Chapter Text
i.
The honourable knight she dreamed of isn't what she gets. Her brother's allies trade her for the promise of an army. Old Nan's saying held true, then, that wars were won in the battlefields of love.
Sansa Stark isn't sure whether she can love a former kingsguard. An oath is an oath, she thinks, and an oathbreaker is an oathbreaker. But still - if the kingsguard's duty is to protect the Mad King, hers is to protect House Stark.
She travels south to King's Landing by boat, not stopping at the Riverlands to meet the heir to her house.
ii.
King's Landing smells, for sure, but nothing is worse than to hear her future husband wasn't only promised a release, but that he killed his King. Sansa empties her stomach at the port of King's Landing, unladylike, and blames it on the sea. There are Stark men to escort her, for which she's glad, the smiling (but tired) faces of the men who once asked her to dance, some of which even once asked for her hand. Her father's men, her brother's now.
When she sees Eddard she rushes forward, all grace and decorum forgotten, because this is Ned, and him and Benjen are the only ones left, the only Starks in this cruel world. Like mother, the others were gone too fast. His embrace feels like home, because he still smells of pine woods and clean, sharp snow, even here down in the south.
"I'm so sorry, Sansa", he whispers, and she knows it's about her marriage, and she knows he didn't want it for her. Her childhood seems so far away. She is a maiden flowered, however, and only a year and a half younger than Lyanna who ran away. She can marry and she must.
"For House Stark", she muffles into Ned's broad shoulders, "For House Stark, because Winter is Coming."
iii.
Her betrothed is handsome, yes, even beautiful, but his fixation with his sister seems so unhealthy. Sansa keeps most of her days reading in the vast library or talking to Tyrion, her future good-brother. He's kind, and very lovely in his own way, despite his small stature and ugly face. He's witty and very smart - Sansa thinks he would be a son to be proud of, but Lord Tywin barely regards his son whom he dragged to King's Landing. He's just a child to Sansa, though, one who desperately needs a mother, much like her and her siblings had. She takes his little hand and shows him the library, sings songs to him.
She's been there for three days when Ned finally tells her about the addition to his household he kept a secret from her. The little babe is beautiful with a newborn's blue eyes and shock of dark hair that is slowly thinning out. She can see Father in his tiny little face and it almost breaks her heart. Ned tells her it's his bastard son, and the shame of it hits her. This cannot be true, she thinks. It is Brandon’s, it must be, because honourable Ned would never do this. She doesn’t comprehend how he, of all people, would have it in him to dishonour a woman such. She strikes him once, hard across his cheek. While she knows it isn’t the little one’s fault, she can’t be anything but ashamed.
“He should be with his mother.” His answer is short, saying he is of his blood, of Winterfell, and he’s coming home. She suspects the mother died, but he won’t tell her more, no matter how much she pleads.
"I don't know how to name him." He tells finally.
"Give him a good, strong name. Gods know he will need it with his fate."
Sansa has a feeling her good sister is a good woman. She loved Brandon before his death, and Brandon wasn't an easy man to love - though he'd been easy to fall in love with.
(But Brandon never had any bastards – not even with Barbrey. And he never would’ve raised them at Winterfell.)
iv.
As the wedding nears, Sansa Stark gets summoned to meet her future good-father for the first time. Sansa is no stranger to Tywin Lannister's fame or the cruel things he did to secure the new King's loyalty. The atrocities commanded by him, secured through her hand in marriage. Everybody whispers in King's Landing. When she heard, she fled to the Godswood and prayed for her future husband not to be released. The ceremony is to be held in a few days, her wedding in a week. Until then, she stays away from the Throne Room as well as she can.
Tywin Lannister isn't a man as impressive as she thought. He certainly doesn't have her father's looming Northern stature or Brandon's demanding presence. But his eyes frighten her because they are cruel eyes. Capable of ordering the murder of little children.
"Lady Sansa", he speaks. She had a good enough upbringing not to speak up when not talked to. She knows it's the way of the South to muffle its women. "I hope you had a good journey. Forgive me for not inviting you sooner."
"It is nothing, My Lord Lannister, I understand the men have more important things to talk about than my wedding, now the war is over, thank the Gods." She means the old Gods, her Gods. He knows that, too. He is still for a moment.
"I hope you aren't a flight risk like your sister."
Sansa is thrown out by his words. "My sister was abducted, raped and killed." Like Elia and her children were. Of course, it is not the truth, but she swore an oath to her sister the day Rhaegar crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty. She wouldn’t betray her, not ever, not even to Ned. There is no chance in the world Tywin Lannister could possibly know.
"Are you a runner, Lady Sansa?" His green eyes pierce right through her. Terror fills every inch of her body.
"I know where my duties lie." She means it. She isn't like Lyanna - well she is, head full of romantic songs, but she's also not the wolfblooded child. That was Lya. That was Brandon. She's her father's daughter more than her mother's. Tywin Lannister seems pleased by her answer.
"Good." He pauses for a moment. "I thought you might like to wed in the Godswood as well. Of course, the official ceremony is to be held in the Keep's sept. I voted for the Great Sept of Baelor, but your brother said it might make you anxious, such a mass of people. Before the wedding in the light of the Seven a private ceremony with both our Houses and the King's family present will be held at the Godswood."
"Thank you, My Lord. It is very kind and considerate of you to think of my own faith."
He dismisses her and before she leaves the room he calls her again. "You aren't stupid, girl, I can see your wits behind that mask of meekness. Do not disappoint me."
She wouldn't even dare.
v.
The morning of her wedding her handmaids appear out of nowhere. They are new - picked by future Queen Lady Cersei herself. She does not trust any of them. When they want to twirl her hair in a complicated southern updo, she stops them.
"Go. I will call for you if needed." She has nobody here to form her own household. Her brother's men are men and the wetnurse is hardly capable of fitting a lady for her wedding. "Fetch Lord Stark. I'll finish on my own." She'll wear her hair like Mother did. The few memories she has of her are the ones with her hair down, simple braids pulling her hair from her temples. She was always smiling, her lady mother, with deep blue eyes like her own and Ben's. Mother's hair was a coppery brown, the legacy of Arya Flint's hair. Her own hair sways into auburn. Mother used to whisper of kisses by fire and the lucky girls to wear them, tales by Grandmother Arya. Mother had the wolfblood, too. Ache fills her heart.
Ned enters the room unannounced, and Sansa's eyes begin to tear. She has maybe spoken four words to her betrothed. Her good-sister hates her, her only ally is a juvenile imp. Her good-father watches her every move for a mistake. Shall she fail to provide an heir for House Lannister, he'll have her killed. And yet. Her duty lies with her house above all. She won't dishonour Ned and the direwolf sigil. She isn't Lya.
"The fairest maid of all. The She-Wolf of Winterfell." Ned doesn't smile, his face as sombre as Father's. The day of Jaime's release he guided her through the Throne Room, tried to shield her from the one black spot on the floor that people purposefully avoided. Sansa saw it anyway. She sees usually everything.
"Please clasp my necklace, Ned, would you." His hands are clumsy, but warm. For a moment, she closes her eyes and imagines her father gently squeezing her shoulders. Her wedding dress was a gift from Robert, who insists on calling her little sister. He likes her, seeing only Lyanna's and Ned's sister in her. It is still a safe enough position, to be one of the King's favourite. And she surely does love her ivory wedding dress, with embroideries made of silver thread. Small wolves and flowers and little stars trace the dress. It is magnificent. She made the final stitches herself, so they would be perfect. Ned's eyes are as sad as her own when she looks at his reflection in the looking glass.
Some of the people on court would jape and tease that Sansa seemed more a Tully than a Stark with her looks (the audacity to suggest such thing! It is her Flint blood, the blood of the first men in her veins that makes her stand out. She is kissed by fire). Stepping into the Godswood with little people attending the ceremony makes no doubt as to which house she belongs to. Robert unsuccessfully whispers to Jon Arryn that Jaime doesn't deserve Lyanna's sister. She doubts the Lannisters on the other side heard him. But Sansa did, and she agrees with Robert partially. Jaime doesn’t deserve her, but not because she is anyone's sister, but because she is Sansa of House Stark.
There are some of her brother's men on the bride's side, together with the King and Jon Arryn. Howland Reed smiles at her, the only other survivor of the Battle at the Tower of Joy. The crannogman is dressed in functional green clothes, looking ready for battle rather than for feasts. In a way, Sansa supposes, marriage is a war, and childbirth the battlefield for women. A brood mare, nothing more. Robert doesn't even consider her a person on her own. The other side is filled with Lannisters, uncles and dozens of cousins, Ser Jaime's best friend Addam Marbrand and of course her ever scowling new sister. She is one of the most beautiful women in the world, the Light of the West. If only her personality matched her radiant looks. By her side is little Tyrion, happily waving at Sansa. She gives him a smile back. Tywin Lannister catches her, but does nothing except turn his head and watch his son. They reach the heart tree sooner than Sansa wanted.
"Who comes? Who comes before the gods?" Ser Jaime has a very pleasant voice, although his words come out clumsy.
Only when Ned starts to speak, it feels final. The leaves of the oak heart tree ruffle and almost speak her name. "Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods." She comes to beg the gods for mercy and protection rather than their blessings. "Who comes to claim her?" This all feels so, so final to her.
It's the first time she looks at Jaime in fully. He looks every inch the knight she wanted as a little girl, so handsome with a strong jaw and fine cheekbones. She notices his eyes are a deeper green than those of his sister and father. He supsects these are the eyes of his mother. "I, Ser Jaime of House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, claim her. Who gives her?"
She tries not to cry. "Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, brother of the bride and head of her house." When Ned turns to her, he looks so apologetic, so sorry for what he's about to do, that it breaks her heart in two. Ned Stark, who lost two siblings and a father to the South is about to lose another. "Lady Sansa of House Stark, will you take this man?"
No, she wanted to say. "I take this man," is what she said. Ned gave her hand to her husband. And then they kneel. Sansa knows that this man probably prays to that silly Warrior of the South. She's a Northerner. She believes in the Old Gods, who have witnessed her marriage. The heart tree isn't the great weirwood from Winterfell, but it does have a kind face. She wonders who carved it, when the Targaryens built the keep only several hundred years ago, as compared to both Winterfell and Casterly Rock, which stood for thousands and thousands of years. The tree is covered by plants she doesn't recognize.
Please, she thinks, please let me survive the South. Please give me children, plenty of children, who'll love me for me, if my husband will not. Please. Have mercy. And when he drapes the lion across her shoulders, she feels lost.
vi.
She feels vulnerable, so naked in her room. The men grabbed all of her clothes, left her in nothing but her small shift, almost torn to pieces. Their hands were everywhere, and now she feels sick. All of them wanted a piece of the new Lady of Casterly Rock.
Jaime is naked, too, when somebody pushes him into the room, she can see his... manhood erected and she flushes, before looking away. It's wrong. They barely spoke apart from thank yous and mylords. Husband and wife, yet they don't even look at each other. He'd been a graceful dancer, though, he led her through the complicated southern dances with ease. She's afraid of him. How can behind that face of a perfect knight be an oathbreaker? Sansa hides beneath the blankets. She can feel his gaze on her.
"You're afraid of me."
"No, Ser, you're my husband."
"Don't lie, you're a terrible liar. You're afraid of me, the Kingslayer." He sits down and doesn't bother to cover his naked form. Though his one leg does block her from the sight of his manhood, for which Sansa is grateful. The women in Winterfell spoke, of course, and many a times Sansa had whispered with Lya under the sheets how it would be to share a bed with a man. The serving girls seemed to like it with Brandon well enough. Jaime rips her away from her thoughts. "Everybody is afraid of the Kingslayer. Afraid or thinks himself worthy to judge me." He seems far away and suddenly he's appears young as he actually is. Not so otherworldly. The people say he was Arthur Dayne's favourite pupil. They say he's a god with his sword - though Ned bested the Sword of the Morning at the Tower of Joy.
Sansa feels daring. "Why shouldn't we judge? You did kill the man you swore to protect."
It's the first time he really looks at her. And really sees her. He draws it in, the colour of her hair, her eyes, the curve of her nose. He studies her intently. "None of you understands." He whispers then, and sounds broken, while he turns away from her again. "None of you, not even Cersei. Though she is thankful I made her queen." Sansa shifts. Something inside her is moved by him. Maybe the lack of clothes also means a lack of false pretences. She touches him by the shoulder.
"Then explain." Jaime catches her from the corner of his eyes. "They say I have a quick wit. Explain it, and maybe I'll understand."
It pours out of him, her father's and brother's death, how he had to guard Rhaella who'd been raped by her own husband, and Elia, whom the King hated. How the King demanded his own father's head and how in the end, he wanted to burn the whole city away. "Which vow do you keep? Tell me? Which one? By what right do you all judge me? By what right does the wolf judge the lion?" He starts to cry and becomes hysteric. Sansa wonders what the listeners before the door must think. Ice-Maid of Winterfell. Made even the Kingslayer cry. She wraps her hands around her husband, slowly rocking him. The warmth of his body on her naked skin is comforting. When she looks down on him, she cannot find it in her to hate him. They were just children caught in war. Only children. Her own eyes start to water, and for the rest of the night, they shed tears for the people they lost in the war: Her father, Brandon, Elia of Dorne, Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar's little children.
vii.
They wake up before the servants come to check for the stain. Jaime only cuts his thumb and smears it on the sheets. When she wants to say something, he waves. "Don't. Not right now." She closes her mouth again.
Sansa doesn't know what to think. She's been awake almost the whole night, both of them have. When the crying stopped, Sansa put on her nightshifts, opened a window and lay down. Though they didn't speak or hold each other, they entangled their hands together. It was nice, once they found peace. She knows she must look terrible, with bags under her eyes. Not what she wants to look like while Cersei would be next to her, as beautiful as the rising sun.
"Could you help me with my hair?" She asks Jaime, because she cannot speak of what happened the night before. They need something to do, before the servants arrive. They'll give them another hour, Sansa is sure. Jaime nods. Her hair is thick and makes her feel uncomfortable in the southern heat, but she stubbornly wears northern hairstyles and dresses, albeit a lighter material. Jaime opens the braids she wore to bed and starts to brush. His hands are gentle, not what she expected from a warrior.
It takes several strokes for a strand to be completely untangled. Through the looking glass she can see Jaime's long lashes on his cheekbones. He's a beautiful man, with a cat's predatory smile and hair like spun gold. If Sansa hadn't seen yesternight's episode, she'd think him invincible and happy and sorrowless. Arrogant even. But he isn't, and neither is she. "I would like us to be friends, Ser Jaime." He stops brushing her hair and blinks, green eyes shining almost violently in the morning sun. "If we can't be lovers, we can certainly be friends."
"Lovers? You want us to be lovers?" He catches her eyes through the looking glass. She's turning pink. Not that she has any kind of experience in matters of love except for admiring Ethan Glover, and giving him a kiss, before he died, too. He'd been a squire to Brandon, in happier times.
"I want us to have children and I want us to be friends." It seems silly to demand anything of the Lion of Lannister. He is at loss for words, which isn't always the case as far as she can tell. Sansa slumps down, and then the words start to fall out of her mouth. "You probably have a lover, a woman you love, and it might be stupid of me to ask for something more because you don’t know me, not truly. But I’d like to have children, and for us to be friends. It would pain me to have my husband hate me.”
He looks at her in a strange way. “I don’t hate you. If anything, you should hate me.” Jaime places the brush down and the catlike smile returns to his face. “We make quite a pair, my lady of Lannister.”
She doesn’t flinch with the name the way she did on the wedding feast, when a minor Lannister bannerman called her that way. Sansa instead returns the smile.