#kngslcyer

The announcement went over as well as Sansa had expected it to, and given how she feels her sworn sword tense behind her, she thinks maybe she ought to have given him more of a warning.

He’s become more than that to her, and judging by the reaction of the room it would have done to at least let him know that her mind had been made up. She had wanted to announce it differently, perhaps under better circumstances, but with the Lords who had begun to bicker and bring up potential marriages and between their Queen and respective sons to strengthen the North, Sansa had found her teeth clenching in a way that hurt.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Jon’s voice rings out once the Lords have cleared the great hall, and Sansa supposes she could be grateful that he’s waited to voice his opinion until they’re alone.

Almost alone.

Jaime is never far from her side, and while she knows her brother is her least likely threat – he has a claim and a Queen of his own to reckon with after all – she can’t bring herself to dismiss him.

“Would you rather have me agree to the matchmaking games all in an attempt for a family to claim Winterfell through their heir?” Her voice is soft yet firm, lacking any real bite. It’s a question posed, and Sansa can tell she’s hit her mark. She’s been married twice by the decisions of others in an attempt to control the North, and she won’t allow herself to be sold off again.

If she’s to be married, and she is, it will be a marriage of her choice.

Jon’s expression softens. “Aye,” he seems to agree –perhaps not with her choice, she knows there’s too much history for him not to have his reservations. But Sansa has thought this through – the North will continue to have a Stark in Winterfell. It’s not conventional, but nothing about this is. Bran has made it clear he won’t be Lord of Winterfell, and Jon’s…

Sansa hasn’t quite digested the news herself. What the impact of this is outside of their family is one Jon will have to determine on his own. As far as she’s concerned, however, he is still – and always will be – her brother.

“But the North remembers,” Jon continues.

The saying has always brought her a sense of peace, and this time Sansa does smile. “The North will remember. The North will remember how Jaime Lannister rode North from King’s Landing alone when the truce was called. The North will remember how he fought alongside them when it mattered, and how he put the protection of their Queen before all.” The list could continue, but the Queen in the North trails off, determined to not give her sworn sword, and lover, any more reason for his head to swell given their present company.

@kngslcyer liked for a Regency AU starter

Brienne struggled to keep the scowl off her face as she made her way through the ballroom toward the balcony to get some desperately needed air. She told herself she was used to the mockery of society, and yet every time the Starks dragged her to a ball, a small part of her hoped that that night would be different, that she would not be laughed at for her looks. She would much rather be sword-fighting with her foster brothers, but even Robb and Jon were out being sociable, and she could not forget her duty. 

As her father’s only living child, it was expected of her to make a good match. Her dowry may not have been as large as a person from the Stark, Baratheon, or Lannister families, but her five thousand pounds a year should still have been an enticing prospect if it had not been for her looks. Brienne had resigned herself to the fact that it may never happen, but her foster parents kept trying anyway. 

Her blue muslin dress fluttered in the breeze as she finally made her way outside, taking a few deep breaths of the fresh air, before she realized that she was not alone. She may have not known him personally, but his looks were enough for her to recognize that this man was a Lannister. She slowly curtsied in apology.

               As the pain melted away, Sansa visibly relaxed. The burden lifted from her shoulders. She no longer had to keep away from her brother or her friends. If they had even an inkling of what happened and how Joffery had finally pushed past humiliation into physical pain… Robb and Lily especially wouldn’t stop until he was a blood and beaten pulp. Both of them would throw away everything just so that Sansa could maybe earn a bit of peace. It wasn’t their job to keep her safe all the time. Robb had that job ever since she was born. Now she was almost fourteen and still being fought for. She was a W I T C H. A bloody brilliant witch at that. Shame flowed through her veins.

               “It has nothing to do with Joffery. He doesn’t get any protections from me any longer, Professor.” Humiliation after humiliation. It took so long for her to figure out that Joffery wasn’t someone she should be around and that he wasn’t good for her. She wanted to move up in the world so bad. She was so ambitious that she didn’t allow herself to realize how dangerous he was and how he could have done more than just give her a black eye. Now she looked at his uncle, he had the same eyes as Joffery… She shouldn’t be surprised. All of the Lannister children took after the Lannister side instead of the Baratheon. Sansa had even said the same thing when they were together.

She wished Robb was going to be there- and perhaps Lord Tyrion.

Between her mother’s looks and Arya’s complaints about not being able to get out of the litter and stretch her legs- or ride horseback next to their father as they arrived at King’s Landing, Sansa wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to still her nerves.

She had heard the stories of him before he was King. How it had been he who had stabbed the Mad King in the back, and he who had not stepped to the side when all was said and done. Sansa knew the whispers, had heard more than a few when no one thought she was listening as they began their journey south. But it was hard to match up the stories of the King with the glimpses of the man she had gotten to see in his letters.

He was a man of few words, Sansa had decided to herself after their initial correspondence, but Robb’s advice when she had asked him what the King was like, had been to judge the man for herself and come to her own opinion.

It had proven to be less than helpful and now they were here, and she felt as if her heart would beat right out of her chest. The Keep was like nothing she had ever seen before, and just as she would find something new and exciting to study, another detail would pop up, or she was ushered forward lest they be late.

Will he be disappointed in me? Will he find me ugly?

Her cheeks reddened at the embarrassing thoughts. There was no time. Forcing a deep breath, and ignoring her mother’s questioning look because she could not stumble now, Sansa followed her father as they were led to what she presumed was the Great Hall- where the famous Throne, and her betrothed, would be seated.

“All hail His Grace, Jaime of House Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” 

The Royal Steward’s voice echoed off of the walls of the large hall, and Sansa could not meet her the King’s gaze immediately or she was she would laugh. With words from his last letter dancing across her mind there was only a flash of a quick, knowing smile before she dipped low into a proper curtsy.

When it became readily apparent that there would be no more sleep, and that she had gotten all that she was going to get, Sansa blinked – disoriented. The room was bare- minimalistic almost, and had little to nothing in common with the Baratheon…manor? One…two…three… Forcing herself to work on her breathing Sansa reminded herself that she was safe.

He had promised her that much.

But she still…didn’t know what to do with herself. It was early, too early, and with no real desire to leave the apartment anytime soon, she began to tip toe around Jaime Lannister’s place in an attempt to not wake him.  All of her clothes were still- Sansa swallowed, and instead grabbed an old sweatshirt she found in one of the drawers in the spare room he had offered her, needing something to separate yesterday from today.

Thirteen texts, eight missed calls, and four voicemails. Turning off her phone it was quickly shoved under one of the pillows before she made her way to the kitchen.

With her arms wrapped securely around herself, she found herself leaning against the counter as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing strangely imagining that she now knew what a deer caught in the headlights felt like when he emerged from his room.

Had she miscalculated and made too much noise?

“I’m sorry,” the apology is immediate, instinctual, and she can’t help but ignore the way her stomach rolls in disgust at her reaction. “Uh, coffee is brewing.”