GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 143 - Sansa's Fragrant Kiss

Daenerys Targaryen rose from her seat and smoothed her skirt.

"I'm going to check on Rhaego," she said, her tone as casual as a remark about the weather. "And I'll stop by to see Scarlett. She's due any day now. Missandei told me she's been in terrible pain."

Missandei blinked. She had said no such thing. But she lowered her eyes and kept quiet.

Khal Drogo glanced at Daenerys.

She was already looking at him.

No jealousy in that gaze. No probing. Just a faint, knowing calm.

Daenerys had seen through him the moment he ordered Tyrion to bring Sansa Stark along. She was giving him room. Time and space, offered without a word.

She reached out and lightly touched the back of his hand. Then she turned and walked out. Her silver-gold hair caught the candlelight for a moment, then disappeared through the doorway.

Missandei followed, her footsteps nearly soundless.

The hall went quiet.

Drogo sat where he was for a long moment. Then he stood and walked out.

Only his own footsteps in the corridor.

The stone steps of Storm's End were narrow and steep. The Dothraki had no love for enclosed stone buildings. He passed through a hallway hung with old banners and stopped in front of an oaken door.

He knocked three times.

Silence.

He knocked once more.

"...Who's there?" A girl's voice, thin and soft, from behind the door.

Drogo didn't answer. He pushed. The door was unlocked.

Sansa Stark sat at the edge of the bed, both hands clutching the sheet beneath her.

Her red hair fell loose over her shoulders, making her face look even paler. Pale as winter snow.

When the door swung open, she shrank back. Spine against the bedpost, knees pressed together, ankles pressed together. Her blue eyes went wide with panic. They landed on Drogo's face for one heartbeat, then fled downward to stare at the tips of her shoes.

Drogo closed the door. Not hard. But the click of the bolt sliding home made Sansa's shoulders jolt.

"You know who I am," he said.

Sansa nodded, barely. Then, as if a nod alone wasn't enough, she opened her mouth. "K-Khal Drogo."

Her voice shook badly. The two words had a river between them.

Drogo walked to the window and leaned back against the stone wall, putting distance between them.

Sansa's eyes crept up a little. She stole a glance at him, then looked away fast.

"How old are you," Drogo said.

"...Thirteen." Still soft, but steadier than before. Because he hadn't moved toward her. Wasn't staring at her. He was looking out the window at the gray sky and the gray-green sea beyond.

Drogo grunted.

Thirteen. Daenerys had been thirteen when he married her.

That silver-haired girl who trembled on the open grasslands now sat at his right hand and suggested beheading envoys to his face.

He looked at Sansa.

She was still staring at her shoes. Her lower lip was bitten pale. Her breathing came quick and shallow, her chest rising and falling in short, visible bursts. She was fighting hard to hold back tears. The rims of her eyes were already red.

He had seen that expression before. It was almost exactly how Daenerys had looked the first time she met him.

"You're afraid of me," Drogo said.

Sansa swallowed. "I... I..." Her voice started to shake. "You've killed... so many people."

"Your husband," he said. "Tyrion."

Sansa went still. She lifted her damp eyes to look at him, confused by the sudden turn.

"Has he touched you."

Her face went red all at once. Frightened and mortified at the same time. Her lips trembled. Her voice dropped to almost nothing. "N-no. He hasn't."

She lowered her head further. "He said he didn't want to... touch a girl who didn't want to be touched."

Drogo nodded.

He already knew Tyrion hadn't touched her. That marriage had been a political performance. The Lannister dwarf had more decency than most knights. Her maidenhead was intact. Tyrion had chosen to leave her alone.

In the original course of fate, she would have been coaxed and maneuvered out of King's Landing by Littlefinger, then handed to House Bolton like a gift.

By then she would have learned to lie. To hide everything real behind a smile. To look at every person in the room and trust none of them.

But that was later.

The girl in front of him now was not yet that scarred, hollow "Alayne." She was still Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of the North. The foolish girl who believed in knights and songs.

The one who would truly destroy her was Ramsay Bolton.

After Littlefinger sold her to House Bolton, on the wedding night, Ramsay made Reek — Theon Greyjoy — watch while he consummated the marriage. He took everything from her in the cruelest way imaginable.

"Your brothers and sister are all alive," Drogo said.

Sansa's head came up. Something lit in those blue eyes.

"Your sister Arya. Your brothers Bran and Rickon. All alive."

"Y-you..." Her voice changed. The trembling was still there, but it wasn't fear anymore. It was hope, raw and wet. "Bran... Rickon... they're really... alive?"

"Really."

She asked quietly, "Do you know where they are?"

"Arya went to Braavos. She's training with the Many-Faced God. Bran went beyond the Wall under Hodor's protection. Rickon is in the North. He should still be safe for now."

Sansa nodded. Bit her lip. She was quiet for a long time before she finally asked the question she actually wanted to ask.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

Drogo looked her in the eyes.

"Because I'm going to help you kill a few people."

Sansa went still.

"Joffrey Baratheon. Cersei Lannister. Tywin Lannister. And..."

He paused.

"Petyr Baelish. Roose Bolton and his son Ramsay."

Joffrey had taken her father's head.

Petyr Baelish had betrayed him.

Roose Bolton had killed her brother Robb and her mother Catelyn.

She had carved those names into her heart every single day, aching to run each one through with her own hands. But she was just a girl. Defenseless. She couldn't even hold a dagger steady.

Yet she knew the man in front of her could do it. She had heard enough stories about him in the Red Keep. The only Khal on the great grasslands. Peerless in the saddle and with a bow. Master of three dragons.

"And House Frey," Sansa said. "Walder Frey's whole family."

Then she started crying. Hard. Her whole body heaved with it, tears and snot streaking her face.

Drogo didn't comfort her. He just sat there and waited.

After a long while, the sobs faded. She wiped her face with her sleeve and looked up at him, eyes red, nose red, a complete mess. But the fear from before was gone.

"Why would you help me?"

Drogo walked over to her, crouched down, and took her hand. It was small. Very cold. Trembling faintly inside his rough palm.

"Because you are my best gift," he said.

The room was quiet for a long time.

She had been trapped in the Red Keep long enough. Sansa was no longer the little girl who dreamed along to songs and ballads. She understood what this man's promise meant. She understood what she would have to give in exchange.

She leaned down and kissed him.

➤ Next: Stark and Targaryen