Hot Coffee Part 27
Title: Hot Coffee Part 27
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
“So,” Loras begins gravely, looking at me over the rim of his teacup. “You want to talk to me about despoiling my baby sister.”
I choke on my coffee.
“N- no,” I gasp out between hacking coughs. “That’s not- I don’t- I’m sorry, I-“
“It’s alright!” he says, his expression stricken. He sets his cup aside and gets to his feet, then just stands there awkwardly. “Can I help? Do you need some water?” I shake my head, not sure I’d be able to speak even if I wasn’t currently in the process of hacking up a lung. It also feels like my heart has leaped right into my mouth, which definitely isn’t helping with the whole breathing thing. Soon, though, my choking fit subsides.
“I’m fine,” I gasp. I’ll live, I think to myself. At least unless Loras challenges me to a duel in the name of Margaery’s honour. I clear my throat, not having the first clue what I’m going to say (how I can even begin to fix this), but feeling compelled to try anyway. “I…”
Well, that’s a start. Before I can continue, however, Loras puts out a hand to stop me. (I flinch badly, hoping fervently - futilely - that he doesn’t notice.)
(“Oh, you’re sorry, are you? You’re *sorry*?! I’ll *make* you sorry.”)
“That was a joke,” he says softly, looking a little shamefaced. He sits back down in his armchair and picks up his cup once more. “I thought it might break the ice a little; maybe dispel any awkwardness you might be feeling.” Shaking his head, he mutters. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Asha.” He pauses a moment, and then gives me a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, Sansa. Do you forgive me?”
It takes me a moment to process what he’s saying. He was joking? He didn’t mean it? And, a heartbeat later: he spoke to *Asha*? I guess she *did* know I was going to contact him. Maybe she asked him if I’d gotten in touch yet? Or maybe he asked her if she knew what I wanted to talk to him about. I wonder if they discussed… me. Us; Margaery and myself. I wonder what they said.
(I wonder if they laughed at me. At my naiveté.)
(No, they wouldn’t. I’m sure they wouldn’t. I am sure.)
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I say slowly, before the silence can stretch too long. I mean, we wouldn’t want this to get awkward, would we? (Huh. Who knew I’d be capable of humour at a time like this? I blame the crowd at Hot Coffee. And the re-enactors. And the LARP crowd. Hmm. Inappropriate humour seems to be a common feature of my current social circles. I wonder what that means…) Suddenly unable to stand it any more, I find myself blurting out: “So, you’re not angry with me?”
“No, of course not,” he says, but not as if the question is entirely unexpected. (Okay, Asha *must* have said something about how worried I am. Was. Am. Or I’m just doing a really bad job of hiding my nervousness. Maybe it’s both.) “Margaery’s love life is none of my business. I don’t have any right to be angry over whom she chooses to spend time with. And, as long as it is her choice, why on earth would I be?”
He sounds so earnest, and he smiles at me reassuringly as he stirs his tea with precise, economical motions.
(Even with my thoughts all a-jumble, I can’t help noticing that he actually sets the tea bag aside for later composting. I think he’s the only person I know who actually composts. Everyone recycles, of course, but Loras and his housemates seem to take it to a whole other level. Idly, I wonder if Margaery shares his dedication to the environment.)
I sip my coffee and try to gather up the tattered shreds of my dignity.
“I guess it does sound silly if you put it like that,” I say sheepishly. (Except I’m pretty sure Rob and Jon would be angry with any young man who ‘despoiled’ *me*, even if it *was* all my own choice.)
(I wonder whether they’d feel the same about it being a young lady…)
(Nope. Nuh uh. No way. That is a conversation we’re *never* going to have. Not if I can possibly help it. If Margaery does come to visit me at home, as far as my family are concerned she’s just a friend. That’s all. Nothing more.)
(God, it’s giving me cold sweats just thinking about it.)
“I wouldn’t say it’s silly,” he demurs, like the gentleman he is. “But you don’t need to worry.” His smile turns wry. “I’m sorry my feeble attempt at humour backfired horribly. Perhaps I should stick to playing straight man to Renly’s jokes in future.”
I can’t help laughing a little at that.
“Well, I am feeling much more relaxed now,” I tell him. “So I wouldn’t mark it down as a complete failure.”
“That’s good to know.” He sips his tea. I sip my coffee. We look at each other. “So,” he says. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh. Um. I was thinking that I’d like to, um, do something nice for Margaery. Like get her a present or something. Nothing big or major or anything like that. Just something… something nice.” I can’t really bring myself to say ‘something romantic’ to her brother, no matter how phlegmatic he seems to be about our spending the night together. “But I’m not exactly sure what kind of thing she might like. So, um, I was hoping that you might be able to, um, tell me? If you don’t mind. If it’s not too much of an imposition or anything.”
I make myself stop talking, taking another drink just to give my mouth something to do. Distantly, I note that this hazelnut coffee is pretty good. Light-tasting. It’s not half as sweet as I was expecting, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes it’s nice to try something different.
(But that leads my mind to places I’m really not comfortable going, especially considering whose brother I’m currently speaking to. And what led me here in the first place. So let’s just stop that right now before I start blushing again.)
(Okay, any more.)
“It’s not an imposition.” He shrugs gracefully, giving me a thoughtful look. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I can certainly try. One thing first, though.” And now he seems almost… cautious? (I tense instinctively, then make myself relax.) “Feel free to take this with a pinch of salt, because - as I said - Margaery’s private life is her own business, but it might be best not to build up… expectations.” He sighs softly. “I love my sister dearly, but serious commitment does not seem to be her strong suit. Maybe that will change - maybe it *has* changed, for all I know - but I don’t want you to end up getting hurt.”
“Oh no,” I hasten to reassure him. “I don’t expect… anything. Really. I just want to do something nice.”
He scrutinises me for a moment before replying, and I wonder if he’s going to ask something else, to try to make sure I’m not going to turn into some sort of creepy, clinging obsessive stalker like something out of one of those daytime soaps.
(I am *definitely* keeping the whole True Love thing to myself. Not that it was ever in doubt, but… I really don’t want Loras - or anyone else - to get the wrong idea. No. It will just have to stay between myself and Margaery. Or maybe just within the privacy of my head and heart. At least for the moment. It’s just… People *will* get the wrong idea, and I don’t want them to think that I’m just some silly, confused little girl with my head in the clouds. Or that it’s all about… physical stuff. Because it isn’t. It’s… purer than that. Higher, even.)
(And it doesn’t have anything at all to do with ‘expectations’.)
“Alright, then,” he says eventually. “Let me see…”
I lean forward eagerly, and he tells me what he knows. Yes, this will definitely help. I should be able to come up with something a little more interesting than flowers. (Not that there’s anything wrong with flowers. I’d be over the moon if someone I liked gave some to me. It’s just that, after my talk with Daenerys, I think I’d kind of like to do something a little… different.)
Part-way through, inspiration strikes.
Yes!
I’ll need to do some research, of course, but I should have plenty of time, especially once I’m back at Winterfell. I can even dig out my old sewing chest! The proper one; not the little portable kit I brought with me to Nottingham.
This is going to be… I hesitate before thinking the word, not wanting to jinx anything. (What if she hates it? What if it all goes horribly wrong?) But, oh; what the heck.
It’s going to be *perfect*!
I can’t wait to get started.
* * * * *
I feel a little flutter of something in the pit of my stomach when I press Daenerys’ doorbell. It’s not quite nervousness, not quite anticipation, not quite anything so easy to identify. But it’s there, and it’s making me feel like the world is ever-so-slightly off-kilter.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen her since I went round to her house on Monday evening. I suppose I technically saw her yesterday morning (quite a lot of her, my memory inappropriately insists on reminding me), but I think I’m counting that as part of Monday’s general… thing. The thing is… She never did stop by Hot Coffee yesterday. I mean, I know she doesn’t come by *every* day, and I know we’ve gone longer than this without seeing each other before, but… I don’t know. I guess a part of me is still worried that, now she’s had time to think everything through, she doesn’t want to be friends with me after all.
If she hadn’t specifically texted me this morning to ask about snack requests, I wouldn’t be sure that our movie marathon was even still on.
But she did, and it is, and I’m just being silly. Honestly! Friends don’t have to see each other every day. Not even close friends. Not even *best* friends.
Oh! I think I hear something.
Daenerys is wearing that blue dress again; the one that swirls around her like the ocean (and clings to her like a lover). I can’t help casting it an admiring glance or two. The needlework on the edging really is nice.
And then I see her face.
“What’s wrong?” The words just burst out of me, even though I haven’t so much as said hello. Still, I think a little brusqueness may be justified here. She looks… Honestly, she looks terrible. Pale beneath her tan. Dark circles under reddened eyes.
Eyes that won’t meet mine, her gaze dancing skittishly away in a manner that’s completely unlike her.
“Hello to you too,” she says sardonically. But while I do feel a twinge of embarrassment at my lack of manners, concern for my friend far outweighs that. (I don’t think I even blush at all this time!) I start to ask again what the matter is, but she dismisses the question with an airy wave of her hand. “Nothing’s wrong. A bit of a cold, perhaps.” She smiles, but it has none of her usual lustre. “Maybe I’m coming down with the same thing you were.”
“But-“
“Let’s not stand out here on the doorstep, shall we? Especially if we’re both feeling under the weather.”
Frowning, I follow her inside and hang up my outdoor things. This conversation may be temporarily paused, but it most certainly is not over. I’m now even more convinced that something’s wrong, maybe even something serious. A barrage of questions bubble up in throat, but I hold my tongue for the moment, deciding to borrow Shae’s trick of waiting someone out.
“Did you manage to get your errands finished?”
“Yes, thank you.” Talking to Loras counts as an errand, doesn’t it? I think so. I hope she doesn’t ask for details, because the thought of talking about it with her makes me feel… uncomfortable. Even though she’s the one who suggested it in the first place. It’s probably silly of me, but I can’t bring myself to care right now. Why *shouldn’t* I try to avoid a potential minefield? It’s not like I’m *lying*. (Even though I feel as guilty as if I was.) I’m just… not volunteering the whole story.
Anyway, there’s something else we need to discuss right now. Bringing up the subject of Margaery will only distract us from the matter at hand.
(Margaery certainly can be distracting.)
“I’ve set the snacks out on the table already. Why don’t you settle in and make yourself comfortable while I see to drinks.” It sounds like a question, but she’s already making a beeline for the kitchen.
Yes, Daenerys would definitely seize on *any* opportunity to escape the questions I have for her. So I definitely shouldn’t volunteer details about the true nature of my little ‘errand’.
I stow my bags out of the way and join Daenerys in the kitchen. She starts a little when she sees me, opening her mouth to say something - probably to repeat that I should make myself comfortable - but I speak first.
“Why don’t we make the drinks together?”
She frowns, and I half-think she’s going to argue with me, but then she sighs.
“If you like,” she says, and she doesn’t sound grudging, exactly, but she doesn’t sound precisely happy about it either.
I cringe a little inside (I really don’t want to intrude where I’m not welcome), but I push the feeling down and get to work. Fortunately, I already know my way around Daenerys’ kitchen. It’s not a bad size - not huge, but big enough that we’re not tripping over each other every time we turn around. And it’s much less awkwardly shaped than the kitchen in my house, which is a ridiculous corridor of a room that feels like it was tacked on as an afterthought. But, somehow, despite all that, we still manage to keep getting in each other’s way. After one near-miss too many we stop, look at each other, and then suddenly start laughing.
“This is ridiculous,” Daenerys says, shaking her head.
“It is, rather,” I agree. I smile at her. “Look, why don’t I do this? I’m practically taking over anyway.” I rub my nose sheepishly. “Force of habit, I’m afraid.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Feel free to keep me company if you like,” I say. “Or relax on the sofa and let me serve you. I don’t mind.”
“Such a gracious host,” she murmurs, her tone heavy with irony.
“Sorry,” I say, blushing a little. “I guess I really am in barista mode.”
“I don’t mind.” The sparkle in her eyes is back, even if at a lower wattage than usual. She still looks tired and drawn, though. Maybe she really is coming down with something. But she interrupts my (hopefully surreptitious) study of her by adding. “I like seeing you like this.” Her slight smile turns sly. “You remind me of Nymeria’s very good friend Alanna.”
“Oh, um. Thank you?”
“And now I’ve confused you,” she sighs, sounding almost… sad.
“No, not at all.” Well, maybe that’s not *quite* right, but reassuring her takes precedence to the technicalities of what’s true and what’s not. “I’m just not good at accepting compliments.” I make myself smile, even though my face is trying to crumple into a worried frown. “You know that.”
“I suppose I do,” she says, her voice distant and her eyes suddenly full of unexplained shadows. She takes a deep breath, seeming to rally her spirits a little so that she sounds almost like her usual self as she adds: “I’m glad you took that as a compliment. I meant it as one.” I have to turn my attention to the stove then, to make sure I take the milk off the heat at exactly the right moment, so I almost miss the words she practically whispers. “I don’t just open my mouth to criticise or give orders.”
What?
“What?”
Turning off the stove - a little too early but this is more important than crafting a perfect cinnamon-hazelnut-double-shot-mocha-latte - I whip around to face her, crossing the kitchen in a couple of steps until I’m standing right in front of her. (I guess having longer than average legs can come in handy sometimes.) This close, my earlier impression is only reinforced: she looks terrible.
(I mean, she’s still beautiful, of course. Not even the bags and the wan complexion and the red eyes can take that away from her. But still…)
I don’t *think* she’s been crying, at least not just before I arrived, but if this is all just down to feeling under the weather, I’ll eat my hat. (Yes, even my fuzzy wolf hat! Well, okay, maybe not *that* one. But one of my hats.) Not that I think that will be necessary, because she’s clearly upset about *something* and trying to put a brave face. And I’m not willing to let that pass without doing my best to help her.
“Nothing,” she says, shrugging jerkily. “I was just mumbling to myself.” She nods towards the stove. “Didn’t you say this was the critical stage in creating the right consistency of froth?”
“Fiddlesticks to the froth!” I exclaim. “I’m worried about you.”
“Such salty language,” she says softly, laughing a little. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up swearing like a sailor.”
“If you don’t *talk* to me, maybe I will,” I fire back without really thinking about it, then reel inside, shocked at myself. What wickedness has possessed my tongue? Where is this even *coming* from? (Is it Alanna deciding to step up because timid little Sansa might just wilt?) No, it doesn’t matter. Not if it gets the job done. I can worry about my possibly fractured psyche later. Now, I only have worry enough for Daenerys. (Anyway: Alanna or Sansa or whoever; it’s all me in the end.)
She looks at me, her expression conflicted.
“It’s nothing,” she starts to say.
“Piffle and, further, poppycock. Something is obviously wrong, and if you try to tell me again that you’re just coming down with a cold, I’m going to call shenanigans.”
She leans back against the washing machine, staring at me like she’s never seen me before.
“When did you become so fierce?” she asks, her voice a strange mixture of amusement and wonder.
“Since I started hanging around with a bunch of…” ‘Boss-ass bitches,’ I hear in Ygritte’s dulcet tones. “Fierce women,” I say, instead, and smile. “I hear that dragons can be a terribly bad influence on impressionable young ladies.”
“They do say dragons have a fondness for fair maidens,” she murmurs, and then twitches a little, her expression turning strange. “Sorry,” she adds.
“That’s alright,” I reply automatically, not having the foggiest idea what she’s apologising for. (Or why I’m blushing like a bonfire all of a sudden.) “But, more importantly,” I say, trying to pick up the thread of this conversation once more. “When my friends are feeling down, I want to try to help them. You can’t blame me for being a little fierce under those circumstances. It’s not like you’d be any different.”
“You’ve… got me there,” she admits.
“I know,” I say dryly. “So, will you tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to pester you about it some more?”
She’s silent for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought. I’m just starting to consider lightly pressing her for a response when she finally speaks.
“Alright. But let’s finish the drinks first.” She sighs heavily. “If you expect me to be at all coherent, I’m going to need that sugar and caffeine.”
“Expect is possibly a strong word,” I murmur, still half in awe at this new, fierce Sansa. Daenerys stares at me with her eyebrows raised, as if she also can’t quite believe that these words are coming out of my mouth.
“Love seems to agree with you,” she says, her expression suddenly unreadable.
“I, um, I suppose so.” Uneasy with this particular conversational detour, I make a point of bustling about trying to salvage the drinks. I think it works. At any rate, she drops the subject and starts tidying up around me. With the two of us working busily - and silently - it doesn’t take long. (The froth is never going to win any prizes, but at least the drinks taste good. My honour as a barista remains intact.) It seems like we’ve managed to find our rhythm again.
I wait until we’re both ensconced on the sofa with our drinks before looking over at Daenerys expectantly.
“So, are you ready to talk about it now?”
Her immediate response is to practically down her coffee, taking such a large gulp that I can’t help wondering how she has any taste buds left at all. She must have an iron tongue or something. (Um… No, not going there.) When she’s done, she sighs softly and turns to me.
“I suppose so. Not that there’s really much to talk about.” She sighs again, shrugging. “I’ve just had a bad couple of days.”
“So, tell me about them.”
I twist around a little on the sofa so I can look at her properly, keeping my expression and body language open and inviting. In short, doing my best to seem like someone she can confide in, who can take care of her if she needs it. (Rather than someone who always needs to be taken care of.)
“It’s just… Lots of deadlines. A group project for which I’m the only one who actually seems to do any of the work. A confrontation with a jobsworth in the council offices over the Radford Lights project. My brother being his usual *charming* self.” She sighs. “And I ran into Doreah yesterday. That got a little… ugly.”
“Oh,” I say, sympathetically. “That does sound pretty bad.”
But I still can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else, something beyond all that. Something deeper…
She sighs again, picking at a loose bit of thread in the cuff of one sleeve. I forcibly squash the urge to tell her she should leave it alone before she makes it worse. (Maybe I could offer to fix it for her, if she wants… Afterwards, maybe. If I don’t lose my nerve.)
“This time of year is hard for me,” she says quietly, not really looking at me. I catch her shooting me quick, sidelong glances, but her attention is ostensibly focused on her hands. On the cup she’s clutching tightly by the handle. That darn loose thread she can’t seem to stop fiddling with. (Maybe I will say something. But not until she’s answered my question.) “Christmas was never my favourite time, for various reasons. But then I… I lost someone, and now it’s… even harder.”
I wait for her to go on, but she just takes another drink - more of a sip than a gulp this time - and continues to worry at that loose thread. A shared grief wells up inside me, a strange kind of kinship of loss. I know I never feel my father’s absence more keenly than when I’m with the rest of my family, more so when the occasion is supposed to be one of celebration.
Words seem hopelessly inadequate for expressing how I feel right now, so I reach out and cover her hand with mine in a wordless show of support. Her head snaps up, her gaze colliding with mine, such raw emotion in her eyes that it’s like being struck by lightning. The force of it makes me reel inside. I’ve never seen her so vulnerable, so exposed. It feels almost… wrong. But the sight stirs something in me, makes me want to protect her; to take the pain away.
I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to hold her in my arms.
I shift a little, open my mouth to speak - although I have no earthly idea what I’m going to say - but she derails my train of thought by turning her hand over in mine and gripping tightly. Like she’s the one in need of a lifeline this time.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and even though her gaze is still an open wound, she manages to conjure up a smile for me. (Maybe there really is magic in this world after all.) “I don’t… This isn’t usually something I talk about. Not ever.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the strange, fragile stillness that seems to have settled over the pair of us. “But if you want to talk - if you *need* to talk - you can talk to me. I’m here for you.”
She falls into silence again, but I don’t push. I don’t want to make her lock this all away again; to close herself off. Not when she’s just starting to open up.
“I don’t deserve you,” she says eventually, but her voice isn’t that of someone feeling grateful for a friend. It’s like the words are being torn from her throat in pieces, rough edges scraping against raw, tender flesh. It’s like she really believes… “I don’t deserve you as a friend.”
“Why would you say that?” I whisper, staring at her in bewilderment.
My heart twists painfully in my chest. I don’t *like* this. I don’t like seeing her like this. She’s supposed to be strong and confident; perfectly in control. Poised and regal as a queen. The one thing she’s never, ever, *ever* supposed to do is doubt herself like this. (*She’s* not supposed to doubt herself.) What can possibly have happened to cause such a drastic change in her?
(Could it be something to do with me? With what I told her about Margaery?)
(No, of course not. It’s obviously just a coincidence of timing.)
“Don’t you remember what I told you?” Her face is shuttered again, but imperfectly, pain and sorrow leaking through the cracks. Her voice is dry, but there’s a strange, thick quality to it, like someone on the verge of tears. “I don’t have many friends. And I seem to have trouble keeping the ones I’ve got.
For the first time since I got here, I start to wonder just how helpful I’m actually being; how helpful I *can* be. Isn’t this a little beyond my meagre abilities? Wouldn’t it be better to let her change the subject, to encourage her to instead talk about this with someone who knows what they’re doing? Maybe one of her other friends, someone who’s known her longer. Missandei. Daario. Barristan. Jorah. Wouldn’t one of those be better, more capable at talking her through this crisis of confidence than me?
But…
But she said she doesn’t talk about this. Which means she doesn’t talk about it with any of *them*. And she is talking to me right now…
Anyway, I *said* I’d help her. I said she could talk to me. I said I’m here for her, and I am. I’m not going to go back on my word. I *want* to help her. I want to be there for her. Like she was there for me on Monday night.
So I meet her gaze and smile.
“You have me,” I say, trying to fill the words with as much conviction as I can. All the conviction I feel right now. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
It sounds like a promise. It sounds like a truth. It sounds like an oath Alanna Stone might swear in blood and fire and spirit to seal some sorcerous pact.
And I mean it with all of my heart.
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
“So,” Loras begins gravely, looking at me over the rim of his teacup. “You want to talk to me about despoiling my baby sister.”
I choke on my coffee.
“N- no,” I gasp out between hacking coughs. “That’s not- I don’t- I’m sorry, I-“
“It’s alright!” he says, his expression stricken. He sets his cup aside and gets to his feet, then just stands there awkwardly. “Can I help? Do you need some water?” I shake my head, not sure I’d be able to speak even if I wasn’t currently in the process of hacking up a lung. It also feels like my heart has leaped right into my mouth, which definitely isn’t helping with the whole breathing thing. Soon, though, my choking fit subsides.
“I’m fine,” I gasp. I’ll live, I think to myself. At least unless Loras challenges me to a duel in the name of Margaery’s honour. I clear my throat, not having the first clue what I’m going to say (how I can even begin to fix this), but feeling compelled to try anyway. “I…”
Well, that’s a start. Before I can continue, however, Loras puts out a hand to stop me. (I flinch badly, hoping fervently - futilely - that he doesn’t notice.)
(“Oh, you’re sorry, are you? You’re *sorry*?! I’ll *make* you sorry.”)
“That was a joke,” he says softly, looking a little shamefaced. He sits back down in his armchair and picks up his cup once more. “I thought it might break the ice a little; maybe dispel any awkwardness you might be feeling.” Shaking his head, he mutters. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Asha.” He pauses a moment, and then gives me a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, Sansa. Do you forgive me?”
It takes me a moment to process what he’s saying. He was joking? He didn’t mean it? And, a heartbeat later: he spoke to *Asha*? I guess she *did* know I was going to contact him. Maybe she asked him if I’d gotten in touch yet? Or maybe he asked her if she knew what I wanted to talk to him about. I wonder if they discussed… me. Us; Margaery and myself. I wonder what they said.
(I wonder if they laughed at me. At my naiveté.)
(No, they wouldn’t. I’m sure they wouldn’t. I am sure.)
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I say slowly, before the silence can stretch too long. I mean, we wouldn’t want this to get awkward, would we? (Huh. Who knew I’d be capable of humour at a time like this? I blame the crowd at Hot Coffee. And the re-enactors. And the LARP crowd. Hmm. Inappropriate humour seems to be a common feature of my current social circles. I wonder what that means…) Suddenly unable to stand it any more, I find myself blurting out: “So, you’re not angry with me?”
“No, of course not,” he says, but not as if the question is entirely unexpected. (Okay, Asha *must* have said something about how worried I am. Was. Am. Or I’m just doing a really bad job of hiding my nervousness. Maybe it’s both.) “Margaery’s love life is none of my business. I don’t have any right to be angry over whom she chooses to spend time with. And, as long as it is her choice, why on earth would I be?”
He sounds so earnest, and he smiles at me reassuringly as he stirs his tea with precise, economical motions.
(Even with my thoughts all a-jumble, I can’t help noticing that he actually sets the tea bag aside for later composting. I think he’s the only person I know who actually composts. Everyone recycles, of course, but Loras and his housemates seem to take it to a whole other level. Idly, I wonder if Margaery shares his dedication to the environment.)
I sip my coffee and try to gather up the tattered shreds of my dignity.
“I guess it does sound silly if you put it like that,” I say sheepishly. (Except I’m pretty sure Rob and Jon would be angry with any young man who ‘despoiled’ *me*, even if it *was* all my own choice.)
(I wonder whether they’d feel the same about it being a young lady…)
(Nope. Nuh uh. No way. That is a conversation we’re *never* going to have. Not if I can possibly help it. If Margaery does come to visit me at home, as far as my family are concerned she’s just a friend. That’s all. Nothing more.)
(God, it’s giving me cold sweats just thinking about it.)
“I wouldn’t say it’s silly,” he demurs, like the gentleman he is. “But you don’t need to worry.” His smile turns wry. “I’m sorry my feeble attempt at humour backfired horribly. Perhaps I should stick to playing straight man to Renly’s jokes in future.”
I can’t help laughing a little at that.
“Well, I am feeling much more relaxed now,” I tell him. “So I wouldn’t mark it down as a complete failure.”
“That’s good to know.” He sips his tea. I sip my coffee. We look at each other. “So,” he says. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh. Um. I was thinking that I’d like to, um, do something nice for Margaery. Like get her a present or something. Nothing big or major or anything like that. Just something… something nice.” I can’t really bring myself to say ‘something romantic’ to her brother, no matter how phlegmatic he seems to be about our spending the night together. “But I’m not exactly sure what kind of thing she might like. So, um, I was hoping that you might be able to, um, tell me? If you don’t mind. If it’s not too much of an imposition or anything.”
I make myself stop talking, taking another drink just to give my mouth something to do. Distantly, I note that this hazelnut coffee is pretty good. Light-tasting. It’s not half as sweet as I was expecting, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes it’s nice to try something different.
(But that leads my mind to places I’m really not comfortable going, especially considering whose brother I’m currently speaking to. And what led me here in the first place. So let’s just stop that right now before I start blushing again.)
(Okay, any more.)
“It’s not an imposition.” He shrugs gracefully, giving me a thoughtful look. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I can certainly try. One thing first, though.” And now he seems almost… cautious? (I tense instinctively, then make myself relax.) “Feel free to take this with a pinch of salt, because - as I said - Margaery’s private life is her own business, but it might be best not to build up… expectations.” He sighs softly. “I love my sister dearly, but serious commitment does not seem to be her strong suit. Maybe that will change - maybe it *has* changed, for all I know - but I don’t want you to end up getting hurt.”
“Oh no,” I hasten to reassure him. “I don’t expect… anything. Really. I just want to do something nice.”
He scrutinises me for a moment before replying, and I wonder if he’s going to ask something else, to try to make sure I’m not going to turn into some sort of creepy, clinging obsessive stalker like something out of one of those daytime soaps.
(I am *definitely* keeping the whole True Love thing to myself. Not that it was ever in doubt, but… I really don’t want Loras - or anyone else - to get the wrong idea. No. It will just have to stay between myself and Margaery. Or maybe just within the privacy of my head and heart. At least for the moment. It’s just… People *will* get the wrong idea, and I don’t want them to think that I’m just some silly, confused little girl with my head in the clouds. Or that it’s all about… physical stuff. Because it isn’t. It’s… purer than that. Higher, even.)
(And it doesn’t have anything at all to do with ‘expectations’.)
“Alright, then,” he says eventually. “Let me see…”
I lean forward eagerly, and he tells me what he knows. Yes, this will definitely help. I should be able to come up with something a little more interesting than flowers. (Not that there’s anything wrong with flowers. I’d be over the moon if someone I liked gave some to me. It’s just that, after my talk with Daenerys, I think I’d kind of like to do something a little… different.)
Part-way through, inspiration strikes.
Yes!
I’ll need to do some research, of course, but I should have plenty of time, especially once I’m back at Winterfell. I can even dig out my old sewing chest! The proper one; not the little portable kit I brought with me to Nottingham.
This is going to be… I hesitate before thinking the word, not wanting to jinx anything. (What if she hates it? What if it all goes horribly wrong?) But, oh; what the heck.
It’s going to be *perfect*!
I can’t wait to get started.
* * * * *
I feel a little flutter of something in the pit of my stomach when I press Daenerys’ doorbell. It’s not quite nervousness, not quite anticipation, not quite anything so easy to identify. But it’s there, and it’s making me feel like the world is ever-so-slightly off-kilter.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen her since I went round to her house on Monday evening. I suppose I technically saw her yesterday morning (quite a lot of her, my memory inappropriately insists on reminding me), but I think I’m counting that as part of Monday’s general… thing. The thing is… She never did stop by Hot Coffee yesterday. I mean, I know she doesn’t come by *every* day, and I know we’ve gone longer than this without seeing each other before, but… I don’t know. I guess a part of me is still worried that, now she’s had time to think everything through, she doesn’t want to be friends with me after all.
If she hadn’t specifically texted me this morning to ask about snack requests, I wouldn’t be sure that our movie marathon was even still on.
But she did, and it is, and I’m just being silly. Honestly! Friends don’t have to see each other every day. Not even close friends. Not even *best* friends.
Oh! I think I hear something.
Daenerys is wearing that blue dress again; the one that swirls around her like the ocean (and clings to her like a lover). I can’t help casting it an admiring glance or two. The needlework on the edging really is nice.
And then I see her face.
“What’s wrong?” The words just burst out of me, even though I haven’t so much as said hello. Still, I think a little brusqueness may be justified here. She looks… Honestly, she looks terrible. Pale beneath her tan. Dark circles under reddened eyes.
Eyes that won’t meet mine, her gaze dancing skittishly away in a manner that’s completely unlike her.
“Hello to you too,” she says sardonically. But while I do feel a twinge of embarrassment at my lack of manners, concern for my friend far outweighs that. (I don’t think I even blush at all this time!) I start to ask again what the matter is, but she dismisses the question with an airy wave of her hand. “Nothing’s wrong. A bit of a cold, perhaps.” She smiles, but it has none of her usual lustre. “Maybe I’m coming down with the same thing you were.”
“But-“
“Let’s not stand out here on the doorstep, shall we? Especially if we’re both feeling under the weather.”
Frowning, I follow her inside and hang up my outdoor things. This conversation may be temporarily paused, but it most certainly is not over. I’m now even more convinced that something’s wrong, maybe even something serious. A barrage of questions bubble up in throat, but I hold my tongue for the moment, deciding to borrow Shae’s trick of waiting someone out.
“Did you manage to get your errands finished?”
“Yes, thank you.” Talking to Loras counts as an errand, doesn’t it? I think so. I hope she doesn’t ask for details, because the thought of talking about it with her makes me feel… uncomfortable. Even though she’s the one who suggested it in the first place. It’s probably silly of me, but I can’t bring myself to care right now. Why *shouldn’t* I try to avoid a potential minefield? It’s not like I’m *lying*. (Even though I feel as guilty as if I was.) I’m just… not volunteering the whole story.
Anyway, there’s something else we need to discuss right now. Bringing up the subject of Margaery will only distract us from the matter at hand.
(Margaery certainly can be distracting.)
“I’ve set the snacks out on the table already. Why don’t you settle in and make yourself comfortable while I see to drinks.” It sounds like a question, but she’s already making a beeline for the kitchen.
Yes, Daenerys would definitely seize on *any* opportunity to escape the questions I have for her. So I definitely shouldn’t volunteer details about the true nature of my little ‘errand’.
I stow my bags out of the way and join Daenerys in the kitchen. She starts a little when she sees me, opening her mouth to say something - probably to repeat that I should make myself comfortable - but I speak first.
“Why don’t we make the drinks together?”
She frowns, and I half-think she’s going to argue with me, but then she sighs.
“If you like,” she says, and she doesn’t sound grudging, exactly, but she doesn’t sound precisely happy about it either.
I cringe a little inside (I really don’t want to intrude where I’m not welcome), but I push the feeling down and get to work. Fortunately, I already know my way around Daenerys’ kitchen. It’s not a bad size - not huge, but big enough that we’re not tripping over each other every time we turn around. And it’s much less awkwardly shaped than the kitchen in my house, which is a ridiculous corridor of a room that feels like it was tacked on as an afterthought. But, somehow, despite all that, we still manage to keep getting in each other’s way. After one near-miss too many we stop, look at each other, and then suddenly start laughing.
“This is ridiculous,” Daenerys says, shaking her head.
“It is, rather,” I agree. I smile at her. “Look, why don’t I do this? I’m practically taking over anyway.” I rub my nose sheepishly. “Force of habit, I’m afraid.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Feel free to keep me company if you like,” I say. “Or relax on the sofa and let me serve you. I don’t mind.”
“Such a gracious host,” she murmurs, her tone heavy with irony.
“Sorry,” I say, blushing a little. “I guess I really am in barista mode.”
“I don’t mind.” The sparkle in her eyes is back, even if at a lower wattage than usual. She still looks tired and drawn, though. Maybe she really is coming down with something. But she interrupts my (hopefully surreptitious) study of her by adding. “I like seeing you like this.” Her slight smile turns sly. “You remind me of Nymeria’s very good friend Alanna.”
“Oh, um. Thank you?”
“And now I’ve confused you,” she sighs, sounding almost… sad.
“No, not at all.” Well, maybe that’s not *quite* right, but reassuring her takes precedence to the technicalities of what’s true and what’s not. “I’m just not good at accepting compliments.” I make myself smile, even though my face is trying to crumple into a worried frown. “You know that.”
“I suppose I do,” she says, her voice distant and her eyes suddenly full of unexplained shadows. She takes a deep breath, seeming to rally her spirits a little so that she sounds almost like her usual self as she adds: “I’m glad you took that as a compliment. I meant it as one.” I have to turn my attention to the stove then, to make sure I take the milk off the heat at exactly the right moment, so I almost miss the words she practically whispers. “I don’t just open my mouth to criticise or give orders.”
What?
“What?”
Turning off the stove - a little too early but this is more important than crafting a perfect cinnamon-hazelnut-double-shot-mocha-latte - I whip around to face her, crossing the kitchen in a couple of steps until I’m standing right in front of her. (I guess having longer than average legs can come in handy sometimes.) This close, my earlier impression is only reinforced: she looks terrible.
(I mean, she’s still beautiful, of course. Not even the bags and the wan complexion and the red eyes can take that away from her. But still…)
I don’t *think* she’s been crying, at least not just before I arrived, but if this is all just down to feeling under the weather, I’ll eat my hat. (Yes, even my fuzzy wolf hat! Well, okay, maybe not *that* one. But one of my hats.) Not that I think that will be necessary, because she’s clearly upset about *something* and trying to put a brave face. And I’m not willing to let that pass without doing my best to help her.
“Nothing,” she says, shrugging jerkily. “I was just mumbling to myself.” She nods towards the stove. “Didn’t you say this was the critical stage in creating the right consistency of froth?”
“Fiddlesticks to the froth!” I exclaim. “I’m worried about you.”
“Such salty language,” she says softly, laughing a little. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up swearing like a sailor.”
“If you don’t *talk* to me, maybe I will,” I fire back without really thinking about it, then reel inside, shocked at myself. What wickedness has possessed my tongue? Where is this even *coming* from? (Is it Alanna deciding to step up because timid little Sansa might just wilt?) No, it doesn’t matter. Not if it gets the job done. I can worry about my possibly fractured psyche later. Now, I only have worry enough for Daenerys. (Anyway: Alanna or Sansa or whoever; it’s all me in the end.)
She looks at me, her expression conflicted.
“It’s nothing,” she starts to say.
“Piffle and, further, poppycock. Something is obviously wrong, and if you try to tell me again that you’re just coming down with a cold, I’m going to call shenanigans.”
She leans back against the washing machine, staring at me like she’s never seen me before.
“When did you become so fierce?” she asks, her voice a strange mixture of amusement and wonder.
“Since I started hanging around with a bunch of…” ‘Boss-ass bitches,’ I hear in Ygritte’s dulcet tones. “Fierce women,” I say, instead, and smile. “I hear that dragons can be a terribly bad influence on impressionable young ladies.”
“They do say dragons have a fondness for fair maidens,” she murmurs, and then twitches a little, her expression turning strange. “Sorry,” she adds.
“That’s alright,” I reply automatically, not having the foggiest idea what she’s apologising for. (Or why I’m blushing like a bonfire all of a sudden.) “But, more importantly,” I say, trying to pick up the thread of this conversation once more. “When my friends are feeling down, I want to try to help them. You can’t blame me for being a little fierce under those circumstances. It’s not like you’d be any different.”
“You’ve… got me there,” she admits.
“I know,” I say dryly. “So, will you tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to pester you about it some more?”
She’s silent for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought. I’m just starting to consider lightly pressing her for a response when she finally speaks.
“Alright. But let’s finish the drinks first.” She sighs heavily. “If you expect me to be at all coherent, I’m going to need that sugar and caffeine.”
“Expect is possibly a strong word,” I murmur, still half in awe at this new, fierce Sansa. Daenerys stares at me with her eyebrows raised, as if she also can’t quite believe that these words are coming out of my mouth.
“Love seems to agree with you,” she says, her expression suddenly unreadable.
“I, um, I suppose so.” Uneasy with this particular conversational detour, I make a point of bustling about trying to salvage the drinks. I think it works. At any rate, she drops the subject and starts tidying up around me. With the two of us working busily - and silently - it doesn’t take long. (The froth is never going to win any prizes, but at least the drinks taste good. My honour as a barista remains intact.) It seems like we’ve managed to find our rhythm again.
I wait until we’re both ensconced on the sofa with our drinks before looking over at Daenerys expectantly.
“So, are you ready to talk about it now?”
Her immediate response is to practically down her coffee, taking such a large gulp that I can’t help wondering how she has any taste buds left at all. She must have an iron tongue or something. (Um… No, not going there.) When she’s done, she sighs softly and turns to me.
“I suppose so. Not that there’s really much to talk about.” She sighs again, shrugging. “I’ve just had a bad couple of days.”
“So, tell me about them.”
I twist around a little on the sofa so I can look at her properly, keeping my expression and body language open and inviting. In short, doing my best to seem like someone she can confide in, who can take care of her if she needs it. (Rather than someone who always needs to be taken care of.)
“It’s just… Lots of deadlines. A group project for which I’m the only one who actually seems to do any of the work. A confrontation with a jobsworth in the council offices over the Radford Lights project. My brother being his usual *charming* self.” She sighs. “And I ran into Doreah yesterday. That got a little… ugly.”
“Oh,” I say, sympathetically. “That does sound pretty bad.”
But I still can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else, something beyond all that. Something deeper…
She sighs again, picking at a loose bit of thread in the cuff of one sleeve. I forcibly squash the urge to tell her she should leave it alone before she makes it worse. (Maybe I could offer to fix it for her, if she wants… Afterwards, maybe. If I don’t lose my nerve.)
“This time of year is hard for me,” she says quietly, not really looking at me. I catch her shooting me quick, sidelong glances, but her attention is ostensibly focused on her hands. On the cup she’s clutching tightly by the handle. That darn loose thread she can’t seem to stop fiddling with. (Maybe I will say something. But not until she’s answered my question.) “Christmas was never my favourite time, for various reasons. But then I… I lost someone, and now it’s… even harder.”
I wait for her to go on, but she just takes another drink - more of a sip than a gulp this time - and continues to worry at that loose thread. A shared grief wells up inside me, a strange kind of kinship of loss. I know I never feel my father’s absence more keenly than when I’m with the rest of my family, more so when the occasion is supposed to be one of celebration.
Words seem hopelessly inadequate for expressing how I feel right now, so I reach out and cover her hand with mine in a wordless show of support. Her head snaps up, her gaze colliding with mine, such raw emotion in her eyes that it’s like being struck by lightning. The force of it makes me reel inside. I’ve never seen her so vulnerable, so exposed. It feels almost… wrong. But the sight stirs something in me, makes me want to protect her; to take the pain away.
I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to hold her in my arms.
I shift a little, open my mouth to speak - although I have no earthly idea what I’m going to say - but she derails my train of thought by turning her hand over in mine and gripping tightly. Like she’s the one in need of a lifeline this time.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and even though her gaze is still an open wound, she manages to conjure up a smile for me. (Maybe there really is magic in this world after all.) “I don’t… This isn’t usually something I talk about. Not ever.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the strange, fragile stillness that seems to have settled over the pair of us. “But if you want to talk - if you *need* to talk - you can talk to me. I’m here for you.”
She falls into silence again, but I don’t push. I don’t want to make her lock this all away again; to close herself off. Not when she’s just starting to open up.
“I don’t deserve you,” she says eventually, but her voice isn’t that of someone feeling grateful for a friend. It’s like the words are being torn from her throat in pieces, rough edges scraping against raw, tender flesh. It’s like she really believes… “I don’t deserve you as a friend.”
“Why would you say that?” I whisper, staring at her in bewilderment.
My heart twists painfully in my chest. I don’t *like* this. I don’t like seeing her like this. She’s supposed to be strong and confident; perfectly in control. Poised and regal as a queen. The one thing she’s never, ever, *ever* supposed to do is doubt herself like this. (*She’s* not supposed to doubt herself.) What can possibly have happened to cause such a drastic change in her?
(Could it be something to do with me? With what I told her about Margaery?)
(No, of course not. It’s obviously just a coincidence of timing.)
“Don’t you remember what I told you?” Her face is shuttered again, but imperfectly, pain and sorrow leaking through the cracks. Her voice is dry, but there’s a strange, thick quality to it, like someone on the verge of tears. “I don’t have many friends. And I seem to have trouble keeping the ones I’ve got.
For the first time since I got here, I start to wonder just how helpful I’m actually being; how helpful I *can* be. Isn’t this a little beyond my meagre abilities? Wouldn’t it be better to let her change the subject, to encourage her to instead talk about this with someone who knows what they’re doing? Maybe one of her other friends, someone who’s known her longer. Missandei. Daario. Barristan. Jorah. Wouldn’t one of those be better, more capable at talking her through this crisis of confidence than me?
But…
But she said she doesn’t talk about this. Which means she doesn’t talk about it with any of *them*. And she is talking to me right now…
Anyway, I *said* I’d help her. I said she could talk to me. I said I’m here for her, and I am. I’m not going to go back on my word. I *want* to help her. I want to be there for her. Like she was there for me on Monday night.
So I meet her gaze and smile.
“You have me,” I say, trying to fill the words with as much conviction as I can. All the conviction I feel right now. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
It sounds like a promise. It sounds like a truth. It sounds like an oath Alanna Stone might swear in blood and fire and spirit to seal some sorcerous pact.
And I mean it with all of my heart.