Nothing about Westeros is what Dany expected.
For one, it’s much colder. Even on Dragonstone, her ancestral seat, the skies darken and the waves crash, and the winds blow cold through the war room. She has to instruct Irri and the Dothraki to wear warmer clothes—several times she catches Missandei without a cloak. Everyone catches a chill. All of her blood riders look significantly less threatening when they’re sniffing and hawking and shivering.
Tyrion offers mulled wine and comforts her, says it will be soon that she will be in King’s Landing, in warmer climes and with the Iron Throne, but she is quiet and thinks on the places and the seats she has had already.
The summer air of Essos had been all she had known. Illyrio’s manse at Pentos had wide corridors, blowing Dornish curtains, lemon trees and golden light. The cold cruelty of Viserys was the only bitter change in temperature, but, when they were children, he could sometimes be sweet and kind. Playful, when the mood was upon him to participate in her games. Even gentle. Far from the man he would someday become.
In the Dothraki Sea, where the nights had been starry-speckled and cold, she had not truly ever needed to wrap up. There was Drogo, there were the fires, there were horse hides and thick musk of alpha. A warm, heady place that smelled of horsesweat, horseflesh and blood—a Dothraki camp.
Strangely comforting….that is, until she tipped the lamps over and burned a great gathering of khals to the ground.
In Mereen, in the great pyramid of old Ghiscari harpies, she had felt alone and perhaps, chilled. There was Daario to warm her bed, but that was false comfort. Fleeting and temporary. There was treachery behind Daario’s smile. No real sense of safety. And her husband-that-was-not-to-be, Hizdahr zo Loraq, certainly offered none, himself—strange, oily man that he was, garbed in cloth-of-gold and feeding on poisoned locusts. There was threat and danger in Mereen, and a deep feeling of disease. Rot at the very core.
She expected to breathe freely in Westeros. Expected to feel the warmth of a home she had never known, a hearth and family she had never seen. But many things Dany had expected had not come to pass, and she should not have been so foolish this time.
The cold in her new-and-old home is bitter, bone-deep and constant. The waves are not the pleasant green-blue of Slaver’s Bay, nor the warm bath water of Pentos, nor even the waving green grass of the Dothraki ‘Sea’. They are blue-black, white-tipped and wild—dragons of the sea crashing constantly at the shores, at the jagged cliffs as if to try and challenge her own. Drogon seems to like the black cliffs and rocky outcrops, and has claimed a high, twisting spire as his own roost, but Rhaegal and Viserion seem flighty—unsettled. As if they know this to be a strange land.
Perhaps they know more than she.
It is a strange land. With strange, rough people. Jon Snow, the King in the North, comes with a great host, and he is strange indeed. Dark-eyed and solemn, an alpha with a strange familiarity to her as he stands in her throne room and asks her for permission to access dragonglass mines that she did not know she has.
Stranger still, though, is his sister.
Sansa Stark rode south with her brother’s host, and it is clear after only a moment’s examination that it is she who provided it. The men of the Vale and men of the North both look to her with respectful, lowered gaze, and she rides a bright white mare, who fairly glows amidst all those dark, homespun cloaks and drooping, dusty banners. Her gaze, however, is stern, cold, biting like a north wind. She is a commanding presence, but a silent one. She stands at Jon Snow’s side, but does not seem his Queen. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.
Dany has met few female alphas before. They are rare. Almost as rare as an omega Queen. Amidst the Dothraki there were words spoken of a Khal-who-is-Khaleesi, an alpha who commanded an army of female bloodriders and had a braid that dangled with many bells. She was more of a myth, than a true person, though. A fleeting thought on the wind. The oppressive stink of male alpha in the Dothraki camps told truth enough as to why.
In Mereen, she had met with Yara Greyjoy, who had sparked an interest in her. She was still healing from cutting away Daario, and therefore was perhaps not as attentive, but still, the Greyjoy woman caught her eye. She was fierce and wild and cocky as any of her people, and her roving gaze made Dany feel hot and strange, prickling in her omega skin. She had no doubt that Yara Greyjoy would raid her body like a true vandal, judging from how she boldly looked at Dany.
It is nothing compared to how Sansa looks at her, though.
That cold, upraised chin. That dangerous glitter in her green eyes. The way her body spoke of power and scars in equal measure. A creature not to be trifled with—perhaps one who had been trifled with a few too many times before.
It is markedly different, how the half-siblings treat her. Jon, the Bastard of the North, a man of the Night’s Watch, will hardly look at her in the eyes. Dany sense that her omega status is a bit too alluring, and he thinks to keep himself well away from temptation. His body speaks of respect, self-control, and a deep mastery of instinctive impulse. She thinks he is kind, and feels warm to him, but her feelings are almost familial—somehow he reminds her of a better, nicer Viserys. The one who played at childish games with her instead of slapping her or speaking harshly.
But Viserys was never so strong, so clearly capable of battle. Viserys was no dragon. Jon Snow, perhaps….is.
Sansa Stark, however, looks at her without any of the respect Dany should be accorded as a true Targaryen Queen. Her eyes are appraising, calculating. She seems to circle Dany, judging her for her flaws and deeming her unworthy. It is maddening. And her alpha status only adds to the confusion. Sansa wears her alpha like a badge of honor, hard-won and only recently given. She is defensive—almost constantly at-ready. There is no trust easily given from her. Her eyes say that Danyerys Targaryen will have to earn it.
And strangely…..Dany wants to.
She wars with these impulses often. Viserys would sneer and pinch her for giving in to her ‘base omega slut ways’. He never saw power in her. Only weakness, submission, obedience bought with fists and fire. Drogo saw her power...but only after he had taken her like a bitch, on her knees and screaming. Still, in the end, the status he had provided had elevated her, allowed her to be what she was. A dragon. A dragon mother.
The Dothraki had never followed an omega, before she. Jorah used to tell her all the time that she was the first omega to have been given a horse by a khal, let alone the first to lead a khalasar . She proved her worth in fire and blood, and with her dragons growing at her side, when she stepped from the pyre of Drogo’s body, they knelt.
They doubted an omega Queen again, in Qarth, and again, she stepped from the pyre of her own creation. Again, in Astapor, where the Masters had crudely talked of the price she would fetch for some Yi-Ti merchant’s bed...until Drogon had unleashed his flames, and her Unsullied had spears in their bellies.
She had always proved her worth, and, since Drogo, she had not done it with spreading her legs, as the men of the world always seemed to want.
She was a Queen first, omega second. And that was how she ruled, until she came to this land of warring people and unkind climes. And until Sansa Stark’s eyes made her cunt clench and her back want to bow.
She fights it with every core of her being, but she knows there is something there.
Jon Snow is kind, and she gives him leave to mine the dragonglass he desires. He wants her forces, as well, for some strange mission to defeat a Northern lord they are calling the Night King, but that is not agreed to. She does not believe there is an ‘army of the Dead’. She says so, plainly enough, and Jon Snow looks pained, but Sansa Stark sharpens her eyebrows with regal assert and looks at her dead on.
“There is an army.” She does not bother to add the style of ‘Your Grace’ and it should be an affront but Dany cannot think while those green eyes bore into her. “And it is dead. And it marches. And it feeds . And if we fall, up in the North, it will march on you.”
And then she turns, and walks out of the hall, without waiting to be dismissed, and Dany wants to have her guards drag her back, just so she can look at her again, but she does not.
Jon Snow is apologetic, and clearly dismayed by his sister’s lack of diplomacy, but she waves him away. She has to think. So the Northerners take camp outside her walls, and the Lady of Winterfell and King in the North are given suitable quarters in the keep. Tyrion walks and talks for a long time with Jon Snow and his advisor, a beta of gruff composure named Davos Seaworth, and tells Dany a great many things, afterward, in front of a roaring hearth. She listens. Then she sends him away again and sends for Sansa Stark.
She does not know if the alpha will come, at first. It appears she is not entirely accepting of being summoned, even by a Queen. But the alpha arrives, eventually, when the hour is almost too late, and the fire is guttering low. She is garbed warmly, and she eyes Dany’s thin nightgown as if displeased. Dany fights the urge to put her arms around her bare shoulders, and matches the alpha eye to eye, until eventually the redhead allows her the grace of a stiff chin nod and, finally: “Your Grace.”
“Tell me of the Army of the Dead.” She tries to command, but Sansa only looks at her with those strange, Northern eyes and she falters, a little. “I would...Lady Stark, I would hear of what dangers may come to my people. This is not their land, and they are unaccustomed to your ways.”
“It is not my ways that is the danger to you, now.” Sansa’s fingers splay over one of Dany’s chairs, and she can’t help but notice how long and thin they are. There is a distinct scarring on her hands, but they look strong .
“And not my people to yours. It is the Dead, Your Grace. What I said to you in your throne room was the truth. The dead rise, and walk, and once they have finished with the North, they will march to you. Take Cersei if you must, destroy her if you can. But the dead are coming to you.”
“And that is why your brother needs my dragonglass.” The wind howls, outside, like a wolf.
“Yes.” Sansa says, and there is something like a quiet relief flashing upon her eyes. “That is why we need your dragonglass. If we are to survive. And…..” She hesitates. “Were we to join our forces...your dragons could—“
“But you do not want my rule. Only my forces. Only my dragons.” Dany points out, and crosses closer to the fire. She can feel her nipples hardening under her thin gown and it is a distinct awareness of how her body betrays her. She is what Viserys mocked—a true omega. And no omega can be queen. He hisses, in her memory.
She shakes her head, slightly, to dispel it, and watches the fire. “I do not see why the North should not kneel to the dragons that bought them their freedom.”
“The North does not kneel.” Sansa’s voice is cold and sharp again. “We have, before, to a king who did not serve us. We will not again.”
“Your brother would, if I asked it of him.” Dany points out, and from the way Sansa looks down and bitterly away, she knows it is true. “Your brother honors duty before kingship. Why do you suggest he do otherwise?”
Sansa does not speak for a time. Dany begins to wonder if she will just leave, walk right out the door as she had in the throne room. Then she moves, slowly. “My brother can do as he sees fit, but Northerners may not follow him for it. That is the way of my people. If our King kneels...why, we may simply choose another.”
“That is edging on treason.” Dany reminds her, but she is more impressed than startled. She tilts her head to one side. “You would truly pick another king over your own brother?”
Sansa eyes her for a long moment, in which Dany can feel her skin prickle and twitch. “I have seen many kings.” She says, finally. “I was to marry one.” She indicates the door. “I was married, to your Hand, actually.”
“ Tyrion ?” Dany crinkles her brow, startled.
“Yes.” Sansa’s lips curl. “He is not a bad choice for a Hand, I will give you that. Much better your Hand than my husband.”
“When were you married?” Dany can’t help but ask. Her brain is swirling at the idea of Tyrion being matched to another, female alpha. “And why did they not chose an omega for him?”
Sansa looks almost sad, for a moment, and her smile is bitter. Dany feels the need to apologize, unthinkably, and even almost opens her mouth to do so—but then Sansa opens her red, lovely mouth.
“Because, Your Grace, in Westeros a daughter is a daughter. One who may not bear heirs, certainly, but still. My mother always said I was worthy of any lord who would be my husband, heirs or no, and when she was alive, perhaps I believed it.”
She looks down, that same sad smile on her lips. “In the end, I was given to Tyrion as a mockery, and he was given to me as much the same. A dwarf and an alpha. The jesters at Joffrey’s court in King’s Landing loved to make their japes at the pair of us.”
Joffrey. Dany thinks. The Usurper’s son. But then Sansa speaks again, and her mind refocuses.
“Joffrey felt it was a mockery to be given me, when he found out. While his father and my father lived, he would have done nothing about it but once they were dead….he felt free to make me his whore instead of his queen.”
Her eyes are tight. “I was glad when he died. Gladder still to be away from him. Only….I was taken away only to be made a whore again. And again.”
She does not seem to notice that Dany has taken in a breath. Sansa is staring at her own, scarred hands, with a kind of quiet contemplation before she lifts those fierce, Northern hawk-eyes again.
“And now...now, Your Grace, I have seen many kings and many husbands rise and fall and die, and I have been made to submit many times. I have no inclination to do so again, just so you can do the same as all the rest.”
The words hang in the air like a blow. Dany almost wants to step to Sansa, although whether to slap her or kiss her, she does not know. She is insulted and aroused in equal measure, and the only thing she knows is that she does not yet know enough .
“You would speak this way to someone who would be your ally?” She lands on, finally, when her throat stops constricting long enough to work properly. Her hands feel vulnerable and small and she finds she is twisting them together.
Stop sniveling so , Viserys hisses again, far away and faint. Be the dragon.
But Sansa softens, almost, imperceptibly. Her shoulders are looser, and she almost looks at Dany as if she wants her to understand. As if she, incredulously enough, is pleading.
“I would speak to you as you should be spoken to, Your Grace—as someone who is new to our lands, new to our ways. Someone who can easily be misled by pretty lies, and someone who needs true allies, true friends. True friends speak freely, and do not fear the ire of the dragon.”
Sansa is bold, then, far too bold, because she’s stepping closer and before Dany can slap her hands away she has them over Dany’s. And— Gods , but her hands are warm. “I would speak to you as a true friend.”
The closeness is thick, filling her lungs and nose and mouth. There is a wood fire scent, a fallen snow scent, a scent of clean, cold air and cracking leaves. She breathes in, unthinking, and is lost. Before she knows what she is doing, she’s leaning up, tilting her chin, parting her lips, and her body keens for the kiss before she rises and it happens.
Sansa’s whole body against her is still, for a moment, and then she’s kissing back and it’s furious as her words, sharp and parrying. She lets out a low breath into Dany’s mouth, and her tongue follows. It’s swirling, a blizzard. An eddy of emotion.
Dany is shivering, hovering close to something like a flame and it hits inside her and burns with satisfying fire. But when Sansa breaks away and pants, dragging her white teeth against Dany’s lip, she steps back, and recovers herself.
“I’m sorry.” She’s saying, quickly. “I don’t—I don’t know why I did that.”
“Don’t apologize.” Sansa is quiet, but her voice is strong. “It’s alright.”
They look at each other. Ragged breaths in the darkened room.
The winds and waves are raging outside and after the girl from the North leaves, it takes her nearly an hour to stop riding the sensation out on her own fingers, gasping into the chill night.
In the end, she gives them her forces. And her dragons.
And Jon Snow bends the knee while Sansa watches with faint displeasure lingering in her green eyes...until she turns them on Dany and they fall aflame.
Tyrion praises her for making such a strong ally. She doesn’t know who he means until he mentions Jon’s name. She nods along, and has to bite her tongue to stop from asking what was your wife like in bed?
She introduces Jon to her dragons first. Has an odd feeling they’ll like him. And they do. Rhaegal takes to him instantly, purring and stretching in their strange, guttural language that sometimes she feels as if she can almost understand.
She’s proud, when Jon puts his hand on a dragon and smiles at her. Proud in a way she would be of a sibling. Perhaps a cousin. She ruffles his hair when he grins at her, and pats his arm.
He doesn’t kiss her. He looks as though he wants to, but again, Jon Snow is a good man. He reads her well.
Sansa watches them fly around the battlements and Dany can see her eyes are sparkling as she sees dragons take to air.
Sansa scoffs when Jon suggest bringing an undead man back to King’s Landing to show Cersei of the need to put aside petty squabbles.
“That is madness.” She scowls at him, and Dany can see the family resemblance in a flash. “You would risk your life, and the lives of how many others, for what? A rotting piece of flesh? No.” She sits back and folds her fingers and everyone in the room looks to her. “If the sight of a dragon won’t convince Cersei then nothing will. She is not a reasonable creature. Fear is the only thing that rules her.”
And she’s right. Of course.
Drogon arrives at the Dragonpit with Dany astride, and she thinks she catches Sansa smile up at the sky, just before she lands. Just a quirk of the lips. It fills her heart and she is able to look down upon Cersei like a true queen.
Cersei fills their ears with pretty lies. To her sadness, it appears Tyrion believes them, and wholeheartedly. Dany does not. This is another omega who has been bought and sold, she thinks. And she knows Cersei will never abandon the power she has earned. She can see a trebuchet being loaded behind Cersei Lannister’s pleasant smile. A scorpion bolt aimed at her heart. She will have to rip this one out, root and stem. She will have to beard the lioness in her den, before all is done.
But Cersei pretends to send her forces with them and that’s enough for now, so she leaves with her dragon and catches Sansa giving her a knowing look when she glares at the other, older blonde omega queen.
Cersei is strong. But Sansa is right. Fear will rule her.
Winterfell is a foreign land unlike any she has seen so far. And cold. Dead cold. As if the land is already a shambling, rotting thing. A corpse.
The Long Night is upon them, then, and Dany is afraid. More than afraid— terrified .
She goes to Sansa in a daze, knocking on the alpha’s door with a candle. The castle is still moving with people below, feasting and singing and fucking their cares away in the Great Hall, but she cannot think of them. All she can see is the engraved wood, with it’s wolf’s head, until the door swings open and it’s Sansa.
And she kisses her, again.
“I don’t want to die tomorrow.” She confesses, hot into Sansa’s mouth.
“You won’t. You won’t .” Sansa tells her, and pulls her inside before she can think.
The kisses are heated, frenzied. She can’t slow down, can’t stop. They back up into a desk, a chair, a bed, banging her knees. Sansa’s hand molds up her ribs, tentative. She touches the curve of Dany’s breast, and breaks away, breathing hard.
“I‘ve only done this once before with a girl.” Her breath is damp on Dany’s collarbone. “I may not….I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.”
“Who was she?” Dany wants Sansa’s hands all over her, so she puts hers on the alpha’s back, brings her closer. Closes her eyes when Sansa starts to kiss toward the gaping neck of her gown. Gasps.
“Cersei killed her.” Sansa says, low and rough, and then she kisses the breath from Dany again, and pushes her to the bed.
There are no more words.
Dany rakes her gown above her head, hands searching for the draws of Sansa’s loose shirt. Sansa moans at the sight of her, and her fingers are digging into Dany’s hips, pacing up her ribs, twisting her nipples. It’s a flurry, like the snow falling outside. Dany bends and arches, and she feels restless, like she hasn’t been touched before in her life. When Sansa’s tongue circles her nipple, she cries out and nearly comes.
Then, they are both naked, and Dany is trailing her fingers over a lacework of scars. Sansa stiffens, but she kisses and kisses and kisses her until the hard red line of her mouth softens and she guides Dany’s hand down. And then she is insistently stroking between pale legs, delving into that dark patch of curls, until Sansa is hard, and rising. She looks down at herself, panting, and Dany can see the arousal flash in her eyes when Sansa looks from her own stiff cock to Dany’s wet lips.
That gives her an idea.
It’s not long before she’s flipped the redhead on her back, using skills learned long ago from poor, mad Doreah, who betrayed her to Qarth for gold and fine silks. She doesn’t think of Doreah, now, though.
She kisses along the alpha’s startled, leaping pulse, and Sansa looks in askance at her until she slides down her body, nipping and licking as she goes. The Northern alpha goes almost as white as snow when Dany wraps her lips around the cock she’s sporting between her legs. It’s not as big as some, Drogo’s for example, but it is thick, and achingly hard, and Sansa’s pre-cum tastes earthy and salty, whereas Daario and Drogo both were musky and bitter. She is surprised to find how much she likes it, and her tongue is greedily probing the slit at the proud tip for more.
“Gods—“ Sansa chokes out, as Dany descends, opening her throat to allow several more inches to slide down. Sansa doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself as Dany sucks her. Her hands clench at the bedsheets as if she is unsure, but when Dany guides her hand to nestle in her hair, she grips in readily enough. Not pulling, though, just bracing herself. It’s endearing, almost sweet.
Not as sweet as how Sansa howls her name when she comes, however.
When she’s finished swallowing all the alpha has to give, Sansa tugs her up by her hair. Dany thinks to wipe her mouth, but Sansa doesn’t allow that. Instead, she kisses Dany full and deep, as if she doesn’t mind the taste of herself on the dragon’s lips. And, perhaps, likes it.
Then, she is the one being flipped, with a wolffish flash and a tilted smile. Sansa has her on her back and she’s gasping, reaching for the alpha’s pale body, but Sansa pins her hands, holds them still. She keeps Dany’s wrists caught tight in her grip as she descends. Her kisses are rougher than Dany expected—sucking, bruising bites, as if she wants to mark Dany. The idea gives the omega a thrill like a thunderbolt racing across the sky.
When Sansa slides her tongue through Dany’s collected slick, she goes limp and her hands stay where the alpha wants them—at her sides. Thusly freed, Sansa goes to work using her hands for Dany’s benefit. As well as her strong, flickering tongue. She peels open the omega’s trembling thighs, slips inside of her with two long, dexterous fingers determined to pull orgasm after orgasm out of Dany’s writhing, helpless body. And she does. Suckling at the omega’s clit like it’s her favorite food, Sansa delivers wave after wave of mind-numbing, toe-curling pleasure.
Her face is glazed and dark when she rises, with hooded eyes, and Dany can’t help but kiss her. She tastes herself—familiar and yet unfamiliar at once—and moans, head falling back into the pillow as the long pale length of the alpha pressed her into the bed. There is a firm bulge against her thigh, and she takes hold of it, still wet from her mouth and strokes, even as Sansa groans and bucks into her hand.
“I can’t give you children.” She whispers, half-apology and half-enticement, the prophecy of the witch woman she burned in Drogo’s pyre ringing in her ears. When the sun rises in the West and sets in the East...
“I never really wanted any.” Sansa kisses her, again, and then she’s pressing inside, clumsy and impatient, but oh —-so good.
It’s not the same as Drogo or Daario. It’s different. Slow at first, and seeking, and then, with increasing surety, firm and authoritative. And then it’s better.
She can’t explain how. Maybe it has something to do with the way Sansa is leaning her forehead against Dany’s, looking into her eyes, sweat dripping onto Dany’s lips as she pants. The feeling of it is frightening and absorbing and consumptive. Dany is burned alive by the flame of her own desire, and she welcomes it, walks into it as it builds.
Before long, she is crying out, fingers digging into the alpha’s back and legs raised up to her waist. She wants more, she wants it deeper, and she wants to come , but she never wants this to end. Sansa’s hips are pounding hard enough to wake the dead, but let them come , Dany thinks, let the whole world burn . So long as what they’re doing in this bed keeps happening.
She comes, screaming, and Sansa follows her with a series of jerky thrusts and an inelegant grunt. Sansa is collapsing into Dany’s neck with a deep sigh as her cock convulses and erupts a warm, sticky flood into Dany’s cunt. The feeling of it shudders the omega into another, surprised orgasm. They pulse and rock together, for a time, and Dany is fiercely sad that she is not in heat, and that there is not a knot to keep her tied to Sansa. Just a bit longer.
“Don’t die.” She whispers into Sansa’s sweaty ear, rolling her hands through damp red hair. “Please, I couldn’t bear it. Promise me.”
“I won’t.” Sansa tells her, voice roughened from their coupling and she kisses Dany’s fingers.
And it’s true. She doesn’t die.
Many others do. Jorah. Her oldest and most loyal blood rider, Qhoho. She sobs over their bodies as she did over Drogo’s, and just as she did then, she lights the pyre. When the flame rises, she feels better. Cleansed.
Sansa is alive, and so is she. They live.
The dawn comes, the Long Night ends, and they live .
When they take King’s Landing, there is very little fanfare, and less bloodshed.
The people had turned on the Lannister guard when the food from the Crownlands ran dry, and since more was not coming from the fertile Reach, with the Tyrells in open rebellion and the fields burned to ashes by the dragons, starvation had made the city mad. Peasants, beggars and whores from Flea Bottom pulled the Tower of the Hand down, stone by stone, and buried the Whore Queen and her Pirate King Euron below it. It is said that Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, strangled the life from her with his golden hand, already dead from a mortal wound delivered by Euron, but who can tell. The dead are gone. The living need feeding.
Drogon perches on the Red Keep, and roars his victory when they arrive.
Dany raises her head to her fine, dark-winged son, as he soars above, and looks behind to her blood riders, her Unsullied, the legions of the North and the Riverlands and the Vale, and then over to her new mate, riding beside her.
They marked and married each other in the godswood at Winterfell, before the army moved south. Tyrion wept. Jon held him upright and smiled tightly as if he could cry himself. Arya was suspicious for a long time, but Dany ultimately won her over. Mostly by asking her how to kill a man, should she ever be forced to do so herself without a dragon. Bran mostly just smiles, mysterious and quiet, but that’s fine.
She has a new family now. Sansa tells her. Winterfell is hers, as much as Dragonstone, and by the time they leave, there are red leaves on the weirwood trees again, and the place feels more alive than she would have thought possible.
And now, in the Red Keep, looking at the ragged holes in the structure and feeling the sun on her shoulders, strangely Dany has never been happier.
She doesn’t think a coronation would mean much to her now—better to spend the money feeding and rebuilding the people, as her mate suggests. After all, Westeros has never had two Queens before. Why should they do anything traditional? All the traditions fell in the Tower, and burned in the Sept of Baelor, anyway. She shields her eyes against the sun, and turns to Sansa.
Sansa smiles, takes her hand, and Dany feels warmth, comfort. Home .
Home at last, after all.