tethered vows; aemond targaryen [1]
chapter i – the puppeteers' puppets
pairing—aemond targaryen x sansa stark genre & warnings—hotd/got au, angst, arranged marriage, strangers to lovers, anguage (swearing), alcohol mention and usage, sexual depiction, violence, incest mention. word count—6.7K summary—it is believed that a good relationship between the Iron Throne and the North was the key to a peaceful, prosperous, reign. The Hightowers, strategists seeking to secure the North's loyalty to the Greens, orchestrated an alliance under an arranged marriage between Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and Aemond Targaryen, the second son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower.
Winterfell, nestled in the heart of the North, loomed with its ancient towers against the icy backdrop of winter. Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, moved through the castle with the grace befitting her noble stature. Her auburn hair cascaded like a waterfall, a stark contrast to the snow-covered landscape. As Sansa wandered through the great halls, her footsteps echoed in the vastness of Winterfell. The chill in the air hinted at the relentless grip of winter, yet the castle exuded a warmth that spoke of the indomitable spirit of House Stark.
The fluttering of wings drew Sansa's attention as a raven descended, its ebony feathers contrasting against the snow-laden courtyard. Sansa extended her arm, allowing the raven to perch. The scroll attached to its leg bore the unmistakable mark of House Stark. Breaking the seal, Sansa's eyes scanned the words carefully. The message was a summons, not just for her brother but for her as well—a call to the South, to the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.
Sansa set forth to find her brother, Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. She traversed the winding corridors until she reached the lord's chambers. The door, adorned with the direwolf sigil, stood slightly ajar.
"Cregan," Sansa called out, her voice carrying a blend of urgency and curiosity.
The room, lit by the glow of a hearth, greeted her with the sight of Cregan Stark, a figure of Northern strength and resilience, looking up from his desk.
"What is it, Sansa?" Cregan inquired, his expression betraying curiosity and anticipation.
Sansa handed him the scroll, her eyes meeting his. Cregan broke the seal, his eyes scanning the words that unfolded of an unexpected summons.
"A proposition," Cregan murmured, his brow furrowing. "They request the presence of both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in the South."
Sansa, standing beside her brother, felt a surge of apprehension. The proposition held the promise of change, yet the North, with its ancient traditions, stood as a steadfast beacon in the face of uncertainty.
"Northerners don't do well in the south," Sansa remarked, her gaze fixed on the snowy expanse beyond Winterfell's walls.
"No," Cregan agreed, his voice carrying the weight of generations of Northern resilience. "We do not."
The siblings stood in the room, the cold Northern wind sweeping through the cracked window, a reminder of the harsh winters that shaped their homeland. Sansa paced the room, her auburn hair trailing behind her like a fiery banner.
"In the name of the gods, Cregan, why do they need both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in King's Landing? It's not like we have time for Southern frivolities." Sansa said, her brows frowned together.
Cregan, seated by the hearth, raised an eyebrow, considering the question. "Maybe they've run out of snow and need some Northern chill to cool their heads. Or perhaps they've heard our cooking is far superior."
"I highly doubt they summoned us all this way for a cooking contest." Sansa shot him a look, a mix of amusement and exasperation.
"You never know. " Cregan leaned back, a grin playing on his lips. "They might be desperate for a taste of real food in the capital."
"Real food or not, it's suspicious. I can't fathom why they'd want us both there, and in such haste." Sansa sighed, deciding to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.
Cregan scratched his beard, feigning deep contemplation. "Maybe they've heard about my impeccable sense of fashion and want me to give the court a makeover."
"Yes, because King's Landing is in dire need of a Stark fashion intervention." Sansa rolled her eyes. "Truly, the crisis of the century."
Cregan chuckled before his expression fell into a more serious one. "I'm as puzzled as you are. They've summoned us abruptly, and to what end? I don't recall sending any singing ravens or performing any juggling tricks that might warrant such attention."
"It's unnerving." Sansa perched herself on the edge of the table, a thoughtful expression on her face. "The South is... unkind."
"The North doesn't meander like the courtiers in King's Landing." Sansa's eyes met Cregan's, a silent understanding passing between them. "A journey into the dragon's den, then?" Cregan asked, shooting a sly smirk to ease the nervousness settling between the room.
"Pit." Sansa clarified, earning a raised eyebrow from her brother. "They call it the Dragonpit."
Cregan chuckled before reiterating his choice of word, "Dragon's pit."
"Maybe they demanded you declare yourself for the princess," Sansa said, her voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and speculation. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she considered the potential ramifications.
"Which one?" Cregan replied, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
"Helaena Targaryen." Sansa replied, her gaze fixed on the snowy landscape beyond Winterfell.
"Didn't her brother wed her?" Cregan questioned, the ways of Southern alliances proving perplexing to his Northern manner.
"Right." Sansa stayed silent for a moment, the weight of realization settling in. "Such curious customs."
"Agreed." He chuckled in agreement.
The snowy expanse of Winterfell's courtyard seemed to stretch infinitely before them as Sansa continued, her frustration growing with each passing thought. "It'll take us almost month—three weeks if we're lucky—to reach King's Landing. And by the time we arrive, they might have just forgotten about us."
"Whatever it is, Sansa." Cregan stood, placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "We'll show them we are proud Northerners, Aye."
"Let's just hope it doesn't involve any unnecessary twirls or curtsies." Sansa sighed, a mixture of frustration and determination in her voice.
"If it does, I'll be sure to trip over my own feet. A Stark's way of making a statement."
Sansa couldn't help but smile. "That might just be the statement we need to make."
The stone stairs echoed with the soft thuds of Sansa and Cregan's boots as they left the room. A heavy sigh escaped Sansa's lips, forming a misty cloud in the brisk Northern air. The Winterfell courtyard awaited them, surrounded by walls of gray stone that seemed to absorb the chill. It had been two long years since their father's passing, and only six months since their mother joined him in the embrace of eternity.
The siblings descended the cold, worn steps, arriving in the open space of the courtyard. Winter's touch lingered in the air, making each breath visible. They approached the ancient weirwood tree that stood as a silent witness to the passage of time. Kneeling, they bowed their heads in prayer, seeking support from the old gods.
"Let us pass this journey safely," Cregan whispered, his voice blending with the rustle of the tree's leaves.
"Let the journey be quick," Sansa added, her words carrying a quiet determination.
Sansa's thoughts drifted to the departed, to her father and mother, and to the generations that had come before her. The unseen ancestors, a part of her heritage, inspired a prayer from her heart. Though she rarely ventured beyond the walls of Winterfell, the vastness of the North was her world. Yet, with the unexpected summons, an unfamiliar weight settled in her chest.
Sansa's eyes closed as she continued her silent supplication. She wasn't afraid, or at least she couldn't afford to be. A woman now, aged nine and ten, she carried a quiet bravery within her comely demeanor. Her prayers spoke not only of personal safety but also of a deep-rooted longing for the familiar confines of her home.
"And bring us home," Sansa whispered, her plea lingering in the crisp air as if carried away by the wind. The simple words held the weight of a determined heart, a wish for sanctuary in the face of the unknown.
The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing unfolded as both a physical trek and a venture into unfamiliar territories. Sansa and Cregan rode on horseback, flanked by loyal Northern bannermen proudly displaying the direwolf of House Stark on their banners. The landscape, covered in a blanket of snow, sprawled before them as they navigated the winding roads. Sansa's gaze wandered over the vastness of the North, where towering pines stood like sentinels and frozen rivers snaked through the familiar land. It was a place ingrained in their hearts, a landscape that had shaped the Stark family for generations.
The cold air nipped at their faces as they rode, carrying with it the scent of pine and the chill of winter. It was undeniably beautiful, the North. It really was. Its beauty, however, was a subtle charm not everyone could fathom. Sansa felt a deep appreciation for the land that had cradled her existence. The towering pines and snow-covered landscapes painted a sight that words struggled to capture. Sansa couldn't predict the duration of their stay in King's Landing, but a lingering feeling suggested it wouldn't be brief. The prospect of an extended absence from her northern home weighed on her, and a sense of longing for what she had left behind settled in her heart. It was as if she already missed the North, its quiet beauty and the familiar embrace of Winterfell.
Cregan, riding alongside his sister, raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind, Sansa?"
"Just basking in the glory of our home." Sansa replied, her eyes scanning the endless horizon. "We'll be entering a different world soon."
"Duty calls." Cregan grunted in agreement. "We've got to dance to their tune, even if we can't figure out the steps."
The journey continued, the road stretching ahead like an unending tapestry of uncertainty. As they moved farther from the familiar contours of Winterfell, the shadow of annoyance grew, eclipsing the curiosity that initially accompanied their Southern sojourn.
In the evenings, as they set up camp, Sansa and Cregan would share moments of silent reflection. The North, with its towering walls and ancient castles, felt like a distant memory. The South, with its political intricacies and alien customs, became a reality they had to confront.
"Twenty days until King's Landing." Sansa murmured, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
Cregan, his gaze following the same horizon, nodded in silent agreement. The road to King's Landing, like a river winding through unfamiliar lands, carried them closer to a destiny entwined with the fate of the Seven Kingdoms—a destiny that neither of them could escape, even if the taste of Southern irritation lingered on their tongues.
Day by day, the subtle warmth of the South crept into their journey, coaxing Sansa and Cregan to shed layers of their accustomed Northern garments. The furs and heavy cloaks that were a second skin in Winterfell now felt burdensome under the burgeoning Southern sun. The landscape transformed from the towering pines of the North to the rolling hills and expansive plains of the Neck.
On the 10th day, Sansa cast a wary glance at the sky as she unclasped the cloak that had shielded her from the Northern winds. The air, once crisp and biting, now carried a gentler touch. It was a silent acknowledgment of their passage from the familiar chill of the North into the milder climate of the South.
As the road wound through the Neck and into the Vale of Arryn, Sansa found herself grappling with an unexpected discomfort. The cool breeze that had been her constant companion since leaving Winterfell was replaced by a warmth that felt unfamiliar. She longed for the bite of winter, the scent of pine that lingered in the Northern air.
On the 15th day, as they traversed further into the Vale, Sansa's frustration reached a tipping point. The lush greenery and temperate climate, while undoubtedly pleasant to many, grated against the ingrained sensibilities of the Lady of Winterfell.
"We've crossed the Neck, Sansa." Cregan stated, his tone carrying a note of caution. The Vale lies ahead."
Sansa's eyes, once filled with curiosity, now bore a glint of aggravation. "It's too warm."
Cregan, understanding his sister's sentiments, offered a sympathetic nod. Looking over the rest of their Bannerman surrounding them, he replied, "Seems our men shares your distaste of the southern air."
Sansa, her gaze fixed on the horizon, couldn't shake the sense of displacement that accompanied their journey. The farther they ventured into the unfamiliar territories of the South, the more she longed for the familiar embrace of Winterfell.
As they pressed onward, Sansa found herself caught between the memories of Winterfell's cold embrace and the ever-warming breeze of the South—a journey of physical distance and emotional dissonance. The road to King's Landing, fraught with both external challenges and internal conflicts, stretched before them, promising a destination that seemed increasingly distant from the home they knew.
The gateway of King's Landing loomed before Sansa and Cregan Stark, a colossal entrance into a realm vastly different from the North. No longer clad in the thick garments that shielded them against the Northern winds, they strode forward in their respective armor, the direwolf sigil proudly displayed—a symbol of Northern resilience in the face of Southern unfamiliarity.
As they moved inside the city, the stark contrast between the North and the capital of the Seven Kingdoms became apparent. The markets were a riot of colors and sounds, merchants hawking exotic goods from distant lands. Garments of rich fabrics adorned the citizens, a stark departure from the practical furs and woolens of Winterfell. The hustle and bustle of the city seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a stark contrast to the quietude of the North.
Sansa, her gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar surroundings, felt a knot of trepidation tightening in her chest. The overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity was both exhilarating and disconcerting. The air, heavy with the scents of spices and foreign perfumes, held an essence that Sansa couldn't quite place.
Cregan, walking beside his sister, observed the Southern city with a stoic demeanor, though the subtle furrow in his brow betrayed the weight of their displacement. The towering Red Keep, visible in the distance, seemed like a distant fortress from a dream—a place where power and politics intertwined in ways that were foreign to House Stark.
The crowds moved like a river through the city, and Sansa and Cregan found themselves carried along, their Northern armor cutting through the sea of Southern fabrics. The unfamiliarity, though tinged with an underlying sense of fear, also held an element of intrigue—a glimpse into a world that had only existed in stories and whispers.
As they continued deeper into King's Landing, Sansa and Cregan couldn't escape the realization that they were outsiders in this bustling Southern hub. The North, with its vastness and solitude, felt like a distant memory. In its place stood a city teeming with life and complexity, where every corner held secrets and every face seemed to conceal its own agenda.
"It looks as if time itself runs faster here." Sansa observed.
Cregan grunted in agreement, his eyes narrowing at the myriad colors and sounds that assaulted his senses.
The air was thick with the scents of exotic spices and foreign perfumes, a stark departure from the crisp scent of pine that lingered in the Northern air. As they made their way through the crowded streets, Sansa bit her tongue to suppress the urge to voice her Northern disdain. The South, with its ornate architecture and lavish displays of wealth, felt like an alien realm.
"Northerners don't belong here," Sansa muttered under her breath, her frustration simmering.
"Aye," Cregan responded, "We don't."
The journey became a test of restraint for Sansa and Cregan. The Northerners, fiercely proud of their traditions, had little patience for the subtleties of Southern courtly life. Sansa, in particular, found herself biting her tongue more than once, suppressing the urge to express her Northern bluntness in a land that valued diplomacy.
"But remember, Sansa, every word and gesture will be scrutinized." Cregan reminded his sister, his tone a mixture of caution and understanding. "We're guests in their realm."
Sansa nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. The road to King's Landing stretched before them, a path that led not only to the seat of power but also to the heart of a realm where dragons ruled and alliances shifted like the winds.
The grandeur of the Red Keep's halls enveloped Sansa and Cregan as they were escorted to the council chamber, where they expected to meet King Viserys. However, upon entering, they were met with an unexpected sight—King Viserys was not present. Instead, the Queen Alicent and the King's Hand, Otto Hightower, awaited them.
Sansa and Cregan exchanged a subtle glance, a silent acknowledgment of the peculiarity of the situation. The rumors about the King's declining health had circulated, but the extent of his infirmity had not fully registered until this moment.
"Lord Cregan, Lady Sansa, welcome to the Red Keep. I trust your journey was eventful?" Queen Alicent, regal and composed, extended a courteous nod of welcome.
"As eventful as one could hope for, Your Grace." Cregan offered a respectful nod in return.
"Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa, her gaze lingering on the Queen's composed demeanor, replied, "The journey was as smooth as can be expected."
"Forgive the King's absence. His health has been a cause for concern, and attending to matters of state has become increasingly challenging." Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, interjected with a cordial tone.
Sansa and Cregan exchanged a glance, their thoughts mirrored in unspoken words. The absence of King Viserys cast a shadow over the grandeur of the Red Keep, and the implications of his weakened state raised questions about the stability of the realm.
"Rest assured," Queen Alicent, keenly aware of the unspoken tension, continued, "King Viserys would have welcomed you personally if he were able. In his stead, we are here to extend the hospitality of the crown."
Sansa and Cregan, despite the unexpected circumstances, offered courteous nods of gratitude. The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing had already been fraught with unfamiliarity, and the absence of the King served as a stark reminder that they had entered a realm shaped by political intricacies and uncertainty.
"Why have we been summoned to the capital? " Cregan cuts to the chase, his voice steady yet brimming with curiosity. "What is the nature of this proposition?"
Instead of answering in the council chamber, they were led to a separate room where the air seemed charged with the weight of impending revelations. The room was adorned with the sigils of the Seven Kingdoms, a reminder of the collective power that shaped the fate of Westeros.
Sansa and Cregan stepped into the council room, their eyes quickly assessing the assembly within. Queen Alicent, the authoritative Hand Otto Hightower, and the councilmen occupied the space, their presence unmistakable. Yet, what drew her attention was the unexpected figure of the second-born son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower. She recalled his name as Aemond. Aemond Targaryen. The rumors had not exaggerated. He stood there, an eyepatch concealing a significant scar above, a testament to battles fought mayhaps, or an accident in training. Despite the mark, he carried himself regally, unmistakably a fine prince in the room. As Sansa's gaze briefly met his, there was an unspoken curiosity that passed between them.
The council room, adorned with the symbols of power, witnessed a tense gathering as Sansa and Cregan took their seats. The exchange of pleasantries echoed in the air, a surface-level politeness that veiled the deeper currents of political intrigue and power play.
"Once again, Lord Cregan, Lady Sansa, we thank you for making the journey to King's Landing." Queen Alicent, with a regal grace that belied the complexities at play, once again extended her gratitude. "Your presence here is of great importance."
Sansa, though offering a polite nod in return, couldn't shake the undercurrent of skepticism that lingered beneath the queen's words. The acknowledgment of their importance felt more like a reminder of their place within the intricate hierarchy of the realm.
How can we not, Your Grace? Sansa thought, her inner voice echoing with a touch of bitterness. Mere servants under the crown's eyes, expected to dance to the tune of Southern politics.
Cregan, ever composed, maintained a stoic facade as he inclined his head in acknowledgment. Queen Alicent, her eyes meeting Sansa's with a knowing glint, continued with the formalities, all the while aware of the unspoken tensions in the room.
The council room's atmosphere grew tense as Queen Alicent continued, her words hanging in the air like a delicate tapestry, each thread revealing a piece of the Southern proposition. Sansa and Cregan exchanged subtle glances, a silent acknowledgment of the intricacies they were about to navigate.
"The nature of this proposition," Queen Alicent began, her eyes shifting between Sansa and Cregan, "is to strengthen the alliance between the Iron Throne and the North. The Crown seeks unity, a binding force that will ensure the stability of the realm."
Sansa, despite her composed exterior, felt a flicker of unease. The mention of an alliance with the North was expected, but the form it would take remained a mystery. She cast a glance at Cregan, her eyes silently conveying a near boastful sentiment. Sansa had suspected that the Crown might seek a marriage alliance, and she had envisioned Cregan being the focal point.
To her surprise, Queen Alicent's next words shattered Sansa's assumptions. "However, it is not Lord Cregan's hand that we wish to bind in alliance. It is yours, Lady Sansa."
Sansa's eyes widened in disbelief, and her gaze darted to Cregan, who wore an expression of equal astonishment. The room seemed to close in around them as the weight of the revelation settled like a stone in the pit of Sansa's stomach.
Cregan, ever stoic, turned to Sansa, his eyes betraying a mixture of realization and concern. Sansa, in turn, fought to maintain her composure. The alliance sought by the Crown had taken an unexpected turn, and the burden of securing the North's loyalty now rested squarely on Sansa's shoulders.
"Your Grace, I must admit, this proposal is unexpected. May I inquire about the specifics of this alliance and why it is Lady Sansa who is to be wed, rather than myself as the Lord of Winterfell?" Cregan's expression a mix of incredulity and concern, spoke up, seeking clarification from Queen Alicent.
Queen Alicent, her regal demeanor unwavering, leaned forward slightly as she explained, "Lord Cregan, it is true that the Crown seeks a union with the North, but the dynamics of our House present a unique challenge. Helaena, my daughter, is already wed to my first-born son, Aegon. I have no other daughters to be promised to you. However, the Crown sees the potential for a strong alliance through a different avenue."
Sansa, her gaze fixed on the Queen, felt a knot of anticipation tighten within her. The unexpected twist in the Southern proposition hung in the air, and the Queen's next words unveiled the true nature of the alliance.
"It is my son, Aemond, who would be wed to Lady Sansa. Aemond Targaryen, the second-born son of King Viserys and myself, is present in this council room for a reason."
Aemond, who had remained silent until now, met Sansa's eyes with a steady gaze that held a mixture of curiosity and a hint of resignation. The weight of the moment settled upon the Lady of Winterfell, and she exchanged a glance with Cregan, both silently processing the implications of the Crown's unexpected proposal.
The council room, once abuzz with discussions and explanations, fell into an uneasy silence as Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, posed the question that hung in the air like a heavy cloak.
"And if I refuse?" Sansa's voice, though calm, carried a weight that resonated through the room. The councilmen exchanged uncertain glances, their allegiance torn between the loyalty owed to the Crown and the acknowledgment of the Lady's autonomy.
"Lady Sansa," Queen Alicent, her regal poise undeterred, met Sansa's gaze with a measured expression. "The Crown values unity and stability. Your refusal would not only defy the Crown but could potentially jeopardize the fragile balance we seek to maintain in these tumultuous times."
The tension in the room thickened as the gravity of Sansa's question hung in the air.
"So it is not a proposition, it's an order," Sansa declared, her voice carrying a stern resolve that echoed through the council room. The weight of defiance, though wrapped in the guise of Ladylike poise, hung in the air like an unspoken challenge to the Crown's authority.
"Sansa," Cregan interjected in a hushed tone, a plea for caution, an acknowledgment of the delicate balance they were navigating.
However, it was not Queen Alicent but Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, who had responded. "Lady Sansa, the Crown merely seeks what is best for the realm. The union proposed is not just a matter of preference but a strategic necessity in these trying times. Your cooperation is crucial for the stability of the Seven Kingdoms."
Queen Alicent, ever composed, took charge of the moment. "Lady Sansa, you will be given the necessary time to duly consider the terms of this proposed marriage. We understand the weight of this decision and acknowledge the importance of your deliberation."
The Queen's words, though carrying a veneer of courtesy, held an unspoken expectation. Sansa and Cregan, now bound to the complexities of Southern politics, were to stay in the capital for the next week, a timeframe designated to solidify the union that the Crown deemed imperative.
"During your stay," Queen Alicent continued, "we hope that you will reach an agreement that is acceptable to both parties. The Crown values the cooperation of House Stark, and we believe that this union is in the best interest of the realm."
The room, still fraught with tension, now held the promise of a temporary reprieve—a week for Sansa and Cregan to navigate the intricacies of the Southern court, consider the implications of the proposed marriage, and come to a decision that would shape the future of House Stark.
Sansa felt the weight of Aemond Targaryen's one-eyed gaze, an unrelenting focus that seemed to pierce through the delicate facade of courtly decorum. As the doors closed behind them, leaving the council room in their wake, Sansa's eyes met Aemond's, and an unspoken exchange transpired—an acknowledgment of the complexities that now intertwined their fates.
Aemond, the second-born son of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower, bore the legacy of House Targaryen in the form of a single piercing eye, a mark of distinction and, perhaps, a reflection of the trials that shaped the scion of dragons. She had wondered what happened for him to lose an eye.
The week ahead promised negotiations, considerations, and the delicate dance of alliances, but in that fleeting moment, Sansa and Aemond stood as silent participants in a drama that transcended the confines of courtly formalities.
As the council room doors closed behind them, Sansa and Cregan found themselves at the precipice of a pivotal week—one that would test their resilience, challenge their principles, and ultimately define their role in the unfolding drama of the Seven Kingdoms. The road to King's Landing, which began as a physical journey, had now transformed into a journey of choices, alliances, and the complexities of a realm where power, politics, and personal autonomy were in constant tension.
In the guest chambers of the Red Keep, where the Starks would be spending their stay at, Sansa's discontent found voice. The echoes of her frustration resonated through the air as she spoke to Cregan, her brother and confidant, about the unforeseen turn of events that had brought them to the heart of Southern intrigue.
"I cannot believe," Sansa lamented, her voice a whisper of exasperation, "that we've spent almost a month traversing these realms, only to be greeted by an absurd proposal. Marriage! As if it were the simplest solution to bind the North to the Crown. To wed without regard for one's heart? It might as well be their custom but I will not allow it to be ours."
Cregan, the level-headed anchor to Sansa's impassioned fervor, offered a measured response.
"Except," he began, his voice a calm counterpoint to Sansa's fervency, "mother and father were promised to one another. And by the end of it, they did share deep affection."
Sansa, unyielding in her stance, retorted with a distinction that cut through the nuanced shades of affection.
"Deep affection is not love, Cregan. It is not a compromise, nor a mere settling," Sansa affirmed, her words carrying a weight that echoed the ideals she held dear.
"What is it then?"
"I do not know." Sansa, pausing as if searching for the right words, finally responded, "I have never been in love."
"Precisely."
Cregan Stark observed his sister's quiet demeanor. The flickering candlelight played on the contours of her face, casting shadows that mirrored the tumult within her.
Sansa, usually composed and resolute, now bore an air of vulnerability. Her silence spoke volumes, and Cregan, attuned to the nuances of his sister's emotions, could see the unrest beneath it.
"I don't dispute what you say, Sansa. Yet, where dragons soar in the skies, we must consider this alliance."
"Love," Sansa continued, her tone a mixture of defiance and resignation, "should be the foundation of such unions, not political convenience. Our ancestors, beneath the heart tree in Winterfell, did they not pledge their troths in the name of love, honor, and duty?"
"Aye, Sansa." Cregan, his expression unwavering, acknowledged Sansa's sentiments. "But these are different times. Love, as noble as it may be, often takes a backseat to the demands of the hour."
"There is more to this than a mere alliance." Sansa, though comforted by Cregan's steadiness, countered with a resolute stance. "You think it too."
Her resolute stance unwavering as she met Cregan's gaze. In the muted glow of the chamber, where shadows clung to the stone walls, Sansa's eyes held a glint of determination that mirrored the Northern steel of her ancestors.
"I see that while marriage is the simplest route, there are other means to forge bonds between Houses. Why thrust this now?" Cregan, the steady anchor to Sansa's fervency, acknowledged her observation. Cregan paused, his voice measured, "And that is a question I cannot answer."
The Stark siblings, now standing on the precipice of decisions that would shape the destiny of House Stark, found themselves confronting not only the complications of duty but also the mysteries of the Crown's intentions.
A new day in King's Landing dawned with a crispness that hinted the fresh morn. Sansa and Cregan found themselves walking through the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep, where murmurs chattered in the background. The sun had awoken the siblings slowly, at least for Sansa. Cregan was still deep in slumber when she barged down inside his chambers and pulled the blanket out of his grasp to wake him. He had unintentionally called her a witch for doing so and Sansa paid it no mind for it happened a lot ever since they were children. Now dressed and less grumpy, they made their way through the bustling corridors, when a messenger approached Cregan with a summons from the Crown. It was an invitation to join Prince Aegon Targaryen on a hunting expedition.
Cregan never met the first born prince of the crown. He had many rumors, both great and lacking. Some say he was a dutiful prince, charming, adventurous. Some say he was crude, obnoxious, and drunk. The wolf of the north was not a cowardly man and he was dutiful. He accepted the summons and made his way to the courtyard where Prince Aegon awaited, his figure mounted atop a spirited steed. Prince Aegon does not resemble Prince Aemond much, he observed. Maybe if his hair was of the same length as the younger brother, but it falls only right under his chin. It was not silky nor treated as Aemond was, but greasy and rough. He looked less regal than his mother, and he seemed uninterested by this activity more so than Cregan himself. The air was thick with anticipation, and Cregan couldn't shake the feeling that this seemingly casual hunt held a significance beyond the pursuit of game.
"Lord Cregan," Aegon greeted, his words slurred with the remnants of last night's revelry, "Ready for a bit of sport, are we?"
So he is a drunk, Cregan thought,
Cregan, maintaining his stoic demeanor, nodded in response. "Aye, Prince Aegon. A hunt could prove refreshing."
As they rode into the outskirts of the city, nearing the borders of Kingswood, Cregan observed Aegon's demeanor with a discerning eye. The Prince's disposition, however, revealed a less than favorable character. Aegon's behavior, marked by rudeness and a penchant for drink, painted a portrait that contrasted sharply with the regal exterior expected of a Targaryen prince. Despite the uncouth nature of his companion, Cregan kept his cool, navigating the nuances of the hunt with a practiced ease. The conversation flowed in fits and starts, interspersed with Aegon's raucous laughter and slurred remarks.
As the day wore on, Cregan's thoughts turned to the broader implications of the Crown's intentions. In the heart of the forest, where the sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife intermingled with the clatter of hooves, the air was tinged with the earthy scent of the forest, and the duo rode side by side.
"So, Stark," Aegon started, as he leaned back in his saddle with an air of nonchalance. "What's the North like? Cold, I suppose? And filled with your wolves?"
"The North is cold, My Prince. As for the wolves, well, direwolf sightings are rare south of the Wall." Admitted Cregan, "Many lies beyond the wall."
"No wolves for the wolves of winter?" Aegon raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "How tragic. What do you Starks do without your furry companions?"
"My grandsire lived with a large black direwolf he named Shadow for the better part of his life. But, the wolf returned to the wild once his owner passed. Although, not many live near Winterfell anymore, we manage just fine without them. Wolves or no wolves, the North stands strong, and so do the Starks." Cregan shot back.
"No offense, Stark. " Aegon grinned, yet uninterested in the nuances of Northern life, dismissed the comment with a careless wave. "Wolves, Starks, honor—tedious topics, don't you think? I prefer the thrill of the hunt, the feel of blood on my hands."
Cregan, unfazed by Aegon's lack of decorum, retorted with a snarky yet respectful tone, "Ah, the thrill of the hunt. A noble pursuit, indeed. Though in the North, we hunt not just for sport but for sustenance. A different kind of thrill, one that serves a purpose beyond personal satisfaction."
As they rode deeper into the forest, Cregan's observations of Aegon's behavior became increasingly evident. The Prince's lack of honor and respect for the customs that defined the North grated on Cregan's sensibilities.
"Starks and their notions of honor. A pack of wolves, loyal to a fault." Aegon, growing more animated with each passing moment, raised a wineskin to his lips. "Boring, really."
"Honor may be boring to some, Prince Aegon," Cregan responded, choosing his next words carefully, "but it is the foundation on which the North stands. A foundation that has withstood the test of time."
Aegon found men like Cregan to be tedious beings. What has duty done to this men that they became so proud of flaunting the word so easily? He didn't understand it. He doubt he'll ever understand the meaning of duty. He loved his wine, his women, girls, men, and boys. His mother might tell him otherwise, but he was not meant for the throne. Obnoxious as he was, he was still self-aware that he would be an unfit ruler. The king never really acknowledged him as a son, not really. Aegon, along with Helaena, Aemond, and little Daeron, was simply just there. Duty was lifeless, duty was dull. That was all Aegon could believe in.
Within the confines of the Red Keep, Sansa found herself strongly advised—or rather subtly ordered—to remain within the castle walls. The Queen's suggestion, masked as a genteel invitation, held an unspoken expectations. Sansa was to join Aemond Targaryen for tea, a ploy to weave their relationship. Tea? She came all this way to the heart of the crown so sit and drink tea? A tea with the prince, little Sansa would often came to her mind. No, a tea with a dragon, the present her reminded herself.
She entered the designated chamber, the air hung with the fragrance of steeping tea. Aemond Targaryen awaited, reclining with an air of careless nonchalance. His one-eyed gaze met Sansa's, and his expression still. The cut under the patch looked deep and old. She wondered what could terribly have happened for him to lose his eye.
"Tea, Lady Sansa? A peculiar choice for a Northern lady." Aemond broke the silence with a brusque greeting.
"One would think dragons prefer a stronger brew. Seems your mother has other plans." Sansa replied with a sardonic smile, undeterred by Aemond's bluntness.
Aemond's gaze, sharp and unyielding, met hers as he took a sip from the delicate teacup. "My mother has her schemes, as do many in this court."
"And so the Prince cuts to the chase." Sansa, her wit undiminished, lifted her own cup, swirling the tea within. "Alliances, the lifeblood of the realm, is it not? A marriage here, a cup of tea there. All in the name of unity."
Aemond, unaccustomed to Sansa's dry humor, raised an eyebrow. "Unity is a fragile thing. It requires delicate handling, like this porcelain teacup, for example."
Sansa's laughter echoed through the chamber, a melodic sound that cut through the tension. "Yet, I've heard dragons prefer a more direct approach. Fire and blood, If i'm correct?"
"Fire and blood have their place. But sometimes, a cup of tea can be just as effective." Aemond's expression shifted, a flicker of amusement playing on his features. He leaned back with an air of indifference, remarked, "You Starks are a curious bunch. Wolves, honor, and now tea. What's next? A poetry recital in the godswood?"
"Perhaps, My Prince. Though, I fear your dragons might find the verses lacking in fire." Sansa, ever quick-witted, retorted, "But, as to remind you once more, your mother chose this activity."
"Ah, my mother's choices." Aemond clicked his tongue, "Tea, poetry, all part of a grand design."
Sansa, sipping her tea with an air of grace, nodded in agreement. "Where even a cup of tea carries the weight of alliances."
"Alliances, Lady,"Aemond, though initially brusque, found himself drawn into the banter. "can be forged in the oddest of places. Even amidst verses and teacups."
Sansa's laughter, a melodic sound that echoed through the chamber, filled the air. "And so, we find ourselves here—two unlikely allies bound by a cup of tea."
As the tea was poured and the tension in the room simmered, Aemond and Sansa sat with a blend of sarcasm and candor. The tea, though steeped in tradition, became a vessel for the forging alliances in a realm where dragons soared and wolves tread carefully in their shadows. Aemond hadn't really looked at her the first time they met when she arrived the day before. She was taller than most ladies he's met, but still a good few inches under him. Her sitting posture was almost as perfect as his mother. She grew up with decorum then, he observed. Her hair a shade or auburn he never seen before, deep in some parts, vibrant in places when the sun touched her head. She was anything but ugly and he would be a fool to think otherwise.
"I do not wish to be promised to you, My Prince." Sansa admitted quite bluntly. She was always too honest for her own good. "And I don't doubt that you are as displeased about this union as I am."
"Honesty, a rare trait in this court." Aemond replied, regarded Sansa with a raised eyebrow, "How do you know I am displeased with this union?"
Sansa almost rolled her eyes at his question. Was he truly taking her as a fool?
"Three sips I've taken of this tea and you have not once asked me anything regarding my interests." Sansa answered as a matter of factly, "That could be offensive to a lady, My Prince."
"I meant no offense." Aemond answered callously.
"I'm sure you didn't." Sansa retorted with similar disdain in her voice, looking out into the garden instead of him.
His finger touched the spoon of his tea, moving it aimlessly, before admitting, "I have my own misgivings about this union."
"It seems we are pawns in a game played by others."
"I did not expect to find common ground with a Stark." Aemond, his expression reflecting a mix of resignation and understanding, nodded in agreement. Sansa did not answer immediately and Aemond noticed her bemused expression, "No flattery intended. Just an acknowledgment that agreements are found in the unlikeliest of places."
"An acknowledgment or a resignation?" Sansa, her demeanor retaining a hint of skepticism, raised an eyebrow. "Will you even enjoy being wedded to a Stark?"
Aemond, his one-eyed gaze steady, replied, "It seems we have little choice."
From afar, Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower observed the unfolding scene in the chamber, where Sansa and Aemond engaged in a conversation that hinted at the complexities of their newfound alliance. Sansa, ever perceptive, noticed the scrutinizing gaze of their audience.
"They are watching us," she stated, her tone tinged with a blend of sarcasm and amusement.
Without looking at where Sansa was gazing, Aemond, his expression unreadable, said, "The puppeteers overseeing their players."
Sansa, taken aback by the bluntness of Aemond's observation, glanced at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. The term "puppeteers" held a weight of implication, and she couldn't help but wonder at the underlying sentiments behind Aemond's words.
"Was that what you were thinking?" Aemond asked Sansa candidly, his one-eyed gaze fixed on her.
Sansa took her eyes off him, and with a subtle shift in her demeanor. Aemond, acknowledging her silence with a smirk, observed as she subtly changed the subject.
"I wish to return to my chambers," she declared, her tone carrying a hint of weariness. "I'm feeling sickly after the long hours we spent on horseback as we journeyed here, My Prince."
Aemond, though perceptive, chose not to press further. "As you wish, Lady Sansa."
As she exited the chamber, Sansa's excuse lingered in the air—a subtle deflection that allowed her to retreat from the scrutiny of both the puppeteers and the puppeted.
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