Hot Coffee Part 28
Title: Hot Coffee Part 28
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
Trigger warning: Non-explicit reference to past dubious (at best) consent.
Daenerys stares at me like she’s never seen me before.
“You mean that, don’t you?” she says, and her voice is a many-layered thing I can’t even begin to analyse.
“Of course I do,” I reply. I shrug. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” Certain memories remind me that she has reason not to take that at face value, so I hurriedly add: “Not even to be polite. Not about something like this.”
It’s too important, I think to myself, but a sudden wave of self-consciousness overwhelms me, preventing me from speaking the words aloud.
(God, it’s not like I’m declaring my undying love or anything. I hope she doesn’t think I’m being too over-the-top. Too intense. Too… Just too much.)
But the way she smiles at me now…
(No, I don’t think she thinks it’s too much at all.)
Thankfully, she seems to understand what I mean.
“Thank you,” she says. “I really do appreciate that.”
She looks down at our hands; still tangled together, the skin of her palm warm against mine. (Her hands are always warm. Mine seem to naturally tend towards a little on the cold side. I wonder if that means anything.) I wonder if I should let go.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
She lifts her mug to her lips, suddenly reminding me of my own drink. We sip together in companionable silence. Well, I sip. She finishes off the rest of hers and sets the mug aside, turning a little to face me. Her hand shifts in mine, her fingers flexing a little. Worried that might be a sign, I immediately release my grip. (I just as quickly regret it, but it’s too late now. I can’t just reach out and hold her hand; not apropos of nothing.)
Daenerys folds her hands in her lap, then unfolds them again and smooths down the skirt of her dress. She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, then picks at that loose thread once more. I wrap my own hands tightly around my mug to stop myself reaching out for her, to stop myself physically stilling her restlessness by wrapping her tightly in my arms.
“I can fix that for you.” The words burst out of me - against my better judgement; without my intending to say them aloud just yet - and her head snaps towards me, confusion in her eyes. “That loose thread,” I clarify, nodding towards her cuff. “I can stop it from unravelling further, if I come back with my sewing kit. Or if I can borrow yours.”
She drops the loose thread and folds her hands in her lap again, twining her fingers together as if to ensure that they remain there this time.
“Maybe sometime later?” she says, a little distractedly, and then adds, as if it’s an afterthought: “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say again, automatically. I try my best to give her an encouraging look. She glances away.
“It’s difficult to know where to start,” she murmurs.
“Maybe at the beginning?” I hazard.
She stiffens, making me wonder what I’ve said wrong, but then she relaxes again with a sigh. To my surprise, she draws her legs up onto the sofa and folds herself around them, the hunched position making her seem younger, smaller, more fragile. I’m reminded, all of a sudden, that she’s not that much older than I am. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things.
“The beginning…” she repeats, her eyes distant and hooded. “Alright.” She nods sharply, seeming to recover a little of her usual decisiveness. “The beginning it is.” A wry smile briefly curves her lips, and she lifts her eyes to mine. “I hope you have some time to spare.”
“Take all the time you need,” I assure her. I guess this means our movie marathon is off, but I don’t mind. I do have a shift this evening, but until then… I’m all hers.
She takes a deep breath. I arrange myself as comfortably as I can on the sofa, settling in for the long haul. Anticipation thrums through me.
(Is it wrong to feel curious? To look forward to finding out more about Daenerys and her mysterious past? Is it wrong to feel anticipation when I should be feeling nothing but concern for my friend? Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just part of being human. Either way, I push it aside and focus all my attention on her.)
“My parents died when I was four,” she says, and her voice is calm and even, with a story-teller’s cadence. It’s like she’s describing something that happened to someone else. Or that didn’t happen at all. Like she’s just reciting a fairy-tale. “Our car got caught in a slipstream and started fishtailing. The road was wet. My father lost control of the car, and we went off the edge of the road. My brother and I survived. My parents didn’t.”
Horror rises up inside me as she talks. She said her parents died in a car accident, but I didn’t realise that she was in the car at the time. I know she was young, but still. That must have been *terrifying*. Yet her voice doesn’t once waver from its level tone, and the only expression on her face is the faint frown that only barely wrinkles her brow. Her eyes, though, look almost glassy, like they’re focused somewhere far, far away. I don’t know what she’s seeing right now, but I don’t think it’s me. I don’t think it’s this room. Keeping my movements slow and careful, I inch a little closer to her on the sofa. Just in case.
“I don’t really remember my parents,” she continues. “Just flashes here and there. My mother’s voice singing a lullaby; my father swinging me up onto his shoulders. Little bits and pieces like that. I don’t remember the crash at all.”
I suppose that explains her distance, her unruffled recitation of the facts.
I can’t even imagine what that must be like; barely even knowing her parents at all. I think I’m going to miss my father for the rest of my life, but at least I knew him. At least I have all those happy memories to look back on. At least I *remember* him loving me.
“We were driving back from our Christmas holidays,” she says, abruptly, surfacing from her memories to give me a rather sickly smile. “It’s why I’ve never… Christmas was always a sombre time after that.”
“I can imagine,” I say softly.
It’s why spring is bittersweet for me. Instead of thinking of all the new life it brings, I remember my father, dying. As colour returns to a world of winter greys and browns, I see again the blue seeping into his lips; the waxen pallor of his cheeks. The sound of birdsong will forever remind me of the silence where his pulse should have been. Of the breath I tried to give him. Of trying so hard to remember what I learned in my first aid classes, and in the end just *screaming* at him to just wake up. Of promising - swearing on my very soul - that I’d be the most perfect daughter he could ever possibly wish for, if only he would wake up.
If he would please just wake up.
No, spring is not my favourite time of year. So I understand all too well what she means.
“That’s right, your father,” she says, just as quietly, and now her gaze is so intent, so focused, that it’s like nothing else exists but me. “So you know what it’s like.”
“I do.”
We share a moment of silence; mourning or understanding or both. Somehow, when it passes, her feet are pressed against my thigh, my arm brushing against her shins as I bring my coffee cup to my lips. Neither of us says a thing about our proximity.
“It took a while to sort out custody,” she says, picking up the thread of her tale. “Mum was Anglo-French, and her parents lived in England. Dad’s parents were both Algerian, but they lived in France. Viserys and I have triple nationality. Kind of. Depending on which authorities you’re talking to. It’s a little fuzzy even now, but back then it was a bureaucratic nightmare. So, until permanent arrangements could be made, we bounced around between both sets of grandparents, an aunt, even some cousins. It was hard. It was… We felt like so much flotsam and jetsam, tossed from pillar to post without any idea where, or even if, we’d eventually come to rest. The only constant my brother and I had - the only fixed point in all this chaos - was each other.”
She shifts a little, restlessly, the sudden movement almost startling after her previous stillness. She looks me, but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. It’s like she’s not quite here, like she’s half-stuck in the past, where I can’t follow. That doesn’t mean I won’t try, though. Pushing self-consciousness aside (surely if I can do that for anyone, I can do that for her), I peel one hand away from my mug and let it drift a little, resting my arm on the cushion so that my fingertips lightly brush the back of her hand. Not gripping, not covering her hand with mine; just there. Just in case.
(I blush a little at my own daring, but try to push my discomfort aside. It’s not anything I haven’t done before; it’s just one friend offering comfort to another. We’re already practically resting against each other, and that didn’t really bother me.)
(Okay, maybe it did, a little. Well, not ‘bother,’ but make me feel strange and slightly flushed.)
(This, though… Offering my hand to her like this… It feels almost… intimate.)
(My flush deepens, and I’m beyond thankful that Daenerys is too far away to notice. But this is not the time and the place for such thoughts, such distractions. This is about her. So I push away all extraneous thoughts and concentrate on listening to her story.)
(It isn’t the time or place for anything else.)
“Viserys is two years older than me. In the aftermath of the accident… He had to grow up fast. He looked after me, protected me, cared for me and I… I practically worshipped him for it. I think we got on well enough before - well, about as well as a four year old girl and her six year old brother *can* get on, which isn’t to say we didn’t have our fights - but afterwards, we were inseparable. For a while, I wouldn’t even speak to anyone but Viserys, so he got into the habit of speaking for me. It was a habit that continued as we got older.”
She sighs softly, an almost-smile just touching her lips.
“After a couple of months of being rootless, the mess was finally sorted out and we went to live with our mother’s parents in England. But though they were granted custody, they didn’t want to deprive us of our other family, or deprive them of us. So they came to an arrangement with our father’s parents that we would spend the summers in France, with them. It was… a good time. I mean, obviously we still missed our parents - and our grandparents were mourning their children - but we were loved. We were cared for. I was still timid, still barely speaking to anyone who wasn’t Viserys, but I was happy. At least, I was starting to be happy. But Viserys… wasn’t.”
The frown is back and deeper now, painting her face with sorrow.
“It happened gradually - so gradually I didn’t really notice at first - but he became cold. Distant. And then he turned mean. Everything I did was wrong. Everything about me was irritating, or ugly, or stupid. *I* was stupid. And helpless, and pathetic. And utterly dependent on him.”
I hear an echo in my head; almost those exact same words, spoken in *his* voice. I have to swallow past the lump in my throat, like all the sobs I ever choked back have congealed into some kind of bolus of misery.
It just about breaks my heart to think of Daenerys going through that too.
(But I never would have guessed it to look at her. Not even when she told me she used to be meek. Maybe that means there is hope for me after all. Maybe I’ll eventually be able to step all the way out of the shadow he cast.)
(Even if it does sometimes seem like it goes on forever.)
“The thing of it is, I still looked up to him; still practically worshipped the ground he walked on. It didn’t matter how badly he treated me. I just thought that was the price I had to pay for having him as my protector.”
Her lips twist on the last word, turning it dark and ugly and bitter. She pauses for a breath or two before continuing.
“I’m not saying it was all terrible,” she says softly. “Our grandparents - both sets of them - fought so hard to keep us. And they cared for us so much. Truth to tell, they probably spoiled us rotten. But I always knew I was loved. It’s just that…” A soft sigh escapes her lips. “It always felt like there was a line. Viserys and I were on one side of it, and the whole rest of the world was on the other. And no matter how bad it got on our side of the line, no matter how unhealthy our relationship became, I never once thought about trying to step over that boundary. I never even considered trying to leave him.”
Her eyes focus on me suddenly, the unexpectedness of that razor-sharp attention making me blink. The smile she gives me could scratch diamond.
“I sound like a battered wife, don’t I?” she says, and I don’t know how to respond to that so I just give a tiny nod and sip my cooling coffee.
(She… She sounds like… like *me*. Not the precise words, perhaps, but that feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world, of being isolated, of being absolutely convinced that no matter what he said, or did, I must have done something to deserve it. Of relying on *him* for all my social interactions.)
(Of feeling so terribly, terribly alone.)
“Anyway, time passed - as it is wont to do - and the two of us grew into teenagers. I was fifteen and he was seventeen. I was still a timid little scrap of a thing, but he’d become rather… gregarious. And something of a rebel. He’d taken to hanging around with gang members and criminals, even committing a few petty acts of larceny and vandalism himself.” She twists her lips in distaste. “Sometimes pressing me into service as lookout. Or distraction. Or, when things went wrong - which they sometimes did - a scapegoat.”
Daenerys? Daenerys the lawyer-in-training? A *criminal*?
Try as I might, I just can’t picture it. Not *this* Daenerys; this fearless woman, this crusader for righteous causes. But… a Daenerys who was timid? Who stood in the shadow of the brother she adored? I guess I can imagine *that* person letting herself be pushed into something like that.
Not that I can really picture that Daenerys.
(I suppose I should be thankful that *he* was never inclined towards committing criminal acts. I’m not sure underage drinking really counts.)
“So Viserys decided he wanted to join a motorcycle gang.”
To my surprise, she actually smiles, then. Just a small smile, but it seems genuine; untainted by bitterness. Maybe even… fond? But it’s there and gone again only very briefly, and I can’t help doubting what I saw as her expression turns shuttered and distant once more.
(I wish I could follow her when she retreats like this. I wish I could walk by her side as she makes her way through the shadows of nightmares past. I wish I could take her hand and wipe the pain away.)
(I wish, I wish, I wish…)
“Naturally, he picked the toughest, fiercest, most feared gang in the city; maybe even in all of France.” That surprises me. I guess I assumed… But she did say the two of them spent summers with their paternal grandparents. “Actually, that’s probably an exaggeration. But they definitely had quite the reputation in Paris. They called themselves…” She says a word I can’t quite catch, never mind attempt to pronounce. It certainly doesn’t sound French. I guess it must be… Berber? “The closest translation is probably something like ‘The Bloodriders’.”
Well, that sounds… charming. Although, I suppose a motorcycle gang - especially a fearsome one - was hardly going to be called ‘Hugs and Puppies’, was it?
“Their leader at the time was… He was called Drogo. Moroccan-French. And he was about the same age as Viserys.”
There’s that ‘was’ again. I start putting two and two together, coming up with what I think is something in the vicinity of four.
“Isn’t that a little young to be leading a motorcycle gang?” I can’t help asking, then immediately wish I could take the words back. I didn’t mean to interrupt Daenerys’ story, and I certainly don’t want to make her feel self-conscious.
(Like I would be, if I were telling someone about my sordid past. Not that I really have a sordid past, as such. Or that this is, really. I just like the sound of the phrase.)
Daenerys looks at me like she’s almost surprised to see me sitting here next to her. I fight the urge to apologise, then immediately second-guess myself. Maybe I should apologise for the interruption… But before I can so much as draw breath to speak, she answers my question.
“Yes, it is,” she says softly. “It certainly surprised me when I found out. Most of the Bloodriders’ members at the time were aged between mid-teens and mid-twenties. I would’ve expected one of the older ones to be the leader. But Drogo…” She smiles sadly. “He was a remarkable man. A remarkable leader.”
Was. Was. *Was.*
I know where this is going, the tragedy to come looming up ahead like some fairytale troll. It sits there, gnarled and ugly, its shadow dark and deep. A love lost forever. (Her sun and stars.) Mixed feelings of sadness and anticipation well up inside me at the thought of it. (And some other emotion; an acrid, caustic thing that seems to slice at my heart with needle-sharp claws. Something I don’t recognise. Something I don’t understand, or want to.) I push the confusion to one side, or try to, ready to offer her whatever support she needs.
“He actually didn’t think much of Viserys,” Daenerys muses. “Much to my brother’s disgust. But he was determined. And he had an ace up his sleeve. You see, Drogo may not have cared much for Viserys, but he seemed to have developed a certain… regard… for me.”
Wait. Does she…? Could she mean…?
She watches my expression, my feelings clearly written loud and clear across my face. I don’t think I could keep them hidden if I tried. (Certainly not from her.) When she nods, the smile she gives me is more like a snarl.
“Viserys arranged a date between me and Drogo. Drogo agreed to give him his shot at joining the Bloodriders.” She shrugs stiffly. “Quite a straightforward transaction, really.”
“You agreed to that?” I whisper, and then want to kick myself for asking such a gosh-darned *stupid* question.
“Weren’t you listening earlier?” she replies dryly. “It never even occurred to me to refuse.”
Of course it didn’t. Of course it wouldn’t. I should know that better than anyone. I just… I’m having trouble taking all of this in. There’s so much I want to say, but the words gather thickly in my throat, choking me into silence. So instead, I talk to her without words. I let my hand settle over hers, showing her that I’m here for her. That I’m not judging her for the actions - or inactions - of her younger self.
Heaven knows I certainly have no moral high ground to stand on in this regard. (And my failures aren’t nearly so far behind me.)
Her hand tenses sharply against mine for a moment, and then relaxes. She doesn’t return my grip, but neither does she pull away. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding. (If she’s willing to accept the meagre comfort I can offer, I can’t have offended or upset her too badly with my ill-chosen words.)
The silence gathers around us for what feels like a long time. I finish the remainder of my now-tepid coffee, but then realise that I can’t reach to set it down safely on a table, or even on the floor. Not without letting go of Daenerys’ hand. That isn’t going to happen, so I make do with balancing the empty mug carefully - very carefully - on the cushion next to me. It should be safe there. (I hope.)
Eventually, Daenerys sighs softly and shakes her head.
“Drogo was so different to what I was expecting. Not that I really…” Her shrug looks more like a flinch. “I was too terrified at the thought of being alone with this fearsome gang leader to think about what kind of person he might be. I’d never really spoken to him before, so the only thing I knew about him was his reputation.” She pauses briefly, then adds, as an aside: “And that he had a strange name.”
I almost choke at the thought of *Daenerys* - with a brother called Viserys, no less - thinking of someone else’s name as strange. But then, I suppose I don’t have much of a leg to stand on in that regard. ‘Sansa’ isn’t exactly common these days.
“It is a strange name,” I observe neutrally.
“Old French, apparently,” she says. “Courtesy of a proud French father. But I digress.” She takes a moment, visibly gathering herself. “He took me out on his bike,” she says. “It was…. terrifying, at least at first, but it was also *exhilarating*. We can’t have been going that fast, not really, but it felt like I was flying.” Her voice drops to a whisper, the expression on her face something like awe as she says: “I’d never felt so free in all my life. For a moment, I wished it would never stop. But it did.”
Her eyes turn cloudy and she seems to curl even more tightly around herself. I feel her hand tense in my loose grip.
“Our first date was… not precisely one for the ages. No one would be writing any sonnets about the romance of it, or singing ridiculous songs about love at first sight.”
“But I thought…”
I stare at her, surprised and confused. This wasn’t how I expected the story to go. This wasn’t what I expected at all. I thought it would be… I thought she’d tell me he was sweet, or funny, or charming; that her impression of him was all wrong. That something just… clicked.
(I thought he was her one true love.)
She doesn’t even seem to hear my words. If it wasn’t for the way her hand suddenly grips mine almost hard enough to hurt, I’d be starting to wonder if she’s somehow forgotten that I’m here with her.
“Viserys…” Her voice cracks on the name. She clears her throat and tries again. “It seems my *darling* brother had told him that his ‘regard’ was reciprocated. That I wanted him, but was far too shy to do anything about it. That his advances would be welcomed with open arms, even if I seemed… coy.” Her face twists in a grimace. “No, I think I can safely say that date is not one of my most cherished memories. Except for maybe the bike ride.”
I feel my eyes fill with tears, but I make no attempt to brush them away. I have to swallow hard before I can speak. When I do, my voice sounds thick with emotion.
“You mean he…?” I can’t even say it; can’t finish the sentence that my mind, with rising horror, is already filling in.
“He fucked me, yes,” she says, and I flinch back from her words, from the jagged edges of her voice, from the horrified thoughts forming in my mind.
“Oh, Daenerys…” For a few moments, I concentrate on just breathing, on being able to speak without choking, but when I try to continue, she interrupts me.
“It wasn’t… I mean, he didn’t realise it wasn’t reciprocated. He thought I… He thought…”
“He should have realised,” I say, and the coldness of my voice comes as a shock to me. “He should have made sure you were alright.” I’m almost unsettled by the strength of the emotions welling up inside me, by the sheer depth of the… the (utter, unabashed hatred) *dislike* I feel for this dead man (boy?). The part of me that always tries to see the best in others, to justify, to apologise (even for *him*), remains conspicuously silent. He hurt my- He hurt *Daenerys*, and that I can’t forgive. “He should have realised,” I say, again.
“It’s more complicated than that,” she says, and I’m torn by the distress on her face, ashamed to realise that I’ve played a part in putting it there. If I’d let her gloss over the whole ugly business and then move on… If I’d stayed silent… But, rarely, I find myself compelled to speak up.
“Maybe it is,” I allow, although it grates to even concede that much. “But that doesn’t mean it was *right*. It doesn’t mean *he* was right.” And it certainly doesn’t mean I have to stand by and see her tie herself up in knots over a creep who’d have sex with a girl he wasn’t sure was willing.
She doesn’t speak for what feels like an age. It’s long enough that I start to worry I’ve offended her, long enough that ordinarily I’d fear I’ve said the wrong thing, put my foot in it somehow. And yet, I’m not actually worried about the latter at all. What I said… needed to be said. And I’m not sorry I said it.
(I just hope she isn’t offended.)
“I’m not saying it was right,” she says, speaking so quietly that I have to lean in close to try to make out the words. “And, truthfully, I regret it. I regret not saying no. I regret being too afraid to say no. I regret that my first time was with someone I didn’t choose; a man I didn’t know well enough to know whether or not I even *liked* him. I regret that it was on a ratty mattress in a dingy little squat. I regret that it wasn’t special and magical and romantic and wonderful. But all the regrets in the world aren’t going to change one single thing. It was what it was.” She sighs heavily, her breath lightly tickling the back of my neck. “Anyway,” she continues, in a more normal speaking voice, albeit with an edge of bitter humour. “You have to understand - back then, I was *very* good at being all things to all people. Quite the little social chameleon, if I do say so myself. Viserys expected obedience. Drogo expected shy infatuation. So they both got exactly what they wanted.”
For a precarious moment, I think I might actually start crying. Then the moment passes, and instead I fear I might fly into an uncontrollable rage. (Me! A rage!) I wonder if this so-called brother of hers is likely to show his face in Nottingham any time soon… But then the anger also passes, leaving behind a deep, aching sorrow.
“So, Viserys joined the Bloodriders?” I ask. It’s not even close to what I want to say, but I don’t think Daenerys wants sympathy right now. From the way she relaxes minutely at my question, I’m convinced it was the right thing to say.
“Provisionally, yes,” she says. And then, unexpectedly, she smiles. “And so did I.”
“You did?” I mean, I know she talked about becoming an honorary member of her boyfriend’s gang, and this… Drogo… person is (was) presumably the boyfriend in question, but I wasn’t quite expecting…
“Apparently Drogo was hoping for more than a one night stand. So… we started spending time together.”
“So you became his…” Trophy? Prize? Consort? Hostage? Captive? “His girlfriend.”
It’s not really a question, but she answers as if it was, twitching one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “As you say.”
Oh. Oh *Daenerys*.
I don’t ask how it happened, because I can picture it all too clearly. Fear. The overwhelming urge to comply, to do what’s expected, to be *good*. Not even knowing that you can say no, let alone how to do so. More ‘dates’. Assumptions left unchecked and a clear path of least resistance.
There but for the grace of god…
And then I’m struck by a sudden, awful realisation. No *wonder* she was so hostile towards Reza. No wonder she…
Did she see some of herself - that earlier, meeker self - in me? Does she still?
(Does she despise me the same way she despises her other self?)
I want to say something, but any words I can muster feel like too much, or not nearly enough so instead I just squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.
After a moment, she continues her account.
“When he saw how I took to being on the back of a motorbike, he offered to teach me how to ride one.” Something fierce flares in her eyes. “I was good at it. Better than Viserys, in point of fact. And he did not like that one bit. Nor did he like the fact that he was merely tolerated by the Bloodriders, whereas I… I was welcomed. This was a new experience for me. New and strange and wonderful. For the first time in a long time, I actually started to feel like I might not be worthless after all. Needless to say, Viserys didn’t like *that* either. He took his displeasure out on me in private, of course.”
My heart just about breaks at the matter of fact way she says that. Like ‘of course’ he would. ‘Of course’ that’s what a brother would do. I think of my own siblings. Rob, so determined to see the wonders of life, so determined to protect his family for the horrors it can bring. Bran, the survivor, refusing to let his accident turn him a bitter and twisted thing. Arya, still fiercely protective of her family even when she’s furious with us. Rickon, who, no matter how difficult he finds it to communicate with the rest of the world, always manages to make it clear that he loves us. Even Jon; quiet, loyal Jon, technically my half-brother, but always whole to me.
No, I don’t understand Viserys at all.
(I don’t understand him, but I hate him for the things he’s done.)
“One day, though, he made the mistake of taking it out on me in front of the Bloodriders. And they… defended me. *Drogo* defended me.” She seems almost awed at the thought. As if even now she has trouble believing that someone would stand up for her. Would protect her. Would take her side. (I know how she feels.) “And after that, things were different.”
She surfaces again from the depths of her memories, squeezing my hand lightly as she holds my gaze.
“I don’t mean everything was suddenly happy and perfect. But it was the first time I’d even considered the possibility that Viserys might have been wrong about me. That maybe *I* wasn’t the one who was weak.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds: “Drogo let him stay in the Bloodriders, but only because I asked him to. Viserys was still my brother, after all. I even thought - hoped - that this might act as a wake-up call. That we’d be able to go back to the way things were when we were little. Before he turned cold.”
She pauses there, looking almost expectant, so I ask the question to which I’m already sure I know the answer.
“And did they?”
“No,” she says simply, just as expected. “But things did change. I discovered… I managed to… I said no. To Drogo. And he listened.” She grimaces. “I didn’t mean to sound like that’s something to be praised, rather than just the bare minimum of how things should be. But back then, it seemed like the most amazing thing in the world.” She makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, shaking her head. “I was pathetic back then.”
“Don’t say that!” I burst out. “Don’t! You weren’t pathetic; you *weren’t*. You’d just been through a lot. And Viserys… What he did to you was wrong, but it wasn’t *your* fault. It was his. You shouldn’t blame yourself for trusting him. And you shouldn’t blame yourself for being afraid.”
The look she gives me is level, piercing and oddly compassionate.
“I’ll believe that if you will,” she says.
I stare at her, utterly nonplussed.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
Her gaze holds mine steadily, implacable and unyielding. I want to look away, but I can’t. I want to pull away, but I find myself drawing closer. I want to say something, anything, to change the subject, to bring this conversation back to *her* life, *her* past, *her*; but my voice is nowhere to be found.
I can’t take this much longer.
I can’t…
I…
“You know what I mean,” she says, and her voice holds a world of sorrow. “I know you blame yourself for what your unnamed tormentor put you through.” She cocks her head. “What was his name again?” Wordlessly, I shake my head. “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she murmurs, then continues in a level tone. “Maybe you should take your own advice.”
“But…” I begin, and then stop, having no idea how to continue my objection. Or even *why* I’m objecting. (No, that’s not true. I do know why.)
“Will you tell me what happened?” she asks, and for the first time since she pinned me with her gaze, she actually sounds… uncertain.
“This is supposed to be about you,” I protest faintly, my certainty sapped by the sudden overwhelming urge to *tell* her. To tell her everything, regardless of how it risks her contempt. I try to rally my flagging resistance. “I’m supposed to be helping you.”
“You are. You have. But right now, I want to be here for you. If you’ll let me. If you’ll… If you’ll trust me that much.” She swallows audibly, her hand tightening on mine once more. “I can be a good friend. I *want* to be. Won’t you let me be your friend?”
“Alright,” I say. After that plea, how can I not? “I’ll… I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” she says, and her eyes seem almost luminous with emotion. The sight of it seems to wake something in me, making me sit up straighter in my seat, giving me the strength and the determination to tell her about *him*.
Heaven knows I’m going to need it.
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
Trigger warning: Non-explicit reference to past dubious (at best) consent.
Daenerys stares at me like she’s never seen me before.
“You mean that, don’t you?” she says, and her voice is a many-layered thing I can’t even begin to analyse.
“Of course I do,” I reply. I shrug. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” Certain memories remind me that she has reason not to take that at face value, so I hurriedly add: “Not even to be polite. Not about something like this.”
It’s too important, I think to myself, but a sudden wave of self-consciousness overwhelms me, preventing me from speaking the words aloud.
(God, it’s not like I’m declaring my undying love or anything. I hope she doesn’t think I’m being too over-the-top. Too intense. Too… Just too much.)
But the way she smiles at me now…
(No, I don’t think she thinks it’s too much at all.)
Thankfully, she seems to understand what I mean.
“Thank you,” she says. “I really do appreciate that.”
She looks down at our hands; still tangled together, the skin of her palm warm against mine. (Her hands are always warm. Mine seem to naturally tend towards a little on the cold side. I wonder if that means anything.) I wonder if I should let go.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
She lifts her mug to her lips, suddenly reminding me of my own drink. We sip together in companionable silence. Well, I sip. She finishes off the rest of hers and sets the mug aside, turning a little to face me. Her hand shifts in mine, her fingers flexing a little. Worried that might be a sign, I immediately release my grip. (I just as quickly regret it, but it’s too late now. I can’t just reach out and hold her hand; not apropos of nothing.)
Daenerys folds her hands in her lap, then unfolds them again and smooths down the skirt of her dress. She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, then picks at that loose thread once more. I wrap my own hands tightly around my mug to stop myself reaching out for her, to stop myself physically stilling her restlessness by wrapping her tightly in my arms.
“I can fix that for you.” The words burst out of me - against my better judgement; without my intending to say them aloud just yet - and her head snaps towards me, confusion in her eyes. “That loose thread,” I clarify, nodding towards her cuff. “I can stop it from unravelling further, if I come back with my sewing kit. Or if I can borrow yours.”
She drops the loose thread and folds her hands in her lap again, twining her fingers together as if to ensure that they remain there this time.
“Maybe sometime later?” she says, a little distractedly, and then adds, as if it’s an afterthought: “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say again, automatically. I try my best to give her an encouraging look. She glances away.
“It’s difficult to know where to start,” she murmurs.
“Maybe at the beginning?” I hazard.
She stiffens, making me wonder what I’ve said wrong, but then she relaxes again with a sigh. To my surprise, she draws her legs up onto the sofa and folds herself around them, the hunched position making her seem younger, smaller, more fragile. I’m reminded, all of a sudden, that she’s not that much older than I am. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things.
“The beginning…” she repeats, her eyes distant and hooded. “Alright.” She nods sharply, seeming to recover a little of her usual decisiveness. “The beginning it is.” A wry smile briefly curves her lips, and she lifts her eyes to mine. “I hope you have some time to spare.”
“Take all the time you need,” I assure her. I guess this means our movie marathon is off, but I don’t mind. I do have a shift this evening, but until then… I’m all hers.
She takes a deep breath. I arrange myself as comfortably as I can on the sofa, settling in for the long haul. Anticipation thrums through me.
(Is it wrong to feel curious? To look forward to finding out more about Daenerys and her mysterious past? Is it wrong to feel anticipation when I should be feeling nothing but concern for my friend? Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just part of being human. Either way, I push it aside and focus all my attention on her.)
“My parents died when I was four,” she says, and her voice is calm and even, with a story-teller’s cadence. It’s like she’s describing something that happened to someone else. Or that didn’t happen at all. Like she’s just reciting a fairy-tale. “Our car got caught in a slipstream and started fishtailing. The road was wet. My father lost control of the car, and we went off the edge of the road. My brother and I survived. My parents didn’t.”
Horror rises up inside me as she talks. She said her parents died in a car accident, but I didn’t realise that she was in the car at the time. I know she was young, but still. That must have been *terrifying*. Yet her voice doesn’t once waver from its level tone, and the only expression on her face is the faint frown that only barely wrinkles her brow. Her eyes, though, look almost glassy, like they’re focused somewhere far, far away. I don’t know what she’s seeing right now, but I don’t think it’s me. I don’t think it’s this room. Keeping my movements slow and careful, I inch a little closer to her on the sofa. Just in case.
“I don’t really remember my parents,” she continues. “Just flashes here and there. My mother’s voice singing a lullaby; my father swinging me up onto his shoulders. Little bits and pieces like that. I don’t remember the crash at all.”
I suppose that explains her distance, her unruffled recitation of the facts.
I can’t even imagine what that must be like; barely even knowing her parents at all. I think I’m going to miss my father for the rest of my life, but at least I knew him. At least I have all those happy memories to look back on. At least I *remember* him loving me.
“We were driving back from our Christmas holidays,” she says, abruptly, surfacing from her memories to give me a rather sickly smile. “It’s why I’ve never… Christmas was always a sombre time after that.”
“I can imagine,” I say softly.
It’s why spring is bittersweet for me. Instead of thinking of all the new life it brings, I remember my father, dying. As colour returns to a world of winter greys and browns, I see again the blue seeping into his lips; the waxen pallor of his cheeks. The sound of birdsong will forever remind me of the silence where his pulse should have been. Of the breath I tried to give him. Of trying so hard to remember what I learned in my first aid classes, and in the end just *screaming* at him to just wake up. Of promising - swearing on my very soul - that I’d be the most perfect daughter he could ever possibly wish for, if only he would wake up.
If he would please just wake up.
No, spring is not my favourite time of year. So I understand all too well what she means.
“That’s right, your father,” she says, just as quietly, and now her gaze is so intent, so focused, that it’s like nothing else exists but me. “So you know what it’s like.”
“I do.”
We share a moment of silence; mourning or understanding or both. Somehow, when it passes, her feet are pressed against my thigh, my arm brushing against her shins as I bring my coffee cup to my lips. Neither of us says a thing about our proximity.
“It took a while to sort out custody,” she says, picking up the thread of her tale. “Mum was Anglo-French, and her parents lived in England. Dad’s parents were both Algerian, but they lived in France. Viserys and I have triple nationality. Kind of. Depending on which authorities you’re talking to. It’s a little fuzzy even now, but back then it was a bureaucratic nightmare. So, until permanent arrangements could be made, we bounced around between both sets of grandparents, an aunt, even some cousins. It was hard. It was… We felt like so much flotsam and jetsam, tossed from pillar to post without any idea where, or even if, we’d eventually come to rest. The only constant my brother and I had - the only fixed point in all this chaos - was each other.”
She shifts a little, restlessly, the sudden movement almost startling after her previous stillness. She looks me, but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. It’s like she’s not quite here, like she’s half-stuck in the past, where I can’t follow. That doesn’t mean I won’t try, though. Pushing self-consciousness aside (surely if I can do that for anyone, I can do that for her), I peel one hand away from my mug and let it drift a little, resting my arm on the cushion so that my fingertips lightly brush the back of her hand. Not gripping, not covering her hand with mine; just there. Just in case.
(I blush a little at my own daring, but try to push my discomfort aside. It’s not anything I haven’t done before; it’s just one friend offering comfort to another. We’re already practically resting against each other, and that didn’t really bother me.)
(Okay, maybe it did, a little. Well, not ‘bother,’ but make me feel strange and slightly flushed.)
(This, though… Offering my hand to her like this… It feels almost… intimate.)
(My flush deepens, and I’m beyond thankful that Daenerys is too far away to notice. But this is not the time and the place for such thoughts, such distractions. This is about her. So I push away all extraneous thoughts and concentrate on listening to her story.)
(It isn’t the time or place for anything else.)
“Viserys is two years older than me. In the aftermath of the accident… He had to grow up fast. He looked after me, protected me, cared for me and I… I practically worshipped him for it. I think we got on well enough before - well, about as well as a four year old girl and her six year old brother *can* get on, which isn’t to say we didn’t have our fights - but afterwards, we were inseparable. For a while, I wouldn’t even speak to anyone but Viserys, so he got into the habit of speaking for me. It was a habit that continued as we got older.”
She sighs softly, an almost-smile just touching her lips.
“After a couple of months of being rootless, the mess was finally sorted out and we went to live with our mother’s parents in England. But though they were granted custody, they didn’t want to deprive us of our other family, or deprive them of us. So they came to an arrangement with our father’s parents that we would spend the summers in France, with them. It was… a good time. I mean, obviously we still missed our parents - and our grandparents were mourning their children - but we were loved. We were cared for. I was still timid, still barely speaking to anyone who wasn’t Viserys, but I was happy. At least, I was starting to be happy. But Viserys… wasn’t.”
The frown is back and deeper now, painting her face with sorrow.
“It happened gradually - so gradually I didn’t really notice at first - but he became cold. Distant. And then he turned mean. Everything I did was wrong. Everything about me was irritating, or ugly, or stupid. *I* was stupid. And helpless, and pathetic. And utterly dependent on him.”
I hear an echo in my head; almost those exact same words, spoken in *his* voice. I have to swallow past the lump in my throat, like all the sobs I ever choked back have congealed into some kind of bolus of misery.
It just about breaks my heart to think of Daenerys going through that too.
(But I never would have guessed it to look at her. Not even when she told me she used to be meek. Maybe that means there is hope for me after all. Maybe I’ll eventually be able to step all the way out of the shadow he cast.)
(Even if it does sometimes seem like it goes on forever.)
“The thing of it is, I still looked up to him; still practically worshipped the ground he walked on. It didn’t matter how badly he treated me. I just thought that was the price I had to pay for having him as my protector.”
Her lips twist on the last word, turning it dark and ugly and bitter. She pauses for a breath or two before continuing.
“I’m not saying it was all terrible,” she says softly. “Our grandparents - both sets of them - fought so hard to keep us. And they cared for us so much. Truth to tell, they probably spoiled us rotten. But I always knew I was loved. It’s just that…” A soft sigh escapes her lips. “It always felt like there was a line. Viserys and I were on one side of it, and the whole rest of the world was on the other. And no matter how bad it got on our side of the line, no matter how unhealthy our relationship became, I never once thought about trying to step over that boundary. I never even considered trying to leave him.”
Her eyes focus on me suddenly, the unexpectedness of that razor-sharp attention making me blink. The smile she gives me could scratch diamond.
“I sound like a battered wife, don’t I?” she says, and I don’t know how to respond to that so I just give a tiny nod and sip my cooling coffee.
(She… She sounds like… like *me*. Not the precise words, perhaps, but that feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world, of being isolated, of being absolutely convinced that no matter what he said, or did, I must have done something to deserve it. Of relying on *him* for all my social interactions.)
(Of feeling so terribly, terribly alone.)
“Anyway, time passed - as it is wont to do - and the two of us grew into teenagers. I was fifteen and he was seventeen. I was still a timid little scrap of a thing, but he’d become rather… gregarious. And something of a rebel. He’d taken to hanging around with gang members and criminals, even committing a few petty acts of larceny and vandalism himself.” She twists her lips in distaste. “Sometimes pressing me into service as lookout. Or distraction. Or, when things went wrong - which they sometimes did - a scapegoat.”
Daenerys? Daenerys the lawyer-in-training? A *criminal*?
Try as I might, I just can’t picture it. Not *this* Daenerys; this fearless woman, this crusader for righteous causes. But… a Daenerys who was timid? Who stood in the shadow of the brother she adored? I guess I can imagine *that* person letting herself be pushed into something like that.
Not that I can really picture that Daenerys.
(I suppose I should be thankful that *he* was never inclined towards committing criminal acts. I’m not sure underage drinking really counts.)
“So Viserys decided he wanted to join a motorcycle gang.”
To my surprise, she actually smiles, then. Just a small smile, but it seems genuine; untainted by bitterness. Maybe even… fond? But it’s there and gone again only very briefly, and I can’t help doubting what I saw as her expression turns shuttered and distant once more.
(I wish I could follow her when she retreats like this. I wish I could walk by her side as she makes her way through the shadows of nightmares past. I wish I could take her hand and wipe the pain away.)
(I wish, I wish, I wish…)
“Naturally, he picked the toughest, fiercest, most feared gang in the city; maybe even in all of France.” That surprises me. I guess I assumed… But she did say the two of them spent summers with their paternal grandparents. “Actually, that’s probably an exaggeration. But they definitely had quite the reputation in Paris. They called themselves…” She says a word I can’t quite catch, never mind attempt to pronounce. It certainly doesn’t sound French. I guess it must be… Berber? “The closest translation is probably something like ‘The Bloodriders’.”
Well, that sounds… charming. Although, I suppose a motorcycle gang - especially a fearsome one - was hardly going to be called ‘Hugs and Puppies’, was it?
“Their leader at the time was… He was called Drogo. Moroccan-French. And he was about the same age as Viserys.”
There’s that ‘was’ again. I start putting two and two together, coming up with what I think is something in the vicinity of four.
“Isn’t that a little young to be leading a motorcycle gang?” I can’t help asking, then immediately wish I could take the words back. I didn’t mean to interrupt Daenerys’ story, and I certainly don’t want to make her feel self-conscious.
(Like I would be, if I were telling someone about my sordid past. Not that I really have a sordid past, as such. Or that this is, really. I just like the sound of the phrase.)
Daenerys looks at me like she’s almost surprised to see me sitting here next to her. I fight the urge to apologise, then immediately second-guess myself. Maybe I should apologise for the interruption… But before I can so much as draw breath to speak, she answers my question.
“Yes, it is,” she says softly. “It certainly surprised me when I found out. Most of the Bloodriders’ members at the time were aged between mid-teens and mid-twenties. I would’ve expected one of the older ones to be the leader. But Drogo…” She smiles sadly. “He was a remarkable man. A remarkable leader.”
Was. Was. *Was.*
I know where this is going, the tragedy to come looming up ahead like some fairytale troll. It sits there, gnarled and ugly, its shadow dark and deep. A love lost forever. (Her sun and stars.) Mixed feelings of sadness and anticipation well up inside me at the thought of it. (And some other emotion; an acrid, caustic thing that seems to slice at my heart with needle-sharp claws. Something I don’t recognise. Something I don’t understand, or want to.) I push the confusion to one side, or try to, ready to offer her whatever support she needs.
“He actually didn’t think much of Viserys,” Daenerys muses. “Much to my brother’s disgust. But he was determined. And he had an ace up his sleeve. You see, Drogo may not have cared much for Viserys, but he seemed to have developed a certain… regard… for me.”
Wait. Does she…? Could she mean…?
She watches my expression, my feelings clearly written loud and clear across my face. I don’t think I could keep them hidden if I tried. (Certainly not from her.) When she nods, the smile she gives me is more like a snarl.
“Viserys arranged a date between me and Drogo. Drogo agreed to give him his shot at joining the Bloodriders.” She shrugs stiffly. “Quite a straightforward transaction, really.”
“You agreed to that?” I whisper, and then want to kick myself for asking such a gosh-darned *stupid* question.
“Weren’t you listening earlier?” she replies dryly. “It never even occurred to me to refuse.”
Of course it didn’t. Of course it wouldn’t. I should know that better than anyone. I just… I’m having trouble taking all of this in. There’s so much I want to say, but the words gather thickly in my throat, choking me into silence. So instead, I talk to her without words. I let my hand settle over hers, showing her that I’m here for her. That I’m not judging her for the actions - or inactions - of her younger self.
Heaven knows I certainly have no moral high ground to stand on in this regard. (And my failures aren’t nearly so far behind me.)
Her hand tenses sharply against mine for a moment, and then relaxes. She doesn’t return my grip, but neither does she pull away. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding. (If she’s willing to accept the meagre comfort I can offer, I can’t have offended or upset her too badly with my ill-chosen words.)
The silence gathers around us for what feels like a long time. I finish the remainder of my now-tepid coffee, but then realise that I can’t reach to set it down safely on a table, or even on the floor. Not without letting go of Daenerys’ hand. That isn’t going to happen, so I make do with balancing the empty mug carefully - very carefully - on the cushion next to me. It should be safe there. (I hope.)
Eventually, Daenerys sighs softly and shakes her head.
“Drogo was so different to what I was expecting. Not that I really…” Her shrug looks more like a flinch. “I was too terrified at the thought of being alone with this fearsome gang leader to think about what kind of person he might be. I’d never really spoken to him before, so the only thing I knew about him was his reputation.” She pauses briefly, then adds, as an aside: “And that he had a strange name.”
I almost choke at the thought of *Daenerys* - with a brother called Viserys, no less - thinking of someone else’s name as strange. But then, I suppose I don’t have much of a leg to stand on in that regard. ‘Sansa’ isn’t exactly common these days.
“It is a strange name,” I observe neutrally.
“Old French, apparently,” she says. “Courtesy of a proud French father. But I digress.” She takes a moment, visibly gathering herself. “He took me out on his bike,” she says. “It was…. terrifying, at least at first, but it was also *exhilarating*. We can’t have been going that fast, not really, but it felt like I was flying.” Her voice drops to a whisper, the expression on her face something like awe as she says: “I’d never felt so free in all my life. For a moment, I wished it would never stop. But it did.”
Her eyes turn cloudy and she seems to curl even more tightly around herself. I feel her hand tense in my loose grip.
“Our first date was… not precisely one for the ages. No one would be writing any sonnets about the romance of it, or singing ridiculous songs about love at first sight.”
“But I thought…”
I stare at her, surprised and confused. This wasn’t how I expected the story to go. This wasn’t what I expected at all. I thought it would be… I thought she’d tell me he was sweet, or funny, or charming; that her impression of him was all wrong. That something just… clicked.
(I thought he was her one true love.)
She doesn’t even seem to hear my words. If it wasn’t for the way her hand suddenly grips mine almost hard enough to hurt, I’d be starting to wonder if she’s somehow forgotten that I’m here with her.
“Viserys…” Her voice cracks on the name. She clears her throat and tries again. “It seems my *darling* brother had told him that his ‘regard’ was reciprocated. That I wanted him, but was far too shy to do anything about it. That his advances would be welcomed with open arms, even if I seemed… coy.” Her face twists in a grimace. “No, I think I can safely say that date is not one of my most cherished memories. Except for maybe the bike ride.”
I feel my eyes fill with tears, but I make no attempt to brush them away. I have to swallow hard before I can speak. When I do, my voice sounds thick with emotion.
“You mean he…?” I can’t even say it; can’t finish the sentence that my mind, with rising horror, is already filling in.
“He fucked me, yes,” she says, and I flinch back from her words, from the jagged edges of her voice, from the horrified thoughts forming in my mind.
“Oh, Daenerys…” For a few moments, I concentrate on just breathing, on being able to speak without choking, but when I try to continue, she interrupts me.
“It wasn’t… I mean, he didn’t realise it wasn’t reciprocated. He thought I… He thought…”
“He should have realised,” I say, and the coldness of my voice comes as a shock to me. “He should have made sure you were alright.” I’m almost unsettled by the strength of the emotions welling up inside me, by the sheer depth of the… the (utter, unabashed hatred) *dislike* I feel for this dead man (boy?). The part of me that always tries to see the best in others, to justify, to apologise (even for *him*), remains conspicuously silent. He hurt my- He hurt *Daenerys*, and that I can’t forgive. “He should have realised,” I say, again.
“It’s more complicated than that,” she says, and I’m torn by the distress on her face, ashamed to realise that I’ve played a part in putting it there. If I’d let her gloss over the whole ugly business and then move on… If I’d stayed silent… But, rarely, I find myself compelled to speak up.
“Maybe it is,” I allow, although it grates to even concede that much. “But that doesn’t mean it was *right*. It doesn’t mean *he* was right.” And it certainly doesn’t mean I have to stand by and see her tie herself up in knots over a creep who’d have sex with a girl he wasn’t sure was willing.
She doesn’t speak for what feels like an age. It’s long enough that I start to worry I’ve offended her, long enough that ordinarily I’d fear I’ve said the wrong thing, put my foot in it somehow. And yet, I’m not actually worried about the latter at all. What I said… needed to be said. And I’m not sorry I said it.
(I just hope she isn’t offended.)
“I’m not saying it was right,” she says, speaking so quietly that I have to lean in close to try to make out the words. “And, truthfully, I regret it. I regret not saying no. I regret being too afraid to say no. I regret that my first time was with someone I didn’t choose; a man I didn’t know well enough to know whether or not I even *liked* him. I regret that it was on a ratty mattress in a dingy little squat. I regret that it wasn’t special and magical and romantic and wonderful. But all the regrets in the world aren’t going to change one single thing. It was what it was.” She sighs heavily, her breath lightly tickling the back of my neck. “Anyway,” she continues, in a more normal speaking voice, albeit with an edge of bitter humour. “You have to understand - back then, I was *very* good at being all things to all people. Quite the little social chameleon, if I do say so myself. Viserys expected obedience. Drogo expected shy infatuation. So they both got exactly what they wanted.”
For a precarious moment, I think I might actually start crying. Then the moment passes, and instead I fear I might fly into an uncontrollable rage. (Me! A rage!) I wonder if this so-called brother of hers is likely to show his face in Nottingham any time soon… But then the anger also passes, leaving behind a deep, aching sorrow.
“So, Viserys joined the Bloodriders?” I ask. It’s not even close to what I want to say, but I don’t think Daenerys wants sympathy right now. From the way she relaxes minutely at my question, I’m convinced it was the right thing to say.
“Provisionally, yes,” she says. And then, unexpectedly, she smiles. “And so did I.”
“You did?” I mean, I know she talked about becoming an honorary member of her boyfriend’s gang, and this… Drogo… person is (was) presumably the boyfriend in question, but I wasn’t quite expecting…
“Apparently Drogo was hoping for more than a one night stand. So… we started spending time together.”
“So you became his…” Trophy? Prize? Consort? Hostage? Captive? “His girlfriend.”
It’s not really a question, but she answers as if it was, twitching one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “As you say.”
Oh. Oh *Daenerys*.
I don’t ask how it happened, because I can picture it all too clearly. Fear. The overwhelming urge to comply, to do what’s expected, to be *good*. Not even knowing that you can say no, let alone how to do so. More ‘dates’. Assumptions left unchecked and a clear path of least resistance.
There but for the grace of god…
And then I’m struck by a sudden, awful realisation. No *wonder* she was so hostile towards Reza. No wonder she…
Did she see some of herself - that earlier, meeker self - in me? Does she still?
(Does she despise me the same way she despises her other self?)
I want to say something, but any words I can muster feel like too much, or not nearly enough so instead I just squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.
After a moment, she continues her account.
“When he saw how I took to being on the back of a motorbike, he offered to teach me how to ride one.” Something fierce flares in her eyes. “I was good at it. Better than Viserys, in point of fact. And he did not like that one bit. Nor did he like the fact that he was merely tolerated by the Bloodriders, whereas I… I was welcomed. This was a new experience for me. New and strange and wonderful. For the first time in a long time, I actually started to feel like I might not be worthless after all. Needless to say, Viserys didn’t like *that* either. He took his displeasure out on me in private, of course.”
My heart just about breaks at the matter of fact way she says that. Like ‘of course’ he would. ‘Of course’ that’s what a brother would do. I think of my own siblings. Rob, so determined to see the wonders of life, so determined to protect his family for the horrors it can bring. Bran, the survivor, refusing to let his accident turn him a bitter and twisted thing. Arya, still fiercely protective of her family even when she’s furious with us. Rickon, who, no matter how difficult he finds it to communicate with the rest of the world, always manages to make it clear that he loves us. Even Jon; quiet, loyal Jon, technically my half-brother, but always whole to me.
No, I don’t understand Viserys at all.
(I don’t understand him, but I hate him for the things he’s done.)
“One day, though, he made the mistake of taking it out on me in front of the Bloodriders. And they… defended me. *Drogo* defended me.” She seems almost awed at the thought. As if even now she has trouble believing that someone would stand up for her. Would protect her. Would take her side. (I know how she feels.) “And after that, things were different.”
She surfaces again from the depths of her memories, squeezing my hand lightly as she holds my gaze.
“I don’t mean everything was suddenly happy and perfect. But it was the first time I’d even considered the possibility that Viserys might have been wrong about me. That maybe *I* wasn’t the one who was weak.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds: “Drogo let him stay in the Bloodriders, but only because I asked him to. Viserys was still my brother, after all. I even thought - hoped - that this might act as a wake-up call. That we’d be able to go back to the way things were when we were little. Before he turned cold.”
She pauses there, looking almost expectant, so I ask the question to which I’m already sure I know the answer.
“And did they?”
“No,” she says simply, just as expected. “But things did change. I discovered… I managed to… I said no. To Drogo. And he listened.” She grimaces. “I didn’t mean to sound like that’s something to be praised, rather than just the bare minimum of how things should be. But back then, it seemed like the most amazing thing in the world.” She makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, shaking her head. “I was pathetic back then.”
“Don’t say that!” I burst out. “Don’t! You weren’t pathetic; you *weren’t*. You’d just been through a lot. And Viserys… What he did to you was wrong, but it wasn’t *your* fault. It was his. You shouldn’t blame yourself for trusting him. And you shouldn’t blame yourself for being afraid.”
The look she gives me is level, piercing and oddly compassionate.
“I’ll believe that if you will,” she says.
I stare at her, utterly nonplussed.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
Her gaze holds mine steadily, implacable and unyielding. I want to look away, but I can’t. I want to pull away, but I find myself drawing closer. I want to say something, anything, to change the subject, to bring this conversation back to *her* life, *her* past, *her*; but my voice is nowhere to be found.
I can’t take this much longer.
I can’t…
I…
“You know what I mean,” she says, and her voice holds a world of sorrow. “I know you blame yourself for what your unnamed tormentor put you through.” She cocks her head. “What was his name again?” Wordlessly, I shake my head. “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she murmurs, then continues in a level tone. “Maybe you should take your own advice.”
“But…” I begin, and then stop, having no idea how to continue my objection. Or even *why* I’m objecting. (No, that’s not true. I do know why.)
“Will you tell me what happened?” she asks, and for the first time since she pinned me with her gaze, she actually sounds… uncertain.
“This is supposed to be about you,” I protest faintly, my certainty sapped by the sudden overwhelming urge to *tell* her. To tell her everything, regardless of how it risks her contempt. I try to rally my flagging resistance. “I’m supposed to be helping you.”
“You are. You have. But right now, I want to be here for you. If you’ll let me. If you’ll… If you’ll trust me that much.” She swallows audibly, her hand tightening on mine once more. “I can be a good friend. I *want* to be. Won’t you let me be your friend?”
“Alright,” I say. After that plea, how can I not? “I’ll… I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” she says, and her eyes seem almost luminous with emotion. The sight of it seems to wake something in me, making me sit up straighter in my seat, giving me the strength and the determination to tell her about *him*.
Heaven knows I’m going to need it.