Title: Beasts in the Darkness
Author/Artist: Unanon
Pairing: Jaime/Brienne, Sandor/Sansa, Dany/Tyrion
Word Count: 1558
Summary:"In the dark we all have to feel our way."
Warnings: None. Section divisions taken from a poem written by perch . Written for the asoiafexchange community on LiveJournal

"In the dark we all have to feel our way."

For a time he'd lived in a haze of not knowing, of only feeling, the heat that shimmered off the high walls and towers of the Eastern city perfectly complementing his sense of disorientation. He hadn't objected when Varys had schemed to find the Dragon Queen, hadn't cared during the miserable voyage across waters and wastelands. Varys may have had his motives for seeking out the last Targaryen, but Tyrion had his reasons as well. After all, death by dragonfire would be a fitting death for a kinslayer, a failure, a half-man.

He'd been brought before her as she sat wearing the three-dragon crown, proud and radiant in the torchlight, and forced to make the humiliatingly short trip onto his knees. As Varys babbled, there had been a leathery rustle and the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against the elaborate tile of the floor somewhere to Tyrion's left. For a breathless moment he was sure his end had come and he'd squeezed his eyes shut, waiting.

The hand that touched his brow had been cool, firm, and the violet eyes that met his when he lifted them were cool as well.

"It appears Drogon likes you," she'd said. She was close enough that he felt the whisper of her breath; he hadn't been disarmed and for a fleeting moment he'd toyed with the idea of unsheathing his dagger and plunging it into her heart. His death would be swift then and, perhaps strangely meaningful. But then she'd taken his hand and placed it on the dragon's brow and there, marbled skin and hardened scales beneath his fingertips and her own elegant fingers resting lightly beside, everything changed.

"In the dark, we are but stumbling children seeking comfort."

She'd been proper and gentle and strong - every inch the lady that Sandor both wanted and feared, even in her thin disguise as Littlefinger's bastard. She'd taken his hand and led him to a bed she'd prepared for them, for him, and he'd almost bolted despite his desire for her. He didn't know then how to touch her in the manner he thought she deserved, and after they'd finished he'd felt dirty, cruel, as if he'd broken an image of the Maiden herself and had been praised for it instead of scorned. As much as he wanted her touch, she discomfited him so much that he'd lashed out, using words like daggers in the only way he knew. At first she'd been cowed by it and Sandor knew the strange comfort, the feeling of rightness that came from listening to her trying to muffle her sobs in her pillow beside him. It was appropriate that she weep at his side; what woman wouldn't?

He had expected her to ignore him afterward, to never speak with him again, perhaps even to join others who mocked his ugliness to other ladies in whispers just loud enough for him to hear. But she had invited him into her bed again, and again, and even more as the cold of Winter deepened until as often as not his feet took him to her chamber door before they led him to his own. It wasn't as if he'd refuse her; he wanted her. And maybe, if he admitted it to himself, he'd wanted the strange gentleness of her small arms embracing his turned back and the press of her tear-dampened cheeks between his shoulder blades. He wanted her need for him just as much as he questioned it, doubted it, hated the possibility that her motives for bedding him might be less than what she claimed or worse...more.

He held these thoughts for a long time, returning to them whenever Sansa's caresses or smiles were particularly appealing. But resisting her became a task, a chore that weighed on him more heavily each night until finally he found himself turning toward her touch. He didn't deserve to be the one to hold her as she slept, but a dog will take any scraps that are offered. It was almost pathetic how happy she'd become at his apparent softening toward her attentions, how she'd cling to him and whisper things into his sole remaining ear. She had plans, secrets, and her promises were so cleverly spun that he'd wanted to believe in them more than he'd ever wanted to kill his brother or anything else his mind might have once sought after for pleasure. He'd twist his hair in his fist while he moved inside her and her lips would part again and again with those words. She'd press her mouth to his and speak against his lips until the sound resonated within him like the thrumming of his heart, until her words and the slap of their sweat dampened skin became the only music in the world, the only rhythm.


"In the dark we are all just bodies, our imperfections hidden."

Jaime was sometimes surprised how Brienne, once she'd overcome her blushes and maidenly shyness, often laughed when they are in bed together. Teasing that once would have annoyed and embarrassed her now elicited a response so opposite that Jaime couldn't help but provoke her more just to watch her generous mouth smirk before splitting into a smile. She was all glittering blue eyes and freckles and red, wet lips and she gave as good as she received both verbally and physically. Nothing was sacred; their pillow talk was a mingling of playful insults and disparaging remarks on one another's flaws, both physical and moral, and the sex itself was energetic, a near-combative grappling that left them both panting and exhausted. Any tenderness was reserved for the afterglow, and generally involved the same style of banter as the foreplay, but with the sting of intention removed.

She'd been beautiful to him in that strange way that one often finds the unconventional beautiful. He'd tease her about the smallness of her breasts and she'd respond that they were ample enough for a man with only one hand to cup them. When she gained the upper hand, straddling him and pushing his shoulders down into the coverlet (and on more than one occasion into a sharp rock or three) he had remarked on the broadness of her shoulders and the cords of her neck. Only once had he compared her to Cersei while she was beneath him and vulnerable, and it was one time too many for his memory to bear without discomfort or for his flesh to bear without fear of injury. Brienne had been perfection in imperfection, the exuberant trick of design that resulted in a woman so unlike any he'd ever known before, but with so much to be praised if one would only bother to look beyond the oddity of her. She didn't understand then, but he'd try to make her see it, see that for him the comparison was everything.

"In the dark we are betrayed by our own fears."

The lines of her skin were beautiful in shadow, stark and eerily luminescent like the dragons that bowed to her will. Tyrion still didn't quite understand how it was that he'd arrived in those lands a broken man (a half-man at that) and ended up in the bedchamber of a queen. But he had and there he was - and it was a dream he both loved and distrusted but at least that insecurity had felt familiar. Varys had disapproved, or at least pretended to disapprove, but his word meant nothing in this matter. Less than nothing since the queen took to bed whomever she wished without seeming to lend her heart to anyone. At first she'd wanted him to watch, to squirm uncomfortably while her handmaidens pleasured her. But later she'd began to approach him, touch him, at first merely on the arm or on his chest while his cheeks burned at his body's reaction. Sometimes she'd summon the servants who had just finished their duties with her to preform the same service for him while she watched, eyes never wavering and never showing anything other than idle curiosity at what they saw.

On the eve of their invasion her summons was no different than that of previous evenings, but when Tyrion arrived at her bedchamber Daenerys was alone. He'd stood awkwardly inside the threshold for a moment thinking there had been some mistake, but then she'd held out a hand and he'd found himself beside her, touching her, fearful all the while that she'd change her mind and summon Strong Belwas to kill him despite the years of tenuous trust they'd established.

Afterward she'd curled around him, cradled him, one hand cupping his testicles with a touch as gentle as the rest of her. He couldn't doubt that he seemed awkward in her arms, misshapen as he'd been since birth. But her touch made him feel treasured, as rare as her dragons and as valuable. He knew this was her final guarantee, the last measure intended to bind him to her completely before she entered Westeros and burned everything he might have once loved more than he loved her.

It was a brilliant tactic, but ultimately a futile one. He had no plans to betray her, but even Tyrion couldn't know what the morrow would bring.


"In the dark we are alone."