Work Text:
In and out the needle goes under Sansa’s deft hand, a silver needle embroidering white cloth with black thread, later with red. Then her dragons, a grey so dark it’s almost black, and a hint of red again for the flared wings. Later, Drogon will spew a flame of precious gold thread but Sansa intends to leave that for last. Dragon fire is her favorite thing to embroider and signifies that her work is done.
Soon, grey thread takes the prominent place of red and black and paints a direwolf onto the delicate, lace-trimmed cloth. It is bringing death on the ground while her lady wife’s dragons fight in the sky, as it should be.
Sansa smiles as her work takes shape, each stab of the needle a kiss and a promise.
As a girl, Sansa had known she would marry a prince on a fiery steed – a prince of legends, like the ones in the songs.
Life had since taught her wrong – and then it had taught her wrong again. Turned out the girl she had been knew nothing about fiery steeds.
Now her needle tirelessly pierces cloth until it is time to unroll the precious gold thread and let Drogon spew fire.
Sansa smiles. She blinks away her tiredness, stifles her yawn, and keeps going. Hours squirreled away for embroidery are rare and must be well-spent.
She will rule and Daenerys will wage war and one day, she won’t have to send her kisses with a needle anymore.