Song of The Blessed - 13

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 13 – The North

~ Cersei Lannister ~

The great wheelhouse was a torture device disguised as a luxury for the Royal Family. It was a lumbering beast of heavy wood and metal, swaying and groaning with every rut in the Kings Road, a cage that smelled of stale perfume, polished wood, and the lingering, sour scent of travel sickness. The carriage had already broken down thrice on this stupid journey her husband had them taking. 

Cersei Lannister sat against the velvet cushions, her posture rigid, her spine completely straight, that refused to bend to the swaying of the carriage. Outside, the North was a desolate, grey expanse that seemed to stretch on into eternity. It was a land of savages and snow, of biting winds that found their way through the cracks in the window shutters, chilling her to the bone despite the heavy furs she wore.

She hated it. She hated the trees, ancient and spooky with faces carved on them. She hated the mud. She hated the silence that was only broken by the tramping of horses and the shouts of men. But most of all, she hated that they were here at all.

Across from her, Myrcella and Tommen were playing a game with painted wooden figures, their laughter a soft, bubbling sound that brought a smile to Cersei’s face, her only source of comfort for the last few weeks they had been travelling.

"And then Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the princess!" Tommen exclaimed, marching a little knight across the fold-out table.

"He hasn’t saved her yet, he has only ghosted behind the dragon using his shield’s reflection to blind," Myrcella corrected gently, her golden curls bouncing as she moved a dragon piece. "See? It’s a trick of the light."

Beside Cersei, Joffrey sat slumped against the window, his arms crossed, his face twisted into a permanent scowl of boredom and disdain. He was kicking his heel rhythmically against the bench, a dull thump, thump, thump that echoed in the confined space.

"Stop that," Cersei snapped, her voice sharp.

Joffrey looked at her, his green eyes heavy-lidded. "I am bored, Mother. This country is a grave. Why must I ride in this box? I should be riding with Father and Draedon."

"Because the air is too cold, and you have never ridden for long distances before," Cersei said, smoothing the skirts of her crimson gown. "You will not catch a chill just to satisfy your vanity. Your father is used to travelling on horseback and Draedon... he is different."

She said the last bit with a different tone, a much softer tone. Draedon. He was Robert’s son, through and through, yet possessed of a terrifying competence that Robert had never known. The rumours of his 'blessings' had spread from the capital to the very edges of the realm.

Cersei smiled faintly behind the rim of her goblet. Her son. Her beautiful, miraculous anomaly. He was the one bright spot in this tedious parade. While Joffrey was her son with Jamie, her golden lion, Draedon had always been something... else.

Something more.

Not just because he was her firstborn or the Crown Prince. Since the incident in the arena, since his return from the threshold of death, he had changed. He walked with a terrifying charm that eclipsed the man she had been in love with since she was a child, Prince Rhaegar.

Her mind drifted back to the reason for this cursed journey.

Tywin Lannister. The name echoed in her mind like a prayer and a curse. Her father had returned to Casterly Rock, shortly before Jon Arryn's sudden passing. He was the only choice. He was the Hand the realm needed. He would have brought order. He would have crushed the debts Robert had accrued and helped Draedon's eventual ascension be much smoother.

But Robert... that drunken fool. He was sentimental. He wanted his old friend. He wanted Ned Stark.

Cersei looked out the window as the wheelhouse lurched over a particularly large stone. Ned Stark. The Lord of Winterfell. A man of honour and rigid morals. A man who would look at the court in King's Landing and see only rot. A man who did not know how to play the game.

If Stark came South, he would ask questions. Just like Jon Arryn had.

The thought of the old Hand brought a cold sweat to the nape of her neck, colder than the Northern wind.

Jon Arryn was dead. The Stranger had taken him, as evidenced by everyone in the Great Sept of Baleor that day. And for that, Cersei offered a silent, fervent prayer to whatever gods were listening. It had been too close. Far too close.

Pycelle had come to her, his chains rattling, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.

'He was seen asking after the King’s bastards, Your Grace. He visited the armorer. He visited the brothels. And he was reading... The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.'

The book. That damned book. It detailed the hair colour, the height, the traits of every noble line. Baratheon: Black of hair. Black of hair. Black of hair.

And her children with Jamie... Golden.

The memory hit her then, a visceral flashback that pulled her out of the swaying carriage and back to the stone corridors of the Red Keep, weeks ago, when the fear had first taken hold.

~ The Flashback ~

The air in the Red Keep was stifling, thick with the humidity of the Crownlands. Cersei paced the length of her room, her hands wringing together, her knuckles white. The tapestry on the wall, depicting a hunt, seemed to mock her. The prey was cornered. The hunters were closing in.

The door opened, and Jaime slipped in. He looked glorious in his white armour, the very image of the perfect knight, his golden hair catching the afternoon sun.

He saw her state immediately. The smile dropped from his face.

"Cersei?" He crossed the room in three long strides, taking her by the shoulders. "What is it? Has Robert hurt you?"

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with panic. "Jon Arryn knows, Jaime. He knows."

Jaime frowned, his grip tightening. "Knows what? That the King is a drunk? That the realm is broken? Everyone knows."

“About me,” Cersei hissed, the words tasting like bile. “About the children. Pycelle told me. Arryn has been sniffing around. He’s been tracking Robert’s bastards. Comparing them. He has a book, Jaime. A book of lineages. He’s putting it together. Gold and Black. It doesn’t match.”

She pulled away from him, pacing again, her skirts swishing angrily around her ankles. "If he tells Robert... if he brings proof... Robert will kill us. He will kill me, he will kill you, and he will kill the children. He’ll put their heads on spikes, Jaime! I can see it. I can see Joffrey’s head on the walls of this god forsaken place!”

Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. She was drowning in the terror of it all.

Jaime caught her again, this time pulling her hard against his chest. The steel of his breastplate dug into her soft flesh, a grounding, solid reality. He forced her to look at him.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice calm, dangerously steady. It was the voice of a man who did not fear consequences because he believed himself above them. "Jon Arryn is an old man. Old men die. They get sick. Their hearts fail."

"He isn't dying fast enough!" Cersei cried, clutching his arms. "He is going to speak. I feel it."

"Then let him speak," Jaime said with a dismissive sneer. "Who will believe him? He has no proof. Just a book? Just some bastards? We are Lannisters. We are the Lions. Robert is a king in name, but father rules this realm in truth. Robert wouldn't dare raise a hand against us, knowing full well that he shall incur the wrath of the Old Lion."

"You don't know him," Cersei whispered, trembling. "When his fury takes him... he is a beast. He hates us, Jaime. He hates the Lannister influence in the city. If it was not for Draedon, he would hate me too. He would relish the chance to destroy our power."

Jaime’s expression softened. He raised a hand, cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking the skin beneath her eye. The gesture was tender, possessive, and infinitely reassuring. His green eyes bored into hers, promising violence against the world for her sake.

"I won't let him," Jaime vowed. "I would kill him first. I would kill them all. Jon Arryn, Robert, the whole lot of them. Whatever they find out, whatever they think they know... we deny it. We deny it until our last breath. And if it comes to swords..."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the intimate space between them.

"...then I will cut through anyone who tries to take you from me. We are the only two people in the world, Cersei. You and I. We came into this world together, and we belong together."

Cersei closed her eyes, drinking in his confidence. It was a drug. When Jaime was close, when he looked at her like that, she could almost believe they were untouchable.

"What do we do?" she whispered.

"We wait," Jaime said, kissing her forehead. "And if someone finds out... if someone actually finds the truth..."

He pulled back slightly, a dark, smirk playing on his lips; the smile of the Kingslayer.

"...then we do what lions do to sheep. We tear them apart."

~ Flashback End ~


Cersei blinked, the grey light of the North washing away the golden warmth of the memory. The carriage jolted again, hard enough to make her teeth click together.

"Mother?" Tommen asked, looking at her with concern. "Are you unwell?"

Cersei straightened, composing her features into the mask of the Queen. "I am fine, sweetling. Just... weary of this road."

She looked at Joffrey, who was now picking at a loose thread on his doublet, and then at Myrcella.

Jon Arryn was dead. The threat from that quarter was gone. But now they were riding into the den of the wolf. She had to be vigilant. She had to be smarter than Robert, more ruthless than Stark.

She thought of the maniacal bitch, Lysa Arryn. She had fled to the Vale immediately after the funeral of her late husband. Paranoia scratched at the back of her mind. Had Jon told his wife? No. Lysa was a fool. If she knew, she would have screamed it from the mountaintops.

The real danger was here. In the North. If Robert named Ned Stark Hand, the wolf would come south. He would bring his dour morality and his sharp eyes.

Cersei’s hand drifted to her stomach, beneath the heavy velvet. She would not let them hurt her children. She was a lioness. And a lioness did not fear the wolves; she hunted them.

"We are nearly there," Cersei said aloud, her voice cold and commanding. "Joffrey, sit up straight. Stop sulking. You are a Prince. When we arrive, you will look like one, not a pouting child."

She took another sip of wine. Let Ned Stark come. Let him bring his Northern honour and his frozen judgment. She was a lioness of the Rock. She had her brother’s sword, her father’s gold, and her son’s godhood.

She would protect her cubs. And anyone who stood in her way would burn.

~ Sansa Stark ~

The room of Eddard Stark’s eldest daughter in Winterfell was usually a place of drafty chills and dim light, but today, the hearth was roaring with a fire that consumed logs as thick as a man’s thigh. The heat was stifling to some, but for Sansa Stark, it was necessary.

She stood before the polished Myrrish glass mirror, a rare luxury in the North, and critically assessed her reflection.

Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she didn't see Sansa the girl, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. She saw a woman grown. She saw a queen in waiting.

"It is... a bit much, isn't it, My Lady?"

Sansa turned to look at the seamstress, a young girl named Alayne who was currently kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of the gown.

"It is perfect," Sansa breathed, her hands smoothing down the fabric.

The dress was a gift from Lord Manderly of White Harbor, acquired from a merchant ship that had sailed straight from the Free Cities of Essos. It was not the heavy wool or grey felt of the North. It was silk, dyed a blue so deep and vibrant it rivalled the summer sky at dusk.

And it was tight.

She had fought with her mother for three days over this dress. Catelyn had called it "immodest," "southern," and "unbecoming of a Stark." Sansa had wept, she had pleaded, she had even enlisted Arya’s unwitting help by pointing out that Arya’s breaches were far more scandalous with how tight they were around her behind. In the end, Catelyn had relented, worn down by the sheer force of Sansa’s teenage desperation to be beautiful for the King’s arrival.

Or rather, for the Prince’s arrival.

Sansa turned back to the mirror, twisting her body to see the profile. She was ten-and-eight now, and the gods had been generous. No, they had been bountiful.

She had inherited her mother’s Tully features—the high cheekbones, the auburn hair that fell in thick, lustrous waves down her back—but her figure was something entirely her own. A figure that had surpassed her mother’s.

The dress clung to her like a second skin, designed by Essosi tailors who understood that the female form was art to be displayed, not hidden.

Her waist was cinched tight, emphasizing the dramatic flair of her hips. The silk hugged her rather big behind, sculpting the round, bouncy curves that she had grown into over the last year. It was a figure that made the stable boys stumble over their own feet and the guards stare a little too long when she walked the courtyard when Robb and Jon were sparring.

She ran her hands down her sides, over the curve of her long, thick thighs, feeling the smooth silk against her skin. Then, her hands moved up to her stomach, perfectly flat with the right amount of fat, and rested just beneath her breasts.

They were huge. There was no other word for it. They swelled against the neckline of the dress, creamy and pale, pushed up by the corsetry to create a cleavage that offered a small, inviting glimpse to the prize behind it. The blue silk strained slightly across her chest, a testament to her fullness.

She bit her lip, a flush rising to her cheeks. She looked... desirable. She looked like the maidens in the songs, the ones who captured the hearts of dragon princes and knights.

"He will see me," she whispered to the reflection. "He has to."

He.

Draedon Baratheon.

The name whispered through her mind like a secret prayer.

She had never met him, but she felt as though she had known him for a thousand lifetimes. The rumours that filtered North were not just gossip; to Sansa, they were gospel. She had devoured every scrap of information that travelled up the Kingsroad.

They said he was the warrior reborn. That he possessed the strength of ten men, that he had crushed the Mountain’s head with his own hands as if it were a melon. They said he was the Champion of the Gods, blessed by the Seven themselves. 

They whispered that he was blessed by the Seven themselves. That the Smith had forged his body, the Warrior had guided his sword, and the Father had given him wisdom.

The bards sang of him. They called him the Resurrected Prince. They said he had died in the arena, skewered by the Mountain, and had risen again, bathed in golden light, the Champion of the Gods.

But it was the descriptions of his beauty that made Sansa’s knees weak.

’Eyes like twin sapphires,’ the bards sang. ’Hair as dark as the midnight sky. A smile that could melt the Wall.’

She imagined him riding through the gates of Winterfell. He would be on a great black charger. His armour would be gleaming. He would look up, and he would see her. Not Arya, with her dirt-smudged face and horse-face. Not Beth Cassel. Not Jeyne Poole.

He would see her.

He would see this dress. He would see her curves, her hair, her eyes.

"Does it fit right in the back?" Sansa asked, her voice trembling slightly with nerves.

"It fits like a glove, My Lady," Alayne mumbled, sounding a bit scandalized. "Though... your father might have a word about the neckline."

"Father won't notice," Sansa dismissed, turning again to admire the way the dress hugged her rear. "He'll be too busy with the King."

She imagined the meeting. Draedon would dismount. He would walk to her. He would take her hand. And he would know. He would know that she was the one. The rumours said he was currently the most desired man in the world, that the ladies of the South threw themselves at his feet, ladies whom he participated in carnal acts with. 

It made Sansa fume, even as a healthy blush covered her face. But Sansa was a Stark of Winterfell. She had the blood of the First Men and the blood of the river kings. She was beautiful, and today, she was armed with silk and lace.

She remembered the stories of Jonquil and Florian, of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Tragedy always followed, but the love... the love was what mattered. She wanted that love and the fire that came with it. She wanted a man who was more than just a title. 

"Lady Sansa!" Septa Mordane’s voice cut through her reverie from the hallway. "They are spotted! The Royal wheelhouse is entering the outer village! Come at once!"

Sansa’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She took one last look in the mirror. She pinched her cheeks to make them rosy. She adjusted the bodice of her dress one fraction of an inch lower, daring to show just a hint more skin.

"I am ready," she whispered to her reflection.

She swept out of the room, the blue silk swishing around her legs, her heavy breasts bouncing slightly with her hurried steps, her mind filled with sapphire eyes and golden crowns. She was ready to meet her destiny.

~ Ned Stark ~

The courtyard of Winterfell was a tableau of grey and white, punctuated by the heavy, fur-lined cloaks of the Stark household. The wind bit at exposed skin, a sharp reminder that summer here was merely a calmer version of winter.

Lord Eddard Stark stood at the head of his household, his face a mask of solemn duty. The wind bit at his exposed face, but he did not flinch. He was a man of the North; the cold was his oldest companion.

Beside him stood Catelyn, looking regal and anxious in equal measure. Her eyes darted over the children, ensuring they were presentable. Rickon was clinging to her skirts. Bran was bouncing on his heels, eager to see the knights, especially the King's Guard and Ser Barristan Selmy. Robb stood tall and broad-shouldered, trying to mimic his father’s stoicism. Arya was wearing a helmet she had stolen, which Ned had gently confiscated moments ago.

And then there was Sansa.

Ned glanced at his eldest daughter and felt a pang of fatherly alarm mixed with resignation. She was beautiful, breathtakingly so, but that dress... By the Old Gods, if the South had corrupted the fashions this much, he feared for the realm. She looked less like a child of winter and more like a maiden from a sultry ballad. But there was no time to argue now.

The sound of the procession grew louder. The rumble of wheels, the clatter of hooves, the blaring of horns.

Through the heavy wooden gates, the royal party poured in like a flood of gold and crimson. Lannister guards in their red cloaks, Baratheon men with antlers on their helms. The banners snapped in the wind—the Lion and the Stag, dancing together.

First came the outriders, men in heavy cloaks bearing the stag of Baratheon and the lion of Lannister. They streamed into the courtyard, their horses snorting steam into the frigid air.

Then came the Kingsguard, their white armour gleaming even under the overcast sky. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, looked about with an arrogant smirk, his golden hair bright against the snow. Ser Barristan led them, just like the last time he had seen them. The others, he barely recognised. He recognised another guard. Sandor Clegane, the Hound, scowled at everything, his scarred face twisted in perpetual hate.

Ned felt the shift in the air before he saw the source.

It wasn't the King. Everyone knew when Robert was near; he was a loud, boisterous force of nature. This was different.

It was a pressure. A heaviness in the air that seemed like the moments before a lightning strike. It raised the hairs on Ned’s arms. He looked at Catelyn and saw she felt it too; her hand had gone to her chest.

Even the wolves—Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer and Shaggydog, prowling near the kennels—stopped their pacing and whined low in their throats, their hackles rising not in aggression, but in submission.

Then, the King rode in.

Robert Baratheon was a mountain of a man, though now a mountain slowly eroding into a huge mass of flesh. He sat upon a massive warhorse that looked like it was straining under his weight. His beard was coarse and greying towards the edges, hiding a double chin, and his face was flushed with wine and windburn.

But beside him...

Ned’s breath hitched. The reason for what the entire courtyard was feeling.

Riding a stallion as black as a moonless night was a figure that seemed to suck the light from the courtyard and reflect it back a thousand times brighter.

Draedon Baratheon.

He wore black armor that seemed to absorb the shadows, etched with gold that shimmered like liquid fire. He wore no helmet, allowing the North to see him. His hair was the black of the Baratheons, windswept and wild, framing a face that was devastatingly handsome, a gift from his mother's family. His eyes were the startling blue of a Northern glacier, piercing and intelligent.

But it was the presence of him. He radiated an aura that was almost visible to the naked eye. He looked at the gathered Starks, and Ned felt as though the sun had suddenly broken through the clouds. It was a physical warmth, a charisma so potent it felt like a spell.

The procession halted.

Robert groaned as he swung his leg over the saddle. He landed heavily in the mud, swaying slightly.

Ned knelt, and his family followed suit. The snow seeped into his breeches, cold and wet.

"Your Grace," Ned said, his voice echoing in the silent courtyard. "Winterfell is yours."

He waited. He saw Robert’s boots—fine leather, splattered with mud—walk toward him.

"Get up," Robert growled. "You’re making me feel old, Ned."

Ned rose. He looked at his old friend. He saw the lines around Robert’s eyes, the burst veins on his nose, the massive belly that strained his doublet and armour plate. He remembered the demon of the Trident, the man with a hammer who could shatter shields like glass. That man was gone, eaten by this stranger.

Robert looked him up and down, his eyes critical. A grin slowly spread across his face, revealing white teeth amidst the black beard.

"You've got fat," Robert’s voice boomed.

The courtyard held its breath.

Ned looked down at his own stomach—firm, muscular, hardened by years of training and Northern living. Ned moved his gaze back towards his oldest friend. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He looked at Robert’s massive gut and gestured at his friend.

Then, Robert threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was a loud, booming sound that echoed off the stone walls. He grabbed Ned in a bear hug that drove the air from Ned’s lungs, smelling of wine and sweat and travel.

"Cat!" Robert shouted over Ned’s shoulder, releasing him. "You haven't aged a day!"

He moved down the line, greeting Catelyn with a kiss on the cheek, rumpling Rickon’s hair, nodding to Robb. He appreciated Sansa's beauty, looked at Arya with a tenderness that Ned only saw in his eyes for Lyanna, and with how similar the two looked it was not a surprise.

Then, the introductions turned to the others.

"My wife, the Queen Cersei," Robert gestured vaguely to the wheelhouse where Cersei was just emerging, looking like an ice queen in her furs.

"My children," Robert continued. "Joffrey. Tommen. Myrcella."

The blonde children lined up. Joffrey looked bored, sneering at the castle walls, Princess Myrcella smiled sweetly and Tommen clung slightly to his mother and sister. 

"And," Robert said, his voice swelling with undeniable pride, stepping aside. "My son. The Crown Prince. Draedon."

Then, Draedon dismounted.

He didn't land heavily like his father. He flowed from the saddle, his boots touching the ground with the grace of a water dancer. He walked toward them, and the silence returned, but this time it was a silence of awe.

"Lord Stark," Draedon said. His voice was a rich baritone, smooth and resonant. It carried across the yard without him needing to shout. "My father speaks of you often. It is an honour to finally stand in the North."

"The honour is ours, Your Grace," Ned replied, surprised by the boy's courtliness. There was a sharpness in Draedon's eyes, a calculating intelligence that reminded Ned uncomfortably of Tywin Lannister, yet tempered with a warmth that was entirely disarming.

Draedon turned to Catelyn. "Lady Stark. Your hospitality is appreciated." He kissed her hand. Catelyn, usually so composed, blushed at the attention and touch of the young prince.

Then, Draedon turned to the children. He nodded to Robb, a warrior's acknowledgment. "We must spar, Stark. I hear the North breeds wolves with teeth."

Robb straightened, grinning. "I would like that, Your Grace."

Then, Draedon stopped.

He stood before Sansa.

Ned watched his daughter. She was trembling. She was wearing the blue dress that Catelyn had fought her on, and Ned had to admit, she looked... grown. Too grown. The dress clung to her curves, highlighting her womanhood in a way that made Ned want to wrap her in a cloak.

Sansa’s face was pale, her eyes wide, fixed on Draedon as if he were the sun itself.

Draedon looked at her.

And in that moment, Ned saw the magic happen. Draedon didn't just look at her; he focused on her. His expression softened into a smile that was intimate, dazzling, and utterly consuming.

It was the magic of the blessing Aphrodite had delivered.

"Lady Sansa," Draedon murmured.

He took her gloved hand in his. His touch was warm, electric. A jolt of pleasure shot up Sansa’s arm, making her knees tremble.

He bowed low, bringing her hand to his lips. He didn't just brush it; he pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.

Sansa let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. Her knees visibly buckled. If Draedon hadn't been holding her hand, steadying her with a subtle strength, Ned was sure she would have fainted dead away into the snow.

"The bards do not do you justice," Draedon said, looking up into her eyes, his voice low enough that only those close could hear, but projected with the skill of a god. "They call you the Jewel of the North. But jewels are cold. Your presence is liquid fire."

Sansa turned a shade of crimson that rivalled the Lannister colours. She couldn't speak. She just stared, her chest heaving against the tight silk of her bodice, completely and utterly ensnared.

Ned frowned slightly. The boy was dangerous. He wielded charm like a blade.

Before the moment could linger too long, the Queen approached. Cersei Lannister moved with a stiff, regal gait. She offered her hand to Ned to kiss, her green eyes sweeping over him with cool indifference.

"Lord Stark," she said. "You have a... rustic home."

"It keeps the snow out, Your Grace," Ned replied evenly.

"Take me to the crypts, Ned," Robert said as soon as introductions were over, his voice heavy with a sudden melancholy. "I wish to pay my respects."

Cersei stiffened. Her eyes flashed with irritation. "My love," she spoke, her tone sweet to the untrained ear, but Ned understood her true intention. "It has been a long journey. The dead can wait."

The courtyard went silent.

To speak sharply to the King, in front of his subjects... if it were anyone else, they would be losing their tongues within moments. 

Robert however, he turned his back on her, dismissing the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as if she were a scullery maid.

"Ned," Robert commanded. "Show me."

Ned looked at Cersei. He saw the fury in her eyes, the humiliation burning there. He felt a pang of sympathy, a feeling that he did not allow to persist.

He bowed his head slightly, inviting another lecture from Robert on his formal attitude. "As you command, Your Grace."

He shot an apologetic look at the Queen, then turned to Catelyn and Maester Luwin. "Cat, Maester Luwin... please see the Queen and the royal family settled. Take them to their assigned chambers. Ensure the preparations for tonight's feast are without flaw."

"Come on," Robert grunted, already walking toward the entrance to the crypts, his heavy boots crunching in the snow. Ned fell into step beside his old friend, leaving the light and the living behind for the cold, silent dark of the dead.

As they walked away, Ned glanced back once. He saw Draedon standing in the centre of the yard, surrounded by Stark men and Lannister guards alike, all listening to him with rapt attention. He saw Sansa staring at the Prince as if he were the only star in the sky. Seems like the rumours that had caught the ear of the Lord of Winterfell were true after all, Prince Draedon had started to run things since he had returned. 

The prince then walked to back where his daughter was, holding Sansa’s gaze the entire way. The Prince whispered something else to her, and Sansa blushed with a smiling blooming across her face. A radiant, terrifyingly hopeful smile.

‘Winter is coming,’ Ned thought, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the wind. ‘And I fear it brings fire with it.’

Author’s Notes

Canon is finally here. Can’t wait to bring you guys more.