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When Daenerys first met Sansa all those years ago in Dragonstone, as sent by the King of the North as a trusted envoy, she never could have guessed that the woman whose words warned of winter would have an array of freckles scattered across her upper back. Of course, she’d since learned of Sansa’s time spent under Cersei’s strong hand in King’s Landing, where the summer sun stopped for no one. And now, during the first morning of peace Daenerys has ever known in her life, where she is not hunted down for simply being born, or watching her back constantly for fear of enemies sneaking up behind it, she traces the familiar spots on Sansa’s naked shoulders with a featherlight touch.
The war is over; it’s won. Yesterday, Daenerys took her place on a throne created for her ancestors. Today, she sleeps. Or at least, she tried to. She had woken up before the sun had reached its highest point in the sky, a routine she blames past early morning war councils for.
Sansa shifts in her sleep, rolling until she lies facing Daenerys, and takes a deep breath in. As she lets it out, her body slowly settles into the sheets once again. Daenerys smiles to herself, wondering what tremendous act of kindness she ever could have possibly done in this life to deserve such a beautiful sight in her bed. She has done so much she wishes she hadn’t, taken so many lives, made so many hate her so, yet Sansa still loves her all the same. She lifts her hand to trace up Sansa’s cheek and down to her collarbone, moving in closer to lay an open mouthed kiss underneath her jaw. Sansa stirs, her eyelashes fluttering as they let in the harsh light of the morning. Upon seeing Daenerys kissing her way down her torso, she lets out a soft chuckle.
“Couldn’t wait for me to wake up on my own?” Sansa teases.
Daenerys lifts her face from her spot by Sansa’s breast and lifts an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was doing something for you. But if you wish me to stop...” She starts to move to the other side of the bed, but Sansa grabs her by the wrist before she can get very far.
Sansa brings Daenerys in by the chin until she is but a mere breath away. Her stare flickers from up into Daenerys’s questioning eyes, to down to her mouth, to back up again. She swipes her tongue out and across Daenerys’s lower lip. “Kiss me, my queen?”
“As my queen commands,” Daenerys sighs, connecting their mouths. She reaches her left hand into the shorter hairs at the base of Sansa’s neck, fingers stroking in time with the movement of their lips. Her legs move practically of their own accord as she positions herself on Sansa’s lap, her knees resting on either side of milky white thighs. Daenerys’s right hand successfully finds its way to one of Sansa’s breasts. She hums in satisfaction. When Sansa suddenly shifts so that they are both upright, Daenerys’s breath hitches in surprise.
Sansa moves her own hand down Daenerys’s back, but before she can reach the supple form of her lover’s bottom, Daenerys withdraws from the kiss. She recognizes the conflicted look in Daenerys’s eyes, and asks, “What has you distracted?”
Daenerys smiles sheepishly. “The day we met. I was thinking about it before you woke.”
“You mean, before you woke me?” Sansa’s eyes twinkle in a way that seems to only happen when Daenerys is around.
Daenerys rolls her eyes, and falls back onto the bed. “Jon could have sent anybody to see me. He could have even gone himself.”
Sansa nods. “He thought at first that a King might have a better chance at convincing you to ally yourself with us, even though I am the one who is smarter with politics.”
“Yes, and eventually he realized that sending you would be best,” Daenerys agrees. Her smile seems nostalgic for a moment, but it loses its sincerity as her thoughts roll on. “And still, I can't help thinking that if I hadn't met you then, that we never would have fallen in love, and I never would have had this.”
“Sometimes...” Sansa starts. She looks away, biting her lip. “Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m stuck in a wonderful dream. And that someday I’ll wake up, and I’ll be lying next to a man I could never possibly be happy with, and I’d never be able to see your face again.”
Daenerys takes Sansa’s fingers in her own. She watches her lover’s face carefully as she says, “Those men. The ones that hurt you, who wished harm upon you. They're dead. And if anybody dares to try to treat you like that again, they'll be dead too. You are my queen, Sansa.” Daenerys pauses and squeezes Sansa’s hand to make sure that she is truly listening. She needs Sansa to recognize the weight behind her next words. “I’ll never let anybody hurt you as long as I can help it.”
Sansa turns to face Daenerys once again. Her eyes shine with forming tears, but her voice doesn't waver when she speaks. “Queens. We’re queens. We actually made it.”
“Yes,” Daenerys says, allowing herself to smile through tight lips. “We actually made it.”
They kiss again, and a few tears escape Sansa’s eyes when they shut. They made it. They’re alive. They’re queens. And there's only better times left to come.