One small part of the sky just above the water was nearly the color of Sansa's hair, the sun slowly burning itself away to make room for blackness. It was too beautiful a sight for the occasion, for the Lady of Winterfell to stand before him, fury and sorrow frozen into a perfect face, he ached, and wished he had some comfort to offer. "I admire you greatly, my Lady."
"I believe you said that about my mother once."
"Yes, I did. She also wanted me dead."
"Lord Tyrion, for all that your family and your Queen have done to my family, I have only ever received kindness from you. I do not wish you dead. I wish you success in your endeavor."
Tyrion kissed her hand, even in King's Landing her hand was cold, and yet he thought he burned his lips when they touched her skin. Sansa disappeared into the ship's belly while the disturbing Stark girl stood upon the deck with the confidence of a sailor.
The man who would rebuild a better world stood on the ashes of the old as the Starks sailed North.