Title: take me, love me (invade the portions of me that are dark)
Fandom: game of thrones
Rating: teen
Length: ~1600 words
Author notes: divergent from 8x05, sansa-centric, title from sarah slean's euphoria

Sansa selects each word that goes into her letter very carefully. She needs to convey the perfect message, one which will also be safe if someone else should happen upon it.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains-

I find I must apologize again for my previous manner. It was not befitting a lady my station, and I allowed fear to overshadow possibility. I can only hope you forgive such slights, and understand how covetous I was of our finally reunited family and homeland.

It warms my heart that Cersei, the illegitimate tyrant, was dispatched in such an unseemly manner. I happily await how the bards will sing a verse about a ceiling crushing the last of the mighty lions.

The North misses Jon, as do we all, and I fear the lords have lost their respect for me. Were you to send our Warden back, I would be honored to take his place as the North’s representative in King’s Landing, and whatever duties he holds.

Yours,
Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell

Sansa doesn’t expect it to work. She’d grown downright arrogant, tossing aside everything she learned under Cersei for forthright honesty. Going from having scant allies to the entire North, she was drunk on the power, on the people’s love. Sure that either Jon would take his legitimacy, or the White Walkers bring about her end. Righteousness neatly undermining the North- for the Dragon Queen only needs to send one of her children to burn them all. (There’s word that only one remains, but she doesn’t believe it: a dragon is nigh invincible in the skies.)

Protecting the North’s people will always be more important than a crown, than pride, how her mother would spin in a grave had she one. That she had become like her older brother, racing towards an early end. She was supposed to emulate her father, but with her mother’s nature. (It’d be so much easier to lay the blame at Littlefinger’s feet, he already ruined so much of her.)

Daenerys sends back a raven that she doesn’t believe at first, must read the message five-times over.

She agreed.

The biggest threat to her reign, and she’s allowing him to return North, where the people will rally about him. Sansa doesn’t know if their Queen has decided the cold barren land isn’t worth it or if there’s something else. (Theon was castrated before he could come home, and she hates the pragmatic thought. Once Daenerys loved her brother, must still, she must hold onto that.)

.

Bran finds her in the godwood, praying to the Old Gods that they will follow her south. It feels near childish to be begging for help. Ironic almost, in that as a child leaving she ran towards the Seven with dreams of silk and fancy. Since then, she has seen the dead walk and kill, to fear a mere place after that-

“If you go south, you will become a Queen of all Realms.”

Once upon a time, that would have made her depart immediately. Once upon a time it wouldn’t send a shiver of dread down her arms, nervous sweat dripping down her back. The fighting is over, it is. She wonders at what possible vision of the future Bran could see ending like that. Perhaps in many years the Queen will marry an heir to her? But there are many more important lords and lands to tie down, and she already has Jon devoted. It’s a near hysterical thought, sprouting off worse theories to make his words make sense.

“And if I stay?”

“Our family will scatter as ashes before the wind, never blown home. Arya the Explorer, sailing off the map’s edge, Jon the Crow King, exiled with wildlings, Bran the Broken, last of his name, surrounded by those that fear him.”

“You’re certain?” Sansa asks, doesn’t really mean it.

Bran looks to the heart tree, “There was a man once who destroyed a city, had thousands upon thousands killed. Children, women- innocence couldn’t save them. Robert Baratheon was our father’s best friend all his life, a chosen brother. When you enter the city of ashes, you must keep this in your thoughts.”

.

Sansa can’t stop thinking about his words, long before she reaches King’s Landing. She knows her history, Littlefinger made sure of it. But to reconcile the monster who ripped apart a kingdom over a woman who loved another, to give that the same face as the fat king- the one who had no interests in ruling a kingdom once he got it, who couldn’t see what Joffrey was, who Cersei easily manipulated. Somehow she’s never thought of them as the same person- one an almost uncle, drunk and merry and improper, and one a terrible name from the rebellion.

She doesn’t like the warning. Not one bit.

(She doesn’t turn around. Her siblings will have a home, they deserve that much. Deserve more.)

.

It has been nearly a moon since the Battle of King’s Landing, and the city is coming back. She imagined this place, covered in ash, green flames still flickering on the outskirts. There are crude new houses and shops, none higher than a level. She sees Dothraki and Unsullied, a few smallfolk as well. (That surprises her the most, for any smallfolk to return to their city that burned- they must truly have no where else to go.)

It is not a large population- not after all of the fighting. She wonders the last time there were so few people in the city, must have been decades ago if not longer.

The walk up to the Red Keep is long, but her horse is tired, and there is much to take in. There aren’t nearly as many shops as there used to be, and few people on the road itself, certainly none selling wares. The city is almost quiet, swells of noise around large tents, full of drunken people and smelling of smoke and meat. Her stomach grumbles quietly, and she squeezes the mare into a trot, can wander through King’s Landing when her last real meal wasn’t multiple nights ago.

When they reach the steps, she sends her escorts back to Winterfell. There’s no need to appear defensive or mistrusting. (And if the Queen wishes to take her head, there’s no need for her people to die as well.)

A woman she doesn’t recognize leads her to the Queen, and Sansa can’t help but admire what she’s done to the place. Half the keep is gone, desecrated, and the memories that once hid around every corner have turned to rubble.

Unlike the city, there is no rebuilding going on here, no softening what happened. Daenerys’ smile is thin and sharp as they greet one another, and leads her to a small feast. The Queen dismisses all guards, and Sansa isn’t sure if she should feel relieved or insulted.

“Your brother betrayed me so you could know of his origins. Dear Varys had to die for it. I do hope no further whispers are necessary.”

Sansa swallows, wets her tongue with belief. “Jon Snow is my father’s bastard, my half-brother.”

Daenerys smiles, raising her glass, “Good.”

(It’s a twisted echo of Cersei; Sansa blames the crown, the wine, for even thinking it.)

.

The gardens have changed. It feels like a cruel turn of fate that the one ghost she seeks is no longer here. There are dozens of different types of flowers, she recognizes none. She idly wonders if they’re from Essos or somewhere else, can’t bring herself to care more.

She tries walking along the harbor, but there aren’t enough ships in the world to play pretend with. Her thoughts keep swimming back, pulling her under. (Not nearly enough ships to forget that Shae is dead.)

It’s easier to be a proper lady with company. The fear keeps her in check, keeps her instincts sharp. It would only take a single raven, a single dragon-

She’s become rather horrible at being. There is little she wishes to do, finds herself sewing again to keep her fingers busy. Red weirwood leaves become embroidered on all of her clothes, as though she could summon the Old Ones so simply.

Sansa bleeds onto the threads as she works, has never gotten so many compliments on their eerie likeness.

.

“I am lonely,” Daenerys says bluntly one afternoon, and Sansa nearly drops her glass.

“I- would you like me to fetch someone?”

She laughs lightly, lacking any humor. “Your brother, Jon, one of his informal duties was to entertain me.”

Sansa’s cheeks flush bright, as though she has any innocence left to burn with. It wouldn’t be a hardship, though she’s never- her cheeks redden even more at the thought.

Daenerys catches her reaction, laughs genuinely. “Oh no, I didn’t mean for us to- while you are rather pretty, I was thinking a game of Cyvasse. Have you ever?”

“I’ve seen it played, I confess I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”

“I’ll teach you. Any game with dragons is worth learning.”

.

It becomes a nightly ritual, often played in the exposed throne room. Drogon laying beside them, the board on the ground between them, and a fire cackling on the other side for light and warmth. The room is perfect like this, and Sansa never thought she’d ever enjoy being in this space again- but through it’s deconstruction, through it’s hollowing, it’s become anew.

She’s learning too much about her new Queen, drawing too many easy parallels between their pasts. It’s too easy to be her friend, too easy to want more. (She’s always been a greedy child, Daenerys is a Queen, she has a duty to the realm.)

One night, Daenerys kisses her. And every reason it’s a bad idea flies right out of her head, and Sansa leans forward to kiss her back.

(Bran was right, she will become a Queen.)