FIC: Wedding, part two (Stannis/Sansa, Jon, Rolland)
Title: Wedding (part two)
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Sansa, Jon, Rolland Storm (and some hints at Stannis/Jon, if you want to read it that way)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9117
Warnings: spoilers for ASOS; political marriage (and sex) 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: So as the sequel to the wedding feast, here's the bedding and the wedding night. I've never written het smut before in my life, let alone het smut from the POV of a virgin with weird antiquated romanticised views on marriage and sex. ;) So I'm afraid the actual smut part of this is profoundly unsexy, for which Sansa and I are equally to blame, but I really couldn't skip it. But I hope there's enough more interesting stuff going on here to make up for it. :)
Part one
Sansa had been more scared of the bedding than of anything else, terrified by the idea of all those lords and knights ripping at her gown, jesting and laughing as they brought her to the bed chamber. It took all of her composure to keep her face calm when the king rose from the table, and the glimmer of anticipation she saw in some of the men's eyes made her sick.
Words could not express her relief when King Stannis explained curtly that he thought the bedding a frivolous tradition he wouldn't accept at his court.
"It won't do to have the court tear off their king's and queen's clothes. I will not have it," he snarled when a young knight - obviously too far in his cups already - dared to object. "Ser Jon, Ser Rolland, you will make sure the queen is left in peace." He gave her an awkward nod. "My lady."
Flanked by two other Kingsguard knights, the king took off, still followed by the ladies of the court, though at a more respectful distance than Sansa would have expected. She was grateful when Jon offered her his arm to guide her towards the other corridor that led out of the hall, for she would not have known where she was to go. Ghost quietly padded next to her. She smiled when he pushed his large head up against her hand, and she held on to his fur a little. Once she had found Jon's red-eyed, silent direwolf terrifying, but now it almost felt like having another family member present. Lady's death had been the beginning of her nightmare, and she wanted to hope that this was finally the end of it.
She still flinched when the men of the court flocked around them. Even without a proper bedding, the lords and ladies at least reserved their right to accompany the bride and groom to the bed chambers, and soon enough the first men - those who had drunk far more than was good for them - started shouting ribald remarks that made Sansa blush.
"Don't listen to them," Jon said quietly and pulled her closer. "They resent you because King Stannis chose you, not one of their daughters or sisters. It is only tonight. From tomorrow on, no one will dare to speak to you that way."
The words still cut, though some of them were so vulgar that she wasn't even quite sure what they meant. Someone called her a pretty little thing that would certainly bring a smile even to King Stannis' face.
"Can you blame him, after that old hag he had before, he's bound to have some fun with this one!"
"She's barely older than his daughter. Maybe he just likes them young!"
Sansa felt as if her face was on fire. She clung desperately to Jon's arm and Ghost's fur, and she wished she could just stop listening. She knew that the bride was supposed to talk back to the lords with witty replies, but she couldn't think of anything to say. She knew she'd be crying if they were touching her on top of everything else, but even drunk no man was foolish enough to try to get past a direwolf and two Kingsguard knights.
"And what if he does, my lord, that still makes you a jealous old fop." The voice startled her, and she saw Ser Rolland grinning at her for a moment. His face frightened her - ravaged by pox marks, it almost looked as bad as the Hound's - but his eyes were always gentle and smiling, and he had been more gallant to her than the king on the few occasions when they had met. He was a bastard, of course, but she did not think she should judge a man whom someone as demanding as King Stannis had deemed worthy of his Kingsguard. Ser Rolland kept smiling and mouthed, "I am just distracting them, Your Grace."
She frowned in confusion, until she realised that the lords were soon too busy trading jokes and insults with Ser Rolland, who didn't even seem to mind the bastard jibes thrown in his direction. Even Jon smiled a little, and Sansa found herself doing the same.
"He's quite witty," she commented when one of Ser Rolland's comments drew gasps and laughter from the crowd. Jon shook his head, smiling.
"He's not witty, he's rude. He's only keeping his tongue in check for your sake, Your Grace. You don't want to know what he's going to say once you're out of earshot," Jon replied. She leant against him, her hand tightening on his arm.
"You should call me Sansa, Jon. I am your sister."
Jon almost faltered in his steps and stared at her. She had never seen him look so happy before. It made her feel bad for all the times she had shunned him as a child, but she knew she would have years to make up for her unkindness to him.
By the time they reached the bed chambers, their company had fallen a bit behind. Ser Rolland had somehow managed to hold them up at the last turn of the corridor, so Sansa and Jon walked the last steps alone. Sansa felt her fear return as she glanced at the door, all too aware of what would happen once she walked through it.
"You mustn't be afraid of the king, Sansa," Jon said softly. She gave him a doubtful look. King Stannis was easily the most terrifying man she had ever met. "I know he is harsh and blunt, but he is a good man. He is not cruel, only ... I'm afraid he's not very at ease around women. But he knows you've been hurt, and I begged him to be kind to you."
Sansa nodded, but she still felt tears welling up in her eyes. She couldn't even smile as Ghost licked her hand, wheezing the way he did when he tried to whine.
"I wish I could trade places with you," Jon added with a sighed. Sansa gave him an incredulous look.
"That would be ... very inappropriate." He blushed vividly and looked away, and even now she could not help but laugh at his unfortunate choice of words.
"I ... I know that. I did not mean it literally. I only meant that if ... if I could do anything to spare you your fear, I would," he stammered, then took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Don't be afraid. He smiled at you. I've only ever seen him smile at Lord Davos before, so he must like you."
He kept holding her hand until her breathing had calmed down a little, but she realised she could not stand here forever. Straightening her back and gathering her courage, she let go of his hand and gave him a curt nod, then stepped into the bed chambers.
The king had not yet arrived, but a servant girl entered behind her, eyes lowered as she said that she'd been sent to assist Her Grace with her dress. She did not want to undress, but she'd rather take off her dress now than have her husband rip it off, so she nodded quietly and let the girl help her.
She did not know what she was supposed to do once the girl left and closed the door behind her. There was a fire in the hearth, but Sansa still shivered a little, clad in nothing but her thin undergown, her feet bare on the floor. She was also tired after the long day, and since there was no chair in the room, she sat down on the edge of the bed. The covers were dark and soft, more precious than anything she would have expected to find in Stannis Baratheon's bed. She scolded herself for the thought - he was the king, after all, she doubted that anyone would ask if what sheets he liked.
She wrapped herself into one of the thicker blankets, painfully aware of how low-cut her undergown was. The memory of the time Joffrey had had her stripped was still fresh in her mind, and she still flinched every time a man looked at her breasts, even when she was fully dressed.
King Stannis arrived shortly after. Followed by loud voices and giggling from the corridor, he looked somewhat miffed and slightly dishevelled. His doublet was half unbuttoned, revealing the white shirt he was wearing underneath. Apparently the ladies had taken his refusal of a proper bedding a bit less seriously than the lords, and the look in his eyes was one of relief when the door closed behind him. She almost got up, but he motioned for her to stay seated, a curt gesture as if he was dismissing a servant. His hands were large and broad, they looked like a soldier's, not like a king's. But they had been so careful during the dance that she dared to hope there was some kindness in him, a kindness he needed to hide from a treacherous court, but not from his wife.
As he took off the crown and put it aside, she could not help but notice his almost bald head. Of course she had known before that he was bald, but it was easier to ignore while the golden crown rested on his brow. Oddly, though, it did not make him look old or feeble, but simply harsher, his face all sharp lines and hard angles. Stannis Baratheon's face looked like one could cut oneself on it.
Sansa did not know what to expect from this man who seemed so gruff and dispassionate, and it only served to frighten her more. She had managed to keep up her façade the whole day, had played the composed, beautiful queen, not smiling, no, but as serious and calm as her husband. Alone with him in his chambers, she did not feel like a queen anymore, but like a frightened girl who could only pray that her husband would be gentle.
For a man who usually exuded will power and determination, King Stannis seemed oddly hesitant as he walked over to her, standing in front of the bed for a few moments before he sat down next to her. The distance between them was so great that he would have to stretch out his arm to touch her at all. He looked uncomfortable, uneasy, as if he would much prefer to be somewhere else.
His blue eyes were piercing, and she averted her gaze. There was something frightening about the way he looked at people, as if he could see their every failure and flaw with one unforgiving glance. The silence stretched out, grew more and more oppressive, and Stannis still did not move.
"Do I not please Your Grace?" Sansa asked finally, and her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. She glanced up, just in time to notice surprise on his face. Stannis did not seem to know what to say.
"You are ... you are very beautiful, my lady." The words sounded so awkward from Stannis' lips that they barely felt like a compliment. It was almost endearing. She had seen Stannis Baratheon frighten a whole court into shocked silence with a few harsh words, she had seen him subdue lords with a well-placed jibe. He was not charismatic or even witty the way Lord Renly had been, but he did have a way with words. Yet he did not even seem to know how to pay a woman - his bride - a simple compliment without sounding like he was tying his tongue in a knot.
But he had tried, at least, and so she tried to look at him the way he had looked at her during the dance. Tried to see past the clenched jaw and the furrowed brow, tried to see the man Jon spoke of so highly, saying he was as honourable and just as father had been. With that thought on her mind, Sansa managed not to flinch as King Stannis finally lifted his hand.
She expected him to touch her face, her breasts, her thighs, but to her surprise his hand moved to her hair. His fingers were careful, and rather than caressing her he slowly removed one of the hairpins, then another, sending a long braid tumbling down. She did not move, afraid to anger him, just kept still as he slowly undid her hair. It pulled a little sometimes, but she could tell he was trying to be gentle. She turned her head so he could reach her better, and one time she raised her hand to help him when one of the pins was too tangled in her hair. Their fingers touched, and Sansa felt herself blush.
One hairpin after the other was put on the nightstand, he unbraided her hair until it fell over her shoulders in soft waves, and only then did he run his fingers through it. At first the touch was so light that she barely felt it, but it grew steadier when she did not flinch, until his hand came to rest against the side of her neck. His hand was warm, even through her own hair, and it did not feel as unpleasant as she had expected. She noticed only now that Stannis had moved closer during those minutes he had spent undoing her hair; only an inch remained between their thighs now. He touched her hair almost reverently and she relaxed a little, even as his thumb brushed the skin of her throat.
"My lady," he started. His voice was gruff as always, but somewhat hesitant. If he did not still look so imposing, she would have thought him nervous. "Would you ... would you allow me to kiss you?"
The words took her by surprise, it was such an odd thing to ask a woman on her wedding night that she wondered if it was a trick question. What bit of her suspicions he had dissolved before returned immediately, and she tensed up. Courtesy is a lady's armour, she reminded herself. I must not anger him.
"You are my king and my husband, Your Grace. You may do as you please."
He frowned at that and pulled back his hand. Her skin tingled where he had touched her.
"I told you that I expect nothing from you but your duty, my lady. It is your duty to give me a son, not to ... pleasure me." He spat out the word as if he found the very idea of pleasure offensive. Usually she would have wondered if he still grieved for his lady wife, but Jon had assured her that King Stannis and Queen Selyse had been so estranged from one another that the king had barely reacted when news of her death had reached him. But she couldn't understand why else he would hesitate so much, when pleasure had seemed to be the thing men desired most from her.
She kept looking at him, noticing all the little things she had seen in him before, but they seemed different in this situation. The tenseness of his posture, the frown, the clenched set of his jaw - it all spoke of strength when he was sitting on the throne, but right now it betrayed only discomfort and hesitation. This was not a man who would throw himself at her, who would push her down and force his way between her legs. And yet it was also a man who had married out of duty, out of the need for an heir, and Sansa was not so naive that she did not know what needed to be done for that to happen.
She wondered if her lady mother had felt like this on her wedding night, if she had sat on her bed like this with father, who had been a stranger then and not her beloved Ned, if they had looked at each other and not quite known what to do. Father had not been handsome and he had always appeared stern and distant to those he did not know, yet mother had come to love him dearly. She had once told Sansa that if a woman truly loved a man, she would learn to see beauty in him, even if he did not look like the prince of her childhood dreams.
She tried to find something handsome in King Stannis' face, but his countenance only frightened her. His lips were drawn in a tight line, the short-cropped, black beard looked rough and she imagined it would scratch on her cheeks. She did not want to kiss him.
And yet she felt that if she rejected him now, he would never ask again. It was only then that she truly, fully realised that this man who was so unlike anything she had ever wished for was her husband, that she would spend her life with him, sharing his meals and his bed, standing by his side at court, bearing and raising his children. Sansa could not stand the thought of never being kissed by her own husband.
So she put her hand on his, she leant forward and tilted her head up, lips parting in fear more than anticipation. She took a deep breath to find the strength she needed for her words.
"I believe it should be a husband's duty to kiss his lady wife, Your Grace."
A muscle in his jaw twitched again, and this time Sansa remembered Jon's words - that she had made Stannis smile. For the second time today, and she felt an odd sense of pride at that. She closed her eyes as he leant forward to close the distance between them, thinking that it might be easier if she did not have to look at him.
She felt his breath before anything else, clean and fresh, smelling of lemons - the smell reminded her of eating lemoncakes in the summer sun, back in Winterfell. His lips were less rough than she would have thought when they met hers, an almost fleeting caress. Maybe it was the thought of home that made her smile, but she did, and she leant into him when he almost pulled away, pressing her lips against his.
He took her hand then, but even though his hand was so much larger than hers, his grasp was not constraining. She had always dreamt of entangling her fingers with her beloved's, and so she did now, just as he raised his other hand back to her hair, fingers resting in the loose strands without touching skin.
Their mouths were still close, a hair's breadth apart before they touched again. His lips were parted this time, and she dared to let her tongue sneak out just far enough to brush his upper lip. His beard tickled rather than scratched. It reminded her of home as much as the smell of lemons, of father hugging her and even of Jon's embrace when they had found each other again.
She opened her eyes when the kiss ended, and for just a second the king's forehead was smooth until his frown returned. Her heart was still racing in her chest, but she was not entirely sure it was only out of fear anymore. She felt a strange flutter in her stomach, and without thinking she leant her head a little into his hand.
He looked at her expectingly, and it took her a moment to realise that he was waiting for a reaction - and, judging by his scowl, for a rejection. Her lips tingled a little, she could taste lemons on them. It was not an unpleasant feeling.
"That was lovely, Your Grace," she said quietly, and she was surprised herself that she did not need to force the words out of her mouth. It was no lie, no carefully constructed phrase to appease him, but the truth. She would have imagined his kisses to be rough and brutal, but he had been as gentle as if he were afraid to break her.
"Lovely?" The king seemed to choke on the word, and he looked so dumbfounded that Sansa could not help but smile. There was probably nothing in the world that Stannis Baratheon would ever refer to as 'lovely'. Sansa raised her hand and ran her fingers over his forehead, over the deep lines of his frown, and she felt him relax a little underneath her fingertips. He looked far less intimidating without that perpetual scowl. Younger as well.
"Yes, lovely. Not like I expected." She bit her tongue when she realised what she had said, but Stannis did not seem to take her words as an insult. Sansa's hand rested on his cheek now, on pale, leathery skin and coarse hair. She had not thought about it before, too focused on the crown and the Southern clothes, but she noticed now how much Stannis looked like a Northerner, rough and bearded, his skin marked by cold wind and snow storms. Once, before all of this had happened, she had dreamt of sweet Southern princes with blond hair and smooth cheeks, but now she missed home, missed Winterfell, missed men who looked harsh, but whose beards and frowns hid more kindness than Southern courtesy ever had.
And yet she could not help but wince when his hand suddenly moved to her shoulder, his grasp stronger than before. It startled rather than frightened her, but his face fell a little.
"You are afraid of me," Stannis stated, and there was a dull resignation in his voice. He sounded so crestfallen that she almost felt guilty, for he had not given her any reason to fear him, not yet.
"I am sorry, Your Grace. It is merely ... most things, most people frighten me these days, after everything that has happened. Your Grace is not to blame."
"Look at me, my lady," he said, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. His face wasn't ugly or disfigured, there was a certain resemblance to his late brother Renly if she looked close enough. If he'd only smile, she thought, he might not look so terrifying. But if Stannis Baratheon had ever known how to smile, he seemed to have forgotten about it long ago.
Like me.
"I know that this is not what you want. I am not what you want. I am not my brother Renly or the Knight of Flowers. But it is as it is, and we most do our duty - whether we like it or not. I would not want it to be any worse for you than it already is." His frown deepened, he seemed to be looking for the right words. The longer he spoke, the more uncomfortable he seemed. "I may not be able to give you much else, but you have my word that I will not hurt you."
Too many lies and too many disappointments had made her distrustful, no matter how honest he sounded, but now she was not sure what to think. She glanced down at her hand in the king's, then back into his eyes. He was the first man who did not seem to expect anything from her, who did not even hope for her love, let alone ask for it. It made her wonder if no one had ever loved him before, but she could not understand why that would be. He was not handsome, but he was not a monster either. And Jon had said that King Stannis was incapable of lying, of dissimulating, that his greatest flaw was being too blunt. He had even compared the king to father, and what higher praise was there?
"I believe you, Your Grace. I do. But ... aren't all girls afraid on their wedding night?"
"How would I know, I haven't been married that often," he snapped back, but he sounded miffed rather than angry.
"Once more often than me," she replied, more sharply than she had intended. His face turned thoughtful at that and his fingers tightened on hers. The grasp was not painful, but strong, a quiet reminder of what he could do if he chose to. She hoped he would not mention Tyrion Lannister, not when she had sworn under oath that their marriage had never been consummated, not when the king had insisted a maester examine her to make sure she was still a maiden. And it was not as if her words had been a lie, she thought, for she had not yet been married where it truly counted, she had never had a wedding night worthy of that name.
"You are right, my lady," he admitted finally, and she sighed in relief. He still looked unhappy. "But my first marriage was rather unpleasant. I would not wish to repeat that, but to do it better this time."
"Why would you bother, Your Grace?" she asked and looked down at their entwined fingers. Her hand looked so small against his, so soft. So weak. She knew there was nothing she could do if he decided to hurt her. He could probably hold her down with one hand alone.
"Because I know how it goes when I don't bother." His jaw muscles twitched again, but she was not sure if this was supposed to be another smile. He looked like he wanted to say more, wanted to explain, but instead he was grinding his teeth again, like he had during the feast. It was an awful sound, and Sansa's jaw hurt just from looking at him.
Her hand returned to his face, even more shyly than before. Her fingers brushed over his jaw this time, and she smiled as it stopped moving. She caressed the stubbly chin, once again put off by the beard, yet it had not felt so bad against her cheeks. Maybe she could get used to it in time.
"I want to be a good wife to you, Your Grace." He did not evade her touch, and it encouraged her. She kept stroking his cheek, hoping that the unreadable look in his eyes was some kind of approval. "If you let me."
"Why would you bother?"
"You are my husband, Your Grace." The word still sounded unfamiliar and yet thrilling to her ears. Husband. She had spent her whole life thinking of this day, this moment, wondering what it would be like. And though she had married - been forced to marry - before, it had felt more like a bad dream. Not so real, so ... irrevocable. "Shouldn't we try to be happy with each other?"
She wished she could read him, could see his emotions and thoughts in the slight changes of his expressions, but his face was like a closed book to her. He could be about to kiss her or about to slap her, and she wouldn't see either coming.
He kissed her.
The suddenness startled her and he was more forward about it than the first time, one hand in her hair as he pressed his mouth against hers. But even so there was still something oddly restrained about his movements, as if part of him wanted to back away from her even as he came closer. She swallowed her fear and returned the kiss, parting her lips as she felt the tip of his tongue against them. Her eyes closed again. She was not quite sure if she was doing this right, but it felt pleasant, the way his lips moved against hers, the way his fingers combed through her hair until they came to rest between her shoulder blades.
She slid a bit closer to him, her hand found his shoulder just as he sucked lightly on her bottom lip, sending a tingle through her entire body. She felt hard muscle through the golden and black doublet, muscle and bone, and for the first time she wondered what he looked like underneath his clothes. Although the war had left him bonier than a man should be, he was still broad-shouldered and strong, his body steeled from wearing heavy armour. This time she did not flinch when he pulled her closer, even though she was relieved that their sitting position made it impossible for him to capture her too tightly in his arms.
By the time he stopped kissing her she was out of breath, so exhilarated that she was only a little disappointed when her eyes opened and he still looked like before, too gaunt and pale to be handsome. There was finally some sort of emotion in his eyes, a heat that had not been there before.
Sansa felt flushed, somewhat embarrassed by the tingling sensation in her stomach that wasn't quite fear, but more akin to excitement. Feeling more daring than she had the whole evening she moved her hand to his chest, fingertips brushing his skin above the hem of the shirt. She could see coarse black hair on his chest and she ran her fingers over it curiously. As her fingers dipped underneath the fabric she found herself wondering if it covered his whole chest. She had always dreamt of leaning her head against her husband's chest, resting in his arms as he held her, but she wasn't sure if the king would let her.
Stannis let go off her hand to unbutton his doublet fully, then shrugged out of it. She still saw barely more skin than before, but even a king looked less imposing in shirtsleeves than when he was dressed for court. She knew it was a ridiculous thought, knew he could still hurt her without breaking a sweat, but it seemed to put them on more equal footing, with him in a shirt as thin as her undergown.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts, and also in the feeling of his chest underneath her fingers - hard muscle even there, but she could feel his ribs and thought not for the first time that he needed to eat more - that his voice startled her a little. Her hand stopped, as if she had been caught doing something forbidden.
"We should lie down, my lady," Stannis said, and the discomfort in his voice seemed to have increased even more. But his voice was also lower than before, husky almost. She swallowed, but then scolded herself for the childish feeling of disappointment that she couldn't simply keep petting his chest for the rest of the night.
"Yes, Your Grace," she replied quietly. She was shivering again when she pulled her legs up onto the bed, lay down and clutched the thin blanket, which had almost fallen off her shoulders, to her chest. Stannis pulled off his boots before he joined her. Everything about him spoke of hesitation, even as his eyes - for the first time - glanced over her body. She closed her eyes and wondered if this was where the unpleasant part would begin. She felt the bed move next to her, then calloused fingertips caressing her throat. Relief flooded through her when he kissed her again. She could feel him next to her, lying on his side, his chest pressed against her arm, and she turned towards him a little, one hand still clutching the blanket as she grabbed his shoulder again.
His hand seemed to cover all of her throat, but she did not feel threatened now, not with his lips on hers. For the first time she thought that there might be something comforting about his strength - that a man who could hurt her so easily was just as capable of protecting her. She tried to keep up as the kiss deepened, fingers digging into his shoulder. His other arm moved underneath her, his hand came to rest on her waist and he pulled her close. She gasped when she suddenly felt the length of his body against hers, but it was less fear than surprise at the pleasure that filled her.
She couldn't believe that she made that plaintive little noise when he broke the kiss, his lips tracing his fingers' path on her throat, her collarbones, while his hand moved down to her hip. Even through the thin fabric of her undergown his touch burnt and she pressed her legs together, surprised by the heat between her thighs that she had only ever experienced before when she had imagined Ser Loras embracing and holding her. Stannis kissed his way further down, the rasp of his beard a stark contrast to his lips on her sensitised skin. She put her hand to the back of his head when she thought that he was about to stop; his remaining hair was too short to grab, but he seemed to understand nonetheless. She realised a moment too late that she had taken her arm off her breasts when his lips pressed lightly against her breasts. He was leaning over her now, but he was propping himself up with one hand so their bodies barely touched.
She felt as if she should be scared, but mostly she was confused that her fear seemed suddenly so insignificant compared to the thrill she felt when he touched her. Yet Stannis must have noticed her tensing up, for his lips moved back to her shoulder, kissing her where the gown had slipped to the side. His voice was quiet, hot breath washing over her ear as he asked:
"Do you want me to stop?"
She glanced at him, at the sudden fire in his blue eyes. She had appreciated before that he did not look at her with desire, but she liked this new expression on his face; it made her feel wanted, not like she was but a nuisance to him. Even though his lips had stilled, his hand kept moving lightly on her hip, caressing her, edging down until his fingertips brushed her thigh. She gasped a little at that.
"Oh, no, you mustn't." Her voice sounded so breathless, she barely recognised it. She was afraid he would think less of her for feeling so flustered in his arms, so she turned her head and shyly pressed her lips against his before he could reply. As he kissed her she dared to wrap her arms around his torso - she didn't want him to leave, to stop, and she liked the feeling of his hard back muscles tensing beneath her hands. He complied and moved closer, and a shiver went through Sansa when his chest pressed against hers. She could not help but tense a little when he wedged one of his legs between hers, his knee rubbing against the insides of her thighs as he pushed them apart. But it meant having him closer, so she tried to accommodate him. His body seemed to cover hers almost entirely, and what she would have once thought terrifying only excited her now, her mind barely able to keep up with the sensations that flooded her body.
Without meaning to she had pulled his shirt up a bit when her fingers had grabbed the fabric, and in another moment of daring she moved her hand down to the bared small of his back. His skin felt a little sweaty, rougher than hers, stretched too tight over his muscles and bones, and as her hand moved up she found a thin, long scar. He bucked against her when she ran her nails over it, and his groin brushed her thigh for the first time. She blushed, but at the same time she almost felt proud of herself when a strangled moan left Stannis' mouth, the first sign of pleasure she had heard from him since this had started. Maybe she was doing something right, and the thought made her a little giddy.
Their eyes met, and to Sansa's surprise Stannis looked ashamed, his jaw clenched even harder than before. She put one hand to his cheek to prevent that awful teeth-grinding, still clinging to his back with the other, and smiled at him. It cost her no effort this time.
"Your Grace," she started, trying to coax him into leaning down and kissing her again, but she could just as well have tried to move the Wall. Her fingers caressed the scar again, vaguely wondering if it was old or fresh, a sparring wound from his youth or a mark of the war he had fought for his throne and for the realm. "My husband."
Her words made him look only more uncomfortable, and she regretted speaking at all. It seemed odd to her that he was so awkward when he had been married before, and decided that his first wife must have been very different from her. But if his first marriage had been as unhappy as he had said, that was probably for the best.
"Please, Your Grace ..." She was not sure what she was asking for, only that she did not want him to stop. She tilted her head up until her lips brushed against his jaw, then tightened both her arms around him. Even though he was too thin, his body still felt so broad and strong.
He hesitated, grinding his teeth a little, before his hand left her thigh and reached down. He fumbled awkwardly with her undergown as he tried to push it up, shifting when he realised he was kneeling on it. Cool air hit her calves, her knees, and she gasped as she felt his hand on her thigh, unhindered by the fabric. His hands had felt rough before, but on the sensitive inside of her thigh she felt every callous on his palm and his fingers as he slowly slid his hand upwards. It tickled a little, but mostly she felt warm and excited and far less scared than earlier today. His hand pushed her thighs apart as it moved up, and she complied without even hesitating. Somehow she did not really expect him to hurt her anymore.
Stannis was kissing her throat again, face buried against her neck as if he did not want to look at her. Her head lolled back on the soft pillow as he sucked lightly on the skin beneath her chin, and she tried to focus on that when his hand reached her undergarments. She felt her insecurity return when he started pulling them down, lifting her hips up a little with one hand, but she tried her best to accommodate him instead of being in the way. Yet she couldn't meet his eyes when he glanced up at her, and she was sure that her face had to be as red as her hair. One of his hands was stroking her side, the touch warm and heavy and gentle despite the rough skin. Stannis looked like he wanted to say something, but words failed him and he just breathed another kiss onto her neck. There was something almost apologetic about the gesture.
Even though her gown still covered her upper body and even her thighs, she felt naked when Stannis slid her undergarments off her legs. But it was not too bad once his hand returned to her thigh, gently stroking its way upwards, his touch so light that it was at odds with the determination he usually showed. She gasped loudly when his hand came to rest between her legs, then made an even more undignified sound when his fingers moved a little. Even through a haze of excitement she was surprised how slick she had to be for his fingers to slide so easily against her.
Yet Stannis stopped almost immediately when she moaned and raised his head in alarm. He looked more impatient than before, his eyes seemed darker, but the tenseness in his shoulders and neck spoke of pure restraint.
"Am I hurting you?" She noticed only now that his breathing was heavy as well, yet the concern in his voice sounded genuine. For a moment she wondered if he would stop completely if she asked him to, but found that she did not care to find out. Instead she wiggled a little, grinding against his large hand, her eyes fluttering close.
"No, no ... it is lovely, Your Grace ... so very lovely ..." Her voice sounded nothing like her own, and the part of her mind that still cared hoped that he would not think her wanton, but she was his wife, wasn't she, she had every right to enjoy his caresses. He still was more careful than before, rubbing her lightly. He had stopped kissing her to look at her intently, gauging her reaction, for every time something made her moan he did it again, but his touches became gentler whenever she flinched away from him. It almost frightened her how good she felt, melting under his hand, not sure whether she wanted him to stop or to go on forever.
She wished she could make him feel the same, but she wouldn't have known how, and even now it would seem improper to her to do any more than she was already doing, still clinging to his back and his shoulders, her fingers moving over his sweat-slick skin. It was a pity that his hands could not be everywhere at once, caressing her throat and her thighs and maybe, maybe even her breasts, without stopping what he was doing now. She had never thought it could feel like this, so thrilling and exciting and only a little frightening. Judging by the look on his face, Stannis was as surprised as she was, and the thought went through her mind that the king truly must have been estranged from his first wife.
His body was almost fully covering hers by now, and she felt his groin against her thigh, with only the fabric of his breeches between them. It felt odd, she thought, and blushed in embarrassment when it dawned on her what that was. He groaned quietly as her thigh moved a little against him, a strangled sound as if he was desperately trying to suppress it.
She let her legs fall a bit further apart so he could kneel between them, but to her disappointment he suddenly withdrew his hand. Protesting words already on her lips, she looked up to see him fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches, and the words remained unspoken. She wanted to look, wanted to see, but he already seemed even more uncomfortable than she was. In this moment, she wondered how she could ever have been scared of him, for a man who seemed so uncertain could hardly be threatening. Maybe he did not want her to look at him, just like it would have frightened her if he had just torn off her undergown to stare at her breasts, so she laid her head back on the pillow to keep herself from glancing down. Her hands kept caressing his shoulders, and she felt a light tremor in his too tense muscles. She wondered if a man could hurt himself by being that tense.
Her breath hitched as she felt something against her thigh, but again she resisted the urge to look, to touch. Instead she met his eyes when he raised his head again. Stannis looked almost tormented, guilty, and she wondered what for. It had to be obvious that she was willing, and she was his lawful wife, his by right - which might just matter more to a man like Stannis Baratheon than her willingness.
"I am told it might hurt," he said quietly, and she felt a different kind of warmth blossom inside her when she realised that he was concerned, that he truly did not want to hurt her. She smiled so broadly that her cheeks hurt a little, and for the first time she thought that maybe, maybe she might learn to feel some affection for this man who was too good at hiding what kindness he had in him.
"I am sure Your Grace will make it as little painful as possible." She ran her fingers over his cheek, tenderly almost, and this time she felt his smile more than she saw it. His voice still sounded bitter.
"You give me more credit than you should, my lady. I am hardly -" A pause, teeth grinding as he looked for the right words. "- good at this."
"You are good to me, Your Grace. What else could I ask of you?" The look in his eyes was almost vulnerable when she said that, something so raw and helpless that it made her heart ache. Once more she tried to nudge his head down to kiss her, and this time he understood and complied, his lips tender on hers. It was foolish, maybe, but she thought it almost felt like a loving kiss.
Their lips were still locked when his hand pushed her legs further apart. The hair on his thighs tickled her a little, sharp hipbones dug almost painfully into her thighs. But the discomfort distracted her enough that she was almost surprised when she suddenly felt him there again, his knuckles brushing the inside of her thigh as he guided himself into her. Her eyes closed and she moaned when he entered her, slowly, ever so carefully, his entire body taut with restraint. There was pain, yes, but also pleasant friction just where he had touched her before. But more than anything she realised what this moment meant: that she was truly his wife now, his queen, a woman grown and not a maiden anymore. That this had become real and irreversible - and that it was not with someone who hurt or repulsed her, but with the man who had given her justice for all the pain she had had to endure. She could forgive him for a little burn between her thighs, a burn that hardly compared to the pleasure she felt when he moved against her.
She clung to him willingly as his arm encircled her, keeping her close. His movements were almost excruciatingly slow as he rocked against her. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, that he need not worry, but the only sounds she managed were quiet gasps and not so quiet moans. Stannis was almost silent above her, but his breathing against her cheek was fast and shallow. The grip of his hand on her hip tightened almost painfully, but even that only sent another shiver through her body as his thrusts became deeper. The world around her had faded away, all she felt was his body on top of her her, inside her, the smell of soap and lemons and a hint of sweat in her nose, the quiet sound of their bodies moving together and her own moans in her ears.
Sansa did not know how long this would last, but she hoped it would not stop any time soon. She moaned at the friction of his body against hers, the heat between her legs, his lips on her neck as he kept kissing her breathlessly. She wished now that they had undressed more, wondering what his chest would feel like against her breasts without two layers of fabric in between. It hurt a little when Stannis' control started to falter, but the pleasure between her thighs still kept rising, and she found herself clutching his shoulders and bucking up against him. She felt half delirious by the time he suddenly went still above her, shuddering, and this time he could not bite back the deep moan that escaped his throat.
His body was heavy when he slumped down on her, but it only took him a second to realise that he might be crushing her before he rolled to the side. She moaned in protest and tightened her arms around him so she rolled over with him, legs still entangled with his even as she felt him slip out of her, her head pressed against his chest. His shirt had opened a bit further and she felt skin and coarse hair underneath her lips. She placed a breathless kiss on his chest, ran her hand over it.
Both his arms were around her now, and she nuzzled against him, grateful that he did not push her away. She could hear his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing was laboured, and she realised only now what discipline it must have cost him to stay so in control of himself all the time.
Most of the time.
The thought made smile. She felt hot between her legs, hot and wet and still tingly, and she found herself wishing he was still inside her. Without thinking much she shifted in his arms until his thigh ended up resting between her legs, a warm, firm, pleasant pressure as she rubbed a little against him. Minutes passed in silence, with her squirming in his arms as his fingers combed through her tangled hair.
"Are you well, my lady?" he finally asked, his voice as gruff again as it had been at court, and still so formal. Stannis never sounded gallant, but he always sounded stiff. It was as if he did not even have a more relaxed way of speaking.
"Yes, Your Grace." She sighed happily and slipped her fingers underneath his shirt. It seemed funny that he had more hair on his chest than on his head. "I did not know it would be so ..."
"Lovely?" he offered with a scoff, sounding doubtful. She looked up in surprise, and for the first time since they had met she wondered if there was humour glimmering in his eyes, or if that was just vain hope on her part.
"I was going to say magical, Your Grace." This time she could not bite back a giggle at the incredulous look on his face. "Like a wedding night ought to be." She bedded her head against his chest again, sighing when his thigh muscles twitched between her legs. He was quiet for a while. She thought she could hear him brood, but at least he seemed to enjoy touching her hair.
"Considering the situation, my lady ... it might be appropriate for you to call me by my name." His words surprised her, and they sounded so uncomfortable that she wondered if he meant them or if he only tried to humour her. She glanced up at him again.
"I couldn't, Your Grace. It would seem disrespectful." The disappointment in his eyes made her wish she had said something different, so she quickly added, "But I will of course, if you wish."
"No, there's no need to inconvenience yourself." He sounded prickly, angry even. His hands stilled and he tensed up, and suddenly she felt unwelcome in his arms. Tears stung in her eyes. Everything had been going so well, but now she had apparently ruined everything and she did not even know what she had done wrong. It did not help that she hardly knew what to say to appease him, to convince him that she had not meant to reject him.
"I am sorry, Your Grace ... Stannis ..." His name felt so unfamiliar on her tongue, it was the name of a stranger, of a king, not of the man who had made her feel so wonderful. "I did not mean to anger you, please ... please forgive me."
"I am not angry," he said, but his tone belied his words. "I merely ... I would not have remarried at all at all if I was not in need of a son, but - I thought this could be different."
"I'm sorry you had to marry me, Your Grace." She hated how small her voice sounded again. Now that his guard was back up, he looked just as terrifying as before. She was suddenly uncomfortably aware that her gown was somewhere around her thighs, revealing her legs.
"You misunderstand." She blinked at him, tried to quench the tiny flicker of hope, but then he said, "I was trying to pay you a compliment."
She blinked again, and she was sure she looked as dumbfounded as he had before.
"I couldn't tell, Your Grace," she said quietly, trying to smile again. "I ... I'm afraid I don't know you well enough yet. But I will learn, I promise."
"I am not good with courtesies and compliments." He looked embarrassed when he added, "Your brother suggested I try."
That made her smile, truly, and she moved into his embrace again, determined to ignore his tenseness.
"That was kind of him, but ... it is not important. Not really." It surprised herself how much she meant it. "You were kind to me, and that matters more than words. I feel honoured that you even tried, just for me." Looking at him, she did not know if her word had any effect. Quietly she added, "Stannis."
His smile almost reached the corners of his lips and he bent down a little as if to kiss her, but stopped at the last moment. Encouraged by his lack of anger she closed the distance between them and kissed him, only lightly. His arms tightened around her, but it felt safe, not frightening. He held her like a husband should hold his wife.
He is not handsome, she thought, nor gallant or charming. But he was so gentle with me, so patient. And if Jon loves him so dearly, maybe I can as well in time.
"If I am to call you by your name, should you not use mine as well?" she asked him after a while, drawing idle circles on his chest, her head tucked underneath his chin. He scoffed. Or laughed. She wasn't quite sure which.
"Sansa," he tried. It did not sound bad from his lips, the syllables soft even in his harsh voice. Encompassed in his arms she closed her eyes, smiling against the warm skin of his chest, against his steady heartbeat. She dimly registered that he said something else, but she wasn't sure what it was. She wanted to stay awake to keep touching him, to savour the feeling of his thigh between her legs, of his hand in her hair, but the moment she closed her eyes she felt the exhaustion of the day catching up with her. Her last thought was that she couldn't just fall asleep like that, half-naked and indecent and while the king was still talking to her, but she already dozed off a mere moment later.
Part three
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Sansa, Jon, Rolland Storm (and some hints at Stannis/Jon, if you want to read it that way)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9117
Warnings: spoilers for ASOS; political marriage (and sex) 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: So as the sequel to the wedding feast, here's the bedding and the wedding night. I've never written het smut before in my life, let alone het smut from the POV of a virgin with weird antiquated romanticised views on marriage and sex. ;) So I'm afraid the actual smut part of this is profoundly unsexy, for which Sansa and I are equally to blame, but I really couldn't skip it. But I hope there's enough more interesting stuff going on here to make up for it. :)
Part one
Sansa had been more scared of the bedding than of anything else, terrified by the idea of all those lords and knights ripping at her gown, jesting and laughing as they brought her to the bed chamber. It took all of her composure to keep her face calm when the king rose from the table, and the glimmer of anticipation she saw in some of the men's eyes made her sick.
Words could not express her relief when King Stannis explained curtly that he thought the bedding a frivolous tradition he wouldn't accept at his court.
"It won't do to have the court tear off their king's and queen's clothes. I will not have it," he snarled when a young knight - obviously too far in his cups already - dared to object. "Ser Jon, Ser Rolland, you will make sure the queen is left in peace." He gave her an awkward nod. "My lady."
Flanked by two other Kingsguard knights, the king took off, still followed by the ladies of the court, though at a more respectful distance than Sansa would have expected. She was grateful when Jon offered her his arm to guide her towards the other corridor that led out of the hall, for she would not have known where she was to go. Ghost quietly padded next to her. She smiled when he pushed his large head up against her hand, and she held on to his fur a little. Once she had found Jon's red-eyed, silent direwolf terrifying, but now it almost felt like having another family member present. Lady's death had been the beginning of her nightmare, and she wanted to hope that this was finally the end of it.
She still flinched when the men of the court flocked around them. Even without a proper bedding, the lords and ladies at least reserved their right to accompany the bride and groom to the bed chambers, and soon enough the first men - those who had drunk far more than was good for them - started shouting ribald remarks that made Sansa blush.
"Don't listen to them," Jon said quietly and pulled her closer. "They resent you because King Stannis chose you, not one of their daughters or sisters. It is only tonight. From tomorrow on, no one will dare to speak to you that way."
The words still cut, though some of them were so vulgar that she wasn't even quite sure what they meant. Someone called her a pretty little thing that would certainly bring a smile even to King Stannis' face.
"Can you blame him, after that old hag he had before, he's bound to have some fun with this one!"
"She's barely older than his daughter. Maybe he just likes them young!"
Sansa felt as if her face was on fire. She clung desperately to Jon's arm and Ghost's fur, and she wished she could just stop listening. She knew that the bride was supposed to talk back to the lords with witty replies, but she couldn't think of anything to say. She knew she'd be crying if they were touching her on top of everything else, but even drunk no man was foolish enough to try to get past a direwolf and two Kingsguard knights.
"And what if he does, my lord, that still makes you a jealous old fop." The voice startled her, and she saw Ser Rolland grinning at her for a moment. His face frightened her - ravaged by pox marks, it almost looked as bad as the Hound's - but his eyes were always gentle and smiling, and he had been more gallant to her than the king on the few occasions when they had met. He was a bastard, of course, but she did not think she should judge a man whom someone as demanding as King Stannis had deemed worthy of his Kingsguard. Ser Rolland kept smiling and mouthed, "I am just distracting them, Your Grace."
She frowned in confusion, until she realised that the lords were soon too busy trading jokes and insults with Ser Rolland, who didn't even seem to mind the bastard jibes thrown in his direction. Even Jon smiled a little, and Sansa found herself doing the same.
"He's quite witty," she commented when one of Ser Rolland's comments drew gasps and laughter from the crowd. Jon shook his head, smiling.
"He's not witty, he's rude. He's only keeping his tongue in check for your sake, Your Grace. You don't want to know what he's going to say once you're out of earshot," Jon replied. She leant against him, her hand tightening on his arm.
"You should call me Sansa, Jon. I am your sister."
Jon almost faltered in his steps and stared at her. She had never seen him look so happy before. It made her feel bad for all the times she had shunned him as a child, but she knew she would have years to make up for her unkindness to him.
By the time they reached the bed chambers, their company had fallen a bit behind. Ser Rolland had somehow managed to hold them up at the last turn of the corridor, so Sansa and Jon walked the last steps alone. Sansa felt her fear return as she glanced at the door, all too aware of what would happen once she walked through it.
"You mustn't be afraid of the king, Sansa," Jon said softly. She gave him a doubtful look. King Stannis was easily the most terrifying man she had ever met. "I know he is harsh and blunt, but he is a good man. He is not cruel, only ... I'm afraid he's not very at ease around women. But he knows you've been hurt, and I begged him to be kind to you."
Sansa nodded, but she still felt tears welling up in her eyes. She couldn't even smile as Ghost licked her hand, wheezing the way he did when he tried to whine.
"I wish I could trade places with you," Jon added with a sighed. Sansa gave him an incredulous look.
"That would be ... very inappropriate." He blushed vividly and looked away, and even now she could not help but laugh at his unfortunate choice of words.
"I ... I know that. I did not mean it literally. I only meant that if ... if I could do anything to spare you your fear, I would," he stammered, then took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Don't be afraid. He smiled at you. I've only ever seen him smile at Lord Davos before, so he must like you."
He kept holding her hand until her breathing had calmed down a little, but she realised she could not stand here forever. Straightening her back and gathering her courage, she let go of his hand and gave him a curt nod, then stepped into the bed chambers.
The king had not yet arrived, but a servant girl entered behind her, eyes lowered as she said that she'd been sent to assist Her Grace with her dress. She did not want to undress, but she'd rather take off her dress now than have her husband rip it off, so she nodded quietly and let the girl help her.
She did not know what she was supposed to do once the girl left and closed the door behind her. There was a fire in the hearth, but Sansa still shivered a little, clad in nothing but her thin undergown, her feet bare on the floor. She was also tired after the long day, and since there was no chair in the room, she sat down on the edge of the bed. The covers were dark and soft, more precious than anything she would have expected to find in Stannis Baratheon's bed. She scolded herself for the thought - he was the king, after all, she doubted that anyone would ask if what sheets he liked.
She wrapped herself into one of the thicker blankets, painfully aware of how low-cut her undergown was. The memory of the time Joffrey had had her stripped was still fresh in her mind, and she still flinched every time a man looked at her breasts, even when she was fully dressed.
King Stannis arrived shortly after. Followed by loud voices and giggling from the corridor, he looked somewhat miffed and slightly dishevelled. His doublet was half unbuttoned, revealing the white shirt he was wearing underneath. Apparently the ladies had taken his refusal of a proper bedding a bit less seriously than the lords, and the look in his eyes was one of relief when the door closed behind him. She almost got up, but he motioned for her to stay seated, a curt gesture as if he was dismissing a servant. His hands were large and broad, they looked like a soldier's, not like a king's. But they had been so careful during the dance that she dared to hope there was some kindness in him, a kindness he needed to hide from a treacherous court, but not from his wife.
As he took off the crown and put it aside, she could not help but notice his almost bald head. Of course she had known before that he was bald, but it was easier to ignore while the golden crown rested on his brow. Oddly, though, it did not make him look old or feeble, but simply harsher, his face all sharp lines and hard angles. Stannis Baratheon's face looked like one could cut oneself on it.
Sansa did not know what to expect from this man who seemed so gruff and dispassionate, and it only served to frighten her more. She had managed to keep up her façade the whole day, had played the composed, beautiful queen, not smiling, no, but as serious and calm as her husband. Alone with him in his chambers, she did not feel like a queen anymore, but like a frightened girl who could only pray that her husband would be gentle.
For a man who usually exuded will power and determination, King Stannis seemed oddly hesitant as he walked over to her, standing in front of the bed for a few moments before he sat down next to her. The distance between them was so great that he would have to stretch out his arm to touch her at all. He looked uncomfortable, uneasy, as if he would much prefer to be somewhere else.
His blue eyes were piercing, and she averted her gaze. There was something frightening about the way he looked at people, as if he could see their every failure and flaw with one unforgiving glance. The silence stretched out, grew more and more oppressive, and Stannis still did not move.
"Do I not please Your Grace?" Sansa asked finally, and her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. She glanced up, just in time to notice surprise on his face. Stannis did not seem to know what to say.
"You are ... you are very beautiful, my lady." The words sounded so awkward from Stannis' lips that they barely felt like a compliment. It was almost endearing. She had seen Stannis Baratheon frighten a whole court into shocked silence with a few harsh words, she had seen him subdue lords with a well-placed jibe. He was not charismatic or even witty the way Lord Renly had been, but he did have a way with words. Yet he did not even seem to know how to pay a woman - his bride - a simple compliment without sounding like he was tying his tongue in a knot.
But he had tried, at least, and so she tried to look at him the way he had looked at her during the dance. Tried to see past the clenched jaw and the furrowed brow, tried to see the man Jon spoke of so highly, saying he was as honourable and just as father had been. With that thought on her mind, Sansa managed not to flinch as King Stannis finally lifted his hand.
She expected him to touch her face, her breasts, her thighs, but to her surprise his hand moved to her hair. His fingers were careful, and rather than caressing her he slowly removed one of the hairpins, then another, sending a long braid tumbling down. She did not move, afraid to anger him, just kept still as he slowly undid her hair. It pulled a little sometimes, but she could tell he was trying to be gentle. She turned her head so he could reach her better, and one time she raised her hand to help him when one of the pins was too tangled in her hair. Their fingers touched, and Sansa felt herself blush.
One hairpin after the other was put on the nightstand, he unbraided her hair until it fell over her shoulders in soft waves, and only then did he run his fingers through it. At first the touch was so light that she barely felt it, but it grew steadier when she did not flinch, until his hand came to rest against the side of her neck. His hand was warm, even through her own hair, and it did not feel as unpleasant as she had expected. She noticed only now that Stannis had moved closer during those minutes he had spent undoing her hair; only an inch remained between their thighs now. He touched her hair almost reverently and she relaxed a little, even as his thumb brushed the skin of her throat.
"My lady," he started. His voice was gruff as always, but somewhat hesitant. If he did not still look so imposing, she would have thought him nervous. "Would you ... would you allow me to kiss you?"
The words took her by surprise, it was such an odd thing to ask a woman on her wedding night that she wondered if it was a trick question. What bit of her suspicions he had dissolved before returned immediately, and she tensed up. Courtesy is a lady's armour, she reminded herself. I must not anger him.
"You are my king and my husband, Your Grace. You may do as you please."
He frowned at that and pulled back his hand. Her skin tingled where he had touched her.
"I told you that I expect nothing from you but your duty, my lady. It is your duty to give me a son, not to ... pleasure me." He spat out the word as if he found the very idea of pleasure offensive. Usually she would have wondered if he still grieved for his lady wife, but Jon had assured her that King Stannis and Queen Selyse had been so estranged from one another that the king had barely reacted when news of her death had reached him. But she couldn't understand why else he would hesitate so much, when pleasure had seemed to be the thing men desired most from her.
She kept looking at him, noticing all the little things she had seen in him before, but they seemed different in this situation. The tenseness of his posture, the frown, the clenched set of his jaw - it all spoke of strength when he was sitting on the throne, but right now it betrayed only discomfort and hesitation. This was not a man who would throw himself at her, who would push her down and force his way between her legs. And yet it was also a man who had married out of duty, out of the need for an heir, and Sansa was not so naive that she did not know what needed to be done for that to happen.
She wondered if her lady mother had felt like this on her wedding night, if she had sat on her bed like this with father, who had been a stranger then and not her beloved Ned, if they had looked at each other and not quite known what to do. Father had not been handsome and he had always appeared stern and distant to those he did not know, yet mother had come to love him dearly. She had once told Sansa that if a woman truly loved a man, she would learn to see beauty in him, even if he did not look like the prince of her childhood dreams.
She tried to find something handsome in King Stannis' face, but his countenance only frightened her. His lips were drawn in a tight line, the short-cropped, black beard looked rough and she imagined it would scratch on her cheeks. She did not want to kiss him.
And yet she felt that if she rejected him now, he would never ask again. It was only then that she truly, fully realised that this man who was so unlike anything she had ever wished for was her husband, that she would spend her life with him, sharing his meals and his bed, standing by his side at court, bearing and raising his children. Sansa could not stand the thought of never being kissed by her own husband.
So she put her hand on his, she leant forward and tilted her head up, lips parting in fear more than anticipation. She took a deep breath to find the strength she needed for her words.
"I believe it should be a husband's duty to kiss his lady wife, Your Grace."
A muscle in his jaw twitched again, and this time Sansa remembered Jon's words - that she had made Stannis smile. For the second time today, and she felt an odd sense of pride at that. She closed her eyes as he leant forward to close the distance between them, thinking that it might be easier if she did not have to look at him.
She felt his breath before anything else, clean and fresh, smelling of lemons - the smell reminded her of eating lemoncakes in the summer sun, back in Winterfell. His lips were less rough than she would have thought when they met hers, an almost fleeting caress. Maybe it was the thought of home that made her smile, but she did, and she leant into him when he almost pulled away, pressing her lips against his.
He took her hand then, but even though his hand was so much larger than hers, his grasp was not constraining. She had always dreamt of entangling her fingers with her beloved's, and so she did now, just as he raised his other hand back to her hair, fingers resting in the loose strands without touching skin.
Their mouths were still close, a hair's breadth apart before they touched again. His lips were parted this time, and she dared to let her tongue sneak out just far enough to brush his upper lip. His beard tickled rather than scratched. It reminded her of home as much as the smell of lemons, of father hugging her and even of Jon's embrace when they had found each other again.
She opened her eyes when the kiss ended, and for just a second the king's forehead was smooth until his frown returned. Her heart was still racing in her chest, but she was not entirely sure it was only out of fear anymore. She felt a strange flutter in her stomach, and without thinking she leant her head a little into his hand.
He looked at her expectingly, and it took her a moment to realise that he was waiting for a reaction - and, judging by his scowl, for a rejection. Her lips tingled a little, she could taste lemons on them. It was not an unpleasant feeling.
"That was lovely, Your Grace," she said quietly, and she was surprised herself that she did not need to force the words out of her mouth. It was no lie, no carefully constructed phrase to appease him, but the truth. She would have imagined his kisses to be rough and brutal, but he had been as gentle as if he were afraid to break her.
"Lovely?" The king seemed to choke on the word, and he looked so dumbfounded that Sansa could not help but smile. There was probably nothing in the world that Stannis Baratheon would ever refer to as 'lovely'. Sansa raised her hand and ran her fingers over his forehead, over the deep lines of his frown, and she felt him relax a little underneath her fingertips. He looked far less intimidating without that perpetual scowl. Younger as well.
"Yes, lovely. Not like I expected." She bit her tongue when she realised what she had said, but Stannis did not seem to take her words as an insult. Sansa's hand rested on his cheek now, on pale, leathery skin and coarse hair. She had not thought about it before, too focused on the crown and the Southern clothes, but she noticed now how much Stannis looked like a Northerner, rough and bearded, his skin marked by cold wind and snow storms. Once, before all of this had happened, she had dreamt of sweet Southern princes with blond hair and smooth cheeks, but now she missed home, missed Winterfell, missed men who looked harsh, but whose beards and frowns hid more kindness than Southern courtesy ever had.
And yet she could not help but wince when his hand suddenly moved to her shoulder, his grasp stronger than before. It startled rather than frightened her, but his face fell a little.
"You are afraid of me," Stannis stated, and there was a dull resignation in his voice. He sounded so crestfallen that she almost felt guilty, for he had not given her any reason to fear him, not yet.
"I am sorry, Your Grace. It is merely ... most things, most people frighten me these days, after everything that has happened. Your Grace is not to blame."
"Look at me, my lady," he said, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. His face wasn't ugly or disfigured, there was a certain resemblance to his late brother Renly if she looked close enough. If he'd only smile, she thought, he might not look so terrifying. But if Stannis Baratheon had ever known how to smile, he seemed to have forgotten about it long ago.
Like me.
"I know that this is not what you want. I am not what you want. I am not my brother Renly or the Knight of Flowers. But it is as it is, and we most do our duty - whether we like it or not. I would not want it to be any worse for you than it already is." His frown deepened, he seemed to be looking for the right words. The longer he spoke, the more uncomfortable he seemed. "I may not be able to give you much else, but you have my word that I will not hurt you."
Too many lies and too many disappointments had made her distrustful, no matter how honest he sounded, but now she was not sure what to think. She glanced down at her hand in the king's, then back into his eyes. He was the first man who did not seem to expect anything from her, who did not even hope for her love, let alone ask for it. It made her wonder if no one had ever loved him before, but she could not understand why that would be. He was not handsome, but he was not a monster either. And Jon had said that King Stannis was incapable of lying, of dissimulating, that his greatest flaw was being too blunt. He had even compared the king to father, and what higher praise was there?
"I believe you, Your Grace. I do. But ... aren't all girls afraid on their wedding night?"
"How would I know, I haven't been married that often," he snapped back, but he sounded miffed rather than angry.
"Once more often than me," she replied, more sharply than she had intended. His face turned thoughtful at that and his fingers tightened on hers. The grasp was not painful, but strong, a quiet reminder of what he could do if he chose to. She hoped he would not mention Tyrion Lannister, not when she had sworn under oath that their marriage had never been consummated, not when the king had insisted a maester examine her to make sure she was still a maiden. And it was not as if her words had been a lie, she thought, for she had not yet been married where it truly counted, she had never had a wedding night worthy of that name.
"You are right, my lady," he admitted finally, and she sighed in relief. He still looked unhappy. "But my first marriage was rather unpleasant. I would not wish to repeat that, but to do it better this time."
"Why would you bother, Your Grace?" she asked and looked down at their entwined fingers. Her hand looked so small against his, so soft. So weak. She knew there was nothing she could do if he decided to hurt her. He could probably hold her down with one hand alone.
"Because I know how it goes when I don't bother." His jaw muscles twitched again, but she was not sure if this was supposed to be another smile. He looked like he wanted to say more, wanted to explain, but instead he was grinding his teeth again, like he had during the feast. It was an awful sound, and Sansa's jaw hurt just from looking at him.
Her hand returned to his face, even more shyly than before. Her fingers brushed over his jaw this time, and she smiled as it stopped moving. She caressed the stubbly chin, once again put off by the beard, yet it had not felt so bad against her cheeks. Maybe she could get used to it in time.
"I want to be a good wife to you, Your Grace." He did not evade her touch, and it encouraged her. She kept stroking his cheek, hoping that the unreadable look in his eyes was some kind of approval. "If you let me."
"Why would you bother?"
"You are my husband, Your Grace." The word still sounded unfamiliar and yet thrilling to her ears. Husband. She had spent her whole life thinking of this day, this moment, wondering what it would be like. And though she had married - been forced to marry - before, it had felt more like a bad dream. Not so real, so ... irrevocable. "Shouldn't we try to be happy with each other?"
She wished she could read him, could see his emotions and thoughts in the slight changes of his expressions, but his face was like a closed book to her. He could be about to kiss her or about to slap her, and she wouldn't see either coming.
He kissed her.
The suddenness startled her and he was more forward about it than the first time, one hand in her hair as he pressed his mouth against hers. But even so there was still something oddly restrained about his movements, as if part of him wanted to back away from her even as he came closer. She swallowed her fear and returned the kiss, parting her lips as she felt the tip of his tongue against them. Her eyes closed again. She was not quite sure if she was doing this right, but it felt pleasant, the way his lips moved against hers, the way his fingers combed through her hair until they came to rest between her shoulder blades.
She slid a bit closer to him, her hand found his shoulder just as he sucked lightly on her bottom lip, sending a tingle through her entire body. She felt hard muscle through the golden and black doublet, muscle and bone, and for the first time she wondered what he looked like underneath his clothes. Although the war had left him bonier than a man should be, he was still broad-shouldered and strong, his body steeled from wearing heavy armour. This time she did not flinch when he pulled her closer, even though she was relieved that their sitting position made it impossible for him to capture her too tightly in his arms.
By the time he stopped kissing her she was out of breath, so exhilarated that she was only a little disappointed when her eyes opened and he still looked like before, too gaunt and pale to be handsome. There was finally some sort of emotion in his eyes, a heat that had not been there before.
Sansa felt flushed, somewhat embarrassed by the tingling sensation in her stomach that wasn't quite fear, but more akin to excitement. Feeling more daring than she had the whole evening she moved her hand to his chest, fingertips brushing his skin above the hem of the shirt. She could see coarse black hair on his chest and she ran her fingers over it curiously. As her fingers dipped underneath the fabric she found herself wondering if it covered his whole chest. She had always dreamt of leaning her head against her husband's chest, resting in his arms as he held her, but she wasn't sure if the king would let her.
Stannis let go off her hand to unbutton his doublet fully, then shrugged out of it. She still saw barely more skin than before, but even a king looked less imposing in shirtsleeves than when he was dressed for court. She knew it was a ridiculous thought, knew he could still hurt her without breaking a sweat, but it seemed to put them on more equal footing, with him in a shirt as thin as her undergown.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts, and also in the feeling of his chest underneath her fingers - hard muscle even there, but she could feel his ribs and thought not for the first time that he needed to eat more - that his voice startled her a little. Her hand stopped, as if she had been caught doing something forbidden.
"We should lie down, my lady," Stannis said, and the discomfort in his voice seemed to have increased even more. But his voice was also lower than before, husky almost. She swallowed, but then scolded herself for the childish feeling of disappointment that she couldn't simply keep petting his chest for the rest of the night.
"Yes, Your Grace," she replied quietly. She was shivering again when she pulled her legs up onto the bed, lay down and clutched the thin blanket, which had almost fallen off her shoulders, to her chest. Stannis pulled off his boots before he joined her. Everything about him spoke of hesitation, even as his eyes - for the first time - glanced over her body. She closed her eyes and wondered if this was where the unpleasant part would begin. She felt the bed move next to her, then calloused fingertips caressing her throat. Relief flooded through her when he kissed her again. She could feel him next to her, lying on his side, his chest pressed against her arm, and she turned towards him a little, one hand still clutching the blanket as she grabbed his shoulder again.
His hand seemed to cover all of her throat, but she did not feel threatened now, not with his lips on hers. For the first time she thought that there might be something comforting about his strength - that a man who could hurt her so easily was just as capable of protecting her. She tried to keep up as the kiss deepened, fingers digging into his shoulder. His other arm moved underneath her, his hand came to rest on her waist and he pulled her close. She gasped when she suddenly felt the length of his body against hers, but it was less fear than surprise at the pleasure that filled her.
She couldn't believe that she made that plaintive little noise when he broke the kiss, his lips tracing his fingers' path on her throat, her collarbones, while his hand moved down to her hip. Even through the thin fabric of her undergown his touch burnt and she pressed her legs together, surprised by the heat between her thighs that she had only ever experienced before when she had imagined Ser Loras embracing and holding her. Stannis kissed his way further down, the rasp of his beard a stark contrast to his lips on her sensitised skin. She put her hand to the back of his head when she thought that he was about to stop; his remaining hair was too short to grab, but he seemed to understand nonetheless. She realised a moment too late that she had taken her arm off her breasts when his lips pressed lightly against her breasts. He was leaning over her now, but he was propping himself up with one hand so their bodies barely touched.
She felt as if she should be scared, but mostly she was confused that her fear seemed suddenly so insignificant compared to the thrill she felt when he touched her. Yet Stannis must have noticed her tensing up, for his lips moved back to her shoulder, kissing her where the gown had slipped to the side. His voice was quiet, hot breath washing over her ear as he asked:
"Do you want me to stop?"
She glanced at him, at the sudden fire in his blue eyes. She had appreciated before that he did not look at her with desire, but she liked this new expression on his face; it made her feel wanted, not like she was but a nuisance to him. Even though his lips had stilled, his hand kept moving lightly on her hip, caressing her, edging down until his fingertips brushed her thigh. She gasped a little at that.
"Oh, no, you mustn't." Her voice sounded so breathless, she barely recognised it. She was afraid he would think less of her for feeling so flustered in his arms, so she turned her head and shyly pressed her lips against his before he could reply. As he kissed her she dared to wrap her arms around his torso - she didn't want him to leave, to stop, and she liked the feeling of his hard back muscles tensing beneath her hands. He complied and moved closer, and a shiver went through Sansa when his chest pressed against hers. She could not help but tense a little when he wedged one of his legs between hers, his knee rubbing against the insides of her thighs as he pushed them apart. But it meant having him closer, so she tried to accommodate him. His body seemed to cover hers almost entirely, and what she would have once thought terrifying only excited her now, her mind barely able to keep up with the sensations that flooded her body.
Without meaning to she had pulled his shirt up a bit when her fingers had grabbed the fabric, and in another moment of daring she moved her hand down to the bared small of his back. His skin felt a little sweaty, rougher than hers, stretched too tight over his muscles and bones, and as her hand moved up she found a thin, long scar. He bucked against her when she ran her nails over it, and his groin brushed her thigh for the first time. She blushed, but at the same time she almost felt proud of herself when a strangled moan left Stannis' mouth, the first sign of pleasure she had heard from him since this had started. Maybe she was doing something right, and the thought made her a little giddy.
Their eyes met, and to Sansa's surprise Stannis looked ashamed, his jaw clenched even harder than before. She put one hand to his cheek to prevent that awful teeth-grinding, still clinging to his back with the other, and smiled at him. It cost her no effort this time.
"Your Grace," she started, trying to coax him into leaning down and kissing her again, but she could just as well have tried to move the Wall. Her fingers caressed the scar again, vaguely wondering if it was old or fresh, a sparring wound from his youth or a mark of the war he had fought for his throne and for the realm. "My husband."
Her words made him look only more uncomfortable, and she regretted speaking at all. It seemed odd to her that he was so awkward when he had been married before, and decided that his first wife must have been very different from her. But if his first marriage had been as unhappy as he had said, that was probably for the best.
"Please, Your Grace ..." She was not sure what she was asking for, only that she did not want him to stop. She tilted her head up until her lips brushed against his jaw, then tightened both her arms around him. Even though he was too thin, his body still felt so broad and strong.
He hesitated, grinding his teeth a little, before his hand left her thigh and reached down. He fumbled awkwardly with her undergown as he tried to push it up, shifting when he realised he was kneeling on it. Cool air hit her calves, her knees, and she gasped as she felt his hand on her thigh, unhindered by the fabric. His hands had felt rough before, but on the sensitive inside of her thigh she felt every callous on his palm and his fingers as he slowly slid his hand upwards. It tickled a little, but mostly she felt warm and excited and far less scared than earlier today. His hand pushed her thighs apart as it moved up, and she complied without even hesitating. Somehow she did not really expect him to hurt her anymore.
Stannis was kissing her throat again, face buried against her neck as if he did not want to look at her. Her head lolled back on the soft pillow as he sucked lightly on the skin beneath her chin, and she tried to focus on that when his hand reached her undergarments. She felt her insecurity return when he started pulling them down, lifting her hips up a little with one hand, but she tried her best to accommodate him instead of being in the way. Yet she couldn't meet his eyes when he glanced up at her, and she was sure that her face had to be as red as her hair. One of his hands was stroking her side, the touch warm and heavy and gentle despite the rough skin. Stannis looked like he wanted to say something, but words failed him and he just breathed another kiss onto her neck. There was something almost apologetic about the gesture.
Even though her gown still covered her upper body and even her thighs, she felt naked when Stannis slid her undergarments off her legs. But it was not too bad once his hand returned to her thigh, gently stroking its way upwards, his touch so light that it was at odds with the determination he usually showed. She gasped loudly when his hand came to rest between her legs, then made an even more undignified sound when his fingers moved a little. Even through a haze of excitement she was surprised how slick she had to be for his fingers to slide so easily against her.
Yet Stannis stopped almost immediately when she moaned and raised his head in alarm. He looked more impatient than before, his eyes seemed darker, but the tenseness in his shoulders and neck spoke of pure restraint.
"Am I hurting you?" She noticed only now that his breathing was heavy as well, yet the concern in his voice sounded genuine. For a moment she wondered if he would stop completely if she asked him to, but found that she did not care to find out. Instead she wiggled a little, grinding against his large hand, her eyes fluttering close.
"No, no ... it is lovely, Your Grace ... so very lovely ..." Her voice sounded nothing like her own, and the part of her mind that still cared hoped that he would not think her wanton, but she was his wife, wasn't she, she had every right to enjoy his caresses. He still was more careful than before, rubbing her lightly. He had stopped kissing her to look at her intently, gauging her reaction, for every time something made her moan he did it again, but his touches became gentler whenever she flinched away from him. It almost frightened her how good she felt, melting under his hand, not sure whether she wanted him to stop or to go on forever.
She wished she could make him feel the same, but she wouldn't have known how, and even now it would seem improper to her to do any more than she was already doing, still clinging to his back and his shoulders, her fingers moving over his sweat-slick skin. It was a pity that his hands could not be everywhere at once, caressing her throat and her thighs and maybe, maybe even her breasts, without stopping what he was doing now. She had never thought it could feel like this, so thrilling and exciting and only a little frightening. Judging by the look on his face, Stannis was as surprised as she was, and the thought went through her mind that the king truly must have been estranged from his first wife.
His body was almost fully covering hers by now, and she felt his groin against her thigh, with only the fabric of his breeches between them. It felt odd, she thought, and blushed in embarrassment when it dawned on her what that was. He groaned quietly as her thigh moved a little against him, a strangled sound as if he was desperately trying to suppress it.
She let her legs fall a bit further apart so he could kneel between them, but to her disappointment he suddenly withdrew his hand. Protesting words already on her lips, she looked up to see him fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches, and the words remained unspoken. She wanted to look, wanted to see, but he already seemed even more uncomfortable than she was. In this moment, she wondered how she could ever have been scared of him, for a man who seemed so uncertain could hardly be threatening. Maybe he did not want her to look at him, just like it would have frightened her if he had just torn off her undergown to stare at her breasts, so she laid her head back on the pillow to keep herself from glancing down. Her hands kept caressing his shoulders, and she felt a light tremor in his too tense muscles. She wondered if a man could hurt himself by being that tense.
Her breath hitched as she felt something against her thigh, but again she resisted the urge to look, to touch. Instead she met his eyes when he raised his head again. Stannis looked almost tormented, guilty, and she wondered what for. It had to be obvious that she was willing, and she was his lawful wife, his by right - which might just matter more to a man like Stannis Baratheon than her willingness.
"I am told it might hurt," he said quietly, and she felt a different kind of warmth blossom inside her when she realised that he was concerned, that he truly did not want to hurt her. She smiled so broadly that her cheeks hurt a little, and for the first time she thought that maybe, maybe she might learn to feel some affection for this man who was too good at hiding what kindness he had in him.
"I am sure Your Grace will make it as little painful as possible." She ran her fingers over his cheek, tenderly almost, and this time she felt his smile more than she saw it. His voice still sounded bitter.
"You give me more credit than you should, my lady. I am hardly -" A pause, teeth grinding as he looked for the right words. "- good at this."
"You are good to me, Your Grace. What else could I ask of you?" The look in his eyes was almost vulnerable when she said that, something so raw and helpless that it made her heart ache. Once more she tried to nudge his head down to kiss her, and this time he understood and complied, his lips tender on hers. It was foolish, maybe, but she thought it almost felt like a loving kiss.
Their lips were still locked when his hand pushed her legs further apart. The hair on his thighs tickled her a little, sharp hipbones dug almost painfully into her thighs. But the discomfort distracted her enough that she was almost surprised when she suddenly felt him there again, his knuckles brushing the inside of her thigh as he guided himself into her. Her eyes closed and she moaned when he entered her, slowly, ever so carefully, his entire body taut with restraint. There was pain, yes, but also pleasant friction just where he had touched her before. But more than anything she realised what this moment meant: that she was truly his wife now, his queen, a woman grown and not a maiden anymore. That this had become real and irreversible - and that it was not with someone who hurt or repulsed her, but with the man who had given her justice for all the pain she had had to endure. She could forgive him for a little burn between her thighs, a burn that hardly compared to the pleasure she felt when he moved against her.
She clung to him willingly as his arm encircled her, keeping her close. His movements were almost excruciatingly slow as he rocked against her. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, that he need not worry, but the only sounds she managed were quiet gasps and not so quiet moans. Stannis was almost silent above her, but his breathing against her cheek was fast and shallow. The grip of his hand on her hip tightened almost painfully, but even that only sent another shiver through her body as his thrusts became deeper. The world around her had faded away, all she felt was his body on top of her her, inside her, the smell of soap and lemons and a hint of sweat in her nose, the quiet sound of their bodies moving together and her own moans in her ears.
Sansa did not know how long this would last, but she hoped it would not stop any time soon. She moaned at the friction of his body against hers, the heat between her legs, his lips on her neck as he kept kissing her breathlessly. She wished now that they had undressed more, wondering what his chest would feel like against her breasts without two layers of fabric in between. It hurt a little when Stannis' control started to falter, but the pleasure between her thighs still kept rising, and she found herself clutching his shoulders and bucking up against him. She felt half delirious by the time he suddenly went still above her, shuddering, and this time he could not bite back the deep moan that escaped his throat.
His body was heavy when he slumped down on her, but it only took him a second to realise that he might be crushing her before he rolled to the side. She moaned in protest and tightened her arms around him so she rolled over with him, legs still entangled with his even as she felt him slip out of her, her head pressed against his chest. His shirt had opened a bit further and she felt skin and coarse hair underneath her lips. She placed a breathless kiss on his chest, ran her hand over it.
Both his arms were around her now, and she nuzzled against him, grateful that he did not push her away. She could hear his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing was laboured, and she realised only now what discipline it must have cost him to stay so in control of himself all the time.
Most of the time.
The thought made smile. She felt hot between her legs, hot and wet and still tingly, and she found herself wishing he was still inside her. Without thinking much she shifted in his arms until his thigh ended up resting between her legs, a warm, firm, pleasant pressure as she rubbed a little against him. Minutes passed in silence, with her squirming in his arms as his fingers combed through her tangled hair.
"Are you well, my lady?" he finally asked, his voice as gruff again as it had been at court, and still so formal. Stannis never sounded gallant, but he always sounded stiff. It was as if he did not even have a more relaxed way of speaking.
"Yes, Your Grace." She sighed happily and slipped her fingers underneath his shirt. It seemed funny that he had more hair on his chest than on his head. "I did not know it would be so ..."
"Lovely?" he offered with a scoff, sounding doubtful. She looked up in surprise, and for the first time since they had met she wondered if there was humour glimmering in his eyes, or if that was just vain hope on her part.
"I was going to say magical, Your Grace." This time she could not bite back a giggle at the incredulous look on his face. "Like a wedding night ought to be." She bedded her head against his chest again, sighing when his thigh muscles twitched between her legs. He was quiet for a while. She thought she could hear him brood, but at least he seemed to enjoy touching her hair.
"Considering the situation, my lady ... it might be appropriate for you to call me by my name." His words surprised her, and they sounded so uncomfortable that she wondered if he meant them or if he only tried to humour her. She glanced up at him again.
"I couldn't, Your Grace. It would seem disrespectful." The disappointment in his eyes made her wish she had said something different, so she quickly added, "But I will of course, if you wish."
"No, there's no need to inconvenience yourself." He sounded prickly, angry even. His hands stilled and he tensed up, and suddenly she felt unwelcome in his arms. Tears stung in her eyes. Everything had been going so well, but now she had apparently ruined everything and she did not even know what she had done wrong. It did not help that she hardly knew what to say to appease him, to convince him that she had not meant to reject him.
"I am sorry, Your Grace ... Stannis ..." His name felt so unfamiliar on her tongue, it was the name of a stranger, of a king, not of the man who had made her feel so wonderful. "I did not mean to anger you, please ... please forgive me."
"I am not angry," he said, but his tone belied his words. "I merely ... I would not have remarried at all at all if I was not in need of a son, but - I thought this could be different."
"I'm sorry you had to marry me, Your Grace." She hated how small her voice sounded again. Now that his guard was back up, he looked just as terrifying as before. She was suddenly uncomfortably aware that her gown was somewhere around her thighs, revealing her legs.
"You misunderstand." She blinked at him, tried to quench the tiny flicker of hope, but then he said, "I was trying to pay you a compliment."
She blinked again, and she was sure she looked as dumbfounded as he had before.
"I couldn't tell, Your Grace," she said quietly, trying to smile again. "I ... I'm afraid I don't know you well enough yet. But I will learn, I promise."
"I am not good with courtesies and compliments." He looked embarrassed when he added, "Your brother suggested I try."
That made her smile, truly, and she moved into his embrace again, determined to ignore his tenseness.
"That was kind of him, but ... it is not important. Not really." It surprised herself how much she meant it. "You were kind to me, and that matters more than words. I feel honoured that you even tried, just for me." Looking at him, she did not know if her word had any effect. Quietly she added, "Stannis."
His smile almost reached the corners of his lips and he bent down a little as if to kiss her, but stopped at the last moment. Encouraged by his lack of anger she closed the distance between them and kissed him, only lightly. His arms tightened around her, but it felt safe, not frightening. He held her like a husband should hold his wife.
He is not handsome, she thought, nor gallant or charming. But he was so gentle with me, so patient. And if Jon loves him so dearly, maybe I can as well in time.
"If I am to call you by your name, should you not use mine as well?" she asked him after a while, drawing idle circles on his chest, her head tucked underneath his chin. He scoffed. Or laughed. She wasn't quite sure which.
"Sansa," he tried. It did not sound bad from his lips, the syllables soft even in his harsh voice. Encompassed in his arms she closed her eyes, smiling against the warm skin of his chest, against his steady heartbeat. She dimly registered that he said something else, but she wasn't sure what it was. She wanted to stay awake to keep touching him, to savour the feeling of his thigh between her legs, of his hand in her hair, but the moment she closed her eyes she felt the exhaustion of the day catching up with her. Her last thought was that she couldn't just fall asleep like that, half-naked and indecent and while the king was still talking to her, but she already dozed off a mere moment later.
Part three