The Red Dragon
patreon
18. Sansa Stark
🕑 Added 2025-02-21 18:17:13 +0000 UTC*Sansa Stark POV*
Sansa placed a piece of honeyed meat in her mouth, savoring the taste as her eyes flicked to the side, lingering on the lemon cake resting on the table. It had already been ravaged—half gone—by none other than Tormund, Jon’s wildling friend, who had taken a small bite and apparently enjoyed it too much. But Sansa would not stand for this. She did not share her lemon cakes, not with Arya, not with anyone. So who did this Tormund think he was?
As he reached for the last piece, Sansa discreetly stepped on Brienne’s foot. The knight, seated beside her, let out a grunt and shot Sansa a questioning look, her brow arching in confusion.
That grunt, however, was enough to distract Tormund. He pulled his hand back, turning his attention to Brienne instead. “You alright, woman?” he asked, eyes alight with concern.
Seizing the opportunity, Sansa quickly snatched the last piece of lemon cake and placed it on her plate. A victorious smirk curled her lips as she savored her success.
Tormund, getting no reply from Brienne, turned back to the table—only to find the plate empty. He let out a small grunt of disappointment before stuffing a piece of meat into his mouth, his gaze shifting back to Brienne. He chewed thoughtfully, sending her glances and toothy grins between bites.
Sansa, meanwhile, enjoyed her lemon cake while casting her gaze toward the head of the table, where Jon—no, Daeron—was eating with as much dignity as he could muster, despite consuming nearly ten times what was on her own plate.
It had not escaped Sansa’s notice that Jon had changed—not just in title but in presence, in appearance. His face that bore the long, solemn look of the Starks, now replaced with sharper, refined, a reflection of his true lineage. His eyes, once the stormy grey of their father’s house, had deepened into a dark violet—the unmistakable mark of a Targaryen, if the whispers in Winterfell were to be believed.
But the most striking change was his height. When he had left Castle Black for the Crofter’s Village, Jon had barely been taller than her. Now, he stood over a head above her, nearly the height of Stannis Baratheon himself, whom she had seen in King’s Landing.
Sansa had been stunned when Jon had not raised his voice, had not even declined once, as Lady Lyanna Mormont declared him King in the North. But now she understood—Daeron had already set his sights beyond the North, beyond Winterfell. He was moving toward the Iron Throne, and Winterfell would one day pass to Rickon.
A flicker of frustration still lingered within her. He had not confided in her about his parentage before revealing it to the lords of the North. Did he not trust her? Had she given him any reason to doubt her loyalty? She had supported him, even when she knew their mother would never have. Catelyn Stark would have opposed crowning him King of the North with every breath in her body.
But Sansa had learned hard lessons. She had learned that she could not stand alone, that family was a shield—one that protected, one that endured. Even Theon, the traitor who had betrayed their house, had risked his life to save her.
Her father had been right, as he always was. 'When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.'
She should have listened to him, not to Septa Mordane.
But the past was past. Only the present mattered now.
Her gaze shifted toward Daeron, then to Rickon and Bran, seated beside him. She still had her pack, and she would protect them from the vipers that lurked in the South. Granted, one of their wolves had the blood of a dragon.
A small smile touched her lips, and as if sensing her gaze, Daeron looked up. When he saw her smile, he returned it, his expression warm, genuine.
Talking of their pack, of family, reminded her of Daeron’s words about Arya.
"Our little sister is alive, out there in the world, hunting her prey like a true Northern wolf should."
And Sansa was not surprised. Knowing Arya, she could well imagine her carving a bloody path through their enemies. And there were many.
But that did not mean she did not worry.
“Jon, can you take me to see your dragon? Please?”
Rickon’s pleading voice pulled Sansa from her thoughts.
Daeron smiled, his enthusiasm evident. “Of course. Once we’re done eating, I’ll take you to see Caraxes.”
Sansa frowned slightly. “Daeron, is it safe for him to go near Caraxes? You’ve only recently bonded with him.”
She could not help but worry. Caraxes was said to have been the mount of Prince Daemon Targaryen, and from what Daeron had told her, he was just as temperamental now as he had been then. Daeron may be unburnt, but Rickon was not.
Daeron’s reassuring smile did little to ease her concern. “I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t confident in my control over him, Sansa.” Then, as if sensing her hesitation, he added, “Why don’t you come as well? Don’t you want to see him up close?”
She did.
But fear warred with excitement. She still remembered the high-pitched roar that had echoed across Winterfell, shaking her to her very core. No chill of the North had ever made her shudder the way that sound had.
And yet…
Trust in Daeron won out over fear.
“I will join you,” Sansa said, masking her nerves.
“I want to see it up close too, Crow,” Tormund declared, grinning at Daeron.
Daeron nodded, then turned toward Ser Davos, who had been quietly dining with them. “Ser Davos?”
The old knight gave him an uneasy smile. “I’d rather remain here, Your Grace.”
A chuckle rippled through the table at the Onion Knight’s response, and even Sansa found herself smiling.
——————————————————————————
Sansa rode atop a dark brown palfrey mare, her cloak billowing slightly as she guided her horse closer to Daeron. The crisp Northern air carried the scent of pine and fresh snow as they rode beyond Winterfell’s walls. Rickon, Tormund, and a few guards accompanied them, their horses' hooves crunching against the frozen ground. But Sansa had a question that had been nagging at her since she heard the news, and now was the time to ask it.
"Daeron," she began, her voice steady but curious. "Why did you send Larence Snow to Torrhen’s Square to aid the Tallharts? You could have gone yourself with your dragon or taken the Free Folk with you. That would have secured their gratitude and ensured their loyalty, as it did with the other Northern houses."
She studied Daeron’s expression carefully, hoping his reasoning was not what she suspected.
"Because if Larence saves Leobald Tallhart’s two sons and daughter of Lord Tallhart, the Tallharts would be indebted to him," Daeron replied evenly. "And in doing so, the conflict over Hornwood’s succession could be settled before it even begins."
Sansa exhaled sharply. It was exactly as she had feared.
"What makes you think that saving the Tallharts would be enough to make them willingly leave Hornwood for Larence?" she asked, exasperation creeping into her tone. "Nobles will do anything to claim more land and power. You should know that by now."
Daeron met her gaze, his violet eyes unwavering. "You forgave Theon, did you not? Even after he took our home, exiled our brothers, and killed loyal men of House Stark? If the Tallharts make a fuss about Larence taking Hornwood after he saves their lives—and believe me, there is little chance of that happening—then I will use force if necessary. Nevertheless, Larence’s loyalty to House Stark deserves to be rewarded. Do not forget, Sansa, he was the first to declare his support for our cause."
His words were sound, but Sansa still believed he underestimated the self-interest of others.
"I have no objection to Larence becoming Lord of Hornwood," she said after a moment. "But I still think you should speak with Master Glover. If Beren Tallhart lays claim to Hornwood despite everything, you will need his counsel."
Daeron gave a small nod, his expression unreadable, before turning his attention back to the road. The towering trees of the Wolfswood loomed in the distance, their dark silhouettes standing stark against the grey sky.
"Jon, can you take me for a ride on your dragon?" Rickon’s voice cut through the silence, his boldness growing with each passing day. Sansa couldn’t help but smile at her youngest brother’s hopeful expression.
Daeron chuckled, guiding his black destrier closer to Rickon’s horse. He reached out, ruffling Rickon’s hair in amusement. "Aye," he replied, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "But only if you hold on tight."
——————————————————————————
It had only been a few minutes since Rickon had asked his question when Daeron dismounted his destrier. Almost immediately, the horses began to neigh and shift uneasily, their fear palpable. Sansa knew what that meant. They were close. She dismounted as well, as did Rickon and Tormund, their boots crunching against the snow-laden earth as they approached Daeron, who was waiting for them.
"You all stay here and watch over the horses," Sansa instructed the guards. They nodded, their eyes darting warily toward the unseen presence that had unsettled their mounts. Then, she turned and followed Daeron westward.
The first sign of the dragon’s presence wasn’t its sight, but the change in the air—a slight lessening of the cold, an eerie stillness. But then, all doubt vanished.
There, sprawled across the snow, was a colossal crimson beast.
Sansa froze. She had seen the dragon fly before, but standing before it—this close—was an entirely different experience. Caraxes lay coiled in the white expanse, his sinuous body stretched lazily over the frozen ground. The contrast between his deep red scales and the snow made him look like something from a legend, a myth come to life. As if sensing their approach—or perhaps merely his rider’s presence—the dragon stirred. His long neck rose, shaking off a blanket of accumulated snow, and then, with a powerful motion, he reared onto his hind legs, wings flaring slightly before folding back into place.
Then, those golden, slitted eyes turned toward them.
Sansa's breath caught in her throat. The dragon exhaled, a puff of hot air escaping from his nostrils, melting the snow beneath him. His gaze lingered on them for a moment before shifting to Daeron.
"Wait here. Do not approach until I tell you," Daeron instructed, his eyes locking onto Rickon in particular.
Sansa could only watch in stunned silence as her cousin strode forward with the ease of a man greeting an old friend. The massive beast lowered its neck without hesitation, inviting Daeron’s touch. He ran a hand along its scales, a chuckle escaping him. The sound was met with a low, rumbling growl—not a warning, but something almost… content.
Sansa had read about dragons, as had most noble children. Tales of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes filled the histories, but dragons were long gone—or so she had been told. As a girl, she had once dreamt of flying with a dragon prince, but her septa had laughed, dismissing it as childish fancy. Sansa had cried then, running to her mother for comfort.
But now, standing here, she wished Septa Mordane could see this.
Maester Luwin had once told Robb and Jon and her that Caraxes had been half the size of Vhagar. Sansa thought back to the skulls she had seen in King’s Landing, the one Joffrey had claimed was Vhagar’s. If that was true, then either Luwin had been mistaken, or the skull was not truly Vhagar’s, because Caraxes—standing before her now—was far larger than she had imagined. He was not as massive as the dragon of Aegon’s sister-queen, but his sheer size was staggering.
A low whistle of appreciation came from beside her.
"Fuck the Others… look at the size of that thing," Tormund muttered, equal parts awe and disbelief in his voice.
Caraxes let out a growl in response, his golden eyes narrowing at the Wildling’s words. Sansa tensed.
Daeron, unfazed, pressed his forehead to the dragon’s snout and whispered something in High Valyrian. The words were soothing, a command and reassurance all at once, and Caraxes settled, though his gaze lingered on Tormund with clear distaste.
After a moment, Daeron gestured for them to approach.
Rickon wasted no time, practically bounding forward. Tormund followed at a more cautious pace, while Sansa hesitated before finally stepping toward them.
The dragon rumbled again, his displeasure resurfacing as Tormund neared. But before he could react further, Daeron raised a hand and smacked the dragon’s snout—not harshly, but firmly enough that even Sansa was taken aback.
"Daor, Caraxes. Lykirī," Daeron commanded in Valyrian.
Sansa didn’t understand the words, but their effect was immediate. The dragon huffed, exhaling another puff of steam, before turning his attention away from Tormund and back to Daeron.
Rickon reached up first, his small hands running along the dragon’s heated scales. Caraxes let out a pleased grunt, the sound almost like a cat purring.
Sansa followed, removing her leather gloves. Daeron took her hands in his own and guided them to the dragon’s scales.
Heat. Raw, searing heat, even in the midst of the northern cold.
And power.
It radiated off the beast in waves, a force unlike anything she had ever felt before. This was why people had once thought the Targaryens closer to gods than men. No man could command a beast like this. No man should be able to. And yet, Daeron stood before it, unafraid, in complete control.
For the first time, Sansa truly understood why House Targaryen had ruled Westeros for nearly three centuries.
A thought crossed her mind then—a vision of Robert Baratheon, his face twisted in rage and disbelief as a dragon like this bore down upon him. She smiled slightly at the image before shaking it away.
Meanwhile, Daeron had already lifted Rickon onto the saddle atop Caraxes' back. He turned to Sansa.
"Would you like to join us?"
She hesitated. The offer was tempting, but she knew herself well enough—she would scream the moment they left the ground. And she wasn’t about to give Tormund or Daeron that kind of entertainment.
So she shook her head.
With a few powerful steps, Caraxes moved forward, wings unfurling. Then, with a mighty flap, the dragon took to the skies, effortlessly lifting into the air.
Rickon’s voice rang out, echoing through the cold air.
He was screaming.
But not in fear.
In joy.
Comments
Lucyfer
Or the Winter Fury
Lucyfer
I suggest some ritual to make the dragon more suitable, something like ice and fire, let it breathe fire and ice, the color can also be changed to white with accents of red, besides, the title something like white fury or white death would be epic
