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She was once a girl with a head full of fairy tales and songs. A girl who went starry-eyed at the idea of the young golden Prince Joffrey Baratheon. A girl who dreamed of nothing but a crown of gold. She pleaded, begged her mother to push for the engagement, “ It's all I've ever wanted,” she cried with the ignorance of a girl who had never seen the world beyond Winterfell. She was young, she would tell herself now as she looked back; young and insufferably ignorant.
Yes, she was a girl who dreamed of a crown until she came face to face with the reality of getting exactly what she prayed for. The reality of Joffrey and Cersei Baratheon. The reality of Kings Landing. She soon realized that it wasn’t just Kings Landing, it was the awful reality of the world beyond the thick stone walls of her home. The world was a terrible place, full of killers, full of hate. A world that she could not escape, no matter how hard she prayed. She then was a girl that would give anything to go back.
Her fairy tale dreams had quickly become a nightmare from which she could not escape. Cruel words echoed in the Red Keep’s halls, pain and abuse spilled from its throne room. They thought her stupid, called her a ‘traitors daughter’ and ‘wolf bitch’ on their good days, and beat her bloody in front of the entire court on their better days. All she could do was learn to survive, learn to fight, and learned she did.
She watched them closely, listened to what was spoken, but listened carefully to what was not spoken. She listened to the servants who had no one to trust and came to her as a kindred spirit in the Keep. She listened to the nobles who were afraid at court or simply wanted to have a conversation without fear of punishment. And she listened to those who blindly sought her favor because she was a noblewoman. All the while she learned that while courtesy was a woman’s armor, there was no greater weapon than knowledge.
A “game” Lord Petyr Baelish, The Mockingbird, had called it; not just of thrones but in fighting every battle, every war all at the same time in your mind. Look for motive in others he taught her, and face the worst thoughts you could conjure in order to anticipate their next move. He taught her well and soon she was able to anticipate the moves of court and royalty alike, all through following every angle and motive.
And The Hound, whose raw anger and surprising devotion taught her that the world was full of killers. Taught her that there was no way to escape but to become a killer yourself. He forced her to look into the mirror, to face the sins of her past and showed her that in that same mirror was the only thing that could keep her alive: Herself. At the hands of these two opposite men, mind and might, she learned well. She soaked up their teachings like a flower in the sun, drinking it in to convert it to her own power until she had, by some mercy, outlived them both.
One she mourned, the other she did not.
By the time the horns signaled the arrival of attack ships in Blackwater Bay, Lady Sansa Stark, the ‘stupid little wolf bitch’, knew more secrets than The Mockingbird and had connections to rival even The Spider, Varys. Though pain and regret were her constant teachers, here in the world of nightmares she thrived. Here she not only played the “game”, but excelled.
Yes, she was a girl that used to look to the future and see herself a Queen to golden King, dutifully raising their sons, living happily ever after in a land that always had sunshine. She had wanted to escape the harsh cold winds of winter and in doing so events spiraled out of control until the smoke settled and she stood face to face with Him.
The least expected and most unlikely man to rule Westeros, Lord Stannis Baratheon, born a second son to a great house, he was a man driven only by duty and honor. No one would have anticipated him taking the Red Keep, surviving the Mad King’s fire, Lannister soldiers, and Cersei’s incestuos bastards all in a single bloody battle. And yet here He stood.
His victory had come at a surprise to everyone, perhaps even to himself and the older man who stood at his side, both soot covered men looking slightly out of place in the opulent, if gaudy, throne room. He was, she would admit to herself, what a king should look like. No golden immaturity, lecherous obesity or outbreaks of madness, but an imposing seasoned warrior who knew the burden of duty and yet stood tall in its face.
Standing well above her height, his long lean frame wore armor as if it were born to it, with only a slightly cocky tilt of his broad shoulders. His hair, once the deep Baratheon black was now liberally threaded with silver and while his hairline was receding, it was a compliment to his sharp features that made him much more intimidating. Just and honorable, this was a man worthy to the crown he’d taken by combat.
But while their triumph was unexpected, the death of his wife had, unfortunately, not been. Selyse de Florent had always been a sickly, overly-emotional woman; dedicated to strange fire gods she was always in the company of her Red Priestess. It was odd to think that in the same hour she became Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Selyse threw herself from the top of the battlements, plummeting into the burning bay below. Consumed by wildfire she left behind no children and if Sansa had to guess, a relieved husband. Her priestess was never found.
And so Sansa Stark, now Lady Stark and Heiress to the North, watched as the unexpected king walked up the dais and stood before the great iron throne. He stood glaring at it with what could only be described as contempt, his dark armor a perfect match to the ancient iron. She watched as he sat upon its seat for the first time and on his face was no sneer of madness, no thirst for violence, only resignation to do what he had to; his duty to serve the people who had been so mistreated.
Yes, she nodded softly to herself. This is what a king should look like.
It did not take long for letters containing congratulations on his victory and condolences of his loss of Queen Selyse, to turn to letters of marriage and pretty daughters vying to be worthy of his hand. A man who had been cast aside, forgotten and belittled for his dedication to duty was now the most eligible bachelor in the realm. He had been so preoccupied with restoring both the city and the seven kingdoms that he did not realize it until he had a stack of nearly two scores of missives regarding ‘diplomatic’ visits with lords and their daughters.
Through her channels, Sansa knew that the offers ranged from great houses like the Tyrells to smaller keeps like the Freys, all of which wanted to put their blood on the iron throne. She knew that the king would eventually do his duty and marry, so she concerned herself with the matters of keep and its court. As before, the servants trusted her and came to her with gossip, secrets and concerns. Soon she would have several visits a day in her solar, all of which made her realize that she had somehow slipped into the role of the lady of the house. A very odd notion indeed.
In this new role, she thrived. Having a purpose filled her days and gave her a sense of accomplishment that she had not expected in King's Landing. Here she was more than a vessel, more than a fertile womb to bear some man’s heirs. Here she was, now under King Stannis’ rule, a Lady of noble birth who contributed to the good of the realm. More than flesh, she was now mind and spirit. And while her network of information grew, allowing her to excel at running the largest keep in the kingdoms, so did her happiness.
King Stannis, to his credit, took only two moons to notice. It was in a small council meeting when his Lord Hand Ser Davos pointed out that most of the updates and whisperings he was informed of came from the Lady Stark herself. The King, though surprised, realized that he had not paid much notice to the daughter of Lord Stark since he came to the keep. Afterall, why should he? He did not have much use for pretty noblewomen while he was trying to reclaim his birthright, he’d inwardly scoffed.
However, upon learning that she had quite the network of information, as well as having been organically put in charge of many household decisions, he dismissed the small council for the day and sought her out for himself. He would discern for himself the nature of this Lady who presumed much.
He found her in the solar, the bright, airy room something of an office now as she stood beside the desk talking with several higher ranking servants. He believed it was then that he looked, truly looked at her for the first time; tall, slender and regal, she stood like a gleaming gem in the dove grey gown. In proud Stark colors with her hair styled in the Northern way, she stood out in the best possible way.
He watched unnoticed for several moments as she talked the servants through a list of rather large decisions regarding food and rations. She then spoke to the male servant regarding more supplies for the crews restoring a few destroyed parts of the keep.
“And lemons” she said softly. “It is vital you keep them stocked and if you even fathom that we are running low, you must come to me at once. Our King requires them to be on hand, and I want to make sure that his need is met” she ordered, but her voice was soft, almost friendly.
“Yes My Lady” the agreed in chorus and he realized that he was looking at a woman born to be queen. Not the treacherous snake that was Cersei Lannister, or the weak zealot that was Selyse de Florent, but a woman who did not break during imprisonment. No, she had walked through the Stranger’s lands and survived. She merely bent and grew stronger.
She dismissed and before he could move away, they caught sight of him, all immediately bowing, “Your Grace,” they said.
“Please continue your work” he sent them along, looking to the woman who remained at her desk. “Lady Stark” he greeted.
“Your Grace” she curtsied before returning to her full height, shoulders proudly squared.
“I learned that you have been hard at work on my behalf” he moved to the sideboard where he poured them each a glass of lemon water, glad to see she kept no wine.
“A single man cannot see to every detail of the kingdom,” she replied. “I merely sought to make myself useful, your grace. I meant no offense.”
He handed her a cup, their fingers brushing as she took it with a soft ‘thank you’, “I assure you there is no offense, Lady Stark, only that I am surprised but grateful for your help.”
“I am glad to give it” she replied, and he could sense the caution and intention in her words. Her previous experiences in the Keep had made her cautious, and he could not blame her.
“I would like you to attend the Small Council meetings at least once a week if not more, if you’re willing,” he continued, watching the flash of surprise in her Tully blue eyes before she quickly schooled them. “I am told that you are both well informed as to the secrets of the court and city, and I can now see that you are well versed in the households goings and comings as well.”
“I am willing, your grace” she said carefully. “But would this not cause a conflict with the others? To have a woman---”
“I pay no mind to sex any more than I do a pretty face” he cut her off, his words truthful if harsh. “I value capability and action. You are clearly capable, and you have been working hard without credit or compensation.”
“Of which I seek neither” she corrected.
“All the more reason that you should have them” he countered. “You are the last Stark, heiress to Winterfell and Wardeness, as it would be, of the North, you are no lesser lady.”
“Winterfell is rubble, your grace,” she stated the truth plainly. “I would be lady of the ashes if I were to return home. The Bolton’s saw to that as surely as they murdered my brothers and sister. I have no desire to surrender myself to their claws.”
“The Boltons have yet to bend the knee, which I am sure you are aware,” he said, doing his best not to grind his teeth. “They will soon have to face their sins and I promise you that Winterfell will not be ash for long.” She watched him closely, her expression impossible to read as he felt oddly exposed before her. It was as if she read his every thought and action, and for the first time in his life, he felt that had been judged worthy. “Tomorrow morning, then?”
“I will be there, your grace” she nodded and with that, he dismissed himself from her company, anxiousness hastening his steps along with an emotion that he could not discern.
From that conversation on, he took more notice of the elegant Lady Stark, making several attempts at conversation after the small council meetings would disperse. He was a dour man, solemn by nature and while he had never been outgoing like Renly or boisterous like Robert, he was much altered by the acts of Rebellion and the horrors endured to put his brother on the throne. Nightmares haunted him, of sieges that took so many lives and often left him working late into the night to avoid sleep at all. The horrible acts committed in the course of war would never leave him, they would now serve to make him a better ruler.
He’d never paid much heed to courtly manners or the way in which men and women conversed, the gods knew he didn’t wish to wed and was barely able to do his duty on his first wedding night. But he found that with Lady Stark they were able to converse as equals, not in title but in mind. She was a woman that understood their duty to the people and readily took up tasks to help. She did not sit idle, instead she made herself an essential part of his council, both officially and not.
He was not ignorant to the gossip he had created in inviting her to sit at his left in the small council. It was unheard of for even the Queen to take part in the tedious business of state, but here was a young Northern woman who had been pulled into the King’s inner circle. Gossip of surprise quickly turned to gossip of a royal engagement, a rumor Ser Davos brought to him immediately upon discovery.
Stannis has ground his teeth, glaring daggers at the stack of letters regarding his duty to wed.
“She’d make a fine Queen” Ser Davos stated simply. “She is noble by birth to the oldest house in the kingdoms. Her mother bore 5 children without issue and it would bring the North to heel. Not to mention, she would be an asset to the throne. Imagine a Queen immune to manipulation, your grace.”
Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose, abruptly standing to pace near the window, “What incentive does she have to be Queen, beyond a belief in duty?”
“I do not understand, your grace” Davos watched his king pace.
“She already has wealth, power and respect” the King frowned. “What incentive would there be to accept me as her Lord Husband?”
“Ah” Davos barely kept from smiling. Now he understood. His King felt unworthy of this woman. Stannis was not a man swayed by emotion or fanciful thoughts, his feet were always firmly planted on the ground, in the present and what must be done. But in the face of this vibrant, intelligent woman he stood frozen.
Davos would have been blind indeed not to see that the King’s first marriage had not been a happy one. The former Queen made no secret of her disgust with her husband, and Stannis did all he could to avoid spending time in her presence. He had taken no lover, no mistress in spite of being bound to a woman who not only detested him but proved barren, simply because honor demanded he not do so. And while it may not be love that he felt for Lady Stark, there was a high regard for her happiness and a respect for her capability.
He was sure to choose his words carefully as he continued, “I believe, your grace, that there are no shortage of options, should the lady wish to not remain unwed. But I do not have reason to believe she does.”
“What makes you say this?” the King’s jaw relaxed only enough to speak the words.
“While I have it on good authority that she has refused several offers of marriage already, I cannot speak to her exact reasoning. I can however say that she has told others that she is quite loathe to leave King’s Landing” Davos replied.
Stannis’ frown grew deeper, “Who has she refused?”
“Your grace---”
“Who?” the king repeated.
“Lord Willias Tyrell, King Doran Martell, several of the Stark bannermen and I believe Ramsay Snow, Lord Bolton’s bastard son, has made his interest known” Davos watched the emotions play in the depths of the King’s deep blue eyes, conflict and fury that were quickly quashed by a stoic facade.
“I see” Stannis ground his teeth once more, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache approach. “Adding my suit would simply be a waste of time then, Ser Davos.”
“With respect I do not agree, your grace” Davos countered. “She knows you to be a good man of steady character. She has spent many hours working at your side and in your company beyond yours or her own duties. I do not believe she would be adverse to your….attentions.”
After several long moments of watching the flames in the fireplace, Stannis gave a curt nod, “I will consider your counseling well, and trust that you will speak of this to no one.”
“Of course, your grace” Davos excused himself with a bow, pretending not to hear the bone weary sigh the King gave as he sank to his desk’s edge.
Weeks passed, and the King did not speak of their conversation again. But Davos watched the man he’d come to know so well and easily saw the conflict in his mind. It started with his gaze lingering a little longer on the Lady during council meetings. Watching in rapt attention, his gaze enthralled as she spoke her business and negotiated with the master of coin or master of whispers. If one looked hard enough they would see the admiration in the King’s usually stoic gaze as he watched her. Lady Sansa was a force to be reckoned with, intelligent and well spoken, she could persuade even the most adverse audience.
This grew of course upon the arrival of Davos’ own wife, Lady Marya and their younger sons Devan Stannis and Steffon. His wife took an instant liking to Lady Stark, and Lady Stark felt the same about his jovial wife. But it was his sons who clearly adored her. Enraptured by her fiery hair and the stories she told, soon little Stannis was escaping his tutors to find the Lady Stark. While his vanishing was alarming at first, it soon grew to amusement as he was usually found in Lady Stark’s solar. More often than not on Lady Stark’s lap while she worked or stretched out on the fur before her fireplace, attention locked on the large book of fairy tales she had brought on her initial journey south.
“Stannis has grown quite attached to you” Davos chuckled as he located his son once more, asleep on the furs beside the fire.
Sansa’s gaze swung to him, shock in her eyes, “I beg pardon?”
Davos realized his mistake and motioned to his son with his head, “Little Stannis, I should say” he corrected, seeing the betraying emotion in her eyes.
“Oh yes, of course. All of your children are adorable, Ser Davos, I am grateful for their company” she motioned to the small form of Steffon curled in the chair beside the fire. “I was already ten and four when my mother gave birth to Rickon” she mused. “She did not believe in nursemaids or caretakers, believing that a mother’s most important duty was to her children and their care. She had her hands full already with Bran and Arya, so I helped as much as I could with Rickon. He was such a wild babe...” she trailed off, lost in a memory.
“Though I never had the honor to meet your Lady Mother, word tells she was a formidable woman and if you are a result of her teachings, then she was a fine mother indeed” Davos said with a soft smile.
“Thank you, Ser Davos, you are most kind” she spoke from her heart, eyes soft with emotion and memories of a mother long since taken away.
“Now then, I have come to steal my children away, before my lady wife scolds me for being late to supper” he lightened the mood with a smile.
“Of course” she laughed, helping him to pick up both of the children, neither of them aware of the footsteps moving away from their unintentional eavesdropping at the door and back to his duties.
Stannis replayed her words a thousand times in his mind, trying to reason the longing he heard in her voice as she talked of children. If he were to be honest with himself it was a longing that he had felt himself long ago, a selfish wish that he would be able to prove he was not the weaker Baratheon. After all, Robert had bastards all over the seven, why could he not have a single son. An heir, a chance to not make the same mistakes his brother had made in his marriage. A chance and thread of hope however vague that he would have someone to love and love him in return.
A foolish notion, he pushed the thoughts away as he continued working at his makeshift desk in his solar. A king had no time for wishes, he must remain focused on the matters of state and the restoration of a kingdom torn apart by rebellion and incest.
He worked in deft silence until he came to a missive regarding the ending of a trade agreement with Dorne. With the King of Dorne himself. It had been renegotiated, it seemed, after several shipments of blood oranges, lemons and spices had arrived ‘contaminated’. Looking to the bottom he saw that the letter was initialed by “SS”, Lady Stark.
Rising quickly, he did not realize he was moving to her chambers until he was already halfway there. The days emotional sentiment and her overstepping served to have him marching to speak with her.
Clutching the letter in hand, and seeing the door was already open, he walked in surprised to find her not at her desk, but standing on the balcony. She stood watching the evening sun, her fiery hair gleaming in the orange light, making her look as if she was the Maiden made real. She wore a simple golden gown, a surprising show of fealty to the Baratheon colors. In truth she was quite breathtaking.
“Lady Stark” he announced as he moved to stand beside her on the balcony.
“Your grace” she turned to face him, gaze darting to the letter in his hand. “Is all well?”
“Care to explain this?” he thrust the letter into her hand and watched as she read it. “Renegotiating trade agreements without the consent of your king---”
“They were poisoned, your grace” she boldly interrupted him. “Sent on Iron Borne ships, Euron Greyjoy tampered with the goods” she handed the letter back to him. “I sent you word of it, perhaps you missed my letter.”
“Tampered” he repeated. “That is an act of war!”
“It is, which is why I sent word to you” she replied coolly. “Perhaps you missed my letter” she repeated, meeting his gaze without flinching, unafraid of the anger in his voice.
“How did you come to know of this?” he demanded.
“I have a trusted connection, unknown to those at the docks, who inspected the shipment himself” she replied. “The official seals had been broken and as such, vermin had been able to nibble upon the oranges. I am sure they regretted it as the poison took them, their bodies were littered amongst the fruits.”
“Gods” he ground his teeth, pacing the length of the balcony and back.
“Euron killed his brother to take control of the Iron Islands,” she explained. “Theon died at Winterfell thanks to Ramsay Snow and Asha is still missing, presumably at Euron’s hand” she continued. “Euron has aspirations, your grace, he sees his victory over Daenerys’ dragons as his right to sit on the Iron Throne. With this in mind I watch him closely. I trust no one when it comes to the safety of My King.”
Though humbled by her words he was still upset at her overstep, and surprised at having been thoroughly put in his place, and as such lashed out, “You are so concerned with my safety but not your own” he motioned around them. “Where are your guards?”
“The balcony is safe your grace, I do not need them,” she replied, eyes narrowing as she sought to sort out his change of tactic.
“I disagree, you---”
“You are my King, but you are not my lord husband” she interrupted him, pushing back against his outburst. “Do not presume to---”
“I could be” the words burst forth before he could bite them back, escaping on a rush of panic to unfamiliar to his person, so foreign that he could not control it.
She reeled back as if he had struck her, Tully blue eyes wide, “Your grace…”
“Your husband” he repeated, having now to face the truth of his unruly tongue. “I could be, if you’d have me.”
“Your grace,” she was still frozen in shock, her mind racing as she tried to figure out how this conversation had gone from an argument of trade agreements to a proposal of marriage. Of course, judging by his own surprise, he had not intended to simply blurt it out. Stannis was a man always in charge of his facilities, sober of mind and planted in logic. But here, by the fire in his midnight blue eyes, the clench in his jaw, she knew he was far out of his element. They both were, she would admit only to herself. The girl who long dreamed of fairy tales and crowns was gone, forged in the fire of the hatred of others she had to grow up and learn to survive. This sentiment now, was all foreign.
“Stannis” he said, unclenching his jaw and moving slowly closer. “In situations such as this, I believe you should call me Stannis.”
“Stannis” she swallowed thickly. The conversation had driven deeper than she was prepared for, and if she was not mistaken, this was the closest that Stannis Baratheon had gotten to a ‘romantic moment’ in his life. “You would be my husband?”
“And you my queen” he replied.
“Queen” she laughed softly, shaking her head. “I used to dream of crowns” she admitted, watching his midnight blue eyes. “Of fairy tales, golden knights and now…”
“And now” he prompted when she trailed off.
“And now I dream of peace. I dream of a family of my own,” she admitted, words she had never spoken aloud before now. “I dream of a man who knows the value of honesty and loyalty, I dream of a life free from servitude and pain.”
“Perhaps then” he boldly, uncharacteristically moved closer to cup her cheek, the soft porcelain silk of her skin a balm against his calloused warriors hands. “I could entice you to have a family with me” he spoke, looking more boyish than he ever had before. “I have seen you, with Steffon and Stannis, you were born to be a mother. You are already a queen in every sense but one.”
“But one?” she asked, hating how breathless she sounded. His touch and proximity were causing havoc in her body, a heat in the like she had never encountered before.
“You are not mine ” he said simply, as if he wanted nothing more in the world, an idea she was inclined to believe. Stannis was not a man of untruths.
“Is that what you want? Me to be yours?” she allowed her body to be drawn closer to his own, aware of his body heat through his simple black tunic, and how is broad frame towered over hers.
He searched her eyes, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone as he steeled himself, “ Yes .”
Slowly, as if unable to believe it was real, she reached up to touch the hand that rest on her cheek, covering it with her own as she leaned into his touch, entrusting him not to hurt her as so many had done before. His hand was not the smooth hand of a golden prince but the rough, calloused hands of a seasoned warrior, a man who fought for his people. “If I am yours, then you are mine,” she whispered.
“Until the end of our days” he said, his other hand moved to her back, pulling her flush against him as he hesitantly guided her lips to his own. Neither of them noticed the crumpled letter falling to the tile as he kissed her for the first time.
As the loud raucous filled the hallways, Stannis found himself chuckling as he set aside his quill. Moving across the room to peek into the hall, he watched the three boys as they laughed and ran about, faces flushed with joy.
Let it never be said, he often jested, that Queen Sansa Baratheon did not do her duty. In truth she did it in spades. Speaking of, he watched as the woman who was so often in his thoughts came up the stairs, more raucous following as she carried yet another child.
While her duties to the small council had decreased, she was still quite active in both the day to day of the kingdom and in raising their sons. She had a sharp mind and a kind heart, both of which aided her to be a Queen the people deserved. He often said that if the people remembered him for anything that it would be because he gave them Queen Sansa.
She met his gaze and smiled, turning to the children, “There’s your father, go on” she urged and they ran to him, latching on to him as he crouched to pick up their 3 year old, Edric. Their older sons, Davos now age 6 and Eddard at 4, chattered on about what adventure they’d been up to today as they moved to their usual place in front of the fireplace.
Edric clung to his neck as he bent to softly kiss his queen, who held their sleeping 2 year old, Robb, in her arms. Four sons in nearly 7 years, an unmatched feat. The Kingdom had rejoiced with each new dark hair son presented to them, all exact copies of their father. At ages 6, 4, 3 and 2, it was often jested between the King and Queen that the only reason their eldest had a gap in age to the second is because of the Iron Rebellion that called the King to war for many months. It had nearly killed him to be away from his wife and newborn son for so long, but he had a duty to uphold and the moment he was able to he returned to their side. Eddard coming along 9 moons later. It was quite fortuitous, in fact, as they needed to provide heirs for the Iron Throne, Winterfell, Storm’s End and Dragonstone.
“Husband” Sansa smiled softly. “I held them off as long as I could, but they were so anxious to tell you about their day with Steffon and Stannis.”
He found his mouth twitching in a sort of smile, a smile only his family could bring out, “All is well,” he assured her. “I have been at work too long.”
“Indeed” she smiled, kissing him once more.
“Are you well?” he asked, glancing with pride to her once again swollen stomach, though not many moons along, it was already quite visible beneath her black and gold gown.
“Tired, but that is usual” she replied. “I am well, my love.”
“Good” he nodded, setting Edric beside his brothers on the fur while she moved to lay Robb on the small settee in the corner. When the boys began to make a habit of napping while their father worked, they had installed a settee along the wall to make them more comfortable. As one son turned into three, the settee was replaced with a larger one. Though it might have been unheard of under kings of the past, Stannis broke the unspoken rules and spent quite a bit of time with all of his sons, not just his heir.
During her first pregnancy, Sansa had been quite ill and fatigued as her slender body grew to accommodate their growing child. He had been a nervous wreck, finding himself uncaring of the child's gender and instead fretting over the health of his Queen. A queen he made no secret of loving, one who was not ashamed to love him in return.
The marriage bed in his first marriage had been a forced duty and in his second it was anything but. They both delighted in their time together, their intimate exchanges and being able to lose themselves together. It came as no surprise to those who had accidentally walked in on, or happened by, their coupling that the Queen grew with child shortly after their wedding.
Ser Davos had stood at his side while he waited, listened to his wife’s cries as she fought to bring their first child into the world. He knew fear well, having grown acquainted with it during Robert’s Rebellion, but nothing could compare to hearing his wife’s screams echo in the halls not knowing if she would survive. But in the wake of that great fear came relief and joy as tiny cries joined her own, a strong set of lungs, a healthy baby.
“A son, my king” she said as he entered the birthing room. Like their babe’s, his wife’s skin was flushed and sweaty, but he had never seen a more beautiful sight in the world. He did not recall if he sat or his knees gave out, but soon he was sitting beside her, stroking the dark fluff of hair atop of the nursing boy.
“You have given me a great gift, my queen” he felt his eyes well as he swallowed the thick emotion he tried so hard to suppress. “Not only our son, but a son born of love.”
She smiled up at him then, taking his hand with the one not cradling their son, “I believe that our love is so strong, it rewarded us with a son so quickly.”
He could only nod, sitting close beside her as they shared their first moments as a family. Each labor that followed, though quicker, was no less stressful on his nerves. He did not escape to hunt as his brother did, but instead cared for their elder sons as more joined the world. A dutiful wife, his small council agreed, he had ‘chosen well’ in his queen. He would scoff, and reply “There was simply no other choice.”
Now, as their older boys rabidly flipped through the books filled with tales of dragons and kings, and the youngest slept, they stood side by side on the balcony, sharing soft kisses as he soothed her aching back.
“Lady Marya thinks it is a girl” Sansa said softly, touching her belly. “That I am carrying different, growing quicker than I had with the boys.”
“I would trust her knowledge, she has had even more children than you” he teased, something he only did when they were alone.
Sansa laughed, “For now, I suppose” she paused. “Perhaps it will be a girl…the name Shireen would be quite beautiful.”
“My queen dreams of a princess, a kindred soul amongst all these Baratheon men” he mused, kissing her forehead.
“You have your army of boys, I think I should like to have at least one ally,” she replied.
“You have given me more than I could have ever hoped for” he softly kissed her.
“We’ve given each other much” she reasoned. “We found happiness together, and with it a kingdom at peace.”
“Come” he smoothed a hand over her stomach. “You should sit.”
“Soon” she wrapped her arms around him. “Let us steal one more private moment.”
Stannis could never resist, and pulled her as close as he could to take her lips and a slow, lingering kiss. The laughter of their children danced around them as they kissed, neither aware that soon they would get not just one but two princesses, Shireen and Cassana, both black of hair.