[A Song of Ice and Fire]: For the Lady's Hand
Title: For the Lady's Hand
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Summary: In the future, with winter over, Sansa finds a familiar face. Or at least a familiar name, the face has changed.
Notes: This was written to a prompt, but said prompt is long forgotten. A bit of a twist on a ship. And not Sansa/Sandor.
She didn’t know him at all.
Standing by her brother’s side, she had seen the knight raise his hand to her, his helmet nestled forward of his legs, but she could not see his face, and he looked old. “Who is that?” She asked Bran, but he was distracted by talking to Jon, who looked, as usual, out of place in his black cloak and solemn visage. Sansa pulled her blue wrap more closely around her narrow shoulders and looked away from the stranger, examining the rest of the field.
The knight won every joust he took, and turned his mare, looking up toward her again. He pitched his voice to carry and plucked a rose from his horse’s mane. “For the Lady of Winterfell,” he cried, and held it up to her, even though she couldn’t reach, and then she knew him.
Sansa went to seek him out after the melee had ended, and found him easily enough now that she knew the banner to look for. He turned to face her, and she nearly recoiled in horror.
His smile flickered and died, and Loras Tyrell looked away from her. “Lady Stark,” he said, and for a moment she didn’t understand, until she remembered that she was Lady Stark, now, at least a little. It was just that that name had always belonged to her mother.
“Ser Loras,” she said, and curtseyed, because she did want to be polite. If she was honest, it wasn’t as bad as the Hound’s scarring, but it was worse anyway, because it was his whole face and because he’d been so beautiful, before…she forced herself to look, because she didn’t want to be impolite. “I am - I am pleased that you chose to attend.”
“You needn’t lie politely to me, my lady,” he said with a smile that was still just as broad if more sad and much more grotesque. He hadn’t lost his eyes - she focused on his eyes. They, at least, were mostly the same. “I came for a purpose, I am afraid.” Doesn’t everyone, she nearly asked, and felt a small and selfish well of dread rise. “My sister wishes me to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Sansa blinked. Several things were odd about that; my sister, first of all, not Lady Tyrell. Did that mean that Margaery hadn’t forgotten about her after all? Sansa shoved that thought aside. As friendly as the Tyrell girl had seemed, she hadn’t helped Sansa when she’d truly needed it, hadn’t been a real friend to her.
And more simply there was the idea of her marrying Loras. Before, she had dreamed of it, of being his lovely lady wife, but now…it was nearly insulting, she realized, proposing that she marry the younger son of a house now in disfavor with the new Queen.
“I will speak with Bran,” she said, but slightly stiffly. “He is the one you should talk to.”
“I want your answer to begin with.”
Sansa hesitated. “What is yours, then, answer me that?”
He looked directly at her, and she was surprised to read honesty in his eyes. “I have no wish for marriage,” he said, “But neither do I wish for loneliness. My sister recognizes that House Stark is now in favor and it is important to clear our name from previous associations. She thought - that you might be amenable to the idea.”
Sansa lowered her eyes, pretending to be demure so she could think. “It is not, of course, my decision to make,” she murmured, though she knew Bran would never force her into something without being sure that she wanted it. Her first marriage had been enough of that, though fortunately for both of them that was dissolved now, and she could almost look at Tyrion without wanting to cringe.
“I would sooner it was yours than anyone else’s.” He sounded older, his voice graver - but of course, she was older too. Everyone aged, through war. Sansa glanced down and away, folding her hands in her skirts and trying to think.
When she was a girl, she’d always dreamed of marrying this knight. She wished, almost, that she could stop thinking about it sensibly, in terms of advantages and the underlying currents of politics, but it was impossible to turn off that part of her mind, and even if she had, the dreamer in her would be disappointed by his face.
“Walk with me?” She asked, after a few moments, and while he gave her a bit of an odd look, he nodded, and did not offer his arm. Sansa twisted her hands in her skirt and started toward the godswood, because it seemed the right place to go. The silence stretched out between them like miles.
“How fares your sister,” Sansa asked, and remembered too late that Margaery was still little more than a prisoner in King’s Landing, however much she might be named an honored guest of the queen. She saw Loras’s expression spasm.
“The last letter I was allowed to read, she sounded strained. That was when she asked me to come here.”
Not a lie, she noted, absently, and then felt guilty for watching for it. She remembered her lessons well, though. “I - see. Ser, what did you expect, coming here?”
“I expected nothing.” That was not a lie either, and she was almost surprised by it. He seemed to understand her silence, and laughed, short and bitter. “I am here at my sister’s bidding, little more, because she remembered that you were - ‘fond’ of me, and she wants to keep me safe.” His mouth twisted downward, as though he thought that the idea of safety was not only tedious but disgusting. “I did not expect any ‘fondness’ to remain, and even if it had, you had only to look at me and refuse.”
Sansa brought her eyes up to look at his face again. The scars were awful, worse than the Hound’s, and she’d barely been able to look at him - but she was braver now. She tried to focus on his eyes, because they stayed the same, and said, “It’s not so bad.”
“You are a good liar, my lady,” he said, and there was a note of bitter mocking in it. He stepped away from her. “I would sooner you refuse. At least then I may return and continue to beg allowance to see my sister.”
“Yes,” she said, impulsively, and he turned to stare at her.
“Yes what?”
“Yes. I accept your proposal. I do not have - much sway, but Bran perhaps - if he asks the right people, I might be able to - you might be able to see your sister, even just for a short while.”
He shook his head, frowning now, wariness lighting just barely in the tightening of his jaw. “I have nothing to give you. No advantage, little enough prestige, now.”
“I have what I need,” Sansa said softly. “And at least you will not ask too much of me, I do not think.” She looked toward the godswood, where the leaves were red and gold with sunlight.
“No,” he said, and then again, almost fervently, “No. And you would truly find a way to arrange-“
“On one condition,” Sansa said softly, and saw him stiffen at once, eyes dulling.
“A condition.”
“I will speak to your sister, if I may. Even just for a few minutes.”
Loras shook his head, after a moment, mouth forming a stubborn line. “I can’t promise that. Not for her. I will ask, and that is the most I can do.” He paused again. “I should-“
“Write her a letter,” Sansa said, and clasped her hands before her. “Yes. I will have it sent.” He did not kiss her, and he did not smile. She did not want to see him do so. But he did bow, and lower than he had before, almost like he meant it.
He didn’t leave, though, paused just a moment. “-if I may ask-“
“I’ve been lonely before,” Sansa murmured. “I lost all my family. I wish that on very few other people, and you are not one of them.”
She could afford mercy, and so she gave it. But she would have to be sure that Margaery understood as well that mercy could be taken away as easily as given. And if it hadn’t before, the ice of the North now ran in her blood.
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Summary: In the future, with winter over, Sansa finds a familiar face. Or at least a familiar name, the face has changed.
Notes: This was written to a prompt, but said prompt is long forgotten. A bit of a twist on a ship. And not Sansa/Sandor.
She didn’t know him at all.
Standing by her brother’s side, she had seen the knight raise his hand to her, his helmet nestled forward of his legs, but she could not see his face, and he looked old. “Who is that?” She asked Bran, but he was distracted by talking to Jon, who looked, as usual, out of place in his black cloak and solemn visage. Sansa pulled her blue wrap more closely around her narrow shoulders and looked away from the stranger, examining the rest of the field.
The knight won every joust he took, and turned his mare, looking up toward her again. He pitched his voice to carry and plucked a rose from his horse’s mane. “For the Lady of Winterfell,” he cried, and held it up to her, even though she couldn’t reach, and then she knew him.
Sansa went to seek him out after the melee had ended, and found him easily enough now that she knew the banner to look for. He turned to face her, and she nearly recoiled in horror.
His smile flickered and died, and Loras Tyrell looked away from her. “Lady Stark,” he said, and for a moment she didn’t understand, until she remembered that she was Lady Stark, now, at least a little. It was just that that name had always belonged to her mother.
“Ser Loras,” she said, and curtseyed, because she did want to be polite. If she was honest, it wasn’t as bad as the Hound’s scarring, but it was worse anyway, because it was his whole face and because he’d been so beautiful, before…she forced herself to look, because she didn’t want to be impolite. “I am - I am pleased that you chose to attend.”
“You needn’t lie politely to me, my lady,” he said with a smile that was still just as broad if more sad and much more grotesque. He hadn’t lost his eyes - she focused on his eyes. They, at least, were mostly the same. “I came for a purpose, I am afraid.” Doesn’t everyone, she nearly asked, and felt a small and selfish well of dread rise. “My sister wishes me to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Sansa blinked. Several things were odd about that; my sister, first of all, not Lady Tyrell. Did that mean that Margaery hadn’t forgotten about her after all? Sansa shoved that thought aside. As friendly as the Tyrell girl had seemed, she hadn’t helped Sansa when she’d truly needed it, hadn’t been a real friend to her.
And more simply there was the idea of her marrying Loras. Before, she had dreamed of it, of being his lovely lady wife, but now…it was nearly insulting, she realized, proposing that she marry the younger son of a house now in disfavor with the new Queen.
“I will speak with Bran,” she said, but slightly stiffly. “He is the one you should talk to.”
“I want your answer to begin with.”
Sansa hesitated. “What is yours, then, answer me that?”
He looked directly at her, and she was surprised to read honesty in his eyes. “I have no wish for marriage,” he said, “But neither do I wish for loneliness. My sister recognizes that House Stark is now in favor and it is important to clear our name from previous associations. She thought - that you might be amenable to the idea.”
Sansa lowered her eyes, pretending to be demure so she could think. “It is not, of course, my decision to make,” she murmured, though she knew Bran would never force her into something without being sure that she wanted it. Her first marriage had been enough of that, though fortunately for both of them that was dissolved now, and she could almost look at Tyrion without wanting to cringe.
“I would sooner it was yours than anyone else’s.” He sounded older, his voice graver - but of course, she was older too. Everyone aged, through war. Sansa glanced down and away, folding her hands in her skirts and trying to think.
When she was a girl, she’d always dreamed of marrying this knight. She wished, almost, that she could stop thinking about it sensibly, in terms of advantages and the underlying currents of politics, but it was impossible to turn off that part of her mind, and even if she had, the dreamer in her would be disappointed by his face.
“Walk with me?” She asked, after a few moments, and while he gave her a bit of an odd look, he nodded, and did not offer his arm. Sansa twisted her hands in her skirt and started toward the godswood, because it seemed the right place to go. The silence stretched out between them like miles.
“How fares your sister,” Sansa asked, and remembered too late that Margaery was still little more than a prisoner in King’s Landing, however much she might be named an honored guest of the queen. She saw Loras’s expression spasm.
“The last letter I was allowed to read, she sounded strained. That was when she asked me to come here.”
Not a lie, she noted, absently, and then felt guilty for watching for it. She remembered her lessons well, though. “I - see. Ser, what did you expect, coming here?”
“I expected nothing.” That was not a lie either, and she was almost surprised by it. He seemed to understand her silence, and laughed, short and bitter. “I am here at my sister’s bidding, little more, because she remembered that you were - ‘fond’ of me, and she wants to keep me safe.” His mouth twisted downward, as though he thought that the idea of safety was not only tedious but disgusting. “I did not expect any ‘fondness’ to remain, and even if it had, you had only to look at me and refuse.”
Sansa brought her eyes up to look at his face again. The scars were awful, worse than the Hound’s, and she’d barely been able to look at him - but she was braver now. She tried to focus on his eyes, because they stayed the same, and said, “It’s not so bad.”
“You are a good liar, my lady,” he said, and there was a note of bitter mocking in it. He stepped away from her. “I would sooner you refuse. At least then I may return and continue to beg allowance to see my sister.”
“Yes,” she said, impulsively, and he turned to stare at her.
“Yes what?”
“Yes. I accept your proposal. I do not have - much sway, but Bran perhaps - if he asks the right people, I might be able to - you might be able to see your sister, even just for a short while.”
He shook his head, frowning now, wariness lighting just barely in the tightening of his jaw. “I have nothing to give you. No advantage, little enough prestige, now.”
“I have what I need,” Sansa said softly. “And at least you will not ask too much of me, I do not think.” She looked toward the godswood, where the leaves were red and gold with sunlight.
“No,” he said, and then again, almost fervently, “No. And you would truly find a way to arrange-“
“On one condition,” Sansa said softly, and saw him stiffen at once, eyes dulling.
“A condition.”
“I will speak to your sister, if I may. Even just for a few minutes.”
Loras shook his head, after a moment, mouth forming a stubborn line. “I can’t promise that. Not for her. I will ask, and that is the most I can do.” He paused again. “I should-“
“Write her a letter,” Sansa said, and clasped her hands before her. “Yes. I will have it sent.” He did not kiss her, and he did not smile. She did not want to see him do so. But he did bow, and lower than he had before, almost like he meant it.
He didn’t leave, though, paused just a moment. “-if I may ask-“
“I’ve been lonely before,” Sansa murmured. “I lost all my family. I wish that on very few other people, and you are not one of them.”
She could afford mercy, and so she gave it. But she would have to be sure that Margaery understood as well that mercy could be taken away as easily as given. And if it hadn’t before, the ice of the North now ran in her blood.