Chapter Text
“Do you think he’ll have to use a stool to cloak you?” Arya asked, her face only barely betraying the amusement she felt at her own cleverness.
“Arya,” Robb sighed haughtily, “I’m sure cousin Robert has grown since we last saw him...”
Arya shrugged.
“…It’s the runny nose I’d be more worried about. Sansa, you’ll probably wish to keep a spare handkerchief up your sleeve.”
“Or three,” Theon appeared at her side to add, straight-faced as always.
Sansa’s fingers, already bloodless from her tight clenching, twisted hard enough to snap.
“Aye,” Arya nodded, “and some mint leaves for him to chew before the kiss. Unless you like that milk breath.”
Sansa refused to let it show, but she was on the verge of tears as she stood in the lower ward, waiting to greet the boy who’d be her husband in a week’s time.
The match had been made before Lord Jon Arryn – Sansa’s uncle-by-law – had any idea that it would take a decade for his fertile young wife to give him a living son.
Conversely, Eddard Stark’s fertile young wife gave him a daughter not four years later, after already giving him a son and just before she’d give him another daughter then son in rapid succession and another son a handful of years later.
There was no doubt that Catelyn had been the more fruitful of the Tully sisters. In two decades of marriage, Aunt Lysa only gave her husband one healthy child.
And ‘healthy’ wasn’t quite accurate.
Aunt Lysa had given her husband one… child.
Honestly, if the woman was going to fail so spectacularly, couldn’t she have failed a teensy bit more and given him only a daughter? Then there’d be no way to honor the promise made by Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn as they rode to war the morning after their double wedding to the Tully sisters. Well, Sansa supposed the case could be made that she should marry Ser Harrold Hardyng, but more than likely if Jon Arryn had a daughter then she’d be the one marrying Ser Harry in attempt to strengthen the Arryn blood in the Vale’s next lord.
So really, it would’ve been best for Sansa if Aunt Lysa had had no children at all. Then Sansa would have married Harry, who she knew to be handsome and kind and brave even if a tad self-absorbed.
Alright, he was also promiscuous beyond belief, but Sansa would come to terms with his infidelity so long as she wouldn’t have to lay with someone who looked like her cousin Robin. Admittedly she had not seen him since his tenth nameday celebration, but she did not believe seven years could turn him into an entirely different person, and that really was the least that would suffice considering how very horrid he’d been at age ten, inside and out.
For starters, he’d been small – the same height as Rickon, who’d been three years Robin’s junior. Worse than that, because she knew some boys sprouted late, he’d been fragile and frail and constantly shivering. His lips were always chapped, his nose always raw and runny, and his eyes always crusty and red-rimmed.
Somehow even worse than his physical shortcomings, he’d been overly sensitive, petulant, spoiled, and spiteful. Aunt Lysa had only seemed to encourage such behavior, or at least did nothing to correct it. Father forgive her, but Sansa was at least grateful that her aunt would not be her goodmother – she’d died of the same case of shivers that’d taken her husband a few years back during the long winter.
(How sickly cousin Robin managed to survive it was beyond Sansa.)
“Truly though,” Theon leaned close to whisper in her ear in his earnest voice, “You better let him get on top, or else you might break him.”
Sansa scoffed and shook her head, but at the self-pleased smirk Theon wore she couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow, “Jealous?”
That one surprised him, but Theon was even better at banter than archery. He leaned close again, this time speaking in his suggestive voice, “Hardly. When he falls asleep after an exhausting half-minute of nailing you, you know where to find me.”
“Mm,” she hummed as if aroused by the idea, “That’ll add up to a whole minute. I don’t know if I can take it.”
Theon snorted, knowing his prowess too well to be insulted, “Oh, I happen to know you can take it.”
“A-hem!” Robb cleared his throat quite loudly.
Sansa turned to give her eldest brother a dirty look, and was pleased to find Wynafryd squeezing Robb’s arm in that way she did to convey ‘shut your damned mouth this instant, for your own good.’
All Sansa’s siblings – even Rickon – knew that she and Theon had tumbled a few times. None of them truly thought less of them for it, though Robb’s protective instinct compelled him to protest on occasion, though rarely with more than a threatening glare pointed at Theon or an admonishing glare pointed at Sansa.
In truth, Sansa thought Robb felt more sorry for her than anything. She was four-and-twenty and doomed to spend the rest of her life being fucked by no one but their cousin – the boy who’d nursed from his mother’s breast until he was seven years old. The boy none of them were allowed to “excite” for fear of sending him into one of his seizures. Years ago that meant Bran and Rickon getting yelled at by Aunt Lysa if they tried to include Robin in their knights-and-bandits game. What would it mean now, for Sansa? Would he have a seizure if she stroked his little cock?
Gods, what if he had a seizure and died while he was inside and on top of her?! Sansa could imagine no fate more humiliating. Might as well join the Silent Sisters if that happened, because no man would marry her after that. Probably the minstrels would make up songs about her cunt being cursed. Hmm… how would it go? Sansa Stark’s snatch … the lordling thought it a mighty fine catch … turned out to be as friendly as a briar patch.
Well, she’d work on that later. The Arryn party were riding through the gates, their proud falcon banners whipping in the spring wind sweeping down from the moors.
Sansa’s heart began to thud, her belly began to sour.
“Seriously, though…” Arya spoke under her breath, and Sansa – despite her fear – was touched that Arya was going to offer some words of assurance or comfort.
Sansa tipped her head in her younger sister’s direction, needing that assurance or comfort more than anything.
But no words came and eventually Sansa turned to look and found Arya was offering not words – reassuring or otherwise – but a handkerchief.
As if for Robin’s runny nose.
Sansa faced forward resolutely, swallowing about a dozen curses. She fixed her chin into a regal position and watched the riders enter in disciplined formation.
She waited to see a carriage in their ranks, but the last of the horses were coming to a stop within the courtyard, and there was no sign of one in the smaller-than-expected procession.
Nor was there any sign of Sansa’s soon-to-be-husband. At the front she spied Lord Yohn Royce and his heir, Ser Andar, flanking a dark-haired, straight-backed young man wearing Arryn blue. Robin must’ve finally gotten his honor guard and this man was its captain. He looked strong and proud enough, though he was on the young side. Then again, Jon and Robb had been putting to shame men twice their age since they were fourteen, thanks to Ser Rodrik’s exemplary training and their own natural talents.
“Be welcome to Winterfell, my lords,” Father stepped forward a few paces to call out.
Sansa craned her neck this way and that, but her cousin was nowhere in sight. All Sansa saw were guards, aside from Lord Royce and his heir.
“Lord Stark,” the young man at the front of the procession dismounted unaided and smiled brightly as he approached Sansa’s father. He took a moment to send a smile to the rest of the Stark family but headed straight for Father with only the two Royce men a step behind him. As he came near enough, he extended his hand, which Father hesitated a moment before shaking.
It was all quite improper. Honor guard to the Lord Protector of the Vale he may be, but he should let Lord Royce speak first, and should certainly not be shaking the Warden of the North’s hand!
“Apologies if we’ve arrived a bit earlier than your scouts would’ve reported. Lady Waynwood’s carriage has been limping along since Barrowtown, despite our wainright’s best efforts. I’m afraid we had to bury the old girl – the carriage, not Lady Waynwood – on the side of the road just south of Cerwyn…” the young man smiled.
Ah, so there are carriages. But why is this guard japing with the Warden of the North? Does he truly have no sense of decorum whatsoever?!
“Ah!” Father chuckled, “And Lord Cerwyn did not let you refuse his hospitality.”
The young man chuckled back then feigned insult, “And here I thought I should be flattered.”
Father slapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, and did not release it.
Sansa turned and sent Arya – her nemesis until about thirty seconds ago – a quizzical look.
Arya only peeled her eyes away from the young man long enough to acknowledge Sansa’s unvoiced question, then fixed her eyes back on him as she mumbled, “I have no idea, but don’t mind if I do…”
Sansa rolled her eyes. Arya had always had a weakness for black hair and blue eyes, which was what made her marriage to Donald Hornwood two years ago so satisfying for Sansa. Donald was undeniably handsome, especially since his mustache and beard grew thick enough to hide his slight underbite, but he had hair the color of honey and eyes the color of mud.
“Are the rest catching up?” Father asked.
“They should be here before afternoon on the morrow. I hope you don’t think less of me, but once I spied Winterfell on the horizon I couldn’t seem to rein in my horse.”
“Nonsense, lad! I’d only think you a bit reckless for not taking more men with you. I’m proud to say the roads in these parts are safe, but one can never be too careful.”
The young man looked suitably chastised, but Sansa could not for the life of her figure out why Father was talking to him at all.
“It felt wrong to take any more men with me, all because I was getting a bit restless. We’ve ladies and children in our party, and perhaps Bran’s stories about wildlings left more of an impression on me than I care to admit.”
Sansa sucked in a silent gasp, as what ought to have been obvious suddenly… was…
Theon’s head appeared between her and Arya again, “Wait… is that…?”
Arya shook her head subtly, “Can’t be.”
Sansa turned to look at Robb. He held his hands up in a shrugging gesture, though only about hip height. Beyond him Wynafryd gave Sansa an utterly baffled expression.
Whatever Father and… the young man who might be Sansa’s betrothed… had said had been muted to Sansa’s ears. She looked to the pair again now and found Mother stepping up.
“Sweetrobin,” Catelyn said, “It’s been too long.” She sounded about as shocked as Sansa felt.
“Auntie Cat,” the man blushed as he let Mother pull him into an embrace, “No one calls me that anymore, but I shall gladly make an exception for you.”
“No…” Arya said, her voice overflowing with awe.
“I think Father and Mother are pulling our legs,” Robb attempted to rationalize, his voice going unheard by anyone but his wife and siblings as Father and Lord Yohn had begun to very loudly reminisce.
“Yes!” Arya readily agreed, “They hired a mummer, got Bronze Yohn in on it…”
Wynafryd nodded, “Probably someone from down south.”
“Aye, all the best looking ones are from the Reach.”
Wynafryd lifted one shoulder, “I dunno; there’s something to be said for the Western look. Golden hair, brown eyes…”
“Ahem,” Robb said.
Wynafryd blushed, “I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”
“Oh!” Mother peeped, drawing everyone’s attention toward her, “How rude of me. I’ve been hogging you all to myself. Surely you wish to catch up with your cousins!”
The crosstalk came to a lip-smacking stop as Mother steered Robin over. Robb was greeted, Wynafryd introduced with a chivalrous kiss to the knuckles, and then suddenly he was standing before Sansa.
“Hello, Sansa,” he said – his voice all sweet and shy, his cheeks all red.
“Eh… Hello… cousin…”
She could not help that it was almost intoned as a question. Maybe Arya’s theory wasn’t so crazy.
But he only smiled in response, “I found I had a new reason to look forward to the thaw, knowing that it heralded not just Spring’s arrival but my reunion with you, dear cousin.”
“Eh…” was all she could say.
“I hope we can spend some time together in the coming days before our nuptials. I’d like to get to know you anew, now that we’re both grown.”
“Yes,” she answered automatically, “You’ve grown. I mean yes – I’d like to spend time with you now that you’re grown. I mean… now that… whatever you said.”
Robin gave her a curious frown and Sansa could not believe that she had gone tongue-tied. She never got tongue-tied. Never ever!
And why?
Because her cousin was taller than not just her, but also Robb and maybe Theon?
Because, now that they weren’t teary and red-rimmed, it was clear that he had the most beautiful eyes – something darker and a bit grayer than Tully blue?
Or because his hair shone like a million strands of onyx, falling just below the jaw in gentle curls that had, if anything, been enhanced by the wind that blew across these lands?
Or because his hand – the one that brought hers to his lips – was not the bird-boned thing she remembered from her youth but something elegant, with long fingers that were neither rugged nor feminine?
Because, though still skinny like most teenage boys, his shoulders had filled out rather fetchingly?
Hmpf. Is that all?
Sansa let out a heaving breath, deciding honesty was the best policy, “I apologize, cousin. I am just a bit shocked… I suppose I look little changed from the last time you saw me, but you have changed quite a lot.”
“Have I?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
Did he truly not know that he’d gone from sniveling troll to god made flesh?
“A fair bit. I suppose it was silly of me to expect you to be as tall as you were at ten,” she said with a forced laugh, trying to bring levity to the situation.
“Oh,” he blushed again, “Yes, I suppose I’m a good bit taller. Lady Royce makes me eat like a hog, and now that my appetite’s improved I find it’s no hardship. But enough about me,” he turned to face Arya, “Cousin, it’s lovely to see you again. My belated congratulations on your nuptials…”
Finally his eyes were off her, so Sansa could breathe again.
She subtly twisted her neck to meet Wynafryd’s eyes. Wynafryd gave her an exaggeratedly excited smile.
And, Sansa found, she was smiling back.