"So, I hear you're a Lady…"

Those are the first words out of Daenerys' mouth when she opens her front door.

It takes me a moment to reply. Rather than a skirt, or even jeans, she's wearing a blue satiny — dress, I suppose, although part of me wants to say robe. It's very… flowy and swirly, flaring around her hips as she moves. It's a brilliant cobalt blue, the colour striking against her skin and making her now-evenly-bleached hair seem almost white. Embroidery circles the hem, collar and cuffs; abstract designs picked out in thread of pale yellow and lighter blue.

(She looks stunning. Like a queen.)

I really want to get a closer look at that needlework.

Belatedly, I realise that I should probably answer her instead of just standing here staring (at her) at her dress.

What did she say again? Oh, right.

"No, merely 'The Honourable'. I *did* explain this to the others already."

I sigh heavily and she grins at me as she stands aside to let me into the hallway, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

(Her dress *really* brings out the colour of her eyes.)

On a second glance, I notice some signs of wear on the material, and there's a line along part of one seam where it's clearly been mended. Mended very neatly, mind you, but still. The dress isn't new. It's just been well-cared for. Maybe not worn that often?

"I know, I know. Missandei was quite precise in her account, don't worry. I just thought it would be fun to wind you up."

I should say something; compliment her on it. It (she) *does* look amazing.

I should have mentioned it as soon as she opened the door. I can't just interrupt her now — I'll have to wait for an appropriate segue.

Touching me lightly on the shoulder, Daenerys lowers her voice a little to add: "You do flush very becomingly, after all."

I blink, not sure I heard her correctly, all other thoughts flying right out of my head. I open my mouth to ask for clarification — although I'm not sure if I really want it — but she continues on as if she didn't say anything out of the ordinary.

"Go on through into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I'll rustle up refreshments. Do you want a hot drink? I have a caramel hot chocolate I think you'll like. Otherwise, there's coffee and the usual assortment of herbal teas."

I must have misheard her. That, or she was making a joke that I just don't get. Either way, I dismiss it from my mind and head towards the living room.

"I'll try the caramel hot chocolate, please. It sounds delicious."

"Alright, won't be long."

I take a seat on the sofa, marvelling at how nice it feels to have someone waiting on me for once. Even if I can't quite completely banish the nagging feeling that I should get up and offer to at least help, if not take over completely.

I think working in the service industry has completely spoiled me for being a guest.

Still, it's not exactly a great hardship to bear.

I open my handbag and root around in its cavernous depths until I find the DVD I'm looking for. I really should sort my bag out one of these days. I'm sure there's stuff in here I can easily cull. Maybe I should just tip the whole thing out and only put back in the things I actually need with me on a day to day basis.

Soon. I'll do it soon.

"I've been meaning to ask," comes Daenerys' voice from the kitchen. "How are you getting on with those Kushiel books? Are you enjoying them?"

"Oh, um." I can feel the blush spreading across my cheeks like wildfire through a dry forest. "I'm just starting the third book now. I'm enjoying them a lot, thanks. But, um, I wasn't expecting them to be quite so…" My cheeks burn even hotter. "Explicit?"

I am *so* glad Daenerys can't see me right now. Although I wouldn't be surprised to find out that I'm glowing so brightly that my face is visible even through the *wall*. But, thankfully, there are no exclamations about scarlet incandescence.

I guess I'm safe for now.

"Oh," she says, and I can't quite place the tone of her voice. "They are rather explicit in places, I suppose. I probably should have warned you, sorry. But the viewpoint character is a courtesan, so I guess I just assumed it would be obvious." Well, when she puts it that way, I really do feel like a fool. "I hope it didn't shock you too much," she adds, and the humour in her voice comes as something of a relief.

It's even enough to dissolve the apology bubbling up in my throat before it can emerge into the air.

"It's okay," I say. "It just… took me a little by surprise, that's all." I manage a light laugh of my own, deliberately *not* thinking about what it felt like to stumble across the first of *those* scenes. "I don't think I'll be taking them home during the Christmas holiday, though."

A shudder runs through me at the very thought. God, if Arya or Rob found them, they'd rib me mercilessly forever and ever. Jon would probably be too embarrassed to say anything, but I'd be able to feel him judging me. Bran would be confused, and possibly faintly disgusted. Rickon… Well, Rickon probably wouldn't try to actually read them, but leaving other people's stuff around for him to get his grubby mitts on isn't exactly the best of ideas. And then there's Mum.

Nope, not thinking about that.

*Really* not thinking about that.

(But, even more than the thought of my mum catching me reading books like that, I'm emphatically *not* thinking about Daenerys reading them. I'm not wondering what she thought of the… the sex scenes. Whether she was embarrassed or… or *not*.)

(And I'm not-not-*not* thinking about the fact that she likes girls, or wondering what kind of girl she finds attractive, or what kinds of things she likes to do with girls she finds attractive.)

(It's just curiosity, that's all. The exoticism of the unfamiliar.)

(The same reason I found myself lingering a little over some of those scenes.)

(Just some. Not all.)

(But some of them were just… Were so…)

(I don't have the words.)

"The drinks are ready."

Daenerys emerges from the kitchen, her appearance making me start guiltily, as if she's caught me doing something illicit while all I've doing is quietly sitting here, lost in thought.

Apparently I really *was* lost. Distracted by thoughts of…

Never mind.

I just hope it wasn't too long.

And I *really* hope she wasn't trying to talk to me while I was busy spacing out or whatever.

But she doesn't look annoyed, or worried, or anything like that, so I guess she wasn't.

Well, that's a relief.

I make a mental note to try to rein in the daydreaming. I'm not a child anymore! I can't just lose myself in imaginary worlds when there's something real right in front of me.

Piled high with whipped cream and liberally drizzled with chocolate and caramel sauce…

I can't help licking my lips.

"That hot chocolate looks *so* good," I murmur, taking the mug she offers me. I inhale deeply. "It smells good, too."

"Well, I hope you like the taste."

"I'm sure I will," I say, tearing my eyes away from the vision in front of me to smile up at me.

"Oh, before I forget, you'll probably need this." She hands me a spoon. "For the cream."

"No need to be polite on my account," I tease. "I've seen you use just your fingers and tongue before."

She has the *oddest* expression on her face, and I can't help wondering what-

Oh.

*Oh.*

The previous conversation (and those times I thought about Daenerys and Doreah — or Daenerys and Asha — being *together*; plus that one mortifying time curiosity made me google how girls liking girls actually works) suddenly provides some desperately unwanted, but probably absolutely necessary, context.

Horrifyingly embarrassing context.

"I didn't mean-" I blurt out, but can't even bring myself to finish the sentence. "I just meant in the coffee shop. Sometimes when you order a drink with whipped cream, you- You know…"

This isn't helping; this isn't helping!

In desperation, I show her what I mean, swiping a little bit of cream off the top of the hot chocolate with my finger and licking it clean.

Oh god, now she's *staring*. And her expression is no less unsettling.

This isn't helping.

This isn't helping at *all*.

In fact, now it's even worse, because she must realise why I got so flustered and why I'm frantically trying to explain and justify myself and why I'm blushing so very, very hard right now…

I should have just said nothing. I should have just carried on merrily as if I wasn't aware of any unintentional double entendres. Maybe she wouldn't even have said anything. Maybe she would just have chalked it up to my raging foot-in-mouth syndrome and just let it go.

But now… Now she knows *exactly* where my mind just went.

I just hope she assumes it's because we were talking about those books.

I hope-hope-*hope* she doesn't think (realise) I was thinking about her.

I mean, not that I was thinking about *her*, exactly. Not really.

Oh for the power to rewind time. Or to erase memories.

Or to just not do this kind of thing in the first place.

"Um," says Daenerys, shockingly, derailing my train of thought so completely that the only thing I can focus on is that 'um' is usually my line, not hers. *I'm* the one making a complete fool of myself here. Why is *she* flustered? "I, ah, I need to get the popcorn. We can't watch a film without popcorn. Is a mixture of salt and sweet okay, or would you prefer them separately?"

I make a conscious effort not to um or stutter.

"Mixed is fine."

"Okay. I'll be right back!"

She sets her mug and spoon down on the table and dashes into the kitchen as if her hair is on fire.

Great. Now she's embarrassed for me. She probably just wanted to flee from the horrific awkwardness of this conversation. I can't say that I blame her. And I'm kind of glad of the respite.

Right. Get it together, Sansa.

I take a couple of calming breaths. I'm not sure it helps, really, but it'll have to do. I eat another dollop of whipped cream, this time using the spoon rather than my finger. That helps more. From the kitchen comes the hum of the microwave, shortly followed by the popping of popcorn.

"I've got the DVD out," I call to her. "Should I put it on?"

"You'd best let me do it," she calls back. "Our DVD player can be a little temperamental. We inherited it from a previous tenant and I think it's on the verge of giving up the ghost."

"Okay." I hope it won't damage my DVD. I'm sure it'll be fine, though. She knows how much this means to me. I'm sure she wouldn't risk it getting stuck or scratched or anything like that.

A short while later, she strolls out of the kitchen carrying a large bowl of popcorn which she sets down next to me on the sofa. She takes the DVD case I hold out to her and crosses the room to cajole the player into working.

(For a garment containing so much material, her dress seems to cling awfully tightly as she bends down.)

I occupy myself with my drink.

"I like your dress," I blurt out, a little more gracelessly than I would have hoped. "That colour is *amazing*."

"Thanks," she says, sounding pleased. She twists around to flash me a smile before turning her attention back to the apparently recalcitrant DVD player. "It was a present from my grandparents. On my dad's side." I don't know if I'm just imagining it, but there's something in her voice, something that sounds like… sadness, maybe? And there's a moment where she doesn't say anything, where I could… Should I? Should I ask her about the family she never normally speaks about? Would it seem like prying? But I hesitate too long, and the moment is lost. "It's my comfort dress, I think. I sometimes wear it when I'm just lounging around the house."

"It seems too nice for that," I can't help saying.

She shrugs, making the material ripple around her.

"Maybe when it was new. But I've had it for ages now." She laughs. "You should have seen it when they first gave it to me — I practically drowned in the material! I think they meant for me to grow into it."

"Well, it certainly seems to fit you now," I say, and then I blush.

Mercifully, she doesn't turn around to see my embarrassment and a neutral: "Thank you," is all she says. A few moments later — just about long enough for me to collect my scattered wits — she straightens up. "Okay, I think the DVD player is finally co-operating. You don't need to worry about your disc, though — it doesn't tend to damage them or eat them or anything like that. It's just hard to get them to play sometimes."

"Oh, okay. Thanks." I wasn't *really* worried. Well, not much. But it's still a relief to hear her say that it'll be fine. I even relax enough to smile without worrying it's going to look like a grimace. "This caramel hot chocolate is really good," I tell her when she joins me on the sofa.

"I'm glad you like it," she says, her usual flawless composure back in place as she picks up her own drink and sinks carefully back into the cushions. She glances around the room, then turns to me and raises one eyebrow quizzically. "I think we're ready to watch the film. Don't you?"

"Definitely," I say. "I still can't believe you've never seen 'The Princess Bride'. It's a classic!"

She laughs. "Well, it's lucky I have you to educate me, isn't it?"

With that, she starts the film.

And I'm sure the warm feeling in my chest is just because of the caramel hot chocolate sliding smoothly down my throat and heating me from the inside out.

That's all.

What else could it be?

The instant the end credits start rolling, I turn to Daenerys and ask:

"Well? What did you think?"

Not that I'm desperately hoping she likes it or anything. Not that I'm practically vibrating in place with my eagerness to know what she thinks.

Except I totally am both of those things.

Yes, I know it's pathetic, but for once in my life I really don't care.

Oh, I really, really hope she likes it!

Please let her like it.

"I liked it," she says softly. Yes! I resist the urge to punch the air in triumph. I'm already trying to sort through the mass of follow-on questions bubbling up behind that one, when I realise that she hasn't stopped speaking. "I mean, I wish Princess Buttercup had been a *little* more proactive, but the characters were great, and the story really drew me in."

"Great! I'm really glad you liked it. It's one of my favourite films of all time, I think. What did you think of the ending? I think that's my favourite part. The triumph of true love over death itself! So hopeful. So… So *romantic*."

I beam at her in anticipation, but my smile falters a little when I notice that my enthusiasm doesn't seem to be reflected in her expression.

"The ending was okay," she says slowly. "I really liked the message about strength of will triumphing over adversity. But it's just…"

"What?" I press impatiently, when she doesn't continue fast enough. "What didn't you like about it?"

"It was fine for what it was, honestly. But it's just that, well, I'm not sure I believe in the whole 'one true love' thing. So it kind of threw me out of the moment." She pauses there, giving me a tentative smile, but all I can do is stare at her in nonplussed bewilderment. "It's not the film's fault," she adds hurriedly. "I really liked the rest of it, and I'm glad you shared it with me. Thank you."

She looks at me expectantly, and I finally manage to find my voice.

"You don't believe in true love?"

That wasn't *quite* what I was intending to say. Nor was I intending to sound so very forlorn. I *feel* forlorn, though. And shocked, and more than a little confused.

How can someone like Daenerys not believe in love?

"I said I don't believe in one true love," she corrects gently.

I turn that over in my mind. It's better than not believing in love at all, I suppose, but I still don't get it.

"Don't you find that a little…?" I begin hesitantly. "A little…" What's the word? "Bleak?"

Now she's the one who looks at me with confusion.

"Bleak? No, not at all. Quite the opposite, actually."

I shake my head at that, not in denial, but in complete and utter bewilderment.

"I don't understand."

Daenerys sighs.

"Well," she says. "What if you meet someone, and they are your one true love, your soul mate, your sun and stars? It's wonderful, right? Sunshine and rainbows all the way?"

"Right," I say, because she seems to be expecting a reply.

"But what if you lose them?" she asks, and the words are ragged and raw, shot through with pain. "They were your one true whatever and they're *gone*. What then? Are you destined to be alone for the rest of your life? Do you have to settle for something lesser, something inferior? And what of all those people who *don't* beat the odds, who *don't* find their special someone? Are they all doomed to either solitude or second-best?" She shakes her head vehemently. "No, I don't believe it. I won't *accept* it. It's far too depressing. I'd rather have hope." By the end of her little speech, she's breathing heavily and her hands are clenched into fists. She looks at her curled fingers like she's never seen them before, slowly opening them out with a soft sigh and looking up to meet my eyes. "I'd rather have hope," she repeats softly.

She looks at me like she's willing me to understand, and I do, I think. I understand why she sounds so passionate about this; why it seems to very personal.

"Did you lose someone?" I ask.

My voice is barely above a whisper, but she flinches as if I'd screamed at the top of my lungs, dropping her gaze as if there's something fascinating hidden in the folds of her skirt. She brushes an invisible speck of lint off her knee.

"I don't want to talk about it," she says.

"Okay."

I frantically search my mind for some other topic of conversation; something safer. I don't really want to talk about the film any more, not until I have this minefield better mapped out. Unfortunately, I seem to be somewhat lacking in conversational inspiration right now.

"I'll retrieve your DVD," Daenerys says suddenly, all but leaping to her feet and striding across the room.

"Thanks," I tell her retreating back (and politely avert my eyes when she bends down).

Should I go? Does she want me to leave? I try to think of a way to ask her that, tactfully, when she asks:

"Would you like another hot chocolate? Or tea or coffee or something?"

Oh. Maybe she doesn't want me to leave? Unless she's just being polite, but I'm not sure… I don't know… But I have to give her an answer.

"Um, yes please. I'd love another one of those caramel hot chocolates, if you don't mind."

"That's fine," she says, and it might just be my imagination, but I fancy that the smile she bestows on me then looks almost relieved. "I'll just go and make them."

She hands me the DVD and snags our used cups and spoons, disappearing off into the kitchen again. As soon as she's out of sight, I lean back and close my eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. Some of the tension evaporates from my chest.

It's okay. We're okay. I haven't managed to alienate her with my awkward questions and stupid naiveté. We're still friends.

("They were never your friends.")

(Shut the… Shut the heck up. You're *wrong*. She is my friend. She *is*.)

"I think Inigo Montoya is my favourite character," she calls from the kitchen, and it takes me a moment to realise that we're back to The Princess Bride.

Okay. I can do this. I just have to make sure I steer clear of 'controversial' topics like true love.

Right then.

Even though she can't see me, I open my eyes and sit up straight.

(It's far easier to sound composed if you actually look the part.)

"What do you like about him?"

"He's just so dedicated to his goal. He doesn't falter, doesn't give up. Not even when it looks like it's going to cost him his life. He does exactly what he sets out to do — makes his enemy pay for their crimes. You've got to admire that kind of grit."

"I suppose so," I say slowly, mulling her words over.

I guess, thinking about it, her favouring Inigo does make a certain amount of sense. She's determined, and passionate, and her word is important to her. (And, loathe though I am to admit it, she isn't one to let a slight go unanswered.)

"I bet I know who your favourite character is," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "You're a Princess Buttercup girl, aren't you?"

"Maybe," I hedge, blushing. Because, of course she's right. Apparently Daenerys does know me after all. I just hope she doesn't think me impossibly naive, or childish, or stupid, or-

"Because she finds her one true love?"

I cringe instinctively, already half-expecting derision, but the words are spoken lightly, almost teasingly. At the same time, I think — maybe — she actually sounds interested in the answer. Like, maybe she wants to know what my thought processes are.

(And not just so she can criticise them.)

So I take a deep breath and speak my mind.

"Because she survives," I say, simply.

For a few moments, the only sounds from the kitchen are those of our drinks being prepared.

"What do you mean?" Daenerys eventually asks.

I shrug to myself, staring down at my hands, clutching the DVD case so tightly my fingertips are starting to turn white. Well, even whiter than usual. I loosen my grip and shove the case into the bottom of my handbag.

"Well, she's kidnapped — twice — and she's going to be forced into a marriage to a man so vile she'd rather commit suicide than go through with it. But not only does she come through all that with her sanity intact, she still, after everything, believes in true love. She still has hope. And I think… Maybe it would have been better if she'd rescued herself rather than being the damsel in distress; I don't know. But I think she showed real strength." A thought occurs to me, and I laugh a little, although it sounds strange to my ears. "It's a like Phedre in the Kushiel books, I guess. Sometimes passivity — or what looks like it — is actually power." It feels like I'm on the edge of something, some realisation, but then self-consciousness crashes over me like a wave and I find myself blushing. "Um, at least that's what I think," I add awkwardly.

Daenerys is silent so long I begin to wonder if my little monologue has sent her to sleep, but then she finally speaks.

"Oh, Sansa. Just when I think I'm getting to know you, you reveal yet another layer." She laughs softly, and the sound seems to go right through me. Not unpleasantly; not in a way that makes my stomach twist and my chest constrict. But in a way that warms me deep inside; a way that makes me feel… "I think it's one of the reasons why I like you so much."

She likes me! She does like me. I (hoped so) knew it. Even if I am awkward sometimes, and shy and clumsy.

She likes me.

But then the rest of her words catch up with me, and I can't help frowning in bewilderment.

"But I'm not particularly complicated," I say. "Really. I'm…"

("-so fucking shallow, Sansa. You're-")

"…about as deep as a puddle."

She doesn't answer right away, but then all of a sudden she comes striding out of the kitchen like a force of nature, setting the cups down on the table with enough force to slosh cream and chocolate liquid over the sides. Before I can say so much as a word, she's leaning over me, her hands on my shoulders, her face no more than inches away from mine.

I stare, mesmerised by the sapphire depths of her eyes, flashing now with what looks like… like fury.

"You're *not* shallow," she says, her voice low and fierce and for one dizzying moment I wonder if she actually heard the voice in my head as it echoed my words to her. (As I echoed its words. His words.) "And you're not clumsy, or slow, or fragile, or any of the thousand and one other terrible things you've said about yourself in all the time I've known you."

"But I haven't…" I say, too confused to even be scared at the fact her hands are gripping me almost tight enough to hurt and she's so *angry* right now. "I don't…"

"You're always putting yourself down," she says, and now she almost sounds… If I didn't know better, I'd say she was trying not to cry. "I can't stand it, Sansa! You're smart, creative, funny, pretty, and graceful, and I really wish you could see that. I wish you could see what I see when I-"

She breaks off there, breathing so hard I can feel her breath on my lips, hands gripping my shoulders as if she's about to lift me up and I think I should do something but I don't know what and…

And…

And all I can do is stare at her helplessly.

(Because passivity isn't just my power; it's my curse. Paralysis as the flip side of endurance, causing me to freeze in the face of the unknown or the unexpected.)

Time passes. A moment, and eternity; I don't know which. But after far too short a time — or maybe too long — she heaves a great sigh and lets me go.

(I feel like I've just lost something.)

I feel utterly confused.

"What-" is all I can manage.

"I'm sorry," she says, grinning a little sheepishly as she sinks onto the sofa beside me. "I get a little carried away sometimes."

"Um," I say, and then, because I absolutely have to know for sure, I ask: "Did you really mean all that?"

If I were the one who'd just let out an outburst of emotion, I'd be hedging and stuttering and hiding my face. But Daenerys isn't like me. She sits up straight, takes a deep breath and looks me right in the eye.

"Yes," she says. Direct and to the point; no prevaricating. "I meant every word."

"Oh." I don't know what to say. What *can* I say to that? "Um, thank you."

Gee, that doesn't sound pathetic at all.

"You don't need to thank me," she says. "I just wish you didn't feel the need to put yourself down all the time." Slowly, as if I'm a deer that might spook at a sudden movement, she leans forward and takes my hands in hers. They're warm; warmer than mine, certainly. I might have known her blood would run hot. "Someone told you all those things about yourself, didn't they? Someone told you all those lies?" She draws in a long, slow breath, and I find myself breathing with her. "Who was it?"

"I-" A name rises in my mind; unbidden, unwanted. *His* name. "I-" I could tell her. I could tell her about the things he said to me. The things he did. I could tell her. "I-" But what if… What if she thinks he was right? I couldn't stand- No, she wouldn't. She wouldn't think that. I know she wouldn't. "I-" But what if she thinks I should have been stronger? Should have stood up for myself more? Should have… No. No, I can't. Not now, not yet, maybe not ever.

I swallow hard.

"I don't want to talk about it," I all-but whisper.

We breathe together. One breath, and then another, and then another. And then she sighs deeply, breaking the sequence, breaking the spell.

"Alright," she says. "But if you change your mind, you can always talk to me. You know that, don't you?" I can't bring myself to speak, so I just nod. "Okay, then." She squeezes my hands gently, once, and then lets go. "I'd better get those drinks before they go cold."

She clicks her tongue in annoyance when she sees the rivulets of chocolate drying on the outsides of the mugs and pooling around their bases, ducking into the kitchen for a cloth to wipe up the mess.

"Sorry about that," she says, smiling ruefully as she hands me a mug and settles — carefully — back onto the sofa with the other one. "I don't think I'd make a very good barista."

"I'm sure you would," I say quickly.

She snorts at that, sounding so much like Asha for a moment that I blink at her in surprise.

"It's nice of you to say so, but I don't think I have the patience for that kind of work. I'd end up losing my temper with one of the customers, or getting annoyed with the manager and unionising all the employees."

She laughs a little, and I laugh with her. I assume she's exaggerating for comic effect, because I really can't imagine her being anything other than a consummate professional in the workplace. Even if that workplace is a mostly student-frequented coffee shop. I wonder what it would be like to work with her…

I suddenly realise that she's eyeing me thoughtfully.

"What is it?" I ask, feeling self-conscious under her scrutiny. "Do I have whipped cream on my face?"

I swipe ineffectually at my chin with my fingers, but she shakes her head, her eyes glinting with amusement.

"No, you're fine. It's nothing like that. I was just wondering…"

"Yes?" I prompt, when she doesn't seem inclined to continue.

"What's Asha like to work with?"

And speaking of minefields…

"Um, it's fine, actually. She's pretty good at doing all the day-to-day management stuff that Mr Baelish" — (doesn't want to bother with) — "delegates to her. And she keeps on top of things like orders and stuff. She doesn't tend to deal with the customers all that much now, only if there are any complaints. There aren't many of those, though."

I make myself stop talking before I slip into full babble mode, burying my confusion in caramel hot chocolate.

Note to self: try making a caramel mocha next time I'm at work. I bet that would work really well.

"That's interesting, but I meant more along the lines of: what is she like as a person?"

"Um, fine. It's… She's fine. She can be blunt, but that's just her way. I seem to get on well enough with her. And, like I was telling Missandei, she always sticks up for us with the odd stroppy customer, or with management. So, um, yeah. Fine." I can't tell what Daenerys is thinking right now. Her face remains inscrutable as she sips her own drink. Does she mind that I get on with Asha? I don't know. I just don't know! "Missandei is settling in well," I blurt out.

"She seems to be, from what she's said." I wonder what else Missandei has said. Not that I have any secrets or anything, but it's just... Well, I guess there's… "So, I understand you've joined Living History Soc."

Right. That. Not exactly a secret, but somehow I haven't exactly gotten around to telling Daenerys about it. I meant to, kind of, but…

Oh well. I guess the cat's out of the bag now.

I just hope she's not annoyed with me.

"Yes." Still no reaction. Oh well; in for a penny, in for a pound. "Asha kind of dragged me along, um, when she heard I'd started going to LARP. I wasn't really expecting to actually like it. I just went along to be" — I wince inside — "polite. But I did like it, so I kept going." I shrug. "I've been going ever since."

"You didn't say anything."

Is she annoyed? Disappointed? Upset? Not bothered at all? I just can't tell. Why can't I tell? Darn it.

"No, well, um. As I said, I wasn't really expecting to like it, so I thought it would just be a one-off thing. But then I kept going, and then it sort of felt like it was a bit too late to just bring it up. And so, well, it never came up." Breathe, Sansa. I follow my own advice, shrug awkwardly, then decide to just bite the bullet and ask her directly. "Are you…? You're not upset, are you? That I didn't mention it? It was just kind of awkward."

"Because of Asha?"

"Um, yeah."

She sighs.

"No, I'm not upset. I'm… guessing you know something about the… What's a good word? The history between Asha and me?"

"A little. Maybe." It suddenly occurs to me that she might think Asha's been airing their dirty laundry, so I hasten to reassure her. "Asha didn't say anything, don't worry. But there was a… a rumour…"

Does it count as a rumour if I only hear it from one person? I think it does. I think it's close enough for me to feel like putting it that way isn't a lie, at any rate. I just don't want to name Shae as my source.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." Now I can *finally* get an impression of what she's feeling under that mask. She seems a little sad. "We did have some pretty public fights. Loud ones, too. I suppose there's nothing like a loud, public fight for providing grist for the rumour mill."

"I guess," I say awkwardly. Suddenly feeling the need to give Daenerys at least the illusion of space, I concentrate on finishing my hot chocolate.

"Did you think I might be upset that you were hanging around with Asha and her friends?"

"I don't know. Maybe." I sigh unhappily, just wanting this conversation to be over. "I didn't really know you all that well back then. And as time went on, it just got harder to bring it up. So, um…"

I can't think of anything else to say, so I just trail off into silence.

Daenerys doesn't *seem* to mind. Either joining Asha and her fellow re-enactors, or not telling her about it. So that's something, I guess.

It's certainly better than the alternative.

"I used to be a member of LH Soc., you know," she says suddenly.

I wasn't expecting *that*.

"Really?"

"Really. I left after Asha and I…" She shrugs. "It got… awkward."

"I can see how it might be."

I get the impression that sides were taken. The older re-enactors are clearly *Asha's* friends, so…

Awkward indeed.

Even though it doesn't seem like Daenerys to back down, about anything, so things must have *really* gotten ugly.

I'm kind of glad it was before my time.

"Anyway," she says firmly. "That's all in the past. So let's talk about happier things."

She smiles, and it's as if the sight of it chases all my worries and cares away, driving them completely out of my head.

I can't help but smile back.