#spacecleavage

2. If they could each describe each other in one sentence, what would it be?

Robb of Rhaenys: "The eye of a storm."

Rhaenys of Robb: "Steel beneath the sweetness."

8. What were their first impressions of each other?

Kinda depends on the AU. In most of mine, though, Rhaenys is rather antagonistic because of who his family is and what he stands for, whereas Robb is more neutral about the situation and finds her a bit intimidating. As a result, I think Robb is definitely the first to realize he's attracted to her and Rhaenys fights tooth and nail against it.

14. What would be a dealbreaker?

If the whole my-dad-slept-with-your-aunt-and-caused-a-war situation isn't a dealbreaker, then I'm not sure they even really have one 😄

19. If they could each write a single line in their marriage vows, what would they be?

Oh I am not good at writing sappy stuff. I want to say that Robb is effusive about his love for her, and Rhaenys might not have vows at all because she's uncomfortable with expressing her feelings publicly. Or maybe she'd do the surprising thing and wax poetic, I could see that too.

20. What is a promise they have made to each other?

That even though they argue, when it comes to the important things they will always have each other's back.

25. What moves do they know work on the other?

Rhaenys has a look that she'll give him sometimes that makes him drop everything lol. I think Rhaenys would require more effort. Lots of strategic touching.

27. Do they have any kinks/fetishes that they share?

I don't think so? I think Rhaenys would definitely be the dominant one and they have a thing for doing it in places they probably shouldn't (like hallways), but I don't really see them having any hard kinks. They might try a few out, though.

28. Write a ~300-word fantasy one of them has about the other.

She's been staring daggers at him all night. She doesn't know whose idea it was to seat her next to Winterfell's heir, but no amount of Egg's elbowing will tamp down her irritation. More irritating still is that Robb Stark has been perfectly genteel, asking whether she wants her wine goblet refilled (yes) or how the food tastes (bland) or what she thinks of Winterfell so far (cold). She can't help it. He may look a Tully, but winter is in his blood, and winter is what has led to the fractures in her family. When she glances over again, this time his eyes meet hers. "See something you like, princess?" he whispers. "You've looked at me often enough." "I've been glaring," Rhaenys sniffs, "there's a difference." "Ah." She thinks that's the end of it. But a few moments later Robb drops his fork — clumsy as well as annoying — and then she feels a hand brush her ankle. She would think nothing of it, figuring it accidental, except that as Robb straightens, he drags his hand slowly up her leg, rucking up her skirt as he goes. She gapes at him in righteous indignation, but there is neither explanation nor apology, only a challenge. Well. If it's a game he wants, it's one she won't let him win. Her heartbeat quickens as he roams his hand ever further, bringing it to rest on the inside of her thigh. The warmth of it is almost enough to make her squirm. She glares at him as darkly as she's able. Not that it does any good: with a wolfish smirk, his fingers brush against her smallclothes. She bites her tongue to stop from making a noise, which becomes more and more difficult the more Robb attends to her. She reaches down with her own hand to direct him — — And is summarily yanked back into reality at a clattering sound. "Damn," she hears Robb mutter next to her. "Dropped my fork."

32. Do they enjoy morning or night sex?

Both!

———

They capture her about an hour after the dawn, raiding her camp with an eerie efficiency. The whole thing is odd. None of her people are killed and only a few are injured. Most of those injuries are suffered on the other side, inflicted by a furious Lady. Indeed, it is downright polite, with the Targaryen forces just appearing and riding in, surrounding the camp at once. And when she is brought out to surrender, it isn’t to some muscular knight but a fat man in a robe who bows to her, blushes, and kisses her hand.

“Greetings to you, Princess Sansa, I am Samwell of House Tarly, friend and officer of your betrothed, Prince Jon of House Targaryen. These men and I have come to escort you to the campground of your intended. He is most excited to meet you at long last.”

Glaring daggers at the rotund man, Sansa responded, “Escort me, Lord Samwell? We both know that this is not the case. My people and I were riding for Moat Cailin, the seat of the Heir to the Three Realms. I was heading there for the same reason your prince is no longer my betrothed. He killed my brother.”

Samwell flinches. “You are mistaken, My Lady, I assure you. Please, for the sake of peace and good faith, just allow me to escort you to meet my master.”

“Of course I’m coming with you,” Sansa replies, “But this isn’t some friendly journey. Let’s call this what it is. I am your prisoner. Or your prince’s, rather.”

“I promise you, Madam, the prince only has the purest of intentions.”

“I’m so sure,” she rolls her eyes, “Let’s just go.”

The journey is a few hours, silent and awkward. Her horse is saddled and she rides alongside Lord Samwell, who acts like he’s afraid of her. Her servants and ladies are shown every courtesy.

The prince is not present to greet her when they arrive at the sprawling war camp. She inquires about his whereabouts, prompting another blush from her jailor.

“Prince Jon was called away to attend to other matters—”

“—So he’s sacking another part of my country,” she interrupts, “Lovely.”

Samwell looks like he wants to argue, but thinks better of it. “He is to return this evening. Until then, you are invited to stay in the prince’s own tent with your maids. Your things shall be brought to you. And if you need anything at all, you are only to ask. I know you’re an enthusiastic reader. I am as well. I have brought a great many books–”

“—So have I.” She wishes this man would stop with this. It’s insulting. She has no choice in being here. His masters killed her older brother, broke their vows of peace, and are invading her country. Her people are suffering and dying thanks to the Targaryen lust for power. They want to make a pawn of her. No amount of euphemisms or books change that. If this sorry sod or his prince think they are going to charm her into forgetting this, they are sorely mistaken.

“…I will have them delivered to you, then.”

The prince’s tent is more like a house made of crimson silk. There is a bedchamber, bath chamber, dining room, map room, even a private privy dug. Sansa reflects that it is fitting that a Targaryen is literally creating new places for his shit all over her country.

A bath is poured, and she and her maids are allowed to use her own soaps and oils once they’re inspected. When the guards deliver them, Sansa asks them if they’re enjoying their time rifling through her smallclothes. The beet like color they turn gives her some satisfaction.

Once she’s bathed and dressed, her books and her sewing kit are brought to her along with a meal of fresh trout, buttered asparagus, and lemon cakes.

“The prince has heard they’re your favorite,” Lord Samwell says when he visits.

“Did he? Funny, I am certain I told him in a letter years ago. You’d think he’d have read that. But then, I always did suspect that he never really looked at them. The replies that were written for him were a bit… dry.”

Samwell goes red again. “No! He read them all! He—” Then he stops and dismisses himself, clearly wary of how she’ll interpret anything else he says.

Sansa finishes eating and excuses herself to be alone in the bedchamber. For about half an hour, she sobs into her captor’s blood-colored pillows.

She hasn’t even gotten to Moat Cailin yet and she’s already failed. Prince Jon clearly considers them still betrothed. He will make her marry him, force himself on her, and try to claim the North through her. Father will be forced to disinherit her to keep that from occurring. And then the Targaryens will probably kill her once she’s no longer useful. Unless…

Oh, gods. Prince Jon was clever enough to side-step Father’s ruse. How, though? A spy, perhaps? Everyone knew Sansa would be headed to Moat Cailin. The port had to be protected, it was the heir’s duty to oversee it, and Sansa became heir upon Robb’s death. It’s why Father used the decoy retinue. Someone probably leaked it to the Targaryens. Which means there are Targaryen agents at Winterfell.

Surely, if the prince is shrewd enough to capture her, he must realize that the king would be compelled to disinherit Sansa if Jon wed her. There was only one way to prevent that and keep the claim safe: killing the king.

For all she knows, assassins are slipping poison into Father’s tea right now. They might not stop at him, either. In the South, their inheritance laws put trueborn sons, regardless of age, ahead of their sisters in the line of succession. What if they decide Bran and Baby Rickon are too much of a threat and target them as well?

Sansa tries to keep a clear head, tries to compose herself. She might still escape. Surely, she and her ladies can think of something…

But when she dries her eyes and enters the dining chamber to greet them, she finds two guards: one huge, one skinny, in the room as well. Furthermore, one of her ladies is missing.

“Where is Lady Dacey?” Sansa demands of one of the guards.

“She’s being hosted in another tent,” the brute says, leering, “Want to keep all you ladies safe and sound, don’t we? We don’t want you to get yourselves hurt.”

Sansa’s heart sinks. She knows what he’s really saying. Dacey is a hostage, an insurance policy to keep her from trying to escape. “How do I know she hasn’t already gotten hurt?”

They look at each other. The skinny one smiles. “Lord Samwell says that if you wish, we’re to escort you to Lady Dacey so you can see for yourself.”

“I insist upon it.”

They march her through the camp to another lord’s tent. Dacey, true to her Mormont heritage, acts strong and fierce. Completely unharmed.

“Don’t give up hope, Princess,” the older girl tells her, clasping her hands, “It will be alright.” She glances at the guards, then gives Sansa a significant look. We’ll find a way.

Sansa isn’t allowed to speak to Dacey long, and is escorted back to the prince’s tent a few minutes later. She stares blankly at a book, mind racing, trying to figure out how to get away without sacrificing anyone. Nothing comes to her. If she leaves their sight, they’ll start murdering her people, one by one. The Targaryens may have failed to take the North for centuries, but they’re still conquerors. They’ve taken half of Westeros and many places in the East. They say that Queen Daenerys Targaryen, sister to King Rhaegar, crucified a hundred Masters in Yunkai during her conquest, that she did it where all their families could see. They’ll probably slit one throat after another.

What leverage does she have? None, really. Nearly all of her country’s forces are fending off invaders elsewhere. By the time her family could possibly learn of her predicament, Jon will have wedded and bedded her. They have her household. They have men everywhere. All Sansa has is herself.

Perhaps if she held a knife or a fork to her throat? No, that would only get her people killed as well. Not even her death can be used.

There’s no helping it. All she can do is wait for an opportunity, because she certainly doesn’t have one now.

She remains in the bedchamber, alone, with her books and sewing. She works on the saddlebags she’s making Arya for her next Name Day and rereads some legends from the Age of Heroes.

The sun starts to set and before long, Sansa hears the arrival of scores and scores of men. Her “betrothed” is back. Her stomach lurches.

Her ladies enter, and Wylla steps forward.

“Let me guess,” Sansa says, shutting her book and rising, “They want me to come out and welcome my beloved home?”

“Er, no, Princess,” Wylla says, looking somewhat embarrassed, “Um, they said the prince intends to make himself presentable, and wishes to take supper with you once he’s freshly bathed and changed.”

Sansa laughs. She never figured Jon as a vain sort. His letters— if, indeed, he wrote them— never indicated that. Nor had it ever been mentioned by the diplomats who met him. As a little girl, Sansa used to approach any and every dignitary who had recently spent time in King’s Landing and interrogate them about her betrothed. It became a running joke that any civil servant wishing to gain royal favor better pay close attention to the young prince.

“So are we to sit in some other tent while he primps?” She asks.

“Er, no. Apparently he intends to do that in another tent. But…” Wylla stops and grunts, grinding her teeth for a couple seconds.

“What?”

“It…”

“—It was suggested, Princess,” Alys, another of her ladies interrupts, “That you prepare yourself for supper if you wish. That you dress to meet your betrothed.” She shudders.

Sansa begins to laugh. These people can’t be serious.

“Fine,” she says, “I will. Wylla, get me my gardening kirtle. Alys, put my hair into the tightest, most severe bun you can manage.”

The girls actually laugh at this. Her gardening kirtle is more like a grey smock that she wore when she was digging through the glass gardens at Winterfell. The sort of thing made to get earthworms on it.

Alys yanks her hair back, making her look like a stern septa without her wimple. Sansa’s famous for her auburn tresses. She knows for a fact that Prince Jon had liked it in all the portraits her family sent over the years. She’ll restrain every bit of it. Not a single strand will be allowed to flow freely.

Letty, another lady, sighs, “The problem is, Princess, you’ll never look properly dowdy.”

“Well, we work with what we have,” Sansa states evenly. She sighs.

“Try belching and farting throughout the meal,” Wylla suggests, “Pick things out of your teeth, lick your fingers..”

“…Pick your nose, even!” Letty declares. Despite themselves, all of them laugh at this.

All except one of her ladies, who has been silent this whole time. Sansa eyes her through the mirror.

“You don’t agree, Sara?” She asks the quietest of her waiting women.

Her friend bites her lip for a moment, then speaks. “I just… I just think you’re more likely to make progress by charming him than repelling him. He’s gone to all this trouble to have you. If he has brutal intentions, then all you can do by acting like this is make him angry. But if you charm him… Well, you lose nothing, and you could gain some influence. I’m not saying you should just tell him whatever he wants to hear, of course. I don’t think that will work. But if he thought there’s a chance to win you… He might try to. You can use that.”

Sara pauses, then smiles, “Then, once you’ve gotten what you need from him, you break him completely.”

Sansa looks at Alys. “Release my hair. Wylla, get the plum velvet and my topaz necklace. Oh, and the silver and amethyst hair net.”

Despite the attraction she feels towards the “manipulate and break him” plan, Sansa does have to remind herself not to spit in his face once she enters the dining chamber. She holds her head high as she steps into the room. She does not curtsy. They are of exactly the same rank, and she has no respect for him.

His back is turned for a moment, but then he turns. And Sansa is rather taken aback by the handsome, kind-looking face that greets her.

Prince Jon’s curls are a deep brown that looks almost as black as his velvet doublet. His lips are full, pouting, and as well shaped as any woman’s, and is framed by a closely trimmed beard. He is blessed with high cheekbones and a strong, aquiline nose. His eyes are dark, expressive, and penetrating. They watch her anxiously as he bows.

“Princess Sansa,” he says, voice deep and raspy, “I… It… You…”

Sansa is astonished. He is leading an invasion into my country, has kidnapped me, and is stuttering like a bashful child. “I…?”

The prince winces slightly at his own awkwardness and licks his lips nervously. “My Uncle Viserys said that your portraits were probably embellished. That you couldn’t possibly be that pretty. He was right, I suppose. You’re far more beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so lovely.”

Is this supposed to charm me? “So you haven’t met your Aunt Daenerys, then? I hear she is the most beautiful woman in all the world.”

“I have. And she isn’t. It’s just the purple eyes. They’re rare enough for people to be distracted by them. Her beauty is overstated. Whoever says that hasn’t met you.”

An odd response, to say the least. Jon was never so verbose in his letters. Most of the time, they were literal, bulleted lists of questions. How have you been since you last wrote? What’s your favorite type of bird? Do you have different names for the stars in the North? Who do you like better, Florian or Artys Arryn? Did you finish that gown you were working on? Have you ever sailed on a ship?

More evidence that he didn’t write them, she supposes. Sansa purses her lips and eyes the food set out. Braised lamb, sweet potatoes, spinach, wine, and, of course, lemoncakes. All served on gilded plate.

“I’m not sure that I’m hungry,” she remarks, hesitant. For all she knows, the wine could have some sort of sleeping draught in it. She could wake up naked in his bed, maidenhead gone.

His face falls into a grave expression. “Are you planning to go on a hunger strike?” He asks her quietly. The question catches her off-guard.

“I thought of it,” she admits, “But there are ways you could force me to eat, and it wouldn’t be worth it.”

The prince takes a deep breath and walks toward her. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to kiss her, or strike. Instead, he just goes to pull out her chair. “Will you sit, at least? And speak to me?”

Sansa goes to sit. Jon pulls his own chair, already fairly close, to the place right next to her and sits as well.

“Princess Sansa, I am not your enemy.”

Don’t spit in his face. Don’t spit in his face. Don’t spit in his face. “Oh, so I suppose this is all just some big misunderstanding, then! I’m allowed to leave whenever I wish, and when I get to Moat Cailin, I’ll find that my brother has been alive all this time after all! And you and your army are just here on a goodwill tour!”

Jon cringes. “Princess, I didn’t kill your brother.”

“Then who put the poison in his cup, then?” Sansa demands. “Did the Others do it?”

“That’s what I want to find out. Someone wanted our countries to go to war again. They wanted the alliance to fail. So they killed your brother, knowing that my family would be blamed.”

“Or maybe your family did do it. Maybe after years of failing to take the North through force, you decided to do it through marriage, and you need my brother out of the way to do it.”

“If that were the case, why wouldn’t we wait to do that until after we’d been married?” Jon asks impatiently. “Once we actually had the next heir to the North in our control? Why would we kill him and let your father break the agreement? Why, if that was our aim, not wait until after the two of us were wed and kill your brother and your father instead of risking our chances?”

This shakes her. He makes an excellent point. But…

“…If not you, then who? Everyone loved Robb. And everyone was in favor of this alliance.”

“Not everyone, apparently,” Jon remarks, looking slightly relieved. “There are people who profit from war, after all. Mercenary captains. Generals who are otherwise useless and are unhappy in their retirement. People who hate one or both of our families.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Let’s say I believe you about Robb. If that’s the case, then why are you here, sacking our settlements?”

Jon cringes. “My father is… Impulsive. Not the wisest of men. When your father accused him of murder and broke the agreement, he wanted to summon Daenerys here to rain dragonfire down upon you. I already wanted to uncover what happened to your brother, so I convinced him to send me instead. If I didn’t get anything done, then Father would end up sending Daenerys anyways. So I’ve been here, trying to do just enough to satisfy him long enough to figure out what really happened. If you don’t believe me, I’ll take you to every town I’ve sacked. Let you assess the damage yourself. You’ll see I’m really not behaving like a would-be conqueror. But I’m running out of time, Sansa. My father is growing impatient. He wants me to get more done. And if I don’t…”

“…It’s a field of fire?” She asks, shivering.

The prince nods. “I’ll show you his letters if you don’t believe me. Whatever you want to see, I’ll show you. I have no secrets. But please understand this,” he grabs her hands in his, “I never, in a million years, wanted any harm to come to you or your family. I swear it on my mother’s life. I… I took you, yes, and I am sorry. I truly am. But I needed to do something that would satisfy my father, and I also need to get into Moat Cailin to investigate further. If I have you…”

Sansa swallows. “You could easily control what I see. Forge letters. Omit others. You want me to even consider believing you?”

Jon nods.

“Then let my household go free. Send them all back to their families, safe and sound.”

He hesitates for a moment. Sansa starts to rise, but he catches her wrist.

“Make an oath to me that you won’t try to escape or attack anyone if I do this,” he says gravely.

“I swear it, on my honor as a Stark.” He didn’t mention not hurting herself.

Jon closes his eyes. “Very well.”

To her astonishment, he makes good on his word. He has Sansa watch as they are granted permission to leave, as their transport is assembled. They are instructed to write to her the moment they arrive home, and to include something in their letter that only Sansa will understand. There are tearful good-byes. Dacey tries to protest, tries to stay behind, but Sansa begs her.

Jon gives her the keys to his desk. And she finds missives corroborating his story. He even invites House Stark to send emissaries to check up on her. He’s exacting, diligent, nearly exhaustive in his efforts to make sure she has everything possible to evaluate his story.

He never lays a hand on her. When they’re alone, he’s shy, flustered, and gentle. Sansa tries so hard not to like him.

“You know, you never told me what your favorite bird was.” He mentions to her one evening.

She looks up at him, stunned. “What?”

Jon swallows a mouthful of soup and wipes his face. “You remember when we were children? We wrote to one another all the time. My siblings used to tease me about how a girl three years younger could write so much better than I could. I was embarrassed, because they were right. You’d tell me these stories and such and I knew I could never compete. I was afraid you’d think I was an idiot and not want to marry me. So I would just write these long lists of questions to you. I wanted to know everything, and I loved the way you’d answer them sometimes. But you never told me what your favorite bird was.”

Her mouth goes dry. So those were from him. “Um, well… To be honest, I’m not sure. Doves are pretty, and they make such sweet sounds. But myna birds and parrots can supposedly speak, and I’ve always wanted to hear an animal say something. Blue jays and kingfishers are beautiful. Ravens are clever and useful… I suppose I have many favorite birds.”

Jon smiles. “That’s lovely. Do you have a favorite type of dog?”