Hot Coffee Part 30

[tamoline]

Title: Hot Coffee Part 30
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys

Note: Just a heads-up, my posting may be fairly erratic for the next couple of months due to game conventions and Femslash Ex.

I take a calm, steady breath, gathering my thoughts; getting everything in order in my mind. Only then do I continue.

“I couldn’t accept the future he was describing. I just couldn’t. So I decided I’d rather cope with his fury in the short-term and broke up with him. Publicly. In front of all his friends.” I twist around, looking up at Daenerys with - much to my surprise - a wry smile on my lips. “And then I transferred to another school.”

“Just like that?” she asks.

I sigh. “Well, no. Not quite just like that. My school had a sixth form - year twelve - so I was supposed to stay on there to do my A levels. But I managed to speak with someone at The Sheffield College and persuade them to take a late application.” I shrug. “Apparently I was sufficiently persuasive.” Desperation was certainly powerful motivation to succeed. “My parents were surprised, and maybe a little disappointed - my school had a sterling academic reputation and a lot of their pupils went on to Oxford or Cambridge afterwards. But I presented it to them as a fait accompli, and they eventually came around.”

How differently my life would have gone if they hadn’t, or if I hadn’t been able to talk my way into the college. Maybe I’d have managed to kick *him* out of my life some other way; maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d be at Oxford or Cambridge right now, not Nottingham. Maybe I’d never have met Daenerys, or all my other friends.

This is better. This is so much better. For once in my life, I have absolutely no regrets whatsoever.

There’s a frown on Daenerys’ face, and I’m not sure what’s wrong, but it all becomes clear when she speaks.

“How did he react when you told him?”

Oh. Right.

“He… wasn’t happy.” Another understatement. I seem to be particularly prone to them when I’m talking about him. “He started yelling at me, calling me all sorts of names. I tried to just leave, but he came after me.” Even now I feel a flare of annoyance at myself for letting him chase me into somewhere deserted. There was a reason I’d told him in public, but then I found myself alone with him after all. “He hit me again.”

The expression on Daenerys’ face can only be described as ‘murderous,’ I hurry onwards.

“It was the last time,” I tell her. “The very last time.”

“What happened next?” she asks, her voice low and tight, sounding like nothing short of a titanic act of will is keeping her from leaping up and speeding off on her motorbike to make him pay.

Well, that and the fact that she doesn’t know who he is. But if anyone can overcome a little obstacle like that, I’d bet it would be her.

I need to keep talking.

“Unlike the other times, I actually stood up for myself. I told him… I told him if he touched me again - if he so much as talked to me again, or looked at me, or even breathed in the direction of any of my friends - I’d go to my brothers and tell them the things he’d said and done. All of them. I told him they’d make sure he could never do anything like that to me or anyone else. I said they’d hurt him. I… I threatened him… and he backed down. He backed down.”

I can hear the disbelief in my voice; the wonder. Even now, I can’t quite believe it worked.

“He called me a few more nasty names, but he didn’t hit me again.” Even though I could tell he wanted to. Or worse. “And then he left.” I shrug. “I saw him a couple of times after that, but he never really came near me again.”

There was one time, when we ran into each other in town and it looked like he might… But luckily I had the presence of mind to get out my phone, as if I was making good on my threat. Even more luckily, he turned tail and, not exactly ran, but definitely left as fast as dignity would allow. Maybe even a little faster. If he hadn’t… To this day I don’t know if I would’ve actually gone through with it. I’m just glad I didn’t have to find out.

I take a deep breath, letting it out again in a soft, slow sigh.

“It was… It was finally over.”

I was so relieved. And, at the same time, almost… Not disappointed; I didn’t miss him or anything stupid like that. I was nothing but glad to have him out of my life. Maybe… surprised is a better word. Surprised it was that easy to scare him away.

Disappointed that I hadn’t tried it sooner.

What would have happened if I’d stood up for myself the first time he showed me his true colours? If I’d reminded him - if I’d remembered - that I wasn’t really alone. If I’d realised that *I* didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. That the only one who’d lose from me breaking my silence would be him.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and at the time I was such gloom that I could barely see my hand in front of my face, metaphorically speaking.

I suppose there’s no sense dwelling on what-ifs and might-have-beens, but I think a part of me will always wonder.

I study Daenerys’ face to see how she’s taking this, but her expression is inscrutable. It’s only a few moments before she speaks, but that’s more than long enough for my mind to start to tie itself in knots wondering if she thinks badly of me, if she despises me for taking so long to stand up to him. But the first words out of her mouth are:

“I’m so proud of you, Sansa.”

I blink at her, not sure if I’ve heard her correctly.

“But I should have stood up to him so much sooner. I shouldn’t have let him have that much power over me. I should-“

“And by that logic, I should have stood up to my brother. If I’d done that when things first started going bad, it would have avoided a whole lot of unpleasantness. Wouldn’t it?”

“But that’s different!” I protest. “You were so young, and with everything else that happened, who could possibly expect…?”

“You weren’t that old yourself,” she breaks in gently. “And you were at a vulnerable time. He took advantage of that. Of you. He isolated you from anyone and everyone who might have been able to help you. He intimidated you. Convinced you that no one would be able to help you - would *want* to help you - even if you did tell someone. And, worse than that, he made you feel… complicit. Like it was something you did together, not something he was doing *to* you. Like you were to blame. Didn’t he?”

I nod wordlessly, unable to speak if my life depended on it.

Complicit.

Yes. Yes, that’s exactly how he made me feel.

“But that wasn’t true. It wasn’t and it isn’t.” Her voice starts to rise, growing more passionate, more *fervent* as she continues. “*None* of it was your fault. It was his; it was all on him. Every last bit of it.”

“But if I’d been stronger,” I argue, unable to help myself even though I want nothing more than to agree with her. “He wouldn’t have been able to-”

“It’s not about strength,” she says. “Listen to me: you were vulnerable, and he exploited that. He’s a sociopath. A predator.” A grimace crosses her face. “No,” she corrects herself. “A scavenger. A coward. A grade-A *arsehole*. And you have absolutely nothing on earth to be ashamed of.”

She looks at me expectantly, like she wants me to say something. To agree with her. To believe what she’s saying. And I…

I *want* to. And I guess I’ve been trying to tell myself the same thing. And… And…

But before I say *anything*, there’s a question burning through me; a question I absolutely have to ask her.

“Do you…” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. “Do you think badly of me?”

Daenerys stares at me like she’s never seen me before.

“What?” she asks, after what feels like forever. “Do you really…? Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Of course I’ve been listening,” I hasten to reassure her. “I just wanted… I wanted to make sure, that’s all.”

Half-closing her eyes for a moment, she mutters something incomprehensible but frustrated-sounding under her breath, then fixes me with a gaze that feels like it could pierce solid rock.

“Let’s try this again,” she says, in a much more level and patient tone than I was expecting. “No, I don’t think badly of you. I think badly of that little shitstain for what he did you, and I really wish you *had* set your brothers on him, but of you I think only good things. If anything, you’ve risen in my estimation for not only enduring that, but not letting it twist you or harden your heart. Not like-“ She cuts herself off so sharply, I wonder if she literally bites her tongue, but she doesn’t give me the chance to question the abrupt change of direction. “You’re so kind and caring and gentle,” she continues. “And don’t ever think that’s a weakness, because it isn’t. It *isn’t*. In a world like this, it’s nothing short of miraculous.”

She shakes her head, the motion sudden and jerky, but she doesn’t pull her eyes away. And I… I’m pinned by the weight of her stare, unable to move or speak or even *breathe*, or so it seems, as she leans in closer, so close I almost fancy I can feel her breath on my lips.

“You’re amazing, Sansa Stark. And don’t you dare let anyone tell you any different. Especially not yourself.”

There’s a moment, or an eternity, when it feels like the world holds its breath. When anything, absolutely anything could happen.

But then the world shifts on its axis, the stars move out of alignment, and the moment is past. Daenerys draws back a little way, breaking our locked gazes, breaking whatever spell it is that had me in its grip, and everything returns to something approximating normal.

(Normal, but my face is flushed and my heart is pounding like I’ve just run a marathon.)

(Normal, but it feels like something momentous, something huge and paradigm-changing *almost* happened, but didn’t. And I can’t for the life of me think what that might be.)

(Normal, but it feels like I don’t even know what that is any more.)

I feel like I should say something, but I don’t know what.

“Thank you,” I try, and that feels sort of right (and sort of not), so I make myself continue. “Thank you for listening. For being here for me.”

I find myself with a genuine smile upon my lips, suddenly feeling about a thousand stone lighter for having told someone the secret I’ve been carrying out all this time. I never even realised how much it was weighing me down. Because it’s one thing to tell myself I wasn’t to blame, that I didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s something else entirely to hear someone else say it.

And I’d take *her* word over his any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

After a moment, Daenerys smiles back.

“You’re welcome,” she says softly. “But you really don’t need to thank me. It’s just what friends do, after all. It’s what you’ve done for me. Why would I do any less?”

I don’t know if I have an answer to that, but I don’t know that she needs one. In any case, she’s moving, suddenly, uncurling her arm from around my shoulders, disentangling our fingers. It takes me a moment to realise what’s happening (to push away the inexplicable feeling of loss that wells up inside me), but then I try to help. As soon as we’re no longer in contact, I’m suddenly aware of the myriad aches and pains and cramps that I hadn’t even registered until this moment. I flex my fingers carefully, trying not to wince. Daenerys clambers to her feet, her movements lacking some of their usual fluidity.

I idly wonder how long we’ve spent curled up together on the sofa, sharing secrets.

(I wonder if we’ll ever do this again.)

“Anyway,” she says firmly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in serious need of a stretch. And I’m utterly parched. Do you fancy a drink?”

I consider for a moment, then nod.

“I’ll make them,” I offer, getting somewhat stiffly to my own feet.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll get us some snacks.” She hesitates for a moment, and then adds, diffidently. “Maybe when we’re settled, I can tell you what happened with Drogo and Viserys. If you want. If that’s alright.”

“Of course.” I start to say I’d be glad to hear it, but then change my mind. It doesn’t exactly seem appropriate, somehow. Instead, I change it to: “It sounds like a plan.” We look at each other for a moment, and then I give myself a mental shake. “So, what kind of coffee would you like?”

*  *  *  *  *

A short while - and a much-needed bathroom break - later, we’re ensconced on the sofa again, me with my caramel latte and Daenerys with her gingerbread-half-caramel-cinammon-latte with a drizzle of toffee nut syrup and a dusting of chocolate powder. I’m actually feeling pretty pleased with myself about those drinks. This time, I managed to take the milk off the heat at exactly the right moment, and my froth came out perfectly. Well, I’m sure it’s not perfect, per se - there’s always room for improvement, after all - but I think it came out as well as can be expected. It’s definitely a perfectly respectable attempt.

A tray of miscellaneous snacks rests between us on the sofa (like a barricade), its contents thoroughly plundered. Not that I was really hungry, but they definitely hit the spot. (I hope Daenerys doesn’t think I’m a greedy pig. Not that I think she really would. Anyway, I wasn’t the only one scoffing them down. Not that she ever scoffs anything, of course.) By mutual, unspoken agreement, we’ve been keeping our conversation to lighter subjects as we prepared and devoured refreshments, but in the silence that now settles over us, I find my thoughts turning back to weightier matters. From the look on her face, Daenerys’ thoughts are drifting in the same direction.

I think about prompting her, but decide against it. I don’t want her to feel like I’m pushing her. Besides, I have the feeling that the silence isn’t going to last much longer. Sure enough, she soon draws breath to speak.

“Shall I continue?” she asks, her tone utterly neutral.

“Only if you want to,” I say gently.

She seems to think for a moment, and then nods.

“I do.”

Her movements smooth and measured, she takes a sip of her drink. With a small flare of professional pride, I note that she isn’t gulping this one down, but actually seems to be savouring each mouthful. I resist the urge to preen a little. (I wouldn’t want to start getting a swelled head. Self-esteem is one thing, but arrogance is another thing altogether.)

“Alright,” she says. “Where was I?”

You said no to Drogo, is what goes through my mind. But what I say out loud is:

“The bikers defended you from your brother, and things were going better with Drogo.”

“That’s right,” she says, nodding. “So, as I think I said, Drogo let Viserys stay in the Bloodriders, mainly because I asked him to. I still half-thought that Viserys might just walk away - his pride had been hurt, after all - but he didn’t. He did keep his distance from me for a while, though, and I didn’t exactly chase after him.” Her lips curve in a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think that surprised him. Before, whenever he’d pulled away from me - which he did from time to time - I’d practically fallen over myself trying to persuade him to stay. Not to abandon me. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I needed him.”

I want to take her hand again, to provide silent comfort with a touch, but there’s that space between us now. It’s not like the gap is too far to bridge, or like the tray is really that much of an obstacle, but the idea reaching over it feels… bigger, somehow; more deliberate than simply letting my hand brush hers.

Suddenly, I feel horribly self-conscious even just thinking about this, so I (try to) push the thoughts away.

(Maybe I should clear the tray away and just see what happens. Maybe. But not right now.)

“What happened then?” I ask.

“Drogo and I spent some time actually getting to know each other. And it was like… It felt like we were starting over again. It wasn’t just Drogo, either, it was the rest of the Bloodriders. For the first time, I was seeing them as they were, not clouded by my preconceptions.”

She twitches one shoulder in a lopsided shrug, giving me a rueful smile.

“Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying they’re really saints under all the studs and tattoos and leather. They are a biker gang, after all, and their reputation wasn’t exactly unearned.” The smile fades into a thoughtful expression. “But they’re fiercely loyal, and they look out for their own. And the thing I realised then was that they saw *me* as one of their own. For the first time, I actually started to feel like I belonged there, with them. That I wasn’t just being tolerated because of my brother.”

I can see how that would be attractive to someone who’d felt so alone for years. Heck, I imagine it would be downright euphoric.

Actually, I don’t have to imagine. I know firsthand what it’s like to suddenly have friends after spending so long without any; after spending so long believing you’ll always, always be alone. (That maybe solitude is the best you can ever hope for, because the alternative can be so much worse.)

“It sounds like they were only tolerating him because of you,” I murmur, because I feel like I should say something.

“I suppose so,” she says.

She looks down at her drink as if she’s searching for enlightenment in its depths, as if somehow the mug she’s cradling contains the wisdom of the ages. Whatever she’s seeking, she doesn’t seem to find it, shifting restlessly in place before lifting her gaze to mine. Something in me twists at the look in her eyes, so raw and open. I feel almost uncomfortable seeing her look so… exposed, like merely witnessing it is breaking some great taboo. Like I’m profaning something holy.

Or…

Or like I’m privileged beyond compare to be honoured like this.

In either event, I can’t look away.

“I fell in love with him,” she tells me, and even though I knew that already, the words hit me like a punch to the gut, like a slap in the face, like the force of them should rock me back on my heels. Maybe they would, if I was standing up. “I fell so hard, so completely, that it was like I couldn’t even remember what my world was like without him in it. He *was* my world. He was my sun and stars.”

‘True love,’ whispers one voice from the shadowed recesses of my mind.

‘Stockholm syndrome,’ whispers another.

I shush them both.

“And when we made love…” Her breath catches in her throat; half-laugh, half-sob. “I finally understood what all the fuss was about. That it didn’t have to hurt. That it could feel… wonderful.”

“Oh, Daenerys,” I breathe. My eyes start to fill with tears.

In a flurry of motion, she suddenly moves the tray aside and shifts closer to me, resting her hand on mine. (I’m so relieved that the decision’s been taken out of my hands. No pun intended.)

“It’s alright,” she says, like somehow *I’m* the one in need of comfort. “It was a long time ago. I’m alright now.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, and somehow, without my conscious intention, my hand turns in hers and grips it tightly. “I just wish you’d never had to go through that in the first place.”

She returns my grip, giving me a small smile even though her eyes look suspiciously shiny.

“Well, I wish you’d never met that little weasel who treated you so badly,” she says wryly, startling a laugh out of me. “So I guess that makes us even.”

“I suppose it does,” I say lightly.

She squeezes my hand again.

“Anyway,” she says. “Things were going pretty well, and I was happier than I’d been in a while. The only fly in the ointment - aside from Viserys’ perpetual sulk, that is - was that I started feeling a little off.”

“Off?” I repeat. “Off how?”

My mind is suddenly filled with thoughts of poison. Some kind of revenge plot by this erstwhile brother of hers; something grand and gothic and utterly mad. But in the next moment I realise I’m being utterly ridiculous, because things like that just don’t happen in real life. Do they?

Daenerys has a strange little smile on her face, one I can’t decipher.

“Off like feeling bloated and heavy. Like feeling sick.” She fixes me with a piercing gaze, and I feel an overwhelming rush of deja vu, like we’ve had this conversation before. All of a sudden, I know with absolute certainty exactly what she’s going to say.

“Like being pregnant,” she breathes.

She looks like she’s waiting for my reaction, but I’m too busy processing her revelation to even think of speaking.

Pregnant. At, what? Fifteen? Sixteen? I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. What did her parents, no, her grandparents say? What did *Drogo* say? Did… Did she keep it? Does she have a son or daughter at home with one or the other set of grandparents? Is she a *mother*?

But she’s still waiting for me to say something, so I try to gather up my scattered wits and think of something coherent.

“Didn’t you use protection?” I blurt out, which, with hindsight, probably wasn’t the best or most tactful thing to say. But the words are out there now, and she doesn’t *seem* to be horribly offended or anything. I resist the urge to try to take my question back.

“Mostly,” she says, looking a little… It takes me a moment to recognise the expression, because it isn’t one I’m used to seeing on her face, but she looks a little embarrassed. “Not always. It didn’t occur to me to insist, and Drogo had apparently assumed I was on the pill.” She gives a tiny shrug; the slightest lift and fall of her shoulders. “I was… pretty naive back then. I didn’t even realise what was happening to me. And I likely would have remained in blissful ignorance up until the moment I actually gave birth.”

“Surely someone would have noticed?” I can’t help blurting out. “I mean, being pregnant isn’t exactly something you can hide. There are some pretty obvious signs.”

Although, even as I say that, I can’t help remembering that girl in my year at school. Dawn was her name; Dawn Grayson. One day, not long before our final exams, she just disappeared. And then the rumours started. Apparently, she’d given birth. To twins, no less. And no one had the first clue until her waters broke. I know the school gossip mill can be like Chinese whispers, but I saw the proof with my own eyes. Marion Barker, Dawn’s best friend - although even she had apparently been just as clueless as the rest of us - managed to get in to see her, and she sneaked a photo of Dawn with her baby girls before Dawn’s parents kicked her out. So it definitely happened. According to Marion, Dawn had wanted to finish her GCSEs before telling anyone about her condition, but biology pre-empted her.

I wonder if she ever managed to take her exams. She just kind of… disappeared. And then, I guess, so did I.

“Someone did notice,” Daenerys says wryly. “My grandmaman.”

“So, what happened then?”

I try to keep my voice calm and supportive, not to show any sign of my burning curiosity, my overwhelming need to *know*. How did Drogo react? Did Daenerys have a child? Did she keep it? Give it up for adoption? Is she really a mother? Or did she… take steps?

She sighs. “First of all, there was a visit to the doctor. Then… all hell broke loose.” I lean in a little, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. She flashes me a quick smile. “My grandparents - both sets - wanted to know how it happened; who was responsible. There was… a certain amount of blame flying round.” I draw breath to ask a question, but she answers it before I can even speak the words. “Not at me,” she says hurriedly. “My mother’s parents blamed my father’s parents for not keeping a closer eye on me. My father’s parents blamed Viserys for letting someone ‘take advantage’. *I* was assumed to be blameless in all of this.”

She snorts as if the idea of that is utterly ridiculous. I have to bite my lip to stop myself retorting that she *was* blameless. That it was all Drogo’s fault.

“What happened with Drogo?” I have to ask. “Did you tell him? Did you tell your grandparents who the father was? Did Viserys say anything?”

“I didn’t tell my grandparents anything, and neither did Viserys.” She grimaces. “Well, he told them I was a slut, and asked how he was supposed to stop me giving it up to anyone who so much as looked at me twice, but honestly that was less than helpful.”

“Did they believe him?” I ask, struggling with a sudden flare of unexpected and uncharacteristic white-hot fury. How *dare* Viserys say such a thing! Especially when he was the one who’d *traded* her to Drogo like some kind of… of chattel.

If he was here right now, I swear I could not be held responsible for my actions.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says. “But they assumed he must know something, so since I was staying silent, they focused their attention on him. As for me…” She sighs. “They’d been keeping me in lockdown: not allowed to leave the house without one of my grandparents by my side, phone confiscated, no e-mail or internet. They didn’t want me getting in contact with ‘the father’ on my own. But that was the thing I wanted most in all the world!”

“I can understand why they didn’t want that, though,” I murmur, carefully *not* saying that maybe it was for the best.

“So can I, *now*,” she says ruefully. “But at the time… Let’s just say that I wasn’t exactly at my calmest or most rational. I was worried… Worried that Drogo would get in trouble, worried he wouldn’t want to see me again, worried about the baby… Although, honestly, I still hadn’t really wrapped my head around the fact that I was carrying a child inside me. It just didn’t seem quite real. But I knew I had to talk to Drogo. I needed to find out once and for all what he thought, what he wanted to do. Then I could decide… Then I could figure out what I wanted.”

“You went to see him, didn’t you?” I ask the question, even though I’m already certain of the answer. Sure enough, she nods.

“I said I was going to bed, then I sneaked out of my window.”

“Wasn’t that dangerous? You could have fallen. And, I mean, the baby…”

“It wasn’t that dangerous. I was hardly even showing; certainly not enough to hinder my movements. The climb was a pretty easy one, and I’ve always been nimble. So I got outside and I went to find Drogo.” She half-shrugs. “I’ll spare you the details of my frantic haring about all over town. The important thing is that I found him, and we talked.” A slow smile spreads over her face; bright and happy and almost awed. “He was over the moon. He thought… He said it was wonderful. A blessing. And he proposed to me, right then and there.”

“He asked you to marry him?” I cringe a little at the blatant disbelief in my tone - I had honestly been expecting a much less… gallant… response on his part - but Daenerys just shoots me an amused look.

“That is generally what proposing to someone involves, yes,” she observes dryly.

I blush.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“That’s alright,” she says, squeezing my hand reassuringly. “Honestly, it wasn’t what I was expecting either. I didn’t know what to expect. But as soon as he asked me, I knew it was everything I could possibly hope for. I said yes, of course.”

‘Of course,’ she says, like it’s really that obvious. Once again, it hits me: I don’t know this other Daenerys - this younger, more naive, more timid version - at all.

“What did your grandparents say?”

I can’t imagine either set would be too pleased about their little Daenerys marrying the leader of a ‘fearsome’ biker gang. Although maybe they would’ve thought that preferable to her being pregnant *and* unwed. Honestly, it could have gone either way.

“We, ah, decided it was better to ask forgiveness than permission and sort of, well, eloped.”

It feels like my eyebrows shoot up almost to my hairline.

Daenerys was *married*? That’s almost as big a shock as finding out that she was once pregnant (that she could be a mother). Daenerys Targaryen, pregnant teenage bride.

Does. Not. Compute.

But she talked about her boyfriend before. Her *boyfriend’s* biker gang. Not her *husband’s*. I would have remembered *that*. But… maybe that was the point. I guess boyfriend raises far less questions than husband.

Far, far less.

“I bet that went down well,” I say belatedly, since she seems to be waiting for a response of some kind.

“Not precisely, no,” she says ruefully. “But by that point it was a fait accompli. There was nothing my grandparents could do. Technically they could try to get the marriage annulled, but we managed to persuade them not to.”

“That must have taken some persuading,” I murmur.

I shudder inside at the thought of my mum’s reaction if I did something like that. Not that I would, of course, but just thinking about it is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.

“It did, rather,” she says wryly. “A lot of it from Drogo, in point of fact. We must have talked for hours on end. But eventually, and after a fair number of concessions, they… didn’t exactly welcome their new son in law with open arms, but they seemed to accept that we were determined to raise our child together, with or without their blessing. When it came down to it, they decided they’d rather give their blessing - however grudging - and have us in their lives.” She grins suddenly. “I knew we’d reached a turning point when they started arguing about where we were going to live. After that, the rest was just detail.”

“Quite a lot of detail, though,” I note. There must have been so many arrangements to make. And what would they do for money?

“I suppose so,” she says, her gaze turning distant. “I don’t really remember that part of it. I just remember feeling like this was it; this was my happy ever after.” Her smile this time is tinged with sadness. “You see, I used to believe in fairytales too.”

With a sudden, brusque motion, she brings her mug to her lips, draining the rest of the coffee - only the dregs by this point, surely - in a single swallow. It looks to me like she’s wishing it was something stronger than coffee and syrup.

“I should have known better,” she says, and there’s something so bleak about the way she says those words that I find myself shifting closer to her, trying to comfort with closeness.

“Drogo got a job in my grandparents’ restaurant,” she says, and the incongruity of the mental image that inspires - a big scary biker guy chopping vegetables! - makes me stare at her goggle-eyed as she continues. “Some members of his gang weren’t exactly too happy about that. They thought…” She purses her lips. “Well, let’s just say they expressed some rather forthright and uncomplimentary opinions, largely about me.”

“I can imagine.”

Yes, I can see that some of the Bloodriders wouldn’t take well to the idea of their big bad leader turning respectable. And, naturally, they’d blame Daenerys. Because men are such emotionally fragile creatures, incapable of resisting a woman’s wiles. And how dare the underage, innocent girl get pregnant from a sexual relationship she never wanted in the first place? Did he even stand up for his *wife*? Did he defend her against his so-called friends and their undoubtedly vile name-calling?

Suddenly, I realise I’m squeezing Daenerys’ hand like she’s in danger of slipping away. Horrified - and horribly embarrassed - at my lack of control, I forcibly make myself relax my grip.

Calm. I need to be calm.

I really hope she didn’t notice my lapse.

“It’s alright, Sansa,” she tells me, like she thinks I need reassuring. “It was just words. Honestly, I’d heard worse from my darling brother. And anyway, Drogo was there to defend me.”

“Good,” I say firmly, only just managing to stop the word sounding like it emerges through gritted teeth. (Which, if I’m honest, it kind of does.)

“He broke up the Bloodriders over it,” she says. “He said anyone who couldn’t accept the new situation could just leave, and a lot of them did. Some joined other gangs, some started gangs of their own. Honestly, I didn’t really keep track of them after that. I was more interested in the ones that stayed.” A small smile curves her lips. “They were our true friends.”

“Do you see much of them these days?” I remember she said they were in town a few weeks ago…

“Not as much as I’d like,” she says with a sigh. “I usually see them when I’m over in France visiting my grandparents, and occasionally they come over here, but life has gotten in the way a little.”

“It has a habit of doing that,” I observe softly.

She inclines her head in agreement.

“Just so.” She sighs again, deeper this time, her eyes suddenly full of shadows. I know even before she speaks that she’s reached the final act of her story: the part where she loses the love of her life.

This is, after all, a tragedy.

“For the first time since my parents died, it felt like my life was going somewhere good.” She tears her gaze away from mine, as if she can’t bear to look at me. Or as if she doesn’t want me to see the pain in her eyes. “Naturally, that’s when everything started to fall apart…”