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Chapter Text

Chapter One

The rocking of the ship did not bother Sansa as much as her dreams did. She feared the silence before sleep, the whispers in her mind reminding her that she was unwanted by her family. That she was not worth even the query of a bargain for. That they would do nothing to save her. She saw Robb, telling her that she was a woman and could not wield a sword so was useless to his war; she saw her mother, saying she had been corrupted by the Lannisters and was not the lady she'd once hoped for. She saw her father, saying she deserved it for being the cause of his death. She saw Robb and Jon both--and Robb looked to her, saying that Jon was a bastard but at least he had never sold them out to the Lannisters.

The freedom did not yet touch her. It would not, until the ship docked. Not until then would she believe that this was anything more than a trap.

The letter was the death of all hope.

Joffrey had been snatched from her, but that had been almost a relief. The Tyrells had sent many ravens over the past months and due to some finagling by the Lannisters, Lady Margaery had been promised to Joffrey, taking Sansa's place. An enormous dowry, a very nice military alliance, and a name untainted by the traitorous blood of the Starks.

The news had been circulated that she was to wed Tyrion Lannister by order of his father Lord Tywin Lannister, and swiftly afterwards a raven had come bearing the mark of Robb Stark. It declared Sansa as out of the line of succession as Queen in the North or the future Warden of the North, etc. It also noted that many other ravens had been sent throughout the North and that Lady Sansa would find no welcome there, after her connection with the Lannisters. That she was no longer a Stark.

The Spider's little birds confirmed as much--and eventually, through Tyrion, she was told of its contents.

"It doesn't mean he doesn't love you, my lady," he said, trying to comfort her as best he could. He could see tears in her eyes threatening to fall; he could see her world collapsing further, "He likely felt he had to do this to protect the North from--me."

She just nodded mutely.

Speak not unless spoken to became her mantra. She spent her days avoiding Joffrey and Cersei, though at times she would be called to be beaten by Meryn Trant for some perceived slight or the other in regards to her brother's victories. It would not matter, Joffrey kept saying to her. She was nobody now, and who cared if the King had a smallfolk woman shown her place?

Whatever he demanded, she replied as he wanted. Whatever sins he thought she committed, she confessed to. The pain from the beatings soon ceased to render cries from her at all. But there was one advantage that followed that, at least. Eventually Joffrey grew bored of having "a statue" beaten and she was left to her own devices, absorbed into Tyrion's household. She had begun stitching his tunics for "something to do" and would sit in silence for hours doing either that or embroidery.

"She wilts," Shae would said to Tyrion after watching Sansa at this for the third day in a row, "Is there nothing to be done for her?"

"After that letter her brother sent, nothing--unless I can send her to Essos somehow. Lys, Volantis, Braavos, perhaps," he had replied, listing off the cities and then going on with, "I can't even smuggle her out of the city gates, let alone out the docks."

"It would be easy." Shae finished her work below his waist, and then look up to his eyes, "But you would need help. Is there anyone you would trust to do so?"

"Clegane," Tyrion huffed at the idea, saying it jokingly at first. But then he recalled the way Sandor defended the "little bird"...and then he thought of the use of wildfire planned for Stannis's attack. "And you, of course."

Shae had gone silent at that, silent for a long while. Even when she bounced on his cock later, there would be no words.

But in the morning, he would have a proposal to make and she would have to agree to it.

Sansa had only been informed of the plan one evening when Lord Varys came to visit Tyrion some days later, and she was asked to stay. They gave her instructions, made her repeat them so she would remember, and made her promise to follow them. She obeyed without a second thought. If this plan worked, perhaps there would be somewhere out there she could look forward to the morning in again. If it was a trap--there was very little she could suffer that hadn't already been done to her. Or that hadn't been threatened to her...the way Joffrey still looked at her gave dark hints to that.

If she was caught, perhaps they would kill her, or one of the soldiers would. If she stayed--she was no use to Stannis, nameless and friendless as she was. They had pounded that into her head very well. She would likely be serving as Lady Shireen's companion, or something of that nature. She had the blood, but it no longer meant anything. Not after the letter.

Tyrion told her that two people would be leaving with her, and she would see them the night of the battle. She had merely agreed.

There was no enthusiasm; at least not outwardly. If the plan came to naught, if they were caught, if they were killed...

Sansa's eyes opened suddenly, and she realized that the ship had come to a stop. The events of the past weeks stopped playing through her mind, and when the door to the cabin opened she saw the hulking form of Sandor Clegane walk through.

"We've arrived, little bird," he said. "It's cold out, so put on that warm cloak we brought along."

"Wh...where are we going to stay?"

They had money, she knew that much at least. Jewels, too, and they were as good as money. That had been part of the arrangement; a robbery had been staged during the battle. She didn't ask how much had been stolen...but some of her gowns had been packed away in a trunk and wrapped securely around the bulk of them. She had been given a bag of diamonds, which was carefully wrapped into her smallclothes. The Hound had insisted on that--said it wasn't safe for her to carry a jingling bag openly, even in Braavos.

The shock when she stepped off the ship and onto the stone, with the smell of fish and seawater around, hit her hard, and for a moment she stood trembling in place. Homesickness and anger and sorrow and all the lot of emotions together were wrapped together. She was unwanted, she was free, she was no one, she was anyone.

But that also meant they had to figure out where to live, where to get food, to...

"Best inns are down in the Purple Harbor," the Captain, coming up beside the Hound, said, "The Moon Pool has good lodgings as well, but I don't recommend you go there. Men wearing swords are free to be challenged by the more combat inclined Braavosi."

"Expensive?"

"Of course. But safer for young women and their husbands who'd prefer other men not touch what's theirs." Directions were given, and the trunk, handily wrapped in a netlike rope, was slung over the Hound's shoulder.

"Right. Thanks. Let's go, little bird."

"We should move quickly," came Shae's voice, "Keep your hood up and your head down."

Sansa only nodded. It was far too soon for excitement, but there was a strange lightening feeling. Joffrey, Cersei, Meryn Trant, they were all far, far away. And whatever followed this, she would i all likelihood never see them again.

*Shae*

Leaving Tyrion had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do. She hadn't wanted to, even knowing what his father had told him about the next whore found in his bed. But then--with a dead look in his eyes--he had told her of his first wife, and said that he would rather have a broken heart than see her abused in such a way. He said he would rather see her free and happy than all but enslaved to a pack of his father's guards.

He had said it with such earnestness that she could not but savor the bittersweet sense of love that poured out from him. He loved her, this littlest of Lions. He loved her so much that he would part from her to save her.

And, he said, he would no doubt be forced to marry some other unfortunate maiden, and he would not make her a servant to his wife and display before her what she could never have. He would not have her come second to a woman he cared nothing for.

The journey on the ship took too long for her liking, and the air of Braavos, however rank, was a welcome change from the stink of sweat and wine and ale from the sailors. She was able to persuade one of the sailors to carry along her trunk until they reached their inn of choice...and then, to a lesser degree than she could see Sansa had felt, the shock of it all settled on her.

But she was not one to wallow in that feeling of extreme change, she never had been. She always kept moving; she never looked back if she could help it.

Once they were settled into the room they'd paid for, she sent for a meal to be brought up to the room, and sat facing Sansa. The Hound stood near them, looking as irritated and upset as always.

"What kind of skills do you have, Sansa?"

The poor girl! She looked so lost, so completely desolate. But she did manage to respond, in a soft, low tone, "Sewing and embroidering. I...mother said I always had a lovely voice, too, so I...I suppose I could sing."

"And I," Shae replied, "I have my own talents. We will do well, the three of us."

"You've got a plan, then, besides hurling pretty jewels at whoever has something we want?"

"Of course." Shae looked at the Hound, nodding. He was there to be muscle, she thought, and because Tyrion seemed certain that he would get himself killed for his mouth sooner or later. He had frightened Sansa, but it was clear that he had no intention of harming her. She and he had spoken little together; there was nevertheless an understand between them, an agreement on the safety of their young friend.

Shae, Sandor, and Sansa, with no great house names to aid them any longer.

Or to hinder.

Chapter Text

Shae

They paid for a fortnight's stay, which would give them time to figure out their long-term goals, or at least what they would do in the next year. Time to craft a story of who they were, and so forth.

"We should have saved that sum for necessities," Sandor groused, looking over the fine meal they'd been brought. "We're going to need new clothes so the two of you don't look like ladies."

"We paid less than you think," Shae said with a wry little smile. "No one gets a fortune from me unless they deserve it. Now, I have a job for you."

"Not a good idea to just send me out, you know. Suppose that cunt Joffrey sent someone out after us?"

"We will be safe enough," Shae replied, "No one came for us in the night. We can spare you for a little while."

"Fine. What do you need done?"

Shae handed him two of the necklaces they had liberated from the Red Keep. "Go and get yourself some new clothes, maybe some different armor. Sansa and I are fine with what we have for now, but you should find something else. You are the Hound in our hearts, but you cannot keep wearing the suit that they know."

"Are you a fool? Simply selling the armor would be enough."

He grumbled, but left--and Shae, shaking her head, turned back to Sansa.

"You wanted him gone, didn't you? So we could talk." Sansa's voice was soft, but less broken than the night before, and the fright seemed to have gone from her eyes as well.

"Yes. I thought it might make things easier. There are many things you could do, but I thought you might like to be asked--is there anything you want to do?"

Sansa seemed to think, but all that crossed her face was confusion. As if she had not thought of such a thing in a long, long time. She had not had the chance in so long, Shae thought, she had stopped considering it. "What could I do?"

"You have been taught ladylike things all your life," Shae replied, "You could easily become a dressmaker, and make beautiful gowns. We could buy a shop, and live above it. But you are also beautiful yourself, and a woman of age who has bled. We could find you a rich husband--"

"No," Sansa said suddenly, "I don't want to marry a man I don't even know. I wanted to marry Joffrey, and he turned out to be a monster. If I had to marry right now, I--I'd prefer it be Sandor. He is only mean when he has a reason to be, but--but he would never harm me--either of us. And I don't want to leave either of you. I...you two are all that I have left now. If he said no, I suppose--I suppose we could be...I could...like you..."

"A whore? You are too pretty to be a whore," Shae replied. Ah, the poor girl, she was desperate for reassurance. Another reason she sent Sandor away; he wasn't capable of giving any.

"No, I meant...a courtesan. I heard a lot of dirty talk from the sailors, even through my door on the ship. They--men would pay a lot to bed a maiden, and it would let us...it could be enough to get a start as one of them."

"They would," Shae replied, nodding. "Even in the poorest towns, a man would pay a high price for a woman's maidenhead."

She remembered still how much her mother had gained for her own. So much money that they had no worry of food for a long time.

"But why would you want to do that?"

"The Queen--Cersei," Sansa said, "The night we left, before I slipped away...to my quarters. She told me that the best weapon a woman has is between her legs."

Tyrion had told her about that. His sister, bedding Jaime and Lancel and probably many others. Others in the Kingsguard, probably; all those men eager to get a shot at the Queen's cunt. She used sex as a draw to get what she wanted, to make men act for her.

"I have not always done so well as Lord Tyrion," Shae replied, "And the courtesans of Braavos are famous, yes. It could be easy for you, you are young and beautiful and you adapt easily. But you must not run into becoming one so quickly."

"I..." Sansa paused, looking away. "It's not only to find work. It's...it's...without my maidenhead, if my family wants me back--I won't--I'll be ruined. They won't be able to marry me off."

"You want to ruin yourself?"

Shae could not stop her jaw from dropping, but the look of shock remained even when she regained her composure.

"Lord Tyrion said that my brother was trying to protect the North from him, and from the Lannisters, but...they didn't even care to save me. They didn't even care enough to ask if there was any sort of trade to make for me. I would have known--Cersei, or Joffrey, they'd have told me if someone, anyone, sent a letter like that."

The tears were glistening in her eyes now, and she seemed to be fighting them back.

"I don't want them to be able to decide to take me back when there is no danger in doing so. They abandoned me--they wouldn't try to save me, or--or Arya. Why should I go back to a place where they would only use me for their own ends, marry me off to seal some alliance? Why should I let them do that, when they would do nothing for me?"

The tears began pouring at that, and Shae took Sansa into her arms, letting her cry on her shoulder.

"Shh...shh...it's alright," she said, "It's alright, I'm here."

They sat like that for what felt like forever to Shae. But Sansa did eventually sit back up.

"I have another idea," Shae replied, "If you would be open to it."

"What?" Sansa hiccupped slightly.

"We save money, we buy a small barge," Shae said, "Or we buy one now, if we've enough. We still have not sold all of what we brought with us. But we get the barge, regardless, and I become a courtesan. I have been in Braavos before. You sew as well as any tailor I have had gowns from--so you sew my gowns."

"And--and the H--Sandor?"

"He is our loyal guard, to stop men from taking liberties they did not pay for," Shae replied, "We may still have to hire servants, and another guard or two. And if you want to lose your maidenhead so badly, you can marry him and have it done the proper way; there is a Sept here. It would make sense to hire a married man and his wife to serve together for different purposes."

"If--if he agrees to it."

"I'm certain he will. He does not seem like he wishes to look elsewhere for a wife anyway."

It may not be the most ideal plan, but it would be better to be on a ship, and be safe from swordsmen or assassins bursting in the door. Or--as safe as one could be, anyway.

*Sansa*

It was not such a bad plan, Shae's idea. If they did not have the money now, they could save it little by little. Shae could charm men, the Hound would be her faithful guard. And she could sew tunics and gowns. In truth she was glad of the alternative; she had seen the way the men yanked at the women in the riot, had learned of what had befallen poor Lollys, and had overheard Theon bragging once about how he took a woman like a beast from behind. She wondered if Sandor would do that to her, but when she shut her eyes she could not picture it.

She thought about it--becoming a famous courtesan. Hair like fire, and skin like ivory. A Westerosi woman, foreign and beautiful. Ladylike, and desirable. It would not be so bad, to have power over men like that. But then she thought of Cersei, bitter, and with children that were not her husband's, if the rumors were really true. She saw herself like that--bitter, and in her cups all the time, aging and angry that there were younger and more beautiful women around.

If she married the Hound--well, she would never be the Queen or Lady Paramount she might once have been. She would be a commoner, if a trueborn one. Her...their...children would be well-protected, though. No one would look at them and refuse to keep them safe. No one would decide that they were not worth the effort of protecting. The Hound would not allow it.

There was a window in their room, and she looked out of it at the city she could see. They said that Braavos was the most free of the free cities. No man, woman, or child was a slave here. It was written on that arch, back in the harbor.

She was free. Free of Westeros, of the poisonous Lannisters, of the stares of men at court, the leers she would get from the Kingsguard or Joffrey, free from their threats and their plots and their lies.

"Where do we start?" she asked, after a long pause.

Chapter Text

*Sandor*

He sold the armor to a Lysene captain, who made mention of refashioning the helm to resemble a bear's head rather than a dog's. He got what he thought was a handsome sum for it, and then immediately headed off to find something to eat.

That wasn't hard at all; there seemed to be someone selling food every few feet.

Guess we'll be eating a lot of fish, he thought. That produced an amusing mental image--he thought of himself catching the majority of what they would eat for the day. The Hound, the King's former dog, now a fisherman. Though it was was better than being in the stinking pit of King's Landing, following the orders of the mad boy-king and the fire-hungry Lannisters. He didn't care how desperate the situation was, with that wildfire around who knew what would go up?

After eating, and getting some measures taken by a tailor--who promised him six shirts and four pairs of trousers within a fortnight. There was one ready set of shirt and trousers that fit him, barely, but it was enough. The price was not too high--so he made inquiries for gowns as well, making mention of a young woman and her servant whom he'd be buying for. He was then given a list of prices per certain lengths of fabrics, bolts, and so forth, and headed out after that.

Back into the crowd.

"...oysters! Oysters!"

"Oh, tall and dark...if you have the money, we've a few girls you might like..."

The innkeeper had said to pretend to be blind and deaf; it was the best thing to get through the crowd without getting tugged aside. Though he assumed his face was enough to do that already...for some particularly greedy types, it was not so. At every turn there seemed to be someone selling something. He stopped one who looked rather young, and asked if it wasn't difficult to get started.

"I saved enough money to buy a bucket of oysters," the boy said, "If you already have money it's easier. You go get it from someone who just caught a lot of them. Then you just walk around and say you have oysters very loud, and that's how you sell them. It's not hard."

He let the boy go after that. Not difficult. He supposed it'd be hard for him to get a start that way, given his appearance...it was easier for the young, the unscarred, maybe, but him? He'd do better as a sellsword, but he wasn't sure that he'd want to leave the little bird and Shae alone long enough to do the job.

"Make way! Make way!"

He grumbled and turned to see what was going on. The rest of the crowded street pressed back against stalls and walls, and a small troop of helmeted soldiers with spears and shields walked past.

"...can we not get fish for them?"

There was a young woman's voice, somewhere, in the midst of the soldiers. Sandor turned away; some noblewoman no doubt. It didn't matter. He'd done what Shae wanted him to do, it was time to get back. Then a second later, a male voice.

"We already did, my sweet..."

They were then lost in the crowd, and he was nearly lost on his way back.

*Sansa*

When Sandor returned, he found her and Shae waiting for him, with a spread of food set out. A cooked salmon, large enough to share between the three of them, a bowl of some vegetable he'd never seen before, and cups of ale for each of them.

"Did you not find clothing?" Shae asked.

"They had this," Sandor indicated the clothes he was wearing, "S'the only thing they had to fit. I paid them to take measures and they say I'll have more within a fortnight."

Three pairs of clothes, he'd only had two on the way here. It was better than before, she thought.

For a little while they sat and ate, and when they were all nursing the last of the ale Shae spoke up.

"We've tried discussing what we're to do for a living," she said, "My plan is to become a courtesan, it would be an easy way to make sufficient money, without having to separate for large periods of the day."

"That could also get us in trouble," Sandor replied, "Suppose you get famous? I know damn well if they send anyone after us, and they hear about a famous whore with an ugly man and a lady with red hair, they're going to know it's us."

"We can't very well go into fishing," Sansa said. "We don't know what we're doing."

"I know already how to lure men, how to get them to part with their money. It seemed a good plan," Shae said, "I fished a little as a girl, but I have been a whore much longer than I ever fished."

"You don't have to know how to catch them to sell fish in this city, but we'll be seen just as easily carting around buckets, if we travel about the city getting rid of them." He looked thoughtful, as she had never seen him look before.

That was true enough.

"I considered," she said suddenly, "Selling my maidenhead, but--"

Before she could even finish the sentence, he cut in with, "No. You're not doing that."

"It could get us a fortune," Sansa said, "But--I decided against it."

"Good." Sandor took a deep breath.

"Then I thought...we thought...I might marry you."

"You don't want to marry me, little bird. You could do much better in this city than a scarred old dog."

"You're not old, and the scars aren't that bad," Sansa protested. "You aren't planning to marry anyone else, I know you're not."

He paused, studying her face for a minute. Or maybe he was just staring, she didn't know. And before he could speak up again, she reached over to touch the hand of his that was on the table.

He didn't pull his hand away. That was a start.

"My family didn't care enough to send even a single message, or try to save me at all. They were just...going to leave me in King's Landing. Let Joffrey have me...because I'm a woman, and I wasn't worth enough to them."

"Aye." He sounded almost gentle, and she smiled at him.

"And if they were fortunate enough to win in battle, I know they would want me back. They would want to use me to seal some alliance or the other. My father said the match with Joffrey would link houses Stark and Baratheon...and...and if Robb manages to win against the Lannisters, I don't want to let them do that. I don't want to be somebody's pawn."

A pause. He seemed agreeable, in his own way...so it was going better than she'd expected.

"If I don't have my maidenhead, they won't be able to just walk in, as if they hadn't spent time doing nothing to help me."

Sandor looked at Shae, who leaned her head back to Sansa.

"Fine," he said, seeming resigned to it. "But we can't call you Stark, or me Clegane."

"We can make a new house name," Sansa smiled. "How do you like the sound of Bird?"

Sansa and Sandor Bird.

"Got this all figured out, do you? I suppose you've thought of your new house sigil and words, too?"

"Maybe."

There was a softness in his face then...and she wondered if he had considered this course of action too. Maybe he had not wanted to frighten her.

"This is a city where none are slaves. Everyone is free here." Sansa paused, and went on, "If you approve."

Another pause.

"Forever free."

"Buggering hell..."

She thought for a moment that he was about to get angry, but of all things he could have done, she was surprised by what he did do.

He laughed.

Sandor Clegane, whom she had never seen so much as crack a smile, had laughed.

Chapter Text

They talked about it for a day or so, discussing colors and banners. Finally, they decided on the sigil. A white bird over yellow flame on a gray field.

The next day, they all went out together, early. Sansa and Shae were measured for new clothes, and they obtained fabric and thread to make the cloak Sandor would use in the ceremony.

He did not speak much of the wedding, he said that they, the ladies could handle it all. He would study the words he was meant to say, and do what he was meant to do, and they could quibble about the finery. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere--while they were being measured and fitted, he was at the door, watching. He always seemed to be watching for something, Sansa thought.

So far no one had come for them. Perhaps she had simply been forgotten about--the letter had declared her no longer a Stark, after all. Maybe no one cared enough TO come after her...but at least they would come for the things that had been stolen, wouldn't they? Someone would be angry.

Someone would come. Eventually. It had not been even seven days yet, there was not time.

Maybe her family...though that thought made her want to hurry the wedding along. They may try to 'save' her now that she was in Braavos, away from the Lannisters, use her to gain more armies for Robb's case.

I must hurry. I must be wedded and bedded--as soon as possible.

After being measured, they set out for the Sept-beyond-the-sea, and made their case to the septons there.

"We've run from Westeros," she said, "The war has made living there too bloody, and even a port town with many dangers is safer."

"We wish to be wed, as soon as possible." Sandor was trying to sound polite--but even then, his voice sounded slightly angry. But the septons did not seem upset in any way. They merely asked a few questions, and the date was arranged. Three days from now, she and Sandor would be married.

"A bride's pie," Sansa begged once they left the sept, "Could we not have one made? I know we cannot have it be very large, but--"

"Of course, little bird." He almost looked like he was smiling--but when she looked again, that momentary joy seemed to be gone. Maybe she had imagined it.

"A trip to the baker's, then."

It was the first joy she had felt herself in a long time. It was a hurry, something to rush, but it was something she was being allowed to decide, and it enlivened her. Whatever happened afterward, she was making this decision, taking this course, herself. And though she knew they must conserve their jewels, their gold and silver, she wanted still to have a pie. A nice pie, and a cake...a dinner, that she would be able to enjoy before their true work began.

Shae lead the way, what felt like a mile or two--and Sansa was getting tired by the time they stopped at a bakers. It was not too far from the inn they were staying at, at least.

"We want a bride's pie for a wedding in three days," Sansa said, "And perhaps--a small plate of lemon cakes?"

"We've no lemons right now. Shipments have been slow, and they go fast when we do get them." the baker said, shaking his head, "Would you take honeyfingers instead? I learned the recipe from a Tyroshi sailor, and they never fail to please the tongue."

"What are those?"

He handed over a single small one, and she nibbled at it. It was crunchy, and sweet, and had some sort of nut crushed and sprinkled on top. She liked them instantly.

"Yes. Yes, of course," she said, "But you do have lemon cakes, normally?"

"When I can get lemons, yes."

It did not cost much to have a dozen ordered and for it to be arranged to be picked up the day of the wedding. She chatted with the baker idly, praising his work, and the three of them were on the way out when they nearly collided with a blonde man.

Blonde, though--Sansa corrected herself the instant she thought it. His hair was more than blonde, something like the sun in one's eyes when it reflected off the snow. Her heart was not touched, but he was beautiful, too, despite the scars on his face. Or maybe even because of them. He looked almost grim, tired; there was darkness under his eyes, as if he and sleep hardly ever met. But despite the way he looked, he smiled nicely and begged her pardon for getting in her way.

(Sandor, Shae would tell her afterwards, had looked a bit grouchy at this. But she would laugh and say he was always grouchy)

"Ah, it is you. Come in, come in. A profitable day it is when you cross the threshold!" the baker called out on sight of him.

That was when they left. The blonde man passed from her thoughts when Shae whispered something in her ear about the fine gown she had had stowed away, and then her thoughts were on the wedding again.

That night, Shae instructed Sandor to have a bath.

When he left, she sat Sansa down on the bed, and bid her to draw up the hem of her gown.

"Why?"

"I know you are frightened of the marriage bed," Shae said, taking her hand. "So I thought that I might do what I could to relieve that fear. There are ways to make it hurt less, and even feel pleasure from it. Do you think it was the little lion's gold alone that drew me?"

"It can feel good? I thought--I thought only men--"

"Oh, no," Shae gave a laugh then, "Women can feel pleasure in this way too! If you would let me, I will show you--though we will be careful not to go too far. I know you wish to give that gift to our Hound."

Sansa pulled up the hem of her gown somewhat nervously. She knew this would not hurt--or at least hoped it wouldn't--but she was curious to know how pleasure could come with a woman. Then, at Shae's gentle urging, she removed the smallclothes beneath as well.

"Now," Shae said, reaching gently out, and touching a point between Sansa's legs that made her jump a little. "Do you feel that? Put your hand there."

"Y-yes," Sansa stammered a little, and did as she was asked.

"It may take us a little time, but you must rub there. I would use my tongue--that would do it faster--but this is to show you how to command your own pleasure."

Sansa obeyed. At first, she felt only a strange twinge, but after several minutes the area she was touching began to warm.

"How do you feel?" Shae asked suddenly.

"A...a little hot." She rubbed a little too far down, and drew her hand up quickly. "I--I haven't made water, have I?"

What her fingers had drawn up was a little sticky, and she looked at the substance, confused.

"No. No, that's your body's response to pleasure. It is so that when you put something in your woman's place, it will not hurt."

"Like...like a man's..."

"Or your own fingers."

Sansa colored at the thought. She felt so unworldly, so innocent, but Shae didn't seem eager to tease her for it. Instead, she went on with her instruction.

"You can do this before he puts his cock in you, to make it easier for him to put it in you," Shae said, "But you can get pleasure on your own doing this as well."

"What--what is it like? Pleasure?"

"Keep going, and you will find out. If you wish to slide your fingers down together you can."

She felt so awkward, doing it in front of Shae like that--but the feeling passed away quickly enough. Shae had been a whore, she had likely seen this done many times before. It was nothing new to her, and if something was being done wrong she'd say so.

The heat increased, as did the dampness.

"Aahh..." the sound escaped, and she colored again. "I'm sorry, I...I couldn't help it."

"That's normal. You should be making that sound...it is a sound of pleasure. And it will make our Hound happy, if you make noise when he is in you. A man likes to know that he is pleasing his lady."

He would like it? Yes. Yes, he did not want to hurt her. If she was making that noise when he was in her... (but what noise would HE make?)

She continued; more such sounds passed her lips as the heat grew. A tenseness was stealing over her as well, a strange but wonderful sensation she had never felt before. "S...Shae, I...I..."

"Let it take you."

So she did.

She stroked, and her fingers grew damper still, until the tenseness came to a head, crested--

"Oh!"

A wanton moan tore from Sansa's lips as the feeling burst over her body--she was wracked with a sudden tremor, and fell back, her woman's place convulsing and squeezing. At what she did not know. But she liked this feeling, liked it a lot...it felt so warm, and wonderful, and there was a sudden bliss singing through her veins.

"Was that...pleasure?"

"Yes," Shae smiled, and wet a rag in the basin by the bed, then took Sansa's hand and cleaned it. "Did you like it?"

Sansa nodded. "I feel...I feel so good, so warm...'

She sat up, somewhat shakily.

"Should I do this before--before Sandor--?"

"A little," Shae advised, "He will no doubt find great pleasure in seeing you do it, even if he tells you he does not. But if you want to please him, you should let him do this to you...with his cock."

It would not be the first time that night that wonderful feeling would strike her. But they did not stay on that in the immediate moment.

Shae produced from a box under the bed--a wooden cock.

"Don't worry, it's not going into you," she said, "I just want to show you how to handle--him. Take it in your hands, and imagine it is his cock you are holding."

It looked so thick, and she wondered if Sandor would look the same.

Over the next half-hour she was shown how to stroke it, how to move her woman's place against it without yet letting it go in, and even, most scandalous of all, how to take it into her mouth without grazing it with her teeth. This deed, she was told, was not necessary. But if she felt comfortable and safe enough to do it, the feeling of her mouth and tongue would give great pleasure to him if she wished to take his cock some way other than between her legs. Or if she did not want it, but still wanted to give her husband pleasure.

By the time Sandor returned from his bath, Sansa was feeling a lot less nervous about the marriage bed. When he took his place across the room to sleep, she could not help but smile. She was glad Shae had shown her how to touch a man. If she could please him, he would be able to spend his seed inside her, and--then, that was how he would give her children. She did want them, after all.

When his snores issued forth, and Shae passed into slumber as well--Sansa, curious, slipped a hand between her legs to see if she could manage to reach that wonderful heat again.

Chapter Text

*Daenerys, Past*

She still remembered the way it all started.

"The mighty Khal Drogo has an offer to make."

They had been living in Pentos. For once, they had stayed, not moving, though Viserys had not told her why. Somehow he had managed to get them a house, and when she asked for the red door, he had made that happen too.

He would come back in the evenings, with food and money, and sometimes with bruises on his face. She thought maybe that he was doing guards' work, but he denied it when she asked.

(He wouldn't tell her what he really was doing. And when she asked one time too many and saw him flinch, when she would hug him from behind and he would jump, she stopped asking. And she knew something was wrong.)

Somehow, the Dothraki had heard of them. How, she did not know, but what she did know of them was not good. They were nomads, and ran about killing and looting and raping. They were so fearsome, that cities would give them gold and goods to leave. And if luck was with them, the Dothraki would take it and leave. That was how things were done--you gift them something, and they gift you something back. Like trade, but different.

It was a rich man named Illyrio who told them of Khal Drogo, and how he had heard of the last Targaryens.

"Whole fortunes would be paid to bed the last Targaryens," he said, "And that is why Khal Drogo has come."

Viserys looked at her, and she saw him do it out of the corner of her eye. She wandered over to admire something, listening all the same.

"I did not think the horse lords were interested in bedding men."

Viserys sounded so tired when he said it. Hurt. She wondered--no, that could not be it.

"'Tis not you he wants. He says he has a gift to give that will not fail to persuade you. He says you will gladly gift him your sister's maidenhead in exchange."

"Why does he not simply buy her as a bride?"

"I am of the idea," Illyrio said, "That he meant not to do so because he was warned not to. They would not say why to me through the translator, but I heard them discussing in Dothraki that their wise women warned Khal Drogo against it, in the interest of his life."

The idea of living with the horse lords was awful. There were rumors about them, that a Khal would share his bride with his closest friends, that he would take her from behind like a beast...

Did Viserys think the khal meant to bed him as well? Was that why he sounded so tired, so sad? Had that sort of thing been how he had provided for them all this time? She felt a sudden sting of shame--he had sold himself like a whore, maybe, and he had done it to keep them fed.

"What will he pay?" she said suddenly.

"Dany, no--" Viserys started, and when she met his eyes she saw them full of pain.

"I can bear his...attention...once, brother. If it is just the once. Then--if he will pay so much, perhaps our lives will be easier. We could have more time together."

Viserys tried to persuade her against it again, though she saw his resolve crumbling. So many things passed through his eyes then, even as he must have seen the resolve in hers.

"What is the gift the khal is so sure will persuade us?"

It was a princely gift, indeed, and she had not even seen inside the chest.

"The Khal offers you fifty Unsullied," said the translator, a dark-skinned woman, "They are the best slave soldiers in the world, and will obey any order without question, even if you should order them to slay themselves. This one is also included, as well as three slave women to tend the needs of your house and sister. Khal Drogo also presents this chest, which he assures you is worth more than all the rest."

Unsullied...Illyrio had some slaves of that kind, and they scared her. They stood like statues until given an order, and when that happened they would obey immediately before returning to stand in place.

Both she and Viserys stepped forward. Two of the Unsullied carried the chest forward, and opened it.

It was filled with gold, but they hardly noticed the gold for the two objects nestled inside it. One black and one green.

"Dragon eggs," Daenerys breathed, moving closer, "But how--"

"This one does not know. But many cities give gifts to the Dothraki, and in return the Dothraki do not sack those cities. Perhaps that is how the Khal obtained them."

"We will do it," she said quickly, laying hands on the black one, and then the green. "Does--does the Khal ask anything more?"

"He asks that if his seed takes root and you should be delivered of a son," the dark woman said, "That you would deliver the child to him."

The thought stung at her, but given all that they were being handed, it seemed a fair trade.

There was no son; Daenerys's moonblood came not a moon's turn later. But before that...

The khal took her, took her hard, but seemed to want to hear her cry out in pleasure as well--for he touched her in ways she did not know a body could be touched. And when he was done he looked at her, stroking her face and touching her hair, as if he was not sure she was real.

Maybe it would not have been so bad, to be his wife. But in the morning he left--and they were left with the gifts he had given them.

Things began to change drastically, after that.

The first thing Viserys did was to have the Unsullied loaned out to various persons in need of guards--rather than sell them outright. This, he said, would give them more money over time, rather than selling them immediately and getting money only the once. The Unsullied would remain theirs, of course. And of course with soldiers, they would need a larger home...

"Perhaps if we make enough," Daenerys said, when Viserys spoke to her of this plan, "We could buy more, and more, and go back to Westeros with an enormous army. We could take back the Seven Kingdoms."

"We--will not be going back to Westeros," Viserys replied. Sharply, more so than she expected him to.

"I thought you wanted to. Are they not waiting for us?"

*Viserys, Past*

"No." His face crumpled, and he sat down, holding her close and stroking her hair, "No, my sweet sister, they are not. That was a lie. A lie I told myself because--I thought surely, they must want us back."

She held him back. He seemed to need it.

"The smallfolk do not care for who is on the throne, and the lords themselves fight one another for it at every opportunity. No help was sent for us, no aid of any kind. Even our allies deserted us. They want the throne for themselves and dropped us the moment things grew dark."

He remembered hearing a rumor of Dorne...but that, too, had fizzled out. There was no communication from them whatsoever, no attempts to reach out, promises of aid...nothing.

To the Seven Hells with them all. He was tired, so deadly, deadly tired from all that he had had to do to keep them alive. And the idea of fighting further exhausted him, just thinking of it. I have spent too long fighting to survive to want to do it constantly, even if I were to be crowned.

"Why should we grace Westeros with our presence when they would do nothing for us?" he questioned. "They would look at me, and say I was like our father, the Mad King. I would be forced to marry you off, to gain allies--we could spend every copper, and still come no closer to the throne."

They would need much more than what they had, and it was a fight he was not sure he could win.

Daenerys moved a bit closer. "I don't want to marry someone else."

She told him how just being in Drogo's bed was bad enough, though he had tried to make her feel pleasure too. Viserys--he was the only one she felt safe with, and besides, they were Targaryens. He had always said that they married brother to sister, and she had expected it would be so with them, as well.

"What do you want?"

"I want to be free," she said, "I want to be happy."

"Then you shall be free and happy."

Daenerys was all he had left, and the light in her eyes kept that of his own from being snuffed out. To look into her eyes and see a smile, see happiness--it made his life more than it was.

It was good to have servants again, and the dark woman (from Naath, he later heard) was a good companion for Daenerys. She was quite learned in various languages, and he had her begin teaching them to not only her, but the Unsullied as well.

Let the Usurper and his dogs burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground if they liked. He could carve out his own kingdom here in Essos, even if it were only as a lord of sorts, rather than a prince. Perhaps blaze a trail of some sort...be the leader his father never had been. A merchant prince, perhaps...

Things were looking better, finally better. The day he gave Daenerys his last gown, the day he did not have to wear it and look the part of a woman to get enough money to keep them fed, was the day the strain began to truly lift from his shoulders.

It was a warm day in Pentos, and Viserys Targaryen dreamed in the sun.

*Sansa, Now*

The gown was one she had been given after the betrothal to Tyrion, ivory samite, and beautiful as one could wish a wedding gown to be. The Hound--no, she corrected herself, Sandor--was dressed in the new armor he had bought. It was not full plate like the other, but he looked like a proper knight. And he was wearing the cloak, the one he would put on her shoulders.

He was not the knight of her dreams, but he had helped to save her, and she was happy.

He looked handsome. The scars did not scare her as they had before, and now--well, she wondered why they had ever frightened her at all. They were like hers, only more visible. They showed that he had survived something that might have killed him, but didn't. They showed that he was strong. And he was to be hers, and they would be strong together.

They went to the Sept-beyond-the-sea, and found that aside from the septons, there were a few people in attendance.

"We apologize for the unexpected visitors," one septon said, greeting them at the door, "But the Westerosi in Braavos do not see many weddings in the Faith of the Seven, and asked to attend."

"I don't mind," Sansa gave a little smile. Sandor was allowed to go on, while she stood near the top of the stairs with Shae.

No going back.

She felt a momentary sting, a longing for her family. They should be here, in some way. But no--if they were here, they would never have allowed her to marry Sandor. They would have taken her away, made her marry someone for Robb's benefit. They would lecture her about helping the family's standing, barter her away to get an army. She was nothing to them but a pawn to be used.

This, Sandor, was her choice.

Shae moved off to join the Westerosi who had gathered, and one of the younger septons moved to her side.

"I am not your father," he said, "But your husband to be can hardly walk you if he is already waiting there for you."

She nodded, not minding the septon's gesture. If only her father could be here--perhaps he would be angry, perhaps he would not. (Brave, gentle, and strong, he promised. Could he have known it would be Sandor? What would he have said?)

The septon walked her down, and took the spot in front of them.

Sansa looked up at Sandor, giving a nervous smile. He didn't give her one back, but he wasn't scowling, so she took it for one. As the septon started the prayers all she could think of was the future. She could feel it, this was a new start for them both, a real start that would give them both chances they didn't have before.

Sandor was not the golden prince she had hoped to marry. He was better.

He was a true knight, he just wasn't a knight.

The prayers concluded. The septon looked at the two of them first, and then at Sandor alone.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Sandor took off the cloak, and carefully put it around her shoulders. She was trembling slight, but she gave him a smile. He looked serious here--was he expecting her to run out? No. No, he had to know she would not do that.

Now they had to join hands. The septon brought out a ribbon, and as he tied it into a knot over their joined hands, he said, "Let it be known that Sandor of House Bird and Sansa are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

She wondered how that curse would go, when her family heard of this. She knew they would at some point. By the time they could make any attempts, however, she would either have given Sandor a child or be close to doing so. She would not let them tear her away from freedom so easily. She was choosing Sandor, and she would not have her choice ripped from her.

There was a pause, and then, "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

Then the septon pulled on the end of the ribbon, unraveling it.

"Look upon each other and say the words."

They turned. Sansa's heart was flying as they both said, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..."

She added shortly afterwards, with Sandor saying a slightly different version, "I am his, and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days."

Sandor's voice, for his part afterwards, seemed to be trying to be gruff. But she knew better. "With this kiss, I pledge my love."

He kissed her--a short kiss, but the tingle it gave Sansa was altogether new. She loved the feeling of it.

There were cheers from those who had come, and Sansa gave her new husband another smile.

They stopped by the bakery, and retrieved the bride's pie and honeyfingers before returning to the inn they had been staying in. Shae sat and ate with them, and when Sansa gave her a nervous look, sent a little smile back.

Shae promised to be back before nightfall, and then left Sansa alone with Sandor.

"Let's...let's..." Sansa's voice trembled, as did her hands. "Have you bedded many women?"

"A few," he replied, "Whores, once or twice each."

Sandor's voice was almost gentle. Maybe he knew that despite wanting to do this, she was still scared.

"Help me out of my gown, please." Sansa made certain the door to their room was closed and locked, and then turned to move towards the bed.

Sandor did as she asked, unlacing her gown. It dropped to the floor, leaving her in the thin shift that had been beneath it. As she let it fall too, he was disrobing behind her.

I am about to become a woman, Sansa thought, I hope it doesn't hurt too much.

She turned around nervously, not exactly sure what she would see. Sandor was big and bulky, and his...it...between his legs looked long and thick. Bigger than the wooden cock Shae had shown her how to use.

It wasn't going in yet. Shae had told her that too. He couldn't do anything with it if it was just hanging there.

"Kiss me," she said softly. She'd start there, get her courage up.

He did. It was a strange kiss, scratchy because of his beard, and slow. He would pull back a little, then press his lips to hers again, and after the third or fourth kiss he put his arms around her, letting his hands drift south to the bare curves of her hips.

Sansa shivered. His hands felt rough, but...still, there was a sudden feeling of warmth.

"Touch me more," she said. It felt good, the way he'd stroked over her hips.

Then one of those hands moved from her hip, up to one of her breasts. He squeezed at it, roughly at first but then more gently--and kept kissing her as he did it. The warm feeling grew, and spread as his other hand moved up to give her other breast the same treatment.

Then he stopped, suddenly.

"Do you want me to touch you there?" Sandor asked (nervously? No, he couldn't be). He put one hand between her legs, and let his fingers brush her woman's place

"Yes."

One touch felt good, and she realized she was damp. Her body was preparing her to take Sandor's cock, so it wouldn't hurt her. But as he circled that area, and probed at her entrance with two fingers she felt a sudden jolt of pleasure she didn't expect.

Oh, that had felt wonderful...she'd done that herself, several times, but somehow to have him do it felt even better.

One or two minutes more. Sansa was so enjoying his touch, but then she felt something prodding just above her stomach, something hot and damp at the tip. She realized it was his cock.

It looked even bigger now, and she couldn't stop her eyes from widening.

"Now," she said quickly, "Now, we need to..."

She took hold of it with one hand--Sandor flinched, but stayed where he was when she started to stroke.

"Sansa..."

It was easy, so easy. A cock, a real one, felt so strange but all the tricks she had been shown, she used--and if they had not had to go further she would have tried to take it into her mouth.

"I was just getting you ready," she said. A deep breath. Then, she climbed onto the bed and lay on her bed, bringing up her knees. "Now...now, we should..."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Sansa nodded. "Go on and...and..."

Her voice shook still, despite her willingness. She tried to steady herself, to push back this slight panic. Why did she feel it so? She wanted him to do this! Maybe it was simply fear of the unknown. She had never done this before.

Sandor moved up and parted her legs, moving forward just slightly, enough to press the tip of his cock against her entrance.

"I'm going to make this quick, little bird. It may hurt," he said, "But you knew that, didn't you?"

Sansa only nodded. She knew.

He pressed a little more inside.

No going back, now, she thought. When Sandor snapped his hips forward, pushing past her maidenhead and filling her utterly she gasped. Never had she felt so stretched, so invaded, so full. She reached up, eager for something to hold on to.

It must have surprised him. He practically fell down onto her, and when he tried to push himself back upright she kept her arms wrapped around him. Flesh to flesh, she thought. It felt so warm, so good.

"Now," she said, giving a little smile against his neck, "As my husband, you should want to please me, should you not?"

Teasing. Another trick. Men liked it, Shae said, it showed them you wanted and liked what they were doing. If he was being slow about it, it could spur them on.

"Then let me go."

She laughed, and did so. Sandor steadied himself, hands moving down on either side of her head. And now--now, he began to move his hips. Slowly at first, and with those slow thrusts came little bursts of pleasure. But then he began to move inside her more quickly and more deeply, and it was one of those thrusts that a moan was forced from her lips.

"There, Sandor," she moaned, "Please, do that again..."

Fast, hard, deep. Her breasts bounced from the impact again and again, and the desire rose higher and higher.

She looked up, meeting his eyes, squeezing his sides with her knees. This was new to her, so new, but she was already enjoying it. And the best was yet to come.

"Please," she begged again.

Faster, just as she'd asked. Sandor's hips crashed against hers, over and over, and the wet sounds of their joining became louder as he took her.

The warm feeling had shifted, to one of tenseness in her lower gut. There was a sudden strange desire for more, and she moaned, "Sandor..."

Give him his name. All men like that. She remembered that, and as Sandor's cock continued to invade her, over and over, she kept doing it. He moved faster, and she felt herself being pushed--higher, higher, and higher still.

"Sandor...oh...oh..."

It crashed into her, hard, and the pleasure sparked, spreading like wildfire after the first crash. Waves of pleasure hit her, and she stiffened, breathing hard, and reveled in the flood of warmth that followed.

He kept going, but much more slowly.

Then, he spoke. He sounded strained, and grunted around the words.

"...I'm going to--"

Sansa squeezed her knees about his sides again. "You are my husband. Inside."

Then she reached up, smiling, to touch his face, suddenly wondering how she had ever found him ugly.

"I want you to."

Another few thrusts was all he made it to. He sheathed himself in her and gave off a groan--and then she felt it inside, a sudden feeling of something. Strange and wet, it was, but she couldn't feel disgusted by it, not with the lingering heat. Sandor shuddered as it happened, and she reached up to pull him back down again. She wanted to hold him, and be held by him.

She was as one with him here, like this, and it felt so right.

He did finally withdraw, and she turned them, so she could curl up against him. Her woman's placed still seemed to throb hotly, and she felt the stickiness of her husband's seed between her legs. Spent and tired she was, but she had never felt this sense of pleasure and goodness from it.

"Now," he said, "It looks like you're to be stuck with me."

"Just don't forget, I chose you." she said, "Does that count for anything?"

"Aye, little bird." There was a pause, and a large arm came around her side, pulling her closer. Almost tightly. "It does."

Chapter Text

Daenerys, Past

Her brother married her as he promised he would and things had gotten only better in the past months.

Viserys had, since they obtained the Unsullied, been sure to train daily with them. They had never been able to afford for him to have combat instruction before, but now it was all different. In the early morning hours he would be up, being schooled on the use of the sword and spear right up until the evening meal with only sparse breaks. The translator, named Missandei, said that it was lucky her brother had a strong constitution, or he would not be dealing with it so well.

Daenerys was not so sure she would consider Viserys coming to the evening meal every night in such pain as dealing with it well. Some day his legs were so weak at dinner that he could barely get up and down from his chair. But her new handmaids recommended salves that were perfect for this sort of thing, and as they relieved the worst of the soreness he kept going back.

"May I ask," Missandei said, "Why it is my master chooses to learn combat? I can assure you the Unsullied will always be ready. He has enough that he need never worry about his safety again."

There was a pit in her stomach, whenever she heard them say 'master.' She was kinder than the masters the woman had seen before, as was Viserys, but still, the idea of owning these people was...unpleasant. Even if everyone else who was rich in the city had at least a few. How happy Missandei and the other girls seemed that they were not being beaten or groped didn't please her, it made her feel somewhat sick.

"Before he came to Essos," Daenerys said, "He was not yet old enough to learn to use a sword. In Westeros--where we are from--noble boys usually learn to fight with one, so if there is war they can help to lead their father's armies. And before the Khal came to us and gave us the Unsullied, we were always afraid. The King of Westeros, the...the Usurper, he would send hired swords after us, to kill us, so that we would never return and threaten his claim to the throne. And all we could do was run, because Viserys had no ability to fight back. He was powerless for too long, and he wishes to never be powerless again. Even with the Unsullied, he does not feel wholly safe."

He said that to her, when she had asked why. He never wanted to feel scared, or trapped again. He wanted to be able to face those assassins, if one should get past the Unsullied, if one should suddenly surprise them, if...so many ifs. But she could understand them.

"If he wishes to learn, he can find none better to teach. The Unsullied are the best soldiers in the world." the one called Jhiqui said. "It is known."

"It is known," the one called Irri agreed.

*Viserys, Past*

Every day, there was always a point where he felt he had made a grave mistake in asking to be trained in the same manner that the Unsullied had been. Sore from head to foot, and yet every day he had to get up and keep doing it. One of Dany's slaves had told him that he must drink the wine of courage if he wished to get through it, and he had tried it--though only at half doses, he found it numbed him too much. So he drank it only when he felt he could go on no longer without it, and only then to numb the worst of it.

I cannot defend what is mine if I cannot bear a little pain.

But physical was not the only sort he would feel. The second day of owning the Unsullied, they had sent one of their number to ask what their names for the day were.

"Names of the day?"

"Each day the Unsullied are given new names," the one called Grey Worm said, "You do not need to worry, we will remember them."

It had stunned him. He had heard of the practice, of course, but it was one thing to hear it exists and quite another to see it in practice. He had never been a slave himself, though he did recall the humiliations that his...patrons...would visit upon him when he still sold his body to provide for himself and Dany. They called him any number of awful things, worm, whore, and in the worst cases, hole.

"You can keep your current names, if you wish, or choose new ones," Viserys replied. It was quite a new thing to him, to feel--pity, for another living being. For so long he had held none for anyone but himself and his dear sister. He thought he need never feel it again. "I am not a creative man, and I would never be able to make up new names for fifty people every day."

This seemed to surprise Grey Worm, and he was on the point of leaving when Viserys stopped him.

"Grey Worm," he said, knowing he would regret asking but feeling the burning desire to do so all the same, "Tell me how the Unsullied are made."

He knew he would not like the answer. He had heard bits and pieces of it, knew of some of the horrors, but not the extent. The cutting, the wine of courage, how only one in three boys survived the training. The dogs, and then worst of all, the babes. All done to burn out the last vestiges of identity and resistance. To ensure that they were obedient.

"It could have been me, so easily," Viserys replied quietly. "Very nearly we avoided slavers on more than one occasion."

Grey Worm had given no answer to that. The training had commenced shortly afterwards.

Dany had slept safe and happy that night, he had not. For three or four hours Viserys lay awake, the idea of being made to strangle a dog, or worse--pay a slave-owner to slaughter a mother's babe before her very eyes, haunting him. Then he imagined it being Dany and his throat tightened. Or worse, her a bed slave to horrible men who would mistreat her.

Not my Dany, he thought, She deserves the world. I can't give her a castle, but I will keep her from ever being sold as a slave.

He would crawl across a river of broken glass if her smile waited at the end, innocent and ignorant of the evils of the world.

*Khalasar*

The bloodriders of Khal Drogo had seen madness of this sort before, but never to this level of devotion. The Khal had begun the journey away from Pentos seeming satisfied, but after a week's time he said they were to make for Astapor, pillaging and looting along the way. Every thing of value that could be found was stolen, and stored away. And though this was not unusual for the Dothraki, the Khal seemed not to wish to enjoy the fruits of his own work.

From Pentos, to Myr, to Volantis, to Mantarys, to Meeren, Yunkai...

Men, women, and children taken prisoner, precious items pillaged. The farther they rode, the more manic the Khal seemed to get; he would have the more intelligent slaves count up the gold and gems and declare only that it was not enough.

His bloodriders were beginning to grow worried. He would take no captive woman into his bed, and when they sent several for him the women would come back quickly, each with the same story. He would have no other in his bed but the silver-haired princess.

...and finally, Astapor. The Khal would enter with his speaker, who would bring forth the goods--gold, jewels, slaves, and other assorted things they had taken. By week's end, he would go back out the city gates, without any of the gold or goods, living and otherwise, that they had pillaged in the last weeks...but with eight-thousand Unsullied behind him.

When his bloodriders asked the reason for purchasing the Unsullied, the Khal replied sharply, "We take the city of Pentos."

No good will come of this, was thought by all his bloodriders in some form or the other, despite the alluring idea of pillaging the city. The dosh khaleen had warned the khal many moons ago, had warned that the silver haired woman of Pentos would be the death of him, but he no longer heeded the warning.

All he could think of was Daenerys.

*Sansa*

Sandor was not eager to come to bed with her at first, being still afraid of hurting or distressing her somehow, even after she had welcomed him that first night. But as the days passed he began to let her guide him, to show him where it felt best, and his unease seemed to pass. Slowly, but it began to pass.

She assumed they would take time to set things up--for them all to find good work. But not a week after the wedding Sandor returned saying he'd taken a job at the docks. "Big man! You work?" had been shouted at him from some ship or the other and the job had all but fallen into his lap.

"It's steady work, little bird," he'd said, when she asked, "A big ugly face like this doesn't matter there. A strong back does. You both have some ideas, but I'd rather not leave either of you alone during the day--or have you do anything that requires hiring guards, or letting bastards we don't know into wherever we live. We don't know anyone here."

"And Joffrey could have sent anyone after us by now," Sansa said quietly. "We wouldn't know. Maybe once we've gotten to know some people..."

"A good point," Shae replied, looking to Sandor. "And you trust me to watch her?"

"As good as I trust anyone."

Shae did not insist as much as she had on working as a courtesan; she said she'd only done so at first because it was work she knew. She knew men, she knew how to appeal to their senses and part them from their money. So long as they did not have to work in a kitchen, she said, other work would be fine.

They went out a day or so later, and found a small barge for sale. And while Sansa did not feel entirely comfortable sleeping on it, it eased her mind a little to know that people Joffrey might send could not get on board without a great deal of effort and noise.

And Sandor would skewer anyone that did make it.

As she fell to sleep, she curled close to him, feeling safer than she had in a long time.

Chapter Text

*Sansa*

Three months had passed, and Sansa had fallen into a routine that felt almost comfortable to her. She found that if she kept herself busy with one thing or another, that there was less time to feel upset about everything that had happened. And even that wasn't as necessary as it used to be - she was no longer Lady Sansa Stark, the Queen-to-be, or Lady Sansa, or just Sansa, the servant in Tyrion Lannister's household, she was Sansa Bird, and she was going to make her own way.

The chilly winds of the canals had grown quite more uncomfortable than usual, and she supposed that winter must come here as well. So she bought some fabric on one of her outings with Shae and Sandor, and on coming home had begun sewing winter cloaks. She started with Sandor's, as he was out working hard so often in that cold air. Then she started on Shae's--and finally, her own.

It was actually rather warm, sitting with the cloak on her lap and putting the finishing touches on the hem. Some white birds--doves, she had realized after the first few.

Love only your children, little dove.

Cersei had said that to her once, and she found herself laughing at the thought. She would love them, certainly, but she would not find herself trapped as the Queen had been. Sandor may not love her, but she felt that perhaps he might one day. And she felt that she could love him. As considerate as he was--as good a lover...

"What a lovely cloak!"

Sansa was drawn from some thoughts that had her rather warm on her own, to look past Shae to a little woman on the walkway before the barge.

She was not a dwarf, but quite petite, and had the loveliest blonde hair that came nearly to her shoulders. Nicer even than Cersei's--and almost like the sun in its lightness. A Valyrian--Sansa had seen many such women since coming here. Perhaps a Lysene, she had heard the women from there were very beautiful, and this one certainly was. She was carrying a bundle in her arms, and a slight jostling as the woman stepped towards the edge of the canal revealed a little head with messy blonde hair of the same color.

(The sight of the little head made her smile; Sansa's moonblood had finally failed to come.)

There were twelve soldiers in helmets around the woman--but they stood silent.

"Thank you," Sansa smiled, "I am from the North in Westeros, but even so the cold is growing uncomfortably icy. We learn early there to make such cloaks."

"Truly, you are from Westeros?" The woman looked hopeful, and broke out into a broad smile. "I was hoping to buy your cloak, but--I hope you would not mind if I asked after Westeros? I have heard tales of it all my life."

"It is not doing well of late." Sansa replied a little sadly.

Talk of the cloak being bought was nice. Though Sandor kept them well fed, it would be nice to have another source of income. Shae had taken to small cleaning jobs for the brothel nearest their barge, and that brought in a little more but Sansa--she wanted to contribute herself. And as well-dressed as this petite Valyrian woman was, surely she would be a good customer.

Shae looked at the woman and her guards somewhat suspiciously, and went with Sansa as she moved off the barge and onto the walkway.

"Be careful," Shae whispered in her ear.

Sansa nodded, but then looked back to the woman. Up close she was even more lovely--and Sansa could see her eyes now too, a wonderful shade of lilac purple.

"My brother tells me that things are going ill as well. He is not a sailor, but he makes it his business to know such things," the woman replied, "First the us--King Robert dies, and then his son begins a war with the North!"

"That is so," Sansa replied, "Lord Stark...was killed by King Joffrey, and his son went to war over it."

"My brother always spoke ill of the Starks...or at least of Lord Stark himself."

"Lord Stark did nothing wrong, at least not in the time before he died. I was--" Sansa thought for a second on how to mask her identity and settled on, "--I was a servant in the Red Keep when it all happened. And I heard that he died because he wanted to give the Queen time to get her children out."

"But he was grand friends with the King! Why would he do such a thing?"

The woman offered a sum for the cloak as she looked over it. It was more than twice what Sansa had paid for the fabric and fur, and Sansa accepted the money from the guard who seemed to be carrying a bag or two for the woman.

"He saw what happened to the Targaryen children--Rhaegar's children," Sansa said, "I heard of it from Lord Stark's own daughter. He saw their bodies and wanted to prevent the same from happening to the Queen's own children. The eldest was vile, but the other two were quite the opposite."

Shae was whispering in her ear again, something about giving too much information. And she was right--she felt suddenly very silly for so easily trusting the woman.

"If that is so, then it explains much...but that did not save his life. And from what I have heard from some of the sailors my brother employs," the woman said, "Lord Stark's son has perished as well."

"What?" Sansa choked back the urge to cry out the question, to ask if Robb was really dead, and instead forced herself to asked, "Lord Stark's son, dead? Which--which one?"

"Robb Stark. It seems he was promised to marry some girl of the Frey house or the other, and instead married an unrelated woman for love. And the Lord Frey--slaughtered the young Lord Stark, and his wife, and his armies, and even his own mother!"

Sansa could not stifle the sob that that raised in her. Nor could she summon the will to make excuses--instead it was Shae who did so. She heard her near-constant companion speaking some excuses to the woman, about the Bird family's devotion to the Starks, and a few other little surely well-thought out lies.

Then she lead Sansa back to the barge, back inside, where she could let the tears flow in earnest.

Father, Mother, Robb...no, no, why...?!

She had thought herself cut off from them like this. She had thought herself uncaring of what happened to them - they had cut her off, so why should she care for what happened to them? She hadn't thought that the wall that had sprung up between them could come crumbling down so quickly on hearing of their deaths.

When Sandor returned that night it was Shae who explained the news to him. And afterwards he came into the little room he shared with her--she expected him to do many things then, except the thing he actually did.

He didn't say anything, but he sat there holding her as she wept again, until she cried out all her tears and fell asleep in his arms.

*Viserys, Past*

"You have been blessed with a son, master," Irri said, "If you were a Khal, it would be a favorable omen indeed."

"But I am not a khal," Viserys replied, "Dany, is she well?"

Irri nodded, and turned to lead him into the birthing room. Laying back on the bed, with the little bundle in her arms, was Daenerys, his Dany, looking weary and radiant all at once.

"He is beautiful," she said, giving her brother a weak smile, "And he is whole."

The babe was a marvel. That was all he could think as she turned the bundle so that he might see his son's face. He was the very picture of Valyrian blood--pale skin, purple eyes, silver-blonde hair.

"We are blessed indeed," he said, reaching down to stroke first her face, and then the babe's. "What should we name him, sweet sister?"

"Baelor?" she questioned, "You said we were blessed, and we are...I can't remember the last time I was hungry, or scared, or..."

There Daenerys trailed off. She was half-mumbling to begin with--and looked exhausted.

"Baelor it is, then." Viserys kissed her forehead, and smiled again. It fit--though it was a heavy name to carry for a boy. But it marked what felt a new beginning for both of them--and for all the new worries that the birth of his son brought, the happiness that followed would surely make it all worth it. "Let them take him to the wet nurse, you need to rest after all that work."

She nodded sleepily. It was then that the midwife he had paid for drew him aside.

"Your wife will not be quite herself for several weeks," the woman said, "She is young and healthy, and the birth a normal one, but she is a small woman and her hips are narrower than I would like."

"And our son?"

"As healthy as any infant I ever helped into the world." There was a nod there. "I would not worry overmuch about his health."

Here she gave him several things to look out for, and instructions on where to find her should Dany's situation suddenly change for the worse.

Viserys waited there in the room after she left, even as the slaves gently changed the sheets Daenerys was laying on, so she could sleep peacefully. The wet nurse (who had arrived shortly after he had) sat with Baelor in the corner, so that Dany could rest easy knowing he was nearby.

All the world was right...

...for the next two, perhaps three hours. He looked over the finances with the help of a learned slave, and saw that all was well. He could afford to keep feeding the soldiers, slaves and servants. He could continue keeping Dany in some quite pretty gowns, if not the royal sort she deserved.

But things were good.

And so focused on these good things was he, that he it took several tries for the Unsullied at the door to get his attention.

"Master, I overheard something while I was working near Magister Illyrio's that you will want to hear."

"What is it?" Viserys looked the man over - Red Rat, a Dothraki.

"He was discussing with some merchants that the Khal who paid us to you was returning to Pentos and is seeking the master's wife again. And--" Here he paused before going on that, "--that if he did return so, whether it would be best for them to take her to the Khal by force."

Viserys's fist clenched.

He was afraid - for himself, for Dany...if not for her, he could not see a reason to--

"What do you advise, should it come to that?"

"The Dothraki value strength," Red Rat said, "And the Khal could not afford to look weak. If master wishes, should this situation come to pass--he should send Grey Worm to challenge the Khal in single combat, while we smuggle the master's wife out of the city."

"Or I could challenge him myself."

The dragon in him rose suddenly, swiftly, roaring to the surface.

Yes, that was exactly what he would do.

Khal Drogo would know what it meant to wake the dragon.

Chapter Text

Viserys

It took a sizeable bribe, but Viserys was able to have Dany, Baelor, and several of her slave maids, hidden away with a handful of the Unsullied. The one or two that he had lent out as daily hire to Illyrio brought back reports that the man was of a mind to find and hand her over to the Khal in secret. And that--that made the anger in him burn even hotter. How dare he, how dare he plot that kind of treachery.

Whether or not it kept the city safe, he did not care, no one would even think of threatening to steal Dany and send her into that miserable life unless it was over his cold corpse.

And though his other Unsullied insisted once again on recommending he send Grey Worm to meet the approaching Dothraki, he once more declined.

He had gone from soft and lithe to hard and built. He did not want it to be for nothing, this struggle--after all, hadn't he done it to be able to defend himself, and what was his?

Something--something under his skin itched for violence, for a chance to put to use his training with the Unsullied. He had always felt that urge to harm, but bottled it up, kept it hidden away. And it festered like an unclean wound.

It was kept at bay somewhat with the Unsullied around to fight. They took his orders to train him seriously, and he was kept to such standards that he was too tired for the urge to ever be more than that.

But now...

Looking at the Dothraki horde on the horizon, and with the spear and sword in his hands, he felt the madness of the dragon peeking through. With him was Jhiqui, who would speak to the Dothraki for him.

"Master's victory would make it easy for him to claim he is the new khal."

As he did not respond, she stayed silent.

The khalasar approached, and Khal Drogo came forward, with his own collared slave to speak for him.

"Are you the representative of Pentos the city has sent? The khal wishes to bargain for the safety of the city."

Some of the Dothraki a short distance behind Khal Drogo looked unsteady. Had they expected something different?

Jhiqui relayed this to Viserys, and he replied with, "I am Daenerys Targaryen's husband, and I will not hand her over unfought for."

A pause, and then he went on.

"I will challenge the khal to single combat over my wife, but I would like to ask--is he really willing to risk not only leadership of his khalasar, but also his life?"

(The dragon had woken, stretched its wings, and reared back its head to roar for blood)

The khal spoke a rough sentence, and drew his arakh.

Some of the waiting Dothraki began to protest loudly over this. Jhiqui looked back to Viserys with a strange sort of smile.

"His bloodriders are telling him to beware what the dosh khaleen--that's what we call our wise women--said. They are saying he was told that the master's wife would be his doom. It must be understood - Dothraki hold the dosh khaleen in high esteem. And for Khal Drogo to not only seek the master's wife out again, but also to agree to this combat in an act of such disobedience--well, they are protesting that one woman is not worth risking everything he stands to lose. Not just his life, but standing among the Dothraki."

A pause.

"He accepts the challenge, of course." After another pause, Jhiqui added, "When master's skill trumps the Khal's, he should cut off his braid and display it to those who watch the fight. I am not trying to issue orders--but this will help cement your victory with the Dothraki."

"Cut off his hair? Why?"

"A khal cuts his hair when he loses, and Khal Drogo has never lost a battle," she said, bowing her head slightly. "Every Dothraki who saw the braid would know from whose head it was shorn...and master's reputation as a powerful warrior would warn them of his skill in battle just by that fact."

"I will have it decorate my spear, then," Viserys replied.

One moment he was staring at the Khal, who was staring right back. The next he was charging.

The dragon blood sang.

He held back at first, waiting to see how the Khal fought. Wild swings full of rage, a burning hatred in his eyes that followed Viserys no matter which way he turned. When the spear pricked his skin and drew blood his swings only grew more furious.

He had learned enough Dothraki to understand some of what the Khal was snarling at him.

Moon of my life. My khaleesi.

Viserys still felt the sting when the arakh sliced at his shoulder, but the red anger flared and he moved back, slicing--barely making a bleeding cut on the Khal's chest.

"My khaaleesi," he snarled back in Dothraki.

When the next strike cut away the head of his spear, Viserys dove for it and barely dodged the crazed slice that followed. He felt the air rush by his arm, and came back up - moved back down, rolling -

- and stuck the spearhead into the back of the Khal's thigh. There was a growl of pain, a turn--and Viserys kept his hand on the spearhead to sink it deeper as the body above turned.

The Khal limped now, and when Viserys rose, the bloody spearhead in his hands...just for a moment, he stopped. A chill went down his spine, even in the heat of the day.

The eyes that stared back at him were angry, had lost all reason.

He is going to die, because he could not tame the fires.

Viserys had the sudden feeling that if he did not master the dragon within him, someday he might end up like the Khal.

His next blows were all slight glances as he side stepped many of them, jabbing here and there, just enough to draw blood.

You are smaller and lighter, master, Grey Worm had said, given honesty as far as training went, Many opponents might think you weak, but so much weight is heavy, with more blood to lose.

The ground turned red wherever the Khal moved, and while he lost not a bit of fervor in his lunges, he did begin to stumble.

SIlver coward, he heard the Khal snarl in Dothraki.

He felt the dragon rise again, angry, fighting against his restraint. It wasn't satisfied. It never would be.

When the Khal stumbled and fell, he took the arakh from his hand and - just as the head turned to glare one final time - cut a deep gash in his throat.

The Khal died gurgling his last word: "Khaleesi."

Viserys stood, breathing hard, and with the bloodied spear, turned the khal over and roughly cut away the lengthy braid at the base. Then he stood, and held it aloft.

Chaos.

Three figures (the khal's bloodriders, he would later hear) rushed forward, and the first fell with a spear that flew from behind Viserys and struck him dead in the eye. The second tripped over the first, and in one swift movement Viserys brought the arakh down to nearly sever his head.

The third knocked him to the ground. Viserys, moving quicker than he would later think he should have at the moment, swept up a handful of dirt to smear into the Dothraki's eyes. He managed to get up, squirming, as the other spat curses and swung wildly.

Viserys ducked under the last blow and stabbed him in the chest - then felt a grin spread across his face when the blood began to pulse out, practically spraying itself on the ground below.

The man was down within a minute. He stood, half-covered in blood and sweat, and looked back over his shoulder.

"Jhiqui," he called out, "I need you to speak for me."

She rushed forward, and as he spoke, translated.

"Dothraki! Today you have seen what happens to men who challenge Viserys Targaryen! The horse is mighty, but the dragon devours even the strongest beast! You follow Khal Drogo no longer, you follow ME! Make camp and celebrate, for tomorrow we ride to conquer the world!"

A roar went up.

"Jhiqui," he said, tone low, "Find out who controls the Unsullied he brought with him. And see if there is any wildfire to be had in Pentos."

Forty thousand dothraki camped outside Pentos, and Viserys' first act as khal was to demand the head and half the wealth of Illyrio Mopatis, in exchange for not sacking the city. He would have the Dothraki burn Khal Drogo and his bloodriders in accordance to their own way, but asked that they not light the fires until he said.

Then he had Grey Worm retrieve Daenerys from her hiding place. She came running to him, despite the egg at her side.

"Viserys, did--you must have won, but how?"

"Because of the Unsullied." He smiled, and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Grey Worm has molded me into a warrior. I owe them a great debt...if it weren't for them--"

"I would have been taken by the Khal, and...Baelor...I don't want to know what they would have done to Baelor." She took a shaky breath, and hugged him tightly. "I wish we could free them."

"Is that what you want?" he asked.

"We are nice enough to ours, but...they are still slaves. I think...how easily it could have been us, wearing these collars."

The dragon's fire melted away as he stood there, holding her, and peace rose in its place.

She was right, wasn't she? It could easily have been them, had they made a wrong step somewhere.

"If I could free them all, I would." Daenerys finally looked up at him. "But that's impossible, isn't it? You can't just..."

"We are dragons. We can do whatever we want." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to have a bath, and then we'll give these Dothraki a night to remember."

"And I will be with you."

"It may not be--"

"Please," she said, "I must be with you. You're going to burn the khal and the bloodriders, aren't you? Jhiqui and the others told me the khals are burned."

"Why do you ask?"

"The eggs," she said. "I want you to burn the eggs."

"Why should we burn the eggs?"

Daenerys looked into the bag, and drew out the green egg. "I know you have been too busy to look at them, but I've been putting them in the fire. Something tells me we need a bigger one, though."

"And would that something be a dream?"

"Maybe."

He decided to indulge her. In all likelihood nothing would happen, but it would make her happy. And he would do anything to see her happy.

"Fine, we may do that. But you have to wait, and once you've finished eating, I want you and Baelor to go into the khal's tent, with Grey Worm and at least five other Unsullied and not come out until I come for you."

"Wh--Viserys, what are you planning?"

He kissed her, deeply, and only spoke when he drew back.

"The dragon wants his pound of flesh."

He looked down at the carved whip in his hand, this harpy's fingers, as they called it, and had to force back a mad grin.

"They say you must braid your hair, master," Jhiqui said, handing him a vial. "The khals do this, a new braid for each victory. And--I am sorry, master, that is all I could get. Someone has been buying large amounts, and it is getting harder to smuggle things out of King's Landing now."

Around them the sound of Dothraki revelry went on. An Unsullied was in view, no matter which way he looked. He waited.

"Of course, master will do as he wishes, regarding his braids."

"No, they are correct. I have the khal's braid, but I suppose I should have one of my own." He paused. "I will have it done...but tomorrow. And this is all I need. Thank you, Jhiqui."

She bowed her head, and moved off.

Viserys called the strongest of the khalasar together, as a large pyre was being prepared for Khal Drogo and his horse. One of the golden-collared slaves stood close, placing the eggs around his body.

"The dragon khal speaks!" He raised Khal Drogo's arakh, to set it on the wood beside his body. "Khal Drogo shall have his horse and his arakh to ride into the Night Lands. No greater treasure can there be to go with him than the dragon eggs of House Targaryen - a treasure beyond price he once held, and which he shall carry again."

He saw Dany, smiling at him from some front row in the crowd, and then looked to the Unsullied behind her, nodding at the man who quickly ushered his charge away.

He looked out behind the dozen or so warriors, where half as many Unsullied stood. From his pocket he drew out the tiny vial Jhiqui had given him. It was only when he looked briefly up that he saw the red comet.

A good omen.

Deep breath.

He moved behind the just-lit funeral pyre, and threw the vial directly at it.

*Daenerys*

The sounds of celebration and joy had gone on for only a little bit longer once she was back inside the khal's tent. Jhiqui and Doreah were with her, but neither of them seemed to know what was going on.

"Master asked for wildfire, but I don't know why," Jhiqui said.

"Wildfire?" Daenerys covered a sleeping Baelor with a blanket. "What would he..."

"It is very dangerous even to carry. It is known."

"It is known," Doreah agreed. "Perhaps he means to burn someone."

Then the laughter turned to screams.

The five Unsullied in the tent stomped the ends of their spears against the ground, and then pointed them towards the entrance.

"The master has told us," Grey Worm said in Valyrian, "That we are not to allow you to leave. It is too dangerous."

"What is he doing?"

"Completing his victory."

The sounds of death went on - there was shouting and screaming in Dothraki, sounds which gradually grew less and less, while the sound of Unsullied boots grew more and more frequent.

Only when the cries grew silent, after what felt like a terribly long time, did Grey Worm peek out of the tent. He spoke briefly to another Unsullied outside the tent, and then looked back.

"The master wishes you to join him now."

Daenerys left Baelor in the yurt with Jhiqui and Doreah and the other Unsullied, while five more she hadn't seen outside follow the two of them.

The ground was red. No matter where she looked there were dead Dothraki warriors, and she had to choose her steps carefully to avoid slipping or stepping on any of them. As she moved she saw more and still more dead, all of them bearing wounds from Unsullied spears.

"Viserys," she said, once she reached him, "What have you done?"

"Dany," he replied with a smile, embracing her. "I have given the Dothraki a story they will tell for generations."

"Would you like to give them another?" she asked.

"I will gladly hear any story you have to tell, my sweet sister."

She kissed him, and then, smiling, took a step toward the fire. He didn't follow the tug of her hand until he saw her touch the flames and not burn.

Viserys stepped into the fire with her, and only when they both stood in the green flames, their clothes and hair beginning to burn away, did they hear a loud crack.

There were cries of shock and terror from the crowd of those who remained. The cracks and pops of burning wood and the heat of wildfire that would not stop burning until well into the morning after.

CRACK.

"The dragon must have three heads," she said, and he smiled though he would tell her later he had barely heard her. "And now it does."

The next crack was so loud they felt it in their chests.

He held her until the fire was finally out. She had never felt so secure as she did in that moment, in the arms of the brother that loved her so well.

But by the time the fire did go out--

One dragon, green and bronze, was nursing from her left breast. Another, red and black, suckled at the right.

And on Viserys's shoulder, the cream and gold one gave off a hiss. The other two lifted their heads and began to call back. All three soon stretched their little wings - and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.