#dark sansa

The Dragon Queen was small, tiny really, even in her furs, that she seemed but a child. The woman smiled, hopefully, that too struck Sansa of childishness. Hope was a risk few survived. Even so, Sansa felt a small pull towards the woman, as if her dainty hands had reached into a part of her she’d neglected to sheath in ice.

“I fear that our introduction left much to be desired.” The Targaryen smiled; the Stark mimicked it, poorly. “The North, you, need not fear me. I love your brother. I would learn to know and love all his family and his people. I would learn of your ways, I understand your struggle, and I will fight for you all.”

Sansa could only arch an eyebrow at the outpouring of the girl. It should be endearing, effusions of love and concern, loyalty. To be the most powerful woman in Westeros, the most powerful person in the world, and to understand so little. Foolish, foolish child.

The Queen moved closer to her, believing her silence meant she listened, “I would make your brother my consort and heed his advice in making decisions for the good of all my people. I count you, all the North, as mine. And I am loyal to my own.”

“Your Grace, these are words. Words have failed me my entire life. We understood each other perfectly in our first meeting. You have my brother's devotion; there is no need to seek mine."

The dragon recoiled. "The North holds you in a place of honor, that even their king did not ascend. If the Lords do not believe you accept me, they will not." "That is perceptive of you." The testament to her standing failed to move her. "What can I do to assuage your fears?"

Sansa smiled with real feeling this time, not even attempting to temper it. "I have no fears."

"I will defeat Cersei Lannister. I will send you her head if you wish it." "Her head? No, a second head is not necessary. My own is quite sufficient. Cersei Lannister is a vile, cruel woman; I am not Cersei. I want her dead, but a raven will suffice. I will not see the bodies of my enemies treated as they treated my family’s, no matter how many times over they have earned their fate.” Sansa leaned closer, her hand resting on Daenerys’s wrist. “Rumors are that she took to her twin's bed, that it was Jaime Lannister who fathered her children. That it was his sons, the blood of your father's murderer, who sat the throne. And now he's here, under my protection, under my brother's --your lover’s-- protection.”

The Queen flinched, her smile remained fixed, but something new flickered in her eyes, doubt, and Sansa, with a wolf’s instinct, saw the weakness, the faltering step of the injured, the small hand clenched in anger. “That is cruel, isn’t it? To finally have the man who took everything from you within your grasp and be denied justice? I lost my father too. I know your pain. To have it disregarded…” she took Daenerys’s hand, and stroked her fingers gently across the back of it, as if offering comfort in sincere understanding of her pain. “Crueler still that it is the man you love who stands between you and what you want. What you deserve.”

Daenerys’s chest rose and fell visibly, those innocent eyes darkening in pain.

Sansa leaned closer, “I may be a Lady rather than a Queen of legend, but you and I are more alike than you know. I was eleven the first time I decided to kill a man. He was my betrothed, and I meant to watch him fall to his death, even if I followed. I was stopped, but no one stopped me when it came to my second husband. I heard you killed your first. There’s nothing like taking a life from someone undeserving of it, is there? When I killed Ramsay, I could taste the blood on my tongue. I hope I always taste it: justice. Oh, but you loved your husband, didn’t you? He wasn’t cruel?” Sansa continued, not waiting for a response, “Maybe you can taste the kingslayer’s. Not now, but later, in the heat of battle, flame, a dragon’s claw, and blood. Does it horrify you that I should say such a thing?”

Daenerys was dazed, she did not know where Sansa would have learned of her husband. Had Jon told her? Had she even told Jon? Tyrion? Had she told Sansa? She could not remember their first conversation, if she had been foolish enough to give this—this creature—any part of herself. Why was Jon denying her what she deserved? A life for a life, she was owed it. Her head was throbbing, and she tasted the metallic tang, the flavor she loved—oh, how she loved it—and told herself she would have her fill soon, not vengeance: justice.

A soft thumb pressed her lip.

“You’ve bitten your lip, your grace. You’re bleeding” as Sansa swept aside a drop of blood, and then wiped it on a cloth, staining the snow-white material with a smear of red. Her fingers returned to Dany’s, the faintest of taps on the back of Dany’s hand. “I leave the pursuit of power, intrigues and maneuverings, to men like Tyrion. Your hand is all brilliance and machinations, while I am but a Lady, who worries about food and clothing. I am not Cersei. I am no queen to be conquered. Any power that I might have had is lost. I am only a façade of strength now that all my assertions on behalf of my dear brother prove me to be so extraordinarily naive. A lifetime of lessons cut into my body, and what good did it do me? I am just a little bird, who mustn't fly far beyond the nest for anything stronger than a breeze might carry me off. It took Arya slitting the throat of Lord Baelish to set us free. He came to our aide, but he threatened us, and so the dagger made him smile one last time. His blood I don't taste, but I hear it, running from his throat, as if it was as anxious for his death as I. It pooled on the floor, and when I sit at table, I conjure it, because it makes me smile. Watching the life leave the eyes of those who wronged you, who used you, there is nothing sweeter than that. But, I am no Cersei. There will be no treachery against allies, no secret plans.” Her fingers closed around Daenerys’s, “I would never allow a sibling of mine to stab a Targaryen in the back.”

Daenerys struggled to breath. Her skin was burning beneath Sansa’s cool hand, and for all the Lady of Winterfell’s soothing words of powerlessness, it was Sansa that the Lords turned to, it was Sansa that Jon turned to; Jon may have bent the knee, but the North was not his to give away.

Sansa declared herself a harmless girl, yet her grip was not that of a songbird, but a bird of prey.

“I heard my brother rode a dragon. How extraordinarily generous of you to give such a gift to another. I wonder that you would risk your beast growing attached to anyone but you. Love changes even the most hardened of us, does it not? We give and give, and what do we receive in return? Sometimes I think we bestow it on those wholly undeserving. We can never win the affection we crave, the more we seek it, the more they deny us. Almost as if the more we love, the less they love us in return. I was once told, ‘love no one but your children.’ If only our hearts listened.” Sansa stopped her tapping. “I’m surprised that the dragon permitted Jon to ride him. I always thought it was necessary to be a Targ—ah well, perhaps blood matters not.”

The slow throb of her heart stuttered, and then rushed ahead. It had been strange that Drogon allowed Jon to approach him, strange that Jon had managed to ride Rhaegal, but surely it was their love of her that allowed—Jon was not—

Sansa withdrew her hand, pushed herself to her feet, “You must retire to your chambers, Your Grace. You’re shaking from the chill in this drafty room.”

Daenerys found herself ushered to the door, seething, uncertain which words, which implication, which insidious idea to respond to—