Drabbletag 5 - Daenerys/Sansa, Wild
Title: Winter's Heir
Prompt: Drabbletag 5 - Daenerys/Sansa, Wild
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
Word Count: 250
Winterfell is not so fine as the southern courts, but there is rough resplendence here, and the warmth and firelight as Daenerys steps into the audience hall is hospitality enough. The woman who styles herself Queen in the North rises to greet her with a gracious tilt of her head, elegant in silks of grey and white, and there is only the sigil at her chest and the flash of teeth behind that demure smile to remind her that this wolf has claws.
It is only later, over wine and cakes in a private chamber, that they speak in earnest. The northern queen, this Sansa Stark, toys with the lace at her cuffs and watches Daenerys with clear eyes, assessing.
“If you have come to demand that we bend the knee, then I fear I must disappoint you,” Sansa says. “We may be killed, Stormborn. We shall not be conquered.” Her voice is soft, but there is command there, and something more subtle, defiance hard-won and unexpectedly, almost painfully familiar. Daenerys lifts the silver flask to her lips, tastes the bitter red and considers her words with care.
“Then it is well that conquest is not my intention. We share a common enemy, or so I have heard.”
And Sansa lays a hand lightly on Daenerys's arm, leans closer, coy and careful.
“They call you Breaker of Shackles,” she says, and there is that smile again, the hungry sharpness behind it. “We share many enemies, I think.”
Prompt: Drabbletag 5 - Daenerys/Sansa, Wild
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
Word Count: 250
Winterfell is not so fine as the southern courts, but there is rough resplendence here, and the warmth and firelight as Daenerys steps into the audience hall is hospitality enough. The woman who styles herself Queen in the North rises to greet her with a gracious tilt of her head, elegant in silks of grey and white, and there is only the sigil at her chest and the flash of teeth behind that demure smile to remind her that this wolf has claws.
It is only later, over wine and cakes in a private chamber, that they speak in earnest. The northern queen, this Sansa Stark, toys with the lace at her cuffs and watches Daenerys with clear eyes, assessing.
“If you have come to demand that we bend the knee, then I fear I must disappoint you,” Sansa says. “We may be killed, Stormborn. We shall not be conquered.” Her voice is soft, but there is command there, and something more subtle, defiance hard-won and unexpectedly, almost painfully familiar. Daenerys lifts the silver flask to her lips, tastes the bitter red and considers her words with care.
“Then it is well that conquest is not my intention. We share a common enemy, or so I have heard.”
And Sansa lays a hand lightly on Daenerys's arm, leans closer, coy and careful.
“They call you Breaker of Shackles,” she says, and there is that smile again, the hungry sharpness behind it. “We share many enemies, I think.”