Chapter Text
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, no profit is made from this story or any other of my fanfiction stories and fanarts. I'm just a poor mad mage.
Part One: Winterfell
Chapter One
A Stark Bride
Sansa
Sansa sat in the airy solar with her needlework in hand. The delicate embroidery was almost perfect; Septa Mordane was a strict teacher, always pushing her to do better.
Arya was nowhere to be found, and Sansa didn’t miss her troublesome sister. The room was silent except for the occasional advice from Septa Mordane or the muffled sounds of Winterfell bustling outside. The quiet was comforting, a safe haven from the rest of the world.
Her concentration was broken by a firm knock on the door. She looked up to find her father, Lord Eddard Stark, framed in the doorway. His face was serious, lines of worry etched deep into his forehead.
“May we have a word, Sansa?” His voice was low, heavy with something Sansa couldn’t quite decipher.
She put her needlework aside, confusion blooming inside her like a winter rose as Mordane excused herself. Her father rarely interrupted her lessons, and his grave demeanor hinted at something important. Her heart fluttered like a nervous bird within its cage.
“Father,” she began, and a trace of worry entered her voice. “Has something happened?”
“King Robert is traveling North.” He paused, frowning slightly as he considered his next words carefully. “He will arrive in a fortnight.”
Why was he looking so solemn? Sansa’s mind spun. Robert Baratheon was coming to Winterfell, surely that was a happy occasion, a great honor. Oh, then Sansa realized—the king was a widower now, mourning his whole family. His queen and their children had met a tragic fate in a shipwreck that had devastated the realm. She had cried for a week after the news had reached them, almost a year ago.
Sansa remembered her childhood fantasies about being a queen, dreams that involved marrying the golden Prince Joffrey. But those dreams had sunk to the bottom of the sea along with the bodies of the royal family. The reality of their deaths had stolen a part of her innocence, replacing it with a somber understanding. Not all dreams could come true, and even kings and queens were not immune to the whims of the gods.
Only something of a great importance could force the king to travel North at such a time. No wonder Father looked so worried, then.
“It must be terrible for the king,” she murmured, “to have lost his wife and children.”
“Aye,” her father nodded, a shadow passing over his face. He hesitated, his unfathomable gaze flicking away briefly. “But life goes on, Sansa. The realm needs an heir, stability. The king… The king needs a queen. Once, Robert was promised a Stark bride. Now he is coming to claim her.”
The look that entered his eyes was holding hers with an intensity that was frightening. Why was he looking at her like that? It didn’t have—couldn’t have—anything to do with her. Could it?
Sansa’s heart hammered in her chest as the realization slowly bloomed within her. Her fingers trembled in her lap, the embroidery blurring. She was to marry the king. His Grace Robert Baratheon. She was going to be a queen. The idea brought a whirlwind of emotions. Excitement, fear, disbelief. A king’s bride. A queen. She was to be Robert Baratheon’s queen… Round and round, her thoughts spun.
Sansa didn’t know what to say, or feel, or think.
But there was something in her father’s gaze, a glimmer of uncertainty, concern. A pang of apprehension chilled her. Sansa swallowed hard, her gaze never wavering from her father’s. She was a Stark of Winterfell, but her mother was a Tully. It didn’t matter what she felt, or thought, she knew what she was supposed to say.
“I understand, Father.”
It seemed too surreal, too overwhelming. She had grown up on tales of kings and princesses, of ladies and their gallant knights, but to be told she was to live one after she had grown out of such dreams… She blinked at her father, biting her lower lip in her turmoil. She still had no idea what to feel and think about the news. But there was one thing that finally occurred to her.
“Father,” she started. A desperate curiosity colored her cheeks as she asked, “Can you… Can you please tell me about the king?”
She’d heard stories, of course, about His Grace’s battle prowess, his bravery, his friendship with the Starks. It didn’t tell her more about him as a man, though.
Father studied her for a moment. The look in his eyes softened, his hand briefly squeezing her shoulder in silent encouragement. Then leaned back in his chair, his gaze traveling to the flames dancing in the hearth.
“Robert was always a man of great charisma,” he began softly and his voice held a trace of melancholy. “Even as a young lad, he had a strength about him, an irresistible charm. Tall, broad-shouldered, intense. Men flocked to his side, eager to listen to what he had to say, and women…well, women flocked to him as well.”
Oh, her blush deepened. Sansa absorbed her father’s words, creating an image of the man she was to marry in her mind. A strong, charming king. It sounded like something out of the songs she loved and a small smile hid itself in the corner of her mouth.
“And… what else?” She prompted, seeking more, needing to know more about her future husband. To think that a man who could have any lady in the realm had chosen her… It was staggering.
Father sighed, running a hand through his already greying hair. “Robert was charming, lively. He was the life of every feast, the center of every gathering.” He smiled, the ghost of old fondness flickering in his gaze. “He had a laugh that could shake the walls of a room, Sansa, a spirit that was truly larger than life.”
Sansa nodded, the picture of her future husband becoming more vivid in her mind. But there was something her father wasn’t saying, she could see it in the shadows of his eyes, the lines deepening on his forehead.
“But,” she hesitated, then pushed on. “Does the king… are there any…ahem... flaws?”
For a moment, her lord father was silent, his eyes growing distant, colder, and Sansa shuddered. Men talked, and she had always been curious about all the tales concerning the South, and Robert’s Rebellion that had brought so much grief to her family but ultimately brough her parents together. If Father and the king were best friends, why had they never visited the capital? Come South at all?
Then, he sighed—a long, weary sound that brought Sansa from he speculations back to the present.
“Robert is… passionate,” he said carefully. “And that passion can be consuming. It can drive him to make mistakes. He’s impulsive. Not a man to be trifled with.”
Sansa blinked, uncertainty filling her. A passionate man could be a loving husband, but a man with a temper—and weren’t the Baratheon words indication enough?—should make her weary. She would have to wed him no matter how apprehensive she felt, though. “Thank you, Father. I’d rather know him for what he is.”
“You look so much like your mother that it’s easy to forget that there is a wolf’s blood in you, Sansa,” he smiled at her proudly and cleared his throat awkwardly before rising to his feet. “I must send out ravens, the wedding will be here and there is so much to do… It’s so typical of Robert to send word when he’s halfway here…”
Sansa smiled at him and wished him a good day. Then, she was left alone with the sounds of Winterfell outside the window where life continued as if nothing had changed.
She stared at the door through which her father had just exited, her mind full of questions and worries. Her fingertips traced the intricacies of her needlework absentmindedly, but her heart was anything but calm.
She had never even met the king, and now she was to be his queen. Could she love a man she had never seen? A man her parents’ age—even if he was handsome? A man grown and hardened by life with his fair share of mistakes, not a young prince as fresh as spring like Joffrey?
Her dreams of being a queen had always revolved around the golden-haired prince, not his father. The prospect of marrying Robert Baratheon was as intimidating as the man himself seemed to be. But she was a Stark, and Starks did what they had to, no matter how challenging. She would have to learn to love the king no matter his… indiscretions. A sense of unease filled her, an anxiety gnawing at the edges of her determination.
Love. She wanted that more than anything. As if summoned by her uncertainty, her mother appeared in the doorway only moments later. Her kind blue eyes found Sansa’s, understanding her turmoil without needing words.
“Mother, I-” Sansa’s vision blurred and her lip wobbled. “Father said… The king… How can I…?”
“Sansa, oh, sweetling,” she sighed, quickly closing the distance between them and catching her hands. “No need for tears. It is a great honor, Sansa. Even if you do not have feelings for him now, love can grow in time. Just as a tiny seed can grow into a mighty tree, so can love blossom in the unlikeliest places. I came to love your father, deeply and irrevocably, and we have built a strong, enduring life together, but I did not love your father when we first married.”
The words hung in the air, the unexpected confession stirring a myriad of emotions within Sansa. She looked at her mother, taken aback. “You did not?”
She nodded, the faintest of smiles gracing her lips. “Yes, I didn’t. But I do now.”
“And you think it can happen with the king?” Sansa searched her mother’s eyes, hoping to find the reassurance she desperately needed. Sansa was ready to give up her dreams of handsome young princes but not of love. She wanted what her parents had.
“I cannot promise that, my sweet girl.” There was a pause, a breath of silence. Then Lady Catelyn sighed, her hand moving to cup Sansa’s face. “But I can tell you this. You are stronger than you think, resilient. Whatever comes, you will face it. And I believe... I believe everything will be fine.”
“I hope you’re right, Mother,” she whispered, a trembling sigh escaping her. Her mother’s words, sincere and heartfelt, soothed Sansa’s fears like a soft, comforting blanket around the raw nerves of her apprehension—at least slightly. Of course, Mother didn’t know if Sansa would grow to love the king. No one could possibly know.
“We face the world as we must, Sansa.” Lady Catelyn kissed her forehead, her touch as gentle as the summer’s breeze. “With courage and strength. You are a good, kind person. You will be a good queen. People will love you.”
Sansa held her mother’s gaze, soaking in the warmth and faith in those eyes. Yes, she would be a good queen, and make people love her. She would do her duty, no matter how hard. And maybe, just maybe, she could learn to love the king, and he would learn to love her in return. With that smoldering spark of hope within her, Sansa steeled herself for the future. In a fortnight, she’d meet her husband.
Jaime
The imposing gates of Winterfell loomed ahead of him and the castle’s silhouette was a dark shape against the harsh Northern sky. Ser Jaime Lannister reined in his horse, his golden hair catching the wan sunlight, his green eyes full of frost. He was a man accustomed to the warmth of King’s Landing, and the cold winds of the North bit into his bones, as if to remind him of the distaste he harbored for this journey.
“Ser,” a man-at-arms murmured from his guard post, a respectful dip of the head accompanying the address. Jaime’s nod was curt, his gaze barely flitting toward him. His heart was a cold, hard stone, beating in rhythm with the plodding hooves of his mount.
His sister Cersei, his children – all gone, taken by a merciless hand of fate that had turned his life into a bleak, bitter mockery of what it once was. All that remained was an empty shell of a man, haunted by shadows of the past, nursing a grievance against a king he was sworn to protect, against a world that had dealt him a hand he detested.
And now he was here, in the gods-forsaken North, not by choice but by duty. His battered honor and duty as a Kingsguard, and his brother Tyrion were the chains that bound him to life, the tethers that kept him from being consumed by the gaping maw of grief that threatened to swallow him whole. What had his life come to if his service to Robert was one of the few things keeping him alive?
Jaime spurred his horse forward, entering through the gates of Winterfell. He rode into the courtyard, his every move watched by the curious eyes of the Stark men-at-arms, their gazes guarded, their expressions wary.
Oh, yes. The Kingslayer had come to murder you all while your backs are turned. Jaime grimaced, barely keeping his sneer at bay.
“I am here to inform Lord Stark that the king is en route,” he announced, his voice echoing across the yard. His words were met with more dips of heads and a flurry of movement as men hurried to relay the news. “He’ll be here tomorrow after midday.”
A feast. A hunt. The usual pomp and ceremony that accompanied Robert’s royal visit. He could almost taste the bile rising in his throat. Robert would be here, to claim his bride, to eat and drink and hunt, oblivious to the world, while Jaime…
He pulled his horse to a halt, the gravel crunching beneath the animal’s hooves. He looked around, his gaze taking in the stone walls, the frost-kissed trees, the faces of the Northerners – a world as alien to him as his heart was. A world he loathed, a world he had been thrust into.
He dismounted with a sigh that was more a growl, tossing the reins to a stable boy. Winterfell – a place that held as much appeal to him as a sepulcher. A place he was forced to reside under the disapproving gaze of the honorable Ned Stark, a man whose morality wouldn’t be so bothersome if it wasn’t so admirable.
His gaze shifted, finding a cluster of young figures, the Stark brood, no doubt. His eyes narrowed on two boys, blades flashing in the pale sunlight, feet shuffling on the thin crisp ‘summer’ snow.
The red-headed was Robb Stark, the eldest who took after his Tully relations. Which meant that the dark-haired youth must be the bastard Snow, or a vassal’s son, at least, for he was too well-dressed and well-trained to be anything but.
Head tilting to the side, Jaime observed them for a few moments, a spark of interest flaring to life in his eyes despite himself. They had the makings of good warriors but needed more work. Discipline, perhaps. Or some more bouts of harsh reality to temper their technique. Maybe in a decade or so, one of them would be able to spar with Jaime for a full minute.
A younger girl, wild and wolfish, was cheering them on. Her delighted excitement was palpable in her every move and laugh. Another lad, younger still, stood by her side, a grin on his face. Dark hair, long faces. Stark’s brood, indeed.
And then his gaze landed on her—a gentle creature, delicate and fair, more Tully than Stark, and Jaime knew immediately who she was. Lady Sansa, the king’s future queen. Her auburn hair glinted in the afternoon light, her eyes were as blue as the northern sky, her lips tinted with a faint pink that reminded him of the roses in the gardens of King’s Landing. Her gaze was distant, her face pale. She looked like a doe, her expression caught in the moment a hunter’s arrow struck.
A stab of sorrow pierced his heart. What an odd, unwelcome sensation. The girl was too soft, too gentle for the boorish oaf of a king. Jaime shook his head, a strange bitterness gnawing at his gut. The poor girl. She deserved better. Robert would destroy her.
Gritting his teeth, he drew himself up, shaking off the cloak of melancholy that threatened to engulf him, and turned when his name was called.
“Ser Jaime?”
His footsteps echoed across the yard as he approached Lord Stark, his stride full of purpose, his expression guarded. He nodded at the man, acknowledging the quiet strength in the man’s gaze, the indomitable resolve in his stance. There was no love lost between the two of them, but Jaime could appreciate a worthy opponent.
“Lord Stark, I bring tidings from the king,” he said, his voice as smooth as the finest Arbor gold, tinged with the hard edge of his Lannister pride. His lips quirked into a wry smile, a shadow of his once insouciant charm. “I hope you’re ready for a feast and a hunt, my lord. His Grace plans to make merry while he’s in the North.”
“As His Grace wishes,” Stark replied in a gruff voice. Jaime noticed the distinct lack of enthusiasm in his words. The man’s precious daughter was to wed his best friend, but they both knew that Robert Baratheon was suited for brothels and whores, not delicate winter roses.
As he looked into Lord Stark’s eyes, Jaime could see the reflection of his own world-weariness, perhaps a shadow of a familiar grief. The man was going to lose his daughter… But to Jaime, nothing mattered anymore.
He was a lion in a wolf’s territory, a knight in a king’s court. He had lost everything he had ever cherished, everything that had ever mattered to him. But he stood here, fulfilling his duty, because that was all he had left. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, carried the weight of his past, grief, and duty into the heart of the North, deep into the wolf’s den. It was a cruel joke, he mused. One that the gods surely enjoyed at his expense.
Sansa
The past fortnight had passed in a flurry of activity, leaving Sansa reeling. Preparations had consumed her days from dawn till dusk and sometimes even well into the evening. Guests from other northern houses had started arriving, and Sansa was suddenly thrust into the middle of it all. She was no longer only Lord Eddard’s eldest daughter. She was suddenly King Robert’s betrothed. At first, it had been thrilling, but it left her no time to process her thoughts. And now, the day of King Robert’s arrival had dawned upon her. She stood beside her family in the courtyard, her heart pounding with anticipation, anxiety, and an aching sense of loss.
Sansa’s gaze flitted to Ser Jaime Lannister who waited off to the side. The memory of their first meeting came to her mind, that raw grief etched in his handsome features. She wondered fleetingly if Prince Joffrey would have resembled his uncle, would he have carried the same golden splendor, the same beautiful green eyes? She yearned to know, even as the thought sent a pang of sorrow coursing through her.
The sound of running feet jolted her from her thoughts, and she turned to see Arya rushing towards her, a helmet perched on her wild hair. Sansa’s lips twitched into a small smile even as she fought to frown. Trust Arya to make a mockery of the solemn occasion.
“Arya, behave yourself,” their mother admonished, tugging off the helmet with a firm hand and passing it to Father who passed it to Rodrick. Arya pouted but relented, shooting Sansa a sullen look. Jon, from his place behind them, covered his mouth to hide his snort. Robb grinned. Sansa felt a surge of affection for her siblings.
She realized then that she was going to miss them. All of them. Arya, with her wild spirit and her refusal to conform. Jon, with his quiet strength and his watchful gaze. And Robb, her beloved brother, with his smile that could brighten the gloomiest days. Bran and little Rickon, their innocence so precious in the harsh world around them. Her heart clenched at the thought of leaving them, leaving Winterfell. Even the prospect of becoming a queen seemed dim in comparison.
She blinked back the tears welling up in her eyes, forcing a smile onto her face. She had a duty to fulfill, a role to play. She was soon to be a queen. And queens didn’t cry.
The first riders of the royal procession were visible now, their silhouettes imposing against the overcast sky. Sansa took a deep breath, steeling herself for the future. The memory of her home, her family, would be her strength. No matter what awaited her, she would face it with courage and grace, just as a queen should. Her heart pounded in her chest as the riders approached, marking the beginning of her new life. A life where she would wear a crown, where she would be a queen. A queen who carried her home in her heart, always.
The king’s retinue streamed into the courtyard, a dazzling display of colorful banners and glistening armor. Sansa watched, captivated by the spectacle. Each knight, each horse, was more splendid than the last. But it wasn’t them she awaited; it was the man she was to call husband. Father had described King Robert as a formidable man, big and strong, with a charm to him. Sansa held onto that thought as she scanned the arriving throng.
Ser Barristan Selmy entered, cutting a striking figure in his pristine white and gold armor. His imposing presence was hard to miss, even in the clamor. The sight of him made Sansa’s heart hammer with anticipation. She knew who followed him.
And then, on the biggest black horse she had ever seen, he was there. Everyone sunk to their knees.
As he dismounted with surprising agility for a man of his size, Sansa took him in. King Robert Baratheon was, as Father had said, a big man; broad-shouldered and towering over most others. His hair was a riot of black curls, his beard untamed, giving him a wild, almost rugged appearance she would expect of the Wildlings north of the Wall. His girth was undeniable, but it was distributed in a way that suggested not just indulgence but also raw, untamed strength. He had a broad chest and thick arms that seemed capable of crushing stone. He wasn’t quite the handsome man her father had described, but Sansa saw the echoes of past good looks in his features, the remnants of a man who might have once stolen hearts with a single glance. She would never voice her disappointment, though. Not ever.
“Ned!” Robert roared. The warmth in his voice was genuine as his laughter boomed across the courtyard. It was apparent that he wasn’t one for formality, that single word was carrying a carefree lilt that seemed out of place on this occasion. It was as though he’d come for a hunting trip, not a wedding. “Get up! Get up, all of you!”
Sansa felt a prickle of unease, but she quelled it and watched the king as he strode over to them. He moved quickly, with ferocity and a certain kind of swift grace that seemed to defy his size. It was like watching his famed war hammer descend—nothing could possibly throw Robert Baratheon off his course.
His eyes met hers briefly, and in that fleeting moment, Sansa felt it—the undeniable force of his presence, like a storm contained within a man. He was not the handsome hero of her childhood dreams, but there was something compelling about him, something that made her understand why he was the king.
“By the gods, it’s been too long!” He greeted her father warmly, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder.
Father’s response was a more restrained, “It has, Your Grace, Winterfell is yours,” but the king seemed not to mind the formalities.
Turning to her mother, Robert’s expression took on a softer but somehow more intense look.
“Catelyn, you are a vision,” he declared, lifting her hand to his lips in a gesture Sansa found rather out of character for him, but with practiced ease. She could perhaps understand why the king had been described as charming to her, she could see that charm at work when Mother blushed slightly, and Sansa couldn’t help but watch, entranced.
Her mother did not blush often.
Then, the king turned to her. Her heart thumped heavily against her ribcage as she curtseyed, the weight of his gaze felt exceedingly heavy upon her.
“Your Grace,” Sansa murmured, lowering her eyes in respect and watching as his large hand entered her field of vision. It was rough, callused from many years of battle and hard living, and his grip was firm but not uncomfortable when he took hers and tugged her upward effortlessly.
“Lady Sansa,” he said, his voice low and quieter than she expected. “A beauty, just like your mother.”
“You honor me, Your Grace,” Sansa replied, fighting her blush. Something about being the center of the king’s attention was hard to describe. She managed a timid smile at his compliment and raised her eyes to look up at him. He had stormy blue eyes—darker than hers, framed by thick, long lashes. For a brief moment, she felt her breath catch in her throat, captivated.
But as quickly as it had appeared, the warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a distant, almost reluctant expression.
“Nonsense, I only speak the truth,” he said with a semblance of a smile on his face. It didn’t reach his eyes, and it was a poor imitation of the wide grin he’d worn just moments ago. “Are you ready to be a queen, my lady?”
“I hope to do my duty well-” she started to say, but the king gave her hands a quick, involuntary squeeze, and the last remains of his smile slid from his face.
“Aye, that we shall. You are lovely, my lady, and will be an excellent queen,” he said in a louder voice that was perhaps meant to be reassuring, but his eyes had flicked away from her, darting around the courtyard as if he was seeking a quick escape.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied, doing her best to sound confident, not to let him see how his behavior—his dismissal—affected her. She was a Stark, after all, she had been born of winter, and she could handle this.
There was an awkward silence then, the king releasing her hands, signaling the end of their conversation. His words had been polite and courteous but held no real warmth or connection. She felt a pang of disappointment. She had half-expected more, had hoped for some genuine reassurance, some hint that this was the right path.
This man, this king, was nothing like the gallant princes from her old nurse’s tales. There was a detachment about him, a lack of enthusiasm that troubled her. She felt a ripple of unease sweep through her, but she swiftly quelled it. This was Robert Baratheon, the man she had been pledged to, the man who would raise her from a simple northern lady to the queen of the entire realm.
She would marry him, stand by his side and share his life. It was her duty, her destiny. So she put aside her reservations, reminding herself that queens must be brave, patient, and adaptable. She would learn to understand him, to be his support, and in time, maybe, she would learn to love him as well. It was a challenge, but Sansa was no stranger to those. She grew up with Arya, after all.
As the greetings and introductions concluded, he offered her his arm, and they began to move inside. The feast awaited them, and it would continue well into the night. But for now, Sansa allowed herself a moment to breathe. The first hurdle was crossed, the introductions made. The king was not as she had imagined, but she should look for something positive to focus on.
She was to be his wife, and she would do her best. For her family, for Winterfell, for herself. Sansa squared her shoulders and walked ahead, her heart thudding. She wasn’t just a girl from the North anymore; she was to be a queen, and queens did not falter.
Once they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, followed by all the other guests, Robert led her to the high table. But he stopped in the middle of the hall, something grim passing over his features that made her feel a sudden pang of apprehension. As the king’s eyes met hers, he took a deep breath, and in a move that took the entire hall by surprise, he knelt.
“My lady Sansa,” his voice echoed in the vast space, deep and resonant, “While our betrothal has been made known to the realm, I would ask you here, in the heart of your home, for your hand. Will you have me as your husband?”
For a split second, Sansa was paralyzed. It was just a formality, a custom to be observed, she realized with the same twinge of unease from earlier as she watched the unreadable expression on his face, but there was something about this man—the king—kneeling at her feet that sent a blush to her cheeks and made her heart beat faster. The weight of his gaze was almost a tangible thing, and for a fleeting moment, it was as if they were the only two people in that vast hall.
Drawing a breath, she gracefully extended her hand to him, her voice clear, soft. “It will be my greatest pleasure, Your Grace. I accept wholeheartedly.”
“Then let the feast begin!” He gave her a short, fleeting smile as he rose, and the hall erupted in cheers. “We’re celebrating a betrothal here!”
With the tradition out of the way, the feast commenced. Soon, the king sat at the high table, and laughed heartily as a jester performed, spilling wine from his goblet. Sansa sat by the king’s left side, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar presence of her soon-to-be husband. His bulk was imposing, and his presence dominated the scene. Sansa looked at him with uncertainty. She was to marry this man, but he seemed more interested in the spectacle before him than his future queen. Anything seemed to interest him more than her.
She cleared her throat. Their betrothal had already been announced, a binding agreement, yet she found herself appreciating his unexpected gesture, a touch of tenderness in the formality of it all. She was determined to treat him well. Recalling his earlier mention of the planned hunt, she asked, “Your Grace, have you always enjoyed hunting?”
He looked at her, surprised, and then roared with laughter. However, his answer was brief and devoid of any true interest. “Well, yes, my lady. It’s one of the few pleasures I have left.”
She attempted again, this time inquiring about his childhood at Storm’s End. But Robert’s gaze had wandered off to a serving wench, his reply a disinterested, “Aye, it was good enough.”
He was polite at first, answering her queries with brief, half-hearted comments. As the feast wore on and the wine flowed more freely, his civility eroded. His responses became mumbled sentences and dismissive gestures as his attention waned.
The more he drank, the louder his laughter, the coarser his words became. When he declared with a boisterous laugh that he would be away hunting until the eve of their wedding, Sansa’s shock was concealed only by her disciplined courtesy.
Sansa listened, her heart sinking as he drowned out her voice with talk of the thrill of the chase, of the satisfaction in the kill. The sound of her future husband drowned out all other noise of the hall, actually. She had hoped for a chance to understand him better, but now that seemed unlikely. Her hopes of a conversation, a beginning of a bond between them, were cast aside. Sansa seethed, her knuckles white around the stem of her goblet.
The blatant disregard for her feelings and person stung, what little hope for them she had after he had asked for her hand evaporated quickly.
She shot a quick glance at her father on the king’s right, willing him to notice the discourtesy. Surely, he would speak up, scold the king for his ill manners. But Lord Stark only responded with a quick glance towards the king, his lips set in a firm line. Kings, she realized bitterly, did as they pleased.
She listened with gritted teeth as the king continued to drivel about his plans for the hunt, how many animals he planned to slay. She was a mere afterthought in his great hunting trip, a task he had to attend while he was north.
The feast drew to a close, the hall resonating with drunken laughter and jumbled conversations. Robert, now thoroughly inebriated, was singing a bawdy tune at the top of his lungs, his crown askew on his wild curls. Sansa rose gracefully, her heart heavy. Her betrothed, her future husband, was making a spectacle of himself, and she couldn’t partake in it. She had seen enough. She couldn’t bear his presence any longer.
“Please excuse me, Your Grace. I feel somewhat tired,” she said.
“Of course, my lady. Rest well.” Robert barely glanced at her, his eyes glazed and unfocused, a sloppy grin on his face.
“Goodnight to you as well, Your Grace,” she said, dipping into a courteous curtsey. The king acknowledged her with a wave of his goblet, splashing wine onto the tablecloth. She’d always known she would marry, but her parents had made it seem like she’d have a choice—like she could have followed her dreams and marry someone worthy of her love and devotion.
It had been a lie. Sansa watched him for a moment more, a burning mix of anger and sorrow welling up inside her. She could not see even a trace of a man capable of gentleness in the king, and whatever was left of his good looks and charisma had been drowned in the large amount of wine he’d consumed. She was to marry a man who did not see or value her, a man she would never have chosen. It was a cruel, bitter realization.
As she walked away, the king’s singing followed her, echoing through the hall. She hated the sound already.