She looks at him, the way his eyes are so intense she feels intimidated by simply seeing the look in them. She listens to the chanting, in words that she recognize, in a language that is foreign to her.
Sansa only turns her gaze when directed — towards the slender man with the face of a king, with eyes that lack warmth. Viserys Targaryen. She'd known the queen had had a brother... she'd heard he'd died.
"Jon told me the names of your dragons... they're named for them, aren't they? For your husband, and your brother." Brothers, she thinks. But one was already long dead, before this.
She asks nothing of the scene she witnesses — she wants to know, oh, she wants to know so many things, but she feels she lacks the right to ask. About the husband, the brother, the child.
(Not for the first time, she wonders if Daenerys had been surrounded by as much death as she had been, losing and losing and losing. One after another.)
no subject
Sansa only turns her gaze when directed — towards the slender man with the face of a king, with eyes that lack warmth. Viserys Targaryen. She'd known the queen had had a brother... she'd heard he'd died.
"Jon told me the names of your dragons... they're named for them, aren't they? For your husband, and your brother." Brothers, she thinks. But one was already long dead, before this.
She asks nothing of the scene she witnesses — she wants to know, oh, she wants to know so many things, but she feels she lacks the right to ask. About the husband, the brother, the child.
(Not for the first time, she wonders if Daenerys had been surrounded by as much death as she had been, losing and losing and losing. One after another.)