Daenery's ermine-trimmed jacket falls into crumbling pieces of ash. The white walkers shrieking and dying.
She marches into the gusts of Drogon's fire and emerges with all of her nudeness on display to the common folk. They fight for their lives and homes. But they will not kneel for the Mad King's daughter. And she does not want their obedience through violence and bloodshed. Daenerys came home to break the wheel of corruption and unjust — not to become another spoke.
Jon busies himself ordering to move the wounded. Daenerys stands alone, the lingering dragon-heat on her skin rising like steam. "Your Grace," Sansa whispers, going forward and draping a snow-dusted banner to Daenerys's exposed shoulders.
The colors of the Stark House and the direwolf sigil hanging off her naked, soot-smeared body. As if cloaking a wedded bride.
"Thank you, Sansa."
Daenery's mouth quirks up at the astonishment flooding the other woman. The informal manner she addresses Lady Stark. Moonlight silvers the orange-auburn stands of Sansa's hair. Despite their earlier animosity, Daenerys considers her to be loyal and pragmatic and worthy of her noble-title. A queen beloved and respected by the poor and wealthy alike.
Perhaps every-one should admire Sansa Stark.