A fortnight has passed since she has arrived North at Winterfell, her home that felt more like stones of prison and not the home it once was. She longed for the halls of Red Keep, dresses of south and small, sweet talks with her to-be husband Joffrey Baratheon. The courtyard here reeked here of wet earth with heavy blend of manure and the oily smoke from the kitchens. Everything here was just coarse but it was the word of every servant, "m'lady", in northern accent, a rasp of ill-fitting and grating sound against her ears that made it hate here more than any. Lady, she was not meant to be called a lady all her life. She is meant to be queen and they should not addressed so crassly.
I should be by my husband side calming and soothing him of his anger and hate, she reminds herself for the number of time she had forgotten to keep a note of it. It should have been her hand on Joffrey's sleeve, soothing his royal grief, not Margaery, taking her place like a southern whore she is while she is now here is cold barren land because her foolish family, being traitor to her crown, forged war against the rightful king.
Her father. Eddard Stark, the destroyer of her beautiful life. It was his hunger for honour, no, for power, she thinks with a sudden, searing venom. It was for his hunger of throne that he declared Joffrey a bastard. Declaring himself the regent, as though the Seven Kingdoms were a child's toy he could destroy and rearrange at whim. He had cared more for thrones and power than for the happiness of his daughter, he had cared more for his House than for her golden future. He had destroyed her dream of marrying a golden prince and birthing him golden sons of his.
And yet… the Seven had not abandoned her. A parchment written in beautiful writing, drew her mind it. Her fingers touching the note, that contained the most recent whisper from whole of Westeros, courtesy of Lord Petyr Baelish, her only true and clever ally amongst traitor of Joffrey's crown who sends them through her handmaiden, Jenny.
His letters were the only thing that kept her from loosing her mind. His letters brought her the movements of the Small Council, and the shifting of their armies and the new rumours in the South. And Sansa sent back what she gleaned from Riverrun's messages send by her mother, or the gossip overheard in Winterfell's drafty halls. Littlefinger had told her many times through words that she has a gift for counsel which benefits the Crown against rebels and soon the realm will listen to her. Her appreciation for her service always brings a smile to her face, a curve of lips her mother, Catelyn, had never possessed, but her aunt certainly did.
A knock, sharp and unwelcome, interrupted her golden reverie as Jenny slipped inside and dips a deep bow. "Your Grace."
The title, spoken in a low but reverent voice, brought a shiver of pure, addictive pleasure down Sansa's spine. One day, the whole of Westeros would say it, and not just this single, peasant girl groomed and send by Lord Baelish. And Jenny, because of her naive mind but loyal work, would become her chief handmaiden when the world finally rights her destiny.
"What is it, Jenny?" Sansa's voice was threaded with annoyance. Her mind had been full of golden hair and golden children of hers and Joffrey, and she despised being dragged back into Winterfell's dreary reality.
"I apologize, Your Grace," Jenny murmurs, her gaze lowering. "But Lady Barbrey Dustin has arrived at Winterfell…with fifty knights of her own, and of House Ryswell."
Sansa frowns, her mother had spoken of Lady Dustin many time, a woman of sharp tongue and eyes that missed nothing, and clinging to old griefs done by Starks to her in many ways. A woman whose hatred for the Starks can match Boltons in many ways.
"Anything else?" Sansa asked, her tone flat and cool, something she had learned from Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister.
Jenny hesitates, leaning in to lower her voice to a conspirating whisper. "Lord Manderly has walked to the courtyard to welcome Lady Dustin."
The words struck Sansa harder than any. She rises from her seat at once, her face tightening in an ugly look that her mother used to make when Jon had performed better at something then her son.
"That man forgets his place," she hissed, the sound barely audible. "He performs duties that belongs to me."
Jenny bows her head, her smile quick and hidden. "Just as I thought, Your Grace. He means to overthrow your rule with ploy of his own."
Sansa's breathes in sharply, indignation swelling in her chest. Of course. Lord Manderly, fat and a rebel at that thought himself her guardian and her lord. As though she were a little girl in braids, instead of Joffrey's rightful queen.
"Take me to the hall," she commands, her voice steady and carrying. "I will meet them both there."
Jenny's smile widens, a sly, victorious flash crossing across her face. "Of course, Your Grace."
Leagues in the north away from Winterfell in the summer snow of season. A great red dragon flies high in sky above the clouds, with her silver linings between the red scale shining in the sun. Its wings beat with the force that dispersed the clouds around.
Shiera Seastar clung to Aemon's back, her cloak snapping behind her in the wind. Her gloveless, pale and thin, fingers pressed in the thick sharp spike jutting out her back. She leans in until her lips brushes the outer part of his ear, her voice coming in a husky voice. "Where are we going, my dear nephew?"
Aemon keeps his gaze locked below on the whiteness of the snow, and after a moment he answers. "To meet the wisest and most intelligent man I have ever known, Aunt. The Maester."
She humms in a soft and throaty sound. Her other hand, free from its hold, goes to his face, her black polished nails, trailing all around his jaws. "Why do you not call me something more intimate, as I do you, my beautiful nephew?"
Aemon shifts in his place, continued with stiffening of his shoulders that had nothing to do with the wind. It was always uncomfortable for him to become subject of her tease. "Why have you removed your gloves?" he shouts, countering her tease with something meaningful.
Shiera stills for a moment, then laughs in a delightful and beautiful sound, something he had never heard before from her. "You do care for your only beautiful Aunt, don't you dear. As for question you countered not giving answer to my own, we have the blood of dragons in our veins, dear nephew. Cold does not disturb us." Her voice then darkens, falling to a bare whisper. "But this cold… it makes me shudder. This place is filled with dark magic and cold that drinks not only fire but also life." She draws her hands from his face to wrap them around his chest, her body pressing closely drawing warmth from his back. "But your blood… your blood is different."
Her cheek rests against his spine, her breath touching his neck. "I have never felt such thing from anyone, not even from a kin of mine" she murmurs. "Your warmth banishes cold of darkness coming, but your blood also has ice to warm fire of any."
Aemon says nothing. He could feel her heartbeat through the leather, getting smaller with every breath. He gets a hold of her hand around his chest holding her tightly lest she falls, and his mind drifts back to the dream that had woken him last night in the cave near mountain region of Umbers. Three dragons circling his own, he knew whose dragons those were and he knew what coming of that meant.