His fingertips brush her temples as he puts the crown on her head, a more slender version of the one he is wearing, the metal cool against her brow. Queen, she thinks. It is too cold in the throne room, and she shivers. Queen Sansa. It had once been her greatest dream, but now she feels lost next to this man who is old enough to be her father, and who looks like he has about as much use for her as for a child.
She hears murmurs in the crowd, and she hopes they only comment on her beauty. She knows they mutter and complain, all of them – the Tyrells who would have gladly pushed Lady Margaery at yet another king, the Martells who tried to offer him Princess Arianne when the last Targaryens fell. She wonders why he has chosen her, if it is gratitude to the North or anger at the South.
The feast is a sullen affair. There is singing and dancing and delicious food, but the king only glares at the court and barely looks at her, and she hears him mutter to his Lord Hand that the crown should not have wasted money on such frivolity. She does not hear the Hand's reply – Lord Davos, a common-looking man, and she finds it hard to believe the king raised smuggler to a lordship – but it seems to calm the king for a moment, before their conversation grows somewhat more agitated. The king looks angry, glances at her, then seems to relent.
As he offers her his arm and leads her from the table, she realises that Lord Davos had to talk King Stannis into dancing with her. Her back straightens as she feels the court's eyes on them, her face stills into a carefully arranged mask. Most of the men present had been here when Joffrey had had her beaten, but she would not let them disrespect her. She would make them see a queen, not a frightened girl who could not meet her husband's eye.
She does not flinch when he takes her hand, large and rough, the other one resting on her hip as lightly as if he was afraid to touch her. She finds it oddly reassuring to see his strength kept under such a tight lid.
It is not that he cannot dance. He knows the steps, he never steps on her toes like her brothers used to when they were children, his hands are guiding her without pushing or pulling. But she has never seen any man look more uncomfortable, more stiff, more out of his element than Stannis Baratheon in this moment, his face calm and concentrated, his brow still furrowed in annoyance.
"It's a mummer's farce," he mutters after a while, and she looks up in surprise. It's the first time he has addressed her today with anything but courteous phrases, and there's a refreshing honsety in his voice. "They cower and bow, when half of them watched your father's murder and fought for my downfall."
"They lost, Your Grace," she replies quietly, and she dares to curl her fingers a little more around his. She hesitates, chooses her words carefully. She does not say, we won, because it had never been about winning for her. She had never wanted to play this game. "They lost, and we ... we live."
He meets her eyes then, and for the first time she feels like he is truly looking at her, at her, not at Ned Stark's daughter, not at the sister of the Lord of Winterfell, not at the woman he married to produce a male heir. For a moment she fears that he will think her words stupid, that he will be angry and hurt her, but instead there is just a twitch in his jaw muscles and he nods.
Fill: Stannis/Sansa, wedding, 2/3
She hears murmurs in the crowd, and she hopes they only comment on her beauty. She knows they mutter and complain, all of them – the Tyrells who would have gladly pushed Lady Margaery at yet another king, the Martells who tried to offer him Princess Arianne when the last Targaryens fell. She wonders why he has chosen her, if it is gratitude to the North or anger at the South.
The feast is a sullen affair. There is singing and dancing and delicious food, but the king only glares at the court and barely looks at her, and she hears him mutter to his Lord Hand that the crown should not have wasted money on such frivolity. She does not hear the Hand's reply – Lord Davos, a common-looking man, and she finds it hard to believe the king raised smuggler to a lordship – but it seems to calm the king for a moment, before their conversation grows somewhat more agitated. The king looks angry, glances at her, then seems to relent.
As he offers her his arm and leads her from the table, she realises that Lord Davos had to talk King Stannis into dancing with her. Her back straightens as she feels the court's eyes on them, her face stills into a carefully arranged mask. Most of the men present had been here when Joffrey had had her beaten, but she would not let them disrespect her. She would make them see a queen, not a frightened girl who could not meet her husband's eye.
She does not flinch when he takes her hand, large and rough, the other one resting on her hip as lightly as if he was afraid to touch her. She finds it oddly reassuring to see his strength kept under such a tight lid.
It is not that he cannot dance. He knows the steps, he never steps on her toes like her brothers used to when they were children, his hands are guiding her without pushing or pulling. But she has never seen any man look more uncomfortable, more stiff, more out of his element than Stannis Baratheon in this moment, his face calm and concentrated, his brow still furrowed in annoyance.
"It's a mummer's farce," he mutters after a while, and she looks up in surprise. It's the first time he has addressed her today with anything but courteous phrases, and there's a refreshing honsety in his voice. "They cower and bow, when half of them watched your father's murder and fought for my downfall."
"They lost, Your Grace," she replies quietly, and she dares to curl her fingers a little more around his. She hesitates, chooses her words carefully. She does not say, we won, because it had never been about winning for her. She had never wanted to play this game. "They lost, and we ... we live."
He meets her eyes then, and for the first time she feels like he is truly looking at her, at her, not at Ned Stark's daughter, not at the sister of the Lord of Winterfell, not at the woman he married to produce a male heir. For a moment she fears that he will think her words stupid, that he will be angry and hurt her, but instead there is just a twitch in his jaw muscles and he nods.