#saemond

Winterfell, nestled in the heart of the North, loomed with its ancient towers against the icy backdrop of winter. Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, moved through the castle with the grace befitting her noble stature. Her auburn hair cascaded like a waterfall, a stark contrast to the snow-covered landscape. As Sansa wandered through the great halls, her footsteps echoed in the vastness of Winterfell. The chill in the air hinted at the relentless grip of winter, yet the castle exuded a warmth that spoke of the indomitable spirit of House Stark.

The fluttering of wings drew Sansa's attention as a raven descended, its ebony feathers contrasting against the snow-laden courtyard. Sansa extended her arm, allowing the raven to perch. The scroll attached to its leg bore the unmistakable mark of House Stark. Breaking the seal, Sansa's eyes scanned the words carefully. The message was a summons, not just for her brother but for her as well—a call to the South, to the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa set forth to find her brother, Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. She traversed the winding corridors until she reached the lord's chambers. The door, adorned with the direwolf sigil, stood slightly ajar.

"Cregan," Sansa called out, her voice carrying a blend of urgency and curiosity.

The room, lit by the glow of a hearth, greeted her with the sight of Cregan Stark, a figure of Northern strength and resilience, looking up from his desk.

"What is it, Sansa?" Cregan inquired, his expression betraying curiosity and anticipation.

Sansa handed him the scroll, her eyes meeting his. Cregan broke the seal, his eyes scanning the words that unfolded of an unexpected summons.

"A proposition," Cregan murmured, his brow furrowing. "They request the presence of both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in the South."

Sansa, standing beside her brother, felt a surge of apprehension. The proposition held the promise of change, yet the North, with its ancient traditions, stood as a steadfast beacon in the face of uncertainty.

"Northerners don't do well in the south," Sansa remarked, her gaze fixed on the snowy expanse beyond Winterfell's walls.

"No," Cregan agreed, his voice carrying the weight of generations of Northern resilience. "We do not."

The siblings stood in the room, the cold Northern wind sweeping through the cracked window, a reminder of the harsh winters that shaped their homeland. Sansa paced the room, her auburn hair trailing behind her like a fiery banner.

"In the name of the gods, Cregan, why do they need both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in King's Landing? It's not like we have time for Southern frivolities." Sansa said, her brows frowned together.

Cregan, seated by the hearth, raised an eyebrow, considering the question. "Maybe they've run out of snow and need some Northern chill to cool their heads. Or perhaps they've heard our cooking is far superior."

"I highly doubt they summoned us all this way for a cooking contest." Sansa shot him a look, a mix of amusement and exasperation. 

"You never know. " Cregan leaned back, a grin playing on his lips. "They might be desperate for a taste of real food in the capital."

"Real food or not, it's suspicious. I can't fathom why they'd want us both there, and in such haste." Sansa sighed, deciding to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. 

Cregan scratched his beard, feigning deep contemplation. "Maybe they've heard about my impeccable sense of fashion and want me to give the court a makeover."

"Yes, because King's Landing is in dire need of a Stark fashion intervention." Sansa rolled her eyes. "Truly, the crisis of the century."

Cregan chuckled before his expression fell into a more serious one. "I'm as puzzled as you are. They've summoned us abruptly, and to what end? I don't recall sending any singing ravens or performing any juggling tricks that might warrant such attention."

"It's unnerving." Sansa perched herself on the edge of the table, a thoughtful expression on her face. "The South is... unkind."

"The North doesn't meander like the courtiers in King's Landing." Sansa's eyes met Cregan's, a silent understanding passing between them. "A journey into the dragon's den, then?" Cregan asked, shooting a sly smirk to ease the nervousness settling between the room.

"Pit." Sansa clarified, earning a raised eyebrow from her brother. "They call it the Dragonpit."

Cregan chuckled before reiterating his choice of word, "Dragon's pit."

"Maybe they demanded you declare yourself for the princess," Sansa said, her voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and speculation. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she considered the potential ramifications.

"Which one?" Cregan replied, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

"Helaena Targaryen." Sansa replied, her gaze fixed on the snowy landscape beyond Winterfell.

"Didn't her brother wed her?" Cregan questioned, the ways of Southern alliances proving perplexing to his Northern manner.

"Right." Sansa stayed silent for a moment, the weight of realization settling in. "Such curious customs."

"Agreed." He chuckled in agreement. 

The snowy expanse of Winterfell's courtyard seemed to stretch infinitely before them as Sansa continued, her frustration growing with each passing thought. "It'll take us almost month—three weeks if we're lucky—to reach King's Landing. And by the time we arrive, they might have just forgotten about us."

"Whatever it is, Sansa." Cregan stood, placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "We'll show them we are proud Northerners, Aye."

"Let's just hope it doesn't involve any unnecessary twirls or curtsies." Sansa sighed, a mixture of frustration and determination in her voice. 

"If it does, I'll be sure to trip over my own feet. A Stark's way of making a statement."

Sansa couldn't help but smile. "That might just be the statement we need to make."

The stone stairs echoed with the soft thuds of Sansa and Cregan's boots as they left the room. A heavy sigh escaped Sansa's lips, forming a misty cloud in the brisk Northern air. The Winterfell courtyard awaited them, surrounded by walls of gray stone that seemed to absorb the chill. It had been two long years since their father's passing, and only six months since their mother joined him in the embrace of eternity.

The siblings descended the cold, worn steps, arriving in the open space of the courtyard. Winter's touch lingered in the air, making each breath visible. They approached the ancient weirwood tree that stood as a silent witness to the passage of time. Kneeling, they bowed their heads in prayer, seeking support from the old gods.

"Let us pass this journey safely," Cregan whispered, his voice blending with the rustle of the tree's leaves.

"Let the journey be quick," Sansa added, her words carrying a quiet determination.

Sansa's thoughts drifted to the departed, to her father and mother, and to the generations that had come before her. The unseen ancestors, a part of her heritage, inspired a prayer from her heart. Though she rarely ventured beyond the walls of Winterfell, the vastness of the North was her world. Yet, with the unexpected summons, an unfamiliar weight settled in her chest.

Sansa's eyes closed as she continued her silent supplication. She wasn't afraid, or at least she couldn't afford to be. A woman now, aged nine and ten, she carried a quiet bravery within her comely demeanor. Her prayers spoke not only of personal safety but also of a deep-rooted longing for the familiar confines of her home.

"And bring us home," Sansa whispered, her plea lingering in the crisp air as if carried away by the wind. The simple words held the weight of a determined heart, a wish for sanctuary in the face of the unknown.

The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing unfolded as both a physical trek and a venture into unfamiliar territories. Sansa and Cregan rode on horseback, flanked by loyal Northern bannermen proudly displaying the direwolf of House Stark on their banners. The landscape, covered in a blanket of snow, sprawled before them as they navigated the winding roads. Sansa's gaze wandered over the vastness of the North, where towering pines stood like sentinels and frozen rivers snaked through the familiar land. It was a place ingrained in their hearts, a landscape that had shaped the Stark family for generations.

The cold air nipped at their faces as they rode, carrying with it the scent of pine and the chill of winter. It was undeniably beautiful, the North. It really was. Its beauty, however, was a subtle charm not everyone could fathom. Sansa felt a deep appreciation for the land that had cradled her existence. The towering pines and snow-covered landscapes painted a sight that words struggled to capture. Sansa couldn't predict the duration of their stay in King's Landing, but a lingering feeling suggested it wouldn't be brief. The prospect of an extended absence from her northern home weighed on her, and a sense of longing for what she had left behind settled in her heart. It was as if she already missed the North, its quiet beauty and the familiar embrace of Winterfell.

Cregan, riding alongside his sister, raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind, Sansa?"

"Just basking in the glory of our home." Sansa replied, her eyes scanning the endless horizon. "We'll be entering a different world soon."

"Duty calls." Cregan grunted in agreement. "We've got to dance to their tune, even if we can't figure out the steps."

The journey continued, the road stretching ahead like an unending tapestry of uncertainty. As they moved farther from the familiar contours of Winterfell, the shadow of annoyance grew, eclipsing the curiosity that initially accompanied their Southern sojourn.

In the evenings, as they set up camp, Sansa and Cregan would share moments of silent reflection. The North, with its towering walls and ancient castles, felt like a distant memory. The South, with its political intricacies and alien customs, became a reality they had to confront.

"Twenty days until King's Landing." Sansa murmured, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

Cregan, his gaze following the same horizon, nodded in silent agreement. The road to King's Landing, like a river winding through unfamiliar lands, carried them closer to a destiny entwined with the fate of the Seven Kingdoms—a destiny that neither of them could escape, even if the taste of Southern irritation lingered on their tongues.

Day by day, the subtle warmth of the South crept into their journey, coaxing Sansa and Cregan to shed layers of their accustomed Northern garments. The furs and heavy cloaks that were a second skin in Winterfell now felt burdensome under the burgeoning Southern sun. The landscape transformed from the towering pines of the North to the rolling hills and expansive plains of the Neck.

On the 10th day, Sansa cast a wary glance at the sky as she unclasped the cloak that had shielded her from the Northern winds. The air, once crisp and biting, now carried a gentler touch. It was a silent acknowledgment of their passage from the familiar chill of the North into the milder climate of the South.

As the road wound through the Neck and into the Vale of Arryn, Sansa found herself grappling with an unexpected discomfort. The cool breeze that had been her constant companion since leaving Winterfell was replaced by a warmth that felt unfamiliar. She longed for the bite of winter, the scent of pine that lingered in the Northern air.

On the 15th day, as they traversed further into the Vale, Sansa's frustration reached a tipping point. The lush greenery and temperate climate, while undoubtedly pleasant to many, grated against the ingrained sensibilities of the Lady of Winterfell.

"We've crossed the Neck, Sansa." Cregan stated, his tone carrying a note of caution. The Vale lies ahead."

Sansa's eyes, once filled with curiosity, now bore a glint of aggravation. "It's too warm."

Cregan, understanding his sister's sentiments, offered a sympathetic nod. Looking over the rest of their Bannerman surrounding them, he replied, "Seems our men shares your distaste of the southern air."

Sansa, her gaze fixed on the horizon, couldn't shake the sense of displacement that accompanied their journey. The farther they ventured into the unfamiliar territories of the South, the more she longed for the familiar embrace of Winterfell.

As they pressed onward, Sansa found herself caught between the memories of Winterfell's cold embrace and the ever-warming breeze of the South—a journey of physical distance and emotional dissonance. The road to King's Landing, fraught with both external challenges and internal conflicts, stretched before them, promising a destination that seemed increasingly distant from the home they knew.

The gateway of King's Landing loomed before Sansa and Cregan Stark, a colossal entrance into a realm vastly different from the North. No longer clad in the thick garments that shielded them against the Northern winds, they strode forward in their respective armor, the direwolf sigil proudly displayed—a symbol of Northern resilience in the face of Southern unfamiliarity.

As they moved inside the city, the stark contrast between the North and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms became apparent. The markets were a riot of colors and sounds, merchants hawking exotic goods from distant lands. Garments of rich fabrics adorned the citizens, a stark departure from the practical furs and woolens of Winterfell. The hustle and bustle of the city seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a stark contrast to the quietude of the North.

Sansa, her gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar surroundings, felt a knot of trepidation tightening in her chest. The overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity was both exhilarating and disconcerting. The air, heavy with the scents of spices and foreign perfumes, held an essence that Sansa couldn't quite place.

Cregan, walking beside his sister, observed the Southern city with a stoic demeanor, though the subtle furrow in his brow betrayed the weight of their displacement. The towering Red Keep, visible in the distance, seemed like a distant fortress from a dream—a place where power and politics intertwined in ways that were foreign to House Stark.

The crowds moved like a river through the city, and Sansa and Cregan found themselves carried along, their Northern armor cutting through the sea of Southern fabrics. The unfamiliarity, though tinged with an underlying sense of fear, also held an element of intrigue—a glimpse into a world that had only existed in stories and whispers.

As they continued deeper into King's Landing, Sansa and Cregan couldn't escape the realization that they were outsiders in this bustling Southern hub. The North, with its vastness and solitude, felt like a distant memory. In its place stood a city teeming with life and complexity, where every corner held secrets and every face seemed to conceal its own agenda.

"It looks as if time itself runs faster here." Sansa observed.

Cregan grunted in agreement, his eyes narrowing at the myriad colors and sounds that assaulted his senses. 

The air was thick with the scents of exotic spices and foreign perfumes, a stark departure from the crisp scent of pine that lingered in the Northern air. As they made their way through the crowded streets, Sansa bit her tongue to suppress the urge to voice her Northern disdain. The South, with its ornate architecture and lavish displays of wealth, felt like an alien realm.

"Northerners don't belong here," Sansa muttered under her breath, her frustration simmering.

"Aye," Cregan responded, "We don't."

The journey became a test of restraint for Sansa and Cregan. The Northerners, fiercely proud of their traditions, had little patience for the subtleties of Southern courtly life. Sansa, in particular, found herself biting her tongue more than once, suppressing the urge to express her Northern bluntness in a land that valued diplomacy.

"But remember, Sansa, every word and gesture will be scrutinized." Cregan reminded his sister, his tone a mixture of caution and understanding. "We're guests in their realm."

Sansa nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. The road to King's Landing stretched before them, a path that led not only to the seat of power but also to the heart of a realm where dragons ruled and alliances shifted like the winds.

The grandeur of the Red Keep's halls enveloped Sansa and Cregan as they were escorted to the council chamber, where they expected to meet King Viserys. However, upon entering, they were met with an unexpected sight—King Viserys was not present. Instead, the Queen Alicent and the King's Hand, Otto Hightower, awaited them.

Sansa and Cregan exchanged a subtle glance, a silent acknowledgment of the peculiarity of the situation. The rumors about the King's declining health had circulated, but the extent of his infirmity had not fully registered until this moment.

"Lord Cregan, Lady Sansa, welcome to the Red Keep. I trust your journey was eventful?" Queen Alicent, regal and composed, extended a courteous nod of welcome. 

"As eventful as one could hope for, Your Grace." Cregan offered a respectful nod in return.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa, her gaze lingering on the Queen's composed demeanor, replied, "The journey was as smooth as can be expected."

"Forgive the King's absence. His health has been a cause for concern, and attending to matters of state has become increasingly challenging." Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, interjected with a cordial tone.

Sansa and Cregan exchanged a glance, their thoughts mirrored in unspoken words. The absence of King Viserys cast a shadow over the grandeur of the Red Keep, and the implications of his weakened state raised questions about the stability of the realm.

"Rest assured," Queen Alicent, keenly aware of the unspoken tension, continued, "King Viserys would have welcomed you personally if he were able. In his stead, we are here to extend the hospitality of the crown."

Sansa and Cregan, despite the unexpected circumstances, offered courteous nods of gratitude. The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing had already been fraught with unfamiliarity, and the absence of the King served as a stark reminder that they had entered a realm shaped by political intricacies and uncertainty.

"Why have we been summoned to the capital? " Cregan cuts to the chase, his voice steady yet brimming with curiosity. "What is the nature of this proposition?"

Instead of answering in the council chamber, they were led to a separate room where the air seemed charged with the weight of impending revelations. The room was adorned with the sigils of the Seven Kingdoms, a reminder of the collective power that shaped the fate of Westeros.

Sansa and Cregan stepped into the council room, their eyes quickly assessing the assembly within. Queen Alicent, the authoritative Hand Otto Hightower, and the councilmen occupied the space, their presence unmistakable. Yet, what drew her attention was the unexpected figure of the second-born son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower. She recalled his name as Aemond. Aemond Targaryen. The rumors had not exaggerated. He stood there, an eyepatch concealing a significant scar above, a testament to battles fought mayhaps, or an accident in training. Despite the mark, he carried himself regally, unmistakably a fine prince in the room. As Sansa's gaze briefly met his, there was an unspoken curiosity that passed between them.

The council room, adorned with the symbols of power, witnessed a tense gathering as Sansa and Cregan took their seats. The exchange of pleasantries echoed in the air, a surface-level politeness that veiled the deeper currents of political intrigue and power play.

"Once again, Lord Cregan, Lady Sansa, we thank you for making the journey to King's Landing." Queen Alicent, with a regal grace that belied the complexities at play, once again extended her gratitude. "Your presence here is of great importance."

Sansa, though offering a polite nod in return, couldn't shake the undercurrent of skepticism that lingered beneath the queen's words. The acknowledgment of their importance felt more like a reminder of their place within the intricate hierarchy of the realm.

How can we not, Your Grace? Sansa thought, her inner voice echoing with a touch of bitterness. Mere servants under the crown's eyes, expected to dance to the tune of Southern politics.

Cregan, ever composed, maintained a stoic facade as he inclined his head in acknowledgment. Queen Alicent, her eyes meeting Sansa's with a knowing glint, continued with the formalities, all the while aware of the unspoken tensions in the room.

The council room's atmosphere grew tense as Queen Alicent continued, her words hanging in the air like a delicate tapestry, each thread revealing a piece of the Southern proposition. Sansa and Cregan exchanged subtle glances, a silent acknowledgment of the intricacies they were about to navigate.

"The nature of this proposition," Queen Alicent began, her eyes shifting between Sansa and Cregan, "is to strengthen the alliance between the Iron Throne and the North. The Crown seeks unity, a binding force that will ensure the stability of the realm."

Sansa, despite her composed exterior, felt a flicker of unease. The mention of an alliance with the North was expected, but the form it would take remained a mystery. She cast a glance at Cregan, her eyes silently conveying a near boastful sentiment. Sansa had suspected that the Crown might seek a marriage alliance, and she had envisioned Cregan being the focal point.

To her surprise, Queen Alicent's next words shattered Sansa's assumptions. "However, it is not Lord Cregan's hand that we wish to bind in alliance. It is yours, Lady Sansa."

Sansa's eyes widened in disbelief, and her gaze darted to Cregan, who wore an expression of equal astonishment. The room seemed to close in around them as the weight of the revelation settled like a stone in the pit of Sansa's stomach.

Cregan, ever stoic, turned to Sansa, his eyes betraying a mixture of realization and concern. Sansa, in turn, fought to maintain her composure. The alliance sought by the Crown had taken an unexpected turn, and the burden of securing the North's loyalty now rested squarely on Sansa's shoulders.

"Your Grace, I must admit, this proposal is unexpected. May I inquire about the specifics of this alliance and why it is Lady Sansa who is to be wed, rather than myself as the Lord of Winterfell?" Cregan's expression a mix of incredulity and concern, spoke up, seeking clarification from Queen Alicent. 

Queen Alicent, her regal demeanor unwavering, leaned forward slightly as she explained, "Lord Cregan, it is true that the Crown seeks a union with the North, but the dynamics of our House present a unique challenge. Helaena, my daughter, is already wed to my first-born son, Aegon. I have no other daughters to be promised to you. However, the Crown sees the potential for a strong alliance through a different avenue."

Sansa, her gaze fixed on the Queen, felt a knot of anticipation tighten within her. The unexpected twist in the Southern proposition hung in the air, and the Queen's next words unveiled the true nature of the alliance.

"It is my son, Aemond, who would be wed to Lady Sansa. Aemond Targaryen, the second-born son of King Viserys and myself, is present in this council room for a reason."

Aemond, who had remained silent until now, met Sansa's eyes with a steady gaze that held a mixture of curiosity and a hint of resignation. The weight of the moment settled upon the Lady of Winterfell, and she exchanged a glance with Cregan, both silently processing the implications of the Crown's unexpected proposal.

The council room, once abuzz with discussions and explanations, fell into an uneasy silence as Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, posed the question that hung in the air like a heavy cloak.

"And if I refuse?" Sansa's voice, though calm, carried a weight that resonated through the room. The councilmen exchanged uncertain glances, their allegiance torn between the loyalty owed to the Crown and the acknowledgment of the Lady's autonomy.

"Lady Sansa," Queen Alicent, her regal poise undeterred, met Sansa's gaze with a measured expression. "The Crown values unity and stability. Your refusal would not only defy the Crown but could potentially jeopardize the fragile balance we seek to maintain in these tumultuous times."

The tension in the room thickened as the gravity of Sansa's question hung in the air.

"So it is not a proposition, it's an order," Sansa declared, her voice carrying a stern resolve that echoed through the council room. The weight of defiance, though wrapped in the guise of Ladylike poise, hung in the air like an unspoken challenge to the Crown's authority.

"Sansa," Cregan interjected in a hushed tone, a plea for caution, an acknowledgment of the delicate balance they were navigating.

However, it was not Queen Alicent but Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, who had responded. "Lady Sansa, the Crown merely seeks what is best for the realm. The union proposed is not just a matter of preference but a strategic necessity in these trying times. Your cooperation is crucial for the stability of the Seven Kingdoms."

Queen Alicent, ever composed, took charge of the moment. "Lady Sansa, you will be given the necessary time to duly consider the terms of this proposed marriage. We understand the weight of this decision and acknowledge the importance of your deliberation."

The Queen's words, though carrying a veneer of courtesy, held an unspoken expectation. Sansa and Cregan, now bound to the complexities of Southern politics, were to stay in the capital for the next week, a timeframe designated to solidify the union that the Crown deemed imperative.

"During your stay," Queen Alicent continued, "we hope that you will reach an agreement that is acceptable to both parties. The Crown values the cooperation of House Stark, and we believe that this union is in the best interest of the realm."

The room, still fraught with tension, now held the promise of a temporary reprieve—a week for Sansa and Cregan to navigate the intricacies of the Southern court, consider the implications of the proposed marriage, and come to a decision that would shape the future of House Stark.

Sansa felt the weight of Aemond Targaryen's one-eyed gaze, an unrelenting focus that seemed to pierce through the delicate facade of courtly decorum. As the doors closed behind them, leaving the council room in their wake, Sansa's eyes met Aemond's, and an unspoken exchange transpired—an acknowledgment of the complexities that now intertwined their fates.

Aemond, the second-born son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower, bore the legacy of House Targaryen in the form of a single piercing eye, a mark of distinction and, perhaps, a reflection of the trials that shaped the scion of dragons. She had wondered what happened for him to lose an eye.

The week ahead promised negotiations, considerations, and the delicate dance of alliances, but in that fleeting moment, Sansa and Aemond stood as silent participants in a drama that transcended the confines of courtly formalities.

As the council room doors closed behind them, Sansa and Cregan found themselves at the precipice of a pivotal week—one that would test their resilience, challenge their principles, and ultimately define their role in the unfolding drama of the Seven Kingdoms. The road to King's Landing, which began as a physical journey, had now transformed into a journey of choices, alliances, and the complexities of a realm where power, politics, and personal autonomy were in constant tension.

In the guest chambers of the Red Keep, where the Starks would be spending their stay at, Sansa's discontent found voice. The echoes of her frustration resonated through the air as she spoke to Cregan, her brother and confidant, about the unforeseen turn of events that had brought them to the heart of Southern intrigue.

"I cannot believe," Sansa lamented, her voice a whisper of exasperation, "that we've spent almost a month traversing these realms, only to be greeted by an absurd proposal. Marriage! As if it were the simplest solution to bind the North to the Crown. To wed without regard for one's heart? It might as well be their custom but I will not allow it to be ours."

Cregan, the level-headed anchor to Sansa's impassioned fervor, offered a measured response.

"Except," he began, his voice a calm counterpoint to Sansa's fervency, "mother and father were promised to one another. And by the end of it, they did share deep affection."

Sansa, unyielding in her stance, retorted with a distinction that cut through the nuanced shades of affection.

"Deep affection is not love, Cregan. It is not a compromise, nor a mere settling," Sansa affirmed, her words carrying a weight that echoed the ideals she held dear.

"What is it then?"

"I do not know." Sansa, pausing as if searching for the right words, finally responded, "I have never been in love."

"Precisely."

Cregan Stark observed his sister's quiet demeanor. The flickering candlelight played on the contours of her face, casting shadows that mirrored the tumult within her.

Sansa, usually composed and resolute, now bore an air of vulnerability. Her silence spoke volumes, and Cregan, attuned to the nuances of his sister's emotions, could see the unrest beneath it.

"I don't dispute what you say, Sansa. Yet, where dragons soar in the skies, we must consider this alliance."

"Love," Sansa continued, her tone a mixture of defiance and resignation, "should be the foundation of such unions, not political convenience. Our ancestors, beneath the heart tree in Winterfell, did they not pledge their troths in the name of love, honor, and duty?"

"Aye, Sansa." Cregan, his expression unwavering, acknowledged Sansa's sentiments. "But these are different times. Love, as noble as it may be, often takes a backseat to the demands of the hour."

"There is more to this than a mere alliance." Sansa, though comforted by Cregan's steadiness, countered with a resolute stance. "You think it too."

Her resolute stance unwavering as she met Cregan's gaze. In the muted glow of the chamber, where shadows clung to the stone walls, Sansa's eyes held a glint of determination that mirrored the Northern steel of her ancestors.

"I see that while marriage is the simplest route, there are other means to forge bonds between Houses. Why thrust this now?" Cregan, the steady anchor to Sansa's fervency, acknowledged her observation. Cregan paused, his voice measured, "And that is a question I cannot answer."

The Stark siblings, now standing on the precipice of decisions that would shape the destiny of House Stark, found themselves confronting not only the complications of duty but also the mysteries of the Crown's intentions.

A new day in King's Landing dawned with a crispness that hinted the fresh morn. Sansa and Cregan found themselves walking through the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep, where murmurs chattered in the background. The sun had awoken the siblings slowly, at least for Sansa. Cregan was still deep in slumber when she barged down inside his chambers and pulled the blanket out of his grasp to wake him. He had unintentionally called her a witch for doing so and Sansa paid it no mind for it happened a lot ever since they were children. Now dressed and less grumpy, they made their way through the bustling corridors, when a messenger approached Cregan with a summons from the Crown. It was an invitation to join Prince Aegon Targaryen on a hunting expedition. 

Cregan never met the first born prince of the crown. He had many rumors, both great and lacking. Some say he was a dutiful prince, charming, adventurous. Some say he was crude, obnoxious, and drunk. The wolf of the north was not a cowardly man and he was dutiful. He accepted the summons and made his way to the courtyard where Prince Aegon awaited, his figure mounted atop a spirited steed. Prince Aegon does not resemble Prince Aemond much, he observed. Maybe if his hair was of the same length as the younger brother, but it falls only right under his chin. It was not silky nor treated as Aemond was, but greasy and rough. He looked less regal than his mother, and he seemed uninterested by this activity more so than Cregan himself. The air was thick with anticipation, and Cregan couldn't shake the feeling that this seemingly casual hunt held a significance beyond the pursuit of game.

"Lord Cregan," Aegon greeted, his words slurred with the remnants of last night's revelry, "Ready for a bit of sport, are we?"

So he is a drunk, Cregan thought,

Cregan, maintaining his stoic demeanor, nodded in response. "Aye, Prince Aegon. A hunt could prove refreshing."

As they rode into the outskirts of the city, nearing the borders of Kingswood, Cregan observed Aegon's demeanor with a discerning eye. The Prince's disposition, however, revealed a less than favorable character. Aegon's behavior, marked by rudeness and a penchant for drink, painted a portrait that contrasted sharply with the regal exterior expected of a Targaryen prince. Despite the uncouth nature of his companion, Cregan kept his cool, navigating the nuances of the hunt with a practiced ease. The conversation flowed in fits and starts, interspersed with Aegon's raucous laughter and slurred remarks.

As the day wore on, Cregan's thoughts turned to the broader implications of the Crown's intentions. In the heart of the forest, where the sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife intermingled with the clatter of hooves, the air was tinged with the earthy scent of the forest, and the duo rode side by side.

"So, Stark," Aegon started, as he leaned back in his saddle with an air of nonchalance. "What's the North like? Cold, I suppose? And filled with your wolves?"

"The North is cold, My Prince. As for the wolves, well, direwolf sightings are rare south of the Wall." Admitted Cregan, "Many lies beyond the wall."

"No wolves for the wolves of winter?" Aegon raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "How tragic. What do you Starks do without your furry companions?"

"My grandsire lived with a large black direwolf he named Shadow for the better part of his life. But, the wolf returned to the wild once his owner passed. Although, not many live near Winterfell anymore, we manage just fine without them. Wolves or no wolves, the North stands strong, and so do the Starks." Cregan shot back.

"No offense, Stark. " Aegon grinned, yet uninterested in the nuances of Northern life, dismissed the comment with a careless wave. "Wolves, Starks, honor—tedious topics, don't you think? I prefer the thrill of the hunt, the feel of blood on my hands."

Cregan, unfazed by Aegon's lack of decorum, retorted with a snarky yet respectful tone, "Ah, the thrill of the hunt. A noble pursuit, indeed. Though in the North, we hunt not just for sport but for sustenance. A different kind of thrill, one that serves a purpose beyond personal satisfaction."

As they rode deeper into the forest, Cregan's observations of Aegon's behavior became increasingly evident. The Prince's lack of honor and respect for the customs that defined the North grated on Cregan's sensibilities.

"Starks and their notions of honor. A pack of wolves, loyal to a fault." Aegon, growing more animated with each passing moment, raised a wineskin to his lips. "Boring, really." 

"Honor may be boring to some, Prince Aegon," Cregan responded, choosing his next words carefully, "but it is the foundation on which the North stands. A foundation that has withstood the test of time."

Aegon found men like Cregan to be tedious beings. What has duty done to this men that they became so proud of flaunting the word so easily? He didn't understand it. He doubt he'll ever understand the meaning of duty. He loved his wine, his women, girls, men, and boys. His mother might tell him otherwise, but he was not meant for the throne. Obnoxious as he was, he was still self-aware that he would be an unfit ruler. The king never really acknowledged him as a son, not really. Aegon, along with Helaena, Aemond, and little Daeron, was simply just there. Duty was lifeless, duty was dull. That was all Aegon could believe in.

Within the confines of the Red Keep, Sansa found herself strongly advised—or rather subtly ordered—to remain within the castle walls. The Queen's suggestion, masked as a genteel invitation, held an unspoken expectations. Sansa was to join Aemond Targaryen for tea, a ploy to weave their relationship. Tea? She came all this way to the heart of the crown so sit and drink tea? A tea with the prince, little Sansa would often came to her mind. No, a tea with a dragon, the present her reminded herself.

She entered the designated chamber, the air hung with the fragrance of steeping tea. Aemond Targaryen awaited, reclining with an air of careless nonchalance. His one-eyed gaze met Sansa's, and his expression still. The cut under the patch looked deep and old. She wondered what could terribly have happened for him to lose his eye. 

"Tea, Lady Sansa? A peculiar choice for a Northern lady." Aemond broke the silence with a brusque greeting.

"One would think dragons prefer a stronger brew. Seems your mother has other plans." Sansa replied with a sardonic smile, undeterred by Aemond's bluntness.

Aemond's gaze, sharp and unyielding, met hers as he took a sip from the delicate teacup. "My mother has her schemes, as do many in this court."

"And so the Prince cuts to the chase." Sansa, her wit undiminished, lifted her own cup, swirling the tea within. "Alliances, the lifeblood of the realm, is it not? A marriage here, a cup of tea there. All in the name of unity."

Aemond, unaccustomed to Sansa's dry humor, raised an eyebrow. "Unity is a fragile thing. It requires delicate handling, like this porcelain teacup, for example."

Sansa's laughter echoed through the chamber, a melodic sound that cut through the tension. "Yet, I've heard dragons prefer a more direct approach. Fire and blood, If i'm correct?"

"Fire and blood have their place. But sometimes, a cup of tea can be just as effective." Aemond's expression shifted, a flicker of amusement playing on his features. He leaned back with an air of indifference, remarked, "You Starks are a curious bunch. Wolves, honor, and now tea. What's next? A poetry recital in the godswood?"

"Perhaps, My Prince. Though, I fear your dragons might find the verses lacking in fire." Sansa, ever quick-witted, retorted, "But, as to remind you once more, your mother chose this activity."

"Ah, my mother's choices." Aemond clicked his tongue, "Tea, poetry, all part of a grand design."

Sansa, sipping her tea with an air of grace, nodded in agreement. "Where even a cup of tea carries the weight of alliances."

"Alliances, Lady,"Aemond, though initially brusque, found himself drawn into the banter. "can be forged in the oddest of places. Even amidst verses and teacups."

Sansa's laughter, a melodic sound that echoed through the chamber, filled the air. "And so, we find ourselves here—two unlikely allies bound by a cup of tea."

As the tea was poured and the tension in the room simmered, Aemond and Sansa sat with a blend of sarcasm and candor. The tea, though steeped in tradition, became a vessel for the forging alliances in a realm where dragons soared and wolves tread carefully in their shadows. Aemond hadn't really looked at her the first time they met when she arrived the day before. She was taller than most ladies he's met, but still a good few inches under him. Her sitting posture was almost as perfect as his mother. She grew up with decorum then, he observed. Her hair a shade or auburn he never seen before, deep in some parts, vibrant in places when the sun touched her head. She was anything but ugly and he would be a fool to think otherwise.

"I do not wish to be promised to you, My Prince." Sansa admitted quite bluntly. She was always too honest for her own good. "And I don't doubt that you are as displeased about this union as I am."

"Honesty, a rare trait in this court." Aemond replied, regarded Sansa with a raised eyebrow, "How do you know I am displeased with this union?"

Sansa almost rolled her eyes at his question. Was he truly taking her as a fool?

"Three sips I've taken of this tea and you have not once asked me anything regarding my interests." Sansa answered as a matter of factly, "That could be offensive to a lady, My Prince."

"I meant no offense." Aemond answered callously.

"I'm sure you didn't." Sansa retorted with similar disdain in her voice, looking out into the garden instead of him.

His finger touched the spoon of his tea, moving it aimlessly, before admitting, "I have my own misgivings about this union."

"It seems we are pawns in a game played by others."

"I did not expect to find common ground with a Stark." Aemond, his expression reflecting a mix of resignation and understanding, nodded in agreement. Sansa did not answer immediately and Aemond noticed her bemused expression, "No flattery intended. Just an acknowledgment that agreements are found in the unlikeliest of places."

"An acknowledgment or a resignation?" Sansa, her demeanor retaining a hint of skepticism, raised an eyebrow. "Will you even enjoy being wedded to a Stark?"

Aemond, his one-eyed gaze steady, replied, "It seems we have little choice."

From afar, Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower observed the unfolding scene in the chamber, where Sansa and Aemond engaged in a conversation that hinted at the complexities of their newfound alliance. Sansa, ever perceptive, noticed the scrutinizing gaze of their audience.

"They are watching us," she stated, her tone tinged with a blend of sarcasm and amusement.

Without looking at where Sansa was gazing, Aemond, his expression unreadable, said, "The puppeteers overseeing their players."

Sansa, taken aback by the bluntness of Aemond's observation, glanced at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. The term "puppeteers" held a weight of implication, and she couldn't help but wonder at the underlying sentiments behind Aemond's words.

"Was that what you were thinking?" Aemond asked Sansa candidly, his one-eyed gaze fixed on her.

Sansa took her eyes off him, and with a subtle shift in her demeanor. Aemond, acknowledging her silence with a smirk, observed as she subtly changed the subject.

"I wish to return to my chambers," she declared, her tone carrying a hint of weariness. "I'm feeling sickly after the long hours we spent on horseback as we journeyed here, My Prince."

Aemond, though perceptive, chose not to press further. "As you wish, Lady Sansa."

As she exited the chamber, Sansa's excuse lingered in the air—a subtle deflection that allowed her to retreat from the scrutiny of both the puppeteers and the puppeted.

ONE. | masterlist | next

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The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape as the five days of tourneys concluded, leaving behind the excitement and anticipation. The banners of various houses fluttered in the breeze, their colors vivid against the backdrop of the rolling hills surrounding the castle.

Sansa, adorned in a gown of deep silver, stood on the balcony of her chamber, watching as the last sounds of the cheering crowd faded into the distance. The tourneys had been a spectacle, a grand display of skill and pageantry, all in celebration of her union with Prince Aemond. The armored knights, clash of swords, and the roar of the crowd had filled the days with a vibrant energy.

However, Sansa found herself absent from much of the excitement. The maester and Aemond, with a shared concern for her well-being, had insisted on her absence during the second, third, and fourth days of the tournaments. It left her feeling like a spectator in her own celebration.

The balcony offered a view of the courtyard below, now filled with knights preparing to depart for the hunting grounds. The two days of hunting that remained were the continuation of their wedding ceremony. It was a quieter affair, a respite from the clamor of the jousts and melees. She couldn't help but wonder if her brother's departure after the wedding had cast a shadow on her enjoyment of the events.

Perhaps, she mused, the tourneys would have been more enjoyable if she had someone to share in the excitement. Her brother, Cregan, had left immediately, leaving her without a familiar companion to engage in the festivities. She imagined the joy they could have found in cheering for their favorite competitors, in jesting about the exaggerated gallantry of the knights, and in sharing laughter amid the grandeur.

As Sansa descended the staircase, she pondered the importance of these traditions. Is this truly needed? The tourneys, the hunting, the elaborate feasts—all in the name of a marriage. It seemed an excess of tradition that she was learning to get used to. 

The ride to the hunting grounds was swift, the horse's hooves walked through the quiet countryside. The hunting grounds came into view, a sprawling expanse of woods and fields, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun. The air carried the scent of pine and damp earth, opposite to the perfumed atmosphere of the castle. The hunting party assembled, a small entourage of knights and ladies, each mounted on horseback, ready for the peaceful pursuit of game.

Sansa’s gown contrasted the earthy tones of the landscape as she found herself at the center of the group. She couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that the elaborate festivities were drawing to a close. The weight of tradition, the expectations, and the scrutiny from the court had made her yearn for a semblance of normalcy. The hunting expedition promised a respite from the constraints of formalities, offering a chance to breathe and find solace in the simplicity of nature.

As they approached the camps, Sansa's gaze lingered on the landscape passing by. The autumn leaves crunched beneath the horses' hooves, a symphony of nature accompanying their journey. Beside her, Prince Aemond rode in stoic silence, his demeanor regal and reserved.

The air outside the tent was cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the feast that seemed to linger on Sansa's skin. The festivities, with their endless array of food and ceremonial customs, had left her feeling slightly claustrophobic. As she stepped into the shared tent, she couldn't help but be reminded of the expectations that came with being a princess consort—endless banquets and feasts that felt more like endurance tests than celebrations.

Sansa was quick to take advantage of the solitude in the tent. Aemond had not yet joined her, affording her a moment to shed the trappings of formality that clung to her like a second skin. The leather belt adorned with the Stark sigil felt both familiar and foreign against her Targaryen identity. With a subtle gesture, she tucked it away, concealing the emblem of her past in favor of the present.

She moved with practiced efficiency, exchanging the layered gowns for practical hunting attire. The rustle of fabric echoed within the confines of the tent as she adjusted her attire, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows on the canvas walls. Just as she finished lacing up her boots, the entrance to the tent rustled, and Aemond walked in without so much as a warning. Sansa startled at his sudden appearance, surprise evident on her face as she turned to face him.

"What are you doing?" Aemond's voice, though calm, held a note of authority.

Sansa, momentarily flustered, stammered, "How long have you been standing there?!"

Aemond's gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, his tone firm.

"My hunting gear," she replied, her eyes meeting him with a hint of challenge. Sansa straightened, her chin lifting defiantly. 

"You are to stay here." Aemond declared, his tone brooking no argument.

"What? No," Sansa retorted, her brows furrowing in disbelief. The notion of being confined to the tent while the hunt unfolded outside clashed with her desire for agency and independence. The tent suddenly felt too small.

"It is not fitting for a princess to engage in such activities." Aemond's expression hardened, the subtle furrow of his brow betraying his disapproval. "It is unseemly."

Sansa scoffed at the notion, her frustration evident.

"I have no interest in conforming to your idea of 'seemly.' I am fully capable of participating in the hunt, and I will not be relegated to the role of a spectator in my own wedding event."

Aemond's gaze bore into hers, the clash of wills in the confined space of the tent. Sansa, clad in her hunting gear with the Stark sigil discreetly tucked away, stood her ground. While, Aemond sought to assert his authority.

"I am your husband, and it is my duty to ensure your safety," Aemond stated, his tone unwavering.

"While I appreciate your concern, husband," Sansa took a step forward, her eyes narrowing in determination, "I will not be shackled by outdated notions of what a princess should or should not do."

A tense silence enveloped the tent as they faced each other, the clash of their convictions in the air. Her mind raced back to Winterfell, where hunting was a cherished pastime. She reminisced about the days when her brother would take her into the woods, their laughter mingling with the winds and leaves. The contrast of her current situation struck a chord within her, and she couldn't help but defy it. 

"Back in Winterfell, my brother would take me hunting." She explained, a wistful note in her voice.

"This is not Winterfell," Aemond stated, his tone firm.

"I very well know this is not Winterfell," she replied, her voice tinged with defiance. "But that doesn't mean I should be confined to a tent, caged like a bird."

Aemond's expression softened slightly, the lines of his face betraying a conflict of duty and the undeniable spark of admiration for Sansa's resilience.

"You ride with me." Aemond demanded, as a hesitant declaration of agreeing with her, "Do not leave my side, understood?"

She nodded in agreement, the tension between them momentarily easing.

"Understood," she replied, her voice carrying a sense of determination. 

As they exited the tent together, the air outside was filled with the sounds of preparation for the hunt. The scent of the forest and the excitement of the upcoming expedition enveloped them. Sansa adjusted the grip on her hunting gear, the leather-clad handle of the Stark sigil hidden beneath her cloak.

Aemond, mounted on his horse, extended a look to Sansa as she approached. She then mounted on her horse and felt a mix of excitement and uncertainty. She was not a seasoned fighter, her skills limited to a decent proficiency with a bow and arrow. The weight of a sword was unfamiliar in her hands, and the memories of her brother hunting expeditions at Winterfell were distant memories of a simpler time. She had never been the one to wield the weapon, never the one to end a creature's life. The prospect of doing so now, under Aemond's watchful eyes, left her grappling with an unfamiliar sense of unease.

As they rode towards the hunting grounds, Sansa couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. In that moment, riding alongside her husband, she was not a passive observer but an active participant in the unfolding events of her own life. The rhythmic hoofbeats of horses echoed through the air, following the winding trails of a majestic stag.

Sansa's gaze shifted to Aemond, his presence commanding beside her. She stayed close to him, not only for guidance but also out of command. The horse beneath her moved with a steady grace, carrying her through the dense woods in pursuit of their prey.

As they rode, the sounds of laughter and camaraderie filled the air, the men and lords in the hunting party regaling each other with tales of the recent tourneys and the copious amounts of wine that had flowed in celebration. Their voices formed a backdrop of joviality, quite contradictory to the quietness that enveloped Sansa and Aemond.

Sansa stole a glance at the prince, his profile stoic against the backdrop of the forest. The silence between them was untouched by the banter of the others. At times, the hunting party would pause, waiting for a sign of their prey. The rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird served as cues, and then they would resume their pursuit. Aemond's gaze, sharp and focused, scanned the surroundings, his posture exuding a confidence that Sansa found both reassuring and isolating.

It seemed that the trajectory she had hoped for in her relationship with Aemond was veering off course. The memory of their conversations in King's Landing, the laughter shared during the days of their betrothal, felt so very different to them now being married. Sansa had initially mistaken the moments of camaraderie and shared concern, such as Aemond tending to her after the heatstroke, as glimpses into a potential friendship. Yet, as they delved into married life, the camaraderie dwindled, giving way to a pervasive silence and a halfheartedness that lingered.

At times, the atmosphere would thaw, a semblance of a married couple emerging in shared glances or brief exchanges. But these moments were fleeting, swallowed by the weight of the unspoken, the hostilities that seemed to cast a pall over their interactions. Sansa's mind drifted to the times when they had spoken more freely, when the prospect of friendship between them felt tangible. Now, the forest seemed to witness with the silence as each step served as a reminder of the distance between them.

As the hunt progressed, she couldn't help but wonder if this was the reality of their union—a marriage of duty and tradition, devoid of the friendship she had hoped for. The realization settled like a heavy stone in her chest.

"Do you wish to speak, wife?" Aemond's voice held a trace of curiosity, a flicker of acknowledgment that their shared silence had not gone unnoticed.

The exchange hung in the air like a thread waiting to be pulled. Sansa glanced at Aemond, his profile stoic against the backdrop of the forest. His words had cut through the silence, a subtle invitation or perhaps a challenge to break the barrier that had settled between them. She considered the question.

"Not at all, husband," she replied, mimicking his tone with a small quirk of her lips. "I am perfectly content with silence."

Aemond's hands held the reins loosely, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. The rhythmic sound of hooves on the forest floor created a backdrop to the unspoken conversation that unfolded between them.

"Better speak now before my exhaustion gets the best of me," Aemond remarked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Sansa arched an eyebrow, meeting his challenge. "Why do you think I'd have anything to say at this moment?"

"Because you are too silent," Aemond replied, before he finally turned to look at her, his gaze unwavering. "And you always have something to say."

A beat of silence hung between them, the tension crackling in the air. Sansa felt the weight of his observation, the truth that lingered in his words. A part of her yearned to unravel the complexities that lay beneath the surface, to bridge the gap that had widened since their marriage.

She took a deep breath, considering her response carefully. 

"Perhaps I'm waiting for you to say something first," she quipped, a playful glint in her eyes.

Aemond turned to look at her, a hint of surprise in his expression. The air seemed to shift, a subtle easing of the guarded tension that had defined their interactions. The forest around them held its breath, as if awaiting the next chapter of a story that remained unwritten.

The exchange between Sansa and Aemond held a momentary pause, a delicate thread connecting them in the quiet understanding of shared words. The forest seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the next turn in their conversation.

"And I have," Aemond pointed out, his gaze steady on Sansa.

She acknowledged, a subtle nod betraying her thoughts. Their conversation, however, was abruptly interrupted as Ser Lyonel, one of the knights in their company, halted the procession. A murmur of excitement and anticipation rippled through the hunting party as the reason for the pause became apparent—a sighting of a stag.

Aemond's eyes quickly focused on the majestic creature, and without a word, he dismounted his horse. Sansa followed suit, her movements mirroring his. The rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds formed a natural symphony as Aemond readied himself for the hunt. Sansa watched him, noting the grace with which he moved, the focused intensity in his eyes. The stag, a symbol of the hunt and the chase, stood as a testament to the ebb and flow of nature and life.

The air buzzed with anticipation as Aemond, silent and determined, began to track the stag. Sansa stood beside him, her gaze fixed on the unfolding scene. The forest held its breath once more, as the prince and his princess consort ventured deeper into the woods.

The forest had been silent as they returned from the first day of hunting, the elusive stag proving to be the lone prize of the day. The evening shadows cast long as they entered their shared tent. The tent offered no walls of separation—no sanctuary of privacy. The changing area, the bed, and the bath were all confined within one section. Sansa and Aemond stood in the confined space, a noticeable distance between them.

The scent of sweat clung to Sansa, a testament to the day's endeavors. A bath had been prepared for them, and the prospect of soaking away the grime was inviting. Yet, the lack of privacy presented a dilemma. She hesitated, her eyes glancing at the bath, then to Aemond.

With a slight turn towards him, she gathered the courage to speak, "Would I... be allowed some privacy?"

"To bathe?" Aemond asked, his gaze meeting hers. She nodded, the request hanging in the air. "I can't go outside; the men are still out there," he explained with a sigh. "It would be strange for a husband to leave the room because his wife is bathing."

Sansa bit her tongue, realizing the impracticality of her request. Aemond, in a show of understanding, turned around, giving her his back, and began changing himself. Despite the physical proximity, there was an acknowledgment of boundaries. As Aemond averted his gaze, Sansa hesitated for a moment before starting to strip her clothes. The notion of being exposed before her husband felt foreign and unnerving. She moved quickly, changing into her hunting gear with a sense of urgency.

"I will also take a bath," Aemond declared, still with his back turned, his focus on his own preparations. 

"There is only one tub," she informed him, her voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.

"I'm aware," he replied calmly. "You dive in first, cover yourself if you must. I will join you once you are under the water."

A practical solution to the shared space and the need for privacy. Sansa, now in her nakedness, hands covering her front even if Aemond could not look at her, approached the tub. She hesitated for a moment, then immersed herself in the warm water, the surface providing a shield of modesty. Wrapped in the folds of the warm water, she used the soap to create a foamy shield, providing herself a makeshift cloak of coverage. Her knees were drawn to her chest, a subtle attempt to preserve a sense of modesty in the confined space.

"You may enter," she called out to Aemond, her eyes fixed on the water as she awaited his presence. 

As he turned around, Sansa kept her gaze focused downward, avoiding any inadvertent glances at his private parts. Aemond approached the tub without hesitation, his movements deliberate. Sansa could sense his presence as he immersed himself in the water on the opposite side of the tub. The confines of the tub were not designed for two people with long limbs, and a subtle awkwardness settled between them.

As the warmth of the water embraced Aemond in the small tub, his gaze involuntarily shifted to Sansa. The candlelight painted a delicate glow on her figure—half of her hair dipped in the water, her arms snaking around her body in an attempt to cover herself. In this vulnerable moment, her skin seemed porcelain, untouched.

It was a markedly different scene from the Sansa he had known in public. The vulnerability she exhibited in the water made her appear smaller, more delicate than ever before. The thought crossed his mind once more—she was undeniably beautiful. This glimpse into her vulnerability, different from the confident facade she often wore, evoked memories of their wedding night. He recalled the moment when she had been timid, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes before he had stopped her undressing.

The confines of the small tub offered little room for maneuvering, and she couldn't help but notice the intimate proximity between the two. Their feet bumped into each other, a subtle reminder of the closeness that this shared bath demanded. It was a situation unlike any she had experienced before.

The water, warm and soothing, seemed to carry with it an unspoken understanding of the vulnerability that came with this shared moment. Her knees drawn to her chest, while Aemond washed his arms and back with the water. The silence that enveloped them was broken by Aemond's observation.

"It is not a sin to look at your husband bathing," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Sansa remained fixed in her position, her gaze still averted downward. 

"I am not accustomed to it yet," she admitted, the honesty in her words tinged with a hint of vulnerability. The air between them seemed to hold a quiet acknowledgment of the unfamiliarity that defined this moment.

Aemond continued with his bath, the water rippling around him. Sansa gathered her strength and looked up at Aemond, the water creating a subtle barrier between them. The vulnerability of the moment allowed Sansa to observe these details more closely. She saw his physique was toned, a testament to his regular training, yet not so muscular as to be overwhelming. The light from the candle accentuated the contours of his form. Her gaze traced the light hairs on his arms, noting their length and texture. A small scar above his collarbone caught her attention, and old one—perhaps it was because of the long hours of sword training. It spoke of dedication and discipline, the result of long hours spent with a sword in hand.

As her eyes moved to the eyepatch covering his left eye, she couldn't help but notice he still had it on even when he's bathing. The more prominent scar that seemed to emerge from beneath the patch, etched into the skin, drew a subtle line across his face. However, the eyepatch was an old one that he used even before he met her, not the one she had crafted for him as a gift. Had he opened the gift at all? Did he know it was an eyepatch? Why hadn't he chosen to wear it?

"Do you always bathe with it on?" she asked, her gaze flickering to the eyepatch that concealed Aemond's, then, violet eye.

His movements halted at the unexpected question. It wasn't something he anticipated, but perhaps he should have. The eyepatch was a part of him, a symbol of a private realm he hadn't been used to sharing.

"Similar to you," he began, choosing his words carefully, "I've also not been accustomed to share what I deem private."

Sansa, undeterred, pressed on with her genuine curiosity. 

"Is it truly sapphire?" she inquired, a question rarely posed to Aemond. People tended to avoid discussing his eye, and the last time a lady had asked, he had responded so fiercely that she couldn't meet his gaze afterward. But with Sansa, the atmosphere felt different. There was a comfort in her presence, a willingness to engage in conversations untouched by offense. Though, because he didn’t answer immediately, it made her shift in her seat from nervousness, “Did I offend you?”

“Do you mean to offend me?”

“No.” She answered immediately, her voice lowering down.

“Then, I am not offended.” Aemond confirmed the admission, a rare departure from the guarded persona he usually maintained. "It is sapphire." 

Sansa continued, revealing a tidbit she had picked up from the maids. "The maids think you picked a sapphire to give yourself the power to see beyond time."

Aemond raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the maids' imaginative interpretation. 

"What do you think?" he asked, leaning forward, a hand on the side of the tub. Sansa, feeling smaller now, unconsciously tried to retreat further, inadvertently bringing them closer. Thighs touched, but neither of them seemed to mind.

"I think," Sansa began, her eyes meeting his, "it's simply because you cannot find an amethyst to match your violet eye."

Aemond, taken aback by the unexpected answer, found himself chuckling. 

"Well, is it?" Sansa asked, a smile playing on her lips.

"No," Aemond replied, shaking his head. His own smile, though smaller, mirrored the amusement in her expression. "The price is the main reason. Rarity second."

Sansa nodded, the playful exchange lightening the atmosphere. "Of course."

Aemond leaned back in the tub, a chuckle escaping him. "But the next time someone asks me why sapphires," he said, pointing a finger at Sansa with humor, "I shall tell them, I cannot find myself an amethyst to match my eye."

Sansa's laughter, a delicate sound in the confined space, greeted him. What music to his ears. The shared moment felt like a respite from the formalities that had defined their interactions. How strange it was that laughter could bridge the gap between two people who, just an hour ago, had been so quiet that an observer might mistake them for being mute. It was a rare moment of shared amusement, a fleeting glimpse into what their union would be like had they not been so hostile towards one another. The water rippled around them, carrying with it the intimacy of an enjoyable conversation.

The quiet moments within the small tub passed without much conversation, a surprising tranquility settling between them after the exchange about Aemond's sapphire eye. The air felt different, more comfortable, as the shared laughter and the vulnerability they had revealed forged a subtle connection.

As the bath neared its end, Sansa finished bathing and waited for Aemond to stand up first, a subtle hesitation in her eyes. Recognizing her discomfort, Aemond rose from the water first, granting her the space to stand without feeling observed. He moved to grab a towel to wrap around his waist, and a second towel in his hand was extended toward Sansa.

He opened the towel, standing next to the tub, silently indicating that she should stand so he could wrap it around her. The hesitation in her eyes lingered, the reluctance to reveal her bareness apparent. To offer her a moment of privacy, Aemond turned his head, presenting the side of his eyepatch, and she stood up, taking the towel from him to wrap it around her body.

They dressed themselves in the nightwear and found themselves on opposite sides of the tent, mirroring the way they had undressed for the bath. The fabric of the nightgown clung to Sansa's frame, a contrast to the vulnerability she had shown moments earlier. The air, now filled with the scent of the bathwater and the night outside continued its quiet symphony.

The silence persisted as Sansa and Aemond walked towards their shared bed, the smaller counterpart to the one in the keep. Each step felt like a tiptoe, an unspoken acknowledgment of the unfamiliarity that lingered in the air. Sansa stole a glance at Aemond, observing as he opened the covers of the bed and dropped down without hesitation. She followed suit, her movements slower, more deliberate. Once both were laid on the mattress, the awkward silence settled between them like a heavy fog, their arms almost touching, their body heat mingling. Sansa felt the weight of the silence, a palpable presence that hung in the air.

"Would you prefer it if I sleep on the floor?" Aemond's voice cut through the quiet, his gaze meeting hers in the dim light.

"Not at all." Sansa replied, her voice carrying both an uncertain and gentle assurance. 

With Sansa's reply, Aemond turned sideways, his back now facing her, as he attempted to find sleep. The dip in the bed prompted Sansa to mirror his actions, turning her body sideways so that her back faced him. They lay side by side, separated by more than just the physical space of the bed. The night pressed on, and as it deepened, a chill settled into the air. Sansa, accustomed to the cold of Winterfell, found herself feeling the bite more keenly. The nightgown she wore was thinner than the ones she was used to in the North, and the blanket covering the two of them lacked the comforting lining of fur. A subtle shiver ran through her, but she fought to keep it contained. The bed, small and shared, amplified every movement, and she hesitated to disturb the fragile peace between them. Aemond, too, felt the cold, but his layered nightwear provided more insulation. On top of that, his pride kept him from showing any sign of discomfort.

In the quiet of the tent, the cold became an unspoken adversary, weaving its way through the fabric of the night. The silence was now accompanied by the soft sounds of their breaths, the shared warmth of the bed offering a fragile sanctuary against the encroaching cold.

As the night stretched on, Sansa and Aemond navigated the uncharted waters of shared discomfort, each breath and movement a quiet acknowledgment of the challenges that came with their newly forged union. The night held its secrets, and within the confines of the small bed, the chill in the air seemed to mirror the complexities of their arrangement. Aemond, sensing Sansa's shivers, took a bundle of the scant blanket covering him and gently placed it on top of her. She immediately rose up, declining the gesture.

"No, please. The night is only going to grow colder; you must cover yourself," Sansa insisted, pushing the covers back onto him.

Aemond let her place the covers on top of him, observing as she settled back into her previous position, now slightly further apart. It was clear she was shivering. He sighed and lay down once more, this time turning to face her. He raised his arm, intending to offer her warmth, and his fingertips lightly touched Sansa's bare elbow. She jolted, sitting up more abruptly than before, and turned to look at him. Aemond only remained silent, his fingers still in contact with her elbow.

"You're shivering." He finally stated.

"And?" Sansa replied, not grasping his intention.

"Come closer," he urged, his hand now fully on her elbow, gently pulling her toward him. "It's best to fight the cold with our heat."

Sansa hesitated, her initial instinct to pull away evident on her face. But Aemond held his ground, his hand remaining on her elbow.

"I am fin-"

"Sansa." he softly pleaded.

Sansa. He had uttered her name before, but never just her name. He would often address her as lady sansa and wife after they married. But, never just Sansa. After a moment's hesitation, she finally agreed and moved her back to lay back down. Perhaps it was the tone of his voice as he uttered her name, perhaps it's her exhaustion of the long day, but alas, she succumbed to the compromise. Aemond's hands moved from her elbow to her stomach, his touch a blend of gentleness and firmness. He pulled her closer and she shifted in the bed, no longer teetering near the edge. Her back pressed against the front of his chest, and his breath now caressed the back of her neck. It was a closeness that felt unfamiliar, a new territory for Sansa.

Not knowing where to place her hands, she tucked both arms in front of her chest, careful not to touch his. The silence enveloped them, the shared warmth offering a respite from the cold night.

"Better?" Aemond asked in a whisper, his breath tickling the back of her neck. She was grateful that her hair covered a significant portion of it, hummed in response—an indication that this closeness provided more comfort against the cold.

Sansa's scent, different from the perfumes Aemond had encountered in King's Landing, carried a distinct essence. It was a fragrance unfamiliar to him, a scent perhaps born from the northern flowers that differed from those in the southern capital. In truth, Aemond was not immune to nervousness himself, but his outward demeanor had successfully masked it, leaving Sansa unaware of his own uncertainty.

Aemond's hand remained on Sansa's waist and stomach, a tentative touch born out of both uncertainty and a desire to provide comfort. As the moments passed, Sansa's shivers subsided, replaced by the rhythmic pattern of her breathing. The hushed sounds signaled that she had drifted into sleep. He contemplated releasing his hold, considering whether it was the right time to withdraw. Yet, his hand lingered, a silent testament of the quiet intimacy of the night. As Sansa's breathing grew more steady and the night unfolded its mysteries, Aemond, too, succumbed to the embrace of deep slumber. Perhaps this might be one of, if not, the fastest he had fallen asleep.

EIGHT. | masterlist | previous | next

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The third day in King's Landing dawned with a heavy silence lingering between Sansa and Aemond. The unspoken tension from the Dragonpit visit continued to cast its shadow, creating a palpable distance between the Stark lady and the Targaryen prince.

Sansa, adorned in the stark contrast of Northern furs, and Aemond, with the unmistakable dragon sigil, had walked side by side through the corridors of the Red Keep. The absence of conversation weighed on them. Aemond even escorted Sansa back to her chambers. With an echoing silence enveloping them like an invisible shroud, their shared experience in the dragonpit unaddressed.

Up to the point where they reached the entrance to Sansa's chambers, the inevitable pause hung in the air. Aemond, unsure of how to bridge the chasm that had opened up, hesitated at the threshold.

Sansa, glancing at the Targaryen prince, found her voice caught in the web of unspoken thoughts. The dragons, the power they represented, and the undeniable tension of the moment weighed on her, but words eluded her. Aemond, sensing the weight of the silence, finally broke it with a simple nod. No words were exchanged.

Sansa entered her chambers, the heavy door closing behind her. She wasn't aware of this but in truth, Aemond had lingered outside her door. His mind struggle to grapple his empathy for the Lady. He was questioning as to why he was distraught as the sight of her in fear.

The godswood offered Sansa a sanctuary of quiet contemplation. Beneath the towering heart tree, its carved face watching over the sacred grove, Sansa sought solace in the midst of the tumultuous events that unfolded in the Red Keep.

The whispers of the wind through the leaves provided a gentle backdrop to her thoughts. Today, the godswood was not a place of prayer but a haven for introspection. Sansa had woken to the sight of Cregan engaged in conversation with Helaena and the queen, a scene that did not bode well in her eyes.

Sansa had chosen silence, finding refuge in the gnarled roots and the quiet wisdom of the heart tree. The previous day's disagreement with Cregan stayed in her mind. 

As she sat on the cold, moss-covered ground, Sansa's gaze drifted to the carved face of the heart tree. Its eyes, red as blood, seemed to hold ancient secrets and timeless wisdom. Sansa wondered if the gods, Old and New, were watching over them, guiding their paths in this intricate dance of power and politics.

The quietude of the godswood allowed Sansa to reflect on the choices that lay ahead. The proposed union with Aemond, the dragons that now loomed over their lives, and the unspoken tensions within her own family – all these threads converged in the sacred grove.

In the distance, the distant murmur of the city echoed faintly. King's Landing, a city of shadows and ambitions, felt a world away within the tranquility of the godswood. Yet, Sansa knew that the tendrils of politics and power extended even into the heart of the North, intertwining with the roots of Winterfell.

Sansa, composed and resolute after her solitary contemplation in the godswood, stood up and turned to leave. What she did not expect was to find Prince Aemond waiting at the entrance to the castle halls. His figure, bathed in the soft sunlight filtering through the trees, leaned casually against the stone walls. The Targaryen prince appeared unruffled, his stare fixed upon her.

Her expression betraying none of her inner thoughts, approached him with a measured grace. The rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of the Red Keep formed a backdrop to their encounter. Aemond acknowledged her with a nod, violet eye holding a mix of curiosity and a indecision. Sansa, in turn, greeted him with a polite nod of her own.

"Prince Aemond," she said, her voice steady. "Is there something you require, or do you find solace in the godswood as well?"

"I do not pray, Lady Sansa." Aemond's response held a tinge of both honesty and resignation as he admitted, "Mother wishes that I accompany you today."

"We've spent quite long hours with each other yesterday, My Prince." Sansa's reply did not miss a beat.

Aemond, his demeanor a blend of courtesy and reluctance, replied, "I fear she insisted."

Sansa, choosing to be diplomatic, stayed silent, biting back any further comments.

After a moment, she nodded. "Where are we headed then?"

"You have not been to see the coast, if I'm correct?"

Sansa considered his words, a subtle acknowledgment of her unfamiliarity with King's Landing's surroundings.

"That is correct." She finally answered.

Aemond nodded in response to Sansa's acknowledgment. An unspoken agreement to venture towards the coast hung between them, a tacit understanding that this journey, like the others before it, carried layers of significance beyond the mere sightseeing.

Sansa fell into step beside Aemond as they navigated the labyrinthine corridors and winding paths that led them towards the outer edges of King's Landing. The sounds of the bustling city gradually faded, replaced by the distant murmur of waves and the salty tang of sea air.

As they approached the coast, Sansa's eyes, scanning the horizon, caught sight of Vhagar, Aemond's dragon. The memory of the previous day's incident at the dragonpit lingered, and her pace involuntarily slowed. However, Sansa, determined not to show her unease, continued forward, drawing on the reservoirs of resilience that defined the Stark way.

Aemond, attuned to her reactions, matched his steps to hers, offering no comment on the dragon that loomed in the distance. Instead, he tactfully redirected her attention, guiding her gaze towards the vast expanse of Blackwater Bay. The rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore replaced the heavy beating of dragon wings in the air.

"It's a different kind of beauty, isn't it?" Aemond said, his tone carrying a soothing cadence. "The sea has a way of calming the chaos of the city, even if just for a moment."

Sansa, appreciating the effort to shift her focus, nodded in agreement. Gazing out over the vastness of Blackwater Bay, contemplated Aemond's inquiry. The gentle lapping of waves against the shore provided a comforting backdrop to their conversation.

"It's different from the North," she replied, her words measured. Aemond's single eye focused on her, awaiting further elucidation.

"A good different, I hope," he added, seeking a glimpse into her perspective.

Sansa's gaze lingered on the horizon, where the city met the sea.

"Different doesn't always mean better or worse. It's simply... different. The North has its own beauty, the kind that's shaped by snow-covered landscapes and ancient trees. Here, the beauty lies in the clash of city life against the tranquility of the water." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's a delicate balance, but one that I'm still learning to appreciate."

"And by the time you've appreciated the balance, will you put forth your hand for me take?" Aemond's bluntness have finally presented itself once again

"You and I both know, it is not you that wish to take my hand, My Prince," she asserted, meeting his gaze evenly. "It is your queen."

Sansa's response held a subtle edge, of acknowledgment of Queen Alicent's role in orchestrating their alliance. Sansa's words, though diplomatic, hinted at an awareness of the political machinations. Aemond, for a moment, regarded her with a thoughtful expression.

Aemond thought of ways to answer her but find himself unable to. Finally, he decided to use a different approach, one he had never done before.

"Shall I tell my mother to betrothed herself to you instead?" Aemond's response was one she hadn't heard before from him.

Aemond's attempt at humor, suggesting his mother betroth herself to Sansa, elicited a response he hadn't anticipated. Sansa, contrary to expectations, offered a subtle smile, and a quiet laughter escaped her lips. The momentary levity broke the tension that had lingered between them, if only for a fleeting moment.

"Your mother and I might make a strong impression, My Prince," Sansa replied, her smile lingering. "But, I fear the realm might not be ready for such a groundbreaking union."

Aemond, though caught off guard by Sansa's unexpected reaction, found himself reciprocating the smile. It was a brief interlude of shared amusement, a small respite in the midst of the political intricacies that surrounded them.

Their heartwarming conversation was soon disrupted when Vhagar shifted in her sleep, a sign she had woken up from her slumber. Because of the sheer size of her built, Sansa quickly turned her face towards the dragon, and he feet involuntarily stepped back. Her face dropped once more, unable to keep her composure even if she tried her best to. Aemond, quick immediate to notice her panic, tried to settle her anxiousness.

"Do not be alarmed, Lady Sansa." Aemond said, taking a small step closer to her in a subtle protective manner, "She's just in need of a little ride."

Aemond's attempt to comfort Sansa, assuring her that Vhagar merely needed a short flight, was met with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity in Sansa's eyes. Despite her best efforts to maintain composure, the sheer size and power of the dragon left an indelible impression on her.

"Ride?" Sansa echoed, her gaze fixed on Vhagar. The thought of mounting such a majestic and fearsome creature seemed both exhilarating and terrifying.

Aemond, recognizing her unease, continued, "Would you care to join me for a short flight along the coast? It might help soothe the nerve–"

"Are you mad?!" Sansa almost shouted, her eyes wide open. "I will not!"

"You will not?" Aemond's question indicated a small hint of curiosity.

Sansa stayed silent and stood her ground. Acknowledging her decision, Aemond suppressed the smile that tugged at his lips, keeping his thoughts to himself. Her resolute stance only added to the allure she presented—a beauty entwined with strength and defiance. There was a subtle admiration in Aemond's eyes as he regarded Sansa.

He found himself captivated by this unguarded side of her, stripped of the usual veneer of poise and pride. In the midst of the coastal winds, with her hair gently tousled and a hint of vulnerability coloring her features, she stood not as the Lady of Winterfell, but simply as Sansa. An intrusive and unfamiliar realization lingered in Aemond's thoughts, a beauty that unfolded before him.

She looks beautiful, his mind betrayed him.

No, no, no. She was a mission. A lady to woo, that is all. Another task to make his mother proud, that is all.

But, still, she looks beautiful.

"Perhaps a walk along the coast then?" Aemond suggested, steering the conversation away from dragons, offering a compromise that might provide a more comforting experience for Sansa.

"Yes," Sansa replied in haste, fixing the strands of hair that fell from her braid, "That would very much be to my liking, My Prince."

"I sure hope it is, Lady Sansa."

Veering away from the dragons and embracing the simplicity of the moment, they strolled along the coast, the conversation wove between the familiar and the unknown, forging a connection that neither of them had wanted in the first place.

As the pair reentered the Red Keep, an air of serene companionship enveloped them, dissolving the lingering hostility that had marked their initial interactions. In the hushed corridors of the castle, a content silence prevailed, and as they reached the threshold, the pair bid each other farewell, parting ways to their respective chambers.

Unbeknownst to Sansa, the watchful eyes of Cregan, her vigilant brother, observed the subtle transformation in their dynamic. Stealthily trailing behind her.

"That is not a look of a displeased Lady." he whispered into her ear as they approached the guest chamber, his voice a ghostly murmur that only she could discern.

"Gods!" Sansa let out a small screech, shocked at the sudden appearance of her brother, "You—do not make me cross, Cregan."

Cregan chuckled at Sansa's startled reaction, his voice holding a teasing tone. "Apologies, dear sister. I couldn't help but notice you seemed... not entirely irked by the presence of the dragon prince."

"Don't be ridiculous, Cregan." Sansa shot him a glare, trying to conceal the subtle warmth that lingered from the encounter. "My feelings on this matter have not changed."

"Merely an observation, dear sister. It seems the dragon prince has a peculiar effect on you." Cregan chuckled, a mischievous glint in his gaze. 

"And you have a peculiar talent for sneaking up on people." Sansa shot him a scornful glance. 

Cregan's laughter echoed through the corridor as they continued their journey to the guest chambers. He continued to revel in his sister's discomfort, reveling in the opportunity to tease her about her interaction with the dragon prince. 

Before Cregan could get another word in, Sansa beat him to it as she turned around and pointed a finger at him, "And also, I do not have an 'effect' from the dragon prince or anyone else, for that matter. It was a mere stroll along the coast."

"Ah!" Cregan's grin widened, his amusement evident. "A 'stroll' that left you looking like you've seen a ghost, Sansa. Perhaps the dragons had more of an effect than you'd like to admit."

"You read too much into things, Cregan." Sansa rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance. "It was a walk, nothing more."

Cregan's eyes softened, and the playful tone in his jest transformed into genuine warmth.

"You smiled," he observed, his words carrying a sincerity that Sansa rarely witnessed.

Confused, Sansa questioned, "What?"

"He was the first man that you smiled to," Cregan confessed. His smile, once mischievous, had now evolved into a gentler expression. "The first man, out of all the many suitors who vied for your hand."

Sansa, taken aback by her brother's perceptiveness, struggled to comprehend his words.

Cregan interjected with a reassuring smile. "It's not a jest, Sansa. I've seen the pair of you."

Sansa, still grappling with the revelation, replied cautiously, "It's courtesy, ployed by his mother."

Cregan's smile persisted, undeterred by Sansa's attempt to dismiss the observation.

"Courtesy can be a mask, Sansa, but sincerity often finds its way through."

"You're giving too much credit to a brief encounter." Sansa, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow as she rebutted him. 

"Sometimes, Sansa," Cregan placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "hearts find their own melody, even in the midst of all these... brief encounters."

Her brother's gaze held an understanding that only a sibling could possess.

Cregan's eyes softened as he spoke, "If he can bring a genuine smile to your face, perhaps through this union, you might learn to grow a liking to his company."

"I thought older brothers were supposed to be protective of their younger sisters." Sansa sighed, her tone changed to a more cordial one, "But from my perspective, it seems you cannot wait to send me away."

Cregan chuckled, his tone lightening, "Protective, yes. Blind to opportunities, no. If this union ensures the prosperity of Winterfell, I might be persuaded to reconsider my stance."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, "So, you're saying my happiness is not a priority?"

"Your happiness, dear sister," Cregan grinned, "may just be a pleasant side effect of a well-played political move. Besides, two more days until I'm to return to Winterfell, and we must have our answer about this union. Time is a luxury we cannot afford."

"Well, Lord Stark," Sansa emphasized on the title which earned a scoff from her brother, "let me bask one last time in this luxury of time we are so scarce of."

"Come on now, little wolf." Cregan nodded, "Your stubbornness will be the death of you."

The day came for the Starks to decide on the proposed union. Sansa sat in the library, surrounded by the musty smell of old books. The quiet in the room allowed her think. Cregan, stuck between family loyalty and smart politics, had already told Sansa his stance. He wanted the union but not if it made Sansa unhappy. He made it clear that the final call was hers, and he'd respect whatever she chose. As he mulled over the situation, a cascade of questions flooded his mind. Was this course of action truly prudent? Could it be safe for Sansa to venture far from the protective embrace of her kin? Within Cregan, a conflict brewed — was it the itch of ambition or the whisper of caution guiding his judgment?

Recollections of their father's solemn oath of loyalty to Rhaenyra echoed in Cregan's mind. Rumors whispered of a less-than-lenient stance from the council regarding the king's choice of heir, a sentiment mirrored by the broader kingdom. Yet, amidst the uncertainty, Cregan affirmed that the ultimate decision rested squarely on Sansa's shoulders.

Sansa was still a lady of duty. She might have wished love to be the basis of marriage, but she was a lady of Winterfell above all, and if her brother believed this to be a strengthening tactic then so be it. But was it for the best? Where they testing their luck? Sansa needed some space from the watchful eyes of the Red Keep, buried herself in scrolls and books. The library gave her privacy, a place to think about the responsibility on her shoulders and what might happen if she said yes. Reading words from scholars and poets of the past, Sansa wondered if the union was worth it. Sure, it would make the North and the Iron Throne closer, but was it too high a price? She couldn't shake off the memory of Aemond's presence, the shared moments that revealed layers beyond the facade of his royal agendas. There was a side to him that undoubtedly intrigued her, yet the prospect of being thrust into a marriage for political gains gnawed at her principles.

Opposed to her wishes to be alone, the library door opened up and a woman bearing the Targaryen locks walked in. Helaena Targaryen entered the library with a graceful stride, her silver hair cascading down like a waterfall of moonlight. Sansa had not spent that much time talking to the princess. She was always occupied with either Aemond or the Queen. 

Sansa, initially immersed in her thoughts, looked up and acknowledged the princess's presence with a nod.

"Good day, Lady Sansa," Helaena greeted warmly, her voice devoid of the customary Targaryen regality. There was an air of approachability about her that Sansa found intriguing.

"Good day, Princess," Sansa replied, setting aside her quill and parchment. "What brings you to the library today?"

Helaena smiled, a gesture that seemed more genuine than courtly. "I often find the most joy amidst books. The tales contained within these shelves offer a reprieve from the difficulty of courtly life. May I join you?"

Sansa gestured to the empty seat across from her. "Of course. I find books to be the best form of comfort as well."

Helaena smiled before continuing, "Aemond would love that."

"Would he?" Sansa raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "I hadn't taken Prince Aemond for a book lover."

Helaena's laughter was melodious. "He may not be as enthusiastic about it as some, but he appreciates a good tale. Aemond has a fondness for histories and stories of knights and dragons. Perhaps not so much for political dramas that often remind him of his own position."

Sansa couldn't help but smile at the thought. "So, a dragon with a taste for stories. How intriguing."

Helaena nodded, her silver hair catching the light as she did. The two ladies delved into a discussion about their favorite tales, Sansa discovered a shared appreciation for the escapism offered by stories. Helaena, despite her Targaryen lineage, seemed to navigate the court with a unique perspective—one that Sansa found both refreshing and comforting. Being more up close with the princess, Sansa couldn't help but observe the princess more closely. Unlike the assertive and domineering personalities often associated with House Targaryen, Helaena seemed an exception. Her demeanor was more akin to a lady from a distant house, and Sansa could almost forget the Targaryen blood that ran through her veins. The silver-haired princess seemed to possess a certain grace and gentleness, the latter quality not often attributed to her house.

Sansa, with a subtle curiosity in her eyes, asked, "You don't carry yourself like the other Targaryens."

Helaena's eyes, previously scanning the words on the book she held, stopped and met Sansa's gaze. For a moment, Sansa thought she might have offended the princess. She was about to apologize when Helaena's expression softened into a genuine smile.

"That is by far the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," Helaena admitted lowly, looking down at her book.

Sansa couldn't help but feel her curiosity increasing more. The princess' presence was simply a breath of fresh air. Helaena stood up, gracefully closing the book in her hand.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, you look like you would spend the rest of your day here. But, I believe my brother is waiting for you outside."

Sansa glanced at the door, realizing that Helaena was right. She caught a glimpse of Prince Aemond standing just outside the library door as Helaena mentioned. Their eyes briefly met, and Sansa noticed a subtle shift in Aemond's demeanor. A departure from the stern prince she had encountered in the past few days. The prince, however, remained outside the library door, patiently waiting for Sansa to emerge. 

Sansa closed her book and rose from her seat, her steps echoing in the quiet library. Walking towards him, he noticed the light coming from the window had made her hair more striking auburn than the last time they met. Her shadow touched the floor and her walk poised. The dress she was wearing was yet another cut of dress she sewed back in Winterfell together with her mother before she died, but he didn't know that. All he knew was that the deep grey was dull in comparison to her hair. Her skin looked paler with no color to bring out her complexions. He didn't know it then. He didn't much like the color nor the cut of it at all. How the neckline stopped right under her collarbones, a perfect view of her neck. He didn't enjoy that sight. He didn't know that this was the last dress her mother touched of hers.

"Lady Sansa." Greeted the prince.

"You were waiting for me, Prince Aemond?"

Aemond inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I thought we might take a walk in the gardens. A moment away from the deliberations might offer some clarity."

Sansa considered his proposal, "And did the queen insisted this as well?"

"She has a particular talent for insisting on matters of importance." Aemond chuckled, breaking the somber atmosphere. "However, this time, it was my suggestion."

It was a lie. It was insisted by his mother. Her grace had invited herself inside his chamber earlier in the morn to remind him that Sansa Stark was, indeed, still inside their home walls. Do not waste time, she said. You are my sweet boy. My dear boy. Aemond would have never said no to his mother's wishes, not even if she did't utter those words. He would do it even without her saying anything. Sansa, oblivious to it, couldn't help but smile at his supposed candor. Although, she attempted to not let him in on the satisfaction, he caught the subtle change of relief on her face. A smile.

"A rare sight, Lady Sansa—a smile." Aemond commented, the side of his own mouth had lifted just slightly.

Sansa, maintaining her composure, replied with a hint of amusement, "Rare, indeed."

As they strolled through the gardens, the vibrant blooms seemed to mirror the situation they found themselves in. Aemond took a deep breath, his gaze wandering over the carefully manicured landscape. The pair wandered deeper into the garden, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, Sansa found herself contemplating whether she should start a conversation or not. This was the day she will decide. The looming decision was both a burden and an opportunity. She had to consider not only the alliance it could forge but the personal implications it carried.

Sansa's gaze shifted to meet his violet eye. There, in the dappled sunlight of the garden, she saw a glimmer of a man she might learn to love, if allowed. It was a fleeting moment of connection, one that spoke of shared apprehensions and the desire for a path less conventional.

"King's Landing is a different world from Winterfell, isn't it?" he remarked, steering her thoughts away, landing her back to reality.

Sansa nodded, her eyes tracing the intricate details of a rosebush. "It is. King's Landing has a certain glamour the North has not seen before. Though it comes with its own set of challenges."

"A clash of worlds," Aemond mused, "much like our potential union."

"A clash or a harmony?" Sansa looked at him, the weight of their conversation returning. "That is the question."

"A choice we both must make," Aemond agreed. "And if I may be honest, Lady Sansa, I would prefer a union founded on understanding rather than obligation."

Sansa appreciated the sincerity in his words. As they continued their walk, Sansa contemplated the significance of his statement. It seemed that, despite the political intricacies, Aemond was seeking a connection that transcended the expectations placed upon them. The decision loomed ahead, and yet, in the quiet moments of the garden, the future felt uncertain yet full of possibilities.

The scent of blooming flowers and the soft rustle of leaves provided a contrasting backdrop to the gravity of their conversation.

"Lady Sansa, I understand the gravity of the choice before you." Aemond spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "My mother's wishes, the ties between our houses, and the expectations that come with it—all these factors complicate matters."

"It is also a choice that will profoundly affect us as individuals. That cannot be overlooked."

"I, too, believe in choices that are true to one's heart. Our houses have expectations, and we are both loyal to a fault, I'm sure."

Sansa took a moment to absorb his words. There was sincerity in Aemond's demeanor, a departure from the expected Targaryen pride. It was sincerity but also surrender. If he believed that choices should be true of one's heart, does it mean he wanted to stop this union? Or does it mean it will not matter because, as he admitted, they are creatures loyal to a fault. He is loyal to his mother, and her to her brother. Will it matter greatly if they do not love? Will it matter greatly is they simply perform their duties, show face, and be done with it?

As Sansa and Aemond entered the council room, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Cregan, seated with an air of authority, exchanged a glance with Sansa, his expression unreadable to anyone else but her. He was nervous she could tell. Tapping his leg on the floor, hand going over his beard every now and then, and his eyes flickering between her and aemond. On the other side of the table, Queen Alicent, ever regal, acknowledged their presence with a nod, while the Hand maintained an air of stoic observance. The hand of the king was someone Sansa could not read. He was always wearing the same mask of formality that never wore down. 

Aemond, with a courteous inclination of his head, took his place among the Targaryens. Sansa, however, remained standing, her posture conveying a blend of poise and uncertainty. The absence of King Viserys, a figurehead whose presence loomed even in his absence, added an extra layer of tension to the proceedings.

"Sansa." Her brother's voice cut through her thoughts, making her move her feet to sit next to him. 

Queen Alicent, her gaze fixed on Sansa, said, "Lord Stark, Lady Sansa, have you reached a decision regarding the proposed union?"

"Your Grace, this decision rests upon my sister, Lady Sansa. She is the one who would wed, and thus, she holds the authority to answer. Whatever choice she makes, I shall align with." Cregan spoke with a measured tone.

Sansa turned to her brother and he gave her a small nod of reassurance before she is to speak. Shifting her gaze, her line of sight fell on the queen's eyes with a mixture of determination and responsibility. She took a breath before she readied herself to speak.

"We have considered the proposition deeply and recognize the potential benefits it may bring to both our houses." Sansa finally spoke. Her words carrying the weight of consideration. The silence that followed underscored the significance of her choice, as the council members awaited her answer. Aemond's stare remained unwavering, a testament to his uncertainty about her choice. Have he tried his best to convince her? Did he even convince her at all? Was he so terrible at being charming that she would refuse the betrothal? Even after days spent next to each other, whether insisted or not, he could not predict what she would decide on. Will he fail his mother for the first time? Will his mother stop calling him her dear boy because he didn't manage to woo the girl? Sansa's line of sight remained on the prince a beat longer, before she finally spoke the words that had the power to reshape their future.

"I will accept the betrothal."

Aemond, unbeknownst to himself, released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His grip on the chair's handle loosened. He finally breathed. The air in the council chamber seemed to shift, the weight of the decision settling upon the gathered figures. Queen Alicent, along with the hand, architects of this marriage pact, concealed their satisfaction behind a regal facade. Cregan turned their attention to Sansa, surprise at the words that would solidify the pact. Was this truly what she wanted? Relieved was what he should have felt but instead came the ache in his heart. This was what he wanted, was it not? The realization that she was to be far from home seeped into him slowly. He would not enjoy home as much without her presence.

"What glorious news," Queen Alicent said, her demeanor transitioning into a facade of warmth, spoke with a practiced smile. "Lady Sansa, Prince Aemond, this union shall bring prosperity to our houses. Congratulations on your betrothal."

"A wise decision indeed, Lady Sansa. House Targaryen and House Stark shall stand united under this alliance. The realm shall benefit from such a match." The Hand, Otto Hightower, joined in the orchestrated congratulations.

Under the table, Cregan took Sansa's hand under his calloused hand and shared  quiet nod with Sansa. A convey of not just acceptance but a silent understanding — an unspoken promise of support in the days to come, even if the distance between Winterfell and the Red Keep seemed insurmountable, they have each other. 

"The wedding shall take place within three full moons." Queen Alicent, sensing the need to formalize the arrangement, declared, "We shall make the necessary arrangements to ensure a grand celebration befitting the union of two great houses."

Sansa, maintaining her composure, accepted the timeline with a nod, recognizing that the path ahead held challenges and uncertainties.

THREE. | masterlist | previous | next

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As the days drew closer to the anticipated union of Sansa Stark and Prince Aemond Targaryen, the Red Keep buzzed with preparations and festivities. Sansa found herself ensconced in a whirlwind of gown fittings, discussions about the ceremonial nuances, and lessons on Targaryen customs. The seamstresses draped her in luxurious fabrics, each stitch weaving a tale of a union between two great houses.

Sansa, adorned in gowns that mirrored the hues of winter roses, went through the motions with a graceful poise that masked the turbulence within. The Targaryen traditions were distinct, and the weight of upholding them pressed on her shoulders. She learned the intricate steps of their dances, the significance of the dragon-shaped brooches that adorned their clothing, and the symbolism behind the red and black Targaryen sigil.

Amid the bustle of preparations, Sansa and Aemond's paths rarely converged. The demands of a royal wedding required them to be engaged in separate spheres, dealing with the minutiae of the ceremony. As Sansa navigated the complex intricacies of courtly life, Aemond attended to princely duties, ensuring that the Targaryen side of the union was equally impeccable.

The hours passed swiftly, like fleeting shadows cast by the towers of the Red Keep. Sansa could feel the palpable excitement in the air as the city prepared for the grand celebration. With every passing day, the pressure mounted, and the gravity of the impending union became more tangible.

Yet, amidst the grandeur and meticulous planning, Sansa longed for a moment of respite, a chance for her and Aemond to bridge the gap created by the formalities. It seemed as if the weeks had slipped away, carrying with them the opportunity for the betrothed couple to forge a connection beyond the veneer of royal protocols.

As the eve of the wedding approached, Sansa found herself standing on the balcony of her chamber, gazing at the city below. The lights of King's Landing flickered like a thousand stars, and the distant sounds of revelry wafted through the night air. She wondered if, in the midst of the elaborate festivities, there would be a chance for Sansa and Aemond to share a moment, to break free from the constraints of their roles and simply be.

With a week remaining until their wedding night, the Red Keep stood as a silent witness to the unfolding of a betrothal — a union shrouded in tradition, awaiting the moment when the hearts of Sansa Stark and Aemond Targaryen would echo the vows spoken in the light of a thousand candles.

The fitting room was adorned with silks and velvets in various shades, a symphony of colors that reflected the grandeur of the upcoming union. Queen Alicent Hightower, with an air of regal authority, oversaw the process, her eyes keenly assessing each fabric draped over Sansa Stark.

"Green, my dear Sansa," the queen declared, her tone laced with conviction. "It is the color of House Targaryen, a symbol of the dragons that course through our veins."

"Is it not red, Your Grace?" Sansa asked for clarity. 

Queen Alicent, momentarily taken aback by Sansa's question, composed herself before responding.

"Red is indeed associated with House Targaryen, but it is reserved for the royal bloodline, my dear. Green represents the broader connection to our dragon heritage, symbolizing the unity of our house."

Sansa, with a hint of innocence, pressed further, "I had thought red symbolized the fire of House Targaryen, the very essence that defines your lineage."

The queen's grimace deepened, suspecting Sansa's intent. "While that is true, Lady Sansa, red is an exclusive color for certain occasions. It carries the weight of royal blood, a distinction that does not yet belong to you."

Sansa, while maintaining her gracious facade, couldn't help but find the queen's reasoning peculiar. In the quiet moments away from the fittings, she recalled Cregan's words about the complex relationships within House Targaryen—the simmering tensions between those in the Red Keep and those on Dragonstone.

The green, a symbol of unity, felt more like a political statement than a genuine desire for harmony. As the layers of the gown enveloped her, Sansa couldn't shake the notion that even the choice of color carried the weight of historical feuds and alliances within House Targaryen.

"In the North, we hold white as a symbol of weddings. It signifies the purity and union of two houses." Sansa, with a subtle but firm tone, interjected.

Alicent, though visibly hesitant, recognized the significance of compromise.

"White? A bit mundane, don't you think? The grandiosity of a Targaryen wedding demands a more vibrant palette."

"Mundane or not, Queen Alicent, white is a significant tradition in Winterfell. It signifies the snow that blankets our lands during a wedding, a symbol of new beginnings." Sansa, her northern spirit unwavering, retorted.

The queen sighed, her patience wearing thin. "Sansa, this union is as much about tradition as it is about unity. We must find a middle ground, a compromise that satisfies both the North and the dragons."

"Red is reserved for the royal bloodline, green for the broader dragon line, but I am not yet a Targaryen by name." Sansa, sensing an opportunity for concession, suggested, "Then, let it be white. A symbol of unity, not just between houses, but between traditions."

The queen, after a contemplative pause, conceded with a measured grace, "Very well, Lady Sansa. White it shall be. May this gown be a testament to the merging of two worlds."

As the negotiation concluded, the room echoed with the rustle of silks and the whispered promises of a gown that would bear witness to a union steeped in both northern and Targaryen traditions.

As Sansa strolled through the corridors of the Red Keep, she felt a rare lightness in her step. The gown fitting, despite the initial tension with Queen Alicent, had ended on a note of compromise. White it was—a subtle blend of Targaryen eminence and Northern tradition.

In the midst of her thoughts, Sansa found herself greeted by Aemond.

"My lady," he said with a courteous nod.

My Lady.

Sansa, having noted Aemond's informal address, couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the deviation from the expected protocol. The customary formalities demanded a prince to use the title 'Lady' without the preceding 'my' However, rather than correcting him, she chose to let it slide, considering it a sign of the evolving dynamics between them.

"Forgive my informality, Lady Sansa. It seems the intricacies of courtly manners sometimes escape me." Aemond, fully aware of the traditional norms, offered a slight apologetic smile. 

Sansa, suppressing a smile, replied with a gracious nod. "No offense taken, Prince Aemond. It's not every day that the North and the dragons find themselves in such close proximity."

"May I accompany you on your way?"

"You may, My Prince," she replied, a hint of amusement in her tone. "After all, it seems we are to be closely acquainted from now on."

"A prospect that is not entirely displeasing, Lady Sansa."

The tension of previous encounters giving way to a more cordial atmosphere. They walked side by side, a smile on each of them. Sansa couldn't help but notice a change in Aemond's demeanor. The aloofness was replaced by a touch of genuine interest, and his snarky remarks were softened with a subtle wit. In return, Sansa's own guardedness melted away, replaced by a newfound ease.

"I trust the fitting for your gown went smoothly?"

"Yes. The gown is progressing well, I've chosen a color best suited for the occasion." Sansa looked up and offered a gracious smile, "White."

"White?" Aemond asked. Sansa's answer piqued his interest further, "I'm surprised mother did not suffocate you long enough to choose the color of her choosing."

"It took some negotiation, but I managed to secure the color of my choice. In the North, white symbolizes the purity and union of two houses during weddings. It seemed fitting."

"Negotiation, you say?" Aemond's eyebrow raised in amused surprise. "My mother can be... insistent about certain matters."

Sansa couldn't help but chuckle. "Your honesty is refreshing, Prince Aemond. And to answer your unspoken question, Queen Alicent's suggestions were quite... assertive. But we managed to find a compromise."

"I hope you did not find her too insufferable." Aemond grinned, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "It would not do for her to know I spoke such words."

"Oh, worry not, Prince Aemond. Your secret is safe with me. I won't be the one to tell on you."

"You have my gratitude, My Lady."

My Lady.

"I see that courtly manners still escapes you." Sansa tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes.

"It seems I've much to learn." Aemond's replied as his mouth lifted into a small smile.

The sun dipped below the horizon as they reached the guest chambers. Aemond, with a courteous bow, took a step back to make way for Sansa to enter her room.

"Until we meet again," Aemond said with a polite nod. "My Lady."

Sansa, with a smile that held a touch of fondness, replied, "Until then, My Prince."

As the door closed, the echoes of their newfound understanding persisted in the airs of the corridor, marking the beginning of their union. She watched him walk away and Sansa couldn't help but acknowledge the subtle change in their dynamics—a shift from reluctant betrothal to something more content.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, his hint of a gentle smile stuck within her memory. Deep in thought, she found herself gazing out of the window, her eyes tracing the contours of the Red Keep against the backdrop of the city. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she shifted her mind as she walked towards the her dresser. A piece of letter she received this morning laid on top of it. A letter from her brother.

Sansa carefully unfolded the letter, her fingers tracing the familiar strokes of her brother's handwriting. The wax seal, bearing the sigil of House Stark, broke with a satisfying crack.

Dear Sansa,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. Winterfell has been quiet without your sharp wit and presence to liven up the halls. Even the maesters seem to miss the challenge of your questions.

I've been traveling through the North, attending to matters that require my attention, but my thoughts have often drifted back to the Red Keep and the lively debates we used to have. The North is vast and beautiful, but there's an emptiness without my dear sister by my side.

Now, enough of the sentimental talk. I hear you've been keeping the dragon court on their toes, much to my amusement. I can picture the scenes – you, with your clever words and sharp observations, making even the dragons question their existence.

I'll be making my way back to King's Landing for your upcoming wedding. It will be good to see you again, Sansa, and witness the union that has been the talk of both the North and the capital. Until then, take care, and remember, you're always in my thoughts.

Your ever-devoted brother, Cregan

Sansa couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for Winterfell, for the familiar comforts of the North. She wondered how the people of Winterfell were faring in her absence, and if the winter winds had already begun to sweep through the vast expanse of their lands. Cregan's words conveyed a mixture of concern and brotherly warmth, assuring her that the North missed its lady. 

Sansa, folding the letter with a smile on her face, couldn't help but feel a warmth in her heart. The prospect of Cregan's return and his presence at her wedding added a layer of comfort to the impending union with Prince Aemond.

Aemond made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep, his footsteps echoing in the quietude of the castle. As he moved away from Sansa's chamber, a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Aemond's lips. The memory of their stolen moments on the coast lingered, a flicker of warmth in the recesses of his mind. However, the quietness of his thoughts was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of Ser Arryk, a stern figure in the moonlit hallway.

"Prince Aemond," Ser Arryk's voice cut through the quiet, his tone a mixture of formality and urgency. "Her Grace, Queen Alicent, wishes to see you in her chamber."

Aemond's light mood, a relic of the afternoon's encounter with the little wolf, dulled at the mention of his mother's summons. His brow furrowed, a subtle shadow crossing his features.

"She did not say as to why?" he asked, attempting to conceal the unease that crept into his voice.

Ser Arryk offered a slight nod. "I'm afraid she did not, My Prince."

Aemond sighed, a breath heavy with resignation. The castle seemed to close in around him as they traversed the corridors. Aemond's thoughts were a tumultuous sea, uncertain of the waves that awaited him in his mother's chambers. The moon, a silent witness to the unfolding drama, watched as the rebel prince ventured into the heart of courtly intrigue, leaving behind the quiet echoes of the night.

As Aemond approached his mother's chamber, the heavy door creaked open, revealing the queen seated in a pool of candlelight. Her silver hair, once the envy of courtly ladies, shimmered in the warm glow. Queen Alicent's gaze, as it fell upon Aemond, softened with a touch that only a mother could impart.

"Ah, Aemond," she greeted him softly, a mother's touch in her words. Her voice, a melodic lull in the otherwise hushed chamber, carried the weight of authority softened by maternal affection.

Aemond couldn't help but notice the contrast in his mother's demeanor when it came to her sons and her only daughter. Helaena, the only princess was indeed the jewel in Queen Alicent's crown, and her treatment reflected as much. Yet, Aemond, being the second son, found himself privy to a kinder regard than his elder brother, Aegon. Daeron was rarely ever a part of family matters but he also did not notice much difference to the way his mother treated the youngest son.

Alicent gestured for Aemond to approach, and as he took a seat, the flickering candles cast dancing shadows on the walls. Aemond couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter held a significance beyond the ordinary.

"How was your day?" Queen Alicent asked, her piercing gaze searching his face for the answers that words might not reveal.

Aemond hesitated, contemplating how much to divulge.

"The day has been eventful, Mother," he admitted, "but I confess, your summons has left me curious."

The queen's eyes, a mirror to his own, held a wisdom earned through years of navigating the intricate web of courtly affairs. As the air hung heavy with expectation, Aemond braced himself for the revelation of the purpose behind this sudden and enigmatic meeting.

"Is it not normal for a mother to seek out her own son?" Queen Alicent replied, her words draped in the guise of maternal concern. Yet, Aemond, seasoned by the intricate dance of courtly politics, sensed the undercurrent of manipulation beneath the veneer of familial sentiment.

Aemond, perceptive to the nuances of his mother's carefully chosen words, found himself at a crossroads. He bit his tongue, a silent acknowledgment of the delicate balance he must maintain in the presence of the queen. The air in the chamber thickened with unspoken tension, and Aemond held his response with careful consideration.

Queen Alicent's eyes, sharp and perceptive, locked onto Aemond's as she broached a topic that seemed to hang in the air with unspoken weight.

"You and the Stark girl," Alicent began, her words like a delicate dance of inquiry, "You've grown accustomed to her?"

Aemond felt the weight of his mother's scrutiny, a subtle tension that lingered in the chamber. A moment of decision hung in the air, and he grappled with the choice between truth or the diplomatic answer.

"She is sincere. I appreciate her." Aemond replied carefully, his words a measured response that sought to navigate the delicate terrain of his mother's inquiry.

"Sincere..." Alicent repeated, the word hanging in the air like a thread of uncertainty. Her gaze, a multitude of emotions carefully veiled, betrayed the complexity of her thoughts. Aemond, uncertain of the undercurrents at play, awaited his mother's next words with a sense of nervousness.

"And does she appreciate you all the same?" the queen asked, her second question a subtle probe into the intricacies of Aemond's relationship with the Stark girl. Queen Alicent, a shrewd player in the political games of the court, was fishing for more than mere courtly pleasantries. She sought the raw threads that wove through the fabric of Aemond's connection with the little wolf.

The chamber, enveloped in the soft glow of candlelight, bore witness to the unspoken tension between mother and son. Aemond, ever aware of the subtleties that marked courtly interactions, recognized his mother's maneuvering. However, she faced a formidable challenge in prying open the vault of his guarded emotions. Aemond was a master of diplomacy, a trait that Queen Alicent both admired and found frustrating, particularly in moments when a more candid revelation was desired.

He chose his words with the precision of a courtier navigating the intricate dance of politics.

"I had hope she enjoys my company, mother." Aemond replied, his tone a carefully measured blend of deference and restraint. The words, a calculated response that revealed nothing of the deeper sentiments at play, hung in the air like a veil.

"Hope is not enough, my son." Queen Alicent countered, her tone cutting through the air with a no-nonsense edge.

Aemond, caught in the crossfire of his mother's expectations, nodded in acknowledgment.

"We will grow fond of each other," Aemond replied, the bitterness lacing his words more heard this time. Despite the undercurrent of resentment, he maintained a veneer of respect, acknowledging the fragile balance between a queen mother and her second-born son, "But we will do so in time."

The words carrying a note of inevitability. Aemond, the reluctant participant in the courtly dance orchestrated by his mother, recognized the weight of their shared destiny. The chamber, silent witness to the tenuous exchange.

Queen Alicent, undeterred by the bitterness in her son's words, met his gaze with a regal composure. 

"Has she spoken to you about her allegiance and the North's?" the queen asked her third question. Her persistence revealing the weight of her concerns.

And by the third question, Aemond's patience wore thin, and the sharpness in his voice cut through the air.

"Is it why you summoned me, Mother? To make me play at your schemes?" he demanded, a note of frustration coloring his words.

"Do not act like a fool, Aemond. It does not suit you," Alicent replied in haste, her tone carrying the weight of maternal authority. "You are intelligent enough to know the reason why the crown thought it best to wed the Stark girl to you."

"Must we speak about this now?" Aemond countered, the tension in the chamber palpable.

"We must turn the north's allegiance away from Princess Rhaenyra," Alicent declared, her voice now stern. The maternal guise had faded, replaced by the unwavering authority of the queen.

Aemond struggled with his responsibilities and personal wishes, confronting the truth about his place in the larger Targaryen plans. Aemond acknowledged his lack of influence over his mother's decisions. While he had genuine interes in the Stark girl, being instructed to feign affection for his betrothed felt like a draining charade. The question lingered – must he suppress his true feelings to appease his mother's wishes?

"Princess Rhaenyra cannot sit on the Iron Throne," Alicent asserted, her voice carrying the weight of tradition and the harsh realities of Westerosi politics. "The realm will not accept a woman as a ruler. Aegon will be king, and you must ensure the North's allegiance."

Aemond, tired of the same conversation repeating, stood up suddenly before his mother could finish scolding him. This swift action revealed the frustration brewing within him. Alicent, surprised by the interruption, felt a twinge of irritation.

"I understand." Aemond declared, his tone resolute. "I will do my duty, Mother. Woe Lady Sansa to make the North pledge for Aegon when the time comes." Before Alicent could say another word, Aemond cut her off. "I'm tired of hearing the same things over and over again. If there's nothing else, I wish to retire to my chambers."

For a moment, Alicent was quiet, taken aback by her son's confident stance. She observed as Aemond departed without uttering another word. The lingering tension in the room spoke volumes, capturing the delicate interplay of duty, personal wishes, loyalty, and the weight of tradition. As the door closed behind him, Aemond, embodying the spirit of a rebel prince, melted into the shadows of the Red Keep. Left alone, Alicent pondered if her actions had caused more harm than good.

In Sansa's chambers, the atmosphere had shifted. The air was charged with anticipation, and the room buzzed with the presence of three maids, ready to attend to her every need. Sansa, no longer a mere Northern guest but now a betrothed to Prince Aemond, found herself at the center of newfound attention.

Queen Alicent's instructions resounded in the chamber, marking Lady Sansa's newfound status as a member of the family. The declaration hung in the air, blending elevated honor with the on-going politics. Sansa maintained her composure, concealing the myriad thoughts swirling in her mind.

Sansa, standing in the center of the room, felt a mixture of anticipation and curiosity as the maids, dressed in pristine white garments, bustled about with a sense of purpose. The grandeur of the occasion was underscored by the plush towels neatly arranged on an intricately carved wooden stand and the steaming bathwater that awaited her.

The lead maid, approached Sansa with a grace that bespoke years of courtly service. "My lady, if you would be so kind as to allow us to prepare the bath for you."

Sansa, with a gracious nod, consented, her gaze momentarily meeting the maid's before they set to work. The room buzzed with a quiet efficiency as the maids filled the air with the gentle sound of water pouring into the ornate copper tub.

The delicate clinking of accessories filled the room as the maids selected fragrant oils and bath salts, each vial chosen with meticulous care. The oils were poured into the water, creating an enticing blend that promised relaxation and indulgence.

As the maids moved about, arranging the bath and selecting garments fit for a future princess, Sansa couldn't help but wonder about the motives behind this sudden display of favor. Was it a ploy orchestrated by Queen Alicent herself, or did the Hand of the King have a hand in this elaborate dance of courtesy? The Dragon's Court, she knew, had a penchant for entwining its guests in threads of obligation and gratitude.

Contemplating the potential motives, Sansa pondered whether these acts of kindness were genuine or part of a larger strategy. Was she being forced to bound by threads of allegiance, woven skillfully by the queen's directives? The maids, dutifully executing their tasks, moved with precision, their actions laden with unspoken implications that further fueled Sansa's intrigue.

As the bath was being readied, the maids turned their attention to Sansa's gown. With practiced hands, they encircled her, their movements choreographed like a courtly dance. Mabel, ever attentive, spoke softly, "My lady, may we assist you in disrobing?"

Sansa nodded with a polite smile. The maids, their touch as gentle as the whisper of silk, began the delicate task of unfastening the intricate clasps of her gown. The fabric, adorned with subtle embroideries, cascaded down, revealing layers of fine undergarments beneath.

In the midst of preparations, the bathwater rippled, and the gentle rustle of fabric filled Sansa's chambers as the maids worked diligently, preparing for the evening. As the gown pooled at her feet, Sansa stood in the glow of candlelight, a vision of elegance and vulnerability. The maids, respectful and discreet, maintained a sense of decorum as they offered her a plush robe. Wrapped in the luxurious fabric, Sansa felt a sense of both indulgence and humility, a paradox inherent in the ritual of preparation within the opulent confines of the Red Keep.

"Thank you for your assistance. The bathwater is just the right temperature," Sansa remarked, her tone carrying a warmth that transcended the formalities.

The lead maid, a seasoned woman named Mabel, curtsied gracefully. "It is our pleasure, My Lady. We are here to ensure your comfort."

Sansa smiled appreciatively, her eyes reflecting a genuine kindness that seemed to soften the edges of the room. "I must say, the Red Keep has a pool of dedicated staffs. I feel truly blessed."

The maids, unused to such gentle expressions, exchanged subtle glances. Helaena, catching the unspoken curiosity, discreetly nudged Mabel, urging her to respond.

"We aim to serve the royal family to the best of our abilities, My Lady," Mabel replied, her words a delicate dance around the unspoken complexities of their roles.

"I can only imagine the challenges you face in your duties. The Red Keep is a vast place." The maids, momentarily caught off guard by Sansa's empathetic acknowledgment, nodded in silent agreement. Sansa continued, "Each of you contributes to the smooth running of this castle."

A quiet pause settled in the room as the maids absorbed Sansa's words. The air, usually thick with unspoken tension, now carried a different quality – a subtle shift in the dynamics between the lady of Winterfell and the loyal servants of the crown.

As the maids tenderly washed Sansa's back and hair, she found herself appreciating their diligent efforts. A sense of gratitude welled up within her, but along with it came a realization. Despite the intimate nature of their current task, Sansa knew nothing about the individuals behind the skilled hands that attended to her.

"I realized we've been conversing, and I don't even know your names," Sansa said with a warm smile, her eyes filled with genuine interest.

The lead maid, washing her back, curtsied once again. "I am Mabel, my lady. Head of the household staff."

Sansa nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, Mabel, for overseeing everything so efficiently."

The other maids, slightly taken aback by Sansa's graciousness, introduced themselves in turn.

"I'm Elara, my lady," said a young maid with freckles, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and admiration.

"Jocelyn, my lady," spoke another with a shy smile, her hands clasped in front of her.

"And I'm Gwendolyn, my lady," added a third, her voice carrying a lilt of uncertainty.

Sansa, ever polite, acknowledged each introduction with a nod and a warm word. "It's a pleasure to meet each of you."

The maids, finding themselves in the unexpected spotlight of Sansa's attention, exchanged glances, a silent acknowledgment of the unusual kindness they were receiving. The walls of formality seemed to crumble, replaced by a sense of camaraderie that bridged the gaps between their respective stations.

"Where are each of you from?" Sansa inquired, her tone friendly and curiosity shining in her eyes.

Mabel smiled as she began to answer, "We're all from the North, my lady. It's where we hail from."

"The North?" A genuine smile brightened Sansa's face. "How wonderful! Where in the North are each of you from?"

The maids, encouraged by Sansa's warmth, nodded in unison. The connection forged by a shared origin began to weave a canvas of familiarity in the room.

"I hail from White Harbor, my lady." Mabel said.

"A lovely place." Sansa's smile grew wider at the mention of White Harbor. She turned to Elara, "And you?"

"I'm from the outskirts of Barrowton, my lady." Elara answered.

Sansa's eyes lit up with recognition. "Barrowton! It's been years since I visited." She turned to the maid next to Elara, "And what about you?"

"I'm from Deepwood Motte, my lady." Jocelyn said.

"Deepwood Motte. I've heard stories of its towering trees." Sansa commented and then turned to the last maid, "And you?"

"I'm from a small village near Last Hearth, my lady." Gwendolyn answered.

Sansa's heart swelled with joy at the thought of this unexpected connection. She felt a surge of warmth, realizing that these maids were not just attendants; they were fellow Northerners.

"It warms my heart to know there's a bit of the North here with me." Sansa confessed.

"I must admit," Jocelyn confessed, looking towards the other maids with a slight smile before facing Sansa once more, "We were overjoyed to hear of your betrothal, my lady. It brought a piece of home to the heart of King's Landing."

Sansa's eyes softened with gratitude.

"There's a sense of pride knowing the Lady of Winterfell is to be wed to the Prince of the Crown." Continued Elara.

The conversation naturally transitioned to tales of the North—its rugged landscapes, the crisp Northern air, and the unique sense of community that permeated the region. Sansa, momentarily transported back to the familiar sights and sounds of her homeland, listened with a heart full of nostalgia.

The maids, their voices carrying the lilt of their Northern upbringing, spoke fondly of the open fields, the smell of pine forests, and the comforting warmth of hearth and home. In those moments, within the chambers of the Red Keep, the boundaries of status blurred, and the Lady of Winterfell found solace in the shared yearning for the North.

As the conversation unfolded, Sansa, now surrounded by more than just attendants but kindred spirits from her homeland, felt a sense of connection that transcended the confines of courtly duties. The maids, in turn, discovered a unique bond with the lady they served—a bond rooted in the shared love for the North and the comfort it brought, even within the stone walls of the Red Keep.

The maids attended to Sansa's needs, as the warm water enveloping her in a soothing embrace, her curiosity bubbled to the surface. Sansa, ever the inquisitive soul, couldn't resist delving into the enigmatic lives of the Targaryen princes and princess. With practiced subtlety, she ventured into the realm of inquiries, a gentle probing into the personalities behind the royal titles.

"Tell me," Sansa began, her voice carrying a casual curiosity, "what are the princes and princesses like when they're not in the public eye? I'm sure there's more to them than what the court sees."

Jocelyn, the perceptive maid, caught the nuance in Sansa's inquiry. She exchanged a brief glance with the others before deciding to offer some insights.

"Prince Aemond is,” Jocelyn began, choosing her words carefully, "often found in the training yards. He's a skilled swordsman, and his dedication to honing his skills is quite commendable."

Sansa nodded, absorbing the information. "And what of his interests, the things he enjoys when not engaged in knightly pursuits?"

Jocelyn hesitated for a moment, mindful of the boundaries between servant and lady. "He enjoys the company of dragons, my lady. Spending time with Vhagar seems to bring him a sense of peace."

Sansa smiled at the image that formed in her mind. "I'm sure it does."

Amidst the gentle exchange of information, Elara seemingly unable to contain the sincerity in her heart, spoke freely but with a careful measure of respect.

"He is fond of you, my Lady," began Elara, her eyes reflecting a genuine warmth, "Prince Aemond would be a lucky prince to be wed to someone as kind and gracious as yourself."

The words hung in the air, a rare and unfiltered sentiment within the hallowed halls of King's Landing. Sansa, touched by the authenticity of the compliment, couldn't help but smile. It was a sentiment that resonated more genuinely than the polished words of courtly praise.

Sansa's smile, a genuine expression of appreciation, graced her features. It was a rare moment in King's Landing, where compliments often carried the weight of hidden agendas and ulterior motives. The simplicity and honesty of the maid's words resonated with Sansa, creating a moment of connection that transcended the rigid structures of courtly etiquette.

"Thank you," Sansa replied, her voice carrying a sincerity that mirrored the maid's own. "Your words mean a great deal to me. It's not often one hears such genuine compliments in the heart of King's Landing."

The other maids, though bound by the constraints of courtly etiquette, subtly nodded in agreement, acknowledging the unspoken sentiment that had been voiced. In that fleeting moment, Sansa felt a connection beyond the confines of titles and positions. The genuine compliment, freely given yet respectfully expressed, had woven a thread of camaraderie within the confines of the Red Keep.

The maids, though mindful of their place, couldn't help but share a collective chuckle, their camaraderie strengthened by this exchange. In the delicate dance of words, Sansa found a moment of authenticity, a rare treasure in the gilded halls of the Red Keep.

Once they are done, the maids adept in their duties, carefully adorned Sansa in a gown of sapphire blue – a hue she had never worn before. The fabric cascaded in gentle folds, accentuating the grace of her form. The gown's richness complemented Sansa's auburn hair and fair complexion, casting her in a regal light.

As the gown enveloped her, Sansa's thoughts meandered toward the significance of the color. Sapphire blue – a hue that held both mystery and depth. Her mind wandered to Prince Aemond, his striking left eye embedded with the brilliance of a sapphire. A subtle smile tugged at the corners of Sansa's lips as she contemplated the unique connection between the color of her gown and the captivating gaze of the prince.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Sansa turned to the nearest maid, her eyes reflecting the intrigue that danced within her.

"Is it true... that Prince Aemond held a sapphire in exchange for his eye?" Sansa asked.

Mabel, the lead maid, met Sansa's inquisitive gaze with a knowing smile, her hands deftly working to adjust the final details of the intricate gown.

"Aye, my lady." Mabel answered, "Prince Aemond's left eye holds a sapphire, a gem of extraordinary brilliance. Some say the sapphire was picked by the prince for a power beyond mortal understanding."

"What powers?" Sansa asked for clearance.

Mabel paused for a moment, her hands momentarily stilling as she chose her words carefully.

"Rumors whisper that the sapphire grants him insights beyond the realm of ordinary men. Visions of the past, glimpses into the future. A gift, or perhaps a burden, depending on how you see it."

Sansa's mind whirred with the implications of such a sacrifice. The intricate tapestry of Targaryen legends seemed to weave itself around Prince Aemond, casting an aura of mystique that both intrigued and daunted.

"And what do you believe, Mabel?" Sansa's question hung in the air. "Is it a gift or a burden?"

A thoughtful silence lingered, the room steeped in the quietude of contemplation. Mabel, her gaze meeting Sansa's, finally spoke with a touch of solemnity. Mabel's eyes held a hint of thoughtful contemplation as she responded. 

"He lost an eye, My Lady." Began the maid, "I doubt many would call that a gift."

The words resonated with a stark truth that pierced through the mystique surrounding Prince Aemond's sapphire eye. In that moment, the weight of sacrifice, whether willingly made or not, cast a shadow over the fantastical notions of gifts and burdens. The room, adorned with the opulence of royalty, held a poignant reminder of the human cost that often accompanied the extraordinary in the realm of the Targaryens. Sansa, draped in her sapphire-blue gown, contemplated the complexities of the prince she was destined to wed, realizing that beneath the regal façade lay a narrative of sacrifice and the indomitable spirit of House Targaryen.

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The morning sunlight filtered through the fabric of the tent, gently waking her. As her eyes blinked open, she found herself alone. A familiar routine, waking up without her husband. They had fallen asleep entwined, his arms draped across her stomach, a gesture she hadn't expected to bring her comfort. Surprisingly, she had slept well, undisturbed by the usual creaking bed. The realization that Aemond was not there as the sun kissed her eyelids came as no surprise. It seems that it's going to be a normalcy in Sansa's coming future to wake up alone even when she is now married. 

The sounds of bustling men outside the tent reached her ears—the murmurs of conversations, the clinking of armory being prepared. Had Aemond left to hunt for himself, leaving her behind to fare the morning on her own? Or had he intentionally risen early to avoid her company, as she had forced herself to join yesterday? Was it truly that unseemly for a lady to go hunting in the grounds? A quiet unease stayed with her. 

A maid, Elyse, her name was, introduced herself gracefully, before attending to dress Sansa for the day. Sansa had chosen a pale yellow dress over the deep green one the maid had brought in. While she was perfectly capable of dressing herself, she allowed Elyse to perform her duties, not wanting to dismiss the girl from her job. Elyse carefully looped the arms of the dress over Sansa's shoulders, her movements gentle and precise. The young maid, a fragile figure, seemed no more than sixteen, and Sansa couldn't help but feel a sense of responsibility toward her. What for exactly—she does not know.

As Elyse moved behind Sansa to tie the dress, her hands slowing as someone entered the tent. Sansa caught sight of Aemond in the mirror, his hunting tunic neatly fitted and a sword secured at his hip. Instinctively, Sansa turned to face him, her back exposed to the mirror, and inadvertently, the wall, pulling Elyse along with her in an attempt to cover herself more.

"My prince," Sansa greeted, curtsying in a gesture that carried a hint of formality. The title hung in the air, and Sansa couldn't help but ponder about the appropriate level of formality now that they had shared a bed. The act, born out of a need for warmth, felt strangely ceremonial. What would she curtsy to her own husband now? Was it too formal to address him as such? Should she have lowered her formalities more now that they've shared a bed? Even if was a harmless act born in need of warmth, as she so helplessly reminded herself.

Aemond's gaze lingered on Sansa as he observed her in the pale yellow dress. The fabric hugged her figure elegantly, a fact he had always noticed but never acknowledged openly. Sansa, feeling the weight of his eyes on her, couldn't help but feel a touch of discomfort under his gaze. His attention, though subtle, felt like an unarticulated admission.

"You will not join in today's hunting?" Aemond asked, his eyes finally meeting hers without so much as a greeting. The question out, and the maid's movements ceased completely, stealing a glance at Sansa over her lashes. Was he offering her to join the hunt? Had he assumed she was to join him once more? Sansa had believed she had been pushing her luck yesterday, she had thought he might have abandoned her to celebrate their wedding event alone. 

"I wasn't sure if I was welcomed to join the hunting party," Sansa replied honestly.

"You are welcomed," Aemond replied, offering no further explanation. The air held a heavy silence, leaving Elyse, the maid, feeling like an awkward presence in the confined space. Unsure of whether to continue her task or wait for further instructions, she hesitated.

"Do you want me to join you?" Sansa's voice, though small, cut through the quiet, seeking Aemond's approval.

Aemond didn't respond immediately, shifting his weight and swallowing, as if grappling with some internal conflict. Does the idea pain him so terribly, Sansa wondered, to admit that he does not mind her company? It struck her as peculiar – he had willingly held her hand, led her through the tunnels, and reached the shores of Blackwater Bay just two moons ago. But in the daylight, the struggle to even look at her seemed apparent.

"You may join if you wish it." Aemond finally replied, his words holding a hint of reluctance. Sansa couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment in his response – it wasn't a clear answer to her question. It wasn't the answer to her question.

With a tight smile, she turned to Elyse. "A shame we've wasted quite a bit of time putting on this dress," Sansa chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood in the room. Elyse smiled in return, uncertain about her role in this exchange. "Would you be so kind as to help me dress in my hunting gear instead?"

"Of course, my lady," Elyse responded, nodding enthusiastically, glad to have a clearer task at hand.

Aemond silently slipped out of the tent, leaving the two ladies to their preparations. His departure was characteristic of him—no words, no notice, just a quiet exit. It was a skill of his, departing without notice, without a sound. As he stepped into the open air, he felt a cool breeze against his face, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the tent he had just left. He had woken up in a peculiar state – beads of sweat adorned his forehead, and a numb feeling lingered in his right arm. Unlike how he and Sansa had fallen asleep, his left arm was not merely draped across her stomach but was also positioned under her head. Their bodies were entwined, her back flush against his abdomen, and their hands tightly laced together. His breath was mere inches away from her shoulder, and their hair, much like their legs, had tangled together in the night.

The realization of their proximity had hit him like a jolt. His fingers were perilously close to the swell of her breast, and with just another inch of movement, he would have touched her. Aemond, a gentleman by nature, and mannerly, quickly disentangled himself from the intimate embrace. Sweating in the warmth of the tent, knew he had to untangle himself. With a swift movement, he pulled his arm from the entwined position, yet not as quickly as the rapid beats of his heart. They were too close.

Aemond couldn't comprehend the strange feelings swirling in the pits of his stomach. How had he fallen asleep so easily, and why hadn't he woken up in the middle of the night when he found himself draped in sweat, as if he had ventured into the heart of the sun itself? He could somehow still feel the warm sensation over his breeches. She was still fast asleep and he watched her breaths going in and out as he stood, towering the small bed. He was too close. She was too soft. An inch and he could have touched her.

Would it be a sin to revel in his wife's sleeping form? Would it be a sin to touch her as she lays without an ounce of consciousness? No, he battled with himself. She was pure and he was not. She may be his wife, in name and in vows, but he will not touch her, not like this. He backed away even more, afraid of what he might do should he stay longer, stood over her pure figure. And so he left the tent that morning. He walked away, dulling himself with the coldness of the morning. He was a gentleman, and mannerly.

The hunting party had swelled in numbers compared to the previous day, as many had joined today instead of camping overnight. The day's hunt had commenced earlier, and with the sun shining brightly, the tracks were much easier to follow. The forest seemed alive with the sounds of rustling leaves, trampling hooves, and the distant calls of birds. Sansa rode beside Aemond, mirroring their position from the day before. Positioned on his right, she was within his line of sight, where his good eye was. The party had already secured a small boar, two deers, and three rabbits. However, the rabbits were not destined to be celebrated at the feast later, as their capture didn't hold the same prestige as larger game.

Sansa observed Aemond closely as he expertly struck a death blow to the first deer they encountered. It was a smaller one, though not young in years. As the scene unfolded before her, she felt a momentary impulse to close her eyes, a reflex from her past aversion to witnessing the killing of animals. In her brother's hunts, she had always averted her gaze when the fatal blows were delivered. Yet now, as a woman grown, a lady, and a Targaryen wife, she steeled herself to watch without flinching. 

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, approaching its zenith, the heat intensified, leaving the air heavy and oppressive. The contrast between the frigid mornings and nights and the merciless daylight was stark. Aemond's gaze shifted slightly towards Sansa, assessing her condition in the midst of the hunting party. He wondered whether she would succumb to the unforgiving heat as the clock neared noon, reminiscent of the challenging days in King's Landing during the tournaments. The maester had cautioned against prolonged exposure to the sun, yet here she was, part of a hunting party, bathed in sunlight. Despite the evident strain, Sansa appeared remarkably pleasing to his eyes.

The sweat on her forehead and nose hinted at the toll the heat was taking. She looked fatigued, though her determination masked it well. Aemond couldn't help but notice the signs of exhaustion as the beads of sweat pooled on her skin. She stubbornly refused to show any signs of weakness, but Aemond, observing her closely, recognized the toll it was taking on her. HHe didn't wish for a repeat of her past heatstroke. In the warmth of King's Landing, amidst the tournaments and the blazing sun, Sansa seemed a delicate figure, pleasing to the eye but vulnerable to the relentless heat. As the clock approached its zenith, Aemond silently hoped she would heed the limits of endurance and spare herself the ordeal of another debilitating sun-induced ailment.

"You should return soon." Aemond said, eyes glue to the road, "I will have Ser Erryk escort you to camp."

Sansa met Aemond's steadfast gaze as he issued the directive. Despite his eyes being fixed on the road, the command was directed at her. She couldn't hear the underlying concern in his words, a subtle worry for her well-being that he did not overtly express. All she could hear was a need for him to send her away. So eager to be rid of her.

"But we have not seen the stag yet," Sansa countered, her determination evident in her voice.

Aemond's response was measured, emphasizing the importance of prioritizing her health over the pursuit of a stag.

"It would be wise to return before you faint on your horse," he cautioned. "Being under the sun for this long is already breaking the advice of the maester. I will not have the same incident happen twice as the tourney's did."

You will not embarrass me again, she had heard him instead.

"The maester had over-diagnosed me," Sansa shrugged, maintaining her composure. "I was simply tired that day."

"Return to camp," Aemond ordered, the authority in his voice unwavering. "Noon will strike, and you will not fall off your horse on my account."

Sansa registered the authority in his voice. However, there was a bitter undertone, a hint of frustration and perhaps irritation, as he ordered her to return to camp. It wasn't lost on her that he would rather send her away with a knight as an escort than accompany her himself. It was a stark contrast to the intimate moments they shared during the bath and the night's slumber. His actions spoke louder than his words, and Sansa couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. The eagerness to be rid of her was palpable, overshadowing any genuine concern he might have had.

After Aemond's order, Ser Erryk accompanied Sansa back to the camp, and unlikely her usual persistence, she offered no resistance. The maester's warnings hadn't overstated her condition, but she, in her usual display of stubbornness, had dismissed the concerns. However, the encroaching heat had sapped her strength, and deep down, she acknowledged Aemond's wisdom. Staying beneath the sun any longer would be unwise.

Having spent three hours on horseback, Sansa's legs were beginning to cramp beneath the layers of her hunting gear. Uncomfortable and fatigued, she slowed her horse's steps, causing Ser Erryk to halt abruptly.

"What's the matter, my lad—princess?" Ser Erryk corrected himself mid-sentence, showing a courteous acknowledgment of her status.

Sansa, however, waved off the formality, "Save yourself from headaches, Ser. It is no bother whether you address me as lady or princess."

Ser Erryk, quick to respond, dismounted his horse and approached her, holding the reins. Concern etched his features, wary of any sudden mishaps befalling the young princess.

"I'm alright. My legs just need a stretch," Sansa assured, dismounting from her horse. She raised a hand to alleviate his concerns before suggesting, "Perhaps we should walk back to camp. Sitting on a saddle for hours is truly a talent for a few, and surely, not mine."

Ser Erryk, though still visibly concerned, took a small step back, respecting her wishes but staying close to ensure her well-being.

"As you wish, Princess," he acquiesced, ready to support her on the short walk back to camp.

Princess. She had heard it many times after their wedding. The maids, lords, and ladies have addressed her as princess but it hadn't bothered her until now. Maybe it was because she never truly heard it clearly with all the crowd always looming over her, but now, with just her and the good knight, his voice was clear as day. Princess, it stroke to her. She didn't much like it as much as her younger self would. The new title seemed out of touch with her. Was she not the Lady of Winterfell still? Was she simply stripped down of her old self and reborn as a wife to a prince? Was that all her worth belong to now?

"On second thought," Sansa began, taking a brief pause before continuing, "my lady is fine. Princess still feels foreign to me."

"A princess consort should be addressed as so. The prince would not be keen to hear I've mistaken his lady wife's new title." Ser Erryk replied earnestly, prompting a chuckle from Sansa. Knights, she mused, were indeed funny—loyal, sometimes dangerously, beyond needed.

"The prince is not here, Ser Erryk," Sansa replied, maintaining a small smile, but it quickly faded as a twinge of pain shot through her ankle. The strain from sitting in the saddle for too long had taken its toll. She winced but pressed on, "You can address me as my new title in front of him, but when it's just me, please, lady is fine." 

Sansa's request carried a mix of formality and genuine camaraderie. Despite the pain, Sansa's tone held a quiet strength, a reminder, more to herself that anyone, that she was still the Lady of the North.

"Of course," He started, "My Lady."

The pair strolled in the direction of the camp, and Sansa silently expressed gratitude to the gods for the canopy of large trees overhead. The leafy cover offered some relief, diverting the sun's scorching heat and sparing her from its direct onslaught. As her legs found a rhythm in the walk, Sansa felt a bit better, the stiffness easing. Perhaps walking wasn't the most prudent choice for someone susceptible to the heat, but she relished the simple pleasure of it.

The Kingswood presented a stark contrast to the forests of the North. The land lay more level, and the trees, adorned with lush greens and yellows, stood in stark contrast to the grey, sparsely branched ones of her home. The unfamiliar scenery held its own allure, a different kind of beauty that Sansa found intriguing.

In her musings, Sansa also silently thanked Elyse, noting the absence of a corset beneath her hunting gear. The maid, new and perhaps inexperienced, had made an oversight, but Sansa appreciated it. Why burden oneself with a corset for a hunting expedition? The freedom of movement was a welcome change, and Sansa found herself enjoying the unencumbered stroll through the landscape of the Kingswood.

Basking in the fresh air beneath the Kingswood's canopy, Sansa turned to the knight walking beside her and asked a question, breaking the comfortable silence, "Where do you hail from, Ser Erryk?"

The knight, somewhat surprised by the inquiry, raised his brows. Conversations about one's background were not commonplace in his experience. Most people, especially those he served, seemed content knowing only of his house when he presented himself during the tourney of King Viserys' accession. It was his appointment to the Kingsguard that spoke more loudly than his origins. People rarely delved into the personal histories of knights from smaller houses, like himself.

Sansa, however, had a different approach. She possessed a genuine curiosity about the people around her. Always keen to learn more, she often asked the servants about their names, their houses, their interests, and where they came from. Her desire to understand those in her midst seemed to be either a way to familiarize herself with her new home or a search for companionship in this isolated place. Whatever the reason, Ser Erryk found himself responding to a question he hadn't anticipated.

"Wendwater, My Lady." Ser Erryk answered, a gentle smile gracing his face.

Sansa's eyes widened at his response, "That's not far from Kingswood!"

"Not at all," he chuckled at her reaction, "About five miles east from here."

"I admit I don't know much about Wendwater, but I heard it's beautiful."

Sansa's words, always laced with respect, elicited an even brighter smile from Ser Erryk. Wendwater, truth be told, wasn't regarded as beautiful compared to the rest of the Crownlands. It saw the fewest visitors from other parts of the kingdom, and there wasn't much to entice them. Sansa likely wouldn't have heard anyone describe Wendwater as beautiful, as few had reason to visit.

"Not as glorious as King's Landing, I'm afraid." He admitted.

"Nothing will be as glorious as King's Landing, Ser." She laughed, a hint of scoff in her tone. 

His curiosity led him to pose another question, "Not even Winterfell, My Lady?"

"Not even Winterfell," Sansa replied, shaking her head. "It is beautiful, but it is not glorious."

"Perhaps it need not be glorious to be loved," he suggested, and Sansa felt a surge of emotion, as if his words had struck a chord deep within her.

Each word he spoke resonated with truth. Winterfell might lack the splendor found in grand cities, but it held a different kind of beauty—an enduring, cherished one. Sansa felt a wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Winterfell was never the most picturesque in the realm, marked by its cold, colorless, and grey demeanor. The scent of long-burning wood, coals scattered on the roadsides, and the hay clinging to every maester's boot were all familiar flaws. Despite these imperfections, or perhaps because of them, the place was loved. She loved it. It was home, and she missed it dearly.

A smile, larger than before, graced Sansa's face. She tightened her grip on the reins of her horse, the memory of her home flooding her thoughts.

"Winterfell is much loved," she whispered, the words carrying a depth of emotion. "That I am sure."

Returning to camp brought a welcomed relief for Sansa's weary legs. With Elyse's assistance, she changed back into the pale yellow dress she had chosen that morning. The impending journey back to King's Landing loomed after the feast, marking the official conclusion of the wedding festivities. Despite the week-long celebration ostensibly being in her honor, Sansa found herself continually having to remind herself of that fact.

The festivities, she mused, seemed more for the benefit of the other lords and ladies in attendance than for her and her newly-wedded husband. While there might have been moments where the celebration felt genuinely hers, those instances were fleeting. Mostly, Sansa perceived the events as a spectacle for the others.

The comfortable attire of pants and boots that allowed freedom of movement gave way to the restrictive elegance of a lacy gown and a snug corset cinched at her waist. As the sun lingered high in the sky, Sansa chose to remain inside the tent. Elyse, having completed her duties, departed, leaving Sansa to reflect in the quiet solitude of the canvas shelter. The bustling activity of the camp outside served as a distant murmur, contrasting with the tranquility Sansa sought within the confines of her temporary haven.

An hour, perhaps two, slipped away quietly, and Ser Erryk's announcement cut through the passing time – Prince Aemond had returned to camp. A freshly hunted stag joined the growing collection of lifeless animals in their makeshift larder. Sansa, glancing at her reflection in the mirror, briskly wiped down her gown. It was time to emerge from the tent and immerse herself in the larger camp for the feast, where socializing awaited with those who viewed her as anything but an equal.

Steeling herself for the gathering, Sansa ventured into the heart of the lively feast. Faces, too numerous to count, greeted her – some familiar, many not. Great houses like Lannisters and Baratheons mixed with smaller ones, including Royces, Blackwoods, and others, all converging beneath the expansive canopy. Sansa couldn't help but find it somewhat foolish that Elyse had diligently wiped away her sweat, for now, she could already feel the buds of perspiration returning to her palms and forehead in the midst of the lively festivities. The grandeur of the event contrasted sharply with the simple solitude of her tent, and Sansa braced herself for the mingling and interactions.

"Afternoon, princess," a voice rang out from her left, prompting Sansa to turn in its direction. A lady with dark hair and a deep purple dress made her way towards Sansa. With blue eyes, a squared jawline, and a posture that exuded confidence, the newcomer seemed only a few years older than Sansa. "Maris Baratheon."

Of course, Sansa mused. A lady from one of the great houses would be the first to extend a greeting. She had initially considered the possibility of a Lannister seizing the opportunity, but upon reflection, it seemed fitting that the proud lions wouldn't engage in conversation with a northerner first. The Baratheon lady extended a hand, and Sansa, in turn, shook it firmly, offering a polite smile.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Maris," Sansa responded, withdrawing her hand after the handshake.

"More mine than yours, I assure you," Maris replied, casually waving a hand in front of her. "The rumors are true. You are as beautiful as they proclaimed you to be, princess."

There it is again. Princess. Rumors. Sansa couldn't escape her titles nor presumptions about her. She thought maybe her beauty was not the only think lord and ladies had discussed about her.

"You flatter me, Lady Maris," Sansa continued, feeling the weariness settle into her practiced smile. However, societal expectations dictated that a lady must not cease smiling. "I didn't see you at the feast yesterday. Though, we arrived quite late in the evening, and I retired to bed not long after the hunt had concluded. Perhaps that is why we haven't had the chance to meet?"

"Ah, my sisters and I only arrived this morning, princess. The festivities of your wedding ceremony have been grand. Even if we had arrived last night, I imagine we wouldn't have had the time to make your acquaintance." Explained Maris, her words carrying a note of congeniality.

"How is the feast treating you so far?" Sansa inquired, strolling deeper into the room with Maris by her side.

They found themselves beside a small table adorned with an array of cakes and desserts. Despite her conversation with Lady Cassandra Baratheon, Sansa's gaze involuntarily wandered across the room in search of her husband. Regrettably, he remained elusive.

"The cakes," Maris began, gesturing towards the tempting display beside them before returning her attention to Sansa, "are splendid."

"I'm sure they are."

"Does marriage suit you, princess? I heard the prince is a gentle man. The likes of us ladies much fancy him."

Was he gentle? To some extent, perhaps. Yet, what did she really know about him? Their interactions were not as extensive as she might have wished. Initially, she had perceived him as proud and self-obsessed, later finding him intriguing and, yes, maybe, occasionally gentle. Now, she struggled to find the right words to describe him—unpredictable? He was a puzzle; his thoughts elusive, expressions guarded. But such reflections were not to be shared with Lady Maris.

"Marriage is a wonder and Prince Aemond is as gentle as any man could be." Sansa replied, her thoughts remaining veiled. Was it a lie that she spouted or was it hope? The notion that other ladies fancied him caught her off guard. True, he possessed a sculpted handsomeness, a gift from the gods, but beyond that, what drew their admiration? The question lingered in her mind, a puzzle of its own.

"I remember when my father talked to our eldest sister, Cassandra, saying she might be betrothed to your husband late last year," Maris reminisced, her eyes drifting towards her sister with evident admiration. "She was overjoyed at the thought of marrying a prince—Prince Aemond, no less. He had always been her favorite choice."

Sansa felt a sense of unease creeping in. Where was this conversation headed? Be courteous, she reminded herself. Sansa offered a polite nod, though she sensed an undertone in Maris's words, an attempt to needle at her composure.

"It must have been an exciting prospect for your sister," she replied, attempting to keep the tone neutral. 

"Oh, it was." Maris smirked, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "She'd spend hours daydreaming about it—living in a grand castle, attending splendid feasts, and being part of the royal court. A real fairy tale, you know?"

Sansa managed another faint smile, though her thoughts were a whirlwind of uncertainty. Was she trying to rile her up? Maybe even revel in Sansa's discomfort as she speak. Though sansa kept biting her tongue. She tried hard not to think so badly of the lady before her. 

"But, of course, dreams and reality don't always align. She ended up with a lord's son from a neighboring house. Still, a good match, my father insisted." Maris continued, seemingly oblivious to Sansa's inner turmoil. 

Sansa maintained her cool demeanor, refusing to let Maris's apparent attempts to provoke her succeed.

"Arranged matches often have their own merits," she replied diplomatically, her eyes meeting Maris's with a steady gaze, "My marriage with my husband is real proof of that."

"Yes, well," Maris persisted, continued her subtle jabs, "I suppose each princess gets the match she deserves, doesn't she? Cassandra might have been a true match for the prince at the time. But not as much of a true match as you, of course."

"It's not for me to judge the merits of other matches. The union between Prince Aemond and me was decided for the good of our respective houses and the realm."

"Though, I can't help but wonder," Maris pressed on, "did you ever dream of a match with a bit more... passion, Princess?"

Do not give in. Do not.

Sansa held her ground, reminding herself not to be drawn into Maris's provocations.

"I'm glad to inform you that the prince and I are blessed with both nobility and passion, Lady Maris," she replied, her response delivered with a touch of steel.

Maris raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "Ah, a fortunate combination, indeed. One can only hope that passion doesn't wane as quickly as it ignites."

"Of course," Attempting to steer the conversation away from the personal, Sansa gestured towards the cakes on the table. "Have you tried these cakes? They are indeed splendid, as you mentioned."

"Perhaps we should indulge ourselves, Princess," Maris chuckled, seemingly entertained by Sansa's attempt to shift the conversation. However, her amusement waned when a figure appeared next to Sansa. Maris straightened her back even further and executed a curtsy nod before addressing the newcomer, "My Prince."

It was Aemond, Sansa's newlywed husband, who had arrived. Sansa, whether propelled by her pride or the lingering distaste from her exchange with Lady Maris, acted on impulse. Her hand swiftly found his, intertwining their fingers. Leaning in, she planted a small kiss on the side of his cheek, just below his eyepatch, almost on his scar. Aemond, momentarily caught off guard, halted his breath for a split second, almost flinching at the unexpected intimacy. It was too close. Too close.

"My dearest husband," Sansa declared, her lips forming a smile as she gazed up at him with open lashes, her hands clasping tightly onto his. Aemond, still and unsure of what had just transpired, remained in place. "I've missed your company terribly. I'm glad you're here."

Sansa's bold move, driven by a desire to assert herself had an unexpected effect on Aemond. The brief flicker of surprise in his eyes gave way to a subtle softening. Sansa, playing her part seamlessly, continued to hold onto her husband's hand, with Lady Maris observed the scene with a keen eye. This was the passion, Sansa tried to convey to Maris. Aemond, following Sansa's gaze, finally took notice of the lady in front of them – a Baratheon, he observed. It wasn't Borris' daughter, the one he had once been almost betrothed to; perhaps, it was her other daughter. A thought crossed his mind: maybe Sansa's unexpected display was a reaction to the presence of this particular Baratheon, an act out of character for their usual dynamic.

In response to Sansa's bold move, Aemond, too, found himself acting on an impulse he couldn't quite fathom. He accepted her hand in his, intertwining their fingers tightly, and drew her closer. His free arm gently cradled her chin as he pressed a kiss onto her forehead – an act that, in that moment, felt both too intimate and perfectly natural. The air between them crackled with a subtle tension. Was it too much? Aemond wondered. They were husband and wife; such displays of affection should be expected, even welcomed. Yet, he couldn't shake the notion that this particular exchange felt too intimate. Too close.

Now, it was Sansa who had her breath caught in her throat as she registered the gesture. The realization dawned on her that she had initiated a kiss on his cheek, and he had responded with a forehead kiss. It felt domestic – a stark departure from the carefully composed facade she had maintained throughout the evening.

"As have I, my wife." Aemond said, before turning towards the Baratheon, "Lady Baratheon, correct?"

"Maris Baratheon, My Prince," Maris said, her tone now lowered compared to her conversation with Sansa.

"Ah, one of Borris' Baratheon daughters," Aemond acknowledged with a nod. "I apologize for intruding on ladies' conversations, but would I be able to steal my wife, Lady Maris?"

"Of course, of course," Maris responded, bobbing her head enthusiastically. She excused herself and joined her sisters on the other side of the tent, leaving Aemond and Sansa in a momentary quietude.

Aemond turned his attention back to Sansa, his eyes searching hers as if seeking an explanation for the unexpected display of affection. Sansa, feeling the weight of Aemond's gaze, began to pull her hand away, ready to release their intertwined fingers. However, Aemond held firm, preventing her from pulling away, a silent insistence that they maintain the façade a little longer.

"People are looking, wife," he muttered, his voice low and meant for her ears alone. "Your pretense, too, is impressive."

Pretense. The word echoed in Sansa's mind, a reminder of their shared history and the delicate dance they had crafted together. She felt a twinge of regret, a realization that the line between pretense and reality had blurred in that moment.

"Sorry," she muttered, her gaze fixed on their hands.

"What ever for?" Aemond asked, tilting his head, a hint of confidence in his tone. "Holding hands is only natural for a wedded couple."

Sansa nodded, still avoiding his gaze, waiting for him to continue. When he fell silent, she looked at him, a subtle inquiry in her eyes. "You've come to talk to me?"

"Yes," he explained, "We're to return to King's Landing in an hour."

Sansa nodded in acknowledgment, waiting for further information. Yet, Aemond offered nothing more. Was that all he had to say? 

"My mother's family is here," Aemond pointed, gesturing to his left, where a gathering of individuals adorned in green and gold mingled with each other. Among them was Lord Hightower, the Hand's older brother, along with his children. Sansa had been briefly introduced to the broader Hightower family during their wedding, primarily Alicent's sister and brother's families, Otto Hightower's line, but not as much to Lord Hightower's side.

"I believe an introduction is in order," Aemond suggested.

"We've been introduced," Sansa replied, her tone carrying a note of reluctance.

"What might we do then? Ignore them?" Aemond's irritation seeped into his voice. Despite their shared sentiment of not wanting to spend more time with these relatives, especially when appearances needed to be upheld, they both understood the necessity of putting on a strong and loving facade.

Sansa sighed, relenting to the implied suggestion, "Let's make our way over there."

Together, hand in hand, they approached the Hightower family, ready to navigate the delicate balance between familial duty and personal discomfort. Reaching in front of the Hightower family, the air crackled with a blend of formality and familial warmth, though Sansa wasn't sure if the warmth had extended towards her or not. Greetings were exchanged, and the Hightowers presented themselves with the grace befitting their high station. Lord Hightower's son, Ormund Hightower, sat beside his wife, their three children by their side. The boys, all appearing to be under the age of fourteen, held an air of youthful innocence as they observed the gathering.

Gwayne Hightower, Alicent's younger brother, was also among the family members present. He acknowledged Aemond and Sansa with a courteous nod, his gaze curious and appraising. The Hightower family, resplendent in their green and gold attire, created a tableau of noble grace, and despite the undercurrents of tension, the initial exchanges were conducted with polished civility.

"My boy, Prince Aemond," Lord Hightower, a figure of authority and wisdom, offered a welcoming smile. "And princess," he paused, observing her with a slight wariness, "it is a pleasure to have you with us. The festivities have been grand, have they not?"

"Indeed, Lord Hightower. The celebration has been a testament to the warmth of the realm." Aemond responded graciously,.

Lord Hightower continued the conversation, his eyes alight with pride as he regaled the gathering with a tale of the hunt that had taken place earlier. His words painted a vivid picture of Prince Aemond's prowess, describing how he had skillfully brought down the stag with a single, mighty strike. Lord Hightower turned towards his children and grandsons, sharing the account with a glint in his eyes, as if passing down a cherished story to the next generation.

Aemond, standing beside Sansa, nodded in acknowledgment of the narrative, his expression a mix of humility and silent acceptance of the praise. His princely demeanor, underscored by the recent feat, only seemed to magnify in the eyes of the Hightower family. The noble guests, caught in the conversation of social decorum, offered polite applause, echoing the sentiment of admiration woven into Lord Hightower's storytelling.

Once the applause had subsided, Lord Hightower turned his attention back to Aemond with an appreciative smile. "Truly, Prince Aemond, your skill with the bow is quite commendable. The precision with which you brought down the stag was a sight to behold. The realm is fortunate to have a prince of such might and prowess."

"Thank you, Lord Hightower." Aemond responded with a nod, "The hunt provided an excellent opportunity to showcase our strength and precisions."

"It is a tale that will be recounted for generations to come. Your grandsons will hear of this day, and they will know of the might that accompanies the Targaryen name." Lord Hightower, encouraged by Aemond's humility, continued to extol the virtues of the hunt. 

Aemond's gaze didn't immediately meet Sansa's as the mention of grandsons echoed in the air. The weight of those words settled uncomfortably in Sansa's thoughts. They hadn't even consummated their marriage, yet the expectation of producing Targaryen heirs loomed over her. A tool, she was. As the conversation with the Hightowers continued, Sansa's silence became palpable, a subtle withdrawal that didn't escape Aemond's notice. Sensing her discomfort, he excused them from the Hightower gathering with a polite nod and a courteous smile. Their hands remained laced together, as they walked away.

Once away from the prying eyes and expectant whispers, Aemond turned to Sansa, his voice a low murmur. "Are you well?"

Sansa, her gaze distant, met his eyes, and offered a small nod, "Hmm."

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