theladyofwinterfell | a storm from the east

a storm from the east

The combined might of the Northern army and the sellswords rallied behind Daemon Storm (Baratheon now, in truth, as who is going to let a king have a bastard name?) had easily trumped the Lannister and Tyrell forces, the latter of which had turned toward the end of the battle when they knew they'd lost. The North won its independence by backing Daemon's claim and Stannis had withdrawn to Gods known where with his army and his Red Priestess. Sansa had no idea and she had the sneaking suspicion that everyone was fairly relieved about it; he would have been a poor king.

Daemon, however, seems a fine king thus far and he is enough of a swordsman and a charmer that every house rallies for him. He's what Robert had been when he was younger, the people whisper, and is popular in that regard. Sansa herself has a more or less positive opinion of him - he'd liberated her from the Lannisters and while he'd taken the Red Keep for himself, there'd been no raping of the women there and it seemed his men were sticking by that order. They weren't out to hurt the people of King's Landing and after years of Lannister rule, it seems it's turning for the better.

For Sansa's part, the alliance to make Robb King in the North had come with the price of Sansa's betrothal to Daemon. He's no Joffrey, she thinks and he's not Tyrion Lannister. The latter had been kind to her, though, and she'd been quick to vouch for him when the Lannisters were put to the sword. Still, the marriage hadn't been binding because it hadn't been consummated and Tyrion graciously hadn't pressed the issue, wanting Sansa free to make her own choices. She's not free, exactly, but the man she's betrothed to doesn't seem to be a bad one even if he's rough around the edges.

Sansa had been moved to nicer rooms since the coup and they're close to the offices where the King and the Hand work on the business of the day. She has none, really, but her curiosity does cause her to linger around when she ought to be making a wedding dress or walking in the Godswood or doing anything with her newfound freedom. She slips into the king's office and gives him a quick curtsy.

"Robb's with his men and I'm tired of sewing. Is the business of running this place harder than winning it, Your Grace?"

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Even with a new king - the rightful king, many whispered - on the Iron Throne of Westeros, the lands were still under the threat of war. The young Targaryen girl from the east, the separatists of Dorne, and finally, the looming threat of the undead far to the North.

Daemon was pragmatic enough to answer Robb Stark's call when it came, leaving Highgarden with his own men, his wife, and a large contingent of Tyrell soldiers, riding hard for Winterfell and picking up more and more horses and men along the way. The Riverlands he rode through with scarcely a pause, conscripting Sansa's great-uncle Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, and Lord Edmure, his wife's uncle, and as many men as they could spare.

Every lord with whom he spoke quailed at the thought of leaving their lands and holds vulnerable to the Lannisters, but Daemon had pointed out that if the army of the dead swept south and killed them all, it wouldn't matter a damn bit, would it. If Cersei Lannister dared show her face outside of Casterly Rock, the Storm King would have it peeled from her skull and flown on his own standard.

Two weeks from Winterfell, he received a raven from Robb Stark stating that he'd sent his half-brother, Jon Snow, south to Dragonstone to treat with this Danerys Stormborn, and entreat her to come to Winterfell to meet their combined threat. While the tactician in him saw the merit of this lunacy, nevertheless vile epithets boiled off of his lips for a solid hour after reading the small scroll.

Tyrion, who'd caught up with their entourage about a month prior, tried to soothe his liege by assuring him that this "Dragon Queen" would, in fact, see sense and agree to an armistice, at least while the dead remained the larger threat. Daemon hadn't been entirely convinced. Tycho had offered to take care of the problem once and for all, but the Storm King refused; he wasn't going to have the girl murdered right when a parley was in motion.

Sansa had enjoyed the trip to Highgarden, even if it wasn't full of niceties since Daemon insisted on going quickly and without fuss, and she felt that she'd grown a little as a wife and a woman along the way. Of course, when Robb's raven had come to tell them to turn North, she'd felt a bit guilty at being excited about coming home again even if it was coming home to war.

She'd gotten ill on the road with a fortnight (at least) left to go and it was only after talking with some of the women and a maester who'd come from Riverrun that it wasn't flux or anything life threatening, just pregnancy, and she'd been relieved and delighted to tell her husband that news. She wished the baby had better timing and had waited to make her ill until they got to Winterfell but that wasn't to be. Still, Sansa insisted she'd ride in because she thought Daemon would expect it of her and frankly, as a Queen, she was riding in. She wasn't Cersei Lannister.

Winterfell was within sight and while Sansa isn't much of a rider, she's gotten better over the course of the trip and brings her horse up alongside Daemon's. "I've held up a good front here but if you want me to be present at any councils, I'm going to need rest. I think your son has protested everything I've put into my body the past two days. I'm riding in, though. I don't want you to think I'm weak."

"Of course you need to rest," he agreed, legging The Black around a particularly deep rut in the roadway. They'd fallen to a walk not long ago to give the horses a bit of a breather, and Daemon had been surprised, both at Sansa's declaration that she was with child, which had caused no end of revelry around the campfire that night, and that she insisted on sitting her own grey mare, riding along beside him despite the grueling pace he'd set.

Her uncles had blustered about such stubbornness, but Daemon had slyly reminded both the Blackfish and Edmure that Sansa was half a Tully, and that she got her hard-headed streak honestly. And then proceeded to let her do as she wished, only cautioning that if she felt faint or dizzy for any reason, to speak up and he'd take care of it and her.

"And why in the world would I believe you weak, wife? You're made of sterner stuff than vapid fancies and frilly dresses, Sansa." The big black horse edged closer, allowing his master to lean over and kiss the Queen's smooth pale cheek with his own amused little grin. "Sometimes I'd swear you have more steel in your spine than Qotho, and that's impressive."

"I'm still scared of Qotho," Sansa says, half-smiling. She had been, at first, because who wouldn't be terrified of a Dothraki warrior? She'd seen far worse things from men less qualified than Qotho with sword and arakh. Still, Qotho wouldn't actually harm her for all the world so being "afraid" of him was more a joke than anything else. He was gentle and deferential as far as she was concerned.

"One day I'll mispronounce something and accidentally insult his mother," she says. "And then we'll have an incident. I've prepared for that by having some of my jewelry melted down so I can give him more bells for his hair. I don't need the silver and I think he'd wear it better."

Daemon snorted a laugh, giving a brief glance back over his shoulder at his swarthy shadow. Qotho rode like all Dothraki, as if he'd been born in his saddle, but he paid absolutely no mind to his khal or his khaleesi's conversation. At the first hint of danger, however, that placid demeanor would change and in its place would be a Dothraki Bloodrider, Blood of my Blood to his Khal, and a terror to any and all that threatened.

"He'd like the bells, I think," Daemon speculated lightly. "I could use a few, too, if you'd ever have a mind." Despite his Westerosi heritage, the Storm King still wore his braids, though according to Westerosi custom they were the same length as the rest of his customarily untidy mane. "And you've a good handle on the language," he praised her in the same tone. "So don't worry about the insults. They all know what you're trying to say."

"I'll have some made for you as well," Sansa promises. "And then you both can wear something of mine. I'll just have to keep trying to speak Dothraki, though. It just doesn't seem right coming off my tongue."

The Valyrian is coming easier than the Dothraki but Sansa has promised herself she'll learn both and be able to speak them well in due time. It's only fair.

"Please tell me we aren't picking any Dothraki names for the child? I would like something easier to pronounce than Qotho. I'd settle for a nice Ormond or Lyanna. Steffon isn't bad either. Lyonel is a bit Lannister, though, so I'm not going to be keen on that if we're using the names of your family."

"No, although the Dothraki will no doubt come up with something to call the tyke in their own tongue." Then he laughed. "Though wouldn't that set the court on its ear? The heir to the Iron Throne carrying a Dothraki name? Ah, gods, I'd love to see that."

Daemon shook his head with a shrug. "We have plenty of time to think of names. Although Ormund is right out. Ormund Baratheon? Not in my lifetime. And given the choice, I'd rather give the babeling a name all her own, not one that's been used ten times before. So she doesn't feel obligated to carry on in her ancestor's shoes, as horrible as they had to have been."

Given the country's current state.

"Even my name is an old Northern name," Sansa points out. "Even if there's not any other Sansa Starks around now. Or none, really, since I'm Sansa Baratheon. I think there's merit in old names. But I suppose we could come up with something new. After all, those old names were original once, weren't they?"

Sansa has no idea about how to construct a new name but she guesses they have plenty of time to figure it out. She's only just gotten with child and they'll have months to decide before the baby is born. Besides, they won't know if it's a boy or girl until the birth anyway so they can't make solid plans.

"No Dothraki names though. Although Prince Qotho does have a ring."

Behind them, Daemon heard Qotho give a dry snort of amusement. "It does," he agreed, sparing another wink for his Dothraki companion. "But I think we should probably observe at least one tradition during our reign, so let this be it, eh?" The gods knew he was planning to turn them all on their ears over the course of his lifetime.

Due to the Storm King setting a grueling pace, the contingent made good time on the road to Winterfell. Robb Stark himself, along with his mother, Lady Catelyn, rode out to meet them, and greetings were exchanged all around. It pleased Daemon to see his wife reunited with her family, and he kept to his manners when he gave his mother-by-law a fond embrace and a modest kiss to her unlined cheek.

"My Lady Stark," he bowed, though his customary swarthy smirk still hovered, ever cheeky.

"Your Grace," Catelyn says back, curtsying to Daemon in response. To Sansa, she gives a lingering hug because she hasn't seen her in moons and it had been years before that. Sansa inhales her scent and memorizes the feel of her gown, the way her arms feel around her. It's been too long since she's seen her lady mother and living in the south now, she won't see her nearly as often.

"Your Grace," she says to Sansa, her smile wide. Sansa shakes her head no. "Mother, never. I'm always Sansa. I am never your grace as far as you're concerned. I am not a queen with my own family. I am just a daughter and a sister. When we're inside and settled, I have news for everyone."

It's hard to keep it secret but she wants to tell about being with child while surrounded by her family ensconced in the warm walls of Winterfell, not out in the chilly bailey. Jon and Robb are there too and Arya, looking lean and more like a rogue than a princess. She greets them all warmly with hugs, even Arya, and it's only after she's done with her family that she notices the Dragon Queen, aloof with her own contingent of Dothraki. She greets her politely.

"Queen Daenerys of Astapor," she says, tipping her head. "It is good to meet you. I have heard much about you and your dragons."

The introductions were tedious, but necessary. Thank the gods for Tyrion, else Daemon might have changed his mind about the entire thing and gone off scouting on his own out of sheer boredom. But the smallest Lannister was diplomat enough to smooth over his king's rough edges, as well as make an uneasy peace between the three current monarchs.

Although the look shared between the Targaryen "Queen" and the Storm King bespoke anything of good intent once the army of the dead was vanquished. But, as his Hand pointed out, "Once it's all over, the Night King might just walk over our corpses and continue on his way." Leaving them all fodder for his unholy army, which was a gruesome thought, that.

But Daemon did have to take grim satisfaction at the confusion of the Queen's own Dothraki, seeing this "Storm King" ride into Winterfell on a Khal's stallion, wearing Dothraki braids and leathers, with his own personal Dothraki bodyguards at his back. Warmed his black heart, it did. Even more so when he turned to address his Essos friends in their own tongue; the look on the Targaryen's face clearly stated she hadn't been expecting that.

"You speak Dothraki," she said to him, boldly stepping up while the others conversed.

Daemon glanced over his shoulder, then turned to Danerys with a simple nod. "I do."

"How?"

His eyes narrowed at the abruptness of her question, and his first reaction was to ignore her imperious demand completely, but thankfully a smidgen of good grace overruled his gut instinct and he answered, though offhandedly, as if it was of no import at all, "The same way that you did. Being immersed in their culture for several years and having little choice."

I talk Dothraki little," Sansa says haltingly, looking to Qotho for reassurance. He has a smile for her and dips his head, saying "Khaleesi" gently in encouragement. Sansa doesn't say anything else, though, because it is her lord and king's turn to speak now and she, as a good wife, should be his silent bulwark. She stays at his side, though, clearly marking herself as a Baratheon in this tete a tete.

Daenerys is stony faced and when Robb announces that they should all go inside for mead, ale, and to take the salt, Sansa is glad for it. She moves closer to Daemon and takes his arm, wanting to be close to her husband both because she cares for him and also because she wants to show her allegiance.

"Are you hungry, Daemon? Because I'm starving," she says softly. "And you know why I am."

Thankfully, Daemon had grown into politician enough not to shove his boot all the way up Danerys Targaryen's tight arse, army of the dead or dragons be damned. He was more than grateful when Robb swept everyone in for supper, though Winterfell's hall was a mite crowded with this many "nobles" in attendance. Still, there was plenty of food and ale for all, and the King of Westeros kept his wife close by his side; he'd not have her jostled about, even in her childhood home.

"Aye, sweetling, I am. Been a long damned ride from Highgarden." And it had. He'd set a furious pace, wanting to arrive as soon as possible, and thankfully, they'd arrived before the Night King. And now, presumably, they had a little time to take a breath and gather their courage, before the true winter began.

"Are you feeling well? If you feel faint, tell me. I'll not have you collapsing simply because you'd rather save yourself the embarrassment." But there was a smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eye at the jest.

"A month ago, I would have fainted before I admitted weakness in front of you," Sansa says, laughing softly. "But no, I'm not faint. I'm just hungry and very tired from the ride but if you were hoping for me to swoon so you could carry me in like a gallant knight, you're going to be disappointed."

Sansa leans in and whispers against his ear. "If you want to be solicitous later, I think there's a bath they can send up that will fit the both of us. I seem to remember such a bath existing the last time I was here."

Sansa has always been tall, after all, and has needed a longer tub.

"I'll announce the baby at supper but only after I get to eat a bit. I don't want to do it on an empty stomach. I don't think the young Baratheon would appreciate that."

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a storm from the east

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