Chapter Text
London, October 1812
Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell looked across the crowded ballroom, now lit by flickering candles hanging from the sconces on the walls and sitting in the candelabras on the tables, and felt her spirits rise as she spotted her dear friend, Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, across the room.
Well, it wasn’t so much spotting Lady Margaery that raised her spirits, as it was spotting the young man who stood beside her: Lord Loras Tyrell, her brother.
At their last tete-a-tete, yesterday afternoon at tea in the Stark townhouse, Margaery had intimated to Sansa that Lord Loras, newly returned home with his regiment, was quite likely to ask her to dance this evening at Lady Tarly’s annual soiree, and Sansa was entirely eager for the opportunity.
This was the start of Sansa’s second season, although this one had begun in a much more subdued, much less optimistic manner than the first. It was one thing to arrive in the capital, the fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked daughter of a duke; it was another to belong to a family in disgrace, relying on handouts from family friends such as the Tyrells and, by extension, their friends, the Tarlys.
Perhaps Lord Loras might be only willing to dance with her out of charity or regard for his sister, but Sansa was willing to accept anything that might bring some variation to these dreadful parties where every time she looked up, she could swear a pack of ladies were tittering about her behind their fans.
He turned, their eyes locked across the ballroom, and she felt her cheeks turn pink. Would he come over, to ask her? Even now, he was turning…
“Lady Sansa.”
Sansa nearly jumped at the deep voice that sounded like it had spoken directly into her ear. She turned, and found herself face to face with the last person she expected to see at a ball.
It was the Duke of Casterly Rock.
Tall - so much so that Sansa, who already towered over many of the men in the room, had to look up to see his face - imposing, and wearing an expression that looked like the opposite of what one would at least pretend to wear to a ball.
Gathering her wits about her as quickly as she could, Sansa dipped into a curtsey, responding, “Your Grace,” in as even a tone as she could manage.
When she rose, she nearly jolted again, because he had extended his hand toward her. It took her a moment to realize that he…actually wanted her to take it. Not wanting to offend the wealthiest and most powerful man in the realm, she placed her gloved hand in his.
“Lady Sansa,” he repeated in that impossibly low voice that she now registered must belong to him, “may I have the next dance?”
It took every ounce of proper manners her mother had ever instilled in her to keep Sansa’s mouth from dropping open in shock. The War Secretary, the famously antisocial Lion Duke, had actually chosen to attend a season event, and was, at present, asking her to dance? Had she already had too much of Lady Tarly’s infamous punch?
No, this seemed real enough. They hadn’t been properly introduced, and Sansa was tempted to tell him so, but she somehow knew he would dismiss her protest - after all, she knew who he was, and he clearly knew who she was as well. So she responded in the only way she knew how. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”
She was still in a daze as he led her toward the dancing, her hand on his elbow. The other couples made way for them to join at the top of the lines, despite the fact that they were joining just as the dance was about to begin, and Sansa could already feel how differently people treated the disgraced daughter of the Duke of Winterfell, and the dancing partner of the Duke of Casterly Rock.
He bowed, his eyes never leaving hers; she curtseyed; and the dance began.
They didn’t speak as they danced - an older dance, she noted, one that perhaps he was familiar with from years earlier; he certainly danced competently enough - and all the other couples seemed to give them a wide berth, as if they were just as shocked by the sight of the Lion Duke dancing at a ball as Sansa was.
They would come together in the dance, and then move back apart, weaving among the other dancers, and then back together again. His eyes were constantly on her, as if he really were the lion of his namesake and he really did want to devour her.
Finally, the dance ended. He bowed again, she curtseyed again, and he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving her to wonder if she really had dreamed the whole thing. She looked around, desperately needing Margaery’s counsel, but both of the Tyrell siblings seemed to have disappeared.
With no allies readily available, Sansa needed to sit down and clear her head. She pushed her way through the crowd and made her way into one of Lady Tarly’s drawing rooms, off the main corridor, which was thankfully empty. Shutting the door behind her, Sansa collapsed in a decidedly unladylike manner in one of the large armchairs.
She had a blessed few minutes of silence before the door opened, and the object of her perplexed speculation walked in, as if he were haunting her steps.
Sansa immediately rose and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t realize you were… I’ll just…” The words dried up in her mouth, and she moved toward the door, uncaring that she was being obviously rude to one of the most powerful peers of the realm. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she knew she didn’t want to be alone with him.
No such luck. He leaned against the door, shutting it behind him and effectively blocking her exit.
Sansa’s eyes rose to his, and she quickly cycled through a series of emotions - confusion, anger, fear - before settling on a blandly patient expression. “Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her countenance as empty and devoid of emotion as possible.
“Have a seat, Lady Sansa,” the Duke replied quietly, in a tone that sounded as if he couldn’t even fathom the thought of being disobeyed. She retreated and sank back into the chair she had been occupying, as he took his own seat across from her.
“Your Grace, my mother-“ The part of Sansa that still had sense continued to grasp at the idea that she needed a chaperone, shouldn’t be found alone with this man, of all people.
“-will not be necessary. I will not take up more than a moment of your time.”
Resigned, Sansa nodded.
“As you may have heard, Lady Sansa,” the Duke began, “I am not a man disposed to mince words. So I will lay out the situation for you plainly. I may be in possession of information that could exonerate your father.”
Sansa felt her hand fly to her mouth before she could stop herself. Her father, the Duke of Winterfell, had been imprisoned at Newgate for the last six months on charges of treason and espionage. And the Duke of Casterly Rock was offering the chance to free him?
Then her mind caught up with her racing heart. Why had the Duke cornered her at a ball in a dark sitting room to share this information? Her brother, Robb, had been acting as the head of the family in their father’s stead, and he was almost always to be found sitting in the Duke’s office in the family’s townhouse, poring over records he hoped might prove their father’s innocence. The Lion Duke could have called on Robb at any point in the last six months and likely would have found him at home.
Nothing about this situation made sense. She needed more information. Putting on her most polite and innocent expression, she remarked, “If you were to share this with my brother, Your Grace, my family would be forever in your debt.”
The old Duke’s lip curled up, and Sansa hoped it wasn’t his attempt at a smile. It was horrifying. “Not your family, Lady Sansa. You.”
Lord, give her strength. What was this man playing at? “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning, Your Grace.”
He hadn’t moved closer to her, but Sansa suddenly felt as if he had invaded her space. “Come, Lady Sansa. We both know you’re not as dim as you pretend to be. As I’m sure you know, I am, at present, rather lacking in heirs to the dukedom.”
This, she had heard about through the never-ending rumor mill that fueled the ton. After his firstborn, Lord Jaime, had been killed in battle on the continent last year, the Duke had apparently disowned his second son, Lord Tyrion, due to his connection to a gambling hell which might, depending on who was telling the tale, also serve as a brothel. And at that point, the Lannister family was running decidedly low on sons.
He continued, “I have information that is likely to be of use to your family, and you provide a potential solution to my own problem.”
Sansa tried not to stare at the Duke. Was he actually…proposing marriage by calling her a “solution to his problem”? Did this man honestly think that being a duke gave him the right to treat her like she was already his property?
Her shock must not have shown on her face, or else the Duke ignored it, because he continued, “I don’t expect an answer from you now, but I will pay a visit to Lord Robb in the next few days to ask his leave to court you, and you should be aware of what’s at stake before you respond.”
Sansa stared at him, thankful he hadn’t asked for a response, because she had no idea what she might say. She somehow found it in her to reply, “Thank you for informing me, Your Grace,” with only a modicum of bitterness in her tone.
Either not noticing or not caring, the old Duke took her gloved hand, pressed his lips to it, and then disappeared from the room as suddenly as he had entered.
After that, Sansa found she had no enthusiasm for returning to the ball.
Somehow, thankfully, it was only a moment after she emerged from the drawing room that her mother appeared - the Duchess’ ability to tell when her children were in trouble must truly be magic, Sansa mused - and Sansa only had to say that she no longer felt like dancing, before the carriage had been summoned and they were on their way home.
The moment they arrived home, however, the Duchess ushered Sansa into the library and shut the door behind them.
“Will you tell me what the Duke of Casterly Rock wanted in his private audience with you, or should I summon Robb first, so you don’t need to repeat yourself?” Sansa's mother asked, her tone somehow perfectly balanced between commanding and tender, making it clear that she would be obeyed, but also that sympathy would be provided as needed.
There would be no sense in repeating herself, as her mother had pointed out. “Get Robb. He’ll hear it soon enough, and he might as well hear it from me.”
Robb arrived shortly thereafter, his face creased with worry, and Sansa recounted her conversation with the Lion Duke. For a long while after, the three of them - the adults of the family at present, although two of them were just barely that - sat in silence.
Sansa finally broke it; she knew she was the one who had to. “We have to accept, of course.”
Robb looked at her carefully. “Do we, Sansa? I still believe there must be something in the books. We have months before his trial. Why give yourself over to this old Duke if you don’t need to?”
Sansa's mother shook her head. “It’s not going to be enough, Robb. It was never going to be enough. The people who locked him up clearly have a great deal of resources, and they’re not going to surrender in the face of a few numbers from an old ledger. If the Duke has what he says he has…” She turned to Sansa, questioning. She was not going to force her daughter into an unhappy marriage to save her husband; but she would ask.
Sansa sighed. “Accept his suit, Robb. Allow him to court me, and we’ll consider the offer when it comes.”
***
The church near the Stark family’s townhouse wasn’t as familiar and comfortable as the village church back at Winterfell, but it was quiet in the afternoon, and no one bothered her, which had made it an ideal retreat in the months since Sansa’s father had been arrested. Now it provided space for her racing thoughts, as she wondered what might be transpiring at the townhouse even now. Had the old Duke returned to ask Robb if he could court her, as he had promised he would? …Was she displeased by the prospect?
She felt, rather than saw or heard, someone else settle into the pew behind her. Why sit right beside her, in an otherwise empty church? But she got her answer quickly enough when she heard a throat clear and a high, familiar voice say into her ear, “It’s good information. I should know, since I was the one who obtained it.”
Sansa sighed. Lord Varys had been a steady presence in the Stark family’s lives since their father had been arrested, providing tidbits whenever he could, and while the knowledge that he had helped the Lion Duke put them in their current position was not at all surprising, it was still an unpleasant truth to face.
“Tell me, Lord Varys. Have you been passing on information about us to the Duke of Casterly Rock this entire time?”
She turned to see Lord Varys grimace. “Lady Sansa, you know that my loyalty is, first and foremost, to the war effort. Your father’s imprisonment at a critical time is, in my opinion, detrimental to our chances of defeating the French, which is why I’ve tried to help Lord Robb whenever I can. I work for the War Office, which means that, by definition, the Duke has the right to all of the information I gather. But I have passed on nothing I didn’t think would help your family.”
Sansa had already guessed all of this, but she still felt her heart sink on hearing the words. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could just…give me the information and spare me having to marry him?”
He shook his head, his expression pitying. “Unfortunately, your father appears to have made some powerful enemies. The information will be useless on its own, unless you have other powerful people backing you up.”
“But who are they?” She met his eyes, trying to convey her desperation, hoping he might finally tell her what he had previously refused to. “Who hates us so much that they want to see Father hanged? It doesn’t make any sense.”
He looked away. “You know I can’t tell you that, Lady Sansa. Not right now, at least.”
She leaned back in the pew, defeated. “Have you told Robb?”
“I spoke with him a few moments ago. I believe the Duke will be coming by this afternoon, and as far as I know, your brother plans to accept Tywin Lannister’s suit.”
She had told him to, and yet she couldn’t help the twinge of betrayal she felt. She was the one making this sacrifice for the sake of her family, and yet the decision was entirely out of her hands. The men were the ones who would negotiate the decisions that would affect her for the rest of her life, while she sat by and watched.
“Just…tell me something, Lord Varys.” She couldn’t meet his eyes while she spoke, but she knew him well enough to know that he would understand. “Will he be a good husband? Or will I be sacrificing my own happiness for the sake of something that might not even work?”
Lord Varys chuckled. “He’ll certainly provide for all your material needs. And you’re familiar with his reputation: once you’re part of his family, he’ll protect you unconditionally, unwaveringly, until his last breath. He’ll protect your family, too, once they become his. That’s certainly something.”
She looked up to see his expression shift, to one of something that almost looked like regret. “But if you’re asking whether he’ll be an attentive and affectionate suitor, then I believe you can answer that as well as I can.” He paused, then continued, more emotion in his voice. “Don’t expect him to love you, Sansa. He’ll do his duty by you, and I have reason to believe he’ll treat you gently, but it seems clear that whatever capacity for love he once had in him died with his first wife.”
Sansa sighed. Some part of her had known the moment the Duke had presented his hand to her at the ball, but this confirmed it. Her childhood dreams of falling in love with a handsome stranger across a crowded ballroom and living happily ever after were just that - dreams. “At least I won’t be the only woman of the ton stuck in a loveless marriage. And perhaps I’m in a better position than most.”
She looked at him again, and knew Lord Varys had nothing more to offer. So with a polite, “Good day, Lord Varys,” she rose and walked back down the aisle, her slippers making a soft patter on the polished wood floor as she retreated to the haven that was still hers, at least for the time being
By the time Sansa arrived home, Lady Margaery had already called - and left a rather ominous note reporting that the Dowager Duchess of Highgarden insisted on speaking to Lady Sansa at once. Sansa smiled - Margaery’s grandmother was well known for her demanding personality - and prepared to set off again.
The Tyrells’ townhouse wasn’t far from the Starks’, so Sansa decided to walk. Fall had already ushered away the the foul heat and stench that usually characterized summer in London, but it was still warm enough to travel without a cloak. The pleasant weather was almost enough to make Sansa forget they had ever come to the city. Almost enough to allow her to imagine their family was still whole, and her life still stretched out before her, thick with promise.
She wondered what it was like at Winterfell now. Had the leaves already turned and fallen, with snow threatening on the horizon, far in the north as it was? If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was walking across the lawn down to the woods where she and her siblings had spent much of their childhood, leaves crunching underfoot.
But everything about Winterfell now was no more than a dream. Once she was married, she would have no reason to return there, except as a guest. And who knew whether the Duke of Casterly Rock would allow even that?
Sansa’s musings were interrupted when she arrived at the Tyrell townhouse, because the moment Margaery ushered her into the sitting room, Sansa found herself facing an interrogation administered by the Dowager Duchess herself. She hadn’t even had time to accept the cup of tea Margaery had poured for her before Lady Olenna asked, “What does the Duke of Casterly Rock want with you?”
Sansa took a sip of her tea, to give her time to compose herself before she replied. She enjoyed spending time with Margaery, and she had appreciated the Tyrells’ support after Father’s arrest, but Lady Olenna could sometimes be too much.
It had occurred to Sansa on the walk over that the Tyrells would quite likely question her about the ball, and her dance with the Duke. After some thought, she decided there was no sense in being anything but honest. The Tyrells had proven themselves nothing but trustworthy so far, and the truth would come out soon enough, besides.
“He says he has information that could set my father free. And he’s willing to hand it over, provided I marry him.”
Margaery raised an eyebrow, a gesture Sansa knew meant she was taking in the information and considering it from all angles before she reacted.
Lady Olenna’s reaction, on the other hand, was immediate. “What does that Old Lion want with a young thing like you? Can’t he find his own bride without resorting to extortion?”
“Grandmother,” Margaery began calmly, “I don’t know that the Duke’s motivations are really the issue at the moment.” Margaery turned to Sansa, and asked, more softly, “What do you want, dearest? Do you plan to accept?”
Sansa looked away, struggling to keep the tears from her eyes. It was only yesterday, after all, that she had hoped she and Margaery might someday be sisters. “I don’t know that I have a choice. If I have the chance to save Father, and I don’t take it, what kind of daughter does that make me?”
“A smart one,” Lady Olenna replied tartly. “Your father got himself into this mess, and he should bloody well get himself out of it.”
“Grandmother!” Margaery exclaimed in mock indignation. They always did this, the two of them: banter together, build off of one another until they got what they wanted out of their visitors. It was fascinating to watch, as long as you weren’t its target.
Sansa sensed that Margaery understood Sansa’s choice, understood that although she was not happy about it, she would put duty to family first; and although Lady Olenna complained loudly about the Duke’s lack of propriety, she sensed that the Dowager Duchess would support in this, as well. When the visit ended and it was time for Sansa to return home to prepare for dinner, she felt strengthened, glad she had confided in the two Tyrell women, despite their brashness and scheming.
She emerged into the late afternoon sunshine, and paused at the foot of the front stairs to collect herself before she turned toward home.
A hand gripped her upper arm almost painfully. “What in God’s name are you doing?” a familiar voice hissed, tight with what almost sounded like rage.
“Your Grace?” Sansa turned to face the Lion Duke, confused. Why was he here, and why had he grabbed her forcefully in the middle of the street?
“Answer me, girl.” His grip tightened.
Sansa inhaled, trying to tamp down on her indignation so she could have a reasonably calm conversation with a man she was quickly starting to believe must be mad. “I was invited for tea with the Dowager Duchess and Lady Margaery, and I walked. I am now in the process of walking myself home again.”
“Stupid girl! Have you no regard for your own safety, wandering around the city on your own?” His tone was calmer, less aggressive, but it still held what felt like yards of tightly coiled tension, ready to spring on her if she crossed him again.
At his insult, Sansa lost her temper, just a little bit. She pulled away from him and faced him squarely. “I’m not a child, Your Grace. I’m a grown woman, and I’m perfectly capable of getting myself successfully from one place to another.”
She watched his jaw work, as he seemed to be debating how to respond, before he finally shook his head and offered his arm. “Lady Sansa, allow me to escort you home.”
She doubted that he would leave her alone if she refused him, so she took his arm, and they set off.
After several minutes of silence, he finally ground out, “I hope, in the future, that you will have a bit more care for the safety of your person. My future Duchess cannot be endangering herself without reason.”
Sansa knew she should avoid getting drawn in again, but she also just couldn’t allow him to have the final word. “Your Grace, I can’t say that I’m your future anything. You haven’t formally asked for my hand, and neither my brother nor I has agreed.”
“Don’t be foolish. We both know you will agree, when I do make my suit.”
At that, she felt herself deflate again; felt the fight go out of her. Because what he said was true, and she couldn’t contest it, as much as she might wish to.
Then something else occurred to her. She looked up at him, and asked, “Your Grace, I admit that you have the advantage over my family, but why have you chosen me? Surely if all you’re interested in is an heir, you could find enough mamas in the ton so desperate to make their daughters into duchesses that your being an older widower wouldn’t stop them. So why pursue me?”
He laughed then - short, hard, but unmistakably a laugh. “Lady Sansa, didn’t your mother, consummate lady that she is, teach you not to insult a man who’s paying you court?”
She blushed and looked down, watching as her legs strove to keep pace with his longer strides.
“But in answer to your question: it’s a useful alliance, between West and North. You have resources we need, and our investment in extracting those resources will go a long way toward developing the region.”
One word stood out to her among the others he had used. “Alliance? With whom are we at war?”
He raised an eyebrow, and there was a great deal in that gesture that she didn’t yet understand. “France, of course.”
Yes. Of course. The war with France clearly explained why the Lion Duke was involving himself in internal politics, and why her father was currently sitting in prison on charges of treason.
He hadn’t finished talking. “Besides, if I am forced by circumstance to take another wife, why should I not have the most beautiful woman in the ton?”
He wasn’t looking at her, but his words carried the same weight as if he had been leering. She shuddered, and he pressed his other hand on top of hers…as comfort? Or as a sign of his ownership over her?
She couldn’t help it; she had to keep pushing back against him. Something about his smug tone made it impossible for her to allow him this easy win. “Lady Margaery is generally thought to be far lovelier than I.”
“False modesty does not become you, Lady Sansa. Lady Margaery is undeniably lovely, but you have certain qualities that she lacks. And furthermore, I would be hard-pressed to find any leverage that would convince Lady Olenna to surrender her prized jewel to an old man, as you so aptly described me.”
“My mother and brother, on the other hand, are too desperate to refuse.”
“Precisely.”
“Tell me, Your Grace,” Sansa asked, feeling her usual composure slide out from beneath her as she did, “did you command Lord Varys to find intelligence on my father’s case solely for the purpose of pushing me into this alliance, or did you have some other goal in mind?”
Again, he ignored her biting tone, and she was forced to acknowledge that he was doing it intentionally, to show he was unaffected by anything she said or did. “I have several purposes in mind for the information Varys found, only one of them being to secure your hand.”
She studied him then, as they continued toward her home: this man who had decided she would be his chosen bride, and would do what it took to secure her agreement. His face was hard and set, with lines betraying his years of military service before he retired from the field to his current position as War Secretary. His strides were still purposeful, and he didn't flinch, even as he must feel her eyes on him.
He was not kind or romantic or gentle, the way she had always imagined her husband would be; but did that make him a poor choice? He was much older than her, certainly, but there were plenty of marriages with great differences in age between bride and groom. He infuriated her, with his high-handedness and the impossibility of getting a straight answer out of him, but perhaps that would fade with time; and besides, plenty of noble couples spent relatively little time together. Lord Varys was right: he would certainly take care of her. There were worse fates than having a cold, distant man for a husband.
His eyes met hers then, and she knew, as clearly as if he had said it aloud, that he would never let her go; whether she agreed now, or was forced to her knees later, she would be his.