Chapter Text
Sansa always did her best to be obedient and dutiful.
When she was 9 and her betrothal to Prince Jon Targaryen was announced, she did not cry. Instead, she curtsied and thanked her Lord Father and Lady Mother for negotiating an excellent match for her. They patted her cheek and told her she would make an excellent princess and an even better queen.
7 years later, King Rhaegar sent a raven from King’s Landing on what should have been Aegon’s 20th nameday had the prince not been stillborn and his mother Elia not died birthing him.
The King requested that since the lady was now 16 and her betrothed 18, the time was now right for her to travel to King’s Landing and take her place as a crown princess. They would be wed sometime next year, with their coronations shortly after.
She would miss her family terribly, but she reminded herself that she would be seeing them again shortly before the wedding. Her mother pushed gowns and silks on her hands, reciting House Tully’s words and telling Sansa to always be respectful and kind—not that the lady needed a reminder.
Her father told her how proud he was of her, and that he looked forward to walking her down the aisle in the Sept of Baelor. She resisted the urge to demand that she be wed in a Godswood—even if it wasn’t the Godswood she grew up with.
She embraced her older brother Robb when he actively protested the summons, claiming that his sister was too young to be sent away. She cooed at her younger sister Arya when she railed alongside Robb, running through the halls of Winterfell demanding that the Prince travel here and fight her with a sword. She demurely accepted little Bran’s offer to become her sworn shield when he was older, and she gracefully received the little winter roses from Rickon’s tiny fists.
King’s Landing welcomed Lady Sansa of House Stark with open arms and great expectations.
Her aunt, The Queen Lyanna, doted on the young Winter Rose. She encouraged her niece to develop her love of learning, weaving, and other ladylike pursuits. The King was enamored with her excellent harp playing and intelligent cyvasse skills.
The Princess Daenerys was a lovely companion, but their friendship was cut short due to the fact that the princess needed to follow Prince Viserys to Dragonstone. It was clear that the princess idolized her older brother, and from what Sansa heard, the prince spoiled his younger sister.
Sansa was jealous that the pair would get to travel across the Narrow Sea, but she did not complain. After all, Daenerys had promised to write often so she would have to settle for that. She also had much to be grateful for—she was just a Northern lady soon to be raised to the station of a princess, after all.
Just a lady.
Princess Rhaenys liked to remind her of that. With Daenerys gone, Rhaenys liked to say that she was now the only princess in the Red Keep.
Rhaenys was never directly unkind to her, after all, when noble ladies disliked each other, they showed it through other means —she was often snide, and a bit of a show-off. Sansa supposed that the King allowed her behavior because he still felt guilt over the loss of his first wife and would-be heir.
Rhaenys liked to tease Sansa with backhanded comments, and Sansa, dutiful as ever, could only nod and accept them. Sometimes she’d hit back with a retort, but most often she let the Princess say whatever she wanted.
In the beginning, the Princess would often criticize her way of dress and the style of her hair, because as much as she quickly adapted to the Southern way of living, she still wanted to keep a little piece of North with her.
But the Princess’s words reminded her of her duty. If she was to be a Queen that ruled in the South, she needed to look like a Southern Queen. So she hid away her Northern clothes and braids. Her Septa and maids started to put her in tight corsets, tucking her away in endless ribbons and layers of silk and damask. Her hair was heated, curled, and wound tightly around her head.
She looked beautiful, and so Southern that sometimes she tried not to cry herself to sleep. She reminded herself that at least the color of her hair could still provide her a piece of home—the Wildlings beyond the Wall called it Kissed by Fire.
Sansa also had another piece of the North with her.
Her betrothed was…something.
Jon was silent, and she reminded Sansa so much of her own Lord Father. He was good with a sword, and excellent on horseback. Rhaegar often complimented him on his work and studies as a prince, and Sansa knew that Jon took his duties seriously.
She and Jon had spent an appropriate amount of time together, always with a chaperone of course. She enjoyed the Prince’s company—he would regale her with stories of courtiers, tell her about the fearsome bones of dragons displayed on the walls, and occasionally, he would give her trinkets and flowers.
Even though he was busy with his duties, he always seemed to find time in for her—even if it was only for a few minutes on some days. He often rescued her from Rhaenys’s company often and sometimes they’d sit together and read letters that Daenerys and Viserys sent, regaling them with tales of majestic Khalasars, the shining walls of Qarth, and the exotic marketplaces of Mereen.
She wrote to her family often. She had a steady promise from her brother that he would ride out to King’s Landing anytime she’d want him to. Arya wrote that she had been learning how to use a sword so that she could fight the prince during the wedding tourney. Bran might start to squire soon, and Rickon had already ridden his first pony.
How she missed them.
--
It was a hot, hot day. It was always hot in King’s Landing, but today seemed to take it to an extreme. Septa Mordane was helping her practice The Dance of the Summer’s Moon, a traditional dance often performed in festivals—and since it would be midsummer soon, she and the other noble ladies would have a chance to perform it in a theatrical that King Rhaegar was arranging.
“Arch your back more, my lady!” Septa Mordane said as she strummed on the harp.
Sansa did as told, bending her back so that it arched prettily. She winced as the binding on her corset hit a sore spot in her waist.
“Smile! You have to smile!” Septa Mordane called.
Sansa dutifully bared her teeth in a lovely smile, but from the look in her eyes, she was clearly in pain. The sweltering heat, combined with the fact that her maid had wound the ribbons in her dress extra tight today, did nothing to ease her discomfort.
The dance was unlike any of the soft steps she had learned in the North. This dance was fast, required a lot of arm movement, and her feet were already aching from tiptoeing too much.
“Turn twice…” Septa Mordane instructed.
Sansa stood on her toes and spun, causing the thick knot on the ribbon of her dress to dig into her back. Before she could balance herself, she yelped and fell on her front. Thankfully, her arms shielded her from what could have been a much more disgraceful fall.
Septa Mordane raced to her side, fanning her with a feathered fan to help cool her heated form. The Septa fussed, but Sansa gently waved her off.
Suddenly, the sound of clapping was heard and Sansa’s face pooled red with embarrassment. She resisted the urge to bury her head on the floor. As gracefully as she could, she stood up and brushed the dirt from her blue skirt. She patted her bright red hair to make sure it was still well kept before facing the door.
Princess Rhaenys.
Sansa instinctively curtsied while the Princess smirked at her.
“You’ll certainly be the talk of the festival, Lady Sansa.” Rhaenys chuckled. Sansa blushed.
“I…I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.” Sansa murmured. Rhaenys clucked her tongue and walked over to Sansa.
“Really? How long have you been practicing this?” Rhaenys asked.
“The Princess has—“ Septa Mordane tried to intervene but Rhaenys sneered at her.
“She is not a princess yet.” Rhaenys snapped.
“Septa Mordane was just trying to get me used to my future title, Princess Rhaenys. She meant no disrespect.” Sansa tried to placate the princess.
“Ah, so this was your idea, trying to get everyone to call you princess while you’re still not married to my brother?” Rhaenys goaded Sansa into a fight, but Sansa respectfully stayed silent.
“It’s a long way from here to the aisle, dear sister.” Rhaenys sneered, patting Sansa on the cheek in a condescending manner.
“Yes, and I still have much to practice.” Sansa carefully said.
“I have been hearing the tune of that dance from this room for days, Sansa. If you can’t get it right now, what makes you think you’ll be ready for the festival?” Rhaenys asked. Sansa blushed to her roots.
“The Lady Sansa has already perfected that dance a few days ago, your grace. She simply wanted to try it again but simply made an error. Nevertheless, she has done very well in her lessons.” Septa Mordane said.
“It’s not a difficult dance.” Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “Make sure to stand in the back, then.”
“I will stand wherever the dance master instructs me to.” Sansa said, trying to stand up for herself. Sansa was a lady from the North, she was respectful, but she was not a pushover. She had Stark steel and she was not afraid to show it from time to time.
“What did you say?” Rhaenys seethed.
“Rhaenys, what are you doing here?”
All eyes snapped to the door. Sansa gulped, it was her betrothed.
He looked a bit dirty—Sansa guessed he must have come from training. He was holding a letter in his hand, still sealed.
Prince Jon’s eyes held fury, and had they been directed at her, she would have called on Lady and hightailed it back to the North with her wolf with not a moment to spare. But Jon’s gray eyes were narrowed at Rhaenys’s violet ones.
Rhaenys straightened her back and looked at her brother.
“Oh hello little brother. I was finished with my lessons and wanted to see how my sister was doing.” Rhaenys said with a fake smile. Jon didn’t buy it.
“Your room is in the other end of the castle. What are you really doing here in this study?” Jon pressed, walking over to her. Jon was tall and broad shouldered, towering over the two ladies. Rhaenys flinched, but did not waver.
“Looking for company.” Rhaenys rolled her eyes.
“Father told you to stop interrupting Princess Sansa’s lessons.” Jon growled out. Sansa blinked at the use of the word Princess. Rhaenys grit her teeth.
Sansa could sense the tension, and she feared this might escalate given that the two had tempers of their own, so she took a step forward and tried to abate the situation.
“Princess Rhaenys was merely offering criticism, your grace. I was erroneous in practicing for a dance and she corrected me.” Sansa said. Rhaenys smirked. Jon shook his head.
“Sansa doesn’t need your criticism, Rhaenys. According to father, all of Princess Sansa’s tutors have constantly praised her—which is more than I can say for you.” Jon said in a calm, unnerving voice that reminded her too much of her father when he was angry.
“They’re lying!” Rhaenys seethed. “How dare you—“
“If I hear of you doing this again, I swear to the Gods, Rhaenys, I will intervene and tell father to pull you out of the festival dance and send you off to foster in the Iron Islands. He is not pleased with your actions these past few weeks, especially towards Sansa.” Jon growled out, looking Rhaenys in the eye.
Rhaenys fumed but stayed silent.
“Is that understood?” Jon pressed.
Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at Jon and considered his threat. Stomping her foot, she huffed and stormed out.
Sansa let out a breath she did not know she had been holding when Rhaenys slammed the door behind her. Septa Mordane sighed and gently fanned her again with the feathered fan.
“Thank you for interfering, your grace, who knows what would have happened if you didn’t get here on time.” Septa Mordane muttered as she fanned Sansa. Sansa sighed and put her hands together, looking down at the floor.
“I am sorry you had to witness that, Prince Jon.” Sansa murmured. “I’m sure you had other things to do…”
“It is no problem.” Jon said. “I was done with training anyway and I wanted to tell you that I received a letter from Robb today.” Jon pushed the letter onto her hands.
A gentle breeze blew across them, causing Septa Mordane to look out into the sweltering hot gardens. She frowned and stopped fanning.
“I will get some refreshments. It’s a hot day today and The Lady Sansa still isn’t used to the Southern heat.” She said, handing the fan unceremoniously to Prince Jon.
“I am fine, Septa…” Sansa trailed off.
“No, you are not. This heat wave has caused your lightheadedness, probably what made you fall earlier. I will be back.” Septa Mordane said, exiting the room.
Sansa did not have the courage to tell Septa Mordane that it was the tight lacing and corset that caused her fall. She could not understand why Southern women favored these tight styles. In the North, they had no time to finery like that—it was too cold. Besides, if the goal of a corset were to make a woman’s waist appear smaller, it would be of no use in the North since the lady would be covered up in furs anyway.
Jon led her to a chaise next to the window and sat down beside her.
“Would you like to read the letter?” Jon asked.
“It is addressed to you.” Sansa said, confused.
“I know, but it’s from your brother.” Jon insisted.
“We’ll read it together.” Sansa said. Gently, she broke the seal and started to read the letter.
She was halfway through Robb’s letter when Jon started fanning her with Septa Mordane’s fan.
“Prince Jon…you don’t have to…” She said, gently taking the fan from him.
“But Septa Mordane said the heat…I mean, this isn’t the North…” Jon mumbled, flushed.
“The Septa was exaggerating.” Sansa murmured as she finished the letter. “It seems everything is well back home.”
“Your sister still doesn’t like me, I presume.” Jon grumbled. Sansa laughed, and Jon’s breath hitched the way it always did when he heard that twinkling sound.
“She will warm up to you, I promise, once she sees you in the practice yard with your sword, she’ll look up to you and you won’t be able to get rid of her.” Sansa said. Jon shook his head.
“In her mind, I’ll always be the brute who took her perfect sister away.” Jon sighed.
“I cannot wait for them to meet you.” Sansa smiled.
An awkward silence followed. Sansa started gently fanning herself with Septa’s fan.
“Sansa…how often does Rhaenys bother you?” Jon asked. Sansa snapped the fan shut and sighed.
“During my lessons?” She asked.
“No…I mean…I know she sometimes talks down to you…it’s not just in your lessons, is it?” Jon asked.
Sansa sighed. She did not want Rhaenys and Jon to fight.
“The Princess Rhaenys shows me what a Southern Princess is supposed to be like.” Sansa carefully said.
“Rhaenys is not a good example of a princess, Sansa. Daenerys, maybe. But you are a better princess than Rhaenys.” Jon insisted. Sansa shook her head.
“I am not a princess yet.” She whispered.
“You already are. The whole castle—everyone in this city adores you. Rhaenys is only jealous that everyone likes you better than they like her.” Jon grumbled.
“That is not true.” Sansa sighed. “Rhaenys is well beloved.”
“Does Rhaenys give bread to the poor once a week? Does Rhaenys know her maid’s first name?” Jon asked.
Sansa blushed. She had no idea Jon noticed these little things about her. It made her like him even more.
When Jon realized that Sansa wasn’t going to answer to that—she was too humble and demure to do so, he decided to steer the conversation another way.
“Your dress…it’s pretty.” He said. Sansa looked up at him.
“Thank you. It is a gift from The Queen.” Sansa smiled.
“It is unlike your other dresses.” Jon observed. Sansa’s smile fell and Jon yearned to know what he said wrong.
“It is a more appropriate dress for the South.” Sansa said, running her fingers over the jewels encrusted in her bodice.
“Your Northern dresses are prettier…you can still wear the lighter ones here.” Jon said.
“Yes, but I am to be Southern Princess. I must dress that way, and style my hair that way.” Sansa said, wincing as she turned her head. The pins were digging into her scalp and she grit her teeth.
“That’s not true.” Jon said.
Sansa turned to him and the jeweled pin in her hair dug on her scalp even more. When she raised her arm to adjust it, the ribbon in her corset yanked at her skin. Suddenly, she felt lightheaded. She looked to the window for a breeze, but none came. Beads of sweat started forming on her head.
She reached for her fan, but felt her stomach tighten from the corset’s bindings.
Jon reached for her arms, but the last Sansa could see was white before she fainted and crumbled down.
Jon thanked his fast reflexes as he caught Sansa by the waist before she fell to the floor. He shook her, calling her name but she was unresponsive. He stood from the chaise and laid her down, fanning her with the Septa’s fan. When she was still unresponsive, he quickly ran over to the door, only to be met by Septa Mordane opening it, carrying a jug of juice.
The juice fell to the floor.
Septa Mordane took one look at the scene and gasped in horror.
“What happened?” She cried, looking at Jon accusingly. “What did you do?”
“Nothing! Princess Sansa fainted…I had no idea…the heat maybe…” Jon rambled, suddenly afraid. Septa Mordane put a hand up to silence him.
She quickly ran over to Sansa and checked her temperature. Jon could only stand awkwardly behind her as Septa Mordane prodded her ward. The Septa felt Sansa’s waist and muttered under her breath.
“Is she going to be alright?” Jon asked, his heart beating fast. Was it his fault? He wanted to go to his father immediately and report the situation. No, he wanted to race to the North and kneel before Ned Stark, beg for forgiveness for not taking better care of the delicate Winter Rose they had graciously given to him as a betrothed. So many things raced across his mind that he did not notice Septa Mordane standing up and making her way to the door.
“Where are you going? What about the princess?” Jon demanded.
“I’m going to call a Maester. It’s just as I suspected, her corset was wound much more tightly today. I was against her wearing a corset in the first place—she’s still not used to the ways of the South. Unlace her sashes while I call the Maester.” Septa Mordane quickly said.
“What? Me? I can’t! It would be improper! I don’t know how to…I can’t…I…” Jon spluttered as he flushed.
“You don’t know? None of your tutors have taught you how to unlace a lady’s corset?” Septa Mordane demanded. Jon immediately remembered Uncle Oberyn and Tyrion Lannister (the most well read men in the Seven Kingdoms apart from Domeric Bolton, mind you) taking him to a brothel a year ago and teaching him…unspeakable things. He ran the moment he realized what they wanted him to learn. The memory made his stomach tighten.
“I do know how!” Jon insisted, turning red. Septa Mordane cocked an eyebrow and Jon spluttered again. “It’s improper! Why don’t you do it?”
“Fine! Go tell the Maester and explain how your betrothed has been laced tightly at the waist and how her choice of clothing has caused her to faint. Make sure you can answer all of the Maester’s questions about her state of dress.” Septa Mordane flatly said.
Jon blushed. That did not sound like something he could go through.
“Just as I thought. Unlace her ribbons and corsets and sashes. All of them!” Septa Mordane ordered before she rushed out of the room.
Jon grumbled and closed the door. He hurried over to Sansa and checked on her ribbons.
Blushing madly, he fumbled with the buttons in the back of her dress. His fingers were thick, and he did not have an easy time with the small buttons. Finally, he loosened her bodice.
What he saw underneath made him gasp.
What should have been thin silk smallclothes that would surely tease his imagination turned out to be a corset with thick ribbons would tightly around her waist and bodice. His eyes widened as he slowly worked on undoing them. He winced, hearing the silk sash unfurling.
“Why would you put yourself through this?” He muttered as he undid the smaller ribbons.
Finally, the corset loosened and he was able to glimpse a white silk underdress. He blushed as he saw flashes of fair, flushed skin. He sighed in relief and turned her so she laid her on her back. He took the fan from the floor and started to fan her.
Moments later, she stirred and opened her eyes, gently hoisting herself up to lean against the wall. Jon assisted her.
Sansa was silent for a while before she looked down and saw the state of her undress. Her eyes widened and she hugged her dress tighter to herself, blushing adorably. Jon stood and backed away from her.
“Septa Mordane told me you were laced up tightly today, that’s why you fainted. She went to get the Maester and told me to undo your corset so you could breathe better.” Jon explained.
Sansa blushed, and nodded gently. Jon spotted a satin cloak hanging on a chair and stood up to get it. He gently draped it over Sansa to cover her modesty and she gratefully tugged it closer to her.
“Sansa…why were all those ribbons wrapped around you?” Jon asked.
“It’s how Southern Ladies dress.” Sansa said. Jon shook his head.
“Septa Mordane said she didn’t want you to…” He trailed off.
“She said it would be better if I took it slower, using the looser corsets first before moving on to the tighter ones.” Sansa nodded.
“Why didn’t you?” Jon pressed.
“I figured it was better like this, so I could get used to it right away.” Sansa murmured.
“But you’re suffering.” Jon indignantly said.
“I am not. I am merely adapting. It is no trouble, Prince Jon, all Southern ladies adapt to this manner of dress once they are my age.” Sansa said, shaking her head.
Jon grumbled.
“But you’re Northern. You can dress like a Northerner if you want, no one will bat an eye if you wear your old clothes. Don’t you like them?” Jon asked.
“Of course, they are very pretty. But I am to be a Queen in the South. It is my duty.” Sansa said.
Jon closed his eyes and sighed.
He needed to make this right. For all her beauty that belonged among the praises of the capital, Sansa was still Northern to the bone. He feared that a winter rose like her would wilt here. He was unworthy of her—she was always so sunny and bright, and he was not.
Even though he was very fond of his beautiful, perfect bride to the point that he could admit he was falling in love with her, he knew he had to do what was best for her.
“Sansa…” Jon ground out. “If you are unhappy here…I can break off the engagement and you can go back North.”
It wouldn’t be easy. He would risk offending the North, the wrath of his father, and the ire of his mother, but for her, he would shake The Eyrie off the Vale if he had to.
Sansa’s reaction was not what he expected. Her eyes welled up with tears and she trembled. Jon immediately cursed himself for how he worded his statement.
“You don’t want to marry me?” She asked, her voice breaking.
“What? Sansa, no! Nothing would make me happier than to wed you! But you are miserable here, I can’t, I won’t keep you somewhere where you’re miserable!” Jon said.
“Did I do something to displease you? Was it my fainting? I won’t do it again. I’ll do better in my lessons. I promise, please don’t send me away. I don’t want to dishonor my family. Please.” Sansa rambled, tears streaming down her eyes.
Jon couldn’t resist. He gathered her in his arms and held her close, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“Sansa, sweetling, you are perfect. Too perfect for someone like me. But I don’t want you to do things you’re uncomfortable with. You are adored here, Sansa. No matter how you dress.” Jon murmured into her hair. This was the closest they had been, and it should’ve been awkward, but it wasn’t.
“I just want you to be happy here, Sansa. I know your life in the North was perfect…I want to give you a perfect life here as well. You deserve nothing less.” Jon gently said. Sansa looked up.
“So you don’t want to send me away?” Sansa asked, gulping.
“No, sweetling. I do not. I want to wed you in the Godswood, I want to have children with you, I want to rule the Seven Kingdoms with you, but only if it’s what will make you happy. Could…could you be happy here, Sansa?” Jon asked, fearing the answer.
“I’ve never thought about happiness.” Sansa sighed. “I just did my duty as was expected of me. My mother’s family’s words are Family, Duty, Honor after all.”
Jon was silent. If it weren’t for duty, would she reject him?
“But now that I think about it, I could be happy here. I could be happy with you. I enjoy…spending time with you. I love your family, I love the people here…yes, I could be happy here, Prince Jon.” Sansa said, smiling to look up at him.
Jon’s heart soared and he pulled her closer.
“Jon. You have to call me Jon.” He murmured. She nodded.
“Will you promise to take better care of yourself? I don’t want the Northern bannermen storming the capital demanding my head.” Jon teased. Sansa giggled.
“I will. Thank you, Jon.” Sansa said. Jon nodded, reminding himself to take better care of his betrothed. She was his responsibility, and damn if he didn’t do his best to make her happy.
“Of course. Anything for you, sweetling.” Jon said, shaking out of his fantasy of burning all the corsets south of The Neck before Lord Robb Stark or even Lady Arya could throttle him for causing their sister pain.
Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but instead leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Jon could do nothing but smile and hold her closer, kissing the top of her head in return.
--
The Royal Family often broke their fast together, and Sansa almost always joined them.
Everyone was already seated when Sansa arrived. When she entered, King Rhaegar gave her a big smile, The Queen fussed over her, imploring her to sit down, Rhaenys ignored her and Jon could only gape.
She was wearing a light gown, colored Tully blue, cinched at the waist with a thick ribbon colored Stark gray. Her hair was braided simply, hanging over her right shoulder.
Jon observed the way she walked to her seat beside him. The ease on her movements made him smile in approval—she was not wearing one of those ridiculous corsets.
She was his Southern Princess, which was evident in the way she curtsied, and smiled, and moved gracefully around the palace.
But she looked every bit the winter rose that she truly was, and it pleased him to no end that she had not forgotten that.
Winter is coming, indeed.