Chapter Text
"Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."
-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Sansa was going to see the king for the first time.
She had tried not to voice too much of her excitement over seeing King Rhaegar, since in truth she was expected to be eager to see her aunt, the Queen Lyanna, who was a Stark like her. But her aunt had visited Winterfell many times, and while Sansa liked her quite a lot, as she always brought her presents and courtly stories, she had never seen the King before. Whenever her aunt came, she never spoke of the King, nor did she even bring a portrait of him to remember him by on these moon-long holidays. Though Sansa was aware that her marriage had been arranged, as her own mother’s and father’s was, she also knew that wives and husbands often grew fond of each other over the course of time. Her own lord father and lady mother certainly were; it was not uncommon to look across to Lord and Lady Stark to see them beaming at each other, sharing kisses when they thought no one was looking, and holding hands as they walked together. It warmed Sansa’s heart to know that her parents were in love, and though the Queen Lyanna had been wed for the same amount of time as her parents, nineteen long years, Sansa often wondered if she even liked her lord husband, much less loved him.
But everyone said the king was handsome and kind, that he was a good ruler and a wonderful diplomat who charmed every belligerent lord and bitter lady who came his way. She heard stories of how he showered his three children with affection, giving each of them nameday tourneys every year along with magnificent presents. He even gave his wife tourneys, for all her namedays, all her pregnancies, and all her births, and everyone said he loved her and treated her with more affection than any lord would pay his lady. He seemed a great man; so why didn’t her aunt fawn over him as her handmaidens did, the ones who saw him in flesh?
Perhaps that was only her aunt’s nature. She was a proud person, always wearing Stark colors despite the fact that she ought to be wearing Targaryen, and she always spoke of how the North brought her much calm and freedom. When she brought her children, she would coo over them, and show them off and speak highly of their accomplishments until her voice grew thin, but the King was never mentioned, even though he did greater things than learning to ride at an early age.
It didn’t matter, Sansa supposed. She was going to see the great King Rhaegar Targaryen for herself and perhaps then she could judge whether the rumors were true, and whether or not her aunt was mad.
Sansa was pulling aimlessly at a stitch in her embroidery before she gave a doleful sigh. "Oh, Jeyne," she lamented to her friend, Jeyne Poole, who sat across from her with her embroidery. "I don't think I can wait another day." She had expressed to her friend her excitement to see the royal family, but had omitted that it was the king she wished to see, not her cousins or her aunt.
Jeyne giggled. "Nor I," she confessed, biting her lip. She takes two secretive peeks around, checking to see that the septa was out of earshot, before leaning forward and whispering, "I hear your cousins have grown terribly handsome. They say the King comes to the North to find them brides."
Sansa raised her brows at this surprised to hear this gossip. She hadn't seen her two cousins in years; Jon, the eldest, last visited with his brother Daeron when he was ten and his brother eight. For every visit the Queen paid the North afterward, her two sons remained in King's Landing, while Robb was the one sent south to see his cousins. That did not mean she came alone; she always brought the Princess Rhaella, named so after her late grandmother, who was about 4 years younger than herself.
Sansa remembered only vaguely what her elder cousins looked like. She recalled Jon looking like he could be one of her own brothers, with his curly dark hair, sharp grey eyes, and sullen expression. Sitting beside his mother, there was no doubting that he was her son. The same could not be said for his younger brother, Daeron, whose fair skin, silvery hair, and bright lavender eyes pointed toward his Targaryen father. She heard only rumors now of her cousins; they say they both grew into tall, strong men with wide shoulders and lean muscle, both eternal rivals and both handsome to look at. There was always talk of picking sides, however. Some thought Jon was the fairer of the two, preferring his darkness, while others insisted that Daeron was more beautiful than he by miles. Sansa wondered which was true.
"Well, they are certainly old enough, aren't they?" Sansa asked with a sniff of indifference. "Jon is eight-and-ten and Daeron is but two years younger. Boys are married at less."
She sees Jeyne blush under her pale skin. "I do hope one of them looks my way. Particularly the younger one," she confesses in a small voice trembling with excitement. "Perhaps the King will allow them to marry for love."
Sansa wants to tell her that the princes would never look her way, the faintly pretty lady of a lesser lord, but the excitement in her voice urges her to bites her tongue. Let her wish, Sansa tells herself, and offers a small smile to Jeyne.
"As if Jon would ever want to marry you!" A small, irritable voice pipes up from behind Sansa. Sansa turns around to pin Arya with daggers, wanting to throttle her for being so bold. Her little sister's hair is a wild mess and she tucked her dress into a pair of trousers, half of the fabric falling out. "Jon doesn't like prissy girls who sit inside and embroider all the time,” she said haughtily, pointing her nose up at the needle in Sansa’s hand. Sansa felt her anger spark, as it often did with her insufferable sister, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
"Arya!" Septa Mordane's voice warns with a biting edge. "You apologize to Lady Jeyne-"
"And how would you know what Jon likes?" Sansa asks, her ears turning maddeningly hot. "You hardly know him!"
"I visited him for the past two years, stupid!" Arya shoots back, crossing her arms over her flat chest. Sansa had forgotten about that; her younger sister had gone with Robb for the past two years to visit King's Landing, allowing Sansa an entire moon without strife. "And Jon writes me," Arya adds with a smug smirk. "He likes me better than you."
"That doesn't mean anything!" Sansa shot back, digging her fingertips into the fabric in her hand. “It’s like that he pities you-"
"Enough!" The septa scolds, stepping between the two sisters hands propped firmly on her wide hips. "You two are ladies and you shall come to behave as such. Should either of you display this horrid behavior before the King and his family-" Sansa sucked in a breath, shocked at the thought. “Well, I would fear for your skins should parents witness it.” Septa Mordane always said that, that they ought to fear for their skins, as if her father would tie her up and flay her. Sansa rolls her eyes when the septa turns away to glare at Arya, but does not cease her seething.
Arya only gives a little hmph, and turns to leave, but the Septa Mordane holds her shoulder and lowers her into a chair before passing her a piece of fabric and a needle.
Sansa turns away, satisfied that her sister had been properly chastised. Jeyne slumped forward with her head bowed over her needle and thread, a somber frown on her face. With a pang of guilt, Sansa reaches across to pat her friend on the knee. "Don't worry, Jeyne," she says sweetly. "I'm sure the princes will look your way." This seems to brighten her mood a little bit, though she seems somewhat aware that Sansa only said that they would look and little else.
Sansa was upset that they had to kneel and bow their heads once the royal procession passed through the gates. She wanted so badly to look at the Kingsguard in their white armor come in on their beautiful horses, to admire the ornateness of the wheelhouses, gaze at the lovely southern silk dresses, and spot the tallest, strongest men to stare at as they all poured through the tall iron gates. All this was lost to her as she stared at the dusty ground, though her heart beat in time to the gallops of the many horses, and her ears picked up every airy giggle that passed by a lady's lips. They all remained kneeling until a strong, rich voice called out to them, "Rise!"
Sansa hurriedly, but gracefully, rose to her feet, her eyes already searching in the crowd. She saw the familiar sight of her aunt, her long brown curls topped with a glittering crown as they hung loose around the shoulders of her blue gown. Her grey eyes shone as bright as her smile as she sat atop her chestnut brown mare, and her pale skin seemed to glow. But it was the man sitting tall upon a grand white stallion that Sansa had been eager to see. It was the man who told them to rise, and the most noble man in any company.
By the gods! Sansa had to catch her breath at the sight of him. His silvery hair was pin-straight, sweeping just past his shoulders and framing his strong face. He had eyes of the deepest purple, visible even from her place, with a straight nose, chiseled lips, and an elegant jaw. When he dismounted, Sansa could see he was tall, taller than her own father by at least four inches, who himself was no small man standing at a little over six feet. Wide shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, then led to a pair of long legs. He was strikingly beautiful, like a statue of a perfect man; muscle was apparent underneath his clothes, his face was youthful despite his age of seven-and-thirty, and he seemed both strong enough to crush a man but gentle enough to cradle a babe. To think now that her aunt hardly spoke of him truly affirmed that she was nearly mad.
He smiled kindly to her father, embracing him like an old friend, shook hands with her Uncle Brandon, kissed her mother’s and Lady Barbrey’s hand with refined propriety, and greeted her elder brother as he would greet any young lord, with a firm handshake and good eye contact. Sansa was due to be greeted next, but the King lingered with Robb, exchanging conversation with him. She spotted her aunt freeing himself from father’s embrace before sharing one with uncle. It was then that Sansa noticed an imposing presence towering over her. She gulped as she looked up into the intense eyes of her king, and found herself faltering before offering a curtsey.
She hears him give a polite chuckle. “You must be Lady Sansa,” he says in his steely voice, smiling down to her. “Your aunt has told me much about you.”
Would that I could say the same, Sansa nearly said, or might have said had her tongue not escaped her. She was struck dumb by his beauty and grace, and could only manage a meek nod. The king then took her hand and put a kiss to her knuckles as he did with her own mother, and murmured,
“It is good to meet you, my lady,” before he moved on to greet the more familiar Arya. Sansa felt heat rise high into her cheeks as she watched him embrace her sister and tousle her hair. He looks so kind, she realized, and he truly did, with that soft little smile and his gentle hands. Sansa felt her knuckles tingle where his lips grazed her. He is old enough to be your father, she quickly chastised herself as her septa would. A man of seven-and-thirty he was, but he looked half his age, and twice as wise.
Sansa was interrupted in her thoughts by her excitable aunt, who held her face and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Sansa dearest!” she cried to her with a bright smile, one she often wore within the walls of Winterfell. “You grow more lovely with each visit I pay you. Come now, darling, I’ll give you your presents yet, but you simply must see my sons. How long has it been since you’ve seen them? Years! Oh, come see how handsome they are. Jon! Daeron!” The words fell out of her mouth at a galloping rate, taking Sansa by a storm. After blinking and absorbing the information, Sansa follows her aunt’s delighted gaze to two tall youths laughing with Robb.
At their mother’s call, they turn their heads nearly at the same time. Sansa is struck first by the differences; while both were tall young men, nearly the same height, they were incredibly dissimilar. Jon, whom Sansa faintly recognized, was lithe and lean, with a build similar to his father’s with his long legs and narrow waist. His brother, on the other hand, had wide shoulders, a bulkier, more muscular form that reminded Sansa of her uncle Brandon. While both were fair in skin, Jon seemed fairer, inheriting the ivory tones of the Starks- and he truly did look like a Stark - interrupted only by the shadow of a beard. His brother was fair of skin also, but in an unblemished, youthful way that contrasted with Jon’s ruggedness.
When the two came closer, she saw eyes she recognized: Jon’s dark grey ones, and Daeron’s light purples. To look at them side-by-side made one wonder if they were related at all. Only their shared beauty bound them together.
“Come now, don’t stand dumb,” her aunt urges in her husky voice. “Greet your cousin kindly, as you ought to do a lady.”
Sansa sees Jon smile softly and Daeron roll his eyes. The elder son acts first, bowing from the waist. “It has been many years, cousin Sansa,” he said in his low, deep voice. Sansa gave a quick curtsey and a nod before looking to Daeron. She only then realized how her heart thumped against her ribs, excited over these two men. She only hoped her blush wasn’t terribly visible.
“Your face is a fair sight after such a journey,” Daeron says in a voice that was silkier, smoother than his brothers, almost musical. He leans down and kisses her hand, just above where his father kissed, then flashes her a wicked smile. “I pray I see it more in the coming days.” Sansa knew that she blushed wildly now as the young prince boldly met her gaze. She ought to have responded to her cousins’ greetings, but her tongue felt heavy as stone.
“Gods be good, Daeron!” Lyanna huffed to him, saving Sansa from the humiliation of having to speak while tongue-tied. Her aunt was shooting daggers at her younger son with her sharp eyes. “Save your flirting for one as graceless as you.” There’s a harshness to her grimace that implied warning, as if she were reminding him of some past incident.
“It’s not likely I’ll find anyone like you, mother-“ The mischievous boy shoots back, earning him a slap on the shoulder before he broke into laughter. Sansa’s eyes flitted from him to Jon, who looked to his younger brother with a sort of mild irritability.
“Come now, Sansa, ignore my insolent son,” Lyanna tells her with an endearing edge of anger. “The presents I have brought you are sure to delight you much more.”
Sansa nodded eagerly, anxious to see what her aunt had brought her. She always had such wonderful taste, always bringing her nieces and nephews things that were worth keeping. For Sansa it was always dresses of silk both grand and simple, or jewelry of every stone. Robb often received weapons of what she was told was flawless craft, and Rickon and Bran would receive toys and models that could never be found in the North. While these were all fine things, Arya always received the strangest items. She would bring her little sister useless objects, such as knife belts, leather boots, riding trousers, and even a foal, once. Arya always loved what her aunt gave her, but Sansa never understood why. The year that the Queen had brought Arya a new saddle and a specially crafted wooden dagger, Sansa asked her father why she picked such strange things. Her father had only laughed and said, “Lyanna always did like to spoil children, but she always preferred indulging them.” When she asked what the difference was, he clarified by saying, “Spoiling is giving children the things they want. Indulging is understanding what they need as well.”
She didn’t understand it then, and she feared she never would.
Her eyes would not leave the King the entire night.
There was something utterly bewitching about him that Sansa could not put to words, and thus she continued to stare in hopes of finding a way to describe him.
His beautiful face remained a serene, kindly mask at all times, as he smiled at every lady, looked with respect to every lord, and chuckled at every child. When his steely gaze swept across the room, it was as if he was commanding every body in it. When his eyes would graze over her, Sansa would feel a blush creep on her cheek. There was simply something so powerful about his even gaze, able to dominate the spirit with a glimmer of those dark purple eyes. Of course, his beauty certainly enhanced his hold, as Sansa found it truly unmatched among any man she had ever seen. Her eyes flit to Jon and Daeron briefly, the two shoulder-to-shoulder with Robb, and she finds that for all the talk, neither boy is so handsome as their father.
When Sansa was not struck by King Rhaegar's beauty, she was baffled by Queen Lyanna's indifference. With how much she stared at him, she noticed some things about the King and the Queen beside him. She saw how he held her hand over the table, occasionally taking a moment to lift it and kiss her palm, or her knuckles, or the inside of her wrist. He saw how he gazed at her with such tenderness, how he leaned over to kiss her cheek, and that his hand left hers only once, and that was to stroke her hair. The Queen seemed to notice none of this; she was always too engaged in chatter with Sansa's lady mother, or laughing with Uncle Brandon, or cooing over whatever child was presented to her, namely little Rickon, who sat on her knee for a large part of the evening. Not once did she return the King's gentle affections, or even acknowledge them. Even when no one engaged her attentions, she seemed to only regard the King if he spoke to her. Otherwise, he seemed invisible to her.
"Oh, Jeyne," she sighs wistfully to her friend beside her, who had her eye on Daeron the whole night. "It's like he's not even there." It saddened her more than it should to see this warm husband be treated icily by his wife. Sansa knew she would have loved a husband as gentle as he, and even more if he was half as handsome.
"What?" Jeyne asks, blinking to follow her eyes. "You mean the Queen?"
"Yes," Sansa says with a frown.
"What of my mother?" A little voice urged from beside her. Sansa suppressed a gasp as she seemed only to just recall that the Princess Rhaella sat beside her. She was easy to forget, what with her soft little voice, slight figure, and demure ways. That was not to say that she wasn't lovely, of course; her voice had a melodious quality to it that hinted toward a skill for singing, and for her tender age she was quite striking. With her smooth pale skin, wide grey eyes, and long silver curls, she was made of the best of her two parents. In her darkest moments, Sansa would envy her beauty.
"I was just noting what a lovely dress your mother had on," Sansa said as a quick cover-up, not willing to admit that she had been staring at her cousin's much older father for most of the evening.
"Then why were you frowning?" Rhaella asked in her soft sweet voice, her wide eyes darling in the hazy light of the Great Hall. For all her beauty, she was also unusually sharp; she found it wasn't quite fair that she had both.
"I'm a little jealous, I suppose. I do wish the North made dresses such as hers," Sansa answered after licking her lips. She hoped her cousin wouldn't be so shrewd as to know that her mouth went dry when she lied.
Instead, she only tilted her head slightly. "That is a Northern dress," her cousin said in all plainness. Sansa wanted to pinch herself for her loose lips. "My mother does not wear Southern silks north of the Neck."
"Truly?" Sansa asked in feigned surprise. "In this light, I had thought it fine silk. Your mother has a way of making all clothes seem striking on her.”
This convinces Rhaella; she offers a radiant smile and a nod before turning her eyes back to the crowd. Sansa bites back a sigh of relief.
Jeyne's hand suddenly grips hers, shaking it. "Sansa, they're coming here!" she trilled excitedly underneath her breath. Sansa followed her eyes to see who.
It was Daeron, Jon, and Robb, the three walking over with their own unique, yet equally confident, gaits. They caught the eyes of many a girl as they cut through the crowd; some giggled, some blushed, and one was bold enough to reach out and touch Jon’s sleeve. Jeyne herself was looking upon them, awestruck, and Sansa hoped she didn’t look so lovelorn.
Sansa and Jeyne rise to greet them, the two offering curtsies. “Good eve, cousin Jon, Daeron,” Sansa bids them kindly. “I pray the feast is to your likings.” There was a glint in Daeron’s eye as his gaze raked over Jeyne’s body, seeming to hint that he liked more than the feast. “I do hope Northern food is appealing to your palates. I’m sure they serve much better fare south,” Sansa continues to speak in hopes that Jeyne doesn’t faint from Daeron’s attentions.
Jon gives a chuckle. “Come now, Lady Sansa, don’t you know our mother at all?” he asks with a teasing lilt. Sansa blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. “We dine on more Northern dishes than Southron. Our lady mother has made sure of that.” His smile was kind and not at all smug, but Sansa cannot help but feel a little embarrassed.
Regaining her composure, she gives a little nod. It made sense; her aunt was proud and strong-willed. Of course she would have them eat like Northerners.
She saw off to her left that Robb was speaking to Rhaella, offering her his hand, which she took as she rose to her feet. It seemed that he was asking her to dance, and as if on cue, the music began the second she rose. Sansa could not help but look to the King and Queen to see if they would dance; neither stirred.
“Lady Sansa,” Jon said to her, drawing her attention again. “Might you honor me with-“
“Jon!” Arya’s voice cries out from the side. Sansa had to bit back a scold. “Come here, you have to see what auntie Lya brought me!” She comes rushing in between them, grabbing Jon’s hand and dragging him off to the side. Jon gives her an apologetic smile before he allows himself to be led away.
Daeron gives a sigh, and Sansa sees that his eyes were fixed intently on her face. “My brother is hopeless with women. He allows them to rule him too often, you see,” he says in a rich voice that Sansa found strikingly similar to the King’s. But then, it made sense; he was his father’s likeness in every way. “I would be honored if you’d dance with me, lady Sansa.” He smiles a dazzling smile, and Sansa finds herself nodding before even realizing that she was agreeing.
He holds her hand and leads her to the center of the hall. He then put a hand on her waist and folded her fingers between his own as they began to move in time to the music. Sansa allowed herself a guilty glance Jeyne’s way, who looked forlorn sitting alone at the table.
“Won’t you smile, Lady Sansa?” Daeron purrs to her in a low, husky voice. “You’ve looked like the saddest little bird all evening.” Something in his tone prompts her to blush, as if he had told a bawdy jape. But she does smile, as he seemed to will her to smile, and he rewards her by smiling back.
He is more handsome when he smiles, Sansa noted as her blush deepened. The prince had a certain beauty to him that could hardly be compared to Jon’s ruggedness, and it was a beauty she could very well become used to.
Yet even as the young prince twirled her around and gently pushed his fingers into her back, Sansa found herself stealing a glance at the King, as he had his hand on the back of the Queen’s neck, leaning in and whispering something into her ear. Sansa is spun away before she can see her aunt’s reaction, and once she comes in sight again, she sees that the Queen had risen from her seat to take Uncle Brandon’s hand to dance.
As her aunt laughed and spun in Brandon’s arms, the King looked after her with kind eyes that left Sansa with a strangely aching heart.