Written for Femslash February. I will confess straight up that my knowledge of this fandom comes from having read the book years and years ago and from following a lot of fannish-type tumblr blogs. The books are on my to re-read list but until that's finished I apologize for any canonical errors I may have made. This is unbetaed and was written quickly, so any technical writing errors are 100% my fault.

A Song of Ice and Fire and all characters therein are the property of George R. R. Martin. No profit is being made from this work save the pleasure it brings me to write it and see hits accumulate.


You are Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Queen of Westros. She is Sansa Stark, Daughter of Wolves, Lady in Waiting. You are engaged to Joffrey Baratheon, while she awaits her wedding to Harrold Hardyng with timid anticipation. She still finds King's Landing beautiful and poetic, and you have never seen anything but the seething cesspool of politics beneath the polished exterior. Her hair is as dark as yours is fair, and her eyes just as vivid in color. You are of a height, for all that she is two years younger, and when she laughs you see all that you could have been in her expression.

You bed her for the first time the night you are crowned. It's been a hellish week, starting with Viserys' accident and finishing, at last, with the seemingly endless ceremony that ended with you sitting atop the Iron Throne, crown on your head and country at your feet. She's still new to the city, fresh from a childhood listening to songs and an adolescence learning to live up to them. Her accent betrays her origins, but her sweetness forgives them and you're not the only one to notice her looks. She wears her beauty carelessly, putting it on display without a single thought for how it could be used against people. Her innocence charms you and you snatch her up before anyone can rip it from her.

Your first time together is short and hard. You drag your nails up her back, excising the stress of the week, and she meekly submits to your desires. Later she will confess that your touch burns and you will remind her that you have the blood of the dragons flowing through your veins. She will duck her head to hide a smile.

You did not intend for there to be a repeat event, but the smell of her perfume is as intoxicating as the flashes of steel she sometimes cannot quite conceal beneath her exterior of finest silk. You coax her back into your bed, promise that she can set the tempo, put yourself under her command. It doesn't work as well as you'd hoped, because she is still dazzled by your crown and refuses to play her part. Eventually the awe will wear away and Sansa Stark will prove that she deserves her ties to the wild.

During the day she becomes your shadow, sitting in on audiences and serving you at dinners. You teach her to play politics and at night she whispers her impressions to you under the covers. Her observations become astute, honed to as keen an edge as yours with time and practice, and among members of the court it is whispered that she holds as much influence as a King. You give her a knife and tell her to use it if necessary; she is no longer so naïve as to ask what you mean by that. She is a Stark, and winter has come.