Chapter Text
On the outside, she carried herself with the same poise and calm she had always sought to embody. However, on the inside, she was a wreck.
Sansa had tried asking for advice, and Jeyne had suggested she try and find someone else, another Lord or Knight, and make a list of all their admirable traits.
She had tried it, but every time there was some obstacle.
Their eyes were the wrong shade of blue. They were too tall, or not tall enough. They smiled too easily, they were not serious or committed or devoted to any particular cause. Their eyes lost focus or drifted when she spoke, and so they were not truly listening to anything she had said.
Their voices annoyed her.
They tried to charm her with gifts and rides and spoke of all manner of things Sansa used to find charming or exciting.
The problem was them. They were wrong. They were not King Stannis Baratheon.
Shae’s advice was worse. She had suggested impossible things. Perfect, impossible things.
Things that appeared in her dreams leaving her breathless and aching and flustered. Gods, some mornings she had such trouble looking the King in the eyes.
She knew Stannis Baratheon would not be seduced or set aside his wife for her.
Sometimes she imagined telling him what was wrong. He had asked after her health enough times.
“You are looking flushed, my Lady, are you well?”
And when she could not look at him one day, he asked if he had offended her.
“Of course not, Your Grace, I simply have spent too long in the sun I’m sure.”
Some days, when he briefed her on some new task, she would lose track of what he was saying, too busy watching the way his lips shaped the words and she wondered if they would be soft or hard or malleable against her own when they kissed.
In her daydreams where she confessed to love him, she imagined he would both scoff and shout at her, or he would ruin her right there on his desk amongst the papers.
It seemed nothing she tried made any of it better.
One afternoon when she was alone, taking a nap after visiting the archery range, she had dreamed the King was in bed with her. Her dreams had twisted into sweaty grasping things, leaving her warm and aching between her legs. She could feel his hand pressed against her throbbing centre, his arm thrown over her waist while the rest of him pressed up against her backside so he could kiss her neck and grunt into her ear when his passion crested. His hand moved, back and forth and tight against her centre—
she woke to find her own hand between her legs and in her disappointment almost wept.
Gods it was a sickness. Madness.
No one could know.
**********
Sansa couldn’t believe it. Well, she could, but to do it so openly—oh her blood was boiling.
“YOU!”
She shouted the word loudly across the gardens causing many heads to shoot up and turn in her direction. But she didn’t care. She heard what the man had said.
“The sty is that way, for you Ser are a PIG—”
Jeyne had looked startled, her eyes wide and mouth open in a soft ‘oh’ as she watched Sansa sweep over to them and smack the man’s outstretched arm. He had cornered Jeyne by the edge of the Godswood, his arm blocking her escape as he leant in to whisper improper things.
Sansa’s eyes were like blue fire, her chest swelling in rage as the man realised who had interrupted him. He stuttered and stammered and beat a hasty retreat in the direction Sansa had pointed. A short look at Cley Cerwyn and he had dutifully followed the man. Any injury he sustained he had brought upon himself.
It wasn’t lady like, but she did not care.
Jeyne had looked so sad, so uncomfortable, and no wonder if some half-cocked hedge knight thought he could proposition her friend without consequences.
Jeyne was soft and sweet and biddable in a way Sansa used to be, and without the protection of a name, and a little bit of force, she imagined those men thought they could do as they liked.
“Jeyne—who else has said such things, tell me and I will have them thrown in the dungeons.”
“They’re fond of flogging in Kingslanding if you prefer it My Lady,” Bronn joked.
Sansa ignored him.
“No one important—”
“You are important to me. You are my friend. My companion. Any insult toward you is an insult toward House Stark. I know this has happened before, Jeyne.”
Her friend did not have an answer to that. By now they had both heard the rumours. The court was vicious, and some of the men worse than dogs. Having been brought out from Littlefinger’s Whore House, Jeyne’s reputation was ill thought of at best.
This had happened before. Shae had told her. Jeyne had not wanted to cause a fuss.
“I told them I was not—I’m sorry. I won’t go without you.”
“You should not have to hide away because the men here have no manners.” Sansa chewed the inside of her cheek, furious and aware of all the eyes watching them. “Perhaps if they will not listen to words, then we will speak to them in a language they will understand!”
Sansa took Jeyne by the hand and led her briskly to the armoury where they found a bow, arrows and leather guards.
“It worked well enough for me,” Sansa said, loud enough that the curious would spread the gossip to all the relevant parties. “You will learn the bow, and then if anyone thinks they can even suggest something improper, you have orders to fill them full of arrows. Now, the straw dummy in the centre, let us see if you can hit the groin.”
They had spent a fruitful hour at the archery range where Bronn had insisted on joining in, to make it a game.
“You are offering to be the target then, Ser?” Jeyne had teased back, a little more comfortable now they had a plan to act upon.
“I would be glad to be a target for you, My Lady.”
It was curious how Jeyne blushed.
Robb chose that moment to appear with a grin and a whistle, Grey wind rushing toward them with a loud bark and demanding Sansa scratch behind his ears and beneath his chin.
“What’s this I hear - mine own sister has turned into the Warrior? Protector of maidenly virtue?”
“Robb, shall I ask the King to let you play the fool at the next feast - you are bursting with humour.”
“Urgh!” Robb clutched at his chest, “Another strike — I am wounded.”
“You are too close for a shot, step further back so I may shoot better.”
“Shall I be glad you did not train with daggers?”
“That can be arranged.”
“The disrespect I am forced to endure.” He huffed, “perhaps I shall not tell you the good news, then!”
“What?”
“Oh, so now you want to speak to me!”
“Robb!”
“Fine - stay your weapons. The Queen and Princess’ ship has been spotted, so there shall be a feast to celebrate their arrival and our departure - the King wishes to minimise revelry as per usual. So we will be leaving this fragrant city at the end of the week.”
Oh.