King's Landing has changed, in more ways than just the different skyline—ash where there once was the Sept—but also the people whose cries do not sound but a silence of paramount breadth takes hold of them even as they travel through the avenues and towards the Dragonpit. And yet, this monument of enormous histories—host of Gabrielle's early years as a child wanderer—is not so different from what she remembers in that long-ago past, an ancient reminder that perhaps history is not foreign, but perhaps more lasting than current political reality. But only she and her oldest friends could see such a thing—Tyrion, Sandor, Varys—while the rest gape and gaze in awe of the arising relic with no knowledge of the horror most persistent to this era and the dangers lurking around every corner, even if the dragons are gone.
She walks beside Jon in their rather lengthy procession led by Tyrion and Missandei as the Hound, three wolves, and the cart—caging the wight—take the rear. Their ears are filled with the sounds of gravel beneath their feet and the shush of leather brushing between their thighs as they move closer, but in essence, it is replaced by the sound of loud and proper armor as a rank of Lannister troops meets them at the crossroads with a familiar face at their front and followed by two distinctly less red.
"Welcome, my lords," Bronn greets them, but even the most chatty patrons he's known do not impart their own welcome greetings to this hellhole of a capital. And even the sounds of gravel can no longer mask the tense silence, prompting Bronn to quickly turn to Brienne and Pod behind him without due pause, "Your friends arrived before you did. I've been sent to escort you all to the meeting."
Watching slowly, Tyrion stiffly nods for the Dothraki to follow after the Lannister soldiers as two groups merge into one united mass of greater Essosi and Northern guard. But unlike the other two of her previous trio, Gabrielle stays towards the middle of the group with every intent to stay at Jon's side and watch the wolves safety at her back. Few of the men look tempted to approach the massive direwolves who dwarf the mule, but she would not undermine Cersei's certain insanity at such a stunt as this. Although she ought to be more concerned about the dragons.
"Will you sit with me or Queen Daenerys?" Jon asks as rocks crunch beneath his feet, and she turns to him with a twinkle in her eye that forgoes any sort of tension between them.
"You, of course," she quips with loosened tongue but lighter breath of almost a whisper. "Where else would your fictional fiancee sit?"
Jon raises an eyebrow at her tongue, "Fictional?"
"Aye," she nods mischievously as her chin juts upward confidently, "I've received no favor from you."
"You've received many favors from me," Jon grins as his voice becomes a whisper and she almost laughs, choosing merely to instead impart, "Cheeky prick."
He intends to address that innuendo as well, but before Jon can even look to the flush on her cheek, Jorah turns from ahead of them with a blunt expression, "As engrossing as this is, I'm meant to remind you of the weather."
"Not necessary," Gabrielle responds, her eyes suddenly sharp and guarded, "It's already building."
And as drastic as her shift, Jon's expression moves with the same speed, to analyze the structure of her reassured jaw and shining of her blue eyes, not focused to the sky or fallen to the ground. Remarking on the facts presented, "You've practiced."
"It's necessary," she resounds without paying him a glance as duty seems to overcome her in a way Jon suddenly understands, and he feels that maybe Gabrielle has become more like him than he realizes.
But his eyes are suddenly baked in shadow and the gravel becomes an echo to his ears, as Jon turns with realization that they've entered into the gates of the Dragonpit—a light shining before their eyes as they quickly move into the relic of the past, almost forgotten in its state. Though brilliant to him from the massive architecture so ahead of that time, he is struck instead by the almost forgotten nature of this place, the scattered bones like the dragons ate just a night prior—and the stark contrast of the raised dais with three distinct tents—for three different kingdoms—at the center of the pit, it's recent construction clear from the dirt around them.
The collection of men split from the compact procession in the proper direction of allegiances that are not so clear cut as this—the wind slowly shifting into a stronger force at the rolling of a storm—dark clouds piling above the pit's upper edge as a fog rolls into the colosseum before them, making the external world all but forgotten. The others grasp to their furs as Gabrielle moves to the chair beside Jon's, her ears quickly marking the arrival of the remaining Lannisters as blue eyes turn to the gate and look upon Cersei Lannister.
Of course she heard the rumors, but nothing can take away from the penetrating joy Gabrielle feels at the sight of Cersei's short locks negating any beauty she once had. A grin wraps across her face even as the Mountain, Jaime Lannister, and Cersei's Hand—Qyburn, if she remembers correctly—spill onto the dais in front of her, not at once looking to them as they finally take their seats. And only then does Cersei turn her stiff expression to Gabrielle who sits distinctly next to the King in the North, only barely recognizable from her paled expression—but that tight smirk could be known anywhere.
But she'll ignore the lasting fury for now, as Cersei turns to Tyrion and strictly asks, "Where is she?"
"She'll be here soon," the youngest brother barely spares her a glance.
"Didn't travel with you?"
"No."
Cersei distinctly huffs over the howling of the winds and dropping temperature that has her touching the furs around her shoulders. And almost foreboding of the creatures themselves, the growl of the storm turns into loud screeches of a dragon in sudden form—and all those jump to their feet as a dragon's face is revealed behind the fog nearby, steam parting from his nose at the presentation of fire and ice. Drogon's head shifts sideways as he steps onto the final wall, revealing Daenerys as another loud screech pounds their eardrums and the Dragon Queen steps off her child and into the full force of Winter. But unphased, Dany moves quickly to her seat upon the dais as the fog grips her legs, acquainting herself in the well worn wood as snow begin to fall before them—and then turning to Cersei.
"We've been here for some time," the current Queen of the Iron Throne remarks with a stiff and loathsome glare.
"My apologies," Dany imparts unapologetically, and the snows draws their attention as silence reigns over all kingdoms, at once broken as the Dragon Queen barely spares Tyrion a nod—the dwarf moving forward promptly and trying to rid himself of nervous and cold shivers.
"We're all facing a unique—"
"Theon! I have your sister. If you don't submit to me, here now..." Euron Greyjoy shouts from the Southern to the Northern tent, the man leaning back as his eyes reveal a blue madness and his lips curl threateningly. "I'll kill her."
But the nephew knows better than to respond to this taunt, his eyes staying locked to Tyrion as the dwarf stares dumbfounded at Jaime—evidently having been warned but not having expected such a scene as this. The older brother shakes his head, and Tyrion sighs, returning to Euron with, "I think we ought to begin with larger concerns."
"Then why are you talking?" Euron asks, standing to his feet confidently and approaching the small form of Tyrion Lannister. "You're the smallest one here."
Tyrion sighs and turns to Gabrielle pointedly, "Do you remember when we discussed dwarf jokes?"
"His wasn't even good. He explained it at the end," Gabrielle perceives, sending an unconvinced and mocking look to the Iron Lord—ensuring he knows of her lacking impression, "And that always ruins it."
The man sees enough sense to ignore her and continues to goad Tyrion with a haughty expression, "We don't even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know? We kill you at birth. An act of mercy for the parents."
"Are you trying to prove that you're a cunt?" Gabrielle calls over, and the man finally moves his eyes towards her with serious consideration before barking back at Tyrion, "She's protecting you? A harlot's no help in battle."
Gabrielle's jaw tightens at the low blow, and Jaime knows better than to risk something with Gabrielle Baelish, promptly calling out, "Perhaps you ought to sit down."
"Why?" Euron does not spare him a glance as he glares at Gabrielle.
"Sit down or leave," Cersei calls, and the Mountain steps forward at the prompting of her tone—sending Euron into mad laughter as he returns to the old wooden chair and Tyrion moves forward again—already irritated.
"We are a group of people who do not like one another, as this recent demonstration has shown. We have suffered at each others' hands. We have lost people we love at each other's hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face to face."
Cersei's eyebrow quirks, "So instead we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?"
"We all know that will never happen."
"Then why are we here?"
Tyrion sends Jon a fleeting look, and at the cue, the King in the North stands to his feet and approaches the center of this makeshift stage. The brown of his eyes reveals a depth to him Cersei had not seen those six years prior in Winterfell, of a man that had seen great hardships—but sadly not enough to kill him. But all the same at her stiff facade, Jon proceeds with his planned address, "This isn't about living in harmony. It's just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can't negotiate with. An army that doesn't leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city—" Jon's eyes dart from Tyrion to Cersei, "—they're about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead."
"I imagine for most of them it would be an improvement." What a great queen.
But Jon is not Gabrielle and his tongue is more lashed at times like these, stepping closer to the woman who called Lady Baelish the Mock Queen—and in all reality, he wonders if it was just deflection. He almost growls, "This is serious. I wouldn't be here if it weren't."
"I don't think it's serious at all. I think it's another bad joke," Cersei responds readily. "If my brother Jaime has informed me correctly, you are asking for a truce."
The two blonde queens meet eyes from across the distance, and Dany nods, "Yes, that's all."
"That's all?" Cersei leans forward with a malicious and taunting smile, "Stand down my armies and pull back while you go on your monster hunt. Or while you solidify or expand your position. Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back until you return and march on my capital with four times the men."
"Your capital will be safe until the Northern threat is dealt with," Dany replies stiffly, and understands at once why no one likes this woman. "You have my word."
Cersei scoffs, "The word of a would-be Usurper."
"There is no conversation that will erase the last fifty years," Tyrion attempts to mediate, stepping forward towards his sister with insurgent eyes. "We have something to show you."
His words have Sandor Clegane moving from the stairs at the edge of the pit, over dragon and human bones, and onto the dais with a crate hanging heavily on his back and grunts parting his lips with each step. And the weight is communicated as not just an act as Sandor drops it away from the crowds and it sounds a heavy thunk on the other wood as the metal latches glint readily in the lacking light of the fog and snow. A gust of wind blows through their coats and the others cower as Gabrielle nods at Sandor—the man unlatching the crate and tipping it over in due speed as Winter suddenly seems to surge into the arena—and the wight sprints at Cersei as Gabrielle's eyes glow in the gusts and a potent blizzard forms around them.
The woman jumps back into her chair at the monster, just a hair from grabbing her and ripping her to shreds when it is yanked back by the chain tied around its neck. Gabrielle's eyes flash as the wight then tumbles towards Sandor, whose mighty hands now hold a sword and he cuts the wight through the waist—and sends it tumbling into two mid-sprint. But while humanity's been persistent in non-magical aspects, the wight continues to thrash in two parts and another arm is scissored off, landing near the head dais as Qyburn steps forward, overwhelmingly stunned and curious.
Jon reaches out for the hand Qyburn provides while his other is quick to grasp at the torch Davos lights, informing them, "We can destroy them by burning them—" He sets the arm alight and the wight screeches with pain and thrashes with the intent to kill as Jon drops the hand and passes off the torch before pulling a dragonglass dagger from its sheath at his hip, "—and we can destroy them with dragonglass. If we don't win this fight, then that is the fate of every person in the world."
Jon pointedly eyes the wight before grabbing it by its skull and slashing a line across its throat, the wight dropping dead as Gabrielle's eyes continue to shine—to the notice of none—as Jon steps closer to Cersei, adamant, "There is only one war that matters—the Great War. And it is here."
"I didn't believe it until I saw them," Dany echoes as her eyes pepper Cersei with warning and history, "I saw them all."
"How many?" Jaime asks.
"A hundred-thousand, at least," Gabrielle responds and Jaime blanches in fearful recognition of this overwhelming and paramount threat to them all. But in extent, that expression is silenced by Euron's sudden surging to his feet to crouch over the wight and its lifeless persistence.
"Can they swim?" he asks.
Jon shakes his head, "No."
"Good," Euron responds as he stands to his feet and turns to Cersei, convincingly. "I'm taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands."
"What are you talking about?" she barks.
"I've been around the world. I've seen everything, things you couldn't imagine, and this...this is the only thing I've ever seen that terrifies me," the man replies, moving over to Daenerys who eyes him loathingly and carefully. "I'm going back to my island. You should go back to yours. When Winter's over, we'll be the only ones left alive."
Cersei verbally sighs as Euron walks away amid the flurry of the storm and her eyes shift between the other two tents and monarchs, "He's right to be afraid. And a coward to run. If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Everything we suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we lost will have been for nothing." The woman pauses carefully before turning to Dany with a convinced expression, "The crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy."
A verbal sigh of relief races through their lips and over their skin with the prickling of the cold, but in the same breadth of feeling, Gabrielle can see from the Queen's posture her lasting perception and knows at once that there is something else. And as such, Cersei turns to Jon Snow, "In return, the King in the North will extend this truce. He will remain in the North where he belongs. He will not take up arms against the Lannisters. He will not choose sides."
"Just the King in the North?" Dany responds, almost startled, "Not me?"
Cersei chuckles with an air of madness that they cannot miss, no matter how blinded by relief, "I would never ask it of you. You would never agree to it. And if you did, I would trust you even less than I do now. I ask it only of Ned Stark's son. I know Ned Stark's son will be true to his word."
Jon shares a look with Daenerys—pleadingly—before letting his eye touch to Gabrielle's—warningly—as his brain moves three miles in one moment, before turning to Cersei with the raised chest of the once blind and noble Ned Stark—and Gabrielle knows what he is going to say, almost shouting at him to be smart. And yet, she does not and he promptly does: "I am true to my word. Or I try to be. That is why I cannot give you what I ask. I cannot serve two queens. And I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."
And promptly, every person in that whole compilation looks ready to murder Jon Snow, if not for his 'treason' then for his horrible sense of judgement! How has be survived this long when he is too noble to see sense? And Cersei snarls as she stands to her feet, "Then there is nothing left to discuss. The dead will come North first. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you."
Quick to her feet and quick to leave, Cersei and her party blow from the room with the due haste of the increasing storm as white flakes are caught in Jon's brown curls and he looks ready to shout after them—but thankfully doesn't! And as soon as the Iron Queen has left the vicinity, Gabrielle is to her feet and at Jon's side as the blizzards swirl at their apex—her—and she berates him, "I'm honestly tempted to beat you sometimes."
"I wish you hadn't done that," Davos echoes as more follow over with due haste at the sudden victory and then tragedy at Jon's hand.
And Dany is next as his eyes turn to hers, "I'm grateful for your loyalty, but my dragon died so that we could be here. If it's all for nothing, then he died for nothing."
"I know," Jon sighs.
But Tyrion really questions if the boy understands, as his eyes stare after Cersei's departure and he's overwhelmed with hatred for the King in the North, clutching it close to his heart but preventing it from escaping his lips as he resounds, "I'm pleased you bent the knee to our Queen. I would have advised it, had you asked. But have you ever considered—" Tyrion lets the anger overcome him as he turns blazing green eyes onto Jon Snow, "—learning how to lie every now and then? Just a bit!"
Yet Jon does not think Tyrion Lannister has any right to judge him on this when they've both seen such horrible things in this world—things that killed their families and friends and divided families like Starks and Lannisters. And thus, he turns an angry tone to Tyrion with, "I'm not going to swear an oath I can't uphold. Talk about my father if you want, tell me that's the attitude that got him 'killed.' But when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more words, but better and better lies. And lies won't help us in this fight."
"That is indeed a problem," Tyrion admits but without true intent to let him win this argument, "The more immediate problem is that we're fucked. And unless you plan to send your lover in alone, we'll likely persist in that state."
"No, she needs to be protected until we have a better chance," Jon shakes his head as they both pretend Gabrielle is not watching them with sharp and expressive eyes potent in anger, and the King in the North sighs, "Any other ideas as to how we might change our state of affairs?"
Tyrion, more than before, wants to smack Jon Snow for thinking Tyrion will save their asses when Jon screws them over. But all the same—what else can he do but save them? Tyrion knows he is their only option, and so he just responds, "Only one. Everyone stays here, and I go and talk to my sister."
"I didn't come all this way to have my Hand murdered," Dany sounds over their chaos and the storm.
"I don't want Cersei to murder me either," Tyrion responds, " I could have stayed in my cell and saved a great deal of trouble. "
But Jon shakes his head, "I did this. I should go."
"She'll definitely murder you," Gabrielle gripes with an expression that screams of contempt at his stupidity.
And as the two exchange irritated expressions that foretell a lover's quarrel, Tyrion finds himself unable to deal with such a thing and promptly turns to Daenerys with the ultimatum, "I go see my sister alone. Or we all go home and we're right back where we started."
She watches him a moment and remembers his ability to think under pressure—and at once, she knows he is right and accepts the clause with the nod of her head. Returning it promptly, Tyrion calls upon his courage as he follows after the Lannister party, eyes barreling into his back as they all watch in silence.
"I'm going to teach you how to lie," Gabrielle's ice-cold tone sounds warmly in his ear with a gentle breath of her hand against his—even as she stares into his tense profile with a due need about her. "We cannot afford another stunt such as this."
Jon grunts, "I meant what I said."
"And I meant what I said—" she returns with an anger in her tone that has Jon turning to see the blaze of her expression at the incompetence he refuses to accept, "—the Night King will not die through our manipulations and lies, but we may persevere because of the allies we gain through them. Politics—lies and all—persist in times of war and peace for a reason: these kingdoms would fall apart without them."
Gabrielle turns on her heel and returns to her chair underneath the Northern tent as Jon stares after her, feeling the distance grow. And it fails to shock him that such distance has developed. For even after all this time, Jon does not want to be like her: to be known as a liar and called Silver Tongue. It had always been the deepest division between them—between telling all the truths versus selective histories. And suddenly, it had become a chasm in their relationship as he stares from afar at her lovely, lonely form beneath the tent, giving refuge from the storm. And a deep conflict arises in his chest at the sight—the want to refuse her entreaties but the need to hold her close, keep her forever.
And above all else, Jon Snow is confused by the playings of women and the shiftings of his emotions, lost in the sea of trouble called love and perhaps seeking refuge on the wrong land...in the wrong woman.
////////////////////////////////////////////
Her ears ring with the tapping of her quill against the wood of the desk and letter beneath her hand that's littered with the talon marks of Valyrion, having arrived just hours ago. And though she wants the air and privacy to think without the mask, analyze the depths of the power plays without having to hide, Sansa is left with just a simple yearning as Littlefinger stands near the window, looking as dangerous as ever.
"It's not easy for ravens to fly in these storms. Perhaps Jon tried to send word earlier," the man supplies the excuse they both know better than to believe, and yet they still play this stupid game.
Sansa shakes her head with prevailing irritation at Jon nearly overcoming her and not having to be faked for certainly Gabrielle should have sent a letter with Jon's. She sighs, "No, this is the way he is, the way he's always been. He never asked for my opinion. Why would he start now?"
"I can't believe he'd surrender the Northern Crown without consulting you."
"This is his writing, his signature. He pledged to fight for Daenerys Targaryen," her breath comes out as an irritated huff. "He's bent the knee."
Sansa watches him as he moves over to the hearth near her desk, laying an arm on the mantle with due grace and leaning into the warmth as he taunts her into talking, "I've heard gossip that the Dragon Queen is quite beautiful."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Sansa asks confused even as her heart clenches.
His grey eyes shift to hers, and they both know of the implications behind his words: "Jon is young and unmarried. Daenerys is young and unmarried."
"You think he wants to marry her?"
Petyr steps even closer so he can see the lines in her mask and the worry in her eye, "An alliance makes sense. Together, they'd be difficult to defeat."
Together, they would screw this world over—or so Sansa wants to say as the millions of complications prevail over her mind...just as Petyr Baelish watches her look of stone.
////////////////////////////////////////////
She stares into his eyes wishingly from that great distance below, in sheer respect of her lacking height even in regards to Jon Snow. And where she had first believed those eyes to be almost brooding and doe-like in essence, she now sees what Gabrielle Baelish has always seen in them—honesty, integrity, strength that made the interiors shine silver and the outside fade into black. And it's dangerous to notice so much as her eyes fall to the ground, and loneliness penetrates her breast as her chin tilts back to him—meeting those eyes she cannot unsee, and she admits, "You were right from the beginning. If I had trusted you, everything would be different."
Jon stares at Daenerys with a surge of breath into his lungs at the proud woman accepting her faults, and he suddenly understands why all these people follow her. But he is not a liar—not like Gabrielle—and thus, he would not lie to make her feel as though everything was inevitable, but instead he directs her attention elsewhere: "So, what now?"
"I can't forget what I saw north of the Wall," Dany shakes her head haggardly. "And I can't pretend that Cersei won't take back half the country the moment I march north."
Jon lets his eyes wander back to the dais where Gabrielle sits in quiet conversation with Davos and Oberyn, to the scene of utter struggle he'd created but did not regret, no matter the words of the other men and women. Yet he admits, "It appears Tyrion's assessment was correct—" Jon sighs and lets the pause linger before turning back to her with a grin, "—we're fucked."
Daenerys smiles at him as the words filter into her subconscious and she lets the worry actually settle into the back of her mind—instead, now thinking of this man before her. This man so different from Drogo, but so noble and good that she cannot help wondering if her first love was just preparation for this man—for this King in the North who's a bastard named Snow. But still, she negates any perception, given the reminder that he is still with another, as their eyes turn to the Mock Queen sitting above the others, not on a throne but by the confidence of her person—of her character.
Footsteps ring in their ears upon a sudden note, and Tyrion returns to their peripheral vision—prompting the lot to approach in due speed as he looks unharmed but equally armed—and then suddenly, there are more footsteps and company as Cersei follows behind her youngest brother with a regal air upon her shoulders.
She stops in front of them as Dany and Jon step onto the dais, the latter moving to stand beside Gabrielle as they await the much needed conclusions. And she provides: "My armies will not stand down. I will not pull them back to the capital...I will march them north to fight alongside you in the Great War. The darkness is coming for us all. We'll face it together. And when the Great War is over, perhaps you'll remember I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you."
They do not give a word to acquiesce, and Cersei actually smiles before turning to Qyburn, "Call our banners. All of them."
////////////////////////////////////////////
Sansa paces in front of the raging fire as Lady whines from the nearby furs, her feet a steady drumming that she should hope is not waking others in this late hour but truly could care less for such a small thing—sleep is nothing when plotting murder. And though she'd been preparing for hours—waiting for hours—the knock on the door makes her jump in surprise before she twirls around to grab the handle, only for Stannis to enter steadily before she can touch the metal. So stepping back as he closes the door and shoves the blanket beneath the crack, her heart beats heavily and finally collapses into words, "Have you spoken to her?"
"I'm starting to realize how smart the Starks truly are," Stannis admits as he finally turns to her with a slightly agitated expression she know derives from him not knowing everything. Sansa almost smiles, but the grin drops as he imparts, "She already knew."
"How?"
"She was listening into your conversations, from what I gathered."
"From what she allowed you to gather," Sansa responds with a huff of irritation at the gall of her sister, turning her back to him—only to pause in the movement and scuttle her eyes to Stannis, wondering, "All of my conversations?"
"Yes," he sends her a pointed look and steps around her and towards the fire to lean into the mantle, almost comfortable.
But she calls after him anxiously as her blue eyes shine in contrast to the red of her loose hair and reflected fire in her pupil, "And?"
"She said that if I ever hurt her family, that what happened to the Freys will be a small thing."
Stannis does not seem amused by the threats of Arya Stark, but Sansa still chuckles as she lets the tension fall from her shoulders and approaches the other side of the fire, gooseflesh erupting down her arms but she pays the common feeling little mind. Taking a deep breath at the secrets she mustn't need to protect, Sansa instead turns to Stannis with a curious expression and asks for his own insight, "Do you think Jon will ally himself in such a way with Daenerys Targaryen as Littlefinger suggested? Through marriage?"
"No, your brother's noble enough to stay with the woman he promised himself to," Stannis smothers her fears, though she is not quite stupid enough to suppose Stannis truly knows Jon in such a way. And yet, he still continues at the cessation of that quandary for another, "The Dragon Queen might be worthy of an alliance without marriage."
"If he's right though..." Sansa responds, and a shiver rakes down her back at the mere notion of what may befall them, "—the gods hath no fury like a woman scorned. I fear for the North."
Stannis sighs, having considered the notion himself upon hearing the letter Sansa received; and certainly, he supposes that such a mistake will cost them dearly, but Stannis knows how much Gabrielle cares for the Stark before him, and he reminds her, "No matter what he does, Lady Baelish still has you—her sister in all but blood. She would never do anything to hurt you. She loves you, as do your people."
Sansa raises an eyebrow at his rather affectionate tone—and by affectionate, she means it does not sound completely like gravel tearing against stone, but littered with words of passion. And thus—knowing these situations as rare—she feels entitled enough to taunt, "Such as who?"
"You know I do. How could I not?" he sighs and steps back, though his eyes seem to move closer into her embrace as they exchange a telling look from across the hearth. "You're kind and you care for your people. You are sharp and steadfast against manipulations of Littlefinger's sort. And you are noble and strong—" He steps forward and lets the distance linger temptingly, "Littlefinger may be trying to manipulate you, but know this: if you ever so much as want the North for yourself...you could have it."
Sansa smiles at him and her eyes ignite like the flames next to her—not with a heat but with a passion for his words she'd never expected from anyone, nonetheless Stannis Baratheon. But all the same—and even after all this time—she hastily asks, "Do me a favor."
"Anything," he promises as she steps closer.
"Forget your propriety for a moment and just kiss me." And what else is Stannis Baratheon if not dutiful.
////////////////////////////////////////////
"If we have the Dothraki ride hard on the Kingsroad, they'll arrive at Winterfell within the fortnight," Jon points upon the map-like table to the aligned forces of Stark, Targaryen, and Lannister as the pounding of waves sounds from the beach below and all the original allies stare in contemplation of this plan.
"And the Unsullied?" Dany asks.
To which Gabrielle responds, "With the Dornish fleet, we can sail with them to White Harbor, meet the Dothraki here on the Kingsroad, then ride together to Winterfell."
"Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, Your Grace. You have many enemies in the North. Thousands fell fighting your father. All it takes is one angry man with a crossbow. He'll see your silver hair on the Kingsroad and know that one well-placed bolt will make him a hero," Jorah proposes, and his voice takes on a wary edge. "The man who killed the conqueror."
Jon sighs as he watches Dany from beneath his long and dark lashes at the lowering of his chin, "It's your decision, Your Grace. But if we're going to be allies in this war, it's important for the Northerners to see us as allies. If we sail to White Harbor together, I think it sends a better message. My father can only do so much to win them to your side."
Daenerys stares at him a moment longer and then looks to her original protector beside this man whose worry seems everlasting despite the better situation that's now become their cause. Unknowingly, her chin tilts upward with the command of her own actions, "I've not come to conquer the North. I'm coming to save the North. We sail together."
Daenerys lets her eyes linger on Jon at those final words, the King in the North a steady ship in the storms of Gabrielle as he returns the expression in due haste of her production. But as the moment passes and tension seems to sizzle, Jon lets the gaze drop as Gabrielle eyes them warily nearby and Oberyn sends her an expression from the other side of the table. But nodding and turning on her heel, Dany ends the meeting in silence as the soldiers move to their charge and the awaited journey ahead of them.
"Gabrielle," Oberyn calls her over as she steps from the room, turning on her heel to follow his gesture into a dark corner of a nearby nook as her emotions gather beneath her skin and he can practically feel them from the pulse of eyes. But ignoring it for now—and knowing it shall be addressed—he instead whispers into her ear, "I've placed them away in the cargo hull of the ship."
Gabrielle smiles and places a hand in the fur of Grey Wind, a rare occasion for the past week to see her in such a mood, but all the same—it reminds her of those easier times. And thus, she imparts, "That's good...the Starks will finally rest in peace at home—" without knowing how their fate will diverge.