Chapter One
Loud upbeat EDM rang through the penthouse, along with the sounds of people laughing and partying. The spacious flat was filled with people to the brim, from celebrities to ordinary university students. No one could say that Daenerys Targaryen didn't know how to host a party.
Sansa Targaryen flitted through the crowd, barely hiding her unease at the noise and at the appreciative yet guarded looks headed her way. She had a role to play today, the role she always had to play since she came screaming into the world, and she'll be damned if she slacked. Family, duty, honor were the words of her favorite mentor's House, and if she believed and lived by it enough, she might let herself believe that the red of her hair was Tully red and that Catelyn Stark nee Tully was her mother.
Sansa's head was filled with fancies like that, foolish they may be. Catelyn Stark was strong enough and eligible enough to be a mother of little ladies and lords, and Sansa's dead wildling mother was not. Better be a Tully than a naturalized Blackfyre.
But Blackfyres don't exist anymore. The shame of bastardy was eliminated by the Council of the Lords and the Natural Parliament fifty years prior to her birth. No more Snows, Sands, or Stones. But Sansa likes to call herself a Blackfyre in secret, daydreaming about the Blackfyres of the long gone past, even secretly owns a fake Twitter account by the name of Alayne Blackfyre. She was unnatural, unloved, unprotected. She doesn't feel like a Targaryen.
Nobody talks much about Sansa Targaryen. And if they do, it is to shake their heads and gossip about her controversial history, of how she came to be. Former King Aerys II, the Seven bless his soul, deemed it proper to sire another daughter with a daughter of a Magnar at the height of violence between the government and Free Folk separatist terrorists. The Thenns were one of the few respected Free Folk clans recognized by the state; and as Free Folk themselves, they were torn between the deep sated distrust for the state by their kin and their position in society. Alysane Thenn's sudden pregnancy, out of wedlock it may be, cemented the hold of the Targaryens over the most organized and distinguished clan of the Free Folk. The terrorists and their sympathizers have shunned the Thenns since then.
Speculations about the backstory of Alysane's shame went beyond her grave and followed around her daughter's life like a ghost. Were they in love? Probable but off-putting, since the late King was at most forty years older than the attractive and shy Alysane Thenn, and he wasn't known for being romantic. Was she forced? Perhaps, since no declarations of love and displays of affection filled their relationship, and it was so sudden into the King's three-months-fresh all-out war campaign against the separatists. But it was too reckless, even for the mad King, because if it was true otherwise the overly proud Thenns would have quickly broken their peace with the royal family a long time ago.
No, it was something else, something much, much more valuable than their kinsmen's freedom that made the Thenns choose to support the sovereignty of the state rather than break away from it and the Targaryens and the rest of Westeros to quickly accept the bastard red-haired Targaryen princess. It made Sansa itch thinking about it sometimes, like she was doing now, because she felt that knowing the reason somehow would make her existence more easily understood for her. But she only knew about her matriarchal side from the rare moments they were in the news, with the Thenns holing themselves up in their estate beyond the Wall after Sansa's birth, and the sole Thenn she has ever met was Sigorn Thenn, a senior from her high school two years ago. Sigorn ignored her every time their paths crossed, but sometimes she caught him looking at her with a strange look on his face.
Sansa would only realize right this day that it was pity that she saw on her cousin's face, and mixed with a little bit of longing.
She was now starting to get sick of receiving that look.
Harrold Hardying was standing in one corner of the room, sporting a wide smile and a glass of scotch in his hand. He was surrounded by other rich and attractive playboys, top eligible bachelors of Westeros, all of them laughing about whatever boys like him like to laugh about, and scouring the crowd for their flavor of the night. Sansa made the stupid mistake of accidentally crossing glances with him and watched his face morph into the familiar look of fake guilt and well-hidden arrogance. Harry Hardyng tried his best to understand Sansa Targaryen's clinginess and insecurities, oh yes, but it really wasn't meant to be.
She wanted to kill him so badly, ask a loyal Kingsguard to do the job for her, end all the fresh vicious rumors surrounding her again, but she wouldn't. No. A lady's armor is her manners, and Sansa would rather date Harrold Hardyng again than afford to be a stereotypical rebellious orphan. She hated stereotypes. They brought too much attention and none at all. She deemed herself better this way, disappointing people with her lack of capacity to follow through with their clichéd expectations that primarily meant her personal self-destruction.
Sansa sighed. That's enough posturing for the night. If only Mya and Myranda were here, she would've stayed out 'til the cows came home. Or until sunrise. Whatever. Without Mya and Myranda, she was done. Only the two girls could convince her to stay out late, Myranda Royce with her scandalous words and brazen personality, and Mya Stone with her quick comebacks and mischievous self. Sansa shouldn't be so dependent on them, but that's a story for another day.
Sighing one more time, Sansa dumped her red cup in a nearby trashcan and grimaced at how trashed Dany's kitchen looks right now. She made her way to the rooms above, grateful that the penthouse had a guest room, one on the far end of the corridor.
As she walked to the far end of the corridor, the door to Dany's room opened. Stepping out were her silver-haired sister, laughing loudly with a dark-haired man.
Sansa took a sharp intake of breath and had the urge to run away as fast as she can. But she was Sansa Targaryen, and she stood her ground and planted an impassive look on her face.
The couple stopped laughing and glanced at Sansa once they noticed they weren't alone anymore. One had an instant bright smile on her face, the other went pale.
"My baby sister!" Daenerys opened her arms and went to Sansa, hugging her tightly. Trying to stop her heart from leaping out of her throat, Sansa hugged her back, albeit not as tightly. Daenerys was used to it, hugging a sibling who wouldn't do it with much enthusiasm as hers, so she didn't mind. "You made it!" her ethereally beautiful sister almost screamed in her ear so Sansa pulled back and smiled her usual fond smile.
"I like your parties, Dany, wouldn't miss it for the world," Sansa replied, and grinned as Dany rolled her eyes. Dany was older by four years, but had more childish moments than her younger red-haired sister. "Whatever you say, Sansa. Are you-" Dany stopped and furrowed her eyebrows, finally noticing where Sansa was. Sansa's heart couldn't beat any faster than it did now.
"Why are you retreating this early? Did someone-"
"No, Dany, I'm fine. I'm just tired from the flight, I guess," Sansa hastily replied. Dany's face morphed from burgeoning anger to concern. Sansa's heartbeat calmed down.
"Okay. Get your rest now, little dove," Dany then patted her cheek and let herself be guided away by the arm in her middle. She kissed the dark-haired man's cheek and smiled up at him lovingly. Something inside Sansa's chest clenched, and she gritted her teeth. Softie Sansa. She hates herself right now.
As she started to tear her eyes away from the couple, the dark-haired man snuck a glance at her. Sansa suddenly felt rooted to the ground, trapped under soulful brown eyes that regarded her with an emotion she couldn't figure out.
But the moment was over as soon as it began, and he turned away as they went down the stairs. She breathed a sigh, of relief, or of anything she didn't know. Sansa turned and walked to her room, her heart beating fast anew.
Jon Snow-Stark always had the most beautiful eyes.