Fic: Wedding, part one (Stannis/Sansa, Davos, Jon)
Title: Wedding (part one)
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Sansa, Jon, Davos (and some hints at Stannis/Jon, if you want to read it that way)
Rating: PG
Words: 1676
Warnings: spoilers for ASOS; political marriage between two people who both aren't all that enthusiastic about it at first; substantial age difference; probably underage (though Sansa's age isn't mentioned explicitly, so you can imagine her being however old you like)
Summary: She doubts she will ever love the king when she agrees to marry him, but Jon assures her that Stannis is as just and honourable as father had been, and that alone is more than she can say about any other man she has met.
Author's note: Originally posted on the got_exchange comment fic meme. I only changed the tense from past to present so it would be consistent with the sequel; otherwise it's pretty much the same thing as over there.
Once upon a time, a little girl named Sansa Stark had planned out her wedding in every detail. During the ceremony her husband-to-be - young, handsome, tall, strong - would stand behind her and put his cloak around her shoulders, his hands warm and gentle, and then he would lean in to kiss her cheek, and his lips and face would be as smooth as her own.
Then, after her father's death, she had come to dread her wedding to the golden prince who had turned out to be a monster, and when she did get married to the prince's uncle, it had been nothing but a farce, a nightmare so strange that she could barely believe now it had ever happened.
She was still terrified on her true wedding day - and she knew that this would not be a fleeting, unconsummated thing like her Lannister wedding, that this would be for life - but it was a different kind of fear. Men said that her husband, the king, was a man of honour, hard, but just and fair, uncompromising, but not cruel without cause. Jon said so. He seemed to hold the king in high regard, and even though she had never been close to her bastard brother, she could not imagine him respecting a monster. Jon - Ser Jon now, she corrected herself, and she was still not used to seeing him in white - looked at the king with such admiration, and yet the man himself intimidated her as much as Tywin Lannister had.
She had always wanted her whole family to be at her wedding, mother and father and Robb, little Bran and Rickon, and even Arya would be there, wearing a beautiful dress for once. But she forced herself to cut that line of thought before tears found the way to her eyes. She was a Stark of Winterfell and the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. So she swallowed and glanced at Jon, as silent and white as his direwolf as he followed the king, only a few steps behind. He didn't look like a bastard boy anymore in his Kingsguard armour, he looked grown-up, handsome even, and Sansa reminded herself that she should be grateful at least one familiar face was here.
King Stannis Baratheon was not a splendid sight, but he was as intimidating in black and golden finery - still oddly understated for a king on his wedding day - as he was in the dark armour she had seen him in before. He looked regal, though, she found herself thinking, more like a king than Robert or Joffrey ever had: tall and broad-shouldered, the golden crown as sharp as the angles of his face, and although he looked uncomfortable with the court's eyes on him, there was a strength in his bearing that made her shiver. She used to dream of a prince, not of a warrior king.
His blue eyes remained cold throughout the entire ceremony. At first she thought he looked indifferent, and she wondered with sympathy if he was still grieving for his first wife, but then she realised that he looked merely annoyed. As if marrying her was a nuisance, a tedious duty like arguing with lords and listening to petitioners. She had felt relief the first few times she had met him because he had always looked into her eyes, never at her body, never stared at her with that threatening desire she had almost grown used to seeing in men's eyes. But he still met her eyes as he swore his vows, his movements seemed almost mechanical as he draped the golden cloak over her shoulders, and for the first time she realised that marrying a man who did not even want her might just be worse.
His fingertips brushed her temples as he put the crown on her head, a more slender version of the one he was wearing, the metal cool against her brow. Queen, she thought. It was too cold in the throne room, and she shivered. Queen Sansa. It had once been her greatest dream, but now she felt lost next to this man who was old enough to be her father, and who looked like he had about as much use for her as for a child.
She heard murmurs in the crowd and could only hope they commented on nothing but her beauty. She knew they muttered and complained, all of them - the Tyrells who would have gladly pushed Lady Margaery at yet another king, the Martells who tried to offer him Princess Arianne when the last Targaryens fell. She wondered why he had chosen her, if it was gratitude to the North or anger at the South.
The feast was a sullen affair. There was singing and dancing and delicious food, but the king only glared at the court and barely looked at her, and she heard him mutter to his Lord Hand that the crown should not have wasted money on such frivolity. She did not hear the Hand's reply - Lord Davos, a common-looking man, and she found it hard to believe the king raised a smuggler to a lordship - but it seemed to calm the king for a moment, before their conversation grew somewhat more agitated. The king looked angry, glanced at her, then seemed to relent.
As he offered her his arm and led her from the table, she realised that Lord Davos had to talk King Stannis into dancing with her. Her back straightened as she felt the court's eyes on them, her face stilled into a carefully arranged mask. Most of the men present had been here when Joffrey had had her beaten, but she would not let them disrespect her. She would make them see a queen, not a frightened girl who could not meet her husband's eye.
She did not flinch when he took her hand, large and rough, the other one resting on her hip as lightly as if he were afraid to touch her. She found it oddly reassuring to see his strength kept under such a tight lid.
It was not that he couldn't dance. He knew the steps, he never stepped on her toes like her brothers used to when they were children, his hands were guiding her without pushing or pulling. But she had never seen any man look more uncomfortable, more stiff, more out of his element than Stannis Baratheon in this moment, his face calm and concentrated, his brow still furrowed in annoyance.
"It's a mummer's farce," he muttered after a while, and she looked up in surprise. It was the first time he has addressed her today with anything but courteous phrases, and there was a refreshing honesty in his voice. "They cower and bow, when half of them watched your father's murder and fought for my downfall."
"They lost, Your Grace," she replied quietly, and she dared to curl her fingers a little more around his. She hesitated, chose her words carefully. She did not say, we won, because it had never been about winning for her. She had never wanted to play this game. "They lost, and we ... we live."
He met her eyes then, and for the first time she felt like he was truly looking at her, at her, not at Ned Stark's daughter, not at the sister of the Lord of Winterfell, not at the woman he married to produce a male heir. For a moment she feared that he would think her words stupid, that he would be angry and hurt her, but instead there was just a twitch in his jaw muscles and he nodded.
The king didn't say any more, he led her back to the table after a single dance, but she liked to think that he pulled his hand away from her arm just a little less quickly than before. As the king turned back to Lord Davos, Jon leant forward and whispered into her ear.
"What did you say to make His Grace smile?" It was not very ladylike, but for a moment she stared at him with her mouth open like a fish.
"That was his smile?" And as Jon's eyes brightened with humour, so much like father's when he watched them play, she found herself smiling as well. Next to her the king was sipping water from a cup, and she had seen enough drunk men to find his sobriety reassuring. His eyes met hers for a second, and in that one moment she remembered all the things he had said to her the few times they met before today.
I know you will not love me, nor will I ever ask you to. I only expect you to do your duty.
You do not want this. No, don't flatter me by pretending otherwise.
You will be protected now, you have my word on that. You have nothing to fear from the Lannisters, from anyone. Nor from me.
Queen Cersei will be executed tomorrow morning. I thought you should know. That had been the last time the king had spoken to her before the wedding. She had straightened her back at the news, and even to her own ears her voice had sounded like ice when she replied, With Your Grace's permission, I would like to be present at the execution. She thought she had seen something like approval in his eyes then, and he had granted her the request.
Maybe, she thought, maybe it would not be so bad. Mother married father out of duty when he was nothing but a stranger, and they loved each other more than any other couple she ever saw. She could not imagine ever loving King Stannis - and his eyes were so cold that she could not imagine him loving her either - but for just one moment she allowed herself to hope that he might at least treat her kindly.
It was more than she had dared to hope for in years.
Part two | Part three
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Sansa, Jon, Davos (and some hints at Stannis/Jon, if you want to read it that way)
Rating: PG
Words: 1676
Warnings: spoilers for ASOS; political marriage between two people who both aren't all that enthusiastic about it at first; substantial age difference; probably underage (though Sansa's age isn't mentioned explicitly, so you can imagine her being however old you like)
Summary: She doubts she will ever love the king when she agrees to marry him, but Jon assures her that Stannis is as just and honourable as father had been, and that alone is more than she can say about any other man she has met.
Author's note: Originally posted on the got_exchange comment fic meme. I only changed the tense from past to present so it would be consistent with the sequel; otherwise it's pretty much the same thing as over there.
Once upon a time, a little girl named Sansa Stark had planned out her wedding in every detail. During the ceremony her husband-to-be - young, handsome, tall, strong - would stand behind her and put his cloak around her shoulders, his hands warm and gentle, and then he would lean in to kiss her cheek, and his lips and face would be as smooth as her own.
Then, after her father's death, she had come to dread her wedding to the golden prince who had turned out to be a monster, and when she did get married to the prince's uncle, it had been nothing but a farce, a nightmare so strange that she could barely believe now it had ever happened.
She was still terrified on her true wedding day - and she knew that this would not be a fleeting, unconsummated thing like her Lannister wedding, that this would be for life - but it was a different kind of fear. Men said that her husband, the king, was a man of honour, hard, but just and fair, uncompromising, but not cruel without cause. Jon said so. He seemed to hold the king in high regard, and even though she had never been close to her bastard brother, she could not imagine him respecting a monster. Jon - Ser Jon now, she corrected herself, and she was still not used to seeing him in white - looked at the king with such admiration, and yet the man himself intimidated her as much as Tywin Lannister had.
She had always wanted her whole family to be at her wedding, mother and father and Robb, little Bran and Rickon, and even Arya would be there, wearing a beautiful dress for once. But she forced herself to cut that line of thought before tears found the way to her eyes. She was a Stark of Winterfell and the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. So she swallowed and glanced at Jon, as silent and white as his direwolf as he followed the king, only a few steps behind. He didn't look like a bastard boy anymore in his Kingsguard armour, he looked grown-up, handsome even, and Sansa reminded herself that she should be grateful at least one familiar face was here.
King Stannis Baratheon was not a splendid sight, but he was as intimidating in black and golden finery - still oddly understated for a king on his wedding day - as he was in the dark armour she had seen him in before. He looked regal, though, she found herself thinking, more like a king than Robert or Joffrey ever had: tall and broad-shouldered, the golden crown as sharp as the angles of his face, and although he looked uncomfortable with the court's eyes on him, there was a strength in his bearing that made her shiver. She used to dream of a prince, not of a warrior king.
His blue eyes remained cold throughout the entire ceremony. At first she thought he looked indifferent, and she wondered with sympathy if he was still grieving for his first wife, but then she realised that he looked merely annoyed. As if marrying her was a nuisance, a tedious duty like arguing with lords and listening to petitioners. She had felt relief the first few times she had met him because he had always looked into her eyes, never at her body, never stared at her with that threatening desire she had almost grown used to seeing in men's eyes. But he still met her eyes as he swore his vows, his movements seemed almost mechanical as he draped the golden cloak over her shoulders, and for the first time she realised that marrying a man who did not even want her might just be worse.
His fingertips brushed her temples as he put the crown on her head, a more slender version of the one he was wearing, the metal cool against her brow. Queen, she thought. It was too cold in the throne room, and she shivered. Queen Sansa. It had once been her greatest dream, but now she felt lost next to this man who was old enough to be her father, and who looked like he had about as much use for her as for a child.
She heard murmurs in the crowd and could only hope they commented on nothing but her beauty. She knew they muttered and complained, all of them - the Tyrells who would have gladly pushed Lady Margaery at yet another king, the Martells who tried to offer him Princess Arianne when the last Targaryens fell. She wondered why he had chosen her, if it was gratitude to the North or anger at the South.
The feast was a sullen affair. There was singing and dancing and delicious food, but the king only glared at the court and barely looked at her, and she heard him mutter to his Lord Hand that the crown should not have wasted money on such frivolity. She did not hear the Hand's reply - Lord Davos, a common-looking man, and she found it hard to believe the king raised a smuggler to a lordship - but it seemed to calm the king for a moment, before their conversation grew somewhat more agitated. The king looked angry, glanced at her, then seemed to relent.
As he offered her his arm and led her from the table, she realised that Lord Davos had to talk King Stannis into dancing with her. Her back straightened as she felt the court's eyes on them, her face stilled into a carefully arranged mask. Most of the men present had been here when Joffrey had had her beaten, but she would not let them disrespect her. She would make them see a queen, not a frightened girl who could not meet her husband's eye.
She did not flinch when he took her hand, large and rough, the other one resting on her hip as lightly as if he were afraid to touch her. She found it oddly reassuring to see his strength kept under such a tight lid.
It was not that he couldn't dance. He knew the steps, he never stepped on her toes like her brothers used to when they were children, his hands were guiding her without pushing or pulling. But she had never seen any man look more uncomfortable, more stiff, more out of his element than Stannis Baratheon in this moment, his face calm and concentrated, his brow still furrowed in annoyance.
"It's a mummer's farce," he muttered after a while, and she looked up in surprise. It was the first time he has addressed her today with anything but courteous phrases, and there was a refreshing honesty in his voice. "They cower and bow, when half of them watched your father's murder and fought for my downfall."
"They lost, Your Grace," she replied quietly, and she dared to curl her fingers a little more around his. She hesitated, chose her words carefully. She did not say, we won, because it had never been about winning for her. She had never wanted to play this game. "They lost, and we ... we live."
He met her eyes then, and for the first time she felt like he was truly looking at her, at her, not at Ned Stark's daughter, not at the sister of the Lord of Winterfell, not at the woman he married to produce a male heir. For a moment she feared that he would think her words stupid, that he would be angry and hurt her, but instead there was just a twitch in his jaw muscles and he nodded.
The king didn't say any more, he led her back to the table after a single dance, but she liked to think that he pulled his hand away from her arm just a little less quickly than before. As the king turned back to Lord Davos, Jon leant forward and whispered into her ear.
"What did you say to make His Grace smile?" It was not very ladylike, but for a moment she stared at him with her mouth open like a fish.
"That was his smile?" And as Jon's eyes brightened with humour, so much like father's when he watched them play, she found herself smiling as well. Next to her the king was sipping water from a cup, and she had seen enough drunk men to find his sobriety reassuring. His eyes met hers for a second, and in that one moment she remembered all the things he had said to her the few times they met before today.
I know you will not love me, nor will I ever ask you to. I only expect you to do your duty.
You do not want this. No, don't flatter me by pretending otherwise.
You will be protected now, you have my word on that. You have nothing to fear from the Lannisters, from anyone. Nor from me.
Queen Cersei will be executed tomorrow morning. I thought you should know. That had been the last time the king had spoken to her before the wedding. She had straightened her back at the news, and even to her own ears her voice had sounded like ice when she replied, With Your Grace's permission, I would like to be present at the execution. She thought she had seen something like approval in his eyes then, and he had granted her the request.
Maybe, she thought, maybe it would not be so bad. Mother married father out of duty when he was nothing but a stranger, and they loved each other more than any other couple she ever saw. She could not imagine ever loving King Stannis - and his eyes were so cold that she could not imagine him loving her either - but for just one moment she allowed herself to hope that he might at least treat her kindly.
It was more than she had dared to hope for in years.
Part two | Part three