A Game of Thrones and Gacha 42 (Patreon)

As much as he would have loved to spend a few days saying goodbye to Daenerys, he knew that Joffrey’s death had created a unique opportunity, and the sooner he moved, the better. So, after a passionate goodbye, he took Viserion and flew to Yunkai.

He found Sansa in her office, buried in her reports. She had taken to her role as the leader of Yunkai council with a surprising grace, especially since he hadn’t held back teaching her about the finer points of management and leadership.

Considering her next task would be fixing the North, which had suffered a catastrophic loss of military force, a rebellion, and an invasion by the Ironborn in less than a year, she needed every help she could afford.

She looked up when he entered, surprise flickering across her face before it settled into warmth. "You're early today," she said, setting the book aside and rushing toward him, showing the benefits of her physical improvement from internal energy.

Her hand found his collar, pulling him down for a kiss that started gently and quickly turned possessive. Her other hand was already reaching for his belt. "Good. I can use a break."

"As much as I would love to," he said, catching her wrist before she could get too far. "There are more urgent issues to discuss first."

Sansa's expression shifted instantly. The playful lover disappeared, replaced by the sharp-eyed Lady of Winterfell. It was a transformation that never failed to impress him. She had come a long way from the young woman who cried helplessly at bad news.

"What happened?" she asked, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same.

"Joffrey is dead. Poisoned at his own wedding feast."

Sansa went still, like a frozen lake. She didn’t say anything at first, her whole body stiff. Then, her body loosened. Then she exhaled, and her whole body loosened like a bowstring being unstrung.

"Good," she whispered. The word came out soft yet satisfied. "Good. That monster deserved worse, but I'll take it."

He let her have the moment. She stood again and walked to the window, arms wrapping around herself, looking out at the Essosi sun without seeing it. He could read the cascade of emotions playing across her reflection. Ranging from relief to regret, probably wished that she could have the chance to kill him herself.

He walked up to her, and hugged her from behind, letting her process the moment. "He executed my father at the steps of the Sept and made me look at his head on a spike," she said, her voice steady but tight. "He had his Kingsguard beat me in front of the entire court. He murdered my brother at a feast under guest right."

She turned from the window, and her face was already sharp. She let herself remember her vulnerable days. Her strong side was back in control.

"Who did it?" she asked.

"The reports are confused. Tyrion is being blamed, but I don't believe it for a moment. As much as he wants to show it otherwise, he’s too honorable to poison anyone. Not to mention, if he did, he's too smart to poison someone while staying at the city. He would have known that, even without evidence, Cersei would do her best to blame him."

"Any guesses?” she asked.

Rohar sighed. “The problem with being a cunt, there’s too many to count. For all I know, Stannis arranged it.” Sansa opened her mouth, but he continued. “I know, I know. He’s famous for his honor. But an honorable man, more than one of his biggest rivals had fallen into assassinations just when it was the most convenient. Not to mention, he’s dragging along a Red Priestess who is famous for burning people and creating shadow assassins.”

“Good point,” Sansa said, then paused. She smiled, but it was sharper than he expected. “How about a bet?”

“About who’s responsible?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “The winner has full control all night.”

“Oh, naughty,” he chuckled. “What’s your guess?”

“Olenna Tyrell,” Sansa said. “She’s fiercely protective of her family, especially her favorite granddaughter. She would never let her granddaughter marry a known sadist if she could remove him first."

He paused. “That’s a very good guess,” he said. “I would have guessed Littlefinger, but the reports suggest that his relationship with Lannisters is still too icy.” He paused a moment more. “I’m tempted to go with Tywin, but I’ll play safer and pick Varys,” he said.

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Really? Tywin.”

“It’s exactly the reckless move he would pull, thinking himself the most ruthless person in the world. If he realized Joffrey is a little bundle of satistic impulses impossible to control, he would love to get rid of him in a way that would give him an excuse to get rid of Tyrion.”

“Why did you pick Varys, then?”

“Because Tywin would never believe that he couldn’t control Joffrey.”

Sansa smiled again, this time her smile even colder. “One day, I would love to show him that wolves could never be controlled.”

He kissed her cheek. “That day will come, my love,” he said, and she buried herself in his chest.

“What about Tyrion?” she asked.

"Arrested. Awaiting trial, from what we can tell." He kept his voice neutral. He liked Tyrion, and he didn’t like the idea of him locked, afraid of his father’s wrath.

“It’s a pity. He wasn’t like the other nobles. He was kind.”

“I’ll try to help him if the opportunity arises."

Sansa turned toward him. “You’re leaving for King’s Landing,” she guessed.

“Wrong. I’m not leaving for King’s Landing. I’m leaving for the North.” He smirked. “Well, we’re leaving for the North. Immediately.”

Her eyes widened. "Already? I thought we were about to wait a year before we made a move? Until we trained a proper fleet."

“That was the plan until Joffrey got himself killed and gave us a huge opportunity to act. But, we need to move immediately. We only have a few days to take advantage of it.”

“A few days. But, a trip takes more than a month—“ she started, then her eyes widened. “We’re going to fly,” she declared.

“Exactly. Viserion is strong enough to handle the trip,” he said, glad that he had found a way to enhance his growth. Not only was he at the same size as Drogon, but he was considerably faster and stronger.

That was without the bonus from the ability sharing.

"Just the two of us?" she asked. "No army. No sellswords. No Unsullied."

"Just the two of us and Viserion," he confirmed. "Before, when the Lannisters were at the height of their power, we needed an army to sway the indecisive houses. Taking the North by force would have required tens of thousands of soldiers and months of campaigning, and even then, we needed to leave an army at Moat Cailin to prevent an attack from Tywin."

Sansa paused. “Would it really make that much difference? Joffrey was worse than useless.”

“Doesn’t matter. Losing a king to assassins reveals their weakness, and Tywin is too obsessed with strength. He’ll ignore the North and the Boltons, too afraid of the Tyrells making a move.”

Sansa hummed as she took a step forward, examining the map laid open, with multiple pins showing the latest situation. “You’re right. The Lannisters are bleeding from a wound they can't bandage. Tywin's grip on his allies is slipping. The Tyrells are too greedy to miss the opportunity to move for mov. The Riverlands are still a mess after Frey’s are … declared as the Warden of Riverlands. And the Boltons..." she tapped several spots. "The Boltons hold the North because Tywin gave it to them, their armies still returning from the Riverlands."

“Exactly. The perfect time for a Stark to return and take over. Viserion doesn’t have to destroy their armies, just scare them. Especially if we can take Moat Cailin from them.”

He was tempted to go and assassinate every single commander and noble, but he knew that it would cause more problems that it would solve. Astapor had been a good way to show what would happen when one destroyed the accepted power structure without replacing with anything.

No, he needed to be careful to prevent a collapse. The stronger he got, the more careful he needed to be in applying it.

“Will the North listen to me?” she asked.

“They will,” he said. “Even before breaking the guest rights, the Boltons had been infamous to an absurd degree, and their alliance with the Lannisters would further mark them as invaders. You’re the perfect alternative. Sansa Stark, daughter of Ned, sister of Robb, the last known trueborn Stark. The moment you appear in the North, carrying a blade in your right hand and a banner in your left, it’ll make an impact. Combine it with a dragon coming to free the North from the Ironborn.”

Sansa frowned. “Why would the Boltons accept such a deal, then?”

“Because of the Ironborn,” he said. “Taking Winterfell from the Ironborn would give them some legitimacy.”

“But not if a Stark is already ruling the city,” she completed.

“Exactly,” he said, then paused. He expected more resistance. He expected questions about logistics, about supplies, about what happens when the Lannisters inevitably respond. He had prepared answers for all of them, detailed plans that covered every contingency he could imagine.

Sansa looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"I trust you," she said simply.

It caught him off guard. Not the words, as she had said them before, but the weight behind them. There was no hesitation, no qualification, no silent reservation hiding behind her eyes. She meant it completely.

He found himself smiling, not the calculated smirk he used for politics, but something more honest. "That easy?" he asked. "I had a whole speech prepared."

"Save it for the Northern lords," she said, a ghost of a smile appearing. "You've earned it, my love. Every time you've told me to trust you, you've delivered. King's Landing. The escape. Astapor. If you say the two of us and a dragon are enough, then they're enough."

He walked to her and took her hands. "There's one thing we need to discuss before we leave. The North."

"What about it?"

"Winterfell stays with the Starks," he said. She opened her mouth, but he continued before she could speak. "Not with me. Not with my children, or our children. Winterfell belongs to your brothers. Bran or Rickon if they are alive. With Jon if they are not.”

Sansa's expression crumbled at the possibility of their deaths.

"I thought that the plan was to take it."

“We can if that’s what you desire, but I have a feeling you don’t,” he said. “Viserion complicates things. A dragonlord can’t rule Winterfell without making the Boltons the better option. You will still rule as the Regent, but eventually, one of your brothers will have to take it."

She blinked rapidly. "Will you not stay in the North?” she asked.

He smirked. “Well, it’s not like there are no castles that need some redecoration,” he said. “Like the Dreadfort," he said.

He had thought about during his flight. Bolton's seat was a significant stronghold in the North, well-positioned, well-fortified, and its name carried a weight of fear that would serve him well.

“I can see the logic,” she admitted. “That way, we’re showing that Targaryen’s accept the Starks as the Warden of the North, but also connects more directly to remove the worry of remote management.”

He smirked. “Especially since it’ll be still ruled by a man who weds a Lady of the North,” he commented. Her eyes widened. “What about Dany?”

He smirked. “The last time Targaryens ruled, they were nice enough to set the precedent of multiple wives,” he said. “And, considering this time it doesn’t come with incest, I’m sure it’ll go better.”

That earned another deep kiss despite the intensity of the situation.

“We’ll turn the Dreadfort into a home,” he promised. Then, he smirked. “Though, we'll rename it once we take over. Something less... pointlessly evil."

She almost laughed at that. Then her expression softened as his hand moved to her belly, resting over her belly that was yet to show."And our children?" she asked quietly.

“They will grow up happy and free,” he said. “Is there anything better in the world for them?”

Sansa sighed wistfully. “No, there isn’t.” Sansa looked at him with eyes that shone in the lamplight. She didn't say anything for a long moment, just studied his face as if memorizing it.

"The Dreadfort is enough?" she asked. "Truly? You have dragons and armies and a queen across the sea. A single Northern castle seems..."

"It's enough," he said firmly as he hugged her. "Especially since I have the greatest treasure of the North already in my arms. Nothing else is necessary."

He caressed her belly, feeling the life growing inside. Sansa kissed him. It wasn't the hungry, possessive kiss from earlier, but a gentle one, sealing their agreement.

"When do we leave?" she asked against his lips.

"You need to finish packing within the hour if you can manage. Maybe another hour or two to call an emergency meeting with the council for some last-minute orders while I visit Silver Drake headquarters, maybe take a quick trip to Astapor.

Her eyes widened. "That fast?"

"Every hour counts. We need to move while the iron is hot."

Sansa pulled back, and he watched the lady take over from the lover. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and her eyes hardened into something that reminded him of the way she had announced herself to Daenerys' army.

"I can be ready in less than that," she said. "I always kept a pack ready for the North..."

"Smart,” he said. “Three hours, then. It’s just enough for me to visit Silver Drake headquarters and make some last-minute preparations. We don’t know how long it’ll be before we can return.”

While she dealt with her council work, he visited Silver Drake base, and similarly left them a bunch of orders.

Orders that included creating some political instability in Volantis by supporting one of the weakest Triarchs. He didn’t expect to trigger a civil war, but the more distracted Volantis got, the less attention they would be able to play Slaver’s Bay.

He also sent a letter to Astapor, informing them about his departure, and promising he would be back soon. After all, he could return comfortably in a week, probably in a day or two if he truly pushed himself and Viserion magically.

When he returned, Sansa was ready. She had leather armor on, with her hair tied down, with a sword and multiple blades on her waist. She looked like a Stark going to war. Vision mattered, especially since after his training, he trusted her to take down a mediocre knight with relative ease.

Internal energy was no joke.

Together, they went to Viserion. He put on the saddle, and Viserion roared in annoyance. As long as he was riding alone, he preferred to ride without a saddle. “I know you hate it, buddy. But it’s going to be a long trip, and you don’t want to make Sansa unhappy, do you?” he teased.

“We can go without a saddle. I can hold on tight,” she said.

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” he said with a wink, happy to see her blush. It didn’t matter how many times they shared a bed — and other surfaces — Sansa always reacted to his teasing with a cute blush.

Luckily, Sansa and Viserion were familiar with each other, and they had even taken a few trips together, meaning there was no unnecessary practice.

Sansa reached out to scratch Viserion's snout, who roared happily in a way that looked angry to anyone unfamiliar with his actions.

He helped Sansa up first, then loaded their bags. They were traveling light. Weapons, some extra arrows, some food and water, and a small pack of clothes. That, and a hundred thousand gold dragons.

Robbing slave masters had been a lucrative job.

He could have probably arranged more money if he had really pushed, but there was a limit to what they could use it for.

And if needed, he could always steal more from the Lannisters.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sansa's arms tightened. She took a breath, held it, then let it go slowly. "Take me home," she said.

Viserion spread his wings, the golden membranes catching the late afternoon sun, and launched himself into the sky. The city shrank below, then even the coast turned into a faraway object.

They rose higher, so much so that without Wind Flight allowing him to control the surrounding air, they would have started to have trouble breathing. Luckily, with Viserion’s presence increasing the mana density, he no longer got exhausted by running multiple abilities in concert.

Only when they were safely in the clouds, impossible to be seen from the land unless someone got lucky with a spyglass, he turned to Sansa. “Are you ready? Because we’re going to get really fast,” he warned her.

“We are?” Sansa asked, looking at him. “Can we really go faster?” He nodded, and Sansa hugged him. With that, he activated Momentum, doubling their speed, his connection with Viserion allowed him to expand.

He didn’t push even more, as it was the first time Viserion would be using Momentum for a long-distance flight, and he didn’t want to risk him just to shave another day from their trip.

Wind Flight allowed him to maintain the safe bubble around them, which meant they could speak. "How long until we reach the North?" Sansa asked.

He calculated. Viserion's speed with Momentum, the distance across the Narrow Sea, the need for rest stops.

"Three days," he said. "But, we’re not going directly to the North. We need to make a quick stop first.”