Chapter Text
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From Instep to Heel
Chapter One: Dragon Pit
"'I'm a Targaryen,' he says finally, the words smarting along his tongue, even now. A need and an uncertainty all at once. 'And she – ' He stops, swallows. 'She is nothing,' he finishes tightly, the untruth a tremulous exhale as it leaves him." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.
* * *
Sansa Stark is brought to the capital by her father and brothers, a train of Stark banners flying behind them, and it's the first glimpse of the North Jon has ever truly seen. The white banners flutter in the breeze, tattered slightly at the ends, as though they are accustomed to stronger gales than the summer winds they get down South. A brilliant grey direwolf emblazons each of them, and Jon's eyes follow the print as the entourage makes its way steadily toward the steps of the Red Keep.
"I expected a carriage or some other such extravagance to be carrying your betrothed," Rhaenys whispers at his ear.
Jon adopts a smirk at the comment, without turning to her. His eyes follow the horses at the head of the procession. No, the Northmen have always been practical. He imagines the waving of their House banners are all the pride and spectacle the Starks can stomach to display here anyway, and they are smart not to step beyond that when traveling to King's Landing to present their eldest daughter to the king's son.
Jon grinds his teeth at the reminder. He'd not had a say in the matter, though he doubts he would have even if the lady were not of Northern descent. A prince's choice of lady is never his own. He remembers the way Aegon had stoically accepted Daenerys' hand when Rhaegar set the match forward, hoping for a resilient line of true Targaryens to reign after him, though now the lack of any child between them yet has Rhaegar anxious and looking North.
"A beautiful, fertile lady of good standing and impressive lineage," his father had enthused when first presenting the command to Jon. "A way to ensure a strong, continuing line." His violet eyes had glazed over in remembrance, a look that made bile rise in Jon's throat. Had Rhaegar seen his mother in this way? As a means to an end?
No, there was affection there as well, Jon knows. It's in the way Rhaegar had brushed the dark hair tenderly from his forehead as a child, and in the way he'd clapped enthusiastically, though obviously inappropriately, the first time Jon beat Aegon in a spar, and in the way he's now dressed Jon in the finest Targaryen silks of red and black this day, standing him only a step below his elder brother Aegon.
'The favored child' some of the court call him, but Jon knows better. No bastard, even a legitimized one, will ever be favored over the heir. He has his father's affections, it's true, but how much of that is simply a lingering attachment to the Northern bride he couldn't keep? Jon wonders this as he catches his father's gaze over the procession as it halts at the end of the steps. The gleam in his eye as he takes in Lady Sansa atop her horse does not tell of fatherly admiration. Jon swallows back the disgust.
It's as he'd suspected – just a whimsical, reckless recreation of the past. Rhaegar likens Jon and Sansa to he and Lyanna come again.
Jon resents the lady before him now even more for it.
"Be nice, you two," Aegon mutters just a step above Jon, glancing down to his siblings out of the corner of his eye. "Do not shame our father." Daenerys' arm rests linked through Aegon's as she turns a similar admonishing eye their way.
Jon lifts his chin, bristling in his silk tunic. "You know I've no intention to disgrace our house," he says lowly.
Aegon inclines his head just a touch, acknowledging the comment, but Jon is secretly grateful for the reminder, for Rhaenys' sake, flighty and impish and headstrong as she is. It's why he frowns at the way she tucks her hand beneath his elbow, standing too close for propriety. "Rhaenys," he warns, stepping almost imperceptibly away from her.
She huffs at his side, sliding her touch from his arm and clasping her hands behind her back as she rocks on her heels. "Fine." She throws an exasperated look Aegon's way, softening only slightly when he chuckles at her and shakes his head in resignation. She beams up at their brother then, dark eyes crinkling, and Jon resists the urge to catch a tendril of her black hair between his fingers.
Ned Stark dismounts his horse with a stilted grace born of battle-honed muscles. Beside him, a young man with auburn hair does the same, though his movements are smooth and practiced, eyes glinting a sharp Tully blue as he takes in the court at the top of the stairs. Another dark copper-haired man, though still hanging onto the edges of boyhood, if his slightly fuller cheeks and gangly limbs are anything to go by, dismounts similarly beside him. Sansa's horse is obscured slightly just behind them, and Jon is not eager enough in his interest to bother craning his neck for a better look. A flash of red catches his eye, her half-braided hair slipping over a shoulder, silver sleeves over delicate hands, still caught in the reins, bespeaking a strength and command at odds with the fragility of her thin wrists and fine-boned fingers when she sets the reins aside to reach for the young auburn-haired man with his arms out to help her off the saddle. She slides down into him easily, hands at his shoulders, his at her waist, a duck of her head in thanks, and then he's taking her hand and escorting her around the horses, a man of the house pulling the steeds aside by their bridles.
Jon sees her face for the first time. There's sweat glinting off her forehead, a few, faint tendrils of red clinging to the skin. Her eyes are on the steps beneath her as the Starks begin their climb but every so often they flicker up, never landing on him, and even from here he can see the frost blue of her eyes, similar to her brother's own Tully coloring beside her, and yet, strikingly different. Almost grey in the light. The color of dusk – when the sky matches the sea across the port, light a meager, retreating thing beneath the coming cover of darkness. Her frame is lithe and tall, hips flaring only subtly beneath the heavy Northern wool of her dress, a delicate hand holding her skirts up as she continues the climb, a smoothness and elegance to her step, her other hand held fast in her brother's.
Jon almost laughs. No, this is not the brash, brave Northern wind of a girl his father had thought to bring back to life. And when she finally makes her way to the top, hands smoothing over her skirts, he catches the way her pink mouth trembles on the cusp of a frown, stretching instead into a practiced smile, all poise and graciousness, shoulders pulled taut and back straight.
She is devastatingly lovely, of course. No man could say otherwise. And he rather thinks her brothers know it, too, given the near antagonistic looks he catches them throwing his way.
Ned Stark gives a reserved bow, hand at his chest. "Your Grace," he greets in his deep Northern brogue.
The sound is strange to Jon but enticing in a way he can't quite identify. Had his mother spoken like that?
Rhaegar climbs down the steps to Lord Stark, hands going to clap him on the arms, making sure to stand two steps above him, the height granting him leave to look down upon the Northern Lord. Jon does not miss the intention.
Neither does Ned, it seems, as he bends his head even lower, hand still at his chest, a somber expression lighting his features.
"Lord Stark," Rhaegar greets, "Welcome to King's Landing." His hands fall from the other man's broad shoulders.
Ned nods his acknowledgement of the welcome, turning to the man beside Sansa. "If I may, Your Grace, this is my eldest, Robb, the heir to Winterfell."
Robb inclines his head in much the same manner that his father did, but his eyes stay focused on the king rather than the ground. Jon finds himself smirking at the gesture, even when Rhaenys bristles beside him.
"Your Grace," the young wolf greets, stepping back when Lord Stark motions to the young man at Sansa's other side.
"My son, Bran."
Bran blinks in barely concealed awe at the line of Targaryens before him, and it's only Sansa's subtle pinch at his arm, partly obscured by her flowing sleeves, that has him bowing himself, a hasty "Your Grace" leaving his lips.
Ned takes a deep breath, eyes softening when they land on Sansa, and he ushers her toward him, taking her elbow in hand, a hardened smile mixed of pride and sorrow (the kind that will always accompany fathers with daughters) gracing his weathered features. "And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa."
Sansa gives a curtsey bespeaking the height of her station, but not so high as to offend the king. It's rather telling, actually, her calculated mannerisms. Jon eyes her closely, curious what sort of woman can be so prettily shrewd and practiced.
Rhaegar smiles sickly sweet at her and reaches for her hand. She offers it dutifully. Jon's father plants a kiss along her knuckles, a thumb sweeping over the warmed skin when his lips retreat, and Sansa retracts her hand almost too quickly to be polite, but not quite. Rhaegar smiles all the same, straightening as he watches her. "Stunning," he breathes out, and Jon can see Lord Stark stiffen beside his daughter, hand still held tight to her elbow.
In truth, his father's response has Jon's own gut curling tight, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He feels Rhaenys brush a hand over his shoulder blades, barely there, but comforting all the same. He eases a bit at the motion, before she drops her hand back to her side.
"She hasn't the look of Lyanna though does she, Ned?" Rhaegar asks, only a sliver of disappointment slipping through his question, still entranced by Sansa's presence in a disquieting way.
Ned shakes his head, glancing to her. "No, she takes after my wife in that respect. She's all her mother, it seems."
"Not all, Father," Sansa says teasingly, looking up at him with a tender smile.
He smiles down at her, softening, and there, in the crinkle of his eyes, Jon sees the resemblance. In the sweep of their noses and the arch of their brows and the strength of their jaws – a cold cut North lingering beneath the warm, affectionate look.
"She's a beauty, all the same. Wouldn't you say, Aegon?" Rhaegar asks his son, motioning for him to come down the steps toward them.
Daenerys' hand easily unwinds from Aegon's arm to clasp her other hand before her, Aegon slipping from her at their father's heed, coming to step beside him. "That she is, Father," he agrees softly, a disarming smile gracing his fine features, and when he takes Sansa's offered hand, he merely holds it, leaning only far enough down to grant her a small bow of his head, rather than a brush of his lips to her knuckles, and her lips part at the gesture. Aegon releases her hand and Jon watches as she tries and fails to smother her answering smile.
Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. His brother's always been rather keen on how to make a lady smile (on how to make a lady do all manner of things she shouldn't for a married man), and Jon cannot help the flare of resentment that ignites in his gut at the knowledge that Aegon is using such tricks on his betrothed.
On his lady.
"My son and heir, Aegon Targaryen," Rhaegar introduces proudly, a hand at his shoulder.
The Starks all bow appropriately. "Prince Aegon," they greet, but Sansa's greeting is a touch softer, sweeter, and Jon nearly seethes at the sound.
"And his wife, Princess Daenerys." Rhaegar waves a hand up the steps in his own sister's direction.
Daenerys offers a tight smile and a nod in greeting, perfectly styled hair blowing softly in the wind, a striking white against the red silk adorning her. She makes a fairly intimidating image, Jon must admit, but then, his aunt has always been a quietly coiled dragon. He does not envy his brother his marriage.
"You were right, Father," Aegon says now, sunlight glinting off his violet eyes in a becoming way as he stares down at Sansa unabashed. "She will make my brother a very, very happy man."
Sansa ducks her head in embarrassment, her cheeks tinging pink, and Jon steps forward without realizing he has moved, throat tight, tongue burning with his sudden covetousness. He stills suddenly, just a step down, chest constricting at the realization.
All eyes turn to him in unison.
It is infinitely uncultured to introduce oneself before the king has called you forward, and Jon sucks his tongue between his teeth at his impulsiveness, cursing himself. Sansa looks at him for the first time, mouth parted, one fine eyebrow arched in clear reproach of his poor manners. It makes the anger boil hotter in his gut.
Rhaegar eyes him with a quiet rebuke, violet eyes flashing dark for a brief moment, before he dons another blinding smile, ushering him closer. "Ah, and my son, Jon Targaryen. Eager to meet his new bride, I imagine." His father's hand at his arm is firm and leashing.
Jon swallows tightly, ignoring the knowing smirk Aegon wears beside him. He will not embarrass his house further. He nods to Ned, "Lord Stark," and then to his sons. When he glances to Sansa, she's eyeing him curiously. No doubt she notices how much more like her father he looks than his own. Her brow furrows at his dark eyes, his dark curls, eyes roving his face, mouth opening as though to speak, and then promptly shutting. She offers her hand silently, still staring at him with a hint of intrigue.
I've not the North in me, he wants to tell her. Stop looking for it.
"Lady Stark," he greets, taking her hand in his own calloused one. It's as soft and unmarred as he had suspected, though the light roughness at the tips of her index and middle finger tell of years of needlework. Not exactly the hands of a great rider, as Lyanna Stark had reportedly been. Father will be disappointed, he thinks ruefully.
"Lady Stark is my mother, my lord," she corrects politely.
Jon stares at her, hand gripping hers as he lowers his mouth to her knuckles. "Then," he begins, stopping just before brushing a kiss to her cool skin, tongue wetting his lips unconsciously, "Lady Sansa," he breathes, and the warmth of his breath on her knuckles has her tugging away almost reflexively before she stops herself, drawing a deep breath in as he continues to watch her through his dark lashes.
He holds her like that a moment, something roiling inside him at the clear discomfort she expresses, imagining she sees his father in him when he touches her so, and the thought has him curling his lip, before dropping her hand without ever touching his mouth to her skin, a smothered sigh breaking from his lips.
She tucks her hand back behind the fabric of her sleeves, eyes leaving his instantly. Ned watches the exchange with a somber expression.
"Yes, well, 'Lady Sansa Targaryen' soon," Rhaegar promises beside him.
Jon flexes his hand at his side.
"And of course," Rhaegar continues, smile now indulgent and infinitely fond, "My daughter, Rhaenys."
Jon is silently thankful that Rhaenys keeps a proper distance from him when she steps forward, offering a curtsey of her own, red and black silk fluttering over her lean frame, before she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, eyes glinting playfully in the light, her olive skin a stark contrast with his own paleness. Dornish looks with a Targaryen bearing, cheeks sharp, lips full. He's not surprised when the youngest Stark, Bran, looks upon her with awe.
Jon had looked upon her similarly before.
But that was before.
And he does not intend to carry on with his half-sister, as acceptably Targaryen as it is, when he's soon to wed a daughter of the North. The insult would be too great. And Jon will not incur more enemies to his house. Their family's grip on the kingdoms is loosening even now, slowly and steadily. He will not be the reason the North breaks with the crown.
"You must all be tired from your long journey. Please, I've had your rooms prepared for you. You may settle and refresh yourselves before the feast tonight," Rhaegar says, an arm sweeping out to welcome them into the keep.
Lord Stark tucks his daughter's hand into his elbow and follows up after the king with her at his side, Jon and Rhaenys stepping aside to allow them room. The Stark boys follow after, Robb glancing at Jon with a look of apprehension, and somewhat of warning. Jon finds enough courtesy in him not to grimace at the other man.
Aegon sidles up to him as they watch the retreating forms of the Starks. "Well?"
Jon rolls his eyes, even as he smirks at his brother, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He's anxious to be rid of this pompous silk and back in his usual leathers. He misses the way Sansa glances back at the three of them, just the once.
Rhaenys leans an arm atop Jon's shoulder, even with his height on her. "I think she's a bit haughty, if you ask me." His sister doesn't bother to hide her dislike, and Jon hadn't expected her to.
"I rather like her," Aegon says, glancing at Jon out of the corner of his eye.
Jon swings an annoyed look his way. "Don't like her too well, brother. It's not your wife she'll be by next moon."
"No," Aegon muses, a taunting smirk pulling at his lips, "Sadly."
"Aegon," Jon warns, no longer amused.
But his brother only claps him on the shoulder before turning and rising up the stairs with arms opened toward Daenerys. "Wife," he calls.
Daenerys crosses her arms over her chest and throws him an aggravated look. Jon nearly laughs.
They make their way into the Keep, out of the blaring Southern sun. Jon's eyes stop looking for a flash of red far later than he'd like to admit.
"I don't like him," Theon mutters as he sits in the open-aired sitting room in the wing the Starks and their people are granted in the Red Keep. He'd kept his place with the other members of the house down at the bottom of the steps when Lord Stark had presented his children to the King. Still, a brittle anger churned within him when he remembered the way the princes had looked upon Sansa. Theon grumbles as he looks out one of the wide pane-less windows to the gardens below, and then on past the stretch of King's Landing, all the way to the docks, ships like flecks of dirt on the pristine water.
"You don't like any Targaryen," Bran teases as he swipes a biscuit from the side table before flopping into a red-cushioned chair.
Theon throws him a look caught somewhere between vexed and validated. "Exactly. But for Sansa to marry one?" He scoffs, lounging back along the chaise.
"And who should she marry, then?" Robb mocks from his seat across from Bran. "You?"
Theon cocks a wolfish grin Robb's way. "Well, now that you mention it, Stark…"
"Oh gods, don't even say it," Bran groans, biscuit rolling about his mouth.
Robb kicks out at Theon's knee playfully, but there's a warning look in his eye. "She's my sister, Greyjoy, not another one of your conquests."
Theon pulls a face, seemingly genuinely offended by the remark as he avoids Robb's kick easily. "That's not how I look at Sansa, and you know that."
"I don't want you looking at Sansa at all."
"So, you'd rather the Targaryen bastard?"
Robb quiets at the reminder, jaw clenching. "It's the King's command."
"Aye, the King's command," Theon says scornfully. He leans forward suddenly, elbows over his knees as he pins Robb with a somber look. "And if it weren't? Would you still see her tied to that bastard?" he asks lowly, eyes imploring him.
Robb stays deadly quiet, his hands curling over his armrests.
Bran swallows another bite of biscuit. "Is he still a bastard if he's been legitimized?"
Theon rolls his eyes at the younger Stark. "A bastard's still a bastard."
"But if Prince Aegon died, Prince Jon would be the heir, right?"
Theon grumbles but nods, acknowledging the truth of it. Before Robb can open his mouth to chime in, Sansa is sweeping into the room.
"Hush, Bran," she bites out, stalking toward them as the door swings shut behind her. Robb and Theon straighten in their seats at her sudden presence, but Bran only lolls a bit of biscuit over his tongue, watching her stalk toward the open windows. Sansa glances out past the rail, eyes keen and watchful for anybody listening, the breeze lightly fluttering her hair, before she's turning back to her younger brother and pinching the back of his neck.
"Ow!" Bran cries, crumbs flying from his mouth as he whips back to glare up at her.
"That's treasonous talk, and I'll not have it," she hisses, softening at his boyish pout. "The capital is dangerous, Bran, you have to remember that. You're nearly a man grown now. You'd better start acting like it."
Bran opens his mouth to protest when Sansa cuts him off. "And you two," she says, a finger raised at Theon and Robb, starting toward them.
Theon jumps from his seat, hands raised in surrender, unable to contain his laugh, while Robb tries to calm her, standing as well and grabbing at her arms to keep her from Theon. "Alright, alright." It's not a tight hold, and Sansa doesn't bother fighting it anyway, just huffing at the two of them while she plants her hands on her hips.
Robb chuckles at her, hands still at her upper arms, dropping his head to her shoulder as he lets out a warm laugh.
"Robb, this isn't funny," she admonishes.
Robb looks up at her, his smile tapering off before he clears his throat and nods at her, hands slipping from her arms. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sansa, okay? I know this can't be easy for you."
She looks away, one hand going to the other to rub a worrying thumb into her opposite palm.
Robb glances at the motion, a frown tugging at his lips. He grabs for her hands to still them. "Walk with me," he tells her, tugging her toward the door.
Sansa sighs but lets him take her, her unease bleeding out a bit at her brother's concerned touch.
Robb turns back at the door, eyeing Theon warily. "Behave while we're away," he tells him, glancing over to Bran in shared meaning.
Bran smiles around his biscuit. Theon tuts. "No promises," the Greyjoy answers, grinning roguishly.
When Sansa glances back at him with an exasperated smile, Theon gives her a parting nod, grin softening slightly at the edges. "Sansa."
She scoffs, but it's tinged with a playful frustration that's familiar between the two. Her smile lingers a bit after the door closes behind them and Robb wraps her hand around his arm as they begin to walk.
"Do you think it was wise to bring Bran along?" Sansa asks carefully.
Robb rubs at his chin with his free hand. "He wants to be a knight. Father's right; what better place for him to learn?"
Sansa nods, remembering how reluctantly their mother had parted with Bran, with Rickon and Arya waving their goodbyes at Winterfell's gates. Still, his curiosity and exploring has gotten him in trouble before, and Winterfell hadn't held half the sort of deadly secrets King's Landing was purported to have. "He's too inquisitive," she muses, glancing about the open courtyard they pass in their walk through the corridors, golden light filtering through in a way that catches Sansa's breath. She's dreamt of the South before. Still does, somewhat.
The remembrance is sour on her tongue, suddenly.
She hadn't dreamt of it with a Targaryen prince in the picture.
"King Rhaegar is not his father, Sansa," her father had told her once, hands rising to cup her cheeks. "He's not the one who burned your grandfather and murdered your uncle, it's true." And here, his throat had tightened, his words coming hoarse, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. "But you'll have to be careful, my daughter. Tis still a dragon pit in the capital, and we are wolves."
Her hands had come up to cradle his over her cheeks. "I understand, Father."
We are wolves.
She won't soon forget it.
Robb's pat on her arm brings her back to him. "Don't worry. He'll have you to look after him," he assures her, smiling teasingly.
Sansa rolls her eyes, but her own smile tugs at her lips.
"He listens to you."
"Oh, hardly."
"Well, he listens to you at least a little bit more than he listens to the rest of us."
Sansa eyes him warily. "And where are you to be in all this?"
Groaning, Robb turns them down another corridor, this one open to the air, following the east side of the Keep, where the sun is still high in the sky. "Mother thinks this is a good opportunity for me to learn the Southern court, if we're to play to it," he grumbles
Sansa blinks out across the sunlit city descending below them. "It's smart. You're to be Warden of the North one day. You should know how to treat with the Southern lords, how to play their game to keep our home safe."
"That's why you're here," he says, an attempt at nonchalance, even as his voice strains.
Sansa gives him a reproachful look, lips tipped into a frown. "This marriage cannot heal every rift between the North and the crown."
Robb swallows tightly, looking ahead as they walk. "I know."
Sansa stops them, her other hand coming up to grip at his arm now. "Robb."
He rakes a hand through his hair, a frustrated huff passing his lips. "I know, Sansa."
Her brows dip into a furrow, her frown harshening as she tips his chin up to look at him cleanly.
He grabs for her hand, holds it in his own as he nods, meeting her eyes. "I will protect our home, I promise."
She softens at the words, recognizing the fervency in them, knowing the delicate balance of power and subservience he's to inherent. The balance their father has carried, all too heavily these many years since his pardon after the war.
Something bristles in Sansa at the thought of their father on his knees.
She has never known a wolf to kneel. Starks should be no different.
The gentle rubbing of Robb's thumb along her knuckle has her relaxing soon enough, tender under his affections. She clears her throat, smiling up at him. "And Father? What does he think of you in the capital?"
He scoffs, looking about the fine, red-stoned keep. "He hopes I'll finally find a bride."
Sansa laughs, soft and melodic. "Well, you are of an age." They've already passed quite the number of ladies sending tempting looks toward the heir of Winterfell throughout their walk, and she's absolutely certain Robb hasn't missed the looks either.
"I suppose I shall have to catch up to you then, little sister."
Sansa rolls her eyes, shaking her head, but her smile wilts slightly, tightening at the edges. She looks away.
Robb sighs, his eyes going to their joined hands. "I know this isn't what you wanted," he says softly, so soft she knows he's conscious of the many ears about the castle, as conscious as she is.
Her sharp-eyed, mindful brother, even under all his bravado.
"What I want," she says on a whisper, with less effort than she thought it'd take, "is to keep our family safe. The king has called. And I will do my duty." She finally meets his eyes again.
His gaze is that keen Tully blue. She will miss it when he goes. She grips his hands tighter.
So little time. But a moon. And then her family will return North – without her.
"It shouldn't be you," he says forcefully, a heavy breath drawn through his lungs, something of anger settling at the end of his words.
Sansa looks about, just the once, swiftly, beneath her lashes, before meeting his gaze again. "It shouldn't be a lot of things. But here we are."
Robb's face hardens, his ire at the situation bubbling forth and Sansa knows that look – has seen it enough times to recognize it. He's not the Young Wolf for nothing.
"Robb," she says placatingly.
He sighs, nodding, swallowing down his words.
She gives him a tender, understanding smile in return. "You know, Mother and Father didn't love each other at first. But they do now – so very much."
Robb doesn't argue, but she can tell he knows where she means to lead this.
Sansa licks her lips, her hesitance swallowed back. "Perhaps it can be the same with Prince Jon and I."
"You think you can love him? Him?" The words are a desperate plea more than they are a heated incredulity. Because they both know how this story ends if she cannot.
Sansa only shrugs, poised and resigned all at once. "I shall have to try." She gives him a determined look, attempting what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "The pack survives, after all."
Robb huffs, helpless, before resting his hand at the back of her head to tilt it forward for a kiss, his lips at her brow.
She smiles beneath the gesture, chest warm as he pulls away.
"Oh, that's sweet."
The voice has them turning to the sound, eyes landing on Princess Rhaenys as she walks arm in arm with her brother, Jon.
Sansa's eyes flick to her betrothed on instinct, tilting into a curtsey as her hands release Robb and grab for her skirts.
He only nods in greeting, still somber and silent. He's changed into practical leathers, Sansa notices, black from curls to boot.
"Princess Rhaenys," Robb greets. "Prince Jon."
"Stark."
Sansa almost scoffs at the greeting. Ill-mannered prince, indeed. She hides her disdain well behind a porcelain smile. "Can we expect to see you at the feast tonight?"
"Of course," Rhaenys says, smiling tartly. "The Starks in the capital. Who would miss it?"
"I should think it is rather the prince's betrothal that the people are celebrating," she says artfully.
"Celebrating, yes," Rhaenys muses, eyes flickering over to Robb. "Will you be long in King's Landing?"
"Long enough for the wedding," Robb answers, turning to Sansa with a comforting smile. "And a little while longer, if we can help it."
"You travel with a Greyjoy," Jon says suddenly, and Sansa blinks at him to find him already watching her.
The stare is unnerving.
Robb's eyebrows raise at the unexpected question. "Theon?"
"I saw him in your procession at the steps."
"Yes, well – "
"Are you Starks prone to keeping traitors?"
Sansa riles at the implication, but she has enough mind to reach out for Robb's arm, stopping his instinctual step forward before it is made obvious.
Jon's eyes catch the movement nonetheless, and Sansa's cheeks heat for it.
"We do not 'keep' him," Sansa bites out through pristine teeth. "He is our father's ward. And your guest, as much as we are."
Jon's eyes narrow at the insinuation. "The Greyjoys were one of the first to rebel against my father's rule."
"And they paid for that," Sansa answers swiftly, before Robb can cut in. She bites her lip, considering her words more carefully. "Rightfully so," she adds, hand slipping from Robb's arm to clasp with her other one before her.
"And yet here he is."
"He is not here to cause trouble," Robb says tightly, head tilted slightly in deference.
Sansa is grateful for his leashing of his temper.
Jon grunts in acknowledgement. "I'll hold you to that, Stark."
Robb only nods, mouth thinning into a tight line.
Rhaenys looks between the two men, lips curling in amusement, before she tugs at her brother's arm in impatience. "Come, brother, I've still to ready myself for the feast tonight. Escort me to my chambers?"
Jon gives a final, cursory glance to Robb and Sansa, before turning to his sister with a look far less harsh than Sansa's seen on him yet. Not soft enough to call tender, but a subtle openness, a regard as fleeting as the golden light filtering through the halls.
"Of course," he answers her, all heat gone from his words.
Sansa narrows her eyes at the change, stomach knotting uncontrollably. It's rather vexing, she finds, to have no read on her betrothed at all. As staunch as the Wall, and seemingly as cold. But she's seen him smirk at his brother in amusement, and seen the way he straightened imperceptibly beneath his father's hand at his shoulder, and the way he cradles his sister's hand over his arm when they turn away with a curt nod of farewell.
A dragon pit, she reminds herself.
And she's afraid the flames are still yet to come.
Sansa shudders beneath her heavy wool dress, the blaring sun at her back not enough to warm the chill that's set in.