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His first wife was a Martell. Delicate of build and constitution, she survived the childbed twice despite the maester’s surety that she wouldn’t. But she and the two babes she brought into the world perished during the sack of King’s Landing when hell broke loose in the Red Keep. The official story was that they were slain by rogue guards gone mad with bloodlust when the city was on the brink of falling to the Lannister army, which in the eleventh hour had entered the war not on the side of the incumbent, but on the side of the usurper.

But the usurper fell, too. The prince’s last strike proved fatal. Lord Robert Baratheon and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen fell into the river. Both were pulled out, one as a corpse, the other expected to follow. Rules of war said all injured should be cared for, no matter their banner. And, despite all odds, the prince’s lilac eyes snapped open nearly a fortnight later, sunken into his regal face but bright and alert soon enough.

Around the same time Rhaegar’s eyes opened, his second wife’s closed for good. Lyanna Stark’s supposed abduction by the prince had been the fuel that fed the fires of war. Her plight was Robert Baratheon’s cause, but the truth was that she eloped with the crown prince willingly, only to later die of childbed blood loss. But she left two things behind: her sworn testimony, as witnessed by her brother Ned and friend Howland, that the prince hadn’t taken her against her will, and a crying babe with night-dark hair and moon-pale skin. Lyanna’s body, her words, and her son were taken to the capital and presented to the council that had been formed after the city fell. Lords Hoster Tully, Tywin Lannister, and Jon Arryn were busy trying to prevent the entire continent from descending into chaos (and each trying to further his house’s interests). Their best idea had been to send someone to Dragonstone to retrieve the late king’s young son Viserys, though choosing which of the lords would rule as the boy’s regent proved to be a sticking point.

But then Rhaegar Targaryen, scarred and weak and pale as death, rode into the capital and claimed his throne. With Lyanna’s testimony, his abduction of the lady became a song of fairytale romance. His crime was expunged, though most of Westeros’ nobility, particularly those sworn to Houses Stark and Baratheon, couldn’t ignore the fact that his lustful brashness was just as dangerous as if it had been a crime in truth.

Nonetheless, Rhaegar was of age to rule, and Tywin Lannister had a daughter of age to marry. The Baratheon army returned to the Stormlands to lick their wounds and curse the prince’s name from reluctantly bent knees. The Stark army returned to the North in similar style, though the dutiful and ever honor-bound Ned Stark silenced such curses promptly. “We are either loyal to the Crown or we are not. If we are not, it means more blood will be spilled, more lives will be wasted, and I, for one, do not care to waste the planting season on such follies,” the stern Northman was known to say.

The beautiful, golden-haired Cersei Lannister was wed to Prince Rhaegar as soon as his wounds were fully healed and his strength recovered enough to bed his bride.

Eighteen months later a golden-haired daughter was born, and the prince was happy.

Another ten months later, one of Rhaegar’s most loyal cronies found the queen consort in a compromising position with her twin brother, the king’s sworn sword, Jaime Lannister. The queen lost her head. The brother lost his sword hand and was exiled to Essos with the daughter who was branded a bastard and made to wear the name ‘Alysa Waters’ instead of ‘Alysanne Targaryen’.

At this time, the king had Jaenerys – named Jon by his dying second wife, renamed by the king in the style of Old Valyria – as his heir. His brother Viserys counted as a spare, as did his baby sister, Daenerys. But the king became obsessed with repopulating his once-large house and was often overheard rambling about a dark night that would claim many lives, including, potentially, the lives of the brave dragons who would lead the force of good that opposed the darkness. Rhaegar would not risk the end of his bloodline. When they were of age, Viserys, Daenerys, and Jaenerys would all wed and – gods willing – bring more dragons into the world. It was decided that Viserys would wed Arianne Martell, niece of Rhaegar’s first wife, of an age with the young, silver-haired prince.

But that age was only nine in the year 285 AC. Arianne’s father promised her hand only if she would not be bedded until the age of eight and ten.

So, Rhaegar took his fourth wife, Janna Tyrell, a buxom and cheerful girl of eight and ten. Maesters, midwives, and wisewomen agreed that she had the hips to bear many healthy children, and the hearty constitution that meant she was unlikely to perish in the process.

But Lord Luthor Tyrell had failed to mention that his daughter had a tendency to bleed profusely when sustaining even a minor cut, such as the price of an embroidery needle. She died six months into the royal marriage when she miscarried a child no one even knew she was carrying and – instead of summoning a maester – tried to hide the evidence for fear she’d be cast aside by the king. She was found by her maid the next morning on the floor with several blood-drenched shifts and underthing wadded between her doughy thighs, her skin already cold, her limbs already stiff.

Within the year Rhaegar took his fifth wife, Lord Walter Whent’s only daughter, only for her to fall from her spooked mare during a hawking excursion. It was twelve months into the marriage. Some whispered that the king had the maester cut her belly open to see if she’d been with child. Whether it was true, and what was found if it was, remains unknown to this day.

For a long time, Rhaegar gave up on marriage, sinking into a deep melancholy due to all the losses he’d suffered: wives, children, unborn babes. His hand, Jon Arryn, ruled the realm while Rhaegar spent weeks at a time holed up in his chambers, barely eating, failing to bathe himself, turning away all visitors, playing somber tunes of his own creation on his harp.

Perhaps he’d never have emerged if it weren’t for his little sister’s pleading. Apparently, Viserys used his brother’s isolation to harass their little sister. He would kiss her lips and pinch her child nipples and say that she would be his instead of some chit from Dorne – the kingdom that had never kneeled. He told her that a true dragon should only mate with another true dragon. Viserys had become obsessed with the notion that Rhaegar would waste away and die, or throw himself onto the dry moat spikes, or go mad like their father had, and that he would be crowned by virtue of being old enough to rule while Jaenery was still a boy playing with wooden toys and sitting on his nurse’s lap for bedtime stories.

Rage over his brother’s betrayal motivated Rhaegar to emerge from his dark bedchamber and remind everyone he was the king, and that he was not going anywhere. He renewed his focus on studying, ruling, and training. A few months later, his advisors and friends were cheered to find his mind and body honed like they hadn’t been since before Robert Baratheon cut him down in the shallows of the Trident. Still, Viserys’ disrespect and disloyalty persisted, as reported to Rhaegar by servants. Rhaegar sent Viserys to Dragonstone with a host of loyal men, under the guise of allowing his little brother to learn how to rule. In truth, the king was minimizing Viserys’ potential treacheries, since the population on Dragonstone was small – the island could field something like four hundred fighting men at best, and there were no noble families in residence there.

So that his motive wouldn’t be entirely transparent, Rhaegar also sent Jaenerys north to foster with Ned Stark, the little prince’s uncle. Girls didn’t typically foster, but he let Daenerys travel to learn about the kingdoms. She spent some time in nearby Rosby, in Riverrun where young Edmure Tully ruled for the year his father spent at court, in Sunspear getting to know her future goodsister, in the Arbor taking in the scenery, in White Harbor with Lord Manderly and his friendly daughters, in Maidenpool where sailors regaled her with songs learned during their travels in the East.

But having his son and siblings away from court, Rhaegar was reminded just how vulnerable his line was. Four Targaryens had been lost in a matter of months not so long ago – his parents and two of his children. Yes, it was amid war, but war was inevitable as long as men remained the covetous creatures they were.

So, Rhaegar took his sixth wife, one of the Manderly daughters who’d embraced Daenerys so openly. She was of child-bearing age, delicate of build but robust of health, vibrant and beautiful. Rhaegar found himself reminded that marriage was not just about making heirs.

But alas, Wynafryd was not meant to bear the king’s heirs. She failed to conceive in the first year of their marriage, the second, the third, the fourth. Not so much as a missed moonblood. Not even a miscarriage to prove her womb was capable of being seeded.

She had cried in her much older husband’s arms when the maester told them it was not to be, and Rhaegar said all the right words of comfort. But he never could summon the same fondness he’d once felt for her, the same desire. Desperately she would try to seduce him, suckling his neck and ears, rubbing him through his breeches, but all he could think of was her womb, bitter and dry like salted soil.

A moon after the maester gave his verdict, the High Septon annulled the marriage, and Wynafryd returned to White Harbor, a woman no man wanted to wed despite all her prettiness, intelligence, and kindness. Some days after she returned home, Wynafryd fell into a sweet sleep and never woke up.

A year passed, then another, with the king falling into another melancholy. His fortieth nameday wasn’t celebrated, and any who suggested notions like a feast or a holiday in the Summer Isles were sure to have a goblet flung at their head for the effort.

And once again it was his brother’s treachery that pulled Rhaegar I Targaryen out of the dark abyss of despair. The same day Rhaegar was to send a raven to Dragonstone calling Viserys back to court so he could be wed to Arianne Martell, a harried messenger arrived with word that Viserys had fled Dragonstone in secrecy, with only a few trusted men as his honor guard. Only none of them were smart enough to heed the ship captain’s warning that a storm was brewing to the south, making its way up the eastern coast of the continent. Perhaps because the captain was ordered to sail them to Essos under threat of death, they suspected the man was lying to buy time for word to reach the king.

The man hadn’t been lying. The ship was sunk. No survivors.

Four dragons became three.

The king emerged, tall and regal and handsome as ever after shaving the beard he’d let grow over the past two years. Crown straight, chest out, chin high, Rhaegar Targaryen marched to the throne room and presided over court for the first time in months.

Any who were concerned over his absence were easily mollified by the promise of a feast to be held on the last night of the year 299, with wine and food to flow from sunset to dawn. Invitations were sent to every great house and their vassals. Though there were six moons until the new year, not a single set of hands was idle in the Red Keep, and the tradesmen and merchants in King’s Landing and the surrounding areas smiled and praised the good king Rhaegar. Courtiers speculated that the feast would double as the wedding celebration for Prince Jaenerys and Princess Daenerys. Others thought the king himself would choose a bride from among the revelers, perhaps marry her on the spot. Either way, the kingdom was excited.

The raven sent to Winterfell had not yet arrived when Prince Jaenerys sent a letter of his own, which his father received and read over a goblet of wine on an evening chilly enough to necessitate his hearth be lit and his robe be wool.

Father,

I hope this letter finds you healthy of body and spirit.

As you know, my fostering at Winterfell is nearly at an end as I’ve recently celebrated my sixteenth nameday.

As I prepare for my upcoming departure, I find a shadow looms over me, threatening to turn a joyous occasion – my return home – into a dark one.

In my time fostering with Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn, I have come to appreciate many things about the Northlands. ‘Winter is coming’ embodies the practicality and pragmatism of our largest kingdom’s people, but it also offers a hint of optimism for those inclined to look for it. Just as winter inevitably comes, it inevitably ends – and when it does, we find ourselves amidst the vibrant beauty of Spring with all the bounty she brings.

In my time here, I’ve come to appreciate the durability of these people, animals, and plants that can survive the brutal winters without losing their beauty. The blue winter rose is a prime example, but not the one that is on my mind now and nearly every moment of my days. Just as you fell in love with my mother for both her resilience and her sweetness, I have fallen in love with my cousin, Sansa. She looks delicate like every rose – a thing to be admired from afar or touched with the utmost gentleness. Yet with each passing year her roots grow stronger and deeper such that I think none could stand against bitter winter’s winds better than she. Her hair is the color of fire, yet winter is in her veins. The only emotion that dwarfs my love for her is my fear that she will never be mine.

So I write this letter to humbly ask for your permission to take Lady Sansa Stark as my wife. I know you’ve considered matching me with Aunt Daenerys, but you must know that there is no love between her and I other than a familial one. Just as you followed your heart and pursued Mother even though you had already wed another, please free me to follow my heart. That is all I ask and all I will ever ask.

I thank you in advance for your consideration, and anxiously await your response.

Until then I remain

Your dutiful son,

Jaenerys Targaryen

The king blinked down at the letter, but only certain words stood out to his eye, as if all the rest had been written with a dry quill.

Winter is coming.

Durability and beauty.

Winter rose.

Resilience and sweetness.

Fire. Winter.

Stark.

A wet splotch formed on the parchment, but the king did not recall feeling the tear roll down his cheek.

His calloused thumb rubbed against the rough material, caressing it with the same tenderness with which he’d once brushed Jaenerys’ cheek upon meeting his son for the first time.

His lips whispered a name; a name he hadn’t spoken aloud in over fourteen years yet said every night in his dreams.

Rhaegar I Targaryen may have had the people’s love, but he knew what they said about him: that his seed was cursed; that – one way or another – every woman who graced the king’s bed ended up in a coffin. To be honest, most days Rhaegar believed that bit of superstition.

But as he stared at those ink-bound words he realized he wasn’t cursed at all, but blessed. The gods themselves had kept him free, because they knew someday his love would return to him, just as surely as they knew that the next winter might never yield to spring if Rhaegar himself didn’t see to it, if he didn’t write the song of ice and fire.

He pulled a leaf of parchment from his drawer, dipped his quill, and wrote his response.

My son,

You have made me proud and done the realm a great service, finding a true queen of winter.

By your vivid description of her, I suspect Sansa Stark might be the greatest queen the Seven Kingdoms has ever known.

I look forward to seeing you back in the capital soon, and to meeting the lovely lady herself.

With highest regards

Your father,

King Rhaegar I Targaryen

Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms

That night, for the first time since he realized Wynafryd Manderly’s womb was barren, King Rhaegar fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

She couldn’t help the stolen glances between her and the prince, who sat on the far side of the Great Hall where the evening’s festivities were being held.

He didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from glancing back, nor successfully fight the smiles that she knew were just for her. The only defense for his pride was to hide those smiles behind a goblet of wine, while she did the same with her goblet of water.

She was certain that Mother saw it all, because whenever Sansa’s eyes landed on her, Catelyn would be giving her a particular glare that Sansa knew to be a half-hearted scolding. Catelyn wanted her eldest daughter to know she knew what was going on, but she wasn’t actually upset with Sansa. If anything, Sansa thought Mother was happy that she and her betrothed (well, soon-to-be betrothed) were a true love match.

Arya found that notion disgusting, but she had always seen Prince Jaenerys – or Jon, as he preferred to be called – more like an older brother.

It didn’t bother Sansa. Sansa knew Starks had married their cousins throughout history just as Targaryens had married their siblings; it was the only way to keep noble lines strong and noble families united, and it helped prevent infighting when there were only daughters in the direct line of succession.

Nor did it matter that Jon didn’t look like the prince of her girlhood dreams with that hair like spun silver and delicate features. Jon’s hair was ebony, his eyes were smoke. His features were rugged yet somehow more refined than the uncles he was said to favor, with a gentler brow and softer mouth. He was long and lean but not what Sansa would call lanky, and stood nearly of a height with his father, King Rhaegar, even though Jon was only six-and-ten. Septa Mordane said he would grow another couple finger’s width before he was done, and Sansa trusted the woman’s opinion.

Sansa wasn’t sure quite when she first realized how handsome her royal cousin was. As a little girl she had thought it was the king and his brother Viserys, with their silver-blond hair and violet irises, that embodied the very definition of male attractiveness. But at some point, she had come to find Jon quite handsome. Perhaps it was because she knew him to be kind and honest, brave and principled.  

“Good evening, my lords and ladies, family and friends…”

Sansa managed to tear her eyes away from the prince to look at his father. King Rhaegar was still an impressive and handsome man, even if he was even older than Sansa’s father. One-and-forty, she had learned, though she thought he would easily pass for five-and-thirty. He had fewer wrinkles than Father, and his skin looked supple rather than papery. He was always clean shaven, his still-shiny hair usually pulled into a braid or sometimes allowed to hang free to his chest, twisting slightly into waves near the ends, just like Jon’s did.

Everyone in the hall quieted, and Sansa studiously straightened her lips so that when the eyes all moved to her – which they would very soon – they wouldn’t see a grinning dolt or a silly little lovestruck girl. (Though for Jon Targaryen, she was both.)

“This evening we gather to celebrate the dawning of a new century – an event worthy of celebration in and of itself…” King Rhaegar paused there and tipped his head graciously when all in attendance clapped and whistled, “But we have even more cause for merriment, and I am beyond thrilled to finally be able to share this good news with you, my honored guests. Soon, House Targaryen will be connected to not just one but two of the great houses of Westeros, both of which trace their roots back to the Age of Heroes…”

Sansa was proud but a bit surprised that the king would mention her Tully heritage, though she supposed it was widely known that Uncle Edmure, Lord Paramount of the Trident, loved his sister’s children very much.

The king turned to look directly at her, and his sudden attention almost made her flinch but she managed to tip her chin slightly instead, offering a gesture of allegiance and gratitude both. In response, he smiled, and it didn’t look strained or half-hearted, the way Jon described his father’s sad smiles. This smile was bright and warm, and Sansa’s chest felt full to know her king, her beloved’s father, was proud of her, fond of her, or both. She knew it meant she had made a good impression on him in the past fortnight when she would dine with him or accompany him on his daily garden walks (an excuse to measure Sansa’s character since, gods willing, she’d someday be queen).

“Not just any lady is suited to bear the mantle of queenship. It is as heavy a burden as it is great an honor…” the king continued as he began pacing the front of the Great Hall. Not frantically but with long, calm strides, his hands clasped at the waist. Sansa knew that meant he was about to give one of his lofty speeches. Selfishly, she wanted him to hurry up and announce her betrothal to his son, but, vainly, she was glad to hear his praise (even if also a bit embarrassed by the attention).

“…For centuries my forebears tied brother to sister because they arrogantly assumed no woman except one of Valyrian descent was good enough for their sons,” the king spoke the words with obvious disdain, playing to his audience, “but I hope I have proven in my reign that I do not hold such an insular view. Over sixteen years ago, I sat down with men with whom I’d been at war…” he held a hand out toward the tables where sat the Starks or representatives from the other Great Houses, “Lords Stannis Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn, and Tywin Lannister. We sat down and forged a peace that would not have been possible under my father’s reign, shamed as I am to say it. Misunderstandings were explained. Grudges were forgiven. Reparations were offered and accepted. A pact was made that no longer would the throne and all its power belong only to the king and a select group of his blind followers. The throne may yet be a Targaryen birthright, but the rulership of the Seven Kingdoms is more than any one man can shoulder. Hence, I named Lord Arryn as my Hand – a decision I have never regretted…” Rhaegar lifted his goblet and nodded in the direction of the kindly old man, who mirrored the gesture.

“…And Ser Brynden Tully as my Commander of the City Watch. And to those who fought for my father, I bore no ill will. I thanked them for their loyalty to my house, for when the hostilities began, they had no idea that there was a way to remain loyal to House Targaryen without supporting Aerys the Second, better known as Aerys the Mad. For instance, I named Lord Paxter Redwyne my Master of Ships…”

Sansa was momentarily distracted by another glance Jon’s way. He was already looking back at her, his lips pursed in what she knew was an effort to stifle a smirk. He had joked with her a few times about how southern lords, including his own father, liked to hear their own voices. She still fondly recalled Jon’s impersonation of his father’s opening remarks at a feast and then her father’s. As the king, Jon had bloviated about topics big and small for five minutes straight. As Lord Stark, he had hurriedly muttered, “Thank you for coming. You may eat.”

Before she might lose control of her facial muscles, Sansa set her eyes back on the king, and let her ears hear his words once more.

“…for nearly two decades, I, with the staunch support of these capable lords, have ruled in an era of peace – only interrupted once by a foolhardy Ironman who thinks that to rape and pillage are fundamental liberties of his people.” The king took a deep breath, “But I digress… a habit of mine, I know,” he flashed a smile at the crowd, and they giggled and smiled back.

Sansa didn’t mind the pomp as much as Jon seemed to, but she still thought it a good sign that the king knew he was rambling and was humble enough to jape about it.

His pacing came to a stop then and he stood regally, dead center at the front of the grand hall, “I have kept you in suspense long enough. Frankly I’m surprised some of you haven’t told me to shut up yet, Ser Brynden…” the king glared at Sansa’s great-uncle in mock scolding. Sansa’s aged but capable great-uncle lifted his cup of ale and tipped his head, but Sansa noticed he didn’t look overly amused.

Then again, the Blackfish was what Father would call ‘a hard nut to crack’.

“Let me not further dally. Tonight, I announce not one but two betrothals…”

Sansa was certainly not the only one whose eyes went wide with surprise. She hadn’t expected to hear about any betrothal other than her own to Prince Jaenerys. Moreover, she had no idea whose it might be.

That was, until she remembered that the king’s sister Daenerys had for years been rumored to be destined for Jaenerys. It had never been formalized as a betrothal, since the Faith denounced marriages between uncle and niece or aunt and nephew, but so had they denounced marriages between sibilings, and the Targaryen family had always considered themselves exempt. Now that Jaenerys was to wed to Sansa, it would make sense for the king to arrange his sister’s marriage as well.

Sansa only now hoped that Daenerys hadn’t felt slighted. Jon had assured her that his aunt did not wish to marry him any more than he wished to marry her, but still, might it have hurt her feelings that the handsome Crown Prince did not want her? Nearly two decades ago, then-Prince Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark over his lawful wife, the mother of his children. Later it was realized that he never meant to abandon Elia Martell, only to take Lyanna Stark as a second wife, but still. How had poor Princess Elia felt to know her husband loved another so much that he would leave his wife and daughter to elope with a veritable stranger in an act that inadvertently started a war?

The tale was so tragic it never failed to bring tears to Sansa’s eyes, yet also a glimmer of hope that she might one day be loved so fiercely by a man that he would run away to elope with her even if neither of their families approved. She would never pray for war to be the result of their love affair, but to be so wanted, so loved? What more could a young lady wish for?

She let her eyes drift to Jaenerys again. She was quite certain he loved her. They had spent hours upon hours together while he fostered at Winterfell, confessing their dreams and exchanging their secrets. She wanted to be a wife and mother, first and foremost. A mother like her own, who didn’t delegate child-rearing to a troop of nurses, but who would bounce a toddler on her hip, soil her dress sleeve with said toddler’s tears or mucus or whatever sticky treat the tot had sloppily consumed, all while keeping an eye on her older children and giving commands to the household. But beyond that, Sansa wanted to be a queen like Good Queen Alysanne – one who would be remembered for her generosity and warmth. She wanted the people of the realm to think of her as an ally, a woman they could go to in times of plight, a flesh and blood woman they could petition when prayers to the Maiden and Mother and Crone weren’t answered.

Jaenerys’s dreams aligned with hers – he wanted to be a fair and benevolent king, though he confessed to her with flushed cheeks that he fantasized about acts of valor – of riding down bandits or defending his home and family from some would-be usurper. Sometimes he even dreamt – literally – of riding a dragon to do so.

He also shared her hopes for parenthood. He admitted to knowing already that when his first child was placed in his arms, he would cry. That had made them both blush, because by then they’d been old enough to know how babes were made, and they knew enough of their feelings for one another to know they hoped to make children together someday. Sansa wasn’t dumb (though her siblings often accused her of being naïve); she knew that in order to make a child with Jon, the prince would have to put that iron-hard rod of his inside her woman’s place. The idea didn’t frighten her like it ought; she had once tugged on it beneath his breeches until something hot squirted out (his seed) while he rubbed her woman’s place until she felt every muscle in her body tense and shiver then go completely slack.

Well, perhaps they had done it more than once, though only after Jon confessed his love and his intention to ask his father and hers for permission to marry her.

With a sigh Sansa pulled her eyes off Jaenerys and once again gave her attention to the king, blushing at finding him already looking at her. She hoped he would forgive her lack of attentiveness, being as the cause of her distraction had been his own son. Even more, she hoped he didn’t know she’d been thinking of his son’s rod and how badly she wanted to feel it inside her woman’s place.

When the king smiled broadly at her, she knew she had naught to fear. She let out a breath and smiled back, beaming at the man who would soon be her goodfather. Perhaps someday she’d be able to call him ‘Father’ instead of ‘your grace’. He’d never invited her to call him ‘uncle’, but she’d always been more of a subject to him, even if a noble one, than family.

But soon she would be his family; her blood would run in his grandchildren’s veins.

She felt too proud for words.

The king’s eyes went back to the crowd, “First, I must ensure the bloodline of my house’s heirs is noble and pristine. To that end, my son, the prince Jaenerys Targaryen, will take as his wife and consort…”

Sansa bit down on her lip and fisted her skirts beneath the table. This was it. The beginning of the rest of her life. The statement that would see her become princess, then queen, but more importantly wife and someday mother. She would be Jon’s bride, she would give him children, she would give him happiness and comfort and—

“…Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell!”

Someone nearby sucked in a sharp breath, but Sansa didn’t know if it was Mother or Arya or someone else entirely. She only sat there in shock, replaying the king’s words, trying to reconcile them with the future that had been promised to her.

Is there another Prince Jaenerys?

Is my real name Arianne?

Her stomach lurched at the eventual realization that the king might mean to give his son two wives – Sansa and Arianne. Sansa did not want that. She didn’t want to lay in bed, cold and lonely, on nights when Jon went to another woman!

But no, it couldn’t be that. The Faith strongly frowned on anyone – lord or king or swineherd – taking two wives. It had taken years for King Rhaegar to regain the High Septon’s approval after eloping with Aunt Lyanna; he would not jeopardize their support to give his son two wives when there was no reason to believe one would not be enough.

Which meant…

Sansa turned her head slowly until she faced the prince and princess across the way. Daenerys’ eyes were wide, her countenance frozen. Jon looked much the same, until…

“What?!” Jon shot up out of his seat, his eyes wide and pointed at his father.

A few in the hall gasped in startlement, but otherwise none spoke. King Rhaegar only stood there, blinking at his son with a serene look on his face.

At realizing all eyes were on him, Jon blushed and sat down, his face the perfect image of red-hot fury. He was too good to say anything more in public, knowing it would be an act of insubordination toward his king and appear as disapproval of Princess Arianne. Jon was always chivalrous and polite; it was one of the things Sansa loved about her soon-to-be—

Soon-to-be nothing. He will never be mine. He will be Princess Arianne’s…

Sansa turned to her left though the bones in her neck protested the act. She looked at her father, whose cheeks were red with what she knew was indignation. His grey eyes – the same hue as Jon’s even if a slightly darker shade – were pointed at King Rhaegar. Upon feeling her gaze, he flicked them to Sansa. She watched his eyes try to soften – ineffectively – but he said nothing. Not to her, not to the king.

Her gaze drifted past him to Mother and Arya. For once, Arya was looking at Sansa with nothing but pity. For as much as Arya teased and mocked Sansa’s romantic nature for sport, she wanted to be able to call Jon her goodbrother just as much as Sansa wanted to call him her husband.

Neither would happen…

The king had publicly promised Jon to Arianne. He could not retract the promise without insulting House Martell and telling all of Westeros that he was as flighty at forty-one as he’d been at twenty-one. War with Dorne had been just barely avoided after Rhaegar fled the capital, leaving behind a daughter and a pregnant wife. It was only his sworn vow that his pursuit of Lyanna Stark had Princess Elia’s approval that held Dorne’s spears. Well, that and a promise to bind Arianne to Prince Viserys when they came of age.

But Viserys died. Does the king feel he must give Jon to Arianne to avoid war? Is my and Jon’s happiness the price of peace?

Sansa was dying to speak to her father, who had smiled and told her that tonight the king would be making an announcement of great import. By the gleam in his eyes Sansa knew he was referring to the announcement of her marriage into the royal family. Clearly, such had not come to pass, and now she wondered if her father had grossly misinterpreted the king’s words, or if the king had purposely misled him.

Or worse, lied to him outright.

She refused to consider that her father was the liar. He would not build up her excitement only to let it be shattered here in front of a hundred lords and ladies where she could not lose her composure or even express her disappointment

She was dying to speak to Jon, too. Across the way, he looked ready to explode. His aunt Daenerys, who he saw more as a sister, was gripping his forearm with her fingers.

That’s good, Sansa thought, half in a daze. It will do no good to go against the king publicly, but later tonight or tomorrow he can talk to his father civilly. Surely, something can be done. Perhaps Daenerys could marry Prince Doran’s oldest son. Quentyn, I think. Or the king could take Princess Arianne himself, make her a queen today instead of ten or twenty or forty years from now.

The fear and panic had not completely subsided, but Sansa was sure there was a way out of this, a way for her and Jon to be together. In all Jon had had ever said about his father, he’d never described him as heartless, and only a heartless man would deny his son the opportunity to wed the woman he loved, assuming that woman was a match for him in station.

But in trying to reassure herself, a new fear struck her: What if Jon doesn’t actually love me? What if he doesn’t truly wish to marry me? Perhaps he finds me pretty and likes my kisses but doesn’t think I’ll make a good queen, and instead of admitting so he led me to believe I’d be his bride while he turned to his father for a way out of the promises he’s made to me.

She didn’t think Jon could do that. Before he’d been her… lover, for lack of a better word… he’d been her cousin. He got along splendidly with Robb and Arya and was a good sport with young Bran and Rickon. He respected her parents, her father especially, and so she just could not see Jon stringing her along like that only to break her heart and humiliate her in front of so many.

But have I misjudged him?

All Father had ever said about the people of the south having a different moral code came rushing back to her. She’d never thought Father was including his nephew in that statement but…

But she just didn’t know.

She just couldn’t think. Her thoughts were a whirl as all the fears ebbed and flowed in her mind, a tide chased out whenever she tried to convince herself this was all a mistake that could easily be fixed, then rolled back in when she wondered if the king or the prince had deceived her and her father.

It must’ve only been a few seconds that’d passed, because Sansa’s attention was yanked back to the front of the hall.

“And finally…” the king went on without acknowledging Jon’s outburst at all, and Sansa found she suddenly hated his voice. She’d always admired it for being smooth and refined; now it only sounded… slimy. “For too long I have been a king without a queen, something that many of you – particularly those with marriageable daughters – have reminded me of, time and again…”

A few lords chuckled at the king’s jest. Sansa didn’t like that sound either. She rather hated it.

“…But what only my closest friends know is that I made a vow to myself after my sixth marriage failed to yield fruit. I vowed to never take another bride until I met one who was as worthy of the title as my beloved Elia and Lyanna were – may their souls rest in peace,” the king tipped his head. “Every other lady I have taken to bride has been cursed – through no fault of her own. In my eagerness to repopulate my house, I forgot a fundamental truth: that love must be the foundation of all unions. Now, finally, after sixteen long years, such a woman has been placed on my path. A woman who exemplifies the fiery sun of Dorne, as Elia did, and the icy kiss of the North, as Lyanna did. A woman born of winter but raised by summer. A woman with a spine of steel and a heart of gold. A woman who was born to be a queen; who has ancient royalty in her very blood…”

Three seats down Mother gasped, but Sansa wasn’t sure why until she looked at Arya again – only this time her sister’s cheeks were pale with shock instead of red with shared anger.

“A woman who exemplifies the fiery sun of Dorne, as Elia did, and the icy kiss of the North, as Lyanna did.”

Arya had been described as having a fiery temper. And she’d frequently been compared to Aunt Lyanna in both appearance and temperament.

It is not I who will be Jon’s queen, but my younger sister who will be Rhaegar’s queen.

My younger sister, who threw a hairbrush at me this evening when I dared to try tying her hair in a southern braid.

My younger sister, who just a month ago told Father she would run away to the Free Cities rather than letting him betroth her to Jojen Reed or Harrion Karstark.

My younger sister, who is still weeks away from her thirteenth nameday.

Sansa now felt pressure building in her eyes not just for herself but for her sister. She bit her lower lip and tried to pass Arya a smile – however weak it would be – but Arya’s eyes were fixed behind Sansa.

Sansa turned to follow her sister’s gaze and gasped soundlessly as she saw the king approaching their table. He rounded it and Sansa wished she were braver, for she would stand up and block the king’s path to her little sister, demand an explanation for how he could spring an unplanned betrothal on twelve-year-old Arya and, while she was at it, demand he rescind his promise to the Martells and let Jon marry his true love – Sansa – instead.

But the indignation she felt was still muted by shock. Her brain tried to line up the words for her mouth to utter, but none fell from her tongue.

It was Father who finally broke the spell of silence. His voice was low and as he said, “Your grace…” Only two words but they seemed to contain not a greeting but a plea. Or perhaps a warning.

The king didn’t take another step, and he looked down at Sansa with a smile on his face. Did he expect her to be his ally in this? To run to Arya’s side and hug her sister, be the first to shower her with congratulations and—

Sansa flinched as the king dropped to one knee, prostrating himself directly before her.

The entire room let out a collective gasp then became as silent as a crypt as the king took both her hands.

It didn’t make any sense.

“Lady Sansa, my queen of ice and fire,” he kissed first her right hand, then her left, then stood and pulled her up with him, quickly pulling her against his side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders while turning to address the crowd, “Your future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”

They all cheered for her, or him. They applauded and clapped and whistled and hooted, their eyes fixed on her even as Sansa was certain she wasn’t even there. She was surely a specter, destined to witness everything but powerless to change anything.

Her eyes moved to her parents. Mother was clapping politely though her face was redder than Sansa had seen even after Arya put sheep droppings inside Sansa’s mattress. Father didn’t bother clapping, just sat there with a squared jaw bulging. Much like Arya looked, for that matter.

“I can think of no occasion more auspicious for the start of a royal union than the dawn of a new century. I shall wed my beloved tomorrow afternoon, when sunshine fills the Great Sept with all the colors of the rainbow! And our vows will be followed by a feast that will put even this one to shame!”

Passionate cheers filled the large room, the guests floating on their joy while Sansa was sinking under her dread. Her knees went weak, and only the king’s arm still around her arms kept her upright.

Sansa turned her head away from Mother, who was no longer feigning approval of the king’s words but holding a hand over her mouth, shaking her head repeatedly. She kept turning her head until she was looking past the chest of the man who stood beside her to the face of the man she wanted more than anything, who wanted her back.

He did want her back, didn’t he? His words in Winterfell hadn’t been lies, had they? If she forgot about things like obedience and propriety and manners and shouted out that she did not want to marry the king, only the prince, would Jon’s face twist into a grimace? Would he deny that there was anything between them, claim Sansa was just some… some… some pesky little girl who fancied herself in love with her handsome older cousin?

No; she reminded herself again that Jon wasn’t like that.

But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have changed his mind since he returned to the capital.

Or changed, period.

Or he’d never been who she and her family thought he was. He’d seduced her because he’d wanted her to kiss his lips and touch his rod. He’d never written to his father, requesting approval to marry her. He’d duped all of them, knowing he’d never pay for it because Sansa’s father would not go to war for anything but the greatest of offenses and – even as devastated as she felt right now – she knew that being snubbed by the prince was not the greatest offense.

Yet none of her swirling thoughts could convince her that Jon was so dishonorable. How could he have maintained such an act for years at Winterfell?

And yet what was the alternative? If she did not believe that Jon duped her, that meant that he had declared his love for Sansa, his desire to marry her, to the king. And if he’d done all that, then the king had just stolen his own son’s beloved. How could any man do that his own son, his only child?

And what of Father’s discussions with the king? Nothing had been set to contract yet, but the men had spoken at least once to ensure they agreed to the major terms before the betrothal was announced. Had Rhaegar lied to Father during each of those meetings?

She could not believe that. Father was a leal bannerman, the warden of his largest kingdom, his once-goodbrother, even!

Yet Father was Jon’s uncle. Sansa was Jon’s cousin! Would he lie to them? All for a bit of pleasure that any girl with eyes (except Arya) would gladly give the handsome Crown Prince?

She could only stare at him, knowing her expression was pained and being unable to change it.

His expression was quite the opposite. Jon’s eyes held no bashfulness, no excitement, no rage, no jealousy, no regret. They looked vacant, defeated, devoid of all emotion. They were pointed at nothing, but as if he could hear her gaze, he raised them to her.

He looked.

He saw.

He snapped.

He stood up and turned, stomping away while his friends Orys Baratheon and Loras Tyrell called after him. Only one of the Kingsguard – Ser Barristan – dared follow, and that only probably out of fear that any harm that befell Jon would be blamed on him.

And then a chest clad in black-on-black damask was blocking Sansa’s view. The king had turned to put himself facing her, clasping her hands between them, even with his heart, slightly higher than hers. She looked up and found him smiling down at her, oblivious to or ignoring what must be a telling expression.

He bent forward, putting his cheek to hers, and his words tickled her ear, “I have been waiting for you for so long, my love.”

When he pulled back it was not before planting a dry kiss to her cheekbone. The crowd loved it, roaring in delight at the display of affection from their often aloof or melancholic king.

To Sansa, it felt like nothing at all. She could think of nothing, feel nothing, but her despair.

And yet she did not know who was to blame for it, so despair never turned to outrage.

She just stood there like a statue, surrounded by happiness that would never seep through her stone skin to heal the broken heart beneath.