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Chapter Text

Sansa sat proudly on her golden-maned stallion, her eyes roaming the landscape before her. It was a beautiful day for a battle. There was nary a cloud in the sky, and the slight breeze did its good work keeping the war banners and flags waving gaily.

Here on this hill the flags waved royal blue and bore the crest of the House of Stark, but across the valley, they were colored crimson. She wasn’t near enough to see the crests, but she knew that they depicted a horrible three-headed dragon—the mark of arms of the Targaryen House.

            Today was the day. Today it would all end—one way or another.

The line of soldiers on the opposite side of the valley began to ripple—they appeared to be parting to let someone through. Sansa watched closely as a white mare emerged and took its place at the front of the Dragonstone ranks. Astride it was a slender figure whose long, flowing hair was the same brilliant shade of white as the horse she rode upon.

Daenerys Targaryen, Lady of Dragonstone.

Sansa dug her fingers into the thick mane of her stallion as past memories assaulted her. Even though they now faced each other as enemies, she had first met her as Dany—a simple peasant girl…and a friend.

When she glanced at her brother and sister, she could tell that they were thinking of the same thing. And when she looked out towards the horizon, she couldn’t help wondering if Daenerys was also remembering that fateful day from years past.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, the wagon wheels sang, clickety-clack to the festival and back! Thirteen-year old Sansa could hardly contain her excitement. It was the day of the harvest festival—the one day each year when she and her siblings were permitted to leave the cold stone

walls of the Stark Estate and visit the village nestled at the foot of the mountain. She looked forward to the festival all year, and nothing, not even her sister’s incessant whining, could lower her spirits today.

Although Arya certainly was doing everything in her power to change that.

“I still don’t understand why I have to wear a dress!”

Sansa exhaled in exasperation. “Because you’re a girl, Arya, and girls wear dresses.”

Her sister looked down at her green muslin gown as if it had done something to personally offend her. “But I can’t enter the swordfight tournament in this thing!”

“The tournament is for boys only. You know that.”

“If I was wearing a tunic and pants no one would’ve known,” her sister muttered darkly.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t be proud about that, you know.”

“But it’s not fair! I could’ve beaten them all—boy or not!”

“Not me, little sis,” Robb patted her head with a chuckle.

“I could too!”

“Could not!”

“Sansa.” Her younger brother Bran tapped her arm. “I’m a boy. Can’t I join the tournament?”

Sansa smiled and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Sorry, Bran, but you’re still too small. Someday when you get bigger you can.”

He shoved her off impatiently. “Stop treating me like I’m a baby or something like Ricky!”

“Hey!” Rickon protested. “I’m not a baby! I’m already six!”

“Enough,” Sansa said distractedly. “Look, we’re here.”

Her siblings’ bickering stopped abruptly as four pairs of eyes pivoted in the direction of the village.

“Thank you, Sam,” she addressed their wagon driver. “This will do.”

“Yes’m, Lady Sansa,” the boy answered. “I’ll jus’ tie th’ wagon up near ‘ere an’ come meet up wi’ ye.”

The children hopped out of the wagon and hurried into the town, looking around themselves in awe. The Stark Estate was grand and stately, but in their young eyes, nothing could compare to the bustling excitement of a village preparing to celebrate the largest festival of the year.

Colorful ribbons—dancing merrily in their brilliant orange and scarlet hues—had been strewn across every rooftop. The smells of smoking, savory delicacies permeated the crisp autumn air. Vendors crowded the streets peddling trinkets of all sizes, shapes, and kinds. Performers could be seen in every corner taking advantage of the unusual influx of passerby traffic. Baton throwers, magicians, flame-eaters, animal trainers, foreign dancers, singers, jugglers, players of the lyre and pipe—all could be seen by simply taking a stroll through the town's main thoroughfare.

“We should go to the square first,” Robb said, raising his voice over the noise. “The spots in the tournament often fill up fast.”

Sansa followed his lead, clutching Rickon with one hand and keeping both eyes on Arya and Bran—the two who she knew were most likely to run into trouble. She was so busy watching them that she didn’t even see when something darted in front of her path.

            “Oh!” she cried as she bumped into a cloaked figure. The bag the person had been

carrying fell to the ground with a dull thud, spilling bright red apples all over the dirt road. There

was no time to react as a horse and wagon passed by, trampling the fruit to a pulp.

“Oh my!” Sansa exclaimed. “I apologize—are you alright?”

The girl—for it was a girl, she realized—looked up from the unfortunate apple remains. She was about her own age, with a smooth, fine-featured face and solemn grayish-blue eyes that gave her the appearance of being much older than she was. Her dress was made of brown wool and she wore a red headscarf wrapped tightly around her hair. She looked to be a peasant, but there was something about the way she held herself…If it weren’t for the clothes she was wearing, Sansa could have easily mistaken her for nobility.

Upon seeing her, the girl’s eyes widened. “Please don’t apologize, Lady Sansa! It was my fault.”

Sansa stepped back warily. Her father had purposely kept his children under tight confinement to protect them—or as Arya liked to call it, to “kill them slowly by boredom.” In any case, the result was that no one outside of the castle knew what she and her siblings looked like.

“How do you know who I am?” she asked sharply.

“My mother used to work as a maidservant at the Stark Estate,” the girl explained, dropping a polite curtsy. “She took me there a few times when I was young, and sometimes I would see you and the other young lords and lady in the halls.”

“And your mother’s name?”

“Mhysa,” the girl replied. “Although you likely wouldn’t remember her, my lady. It was nigh ten years ago when she became ill with the plague and passed.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed in thought. She didn’t remember it well, but she had heard stories of a plague that swept across the country when she was three or four years old.

“That’s enough, Sansa,” Robb rebuked her mildly. “You’re the one who bumped into her, there’s no need for an interrogation.”

Sansa threw an irritated glance at her older brother. Maybe she was being a bit harsh, but there was no doubt that Robb’s sudden penchant for compassion stemmed from the smooth complexion and doe-like eyes of a certain village girl. Still, she knew that her brother was right. The girl’s story lined up, so it appeared that she was telling the truth.

“I’m sorry about your apples,” she said at last. “If you just tell me the amount, I would be happy to reimburse you.”

The girl shook her head. “Thank you for your generosity, Lady Sansa, but please don’t trouble yourself.”

“Nonsense—”

“Please, Lady Sansa,” the girl interrupted earnestly. “It’s alright.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “My mother loved serving you, you know…she would have been so happy to see how much you’ve all grown.”

Well, great, Sansa thought with a sigh. Now she just felt guilty.

“But there must be something we can do to repay you,” Robb said. “To show our regrets…and to thank your mother for her service.”

The girl turned beseeching eyes onto each of them. “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course,” Robb said, while Sansa and the others nodded their agreement.

“There is something, but”—she bit her lip uncertainly—“it’s a lot to ask, so please feel free to refuse.”

“Go on,” Sansa said encouragingly.

“I was wondering if…” Her gaze faltered and dropped to her feet. “I would really

appreciate it if you would let me spend the day with you all—at the festival. I used to go with my mother, you see, but ever since she passed…”

The nurturing nature inside of Sansa could no longer be quelled. She grasped the girl’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “We would be honored to spend the day with you.”

“Oh, thank you!” she beamed. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“Well then,” Sansa smiled, “there’s a lot to see, so let’s get moving, shall we? Oh, and by the way—” She paused, glancing at the girl.

“What is it?”

“I’m afraid that we still don’t know your name,” Sansa admitted sheepishly.

The girl smiled. “Please, call me Dany.”

Chapter Text

“The tournament doesn’t start for a few hours,” Robb said after he had put his name on the roster, “so I say we explore for a bit.”

            They wandered around aimlessly, Sansa and the other Stark children taking in the sights with the eagerness of a parched man lapping up water in the desert. After all, this was the one day—the only day—of the year where they were allowed to be normal children and have fun–-a commodity that truly was as rare as water in the desert when you were a Stark heir.

Eventually, they were drawn to a particularly large crowd that had gathered near the boat docks. The cheerful strains of a well-known folk song drifted to the children’s ears as they grew closer.

            “Oh, look! They’re dancing!” young Rickon cried in delight.

            Indeed, nearly two dozen peasants were moving in time with the music—clapping, stepping, and whirling in mesmerizing, kaleidoscopic patterns.

            Dany grasped Robb’s hand, her eyes sparkling. “Let’s go!”

            Sansa was also snatched up by a peasant boy with ruddy cheeks, but he was a fumbling partner and she quickly excused herself. The refined style of dancing she had learned simply didn’t mesh with the lively, almost brazen movements of the peasants.

But not so with Dany. She matched Robb seamlessly, moving with a grace and fluidity that stood out like a gemstone among rubble. The pair soon caught the attention of the crowd and when the music finally stopped and they took a bow, several of the men in the audience threw flowers to Dany, who caught them with a shy smile.

She and Robb walked over to where Sansa and the others had been watching, both of them laughing merrily.

“That was wonderful, wasn’t it?” Dany said breathlessly, her cheeks rosy from the exertion.

“You were wonderful,” Robb said, looking at his partner admiringly.

Sansa was sorely tempted to tease her brother, but she was a lady, and she had to act the part. Oh well, there would be plenty of time on the wagon ride back to torment him.

“Sansa!” Rickon tugged on her sleeve. “Over there! I think it’s a puppet show!”

The children pushed their way through the crowd, but there were so many people that they couldn’t make much headway. Robb finally hoisted Ricky onto his shoulders so that he could see.

The curtains on the stage parted, and silence fell upon the crowd as the rich voice of the

narrator began to speak.

“Hark, hark to a story from long ago, when dragons reigned the skies and the Northern lands were yet shrouded in mystery and snow. Some myth, some true, some yet to be known. Behold, behold the tale of the Iron Throne!”

“I know this one!” Rickon whispered excitedly.

Bran rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows this story, dummy.”

“Stop calling names, Bran, and watch the show,” Sansa scolded in a low voice.

“Our tale begins at the dawn of the Stark dynasty, over a thousand years ago. The first ruler, King Torrhen the Nobleheart, was a great warrior who founded the capital of King’s Landing and ruled over the land of The North with his Council of the Wise.”

The crowd broke into applause as a bearded puppet wearing a thick fur robe appeared on stage.

“One day King Torrhen decided that he ought to have a proper throne to rule from. He requested the aid of a trusted member of the Council—Lady Valyrian, who was also called the White Witch for her fairness and mystical powers.”

The applause was replaced with resounding boos and jeers as a white-clad puppet with snow-colored hair came to stand beside King Torrhen’s puppet.

“I hate the White Witch!” Rickon said in disgust.

Sansa opened her mouth to agree, but the words died on her lips when she saw Dany. The girl had grown even paler than usual as she stared at the stage, her eyes shining with an emotion that she couldn’t quite place.

“Are you alright?” she asked her in concern.

Dany merely nodded, her eyes never leaving the stage.

“The White Witch had the ability to communicate with dragons”—a gruesome red dragon hovered over the stage—“so King Torrhen requested her help in forging a throne from the hottest flames known to man—the fire breath of a dragon.”

Childish cries of mingled fear and delight filled the air as the dragon spit out streamers of red and gold “fire.”

“The White Witch complied and at the king’s behest created a throne from iron”—a miniature replica of the throne now appeared on the stage—"but when it was finished and she saw how magnificent it was, the White Witch committed a grave treachery. Coveting the throne in her heart, she fled to the south with the Iron Throne in her possession.”

“Upon learning of her betrayal, King Torrhen was outraged. He gathered an army from the four corners of his kingdom”—a multitude of puppets wearing armor and carrying shields and swords streamed onto the stage—"and marched south, where the White Witch had already overtaken many of the ruling lords with her fleet of dragons and set up a kingdom of her own.

“The war between the House of the White Witch—known thereafter as the Targaryens of Dragonstone—and the Starks of The North stretched on for nearly fifty years. There was destruction, and pillaging, and bloodshed like had never been seen before.

“Eventually, King Torrhen emerged victorious, stabbing the White Witch through the heart and returning to The North with the Throne.”

There was a raucous cheer as the puppet of the White Witch was struck by the king’s sword and toppled to the ground.

“There was peace for a time, but alas”—the narrator’s voice darkened—"it did not last. Years later the White Witch’s grandson, King Jaehaerys the Ruthless, rose up and attacked The North, seeking revenge and acquisition of the Throne. Another war ensued and this time the

Iron Throne was taken back to Dragonstone.”

An anguished groan rose up from the crowd as a white-haired male puppet ran off carrying the throne.

“The House of Stark then went to reclaim it, starting another war, and so forth. This continued for generations, and just when people had begun to despair that there would ever be an end to the wars, a wise seer foretold a prophecy of hope.”

Every eye in the audience followed the puppet of a very old woman as she crept onto the stage.

“Lads tremble, mothers weep, all hearts grow faint at the trumpet of war!” the narrator proclaimed in a wizened voice. “When will it end, they cry! Yet with the inner eye, I have seen! 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 shall it be moved!

A painted scene of the Stark Estate overlooking King’s Landing appeared as the backdrop of the stage.

“The Throne may be in Dragonstone now, but our day will come!” the narrator said in a booming voice. “The North will be victorious, and the Iron Throne will return to where it rightfully belongs, and never again shall it be moved!”

While the replica of the Iron Throne rose up triumphantly on the stage, Sansa couldn’t help thinking that day would be arriving soon if her father got his way. The curtains closed as the crowd broke into thunderous applause.

“Bravo!” Robb cried, clapping furiously. “That was fantastic, didn’t you think so, Dany?”

But Sansa didn’t hear the girl’s response amidst her rising panic. She looked around once more to be certain, but there was no mistake.

Arya was gone.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

            “Robb! Where is Arya?” she asked frantically.

“What?” He looked around himself. “She was right here—”

 They locked eyes as realization struck, both crying at the same time, “The tournament!”

They shoved their way to the square where—judging by the fervor of the crowd—the first match had already begun. Sansa’s heart sunk as she caught a glimpse of a small dark-haired figure wearing pants and a loose-fitting tunic.

Arya…!

Her sister stood in the center of the square, facing a man who was nearly twice her size. She noted, with a shiver of trepidation, that he was surly-looking with a jagged scar running from his scalp to his chest.

“Robb!” she called to her brother. “Go! You have to stop her!”

After watching her brother disappear into the crowd, she directed her attention back to the events unfolding in the square.

“You can’t run forever, little mouse!” the man jeered. “I’ll crush you!”

He launched forward, but Arya skillfully used the man’s own momentum against him, slicing his arm while he was in motion. He cursed furiously and took several steps back.

“Wha’ do you know?” Sansa heard a spectator say. “The lad’s alrigh’.”

Arya’s opponent raised his sword again, and Sansa braced herself for another heart-stopping attack—but it never came.

“Stop!” Robb shouted, running headlong into the middle of the square. “Stop the match! This child is my sister! She disguised herself and entered without my permission!”

The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves excitedly.

“A lass?” A man standing beside Sansa eyed Arya skeptically. “I woulda’ ne’er known…”

The announcer stepped forward, motioning for quiet. “In light of recent events, the victor of this match is Igor Rothbart! He will be moving onto the next round!”

“Arya!” Sansa pushed through the final row of people and burst into the open square. “What were you thinking?” she cried, her worry from a moment before giving way to hot anger. “How could you enter the tournament after I specifically told you not to?!”

“Save me the lecture, Sansa! You got your way, didn’t you? You ruined everything, just like usual!” And with a loud huff, she stormed away.

Sansa took a deep breath to calm herself, then turned to Sam. “Will you follow her, please? You don’t have to do anything, just stay with her.”

“O’ course, Lady Sansa.” Sam gave a slight bow and disappeared into the crowd.

“Is it alright to let her go like that?” Dany asked softly.

 “She’ll be fine,” she replied, stubbornly stamping out any sense of guilt in favor of stoking the fires of pride and anger in her heart. “She can have a temper tantrum like a child if she wants, but I, for one, am staying here and enjoying the tournament.”

Those had been her words, yet she found that the resuming matches were strangely devoid of amusement. Even when it was Robb’s turn, she was able to stir up little more than a mild interest.

Much like in dancing, the villagers’ crude attacks were no match for Robb’s well-trained swordsmanship. Even though he was only fifteen and was still smaller and slighter than most of his opponents, he made it through to the final round without difficulty.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer cried. “We have our finalists—Robb Krats and Igor Rothbart! Remember, the match continues until someone loses their sword or surrenders. You are allowed to make contact, but no blows to the head, neck, or chest or you will be disqualified. Winner gets the Victor’s Crown and a year’s worth of free ale from the Boarshead Pub! Now, challengers, take your marks…and begin!”

The duelers circled slowly, sizing each other up. Then, without warning, they flew forward, their swords meeting with a loud clang. Every eye in the square was riveted as they parried and dodged in an intricate dance where one false move meant mutilation, or even death.

“Your sister was quite impressive, wasn’t she?” Dany said. “To have been able to keep up with such a skillful opponent.”

Sansa could only nod distractedly. She had a bad feeling about this. Igor was not at all like the villagers who had competed thus far. His style was crude, yes, but it was also vicious. She sensed that he had experience—not just with fighting, but with killing as well. The mere thought made her blood grow cold.

But at last, Robb made a quick parry and knocked the sword out of his opponent’s hand. The crowd burst into frantic applause, chanting the name of their victor. Sansa let out a deep breath, feeling foolish for worrying.

            It was at that moment that everything went wrong.

Igor suddenly unleashed a feral yell and charged at Robb, his sword poised and ready to

strike. Sansa cried out, but she knew that it was too late. Her brother was going to die before her

eyes, and she couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Then, it happened.

A flash of red passed in front of her eyes, rushing towards the square. A moment later there was a pained scream as Igor’s sword met its mark, but it wasn’t Robb’s voice.

It was Dany’s.

Chapter Text

“Dany!”

The square descended into chaos as a group of men wrestled Igor away and the Stark children rushed over to the village girl, who had sunken down on the cobblestones.

            “Dany! Are you alright?” Sansa asked her urgently.

            The girl was evidently in a state of shock. She looked up slowly, her expression dazed. “Yes…I—I’m alright.”

            And indeed, it appeared that she had been lucky. Judging by the bloodstain on her sleeve, her arm had been grazed, but Sansa knew that it could have been much worse.

            “Why would you do that for me?” Robb asked shakily. “You could’ve been killed.”

            “I…I don’t know,” Dany whispered, her eyes mirroring confusion. “My body just moved on its own.”

            Sansa sank down beside her and pulled her into an embrace. “Well, regardless of why you did it, thank you. Truly, Dany…” Her voice trembled with emotion. “We can’t thank you enough.”

            “There’s no need to thank me,” the girl smiled, sounding a bit more like her normal self. “I know that my mother would have wanted me to act as I did.”

            “Come,” Sansa said, helping her to her feet. “We need to get that arm bandaged.”

            The tournament announcer ordered a healer to assist them, all the while apologizing profusely for what had happened. Once the healer finished, Sansa looked Dany up and down. The sleeve of the girl’s dress had been torn off just past the shoulder, and evidence of the bloodstain still lingered on the frayed fabric.

“Well, first things first,” she said matter-of-factly. “We need to get you a new dress.”

Dany’s cheeks tinged pink. “Th-That’s alright, Lady Sansa.” She picked up the bloody scrap of fabric that the healer had cut off. “I can mend it later. It won’t quite be as good as new, but…”

“Nonsense,” Sansa interjected. “You don’t need to worry about the cost. I’ll be happy to pay—it’s the least I can do, after everything you’ve done.”

Before the other girl could make any more objections, Sansa turned to Robb. “Why don’t you take the boys around for a bit? I’ll get Dany a new dress, pick up some supper, and then meet you on the green for the fire-lighting ceremony.”

“That’s fine with me,” he replied, “but what about Arya?”

“She’ll be alright. Sam’s with her.”

As Robb led the little boys away, Sansa dragged Dany off to the shopping district by the wharf.

“Where do you usually buy your clothes?” she asked as they walked.

“Um, well…” Dany glanced around uncertainly.

“Why don’t we try here?” Sansa pointed to a respectable-looking milliner’s shop. Most of

the stores in this part of town were closed because of the festival, but the door to this one was

open.

The bell rang as they entered, and an ancient-looking old woman rose from her rocking

chair. “Goo’day, missus’,” she greeted them in a rasping voice. “How can I be o’ help t’ ye?”

“We’re looking for a dress,” Sansa replied. “Do you have any that are ready-made?”

“The ready garments woul’ be o’er there.” She gestured towards several racks of clothing, then sunk tiredly back into her rocking chair. “Jus’ let me know if ye be needin’ any more help.”

Sansa combed through the rack of dresses eagerly. This was the first time she had ever actually shopped for clothes. After all, a girl of her social standing was expected to have her dresses custom-sewn by a tailor.

“Do you see anything you like…?” she started to ask Dany, but her voice trailed off as she looked up and saw her admiring a pale blue gown made of gauzy, ethereal fabric.

Dany quickly released the dress and stepped back. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It just caught my eye for a moment since it’s so…different from the rest.”

“Yes, well, it would look different since it’s foreign,” Sansa replied, relaxing slightly. “Only the Dragonstones use that fabric, after all.”

“You mean the Dragonstones from the puppet show?”

“One and the same.” She bit her lip as she stared at the dress. “It’s odd, though. Dragonstone products are supposed to be banned in King’s Landing.”

“Will you report it?”

Sansa shook her head. “No. That woman is so old”—she glanced at the dozing shopkeeper—"I wouldn’t be surprised if her brains were slightly addled. I’m sure it was just an innocent mistake…oh, what about this one?”

She held up an elegant navy muslin with slit sleeves and a gold cord tie around the waist.

Dany’s eyes widened. “Oh no, it’s so lovely, I couldn’t possibly—”

Sansa flashed a grin. “Excuse me?” She walked briskly to the counter. “We’ll take this one, please.”

“That was a lot of fun,” Sansa said as they emerged from the shop a few minutes later—Dany clad in her new dress. “I don’t often get to spend time like this with other girls close to my age.”

She looked at Dany curiously. “How old are you, by the way?”

“Thirteen.”

Sansa beamed. “The same as me, then.”

“It’s been fun for me, too,” Dany answered with a shy smile, “but don’t you spend time with your sister?”

“Arya?” Sansa’s brows knit together. “Our relationship has never really been like that…”

Dany smiled slightly. “You’re lucky, you know.”

“How so?”

“Well, regardless of what you say, I can tell that you and all of your siblings care about each other very much. That’s a very special thing.”

“Really…?” She thought back to how she felt earlier when she had thought that she was going to lose Arya, and then Robb. There were no words to describe the overwhelming terror and despair that had struck her heart in those moments.

“I suppose that you’re right,” she said slowly, “but that’s not too unusual, is it? We are

blood relatives, after all.”

Dany shook her head, a strange expression on her face. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Sansa glanced at her. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”  

“Two brothers. We were close when we were young, but”—her eyes darkened—“they did things…horrible things that no brother should ever do their sister.” She looked at Sansa, a sad smile playing on her lips. “Our relationship was ruined after that. I could no longer think of them as my brothers, but it was still painful separating myself from those who I had loved so deeply and for so long. You don’t have to listen to this simple peasant girl, but I would implore you to treasure the relationships you have with your siblings. Hold onto your brothers and sister with everything you have, and don’t let go.”

Sansa stared at her, rendered momentarily speechless. She had never known a simple peasant girl to speak so passionately, or with such eloquence.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Conversation trailed off after that, as each girl was occupied with their own thoughts. Sansa purchased a large chunk of ham, a hearty loaf of cornbread with a slab of blue-veined cheese, several cobs of roasted corn, a whole apple pie, and a pitcher of pungent cider for their supper.

As twilight fell upon the village, the two girls lugged their bounty to the green, where the entire town had already gathered, sitting on patchwork quilts and comforters.

In the center stood a towering stack of grain that had been bound together in the shape of a man. Centuries ago, the village had sacrificed a living human to the gods as an offer of thanks for a bountiful harvest, but today, they burned a portion of the grain they reaped instead.

            Scanning the crowd, she spotted Robb. He had already claimed a spot at the edge of the green, near the tree line where the woods began. Bran and Rickon were there, as well as Sam, and…Arya.

As she approached, Dany’s words rang in her mind. Hold onto your brothers and sister with everything you have, and don’t let go…

“Welcome back,” Robb hailed. Then, with an admiring look at Dany, “You look great.”

“Thank you,” Dany blushed.

“Sansa!” Bran and Rickon ran up to her eagerly. “Come and look at what we got!”

The two little boys went on chattering happily for several minutes as they showed off their treasures. Wooden swords and play shields, candy necklaces, miniature flags with the House of Stark crest, pins in the shape of a wolf, spinning tops, marionettes…

She put her hands on her hips as she looked at Robb. “Was there anything you didn’t buy them?”

“Hey.” Robb put his hands up defensively. “You try saying “no” to those two when they want something. They’ve got puppy dog eyes that could melt the heart of a criminal.”

Shaking her head disapprovingly, she sat down beside Arya. Hold on with everything you have, and don’t let go…

“Hey,” she said hesitantly, but her sister didn’t even look at her.

“Listen, Arya,” she tried again. “I just wanted to say—”

“I’m sorry.”

It was spoken so quietly that Sansa wasn’t sure if she had actually heard it, or if she had imagined it. “What?”

“I said I’m sorry, ok!”

As Arya spun around to face her, she could see—even in the deepening dusk—that she had had been crying.

“I know what I did was wrong!” her sister cried. “I know that I shouldn’t have done it, but I just…I just wanted to show that I could do it, you know?”

“Arya…” She put her arm around her sister’s shoulder. “It’s alright. I’m sorry too—for lashing out at you. I was just scared, so scared that I would lose you.”

“But hey,” she said when she saw the miserable look on her sister’s face, “it all turned out alright, didn’t it? And you know”—she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“you were pretty impressive out there.”

Her sister looked up in surprise. “Really?”

She nodded. “I think you really could give Robb a run for his money.”

Arya grinned broadly. “You think so?”

“I do,” she grinned back. “We should have a match sometime at home. I would like to see Robb’s face when he actually loses at something.”

“You’re the best, Sansa! I really do love you, no matter how I act sometimes.”

“I know,” she said, pulling her close. “I love you, too.”

Sansa caught Dany’s eye, mouthing “thank you,” but her only response was a vague smile.

“Alright, everyone!” she called after she finished setting out the food. “Time for supper!”

While they devoured the bountiful spread, she noticed that Dany kept glancing towards the woods. Something was definitely wrong. It was almost like she was nervous about something—but what?

“Ah, man!” Bran groaned. “We’re out of apple cider!”

Sansa took the pitcher from him. “That’s strange,” she frowned. “We should’ve had plenty…”

“I can go fill it with water, if you’d like,” Dany said, standing and brushing herself off. “There’s a creek just a short way into the woods.”

“I’ll go with you,” Robb said. “It’s not safe to go into the woods after dark by yourself.”

Sansa looked at both of them. “Should I go too?”

“We’ll be alright,” Dany assured her. “It’s really just a short way.”

She watched as the pair were swallowed up by the forest, trying to ignore the vague uneasiness she felt. But when several minutes passed and there was no sign of either Robb or Dany, she couldn’t stay put any longer.

She ventured to the edge of the woods, along with Sam and Arya, who had insisted on accompanying her. A shiver ran down her spine, and it wasn’t just because of the chill in the air. The forest seemed to loom ominously, beckoning them forward with gnarled fingers and rustling whispers. Any lingering trace of daylight had disappeared, giving way to darkness which only seemed to grow thicker and blacker the closer they drew to the forest.

Suddenly, the inky darkness was pierced by a cry that made Sansa’s heart stop.

“Robb!” Arya bounded forward.

“Arya, wait—!” she cried, but her sister had already vanished into the blackness.

She glanced at the forest, then back towards the green, split in indecision. Hold onto your brothers and sister with everything you have, and don’t let go…

“Sam.” She turned to their faithful wagon-driver. “I need you to take Bran and Ricky with you and go get help, alright?”

“B-But Lady Sansa, wha’ abouy ye’re self?”

“Just go!” she cried, hiking up her skirt and setting off at a run.

            Drawn by the sounds of a struggle, she found them without difficulty. Robb and Arya      

were surrounded by half a dozen man wearing dark clothes and masks covering their faces. They would have been nearly invisible if it weren’t for the glinting metal of their polished daggers.

Robb was lying on the ground, motionless. Arya was fighting them off valiantly, but when one of the men kneed her cruelly in the stomach, she too collapsed to the floor with a gasp of pain.

“No!” Sansa cried out before she could stop herself. Instantly, six pairs of eyes had fastened on her, like a predator eyeing its prey.

“Take her too,” a familiar voice spoke from the darkness.

Dany…? The peasant girl was standing amidst the men, wearing her red headscarf and dark blue dress—the dress she had bought her.

“Dany? What…What’s going on?”

The men were drawing closer. She turned to flee, but one of them roughly grabbed her hair and yanked her back, making her cry out in agony.

“That’s enough.” It was definitely Dany’s voice, but the haughty, almost cold tone she had used was foreign to Sansa’s ears. “Put her in the wagon with the other two.”

She stared at the village girl through tears of hurt and confusion. “Dany…why?”

But when someone struck the back of her neck, all thoughts and questions fled from her mind. The last thing she saw with her rapidly fading vision was Dany taking off her headscarf, unveiling long, rippling hair that glowed in the moonlight. White hair…

 The mark of the Targaryen house.

Chapter Text

Sansa was jolted awake when the wagon hit a rut. Her hands and feet were bound, and she had been gagged tightly with a piece of cloth. With a sweeping glance, she saw that Arya was in a similar state, staring at her with fearful, yet relieved eyes at seeing her awake. Robb was still unconscious, his usually handsome face discolored and swollen.

And there, sitting across from her, was Dany.

She had hoped it had been a trick of the eyes, but the girl’s hair was still blindingly white—the color of freshly fallen snow. Even in this situation, Sansa found herself slightly awed by the beauty of it. It was ironic that something so beautiful and pure looking could be a death sentence for her and her siblings.

“Take away their gags,” said Dany—or whatever her name was. “No one will hear them out here even if they scream.”

            While one of the men removed Arya’s gag, Sansa sent her pleading looks, begging her sister to hold her tongue, but she should have known it was hopeless.

            The second her mouth was free, Arya used it to spit viciously in the man’s face. Then, turning to Dany, she unleashed the full extent of her rage. “You’re going to pay for this you cold-blooded, grandma-haired freak! You killed my brother!”

The man raised his hand to strike her, but Dany said sharply, “That’s enough.” She turned to Arya. “I assure you that your brother is still alive. He is of no use to me dead.”

            Sansa’s spirits lifted slightly upon hearing these words. “If you don’t want to kill us, what do you want from us?”

The girl eyed her carefully. “I hope to use you as ransom,” she said at last. “There is something I want, and I believe that you can help me get it. If all goes according to plan, there is no need for any of you to get hurt.”

“Right,” Arya said sarcastically. “Because Robb obviously isn’t hurt at all.”

 “I apologize about that,” she said, with some of the old sincerity that Sansa had come to know from Dany. “My men went too far.”

Sansa glanced towards the armed men who were sharing the wagon with them. They were clustered in a circle, speaking in hushed tones. Every now and then, one or two of them would look over in their direction. There wasn’t enough light to make out their expressions, but she could sense that they weren’t friendly.

Still, they seemed to be obeying this girl—a mere child. Sansa didn’t know who “Dany” was, but she was obviously a person of some importance to have command of such men.

            “Who are you?” she asked quietly.

            The girl’s lips curved into a smile as she twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. “I would have thought that would be obvious by now, Sansa.”

            “I understand that you are part of the Targaryen house—but what is your name? And your title?”

            “I am Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aerys and Rhaella—also known as Dany.”

            “Aerys…” Sansa’s brows knit together. “You mean the king of Dragonstone?”

            “That is right.”

            Sansa’s heart sunk. Despite Daenerys’ promise for their safety, she knew that the royal family could only have one goal in capturing them.

They weren’t going back home. They probably wouldn’t even live to see tomorrow.

            “Is this the way of the Dragonstones, then?” she asked bitterly. “To deceive and trick a bunch of children by using another child?”

            “I do not enjoy such methods, but I will do what I must for my family to maintain the Iron Throne,” Daenerys answered coolly.

            “The Iron Throne belongs in The North,” Sansa said in an equally frigid tone.

            Daenerys’ eyes flashed. “You know not of what you speak.”

            “You saw the puppet show, just like the rest of us!” Arya burst out angrily. “It’s ours.”

             “I wouldn’t be so certain,” Daenerys said, regaining her composure. “The story we hear in Dragonstone is quite different. According to our lore, your King Torrhen began as a noble hero, but after years of power he had degenerated into nothing more than a cruel tyrant. The Council of the Wise saw this, but they were too afraid of the king who was lauded for his prowess in battle to do anything to stop him.

“But one day, King Torrhen’s greed reached new heights. He wanted a throne—a glorious throne unlike any Westeros had ever seen. And most atrocious of all, he wanted it forged from the most sacred substance known to mankind—the fire breath of a dragon. My ancestor, Lady Valyrian, though filled with trepidation, agreed to his request out of fear for her life. But in her heart, she knew that the throne would only increase King Torrhen’s greed and bloodlust, until it consumed him and the entire land. So she fled with the Iron Throne, taking the dragons with her to protect the noble creatures from Torrhen’s wrath and from the possibility of him trying to make another throne.

“Valyrian knew that King Torrhen would try to take back the throne, so she built up a kingdom that would be strong enough to face him in battle. She did not take pleasure in war or bloodshed, yet she was determined to keep the Iron Throne out of his hands, no matter the cost.

“As she lay dying, slain by her once friend and knowing that the throne had been stolen, she gave her children this all-important charge. The Iron Throne had to remain in Dragonstone, out of the clutches of King Torrhen and his descendants, who know not how to handle its power.”

As she finished, there was only silence for several moments, but eventually Arya gave a harsh laugh.

“That’s ridiculous. It’s your version of the story, so it’s obvious that you would put your people in a good light and make us look evil.”

“That may be so,” Daenerys acknowledged, “but”—she leaned closer, staring at them with piercing blue-gray eyes—"the same could be said for your story as well, couldn’t it?”

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. She had never thought that there might be another side to the well-known legend she had been told as a child. What if, perhaps, it was true…?

“Lady Daenerys.” One of the men approached her. “We are nearing the border.”

Sansa and Arya were gagged again, and thick bags were thrown over their heads. Although Sansa could see nothing, after a time she heard increasingly loud noises outside the wagon, signifying that they were nearing a city.

Eventually the wagon stopped, and they were shepherded down a winding staircase to a dank, underground hallway. When the bags and the cloths in their mouths were finally removed, they found themselves standing in a small, moldy-smelling room. A prison cell.

“Unbind them,” Daenerys said.

“My lady!” one of the men protested. “Why should we treat this scum with any mercy? They don’t deserve…”

Daenerys sent him a withering glare. “Unbind them,” she repeated imperiously.

Seconds later, Sansa and Arya were rubbing their chafed wrists gratefully. Robb was likewise untied and tossed roughly onto the stone floor.

“Robb!” Sansa rushed over to him, cradling his head in her lap. Tears of indignation rose in her eyes when she saw how badly they had hurt him.

“I’ll send a healer to come and look at him,” Daenerys said.

Her voice was neutral, but as Sansa met her eyes, she saw a trace of compassion. For a moment, it seemed as if Dany, the girl she had first met and grown to think of as a friend, had come back.

“Daenerys?” she asked as the girl prepared to leave. “Can I ask you one thing?”

“What is it?”

She hesitated on the precipice, wanting desperately to ask, yet not sure if she wanted to know the answer. At last, she said quietly, “Was any of it real?”

Daenerys only smiled sadly as she closed the metal grates of the cell with a clang of finality and walked away.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Days passed, but no healer came. Sansa didn’t know what she was more appalled by—Daenerys breaking her word or the surprise and hurt she felt because of it.

She told herself over and over that Dany—or rather, Daenerys—was their enemy and she shouldn’t expect any mercy from her, nor give any mercy in return. But somewhere, in her heart of hearts, she couldn’t accept that the sweet, soft-spoken girl she had met had all been a façade.

As long hours blended into even longer days, she began to grow weary of it all. It was obvious that their captors were intending to kill them, for they hadn’t seen as much as a crumb of bread since they came here. If the executioner’s blade was to be their fate, she found herself wishing that they would finish it swiftly, rather than leaving them to shrivel up and rot in this underground cell.

            She was dozing against the back wall when a sound started her awake. Footsteps.

They were light, but after days of hearing nothing but scurrying rats and the dripping of water, they seemed to resound like a trumpet blow throughout the prison.

            She glanced at Arya, who had straightened, apparently hearing them as well.

            At last, a slight figure appeared behind the metal grates, bearing a flickering candle. By its faint light, she could make out a pretty, fine-featured face and a glimpse of white hair behind the figure’s hood.

            “What are you doing here?” Sansa asked tiredly. “I would have thought you would have sent your men for this sordid task.”

            “Hush,” Daenerys said in a strained whisper. “Come, we must go now. There isn’t much time.”

            There was a melodic jingle of a key, then a creak as the rusty door of the cell swung open.

            “Follow me.” The candle began to glide down the hallway.

            “Arya,” Sansa said after a moment’s hesitation. “Help me with Robb.”

            “We’re actually going to do as she says?”  She couldn’t see well in the darkness, but she knew that her sister’s eyebrows were raised nearly up to her hairline.

            “For now, since the way she’s going also happens to be the way out.”

            Together they supported Robb, making their way painstakingly down the hallway and up the winding staircase by which they had entered. Once they reached the top, they were all breathing heavily. The burden of Robb’s weight and the lack of food and water had taken their toll.

            Arya collapsed to the ground with a groan. “I…can’t anymore!”

            “What is the matter?” Daenerys asked, her voice tinged with impatience and something else—fear? “We must keep moving.”

            “If you wanted us to be able to move, you should have told your men to give us something to eat—or at least water!” Sansa retorted weakly.

            “They didn’t feed you? But I told them…” She shook her head. “Why should I be surprised?” Her tone was thick with bitterness. “My orders don’t seem to mean anything to them, after all.”

She looked them over, then sighed in resignation. “Come, then. There’s a storehouse not far from here that should have something for you to eat.” 

            Sansa still had no idea what was going on, but the promise of some much-needed sustenance was enough to get her and Arya on their feet again.

            “Here you are.” Daenerys handed them some salted herring and dried apples, along with a canteen of cider that she had scrounged from the storehouse shelves. “I’m sorry there’s no fresh bread or anything—this is where we keep our non-perishable items for the winter.”

            Sansa hardly heard her as she dug into the food with relish, feeling strength return to her body with every bite. She licked her fingers as she finished, then flushed with embarrassment when she caught Daenerys watching her.

            However, the girl seemed to be more occupied with Robb. His color was slightly better after taking part in the victuals, but the open wounds on his face were still raw and painful-looking.

            “I can see that they neglected to send a healer as well,” she said, going away again and returning a few minutes later with a jar of balm and a clean cloth. She started towards Robb, but he backed away.

“How do we know you’re not trying to poison me with that stuff?” he asked.

“Do you really think I would go through the trouble of sneaking you out of your cell and feeding you if all I wanted was to kill you?” she asked in a tone one would use to explain something to a small child. “If that was my goal, I would’ve ordered my men to kill you while you were still down in the dungeon.”

She held out the items to Sansa, who, after a moment’s hesitation, accepted them. She opened the jar of balm and took a tentative sniff. “It’s alright,” she told her brother. “It’s just aloe.”

While she busied herself with treating Robb, she glanced over her shoulder at Daenerys. “So, you don’t want to kill us,” she said, “but that still doesn’t explain what’s going on. After all this, you at least owe us an explanation, don’t you think?”

            Daenerys suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “I…I’m so sorry,” she began haltingly, wringing her hands in her lap. “I never thought it would turn out like this. It was only supposed to be Robb, and I never wanted…” She took a deep breath. “I know that you don’t have any reason to believe me, but I truly never wanted for you any of you to get hurt. I only wanted to capture you and get your father to agree to a peace treaty.”

            “A peace treaty?” Sansa repeated.

            Daenerys nodded. “We’ve heard the rumors even here—that he’s rallying his forces for another war. My country, and yours as well, have already suffered enough from all of the wars. I acted as I did in the hope of preventing another from starting…but I underestimated the power of the pro-war faction.”

            Her voice was pained as she continued. “Their members are bitter from the losses of past wars. They desire nothing but seeing Stark blood and the blood of your countrymen run freely. I tried to reason with them, but it was futile. Even my own men are blinded by their hatred and are afraid of displeasing the leaders of the pro-war faction. They do not seem to recognize that I, too, am a royal heir of Dragonstone.

            “Come.” She rose and smoothed her skirt. “We must leave. There will be plenty of time to rest once you are safely over the border.”

Sansa blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’m helping you escape back to your own country. There are horses waiting at the north gate. I’ve already bribed the gatekeeper. From there, it’s a simple ride to the border.”

            “You’re just going to let us go?” Robb asked skeptically.

            “I have no choice. If King Eddard hears that we murdered his three eldest children, he will surely bear down upon us with the full extent of his wrath. It would result in a war more cruel and more terrible than all that came before. If such an event were to occur, both of our countries would be ruined.”

            Daenerys led them out of the warehouse and across a drawbridge. There were two horses tied up at one of the gateposts. Just like she had said, the gatekeeper had raised the gate high enough for a horse and its rider to pass through.

            They mounted their steeds—Robb and Arya on one, and Sansa on the other.

            Sansa turned to look at Daenerys, who stood clutching her cloak about her against the chill. “Will you be alright?” she asked.

            “I’ll manage. Even if they have their suspicions about what happened, not even my brothers can lift a finger against the Lady of Dragonstone.”

            Sansa’s heart pounded in her chest. “Your brothers…?”

            “Yes.” There was a brief pause. “I have two of them.”

            “Come, Sansa,” Robb said, turning his horse about and setting off at a steady trot towards the gate. “We must go.”

            But Sansa hardly heard him. Her mind was still spinning from Daenerys’ words. It was a seemingly innocuous statement, but to her, it was an answer to the question she had been agonizing over for days.

She took one last glance at the white-haired girl. “Thank you for everything…Dany.”

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