~ Dany ~

It is as cold here as they told me it would be. The coldest place I've ever known.

Winter.

A new word in a new world. And now here we were in Winterfell. A fitting name as far as I could see; the white dust of winter falling all around us.

Tyrion had warned me about the cold and barren landscape, about how the north in winter wasn't what the songs said it was. It was harsh and bitter like its people and it would take much to thaw the distrust in their hearts.

The North. Where they remembered. And remember me they had. They remembered my name. My brother's name and my father's name. They remembered for they had been among those who sought to vanquish it from this land forever. They had rallied to the usurper Baratheon's call and watched as my family were murdered and destroyed one by one.

I remember too. I remember much. Too much.

Give them a chance, your Grace, Tyrion had advised. They have suffered as much as you have — by my family most of all.

But in Tyrion's absence the fragile balance of power had shifted once more. Now there was a new 'King in the North', and he was beloved. The north had crowned the bastard son of Eddard Stark its ruler, supported by his trueborn half-sister, and Tyrion's ex-wife.

Tyrion had seemed pleased about the news we had been given after landing in Dorne. This bastard king, a previous commander of the Nightswatch, had defeated his family's enemies and taken back his home from those who helped kill his half-brothers.

Five trueborn Starks - all dead or presumed so but one - and they had put the bastard on the throne. I had gathered from that that this Jon Snow must be remarkable indeed.

Tyrion clearly remembered him with warmth and affection, his only surprise being that this 'King' had even agreed to be king at all. He's not like most men, your Grace. Not the sort to court power for power's sake.

We'd spent the night drinking wine while he'd explained with his usual rich wit and attention to fine detail why this bastard king of the north was not my enemy. I should not destroy him as I had all other usurpers who'd crossed my path for one reason and one reason alone; he did not desire my throne for himself. Nor did any of his men, or his children for he was unmarried and had none. Nor did his family — who was one, twice married, once widowed, sister.

When I'd questioned whether this bastard and his sister were lovers Tyrion had stated it was unlikely, for according to him neither the Lady Sansa or Jon Snow was the type to thwart Westerosi values by fucking their own sibling - half or no. For not all families were given to incest, he'd added without a sliver of irony, oblivious in that moment to my own heritage.

And so it seemed that Lady Sansa ruled by her brother's side because she was the only living full-blooded Stark of Winterfell, and a large portion of the north were loyal to her and not her bastard half-brother. A precarious grip this remarkable king enjoyed. If not mine, did she desire his throne for herself?

Whether the Lady Sansa's desire for power was as reluctant as her brother's would remain to be seen, but Tyrion had done well to convince me that she was not my enemy either. Their marriage was never consummated, apparently. He had not wanted to take his young wife's innocence. For a marriage to her intended's dwarfed uncle was something she had been repulsed and horrified by when it was forced upon her by his sister.

Whether Tyrion had loved his young Stark wife was not clear from our discourse, but his feelings toward her were certainly warm, much like they were for her half-brother. In his eyes, she too was a victim of these wars of feuding houses. She too had suffered greatly in her young life, not only by the cruel hand of his family but by the hand of her second husband, a Bolton Bastard purportedly vicious and cruel beyond measure. The Greyjoy lord had also affirmed this to be true, his eyes haunted from some unspoken memory. The Boltons had ruled the north with unparalleled malevolence, the effect of their violence etched deep into the lands and its people at every village we had passed through.

I'd stopped at many villages on my road here — Tyrion and Varys's suggestion that I ride north by land and return south by ship — for it was important to have my subjects see my face. But I'd found, it was far more important to see theirs. They had looked tired and haunted and afraid. That was when the guilt had come.

I should have come sooner.

I should have saved them sooner.

The King in the North had agreed to meet with me on this eve, gracious but hardly deferential in his response to my own command. No conditions had been imposed and no threats from either side made. We would be welcomed into his home as per the North's customary guest right. Where I would put to him my offer of alliance.

It mattered not whether he accepted, for either way his current title would cease to exist. The Starks had long ago sworn allegiance to my family. A fact this king in the north would be reminded of at the earliest opportunity. With the hour fast approaching, I would soon have the answer to all of the questions which had plagued me on the journey north.

The wind flutters against my neck and I turn to see Tyrion and Commander Bronn enter the tent.

'Your Grace, it is time,' Tyrion says, casting an approving eye over me. 'Ah, well. Don't you look delightful? The North will certainly remember you looking as lovely as you do now.'

I smile. 'Your compliments are as welcome as ever, Lord Tyrion. You look handsome as well. You too Lord Bronn."

Lord Bronn blushes, puffing his chest out. 'Thank you, Your Grace.'

Missandei proceeds to wrap the white fur around my shoulders, the cloak thick and weighty against my silver long-sleeved gown. I reach up to pull the thick fur hood up and over my intricately knotted hair — I had made the decision to forgo my crown this eve, something Missandei had disapproved of, but which felt necessary to me. I wanted to show the people of the North that a true ruler did not need a crown to rule. Would Jon Snow greet me in one? I turn towards the gathered faces of my council.

'Now, let us go break bread with this King in the North, shall we?' I offer Tyrion a small smile. As we exit the tent I turn to him. 'Are you excited to see your Lady Sansa again? They say she has grown much in beauty and spirit since you were parted.'

He makes a satisfied noise. 'Then husbandry did not suit her well it seems,' Tyrion drops his eyes, guilty I think, as we make our way out of the warmth and into the deep winter night.

The air nips ravenously at my skin, sucking at my lips. Perhaps I should have kept Drogon by my side after all, if only for his warmth. I'm certain he could unfreeze this entire landscape if I asked it of him.

Glancing up at the darkening sky, I send a silent greeting to him. He wasn't too far; I could feel him. Powerful beating wings carrying him high above the clouds out of sight. Should I need him he would come to me.

I hadn't wanted to terrify the people of the north on my first visit as I had done to those in the south. The north who were already living in terror at the arrival of yet another army and another 'southern' ruler who demanded their allegiance.

Their way of life was more conservative to that of their southern counterparts, who to me it seemed had more in common with my people across the narrow sea. Northerners were more suspicious by nature and had lost far more than any other in these fights for a throne so far from here.

The ride is short but slow, the snow-covered ground precarious for the horses and their riders. There's a tension amongst my men, who circle the carriage in great number, the Dothraki grunting their disapproval of the cold, the unsullied poised and silent, ever alert.

Inside the carriage, the atmosphere is more jovial; filled with Tyrion's laughter and stories, promises of good hearty food and better music. I assume he's relaxed because he knows this Jon Snow. Because he's certain this is no trap and because he knows the words of welcome are honourable and true.

This man is no traitor or Queenslayer: My Hand is confident of this, therefore I am confident of this.

I'm confident also because the castle is surrounded by a force of a thousand unsullied and four hundred Dothraki. I'm confident because my best fifty soldiers, led by Greyworm, will accompany me this evening inside this castle called Winterfell. I'm confident because Drogon and his brothers can be here in moments should I need them — if they so much as sense I'm in danger. I'm confident because I am Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mhysa, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Protector and Queen of Seven Kingdoms.

The shouts of our riders break through my thoughts.

'Open up for your Queen!' They hail in proud voices which carry over the winds of winter. The sound of heavy wooden gates creaking open come first before the carriage jolts forward once more. As I cast a look out of the carriage, the proud banner of the Starks dances gracefully in the wind. A white direwolf set on pale grey which blends perfectly with the white snow and the stone walls of this battered yet quaint castle.

Just inside the courtyard the carriage stops abruptly, before the small wooden door is pulled open. Bronn, Tyrion and Missandei exit first, Greyworm appearing from the front of our carnival to stand by the opening. Alone in the carriage, I take a deep breath, before moving toward the door.

I see it then. Soft speckles of snow now falling softly and with grace. They flicker over Greyworm's proudly stern face, landing on his eyelashes, the black leather of his battledress, the blade of his spear.

Moving towards the opening, I reach out my hand and he holds me steady as I step out and down onto the soft cushion of powdered snow under my feet.

Torches are ensconced around the walls of the courtyard and they offer a soft warm glow onto the grim faces of the gathered north folk. Gazing briefly around, I see the king's men on pitches around the inner walls of the small castle, alert and on edge. I cannot see their weapons but I know they are there, waiting, ready. Waiting for an unleashing of violence, ready to strike out in retaliation at a moment's notice.

Or perhaps they mean to cut me down right here where I stand, unprovoked. Arrows shot through the soft flesh and muscle of my heart.

I wait for it. Head up and body open. I will not cower. Breathing soft and slow and without panic. Nothing comes for me. I feel no real threat or danger, only the thickness of anticipation all around us. This is not where I will die.

As I turn back to the sight in front of me I see a row of darkly dressed people, mainly male, all with dark hair and dark hoods, all wrapped up against the cold chill around us. Movement to my right as Greyworm steps forward.

'I present to you, your Queen. Daenerys of House Targaryen, the first of her name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Meereen and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros,' He states proudly, his voice loud and true as it echoes through the silent courtyard. As always, he says 'Westeros' as no Westerosi says it. Tyrion makes fun of him, tries to coach him the proper pronunciation - but I like how he says it. I like how these two worlds of mine come together on Greyworm's tongue.

The eyes of the north men and women rest upon me, their look one of awe, anxiety and mistrust. I step forward slowly and lower the white fur hood back from my face. Then I look each of them in the eye as I wait for the king to make himself known. It could be any of these men. Why hasn't he announced himself? I glance down at Tyrion. He's casting his gaze along the line, searching. When I meet Missandei's eye she gives me a look and turns to narrow her eye on the line of northerners.

'Why is your King not here to present himself to his queen?' she asks haughtily. I can tell how much it pains her to call him a king, but it was my wish that we address him so for now.

A few long moments of silence stretch out before us as the north men look at me in curious silence. A glimmer of uncertainty moves over me before suddenly the bodies in front shift and part, and a dark-haired, fur-cloaked figure moves out from behind them, coming to a stop in front of me.

'He is, Your Grace,' the figure says in a low, rough voice. 'I'm Jon Snow, King of the North.'

There is no arrogance in his words, in fact I detect almost the faintest trace of embarrassment. He dips his head, almost clumsily, and then meets my eyes once more. He is taller than me and broad-shouldered with eyes and hair as black as a raven's wing, and skin as pale as my own. A faint scar runs down his face from his forehead to his temple, stopping at his left eye. Another runs down the apple of his cheek. There are others, all glinting silver or pink against his pale flesh, but his looks are not despoiled by them - rather the opposite I decide. A Warrior King.

As our gazes touch, properly this time, something happens to the breath in my body and the quiet, assured centre of my mind. Something roars to life, something long known but long forgotten. Something almost... familiar. As though from a fractured and distant dream.

I blink at him as I try to regain myself.

'Welcome to Winterfell,' he adds, this time with undisguised pride clear in his voice.