Her entire family is likely dead. Honestly, it’s something she should probably shed a tear over, but Sansa has learned well enough to never show weakness such as that, even when among those who say they’re trying to help you. ESPECIALLY among those who say they’re trying to help you. As the ship rises and falls with the ebb and flow of the waves beneath them, the most Sansa does to express her discontent (to put it mildly) with everything that’s happened is to flare her nostrils outwards.
 
To be fair, she’s known for some time now that no other Stark is likely to remain alive on Westeros. Her little brothers, according to all reports, were dead at Theon Greyjoy’s hands, burnt when he sacked Winterfell. Bran and Rickon… one a cripple and the other far too young to understand what was happening… she could only imagine the ways they both suffered before they died.
 
And then there was Robb and mother. Foolish, foolish Robb. Not that Sansa blamed him for starting the war on father’s behalf of course. She had in the beginning, before the decapitation of her papa, and the beatings that followed. He’d done the right thing, and he’d even been winning, up until he thought with his dick instead of his brain. And mother? Mother had let him. Sansa would mourn them forever, but she also thought she might blame them forever as well. It wasn’t fair for her to do so, perhaps… but life wasn’t fair, now was it?
 
Her sister, Arya… Sansa didn’t have confirmation on her, to be perfectly fair. But how could Arya have possibly survived out there, alone in the world? It was almost certain that death had found her by this point, taking the life from those bright, wild eyes. Amusingly enough, it’s for Arya that Sansa has to hold back the tears the most. But then, she’s not just mourning her dead sister, but also her failures as an elder sibling, her inability to connect with Arya in any truly meaningful way before they were torn apart by the insatiable greed and lusts of others.
 
That just left the bastard, really. Perhaps it was wrong of Sansa to think of Jon in that way, especially now. After all, he might be the closest blood relative she has left. But if he was alive, it was because he was still up on that damn wall, playing Watcher. He’d gone north and taken the Black while the Starks went south and died for it. It felt wrong, it all felt so wrong. Once again, it was probably greatly unfair of Sansa to put any blame for what had happened on Jon.
 
After all, she could place just as much blame on her father for being stubborn and honorable enough to refuse to play the game, only to lose his head for it. She could place plenty of blame on Robb for being foolish enough to let a girl distract him from his sworn duties. She could blame her mother, for not being strong enough to stop her son, or for what she’d done to Tyrion in the first place that kicked so much of this off.
 
But in all fairness, Sansa didn’t blame any of them, not even Jon, nearly as much as she blamed herself. It was she who’d pushed her father again and again to make the match between her and Joffrey happen. It was she who’d wanted so badly to be a Queen, who’d wanted to believe that she was getting her fairytale ending with all her heart. It was she who’d willfully blinded herself to the depravities of both her betrothed and his mother, until eventually her father lay dead before her, and she’d gone from would-be Queen to prisoner like that.
 
Yes. Sansa knew much of this was her fault, and some day… some day she’d have to pay for that. When that day would come, she did not know. Especially not when there was a man who was trying with all his heart to secret her away to who knew where.
 
“Lady Sansa! How fare you this fine morning?”
 
Sansa’s blue eyes slide down from where they were staring off into nothingness to take in the figure speaking with her from down on the deck. From where she stands on the upper deck, leaning on the railing just a few feet to the side of and in front of the ship’s wheel, she can’t help but find him to be so… little. But then, to be fair…
 
“I am well, Lord Baelish.”
 
She says the words without much relish, but he smiles as if she’s just graced him with the most beautiful smile in turn. Then, another man, the crew’s first mate if Sansa has been paying attention (which she HAS) demands his attention, and Petyr Baelish, the man who’s spirited her away from King’s Landing, turns away for a moment to speak with him in lower tones than she can hear from her current position on the upper deck.
 
Sansa has no desire to draw closer though, instead sliding her gaze back up to straight ahead, looking out onto the horizon before them. If she looks to her left, she’ll see the coast that they’re hugging as they make their way to their ultimate destination, the Eerie, but she prefers straight ahead, prefers to stare out into the seemingly unending sea, with all its possibility of end laid out before her.
 
Is she suicidal? No, perhaps not… but she also does not fear death so much anymore. An end to life would mean an end to this pain she carries within her. The corner of Sansa’s mouth quirks up at the thought, a hint of a real smile before it fades just as quickly as it comes. At least… at least she can say she outlived Joffrey, and likely Cersei as well.
 
King’s Landing was still in chaos when she left it at Littlefinger’s side. But then, repeated visits by a dragon would do that, or so Sansa figured. Not that she wasn’t happy they’d happened. The wedding between Joffrey and Margaery had pissed her off to no end, not least of all because of Joffrey’s treatment of Tyrion. If you’d told Sansa that she would come to pity, if not quite care about a Lannister after all they’d done to her and her family, she would have… well, likely she would have just smiled and nodded, while internally laughing her ass off.
 
Regardless, after being forced to marry the Imp and then not being forced to bed him, Sansa had come to realize that Tyrion was not like the others. No, if anything, they hated him more than her, or at least as much as her. After Joffrey’s death and the death of Lord Tywin, Cersei had certainly hated both Sansa and her dwarf brother equally.
 
The idea that either of them had anything to do with Joffrey’s poisoning seemed ludicrous, at least to Sansa. But then the truth of the necklace had come out, and she’d realized that, much like her father, she’d become a pawn in the game simply because she’d never tried to play it. To be perfectly fair, Sansa had never thought she COULD play it. It’d seemed so far out of her reach, like she would always be a piece, rather than a player. Even still, standing up on that chopping block that day beside Tyrion, ready to lose her head in the same place and the same way that her father did… it had put quite a lot into perspective for the young Stark woman.
 
And then, while Tyrion was trying to save both their lives with nothing but his wits, his short stubby legs, and the poison necklace that had killed Joffrey, the dragon had shown up again. Sansa had been sure she was going to die in that moment, as the massive black beast descended from on high, heading right for the raised platform. She’d cowered instinctively, not quite as ready for death as she’d thought at the time. But then, who wanted to go like that? Ripped to shreds by a dragon, or even worse, burnt and swallowed alive down that massive throat?
 
Sansa had cowered, and yet, when the dust settled, she’d still be cowering, completely untouched. The dragon had not come for her… it’d come for Cersei Lannister, and the Queen Mother’s screams had echoed through the sky as it flew off with her in its clutches. Sansa was unscathed and Tyrion… Tyrion had used the distraction provided by the dragon to win the Trial by Combat, killing Sir Payne quite dead.
 
It was later that night that Littlefinger had come for her. He’d brought honeyed words and men, but Sansa would probably not have listened to the former if it were not for the latter. She could read a situation pretty well these days though, and the fact that he’d brought an armed guard with him told Sansa that even if she tried to put up a fuss, he was taking her rather she liked it or not.
 
Better to be leashed than caged, Sansa had ultimately decided. Allowing Littlefinger to take her from the Capital with concerns of her safety, the idea that the dragon might come back and take her next, Sansa had found herself very quickly loaded onto his boat and headed up towards the Vale without much protest. What was the point? Protest would get her nowhere. Obedience… she could work with obedience. She’d been doing it all her life.
 
Even still, Sansa had some idea of what Littlefinger wanted of her, and it turned her stomach something furious. The constant comments about her mother and his love for her made it abundantly clear that Sansa was his next best chance. Unlike honorable Tyrion who was unwilling to touch an unwilling lady, Petyr Baelish was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. His smiles hid a vicious tint to them, and Sansa knew that while he was trying to woo her for now, courting her in his own perverse, disgusting way, she would eventually have to reciprocate, or things would turn bad for her.
 
Mentally, the red head was already preparing herself for that eventuality. Knowing it was just around the corner did not make her feel any better, but at the very least, Sansa would be ready for it. She refused to allow herself to continue being surprised by the depravity of those around her, by the greed and the lust for power that each and every person, no matter how much they tried to hide it, shared.
 
She-
 
“Lady Sansa! Why don’t you come down from there! There was something I wished to discuss with you!”
 
Thoughts cut off by Littlefinger’s voice once more, Sansa slides her gaze down to him to find he’s no longer chatting with the first mate, and instead is smiling up at her. Pushing off the railing, Sansa prepares to make her way down to the deck, despite the fact that she’s still working on her sea legs, at least a little bit. But before she can reach the stairs that will take her into Petyr Baelish’ waiting arms, a loud, now-familiar roar splits the air, followed by a wave that crashes against the side of the ship, causing Sansa to stumble to the side and grab onto the railing she just let go of for support.
 
It’s in that moment that the dragon returns, his wing beat having caused the wave and his sudden presence on the ship giving no one any time whatsoever to react. Whoever was up in the crow’s nest must have been looking the other way, or they were otherwise terrible at their job. Because the massive black dragon that had interrupted a wedding and an execution already, is suddenly on the ship, right in front of a cowering Petyr Baelish.
 
Sansa barely has time to take this in, the view of Littlefinger with his hands raised and terror in his eyes before the massive black dragon, before said creature’s neck distends and it lunges it’s head forward, taking Lord Petyr Baelish into its jaws and snapping him in two, before tossing both halves of his body up into the air and letting them fall down into its throat, roasted by a plume of dragon fire that erupts a moment before.
 
The crew is panicking, of course. Some are already jumping overboard, while others have run below deck to cower in fear. Sansa can feel it, that the ship is likely already sinking, and while a very select few of the crew are actually able to master themselves enough to try and stop it, she knows they aren’t likely to succeed. Especially not when the next thing the dragon does is wrap his jaws around the central mast and snap it just as cleanly in half as he did Littlefinger, letting the sails fall onto the deck and halfway off the boat besides.
 
Still, land isn’t that far away, perhaps a couple hours swim. Some of them might make it. They are sailors after all. Sansa though… Sansa knows she won’t. She barely even knows how to swim. Besides… the dragon is staring right at her now, and she knows that even if she jumped, it would not leave her to drown. No, that is not to be her fate.
 
Slowly, pushing herself off the rail a second time, Sansa straightens to her full height. The somewhat warm coat that Petyr had given her during their flight from King’s Landing, Sansa lets fall from her shoulders, leaving her dressed in nothing but a nightgown, the same nightgown she’d been wearing when Petyr had spirited her away.
 
Littlefinger had liked it, she’d seen it in the lecherous man’s eyes, so she hadn’t even entertained the idea of asking to be allowed to change. Not least of which because she suspected not a single man, Little finger or his guards, would have left the room while she did so. Regardless, Sansa Stark is still a Lady of the North, regardless of what has happened to her.
 
Stepping down the stairs towards the deck and the dragon that currently sits upon it, Sansa takes the wooden steps one by one, making sure to always keep a hand on the railing for support. The ship is already beginning to list a little to one side, and the water is starting to slosh up onto the deck when Sansa’s feet finally touch it.
 
She ignores this and continues walking towards the dragon, coming within reach of him, waiting for him to snatch her up as he did Margaery Tyrell and Cersei Lannister. Instead, as he watches her with that massive yellow eye, the big black dragon slowly lowers his left side to her, offering her quite pointedly the opportunity to climb up onto his back. Sansa stares blankly at this, not quite understanding WHY for a long moment. But then the ship tremors, and she’s reminded that the whole thing is sinking.
 
It takes some doing, and she has to avoid plenty of large spiky protrusions coming off of the scaled beast’s body, but eventually Sansa makes it up onto the creature, finding a somewhat safe place to sit between two of it’s larger back-spikes. As she nestles herself in, grimacing slightly at how thin her nightgown feels between her otherwise naked body and the dragon’s hard back, she grabs hold of whatever she can.
 
Then, the dragon speaks to her. Or, not really speaks… but she understands what it’s trying to tell her through the burst of desire and emotion it pushes at her. Hang on. She’ll have to hang on. Swallowing hard, Sansa makes sure her grip is as strong as it can be, using both her thighs and her hands to hold onto the dragon she’s currently riding atop. Only once it feels this does the great black beast push off of the deck of the ship.
 
His exit does what his entrance failed to fully accomplish, and Sansa watches as the boat capsizes beneath them, flipped over by the great gusts of wind caused by his wings. It and the people in the water around it begin to grow smaller and smaller as the dragon carries her off, and Sansa is soon left to tuck herself in and close her eyes, the wind making them water too much for her to try to keep looking around.
 
Whatever the fate of Lady Tyrell and the Queen Mother… Sansa supposed she would learn firsthand what those were, soon enough.
 
-x-X-x-
 
As Daenerys sits on her throne, she stares at the young woman kneeling before her in nothing but a nightgown, her lips thinned out. To be perfectly honest, she almost wants to pity the girl for nothing more than how pathetic she currently looks. At the same time, she can’t help but be annoyed that Drogon has brought yet ANOTHER woman back to Dragonstone.
 
Not that she’s all that dissatisfied with what he’s done with Margery Tyrell and Cersei Lannister. The latter most of all. Given what Daenerys has been hearing from her spies, Cersei Lannister deserves every last moment of the rest of her life as Drogon’s toy. Honestly, she probably deserves worse than that, but Myrcella had been growing on Daenerys, and the young Baratheon girl (who apparently wasn’t even likely Baratheon, but the product of incest) had been all too eager to introduce her mother to a life of worshipping Drogon.
 
Meanwhile, Margaery Tyrell wasn’t quite as… broken as Cersei, but Daenerys was at least confident that the young woman wouldn’t cause problems. She was also confident that this new arrival wouldn’t either, but that didn’t make her any happier about it.
 
“You are Sansa Stark.”
 
It’s less of a question and more of a statement, but the red head nods all the same, eyes lowered to the floor.
 
“Yes, Your Grace.”
 
“And do you know who I am?”
 
There’s a brief pause as Sansa collects herself, and then…
 
“You are Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Your Name, Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm… and Mother of Dragons?”
 
She sounds a little unsure of that last bit, but then, she’d trailed off at the end. And to be fair, she hadn’t gotten all of Daenerys’ titles perfectly right. But the Targaryen woman appreciated the effort all the same. Which was likely the point. The girl was trying to suck up to her. Daenerys wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that.
 
“Do you know why you are here?”
 
Another pause, but this time the answer, when it does come, is much shorter and more succinct.
 
“No, Your Grace.”
 
Daenerys nods at that. Then, she looks to Drogon. She doesn’t have to say anything, their connection goes much deeper than that, but even still, when he responds to her unspoken words, he does so ‘loud enough’ that the Stark girl hears it as well, jumping a bit as she feels what Drogon is conveying to both her and Daenerys.
 
“… I see.”
 
Sansa Stark is no longer staring at the ground. Now she’s looking back at Drogon, eyes wide. Whether it’s because of the fact that he’s suddenly speaking, or because he has such a high opinion of her, Daenerys does not know. She can only read the mind of one being in this room, and only when he lets her know his thoughts.
 
“My son believes that you and I are alike. He names you a survivor, much like me.”
 
Sansa whips her head around, looking at the Queen with those same wide eyes, before seeming to realize what she’s doing and averting her gaze again.
 
“I… I know not what he means, Your Grace. I am a foolish, weak girl. I always have been.”
 
And the sad thing is, Daenerys can tell Sansa actually believes that. It makes it all the harder to dislike the girl, because Drogon is right. She does see herself in the Stark woman. She sees herself in the way Sansa hides her true emotions behind a false shell, she sees herself in the way Sansa denigrates herself, rather than speaking on her virtues.
 
This is no Margaery Tyrell, and certainly no Cersei Lannister. Nostrils flaring, Daenerys lets out an explosion of hot air.
 
“Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell… will you pledge your fealty to me? Will you forsake all other Kings and Queens, all other masters, and swear loyalty to me here and now, before the eyes of Drogon and the many souls that have passed through these halls?”
 
From the moment that Daenerys titled her Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark’s eyes have been on her again, but this time in a much different way. The other woman’s gaze is calculating now, assessing. And once more, in this too, Daenerys sees herself. She sees the woman she’s become in Sansa Stark, sees some of the fire and the metal that Daenerys has had to gird herself to survive since the deaths of her brother and Drogo. Drogon is right… she and Sansa Stark are more alike than she’d care to admit.
 
For a brief second, Sansa pauses. When she answers, it is not with immediate allegiance, but instead the truth as she sees it, which truth be told, Daenerys appreciates.
 
“I am not Lady of Winterfell, Your Grace. I doubt that they would accept me either. The things I’ve done, that I’ve had to condone…”
 
Daenerys just smiles slightly at that, and gestures pointedly to the great black beast in the room.
 
“I have dragons, Lady Stark.”
 
Drogon’s amusement washes over them both, and for the briefest of moments, Sansa smiles in response. The Stark girl has a nice smile, Daenerys can’t help but thinking, but it’s gone just as quickly as it showed up. She bows her head for a moment, and then begins to speak.
 
“I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell pledge myself to you, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. I am your humble servant, until the day I die, in whatever form that may take.”
 
Daenerys smiles, and though it’s not necessarily a warm smile, it’s still a smile as she gestures with one hand.
 
“Then rise, my Warden of the North.”
 
Sansa Stark’s stormy blue eyes go wider still at that, and as she gets to her feet, she opens her mouth to speak, clearly in shock. But before she can say a word, there’s a sudden noise from behind her, something between a confused growl and a grunt. As the Lady Stark, newly minted Warden of the North whirls about, Daenerys also finds her eyes drawn past the Stark girl to where Drogon was prowling. Then, the Targaryen Queen is coming out of her throne and moving down the steps, jaw dropping open as worry fills her gaze.
 
“Drogon? Drogon?!”
 
But her largest son does not respond, even as he continues to writhe and shift and… shrink? At first, his massive form is doing untold damage to the walls around him, but thankfully, Dragonstone was made with dragons in mind, so the furrows he carves out into the rock do not bring the entire place down on their heads. But then, he starts to change and grow smaller, and all Daenerys can do is watch on the same as Sansa, eyes wide as her beloved dragon becomes… a man.
 
He ends up on his hands and knees, and even in his new form, he still has horns atop his head, a pair of wings folded along his back, and a large, thick tail that flicks this way and that behind him. His hands are clawed, and when he looks up, Daenerys finds herself staring into those same yellow eyes as before, just on a much smaller scale. But while his skin is a greyish black, his facial structure is most certainly that of a man. While his teeth are all still razor sharp, they are the size of human teeth, and so is his lips, his nose.
 
It’s still Drogon. Daenerys can’t be sure how she knows it, but she does. Slowly, he rises to his feet, staring down at himself in wonder. Of course, this exposes the rest of him as well. Beyond his horns, wing, and tail, Drogon has black scales scattered across his body. Most of it is centered on his chest, but there’s some going down his arms and legs as well.
 
However, he’s not wearing any clothing, and his cock… his cock is very much exposed. Daenerys stares at it, because though she’s very familiar with Drogon’s length, she’s never seen it like this before, attached to the body of a man, albeit with draconic features galore. Drogon’s member is not a man’s member, at least, it’s not what she remembers from Drogo, that’s for sure. It’s still ridged and altogether draconic, the cock she’s been… well, worshipping for quite some time now.
 
But it’s much more manageable. Of late, Daenerys has not been able to handle Drogon’s full size. Not even with all of the experience she’s had as he’s grown up at her side. She’s been forced to pleasure him with her tongue and mouth, her hands and her body… but not in the way she would prefer, with every last bit of him inside of her. Now… now his cock, even as it hangs seemingly soft between his humanoid legs, is still more than large enough to satisfy her… but also capable of going INSIDE of her.
 
It takes the Targaryen Queen a moment to shake herself of such thoughts, because really, how Drogon’s new dick size will feel buried inside of her aching quim is NOT the most important thing in this moment.
 
“Drogon? What… what’s happened to you?”
 
Her beloved son blinks and looks up from his clawed hands, which he’d been staring at in wonder, to make eye contact with her. Daenerys shivers under that gaze, and she shivers even more when his lips curl up into a smile that causes her heart to flutter.
 
-x-X-x-
 
I hadn’t seen it coming. Not at all. One moment, Daenerys had been taking my advice and convincing Sansa to be her pawn in the North (no Kingship for you Jon, so sorry!) and the next, right as Sansa finished swearing her fealty, I had begun to experience a… change. That was really the only way I could describe it, because truth be told, I had no idea what was going on at first.
 
It didn’t hurt, or anything like that. It just… it felt weird, okay? The only warning I’d gotten was some sort of sense that I’d reached a peak within myself, that I’d completed the next stage in my development by taking Sansa Stark. And then every last inch of my body had been itchy, for lack of a better word. And then… then I’d begun shrinking.
 
I’d ended up on my hands and knees, not quite understanding what the hell that even meant at first. Having hands again, even clawed ones, was a novelty that took a while to sink in. But slowly but surely, the realization that I’d just shifted into a more human-like figure began to hit me. And then Daenerys spoke up, my mother’s voice so concerned, and I’d looked up to find both her and Sansa staring at me in wide-eyed shock.
 
Standing had been an interesting experience. It actually hadn’t really been THAT long since I’d last been human. Maybe half a year? Well, that actually was a long time, but it was kind of like riding a bike! I’d gotten to my feet with minor difficult, and stared down at myself, taking in my new appearance. The scales and the flesh interwove across my body, leaving me distinctly inhuman, but still standing on two legs.
 
And then my mother asked that fateful question.
 
“Drogon? What… what’s happened to you?”
 
Lifting my gaze to meet hers, I can’t help but smile. Because even without trying, I know that I can do it. So, I open my mouth… and I speak.
 
“Mother. I’ve been waiting so long to be able to talk to you in your tongue.”
 
Daenerys’ eyes bulge and I just grin and nod… and then Sansa Stark falls to the ground in a heap, fainting on the spot and sort of ruining the whole moment. But then, to be fair I had carried her across the ocean on my back wearing nothing but her nightgown, before presenting her to Daenerys for interrogation and judgment. So, ya know… probably my fault.
 
Mother and I move forward as one to help the downed girl, but even as we do, my mind is miles away. Reaching within myself, I can tell immediately that the change isn’t permanent. This new form of mine is not the only form I can take. Becoming a massive, black ‘fuck you’ dragon is still very much in my wheelhouse. Still, I couldn’t help but be giddy with excitement. Because after all…
 
This changes everything.

-x-X-x-

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