Chapter Text
It's upon coming to Westeros that Daenerys Targaryen realizes she has no experience in dealing with queens of any sort, besides herself. Least of all is she prepared for Sansa Stark.
She both admired and disliked the Lady of Winterfell from the start. Her first thought upon greeting Sansa and being greeted in return was I have met my match. The "Queen in the North" was not impressed with her dragons nor her armies. She was not swayed by Daenerys' practiced pleasantries, or her rightful claim to the throne.
It was as if she expected better.
The thought irked Dany as much as it fascinated her.
Nevertheless, they found themselves agreeing with each other's opinions at council meetings, despite their seemingly insurmountable differences in views. She found herself smiling when Sansa and Jon bantered like siblings at dinner (the first time she laughed at one of Sansa's quips towards Jon Snow, Lady Stark looked at her as if she had two heads). No doubt she thought Daenerys hated her. This was not so, much to her own surprise.
Most of all, she saw glimpses of someone else behind the cold mask in quiet moments: tears, kindness, mercy, she saw them all in Sansa Stark.
She would have made a fine dragon, Dany found herself thinking one day. Had she been born with Targaryen blood and dragons to ride...would have made quite the sight at any rate.
When her guards accompanied her first visit to the Winterfell crypts a week after her arrival, she was surprised to find Sansa there, looking as regal as any queen in her fitting black dress. She is not a queen, Daenerys reminded herself. She stood like a shadow in front of Ned Stark's statue, her face as solemn as his. Dany thought it must be in their blood to be so unbowed, so rigid.
Daenerys walked towards her until they stood side by side. Sansa turned, looking between her and her guards as though caught doing something wrong. Whatever expression was on her face quickly shuttered into blankness.
"Your Grace," she bowed, at the same time Dany said "Lady Stark." They smiled awkwardly at one another for the blunder, then looked away.
"There aren't many crypts like this across the Narrow Sea. The people there view death differently, I suppose," Dany observed. "It's beautiful."
There was a moment of silence, and then Sansa answered. "Northerners are as superstitious as they come. Burials, prayers, statues, ceremonies. It all seems so stupid now. Desperate attempts at comfort."
The undead were coming. There wasn't much comfort to be found anywhere.
Daenerys watched as Sansa's eyes roamed over the stone face of her father. There was a scar on her neck, just beneath her ear. It was ugly, a different color than the rest of her fair skin. She couldn't help but wonder whether or not the girl had more battle scars to speak of. Of course she does. Dany knew the horrors of Sansa's past better than she let on.
It was one of the few things she shared in common with her.
"Every person who knew Ned Stark has told me what a good man he was. I'm sorry he's gone."
"I come here to talk to him sometimes, when I want peace and quiet. Here and the Weirwood Tree."
"Whenever I want peace and quiet, I ride with my dragons. Even then it's hard to find."
Sansa turned to her, a barely noticeable hint of surprise on her face. Why? Because she thought Daenerys slept like a spoiled babe in her chambers every night? Because she was a human being?
"Yes," she spoke softly. "I suppose it is always hard."
That was the day Daenerys began to like Sansa Stark, to think of her as a kind of confidant, however precarious their situations. She likes to think Sansa feels the same.
Even after Sansa asked her what she planned to do about the North, and she made her intentions clear, a tenuous peace existed between them. Now, Dany realizes, Sansa was merely confident in her ability to sway that opinion.
-------------------------
“She is mine.”
Dany doesn’t realize this outburst is a mistake until it’s too late. She must look half-mad to the court members, her delicate face a mask of calm rage, eyes blazing with dragon fire. She catalogues their reactions at the same time she berates herself for her words. The North, I meant the North, she wants to say, as if it’s not a stupid lie, an awkward cover-up. Tyrion looks somewhat shocked, more so because he doesn’t like being played the fool; Jon Snow is looking between her and his sister with utter confusion; Varys, whose expression has yet to change, is eyeing the sister in question.
Sansa. Sansa, who refuses to look at her. She might as well be a pillar of stone, a beautiful, unfeeling statue buried in an ancient crypt. It makes her heart hurt.
A queen who's judged for her coldness and another who's judged for the opposite, Dany thinks. They make quite a pair.
“We shall have no talk of Lady Stark’s marriage to another Lord. Not until both wars are won.”
Her word is final. And, if they live through the wars to come, she will find a way to ensure Sansa remains unwed—as much for Dany’s sake as it is for hers. The thought of another laying with Sansa, taking her—man or woman, high lord or peasant—makes her tremble with rage and fear. The thought of another hurting her, it simmers her blood.
The meeting continues, and Sansa doesn’t look at Daenerys once.
That night, there is a knock on her door.
The Northern Queen (Dany cannot help but call her that in her head) stands on the other side of it, gazing down at her coldly.
“May I enter, my Queen?”
This is not the first time they've come to one another's chambers. There is something different about tonight, though. Dany steps aside to let her through, then closes it and turns the lock. Turning around, she takes a moment to look at the woman she's let into her bedroom. The fire light shines off her hair, making her seem even more other-worldly than she’s been looking as of late. The two of them stand quietly, examining one another, until Sansa looks away, irked.
“Were you not pleased at the council meeting today, Lady Stark?” Dany inquires, making her tone bored.
It gets the desired reaction. Sansa stiffens, glaring down at her as she takes her gloves off.
“No. I can’t say I was.”
“And why is that?” Daenerys takes slow, measured steps in Sansa’s direction, holding her gaze all the while. “Do you believe I spoke falsely?”
“I believe you spoke idiotically.”
“Did I?”
Dany’s hand raises and touches her forearm, making Sansa visibly shiver. Violet eyes narrow in on a slender, pale neck, and a rapid pulse beneath it. She wants to grab her and make her bend down, bring that neck to her hungry mouth so that she may claim her beating pulse, and thus her heart, because love is everything that the Dragon Queen has ever wanted. Sansa doesn’t give close love freely, but when she does, she loves with her entire heart. Daenerys is the same.
Sansa’s pale hand is suddenly curled around the back of her neck, just resting there among the white locks of hair; she inhales the chamber air, no doubt stiflingly warm as compared to what she's used to, exhaling shakily. Daenerys, unable to resist, lifts her other hand to curl ginger locks around her fingers. The strands are soft as silk, starkly red against her skin.
“You always look beautiful, in these black dresses,” Daenerys breathes. “I want to see what’s under them.”
Sansa’s eyes flutter shut, and her chest rises faster. Her lips are parted, and she blinks her eyes open in shock when Daenerys slides her thumb gently across them.
“We can’t keep doing this.” She rasps.
“I am Queen. I can do anything I want, within reason.” Dany cups Sansa’s cheek in one hand, gazing up at her curiously. “The question is, what do you want? Are...do you...”
“I want—” Peace in the realm. Peace in the North.
You.
Sansa, as in all her moments of weakness, berates herself fiercely for failing to swallow that truth. For all her growth, for all her desire to shut out everyone so as not to be burned again, it evidently means nothing. One beseeching look from the Dragon Queen and her defenses might as well be made of glass.
Suddenly, her grip on Dany's hair tightens desperately as she hisses, "How utterly foolish of you to do what you did earlier. If we're not careful, if the Northern lords find out—"
"I don't care."
"You should."
"Do you think we haven't been watched? Someone is bound to have seen us kissing at one point or another."
"Yes, because you pin me to the nearest available surface when the urge overcomes you." Sansa's lips, curled in frustration before, soften into a frown. Daenerys sees the glimmer of fondness in her eyes and presses her advantage.
"You've no need to be concerned with the Northern lords. They'll burn where they stand before any of them touch a hair on your head."
"I don't want them to burn. I want the North safe, as does Jon."
Dany steps into her space, clutching Sansa's hair, bringing their faces closer. "I would not burn and ransack out of greed. I would not burn them unless they declared open war against me. I want to protect them, I want to have them as my people."
"We've bled enough! We've fought enough wars for too many kings." Sansa closes her eyes. "We're tired."
"Then kiss me," Dany whispers. "Kiss me again. We'll pretend for tonight that I am not a queen and you're no Lady. We'll forget whatever is beyond this room."
"Yes," Sansa whispers back, her eyebrows drawing together as if in pain. "I want you."
Their lips crash together, Sansa bowing her head and Daenerys straining onto her tip toes. Dany clutches that tall, slender frame to her own with all her might, and still it's not enough. She opens her mouth wider and drags her teeth across Sansa's bottom lip, using the other girl's gasp as an invitation to tongue her mouth. Sansa moans beautifully, her ungloved hands working frantically at the front of Dany's dress. Dany breaks the kiss to help her, unable to resist leaning up to reclaim that sweet mouth now and then.
Sansa works tirelessly, until her Queen by all rights stands completely naked before her; she pauses a moment to take in her petite frame, those womanly curves, pointed, rosebud nipples...she can't help but swoop down and take one into her mouth. Dany throws her head back and moans, clutching the back of her head.
"Here's what we're going to do." She draws Sansa away from her breast, gazing at her lustfully. "I'm going to make you cum with my mouth and fingers. Then I'm going to ride your face."
Sansa nods enthusiastically. "Gods, yes, please,"
Dany nearly shoves her onto the bed, straddling her waist as she starts undoing her front laces.
"Like a present," she murmurs. Sansa's eyes darken even more.
"You covet too much," she says teasingly, though Daenerys thinks she might have a deeper meaning. When the final string of the corset is loosened, the Dragon Queen brushes the material to the side, exposing her breasts.
Dany's fingers trail over them, leaving gooseflesh in her wake. "I covet what is rightfully mine."
"I'm yours, then?" Sansa asks teasingly. "You seem awfully keen on telling everyone this."
Daenerys swoops down and takes a nipple into her mouth, making Sansa gasp. She sucks, breaking away and nipping the skin around it gently. "I'll keep telling everyone, you included."
They kiss again, but her Lady is hesitant, less playful. Daenerys pulls away, searching her face in concern.
"What is it?"
Eyes of clear blue dart away from her own. Dany will have none of that; she gently cups her cheek in one hand and brings them back to where they should always stay, on hers.
"Are you doing this for dominion of the North?" Sansa demands suddenly. "Are you using me to gain my trust?"
Dany sucks in a breath, wounded. "No. I do not use people to get what I want."
Sansa sits up on the mattress suddenly, clutching Dany's hips firmly enough to bruise. They are nose to nose, panting each other's air.
"You don't understand," she says lowly, a warning and a plea. "When I laid in bed at night, dreading every minute that brought Ramsay closer to my door, when I realized Littlefinger would sell me or fuck me to get what he wanted, whichever came first, I made a vow to myself. I would no sooner trust another person outside my family than cut out my own tongue.
"You have to be different. I need you to be different."
Dany cups Sansa's cheek with one hand, gently swiping under her eyes at the gathered moisture there. "Sweet girl," she murmurs. "I will be different. I swear to you."
And then she does something she has never done. She moves off the bed and kneels on the floor before Sansa, taking her hands in her own. "You have my word as Queen. On the lives of my dragons."
Her claim and her children are among that which she takes most seriously in this world; she knows Sansa understands this. From the tears spilling down her cheeks, she does.
Dany stands and places her lips under Sansa's jaw. "May your Queen take her kiss now?"
"Yes," Sansa gasps. "She can."
The Dragon Queen, as is custom, makes good on all her promises. For the night, and from then on afterwards.
-------------------------
"Gods be good," Sansa whispers.
Drogon and Rhaegal, regal and beautiful even with blood staining their massive teeth, are sifting through carcasses of livestock. A part of her is angry, a bigger part of her is in awe, because this is the closest she's come to either of them. Jon has painted a vivid picture for her, as he and Dany often ride both of them, but the descriptions do not compare to the reality. These are not simple beasts, they are warriors. She turns to their mother, and lets loose an eccentric laugh.
"Dany—they're beautiful."
"You hated them at first," she teases.
Sansa smirks, fighting the urge to lean in and kiss her. Instead, she innocently places a hand on her shoulder, leaning in to no doubt whisper something friendly in her ear. "I disliked them, Your Grace, but fortunately you've changed my view on that quite a bit."
"Would you care to ride them later with me?"
The teasing lilt drops from Sansa's voice. "Really? Would they let me?"
Dany smiles as she places a lingering kiss on her cheek (they're alone, she's not concerned). "They will, because they know I trust you."
Sansa is a wolf. She belongs on the ground, in packs, in unforgiving climates where one cannot escape the snow beneath their feet. But in this world, wolves have been known to be tempted by dragons.
"Then yes. A thousand yes's."
"That's...quite a lot of yes's."
"Mmm-hmm. I also wanted to thank you properly for the other night," Sansa continues, perfectly innocent.
Daenerys draws an unsteady breath and touches Sansa's waist, just as pleasant. "There's no need for thanks, my Lady. I've never received a better welcome." She leans in further, placing her lips against Sansa's lobe. "I'm looking forward to seeing you later."
Sansa shivers from her scalp to her toes. She feels pooling warmth between her legs. "I've been practicing, Your Grace," she murmurs. "Moving my tongue just the way you said."
She swears Daenerys breathes smoke, that her small hand tightens on the material at her waist. "Come to my chambers after we've supped, as you Northerners like to put it. I'll be waiting for you."
They break apart, arm in arm, the foreign Queen and the Lady of Winterfell on a friendly stroll to see the dragons.