Chapter Text
Five years had come and gone, with everything culminating in this moment. Today—as their two countries faced in battle—events that had been set in motion over a millennium ago would finally come to a conclusion.
“Look!” Sansa heard a solider whisper nervously. “The Targaryen woman’s using a flag to signal her troops. They’re preparing to attack!”
Only she knew the truth. The red fabric that Daenerys held was not a flag, but a headscarf, and her actions were not a war signal, but a message—a reminder of her parting words all those years ago.
“Do not thank me, Sansa. I did what I considered to be right, but you must not grow accustomed to receiving mercy from me. The next time I meet you, it will not be as Dany, but as Daenerys Targaryen, Lady of Dragonstone. I will do as I see fit for my people, and you would be wise to do the same.”
Sansa smiled to herself. So be it, Daenerys.
A rush of exhilaration ran through her, every bit as strong as the gust of wind that whipped her hair around her neck. The moment had come. Nodding to Robb and Arya, they brandished their swords in the air, and with a mighty war cry, rushed forward, making the ground shake from the pounding hooves of thousands of horses.
That fateful day at the festival had changed everything. She no longer saw the people of Targaryen as vague, white-haired phantoms in her mind, but as a beautiful girl with a brave heart and a deep love for her country. A girl who wasn’t so different from her and her siblings.
Although they faced each other as enemies, Sansa bore no hatred against Daenerys. She was only doing what she believed to be right for her people, just as Sansa and her siblings did for the people of The North.
She still desired the Iron Throne for The North, but not at the cost of more innocent lives—either from The North or from Dragonstone. Not at the cost of ruining her country or Daenerys’. No, the cycle of wars had to end. Regardless of the result of today’s battle, she would accept it, and she knew that Daenerys would do likewise.
As Sansa flew across the plain on her stallion, the words of the ancient prophecy echoed in her mind.
“Seed of Targaryen and Seed of Stark cross swords once more. Different from their ancestors, they bear understanding in their hearts. And the Iron Throne shall choose the successor it deems worthy and never again will it be moved!”
There was no doubt in her heart that this was the day the old prophetess had foreseen all those years ago. Everything would end today, but Sansa was hopeful that something beautiful would begin as well.
The North and Dragonstone had never had an alliance before, but she figured it was as good of a time as any to start one.
The End