Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sandor Clegane shadowed silently, Stranger beneath him pawed at the hard-packed earth as he moved to follow the Prince. Even beneath his plate and boiled leather and lambswool he was cold to the bone. Why the fucking lot of us need to freeze our arses up here is beyond me, he thought absently. It had grown colder and colder as their procession had traveled up the Kingsroad and yet, those he spied that looked of the North seemed no colder than he when he’d donned his warmest and they their peasant garb.

The ride had been long, but none could say hard. The queen and her big wheelhouse stopped for every rock and tree and the ladies within were oft heard complaining. Let them ride a horse the rest of the way, the big man had thought while watching a trail of Southron girls stretch their legs and call to each other loudly about their stiffness. Or better yet me. He had smiled then, until he’d heard a shuffling of feet as the maidens three distanced themselves. And then he’d stopped smiling, taking on an ugly snarl as suited him.

Winterfell was grand enough, he supposed, in a much different way than Castelry Rock or King’s Landing ever had been. Its walls were grey and worn and had seen one too many winters. But the castle was large, even if parts of it had succumbed to ruin and he’d been told it was warmed by springs hotter than a true Dornish Summer. 

Passing into the courtyard the column stopped. Sandor reached for his helm, so cleverly shaped to resemble his namesake the Hound, and lifted the jaw-like visor. Even the courtyard had a bleak look. Perhaps the North had no Summer of its own and made due with stealing the warmth of the South. No. There was no warmth here. Grey and worn and one too many winters, he grimaced. Where King's Landing was paved and Casterly Rock cut from the rock itself, Winterfell was only earth and snow. It was not a beautiful place, he thought, but who was Sandor Clegane to complain of the sight of things?  

All the house had come to greet the King, in the courtly best. Plain as it was all he saw was ice or earth or sky and dirt trimmed cloaks. Grey and worn and one too many winters. The great Lord Eddard Stark hardly looked his part, grim in his boiled leather. He eased Stranger to a stop, relaxing the reins in his hands. He knew enough of Kingly courts that some procedure was to be had. He could not dismount till the lard-king got off his sorry horse and welcomed himself. He knew enough of this King, though, that his court would not be long.

He chanced a glance over the house, though his fingers itched for a wineskin and his mouth a dark red sour. As King Robert stepped from his horse each one made to bend their knees. Hidden beneath grey furs were the five Stark children he ventured. They knelt in line next to the great ice lord and his fish wife. What a match that was, he grinned. A fish was not like to swim a frozen river. 

Yes, he decided, though much indifferent. They were the Stark children, although their colouring was so unlike their father that he was suddenly reminded of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen - blond where there father was dark - only here, the frozen fish were all red-brown hair and wide blue eyes. He saw that now, as they rose like skinny swords. Tully blood more than North. Frozen fish indeed. Only one child seemed to favor the Starks with her dark hair and staring grey eyes. And beside her a girl with hair the colour of fire stood smiling. He followed her eyes to the Prince, to see Joffrey returning with a grin. Though on his lips it seemed a smirk.

He caught his reflection then, in one of the muddied pools beneath Strangers hooves. A snarling dogs head helm with a man as ugly wearing it. His skin was taut on one side, red and twisted too. Burned. Disfigured and worn. A man of one too many winters. 

Chapter Text

In all her years Sansa knew Winterfell had never hosted such company. Everything had been in such a fuss leading up to the King’s arrival, and it was all rather exciting. Sansa, with her Lady in tow, had trailed after her mother during her preparations, as she knew it one day rest on her to the same. That was, when she and Jeyne were not busy giggling in the courtyard while the men sparred.

Lady Catelyn would instruct with a gracious smile that only extended ever so slightly and nodded her head to every "Yes m'lady". Sansa had shadowed her mother, making sure not to smile too wide or nod too heavily. "One day, it will rest on you to rule a castle." Lady Catelyn said, taking one of Sansa's hands in her own. She smiled then - not the small courteous smile given to the help but one that reached her eyes - and told her daughter that she was proud.

That evening as she was preparing for bed and Jeyne sat brushing out her tangles she said in her Lady's voice: "Jeyne, do you use the good brush, and please be quick about it." Jeyne had walked out after that and so she'd brushed her own hair, for lack of a bedmaid and a friend. Sansa had found it hard to sleep that night, and restless she had crawled from her bed, drawn her furs close and tip toed to the lower rooms she knew to be Jeyne's. 

When the column had finally arrived with the King and the Queen and the Princes and Princess Sansa fidgeted nervously. A Lady does not fidget, she told herself. And so flattened her hands against her skirts and stilled, as her septa would be happy to know.

She saw reams of colour as the bannermen, both Baratheon and Lannister, trot through the courtyard. They stopped short, barely a stones throw from her. Each wore such beautifully gilded armor, and even their mounts looked impressive with cloth of gold hanging loosely from polished reins. 

And then she saw him, the noise of the courtyard somehow dimmed as she gazed. The Prince had nearly taken the breath from her. She smiled, despite herself, as he rode in. Mother would not have smiled so, she would have looked on as a Lady should. But he was so handsome with milky skin and golden hair. She felt her heart beat in its cage and willed it to still. He looks out of a song, as a Prince should, Sansa had thought. And then he smiled! He looked directly at her and parted such beautiful lips to smile upon her. The heartbeat in her chest was nothing compared to the dancing of her stomach; she feared the whole North might hear the war raging inside her.

The Prince was much better than the King, to be sure. Sansa had been thick with disappointment when she'd first seen him (and many times since). She had heard so many stories of Robert Baratheon. The Stag King, having won his crown but lost his lady love, was made of imposing strength and a face a maiden could sleep sweetly thinking on. 

He is fat, she thought, as she made to bend the knee gracefully. Kings were not supposed to be fat. They were meant to look kingly. His beard was too wiry and too unkempt and great crows feet circled his eyes. Her disappointment had extended farther, then, when she heard him speak. Kings should be courteous, she frowned. But then he told her she was pretty and half the weight was gone.

The Queen was more beautiful than she'd imagined in her rich furs and dress. She envied her golden hair for a moment as she watched it catch the light as she stepped from her great wheelhouse. It really is as gold. She curtsied her best, sinking low as she passed.

*  *  *

That morning Sansa had begged and pleaded with Septa Mordane to allow their little party to take their sewing outside. Sansa and Jeyne Poole sat together, comparing needlework.

"I can't seem to get my stitches straight today." Sansa complained. It was a rare thing, really, for her work to be anything short of perfect.

"Perhaps you're a little distracted?" Jeyne teased. Sansa blushed furiously looking back down at the small rope of flowers she was working on. Jeyne, of course, had the right of it. Though Sansa would never admit to such childish truths.

The Princes and their company were sparring with her brothers Robb and Bran. Sansa, Jeyne, Beth Cassel and Arya, Sansa's younger sister, sat on weirwood benches in eyesight of the training yard. The little Prince, Tommen, was heavily padded and Bran was running circles around him, his blunted sword landing true with each hit. Prince Joffrey was hanging back, a scowl worrying at his handsome face and his sworn shield ever at his side.

"Who is Prince Joffrey to spar with?" Sansa asked.

"Sansa dear, I've never seen green roses." Septa Mordane peered over her needlework wearing an unfamiliar look of disappointment. It seemed she'd forgotten to change her thread and from her newly started vine a green rose did spring. She tutted and Arya smiled widely.

"I knew this was a foolish idea from the first moment. Why, Arya has done better work than you today Sansa!" the Septa chastised. It was untrue, of course. Arya was hopeless at needlework and was watching the boys just as much as she. "Come, inside. No more of this nonsense."

Resigned, Sansa allowed herself to be ushered inside. Daringly, she shot another glance at Prince Joffrey. He paid her little mind and it made her heart sink. Today it seemed his interest in her was waning. Had she just imagined that he'd smiled at her before? and did that mean she had just stood and smiled at him like some sort of fool? Perhaps she could sew herself a motley and dance upon her hands.

She tore her eyes from him, and glanced at his shield, briefly. Arya had whispered to her of the man called the Hound. 

“He’s ugly.” She’d said. Sansa had sighed especially loud, for lack of Arya’s decency “His face is all twisted and melted.” 

He truly was terrible to behold: taller by a head than most men, with broad shoulders and sharp, angry features crueler than the edge of a dagger. Yet that was not the worst - half his face was ravaged, red and twisted and set into a permanent snarl, just as her sister had said, but in no way she had imagined.

The man turned his eyes on her and Sansa, unbidden, heard herself inhale. His face twitched and both sides mirrored each other in an ugly grimace. She looked to her feet quickly, her stomach turning, and made her way quickly into the castle.

Chapter Text

His wife stood by the open window, the Northern air sending auburn waves rippling across the naked expanse of her back. The urgency of their lovemaking was tainted with the foul feel of finality and Catelyn looked as cold as ice itself, refusing even to shiver in her nakedness. It shamed him to be the cause of her sourness, but he had thought she would be in a sweeter mood when they had finished, and that perhaps she could be persuaded.

“Catelyn,” he started, rising from the bed and encircling his wife. Yet she remained as the Wall, an immoveable force despite his effort.

“You must go, my lord.” Lady Catelyn said, her voice carrying across the stone walls so that he heard her whisper back to him from every which way. Go go go go. Her arms folded over her chest, hiding the pointed nipples he longed to suckle. 

“So you have told me. But I have no business being in the South. My place is here.” Ned spoke softly. Where it is ice and snow and the men are honest men. He knew her answer before the words fell from her mouth. Family. Duty. Honor. And now all three of the Tully words were bringing him South. 

“Your place is where the King requests. And now with Lysa’s letter you must certainly go. There is no other option. You have said that Robert is your friend, and as a brother to you. You must protect him.”

“Aye. Winter is coming.”

She turned in his arms pushing at his chest. He let her go, though his hands itched to rest upon her hips. “As it always must. There is none but you. Elsewise the King would not be here.” 

“And Sansa?”

“Sansa has stars in her eyes. Perhaps this boy has none of his mother’s faults. Her betrothal cannot be broken - not to the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“She does not know this boy.” He had seen the Prince, and misliked him. Catelyn had warned him to guard his tongue, to appease this Lannister woman and her children. He had seen them, all three. The youngest was round where Bran, being of the same age as slim as an arrow. Bran had taken the boy well the other day. He would be a fearsome knight one day. The girl was a pretty young thing with watchful eyes. The type of girl Sansa should like for company. The type of girl who lusted after a new dress, not her brother’s swords (as Arya was want to do). But the boy Joffrey had a smile that sat uneasy, though most often he wore a scowl. His guard was well-matched - Clegane and the boy oft looked in misery together. And yet to match his Sansa with the crowned Prince... Another Stark had once worn a crown, and three had died for it.

“She will. Sansa is not of marrying age, but neither was I when I was first betrothed. She will have time to know Joffrey as I did Brandon.”

Brandon. The husband she should have had. His lady wife was twelve when she was betrothed to Brandon. The eldest and true heir of Winterfell. It was Brandon who was meant to have his seat, and Brandon who was meant to wield the greatsword Ice. It was Brandon who was meant to wed his lady wife. It was an old wound, one much festered since the King’s arrival. He clenched his jaw, the familiar feeling of their shadows creeping over him. They had two great shadows, Catelyn and he, cast long over their fifteen years. One for Brandon, whom his wife was meant to wed, and one for the bed of blood and roses with whispered promises and long-kept secrets.

He felt warm hands grasp his face.

“To deny Robert would be most unwise. And you would dishonor us all. You must do this, but it should not be forever. Find someone in whom you trust, a capable man who is made for the games of court.” Catelyn said, her voice betraying her sadness. And he said nothing, for what comfort could he give? His lady wife had the right of it, as was no surprise. She was of the South, where games were so often played. And though his wife was familiar with their rules, Ned Stark cared none for games. Yet it seemed to him that he was to be made a player.

“I would not leave you, nor the children.”

“Who are you to say no to a King?” She asked him. Robert would not listen, she had told him. Not now that he was a King. King’s do not listen as friends might have. King’s do not except declination. He had hoped it was not so, that Catelyn had been mistaken in this. But he could see now the King in Robert.

He gazed upon Catelyn. His eyes wandered slowly to her stomach and to the thatch of auburn curls at the apex of her sex. He loved those silky curls, and how they trailed up to her navel in a light dusting of blond hair. He loved each white mark upon her stomach, and the gentle swell of it. He prayed silently that a son would grow within her womb whom she could greet him with at his return. Promise me Ned.

And when he met her gaze he thought of Sansa, his Tully daughter. She was too young for talk of marriage. To eager to leave childhood. She already looked as Cat once did. He remembered what Brandon had told him when he’d returned from Riverrun.

“‘Your hair is as their leaves’ I told her. She blushed so prettily, Ned. It’s a pity she’s so young. Barbrey’s older. She’s filled out as a woman should be too.” Brandon had said, as they walked the outer wall. In his hand he held a branch from the great heart tree, it’s leaves a supple red.

“You should honor your agreement with Lord Hoster, Brandon. It would be unwise to do else.”

“Oh yes Lord Stark. How very prudent. When you’re old enough to use your prick you’ll understand.” He smirked then, and had clapped Ned on his back. “You can’t fuck a girl, but when her blood has come I do so solemnly swear to honor the little Lady Catelyn by my cock.”

But he never did. Instead she was given to the second son. To Eddard Stark. And though their love did not come for years, it grew to be consuming. 

He longed to kiss her then, but knew better than to try. His wife was as fierce as the rivers she was birthed upon, and as determined as a Summer snow. Instead he moved his hand to find one of hers, and brought it to his lips stiffly. 

“You are mine, Cat. A thousand leagues will change nothing.” Her smile was broken but a beautiful thing. She would not shed a tear, not in this moment. She was strong, his lady wife.

“She is as you raised her. She is beautiful, a proper lady. Her courtesies and grace will be praised and her beauty unmatched.”

“And she is of the North. If that means anything than she’ll be twice as stubborn in love. Do not forget me, my husband.”

“I could never.” he said, as his hands swept up her sides and to her breasts.

Chapter Text

Jeyne had begged her to visit the springs. 

“The water is so warm and we can wash each others hair.” She’d said. Sansa did not want to wash Jeyne’s hair. She wanted to sit beside prince Joffrey and see him smile upon her again. 

Last night there had been another feast the likes Sansa had never seen at Winterfell and the Prince had been especially gallant with her. The night began with a hearty split pea soup with great pieces of haunch and root vegetable and a smoked fish stew with a side of fresh sourdough bread. There were mounds of cored cabbage stuffed with fire spice, and creamed potatoes and sweet pork dumplings with applesauce too. After which came the salmon roasted on cedar wood with black salt from the Iron Islands that watered the mouth, followed by the leg of lamb that had been basted in rosemary and Arbor wine and wrapped with flakes of pastry so thin that they fell apart at the slightest touch. But best of all were the desserts. There were great heaps of clotted cream on blueberry tarts and Sansa’s favorite, lemon cakes, along with apple blossoms that oozed with cinnamon and cloves, crisp molasses bark and sweetbreads baked in honey and sugar and anise.

Joffrey had sent her down the first choice of the apple blossoms and Sansa had been ever so happy. She beamed her thanks with a demure smile, a blush creeping up her neck that Jeyne was quick to point out behind unquiet hands. But the treat proved a task as every time her knife cut in, a gush of sticky juices splashed upon her. Arya laughed beside her as Sansa tried her best to manage as daintily as she could, stopping after every bite to dab at her mouth with fresh linen like a true lady.

The rest of the evening had been splendid, she did recall. There was music, which Winterfell was oft without, as it was rare that bards would travel so far North.The harpist was comely, his voice so clear and beautiful. He sang songs familiar throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and ones only known in the North. After the tale of Bael the Bard that left her much mesmerized he started in on the Bear and the Fair Maiden. The guests, so aptly plied with wine and beer, joined in the chorus. The King had been flushed by the red he was sucking down, a deep colour blooming in his cheeks like a proper maid. He sat with belly etched into the table and soup and wine running down his big bushy beard and his voice boomed greatest of all. His laugh was heard all about the hall as the song came to an end. He’d called for the cupbearer twice as often as he came, and Sansa saw her father finding reason to lead the poor boy elsewhere.

Her mother had come to her afterwards, to unwind her hair before bed. She learned then that the king had proposed a match between her and Prince Joffrey. Her heart felt full to bursting, and, to Lady Catelyn's surprise, Sansa turned and hugged her mother fiercely. She saw reflected in the twin pools that were her mother’s eyes a dreamy expression across her own face. My song. Sansa thought. It is starting. 

Lady Catelyn told her daughter of their plans to move her South with her Father. There she would learn the ways of a Southron court, as would befit a future Queen. And, upon her first blood she would marry Prince Joffrey and sit by his side. She would dress in cloth of gold with braids woven in her crown and Joffrey on the Iron throne so statuesque, would be the very picture of a King.

She would make him love her, she promised herself. Now Sansa had been less fearful to smile at her prince. I am happy. She tried to say with her smiles. I cannot wait to wed you. I will be the perfect wife. In her minds eye she could already see their golden sons and daughters resplendent in crimson. A girl with bright Tully eyes to match her own and boys that would be twins to Joffrey.

And although Sansa would spend her day dreaming, Jeyne had convinced her to forsake their lessons and take one last swim. It was most unlike Sansa to be so willful, that was Arya’s place. But, to be fair, it would serve as one of their last moments as girls. They would rise from the steamy pools as women, Sansa was sure of it. And she would look to the future in delight and expectation.

Jeyne stripped to her smallclothes and dove. Sansa laughed and hurriedly tried to shrug her dress. She fiddled awkwardly, her hands grasping at the laces on her back.

“The water’s warm!” Jeyne called, grinning. In the heart of the North where Summer still saw snow the Starks had been blessed with hot springs that never froze and made mist of melting frost. Jeyne floated on her back, stroking the steaming water with pale limbs to drive her farther off. 

“I can’t get out of these laces.” Sansa complained.

“Sansa, you’re helpless.”

“Don’t say that!” But Jeyne was already wading her way towards the edge of the pool. Dripping she motioned for Sansa to turn and quickly tugged her dress down.

“Come on already!”

The summer air was cold but the water was warm and Jeyne and she laughed as they bathed. They splashed and played filling the air with the sounds of childhood, for childhood was truly at an end now with Sansa’s betrothal. 

They played a game of come-into-my-castle which went rather poorly, given the players were only two. 

“Lady Stark, my bannermen are weary and must be fed” Jeyne said, and waved her hand over the array of sticks pressed into the warm mud at the pools edge. Her toy sentinels all dressed in bark. “Pray, shelter and feed us and my swords are yours.”

“I shall take you and yours, Lady Poole.” A silly sentiment. Sansa thought. Jeyne will never be a lady, and neither will she have the bannermen. For true she was but a stewards daughter, but her friend besides. And so they played. “I should be honored to feed and arm and shelter you for winter is coming.” Soon she would say the words of another great house, and it swelled her with pride to think on such things.

Without added players though they soon tired of the game. Instead Sansa untangled her friends braids gently and, in its newly wet state wove an intricate pattern that did all but hold. 

“You would be a terrible handmaiden, Sansa Stark.” Jeyne teased as she swam around her. 

“I am not going to be a handmaiden. I am going to be a Queen.” And as she said the words her eyes grew bright as jewels. 

“Will I come with you?” Jeyne asked, her head tilting to one side. The laughter had receded. 

Sansa did not know if they would part, the uncertainty being half the reason she had given in to their escapade so quickly. “I don’t know.” Sansa said. She began to make for the pools edge. “Perhaps you may.” She said, as she climbed from the water. She reached for the blankets Jeyne had snuck and took one to her hair.

“I would like that.” She admitted quietly, ringing her auburn tresses gently. “It would be nice to have a friend I already know.”

She and Jeyne hurried back to the castle, after drying and changing. Truly it had been a foolish thing, to act so unbecoming. The regret grew ever worse as they neared the walls. 

“Sansa! Jeyne!” She heard the septa call. Her face was flushed but not of shame like hers and Jeyne’s. Jeyne at least had the decency to admit her guilt.

“To celebrate.” She had protested. But Septa Mordane had none of their excuses.