THE DRAGON QUEEN [ Jon Snow ]

XVII.

"M'LORD, M'LADY!" A man ran into the tent that had become the makeshift war room of Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, out of breath from having run from the edge of camp, where he'd been on watch. "Riders! An army, ten thousand strong!"

"What banners?" Sansa questioned, both worry and hope flickering over her features.

"A red three-headed dragon on a black field," the man answered, and Jon's heart stopped dead in his chest. It's her. Or so they hoped. Her, and not a pretender who had stolen her name and was using it to lay claim to the Iron Throne.

No, was is her. He could feel it. Somehow, he could feel it.

Sansa's face lit up in excitement as she looked over to him. Where a stern woman had stood moments ago, a grinning girl stood now, excited to see her sister again. "It's her. She came."

He could only manage a nod of his head in response, because it's her, she's here, and after all these years, he was going to see her again. Speak to her. Hold her. The thought both terrified and excited him.

Sansa rushed for the opening of the tent, only pausing when she reached it to call his name. "Jon?"

"Go," he told her, "I won't be far behind."

A lie. He needed time, more time than he had, to prepare for this. What would he say, what would he do, when he saw her? What could he possibly say that could be good enough, after all this time?

Still, Sansa believed him well enough, and left the tent to greet the approaching army. To greet her.

Seven hells, he would never be ready for this.

He forced himself to walk out of the tent.

Ten thousand men approached their camp, flying banners from all over the North. Mormont, Umber, Glover, Manderly, and countless others. All marching behind the banner of House Targaryen. All marching behind her.

And it was her. Undeniably. Even from this distance, he knew it is her. He could recognize her from a thousand leagues away, he would see her through smoke and fire and blood. He would know her blind, deaf, and senseless.

Her hair was its true silver-blonde colour, the one he had always wanted to see, bound up in braids and tied out of her face. There was a fading scar on her throat, very obviously from a knife. She wore a shirt of leather marked with the Targaryen sigil underneath the soft furs that are draped over her shoulders. A sword was attached to one hip, and a dagger to another. Upon her brow rested a crown, a steel circlet set with rubies. She was utterly regal.

It was then that a new fear arrested him. She is a queen. The queen, the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms.

And there was no possible way she could still want him.

She was a queen, with hundreds of lords she could choose from. Why in all of the seven hells would she ever want him? Even if, by some miracle, she did, they still could not possibly be together. A bastard with no place in the world was no fit consort for a queen.

She dismounted and ran to Sansa, throwing her arms around her sister with a grin on her face. They exchanged a few words once they parted before joining in yet another embrace. Once they were finished, Sansa stepped aside, and their eyes met.