In the muted chamber, Sansa's skilled hands moved elegantly, weaving the story of a union into the fabric of a marriage cloak. The soft glow of the fire danced upon the forest green velvet, as the red thread traced the intricate details of the huntsman image—the emblem of House Tarly. Beside her, an oil lamp cast a warm light, revealing the careful stitches, and the dedication poured into the creation.
On the bed next to her, Jon lay upon furs, his breathing steady, his milky-white eyes a sign that he had embarked on another journey through the realm of skin-changing. The room held a serene stillness, broken only by the occasional crackle of burning logs in the hearth.
Sansa's focus remained on her work, with an occasional glance toward Jon. The marriage cloak symbolised not only an alliance between houses but a promise of the Reach's loyalty toward House Stark. As she laboured on, Sansa contemplated the power dynamics that defined their world, the challenges of war and destruction, which lay ahead.
Sansa sat waiting, her fingers pausing over the delicate stitches on the marriage cloak, her mind wandering to the distant scene unfolding. She could almost smell the burning grain, the destructive dance of dragonfire consuming the sustenance meant for countless mouths. Jon's prolonged absence within Drogon's body intensified her unease.
Two hours had passed since Jon delved into the dragon's consciousness, witnessing the brutal destruction that unfolded in real time. The toll it took on him, and the weight of the choices being made, lingered in the room. Sansa cast a worried glance toward Jon, lying still upon the furs, his milky-white eyes revealing his immersion.
As the time limits of Jon's abilities neared, Sansa's concern deepened. Another hour without his return, and she would intervene, attempting to guide him back from the depths of Drogon's mind.
Sansa's sense of urgency escalated as Jon's silent journey within Drogon's consciousness took an alarming turn. Uncharacteristic guttural sounds emanated from Jon's lips. Desperation propelled Sansa to shake him, calling his name with increasing concern, but Jon remained trapped in the dissonant struggle within the dragon's mind.
Fearing the worst, Sansa rushed to the adjoining room where Jaime Lannister stood, engrossed in studying a map at his desk. Sansa's voice cut through the air. "Lord Jaime."
Jaime looked up, his gaze meeting Sansa's distressed expression. "What is it?" he asked, his attention now on her.
"It's Jon, he's not waking up. Something isn't right. He's thrashing around, making strange noises. It's not like him when he's skin-changing. We need to do something."
Sansa rushed back into her room, and Ser Jaime followed, witnessing Jon's distressing state on the bed. Jon's limbs moved violently, and the distressed sounds escaping his lips intensified, creating an atmosphere of anxiety and urgency.
Concern etched across his face, Jaime inquired, "Where is he?"
"He's inside Drogon. They're over the Reach with Daenerys and Tyrion. I think she is burning the grain... and Lord Tarly," Sansa said, her voice carrying a sombre tone as she shared the grim details of the unfolding events.
"There's more to it than that. on says he feels pain if the dragons are hurt. Do you think Drogon might have been hit by the scorpion?" Jaime told her.
Jaime's revelation about Jon's connection to the dragons and the possibility of Drogon being injured by the scorpion weighed heavily on Sansa. The newfound knowledge added an extra layer of concern to the already distressing situation.
"Do you think he's in pain?" The worry in Sansa's voice was clear. The idea of Jon experiencing the physical pain of the dragons he shared a bond with intensified her concern for him.
Jaime's expression mirrored her worry as he considered the implications. "It's hard to say. Jon's connection with the dragons is unique, and we don't fully understand the extent of it."
Sansa's frown deepened as the revelation about Jon's ability to feel the dragons' pain settled in. That Jon had kept this aspect of his connection hidden from her brought a mix of surprise and concern. "I... he said nothing," Sansa confessed, a touch of hurt in her voice.
Jaime's comforting gesture, his hand on her arm, conveyed understanding. "He probably didn't want to worry you too much," Jaime offered, recognizing Jon's instinct to shield those he cared about from unnecessary distress.
Sansa nodded, acknowledging the uncertainty surrounding Jon's abilities. As they stood together, awaiting news from the Reach.
The room filled with tension as Jon cried out in pain and clutched his injured shoulder. Sansa's heart sank, the realization of Drogon's injury affecting Jon hitting her with a wave of concern.
"He's been hit," Jaime stated with a solemn certainty, his eyes fixed on Jon's distress.
Brynden, the Blackfish, joined them, seeking answers. "What's going on?"
"Drogon has been injured while Jon is in his head," Jaime told her.
The Blackfish's brow furrowed in worry. "Why doesn't he pull out?"
Sansa, tears forming in her eyes, looked up at her uncle. "I don't know. I'm not sure if he can." Sansa took Jon's hand in hers, tracing circles on the back of it.
"Mayhaps we should we fetch Maester Wolkan?" Brynden offered.
"What can the Maester do? They are ignorant to the plight of skin-changers. I have little understanding myself, despite being able to see through the eyes of a bird," Sansa mused, placing her palm upon Jon's forehead. She noted his unusual temperature, cold and clammy. "His body is always warm."
The Blackfish, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, offered words of encouragement. "He'll be alright, lass. He's a tough lad."
Jon's sudden intake of breath marked his return to consciousness. His grey eyes were now bright indigo, but at least they weren't milk white, a sign he had returned to them. Despite the visible strain on his face and his pale, clammy skin, the shift in his eyes offered reassurance that he was coming back to himself. The ordeal had taken a toll on Jon, and the aftermath required attention to ensure his recovery.
Sansa grabbed hold of him and pulled him into her arms. "You scared me."
Jon looked around the room, perplexed by the reaction. Jon looked around the room, perplexed by the reaction. "Drogon's injured, and I couldn't break free from him." His voice was hoarse and weak. His voice was hoarse and weak.
"You need to rest!" Sansa insisted. She turned to Brynden, who nodded and left the confines of the bedchamber. "Now we fetch the Maester." her focus returned to Jon. "How is your shoulder?"
Jon winced as Sansa's inquiry drew his attention to the pain in his shoulder. He gingerly touched the injured area. "It hurts," he admitted, his voice still weak. The strain of the skin-changing experience and the potential injury to Drogon had taken a toll on him.
"What happened out there?" Jaime asked.
Jon turned to Sansa. "She burnt it all. The soldiers, the grain, the horses. Just as you said." He frowned. "But it wasn't anywhere near a full harvest. Probably a little over a thousand bushels. The carts were too small and the horses too many."
"What about Lord Tarly?" Jaime asked.
Jon shook his head. "He refused to bend the knee."
"What a simpleton. He isn't even wielding his blade for the sake of my sister."
"Lord Tarly was loyal to the Targaryen's, was he not, Lord Lannister?" Sansa asked.
Jaime sighed, a mix of frustration and disappointment clear on his face. "Yes, the Tarlys were Targaryen loyalists in the past."
Jon, still visibly weakened, nodded in agreement. "He chose a lost cause over bending the knee. It's a stubbornness I don't understand."
Sansa's heart dropped, his comment a reminder of Jon's previous actions, bending the knee to Daenerys during his trip to Dragonstone. She had understood his reasons, but the implications of that decision were becoming more apparent.
A knock on the door disturbed them. "Enter." Sansa called out, in came Maester Wolkan and the Blackfish.
"Oh dear your grace, you look a little peaky." Maester Wolkan sighed, turning to the rest of the room. "If you don't mind, I'd like to examine his grace in private." Jon nodded, a silent agreement with the Maester, and they all stood to leave the room. "Your grace." Maester Wolkan called after Sansa, who stopped to him. He pulled out a scroll and handed it to her. "I meant to give you this." he said.
"Thank you, Maester, I'll be in my solar." She said, closing the door behind her.
Sansa led them to the private solar and unrolled the scroll to find a letter from Lord Varys.
Your grace,
Through the whispers of my little birds, I have gleaned tidings of a noble King and Queen valiantly striving to shield their subjects from the encroaching Long Night. As one who prioritizes the welfare of the realm over personal desires, I hold great esteem for those who share such sentiments. I extend an offer of my services, accompanied by what is left of the Greyjoy fleet led by Yara Greyjoy. With your gracious permission, I set sail to reach your side by the forthcoming full moon.
Yours faithfully,
Lord Varys
As Sansa read through the scroll, her brow furrowed with concern. "Lord Varys appears to taking bets on who will be the better ruler."
Jaime Lannister leaned in for a closer look. "Varys always had a way of making everything sound like a riddle. But if he's coming here, it must be something important."
"I suspect he has lost faith with the dragon Queen." Sansa pondered upon the demise of the spider in her dreams. He tried to convince Jon to take the Iron Throne, but Jon was not interested in ruling the Seven Kingdoms and was in love with Daenerys.
"Lost faith or gained knowledge?" Jaime suggested, glancing over the letter. "There's more to this than a simple change of allegiance. Varys doesn't make moves without careful consideration."
Sansa nodded, a determined look in her eyes. "We need to find out what Varys knows, and quickly. His insights might be crucial in navigating the challenges ahead. We cannot afford to be in the dark."
As Sansa sat in her solar, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the room, she couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon her shoulders, and the events unfolding around her seemed to escalate with each passing day.
Maester Wolkan entered the room, his expression a mix of concern and professional composure. Sansa rose from her seat, her eyes searching for any sign of reassurance in the maester's face.
"Your Grace," Maester Wolkan began, "His Grace is recovering. The shoulder injury is not as severe as it initially appeared. He will need time to rest and heal, but there is no cause for immediate worry."
A wave of relief washed over Sansa, and she sank back into her chair. "Thank you, Maester. I appreciate your care for Jon. Can I see him?"
"I've given him milk of the poppy to help him sleep, so he may not notice your presence, your grace. He should be awake on the morrow. But if he does wake, it will be a comfort to him if you are by his side."
Sansa followed the Maester to the dimly lit room, her eyes reflecting a mixture of exhaustion and worry. The air was thick with the scent of milk of the poppy. The maester's chain clinked softly as he moved, a reminder of his years of study and the wisdom he brought to the ancient halls of Winterfell.
Her gaze shifted to the figure lying still on the bed—King Aegon Targaryen, the once-bastard of Winterfell, now a noble leader. Sansa's heart tightened with concern for her husband and the stalwart protector of the North.
"Thank you, Maester Wolkan," Sansa murmured, her voice a gentle whisper in the quiet chamber. "I'll stay with him through the night."
The maester nodded, his wrinkled features softened by a sense of understanding. "His grace is resilient. He has the strength of his family, and that, your grace, can mend wounds that no potion can."
As Maester Wolkan departed, his footsteps fading into the quiet corridors of Winterfell, Sansa found herself alone with naught but the soft rustle of fabric and the rhythmic breaths of the slumbering Jon. Moonlight, an ethereal visitor, spilled through the window, weaving a silvery tapestry across the room and caressing the contours of Jon's features.
Sansa's fingertips delicately brushed a strand of hair from Jon's forehead at his bedside, with grace learned from Kings Landing and Winterfell. Gently settling into the chair beside the bed, Sansa's gaze lingered upon Jon's countenance, etched with the lines of a life marked by trials and triumphs. The flickering shadows and silvery luminescence painted a portrait of vulnerability and strength. As she observed the rise and fall of his chest, her thoughts danced between the echoes of battles fought and the promises yet to unfold.
In the quietude, Sansa found solace, the chair cradling her with the same tenderness with which she cradled her memories. Her eyes, pools of reflection and resilience, remained fixed upon Jon's face, as Sansa, in the soft glow of moonlight, guarded the sleeping King.
During the night, when the world outside Winterfell lay draped in shadows, Jon stirred from his slumber. The pull of an unseen force or perhaps an instinct honed by battles awakened him. In the quiet chamber, he turned to Sansa, his eyes carrying a silent plea.
Without words, he insisted she join him under the furs. Sansa agreed, gracefully sliding under the furs that warmed Jon's resting form.
As she nestled beside him, the chill of the night seemed to dissipate, replaced by the comforting cocoon of shared warmth. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, and she could feel a subtle shift, the dragon-blood within him reclaiming dominion. No longer cold and clammy, his skin was burned once more.
With the dawn's arrival, Jon emerged from the shadows of the night fully restored. The ache that had plagued his shoulder had dissipated, a testament to the resilience etched into his Northern bones. However, a lingering headache persisted, a side-effect from the dose of milk of the poppy.
As the sun painted hues of amber and rose across the Winterfell sky, whispers of the King's return after a mysterious riding accident swept through the castle like wildfire. Sansa noticed Jon was relieved of the burden of immersing himself in the minds of the dragons.
Jon and Sansa made their way to the war room of Winterfell. The stone walls, adorned with the proud sigils of Stark and Targaryen, stood as silent witnesses to the convergence of two great houses. Tapestries, woven with the tales of the Pact of Ice and Fire, breathed life into the room, their intricate threads capturing the essence of a shared history. A representation of Jon himself.
Within the chamber, a hearth blazed, casting dancing shadows upon the ancient stone walls. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the room in a golden glow that mingled with the soft illumination of candles strategically placed beneath the table. The melding of natural and artificial light revealed the war room in its full splendour, a tableau where strategies and alliances would be forged.
At the head of the painted table, Jon Snow stood with a solemn air, his purple-grey eyes reflecting the weight of the dragons' secrets. Beside him, Sansa sat, a vision of regality, exuded a quiet strength. The ornate chairs around the table cradled figures of significance: Ser Davos, a seasoned advisor with a voice weathered by experience; Jaime Lannister, a golden lion seeking redemption; Blackfish, a stalwart guardian of the Riverlands; the Hound, a grizzled warrior with scars etched in battles long past; Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr, emissaries of a flame that defied the darkness. All assembled and settled into their seats, with a horn of ale waiting for Jon to recount his experiences in the minds of the dragons.
Jon stood near the north of the painted table, the war room silent. "My Lords," Jon's voice, steady and resonant, carried through the chamber. "I spent the evening immersed in the minds of Rhaegal, Viserion, and finally Drogon. Let us begin with Rhaegal and Viserion."
As Jon spoke, the banners of Stark and Targaryen seemed to stir with anticipation, their colours reflecting the ancient pact that bound their houses. The tapestries on the walls, depicting the storied Pact of Ice and Fire, came alive in the flickering light of the hearth.
"Rhaegal and Viserion have departed Dragonstone," Jon continued, his words carving through the air like a blade. "Their wings now carry them to the heart of Old Valyria. Dragons do not attain full adulthood until they have ingested the magic inherent to that place. The magic which the Valyrians harnessed to create dragons still lingers, waiting to be absorbed." Everyone in the room looked to one another in stunned silence. "These two dragons, right now, are little more than children," Jon declared. "As they absorb the magic of Old Valyria, they will grow. Their nature will change, but my relationship with them will not."
Ser Davos' grizzled features bore the weight of inquiry as he posed the question that lingered in the minds of those gathered. "How big will they grow to be, Your Grace?"
Jon, meeting Davos' gaze with a contemplative look, responded with a measured assurance. "They will be smaller than Drogon, but not by much. The magic of Valyria will sculpt them into formidable creatures, endowed with strength beyond that of their present forms."
"Once they have absorbed the essence of Valyria," Jon continued, "they will venture north. Their bodies will need the fortitude to endure the unforgiving cold. It is a journey that will forge them into beings capable of surviving the challenges that lie beyond the Wall."
Ser Davos nodded, his weathered countenance reflecting understanding. "And what of riding them, Your Grace? Can you command all three?"
Jon's gaze shifted to the table, adorned with maps that laid out the vast expanse of their realm. "I can ride all three, should I choose," he affirmed. "However, for the time being, we only need two. One for the Bay of Ice and one for the Bay of Seals. The dragons will become our allies, the guardians of the North, as we prepare for the army of the dead."
Jaime Lannister lifted his golden hand in the air. Jon acknowledged the inquiry with a nod, the gravity of the question mirrored in the room's expectant hush.
"Your Grace," Jaime spoke, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "What exactly transpired when the Dragon Queen took her dragons to the Reach?"
Jon met Jaime's gaze, a moment of shared understanding passing between them. "The events at the Reach," Jon began, "was a deadly one. Daenerys sought to show the might of her dragons, to assert dominance and lay claim to the allegiance of the houses there. A display of fire and blood, a warning to those who might defy the Targaryen legacy."
The room, now ensnared in the tale unfolding, leaned in, each occupant caught in the web of Jon's words.
"The Reach," Jon concluded, "bears the scars, a testament to not only the might of her dragons, but through her army of Dothraki and Unsullied. Daenerys aims to command through fear. She destroyed most of the caravan, soldiers and horses. She burned Lord Tarly."
"Has anyone told Dickon?" The room's collective gaze shifted toward Ser Davos, acknowledging the unspoken implications of this revelation. Jon shook his head.
Jon and I will tell him." Sansa announced, rising from her seat. Jon, still seated, unaware of the impending revelation, looked up with a quizzical expression.
As Sansa continued, her words carried the weight of a chess move in the intricate dance of power. "Lord Varys is on his way to Winterfell," she revealed, "having deflected and thrown his allegiance behind Jon. Accompanying him will be the rest of Yara Greyjoy's fleet." A smile graced Sansa's features, a glimmer of hope amid calculated manoeuvres. "This will give us the opportunity to gain Dorne."
Sandor, voiced a gruff skepticism. "Why would that make any fucking difference?"
Jaime, ever the diplomat, stepped in to explain. "Lord Varys is on good terms with Dorne," he explained, bridging the gap in understanding.
Sansa added another layer to the unfolding plan. "Yara and Ellaria are lovers. If we can help Yara rescue Ellaria, then I believe Dorne will support Jon's claim for the Iron Throne."
As always, Davos was the ever-practical voice in the room. "And who do you propose to go south with them?"
Sansa, wearing a smile that concealed both strategy and sacrifice, responded with a diplomatic deflection. "I will defer that to His Grace." Her seat embraced her once more, a vantage point from which she observed the unfolding dynamics.
Jon, not fully at ease with the unfolding plan, rose from his seat, his movements reflecting an unease with the direction events were taking. A pointed look from him to Sansa spoke of shared concerns.
"I think that is a job for a smuggler who knows King's Landing well," Jon asserted, his eyes turning toward Davos. "Unless Lord Lannister feels he would be able to sweet-talk his sister while he rescues the prisoner."
Jaime, caught in the crossfire of familial ties and political necessity, met Jon's gaze with a measured acknowledgment. "I'll send Bronn," Jaime declared. "He can sneak around better than anyone I know. He'll rescue her."
"What if Cersei sees him? He's easy to buy." Sansa asked.
Jaime, with a knowing nod, acknowledged the risk inherent in the choice. "Bronn just wants the biggest castle he can get his hands on. I'd offer him Harrenhal. Nobody in their right mind would want that place."
Despite Jaime's assurances, Sansa felt uneasy about sending the sellsword to rescue Ellaria Sand, but as of this moment, they were left with little choice.