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Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Summerhall is finishing a few letters when he enters the sitting room. Her hair is curled and pinned up. The blue of her day dress looks lovely against her cream skin and plays off her red of her hair. He can’t see her eyes, but he knows the color brings them out.
She turns from her chair, back straight, and smiles at. Then she stands up, all easy grace and comes to him.
She is everything a princess should be.
Her face fell when she took in his own.
“What’s wrong, Love?” She asks, like always. She’s the only one who calls him Love, of course, and it always warms him, having something special that’s just for Jon and Sansa and no one else. “Did the meeting with the King not go well?”
Jon let out something that sounded almost like a growl then. “No,” he says, and then all but collapses onto the waiting couch. It’s comfortable, not like the fancy ones in the parlor. Sansa knows how to make an impression, but she also does not want to give the family back pains. She makes grand parties but she makes home too. He will never not be grateful she agreed to marry him against her own better judgement. And now he feels like he’s breaking a promise.
She sits beside him and takes his hand in her’s. She sits close, closer then she would dare in company, but right now, they are not The Royal Duke and Duchess of Summerhall, representatives of King and Country. They are just a husband and a wife. They are just a man who has to inform the woman he loves most of all about the state of their future.
“What happened with Egg?” She asks. She always seems awkward calling his brother by his family nickname, though they’ve been married well over a decade, and she’d known him as a boy, even if at a bit of a distance.
He nearly always calls his brother Egg, but he understands too. Aegon has long been two competing things in his life. Something like a friend and a record of all his inadequacies. She’s trying to make her more comfortable by calling him like family instead of the King he is. Father had done that as well, and it was for that reason he’d called his half-brother Egg and not The Prince of Dragonstone as a child.
His Majesty the King. Or Aegon Rhaegar Doren Baelor Daeron Maron Aenar of House Targaryen to use his given,but no less impressive, name.
His mother had assured him often as a boy that Aegon Aemon Jaehaerys Brandon Jon was just as regal a name for a prince. But he could not feel it at all. Egg was the heir and Jon merely the spare. And it was one thing to be the spare son, but quite another to be the spare Aegon.
As a child, the playmates they had been assigned did not like to call him Aegon or the Jon his family used. They’d called him Lord Snow with a sneer. Snow, like the old name for bastards up north.
His father hadn’t been around enough to oppose it, but it was the final straw for his mother, after the incident with his nanny who called him names and pinched him until he cried, so his parents would not want him in their presence.
So she sent him off and up. Up North to Winterfell, to her brother. The Queen had been well loved as Lady Lyanna. And no one there would call her son Lord Snow, nor comment on the fact that the King had married her when his first wife was not cold in the ground a month, and that he was born some five months later, perfectly healthy and perhaps even a little on the large side. In the North he was not the second best Aegon, he was Prince Jon.
He wants to go back there now. He wants to pack up the household and whisk his wife and daughters home. He wants to have his secretary place a call to Lady Stark, and sit at his Aunt Catelyn’s table by dinner. He wants to watch Sansa wonder the grounds of her childhood home. He wants to lay flowers at Robb’s crypt. He wants to remind their daughters that regardless of the name Targaryen, there is more wolf’s blood then anything else running through their veins.
But he cannot.
“What happened with Aegon?” Sansa repeats. Her hand rests on his shoulder now, worry clear in the set of her shoulders.
“He wants to marry that bloody woman.” Jon says. And wonders at Sansa’s reaction.
It does not disappoint. Her eyes grow wide and her mouth falls open. Sansa is the picture of a proper princess, and keeping her emotions under control is one of her many many talents. But she cannot disguise her shock, nor her horror.
“Mrs. Lannister?” She always uses her most formal manner of address. “She’s married.” She nearly hisses. And Sansa understands that sometimes a woman must simply get away from a man. But she can’t follow that up by expecting to marry the king.
“I was assure that she intends not to be very shortly.” Jon sighed.
“But then she’ll have been divorced twice.” Sansa says, is breathless horror. “She must know better.”
Jon would have thought so too. Aegon might be a romantic fool, but his paramour is supposed to be made of smarter stuff. She’s already given up being Lady Renly Baratheon for Mrs. Joffrey Lannister. And now seems ready to give up the illegitimate but much doted upon son of Lady Cersei as well.
A King surely is a grander prize then the third son of a Duke or the rich bastard of a Lady. But Kings come with strings. Rules, laws, expectations, and of course the High Septon and his faith. And a rather stringent view of divorce and remarriage. Mostly that it was not to be done.
“Margaery must know better.” Sansa says, to herself now. “Her family are certainly eager to reach above their station, but this is more likely to end in class suicide.”
Jon has not considered how this might affect the Tyrell family or their ambitions. He has been much much more concerned about how it will affect his.
“Who else was at the meeting,” Sansa asks instead of trying to parse out the Tyrell’s motivations. “Aegon normally doesn’t host official meetings between just the two of you.” Which is true enough. Aegon occasionally has too open a heart, but he also lives for pleasure. If Egg merely wants to speak with his brother, he normally invites him around to his club.
But they’d met at the Red Keep. “Lord Griffin, The High Septon, and the Prime Minister.”
Sansa sits back then, and he can see when the full weight of it all hit her.
“He told you all he means to marry Margaery Lannister?”
Jon nods, “Apparently he’s spoken to Connington and Lord Arryn both about it before.”
“But she’ll have two living former husbands.” Sansa repeats. “How could they have told him anything but no.”
“They did tell him no.” Jon says. “More than once.”
“How could he have possibly tried to justify himself?” Sansa asks. That had been Jon’s own question while Egg had been talking just an hour earlier.
“He’s an inventive man.” Jon offers without humor. “He suggested several things. A morganatic marriage of some sort, make her a princess or a duchess to his king.”
“This isn’t Essos, we don’t have those kinds of things here.” Sansa points out. “and the Tyrells are technically…” she trails off, but Jon knows what she doesn’t want to say. The Tyrells are technically high born, but their money is from business, and their title gotten through dealing and luck. Comparing them to the likes of the Starks is nearly laughable. And Jon’s own mother was the Queen.
“I think it was more to avoid having to name her Queen.”
“Because even he knows no one would accept a woman with two husbands as queen.”
“I don’t know if he always realized that, but Lord Arryn was very very specific about it, and it sounded like an argument they’d had before.”
Sansa scoffs, “Uncle Jon knew? And he didn’t warn you?” She sounded hurt, “Our grandfather’s dear friend, Father’s mentor, my Uncle, the man who you are called after, and he didn’t think to let us know what was going on with the King?”
Jon Arryn often seems to not be sure what to do with his royal namesake, mostly because in addition to being Ned Stark’s nephew, he was born in the face of Lord Stromsend’s heartbreak, and Robert Baratheon had never really got over losing the Dowager Queen to his princely cousin.
But he is affectionate to Sansa and their daughters.
“I think he was hoping Egg’d just change his mind.” Jon says. “He has not.”
“But he can’t just marry her and not call her queen.” Sansa repeated. “The mother of the next King can’t have two other husbands running around. Particularly not husbands like Lord Renly and Joffrey Lannister.”
“You don’t think they’ll sit quietly and not make a fuss for the spectacle?” Jon asks, with all due sarcasm. “No, Jon Connington said the same.”
“What was Aegon’s response to that?”
Jon sighed at the memory, “That he and Mrs. Lannister’s children would not inherit. That they would be excluded from succession and it would move on from there.”
“But the next person in line is…” She trailed off. “Is that why they wanted you there.”
“Yes,” Jon admits. “That’s why they wanted me there.”
***
His Royal Highness, The Prince Aegon Aemon Jaehaerys Brandon Jon, Duke of Summerhall spends the entirety of his sister’s wedding staring at her bridesmaid.
All of Princess Rhaenys’ bridesmaids were beautiful young ladies from good family and old titles. Only one caught her cousin’s eye.
The Last time he had seen her, The Lady Sansa Stark was a beautiful girl, just reaching eighteen.
She had wide blue eyes full of wonder, pale skin free of blemish, and long red hair that shone the color or copper in the Midday Sun of a King’s Landing garden party.
He’s known Sansa for nearly all her life, of course. Had played monsters and maidens with her as a child and had shared many a meal and evening with her. He loves her dearly, like all his Stark cousins. But it was always different. She was the proper Lady of the bunch, and was twice as like to call after him formally as his siblings from even the age of five or six. Before he’d gone away to school with Robb, she’d mostly wanted to talk to him about King’s Landing and society, and though she had a keen mind and clever wit, the way her eyes shined at the prospect made him uncomfortable. He’d been sent away for a reason, after all.
When she’s made her proper debut she’d been a sight. Much was spoken about the beauty of both Catelyn Tully and Lyanna Stark in their youths, and Sansa seemed to have inherited all of that beauty, wrapped up in a demure, innocent, but engaging package. He’d been too taken with Lady Val to really notice at the time. And the loss of Robb in the war, though three years gone, still stung in his mind when he saw the shine of her red hair. And so his impression of her had been limited to thinking it strange that the little girl who had once practiced her curtsies to him was a woman, and reprimanding the young men in his presence who said things about her with reminders that she was his cousin and such conduct was unbecoming of any gentleman regarding any lady.
His attachment to Lady Val ended with her return to the land beyond the Wall and his Father making him the Duke of Summerhall to prevent him from doing something foolish like running after her. And his royal duties had taken him around the continent. And Sansa had mostly left his mind, minus asking after her in letters to his family.
When he was told that Rhaenys had become close to her recently and that she would be a bridesmaid in the upcoming wedding he’d smiled to himself, remembering her sweet disposition and her impeccable manners.
But now he sees her, in a white gown, fiery hair peeking out from her veil. And well, Sansa’s beauty was always just a fact of life growing up. Now it is like a shining beacon he cannot look away from.
Afterwards, when Princess Rhaenys is a married woman and the guests have eaten their fill, Jon goes to her.
She smiles at the sight of him, her blue eyes sparkling, and she curtsies all properly. “Your Highness,” She says. Her little sister had run up to Jon and practically jumped into his arms not half an hour before, calling him Jon while he ruffled her complex updo and called her “little cousin” and ignoring her mother’s eye roll behind them.
“Lady Sansa,” Jon says, taking her hand. “I have not seen you in years, but I was so pleased when I heard you and Rhae had become good friends.”
“Princess Rhaenys has been very kind to me.” Sansa says, “I’ve enjoyed getting to know her better.”
“I can think of no better influence for her then you.” Jon says, and Sansa actually laughs. He remembers her laugh from childhood, a high, ringing sound. This is not quite the same. A bit lower, more full. It has some weight too it, some age. Lady Sansa Stark is not a little girl any longer.
“You are too kind, Prince Jon.”
“And you are my cousin, Lady Sansa,” He replies, “I would hope you’ll remember that and refer to me by name, not title.”
She smiles again, but blushes too, the rosy color filling her cheeks and making him warm in response.
“Of course, Jon.” She says. Any more catching up was impossible, because he is called away.
But he bids her farewell with an expression of joy of their future intimacy.
And intimacy they have. Every gathering or party that is had, she seems to be there. And he seems drawn to her, her gravity inescapable. He delights in making her laugh. And delights more when she makes him do the same.
And so when summer ends, and with some sort of approval from his father, he makes his suit.
“Lady Sansa,” He Says, and his is rather fastidious that Sansa call him only Jon, but he likes addressing Sansa as the lady she is. She’s going back to Winterfell at the end of the week.
“Jon,” She says, when she see him. And he loves her smile. He wants to see it as often as possible. And he wants to see it on his children.
“I am glad I caught you, I wished to speak with you about a rather important matter.”
She frowns a little, and his stomach sinks. If she does not know, what he wishes to ask, that’s worrying, and if she knows and still frowns, that’s worse.
“I have so enjoyed having you in King’s Landing these last months,” He begins. He’d practiced this with Sam. “It has been nice to see you so often. And your company has been one of the brightest spots this summer.”
She smiles again. “I always like your company, Jon.”
His heart speeds up and he clears his throat, “Well,” He says “I, I am glad,” he thinks back to the speech he wrote down, but much of it has fled his mind.
And she just looks at him expectantly.
“Lady Sansa,” He tries again, “I just...you are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And I would be honored if you'd agree to become my wife.”
There was meant to be mentions of her grace and elegance. He was supposed to speak on their compatibility as people. Of her assets to the crown, of his affection towards her family. But really he is just a man in love. And speaking has never been his strong suit.
She does not frown, but her smile gets sadder, and he feels sick to his stomach. “Oh Jon.” She says. And it cannot go well from here.
“I see.” He says, but when he goes to move away, she grasps his arm.
“You don’t,” She says, but she still smiles sadly, “Jon, I...I love you dearly.” She says, like a cousin, he supposes, or even a brother, given how he’d grown up around Winterfell. “But I can’t marry you.”
“Of course, Your Ladyship.”
“I...If it were just a matter of being your wife it would be different,” She says, hastily, as though desperate to explain, “But Jon, I wouldn’t be. I’d be the wife of a Prince.”
“No one in the entirety of Westeros is more deserving of being a Princess,” He says.
“I’m sure Rhaenys and Daenerys will be happy to hear that.” Sansa says, “But I simply can’t. I am afraid never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to. To be your wife would be a joy, I think, Jon. But to be the Duchess of Summerhall? I’m just not sure I’m up to it.”
No one in the world would be better. Jon is sure. And he is also sure that no one else will be.
“I do understand your fears, Sansa,” He says, finally. More than anything. He feels them, daily. But he is also sure that with her besides him, the pressure would not be so high. They could strengthen and protect each other.
But he does not say it.
He leaves shortly after that, with all the familiarity due his beloved cousin. Then he goes home and broods.
“I fear you’ve had your heart broken.” He mother says when he meets her for lunch the next day. And that’s not it, exactly. If she’d simply told him she did not share his feelings perhaps he would be well on his way to moving on. But it is a question of royal life she objects to, not him.
He tells her something of the truth, “I proposed to a woman, I was not accepted.”
Lyanna’s eyes widen in surprise. “I didn’t know you were interested in someone.” She sounds disapproving of his lack of transparency, “Who?”
“Sansa.”
His mother just stares, “Your cousin, Ned’s girl?”
He nods miserably for a moment.
“Well, she is very pretty. And funny and sharp as a whip.”
“She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing” he says, “She’s smart and beautiful and if she does not wish to be my wife, I suspect I will never have one.”
The Queen rolls her eyes, “Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”
“She says she could not handle the demands of royal life.” Jon explains, “And I understand that, I do, but I think together we could weather the storm.”
“Oh that poor girl,” Lyanna says with a sigh, “Yes, I understand as to well.”
But Jon looks up at her with excitement. “Perhaps you could talk to Uncle Ned, make my case too him.”
She just laughs, “I think reminders of my life as queen is the last thing to get Ned to agree.” She advises. “Continue making the suit to your Lady. Perhaps she will surprise you or perhaps it was not meant to be.”
With nothing else to do, Jon does as he is told.
He writes to his cousin of his devotion and her many fine qualities. And she returns sweet letters that make it clear she knows what he is doing, but maybe that she even appreciates it a bit.
When he visits Winterfell in the winter, as he does every year, he takes her on a walk through the glass gardens and cuts a winter rose for her, removing the thrones and placing it in her hair.
“I wish to repeat my question, Lady Sansa,” He says, when she is admiring her reflecting in the glass. He takes the hand he is already holding and plants a soft kiss on the palm.
She turns and looks at him, considering, really and truly. “I love you, Jon, I do.” She promises. Taking his hand properly and grasping it tightly, “But my answer hasn’t changed. I look at your mother. Aunt Lyanna is one of the strongest woman I know, Jon, but I can see her struggle with it. Everytime I see her, I see that struggle.”
Jon sees the struggle too. And he worries about it. But he knows his life will be quieter than that of the slightly scandalous queen who birthed him.
He leaves Winterfell with a promise of his devotion, but no repeated question.
The next time he see Sansa she takes his breath away. It has been something like six months, and there were rumors of Sir Harry Hardying, 8th Baronet, and his attempts to court her. Jon knows him only in passing, and he really is not in the same league as the Starks. But he’s handsome and connected to the Arryns in advantageous ways. And he’d apparently been very persuasive.
But then there had been something about him having illegitimate children, and perhaps wanting Lord Arryn’s title a bit too much, considering the man has a son. And Sansa arrives back in King’s Landing unattached.
She’s also cut her hair. The short crops have been sweeping through the society he knows, but he had not expected to see Sansa Stark, the ends of her bright hair brushing her sharp cheekbone. She’s long been a classic beauty, but the line of her hair brings attention to her eyes, and emphasizes her cheeks and perfectly balances out her long Stark face.
“Arya suggested we do something scandalous after...everything,” She says, with a raised eyebrow. He expects this kind of thing of Arya, but Sansa surprises him. She is to much a perfect lady in the old mode.
“It looks lovely,” He says with a chock, and Sansa smiles a sort of mean smile.
“I suppose it's not the most respectable thing for one to do, but its very popular now, and I find myself less worried such things lately.” And it occurs to him that she must think it's some sort of disqualifier for a royal wife. Or that he is not even more captivated by it.
“When Mama sees it I’m sure she’ll decide she must follow suit.” He says instead.
Sansa laughs, know her Aunt Lyanna’s admiration of the flappers.
“And I know Rhae has been considering it as well. Once she sees you, I’m sure she’ll decide that there is nothing to stop her.”
“Her husband might object.” Sansa suggests.
Jon shrugs, “Perhaps, I suppose it does not make every woman even more ravishing than before. But I also suppose most women don’t start as beautiful as you.”
“You really like it?” Sansa asks, seeming surprised.
“I like everything about you.” He says. “You know that, but your hair right now is particularly becoming.” He reached up and brushed a lock behind her ear, where is just barely stayed. And then, because they were more or less secluded, he leaned in and kissed her lips, quickly, softly, but unmistakable.
She blushes beneath her bob when he pulled back, but she did not seem unhappy.
But as they parted that evening she still told him no.
He rewrites a speech. He has Sam and his mother read it. He will make it perfect. He will work to alleviate her fears. He has a ring crafted from platinum, diamonds, and sapphires.
He and his mother go to Winterfell, and one afternoon, the Queen invites her for tea. When she leaves, he finds Sansa alone.
“Am I being ambushed?” She asks when he comes in.
“No,” He says, before bending down on his knee, “But you are being asked.”
She eyes tear up when she sees the ring.
“I love you so much,” He tells her, “I do not think I can be with any woman but you. And I understand that there is a great deal of risk to marrying me. But I think I can make you happy. Yes, there will be things we must do, but we can do things we wish as well. Father is King, and Egg will be after him. But what’s that? Relatives of a King. A bit on the annoying side, certainly, but nothing life ending. We’ll have our own life. Quiet and close. We’ll get to travel and meet people, you can support whichever arts you like. You can find which ever charities deserve support.”
“Jon,” She says, and the tears do fall then, one of them landing on the end of her hair, where it still rests at her cheek.
“I do not promise it is not trying at times, but I think together we can make it easier for both of us. And I want to. I want to be with YOU. For the rest of my life.”
“Jon.”
“I will never be King, leave that to Aegon and whatever poor girl he marries. It is not meant for me. But Lady Sansa, you were so clearly meant to be a princess, please allow me the great honor of making you one. Please allow me to help you fulfill your truest destiny.”
Even through all the tears, he still hears her.
“Oh yes, Love. Yes. Yes.”
***
He’d promised he wouldn’t do this to her when they’d married twelve years ago. He hates his brother for making him a liar.
Satin dresses him for dinner and wonders at his mood. He wonders that the gossip is not all over the country yet. Soon, he supposes. Much much too soon.
He greets Sansa at dinner, as Nan leads the girls in from their rooms. They are young, but when they eat at home, Jon likes for it to be the four of them.
“He truly wishes to abdicate.” She asks again.
“I don't’ think he wishes,” Jon counters, “But I think he will.”
“For Margaery?” Sansa asks, in its not at him, it is more at the very much absent Egg, and about his very strange life choice.
“Apparently,” Jon says, “I don’t understand.”
“I suppose your father’s wish was rather prophetic.”
Jon groans, yes, his father’s wish. His father’s belief that Egg would do nothing but ruin himself in a year. And his hope that nothing would come between Jon, Lya, and the throne. It had never been expressed to Jon while King Rhaegar was alive, but he had heard it not from the bias source of his mother, but from Lord Arthur, his father’s dearest friend, and a man who seemed to worship whatever his father did. If he says it was spoken, it probably was.
Jon looked at the girls being helped in their seats. Lya. His little Lyanna was only ever supposed to be Her Royal Highness Princess Lyarra of Summerhall. Sansa had chosen the names on purpose. Because she though Lyarra of Summerhall and Rhaea Rose of Summerhall sounded nice. Yet soon they will lose such a marker.
He cannot tell them yet. They deserve more time to play and learn as little girls. But this will change soon. Far sooner than Jon has ever wanted anything to happen to them.
He sits at the table with two future queens. It would be awe-inspiring if it were not so distressing.
He instead asks about their day, what they are learning and what they enjoy most in their studies. They’ll have to change some of their schooling if they are meant to be monarchs children, but Sansa can see to that soon. She’s knows these things, and she’s always stressed education, so she will likely have to make less changes then others might.
He smiles and laughs at his daughters. He loves them too much. He will not waste this time.
After dinner they all retire to the sitting room. The girls pull out their toys and begin to weave their dolls in some sort of elaborate game. He and Sansa just sat in silence on the couch, watching.
“I was never meant to be King,” he finally say, with a long sigh. He’s still looking at the girls. They were princesses and perfect, deserving of their titles, but he had never wished them the life of a monarch’s daughter. He’d wished them balls and gowns and the occasional curtsies. He’d wished them good men from good families and happy lives that slowly faded from the spotlight.
But that’s not to be. Egg will not budge on his choice in wife, and the High Septon and his Seven Gods will not budge on the ability of a twice divorced woman to marry the King. Unless Mrs. Lannister drops dead tomorrow, nothing will stand between him and the Throne. And then it will be just him, and them his little Lya. And Rhaea Rose, daughter and then sister of a monarch. The second born. Another spare. He would not wish that on her, and he will have to think what he can do to help.
“You will be a great King,” Sansa says, with her brightest smile. Not the one she uses at formal appearances or even the one she uses around Egg and Rhae and Grandmother. The one for Starks. The one he gets. It tells him that she believes what she is saying.
And Sansa Stark is the smartest woman he’s ever met. Even smarter than his Grandmother or his sister. If she believes it, there must be some truth to it.
And he knows, at least, what his truth is.
“I was not meant to be King, Lady Sansa,” He says, using her maiden title. She blushes at it. Remembering, like him, their courtship, his love, her reluctance, and the fairytale that followed. He takes her hand. She’s been at home all afternoon and so isn’t wearing gloves, and he kisses first the top, like he still greets plenty of ladies today, and then the palm, a sweet, intimate gesture. He’s kissed her many other places, and always enjoys it, but this feels special nonetheless. “But you were so clearly meant to be a Queen.”