Shierak Qiya

“That’d would be like cheating.”

He leaned closer, oddly content. 

“I’m giving the sun back to the dragon. It’s an inverse of an old series of symbols in a book I read as ..well, I read a long time ago.”

In short: a sort of protection spell. 

“That sounds like something out of one of your writings...” It reminded her of the stories of her older brother, of her ancestors who had made dragons of themselves and turned their name into myth.

He was stoic, stiff, armored, but he lessened his tension at the touch. Just so. He looked down at her, thoughtful. He could see it, too, and it was poetic, considering the environment. There was that shade of light.

“–I fell into the line of work in an unusual way.”

Part of it was–just that. Sometimes it paid to forget, and forget your old self. 

“That had a part to play in it.”

“I’m sorry for whatever brought you into this business,” she said sincerely, because she understood that whatever had led him into this life, it couldn’t be a good thing; she’d yet to meet someone who had a place in their part of society without something terrible in their past, or their ancestors’ pasts.

“That would never happen to you.”

He didn’t think so. In fact: 

“Shadows need fire, don’t they?” he asked. There was a stretch of quiet and he turned back to his work. 

“–Both a gift and a curse,” he allowed. 

“They do...” But she wouldn’t let him get away that easily, standing at his back, too short to put her arm on his shoulder she’d have liked and so resting her hand near the middle of his back. “They’re always there, beside the fire.”

“I’d be what happens underneath. Between the lines.”

A shadow. 

“I don’t know what is better: writing or just the telling.”

For a story to live with a few. However, he wasn’t doing well with keeping that number up.

“I trust you wouldn’t forget me.”

“The shadows tend to get more attention than the dragons once all is said and done,” she noted, eyebrows raising slightly.

Sometimes it was for sanity, sometimes leverage. Sometimes–he couldn’t see his own emotions, clearly, and he needed to write out the picture. This was still to him almost a story. 

“A little modern truth in myth,” he said. “Like you. A dragon queen. What is there not to write about?”

Her lips curled upwards at the thought he wrote about her, and she almost wished to read what, exactly, he had to say about her -- but on the other hand maybe it was better left a mystery.

She’d ask how much it would cost, again. 

“Who would I be singing for?” she asked instead. “I hardly know your favorite genre.”

She would guess if it was a friendly moment, not one fraught with ways to fall. 

“Yourself.” Dany was a little surprised by the point about her genre, and a little saddened that Sansa was already so well versed in the world that she knew it all tended to come with a price.

“….Writing.”

He allowed. Although, theoretically, plenty of murder has been done by writing. Well, if she was going to insist on watching. 

He glared up at the woman, momentarily thrown, and while it was his own definition: 

“Gardening,” he said, drily. 

She lit the cigarette, as if this was all dream-talk. She used to dream a lot, and she still did. Got her through so much, going in an ivory tower. But she now waited until reality hit, and then dreamed a little story out. 

This was non-reality. 

“What couldn’t I do?” she asked, jokingly. “That’s more interesting to think about.”

She paused. 

“Improve my singing.”

“Very few of us have that benefit, your grace,” Ashildr tried to be gentle seeing how upset she seemed. “You know what you want. You have always been very clear on that point ever since I arrived. Maybe it doesn’t need to mean more.”