theladyofwinterfell | a storm from the east

a storm from the east

The combined might of the Northern army and the sellswords rallied behind Daemon Storm (Baratheon now, in truth, as who is going to let a king have a bastard name?) had easily trumped the Lannister and Tyrell forces, the latter of which had turned toward the end of the battle when they knew they'd lost. The North won its independence by backing Daemon's claim and Stannis had withdrawn to Gods known where with his army and his Red Priestess. Sansa had no idea and she had the sneaking suspicion that everyone was fairly relieved about it; he would have been a poor king.

Daemon, however, seems a fine king thus far and he is enough of a swordsman and a charmer that every house rallies for him. He's what Robert had been when he was younger, the people whisper, and is popular in that regard. Sansa herself has a more or less positive opinion of him - he'd liberated her from the Lannisters and while he'd taken the Red Keep for himself, there'd been no raping of the women there and it seemed his men were sticking by that order. They weren't out to hurt the people of King's Landing and after years of Lannister rule, it seems it's turning for the better.

For Sansa's part, the alliance to make Robb King in the North had come with the price of Sansa's betrothal to Daemon. He's no Joffrey, she thinks and he's not Tyrion Lannister. The latter had been kind to her, though, and she'd been quick to vouch for him when the Lannisters were put to the sword. Still, the marriage hadn't been binding because it hadn't been consummated and Tyrion graciously hadn't pressed the issue, wanting Sansa free to make her own choices. She's not free, exactly, but the man she's betrothed to doesn't seem to be a bad one even if he's rough around the edges.

Sansa had been moved to nicer rooms since the coup and they're close to the offices where the King and the Hand work on the business of the day. She has none, really, but her curiosity does cause her to linger around when she ought to be making a wedding dress or walking in the Godswood or doing anything with her newfound freedom. She slips into the king's office and gives him a quick curtsy.

"Robb's with his men and I'm tired of sewing. Is the business of running this place harder than winning it, Your Grace?"

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Qotho was the first to glance up as Lady Stark entered the study. He and the Storm King were seated in the wide windowsill, both cleaning their weapons and kibitzing back and forth in the Dothraki language. Qotho leaned over and said, "Khaleesi," to Daemon, who finally looked up and fixed bright blue eyes on his bride to be.

"Lady Stark," he inclined his head, a polite gesture, then shrugged in answer to her question. "Ask me in a half year," he suggested, handing Qotho the arakh and giving him a brief tilt of the head. "So far Varys and Tyrion seem to be doing astonishingly well." He smirked, sliding out of the window sill. "Might just leave them to it, and show up when it's time to be decorative at some function or other."

Quotho moved past the both of them, a weapon in each hand, but deferred his head to Sansa as he passed, murmuring again, "Khaleesi," then quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.

Daemon resheathed his dagger, then picked up another to wipe the blade with a soft cloth. "And I'm second to your brother. I'm not really sure how I feel about that."

"My brother only cares about the North," Sansa says blithely. "So he'll be gone from King's Landing soon enough. I'll be the only Stark south of the Neck after the wedding and I'm going to be a Baratheon, not a Stark any longer."

Sansa doesn't know what she'd expected to see in the King's offices but she's certain it wasn't a Dothraki bloodrider talking to the king and same bloodrider calling her Khaleesi. She's figured out that means Queen and that Khal means King but other than that, her Dothraki is scant and nigh upon useless.

"You'll be King on the Iron Throne. It's a loftier position to have - if you care about things like that. I don't know if I do, really. I used to quite a lot. There's other things to care about when you're a Queen." She pauses for a moment before continuing.

"The dress is nearly done. I made fast work of it."

"Uncomfortable chair," Daemon mused, finishing with that dagger and tucking it away. He wiped the oil from his hands on a clean cloth and casually tossed it aside. "I wonder if anyone would faint if I put a cushion in it..." Giving a snort at his own mild joke, he shook his head and turned back to his betrothed.

"So you're tired of sewing. And that was the last of my smaller weaponry I had to clean. But, I was considering taking a ride in the Kingswood this afternoon, before the weather hits. Want to join me? The Black needs the run, and it gets boring, shut up in this dismal stone pile all the day long."

"I'll ride," Sansa concedes. "But I warn you that I'm a terrible rider so I'm not going to be able to go very fast. I only know as much as a lady is meant to know. I've never had any true love of riding and honestly, I'm half afraid I'll fall off most of the time. The only horses I've ever ridden are old mares with even tempers."

She laughs a little and spreads her hands. "If you're willing to put up with that, I'd be quite happy to go with you. We barely know one another and it seems like we have time on our hands right now to do whatever we want."

Daemon quirked an eyebrow, but he wasn't really surprised. "You're welcome to ride with me, if you like. The Black can easily carry us both." The stallion probably wouldn't be happy about it; since the death of his previous owner, the large horse had little tolerance for anyone else who wasn't Daemon. "And don't worry," the King assured her, sharing his slanted grin, "I'll never let you fall."

He took her down to the courtyard and asked Jhotho to bring The Black, saying to his Kingsguard, "No, I do not need an escort, nor do I want one following along behind. The lady and I are going for a leisurely afternoon ride, no fanfare required." His gaze suddenly turned hard and he gazed at the white-cloaked knights. "And I mean it."

Jhotho brought the snorting, stamping horse into the yard, and Daemon spoke to him briefly in Dothraki, after which the bloodrider nodded, handed over the reins, then melted from sight, leaving Daemon to assist his fiancé aboard the massive black animal. Which he did with casual ease, swinging aboard behind her, one arm settling possessively around her waist, the rest of her snug against his chest as he legged The Black down the causeway leading out of the city.

"This was a much better idea than watching me stumble along," Sansa says. At first, she'd tried to keep her back very straight so she wasn't leaning back against his chest but after a while, that wasn't comfortable at all and she just gave up and leaned back anyway. Besides, with how his arm was around her waist, it seemed he wanted it anyway. What's the harm? He's her betrothed and they're marrying within the fortnight.

"You're brave to ride without the escort, though," she says, intrigued by that. "You don't care about your person at all, do you? Most kings would want at least one Kingsguard, even if their lady was with them and they wanted to be alone. Kingsguard are used to seeing all manner of things. Not that they'd see anything - it's just a ride - but you know what I mean."

The Black's gait was silky smooth, even on the roughened cobblestones of King's Landing, and Daemon had to chuckle at Sansa's remarks. "No, not really. I trust myself more than someone else paid to keep me alive, because men can always be bought, my princess. But I know that I can't, and in any case, it's a fool's errand, coming after me." Egotistic bravado, perhaps, but he'd learned the hard way to be lethal all the time, and there was no second chance for the loser.

At least she'd relaxed against him, which was a good sign. For all of her Northern beauty, Daemon had observed that Sansa Stark was also as chilly as a marble statue when it came to physical intimacy. She deliberately held herself aloof, reserving only a smile when it came down to it. Even with her family, she seldom engaged in hugs, kisses, or confirming touches.

But no matter. The Storm King was a man skilled with women, thanks to years of training by Dothraki warmaidens, madams of exquisite brothels in Mereen, and pleasure slaves of Pentos, all powerful women in their own way who knew how to educate a feisty blue-eyed warrior from Westeros. And Daemon had learned his lessons well.

They left the city proper and reached the cool gloom of the Kingswood, the stallion's hooves making only dull thumps on the fauna-carpeted floor. The sun could only penetrate marginally, leaving the land below the canopy shrouded in green and gold, and a soughing breeze rippled the leaves as it passed.

"And further," Daemon spoke after a few minutes had passed, "I'm something of a jealous man." He made sure to speak right against her ear, his lips brushing against the delicate flesh. The hand at her waist drifted slowly but boldly upwards, his thumb resting directly beneath her breast. "I'll never share what's mine, Sansa..." His dark chuckle followed the words. "Best you learn that now, princess."

"Wh...what?"

Sansa isn't prepared to actually be touched like this and while she knows that Daemon is meant to be her husband he isn't actually her husband yet and she's never had anyone touch her like this. Littlefinger had let his gaze linger on her, certainly, but he'd never dared anything like this. No one had and she'd been rescued from the riot before anything bad could happen to her.

Besides, this doesn't feel bad. It's just a little strange and makes her nervous.

"I...well, I would hope you wouldn't share your queen!" she finally manages to sputter out, knocked askew by the touch. Her voice grows softer and smaller. "What are you doing?"

Sansa skittered and Daemon laughed, finally slowing the horse to a halt when he'd discovered what he'd been looking for. A nice quiet glade near one of the many brooks that ran through the woods on their way to the sea; yes, this would do nicely. The King dismounted, helped his lady do the same, then tethered The Black so that the horse could graze.

"Never seen a forest like this one in Essos," Daemon remarked, gazing about at the canopy above. "The Grass Sea and the Red Wastes, yes, but never a wood as thick as this." A further brief perusal brought him to a small hummock rising out of the forest floor, and the Storm King flopped down with his back to it with a sigh.

"Come on, Sansa, come sit with me," he invited, patting his thigh. "It's too nice of a day to stand around doing nothing, after all."

Sansa eyes him for a moment, calculating exactly what Daemon means by patting his thigh like that. Does he mean for her to sit there? It would seem likely he does, considering how he'd touched her earlier, but she settles beside him instead because that seems more the polite thing to do and she's nothing without her courtesies.

It is beautiful here, though, and it's hard not to smile. "There's the Wolfswood up North," she says. "And you might like that, Daemon. The trees aren't the same though. We have pine and weirwood and not these oak and ash. Then again, you have to be made of sterner stuff to make it through a Northern winter. The pretty trees and flowers don't have the strength to stand it."

Before she'd even finished speaking, Daemon snaked a long arm around Sansa's waist and hauled her over and astride his lap, quickly situating one of her legs on either side of his hips, and shoving her voluminous skirts high to her thighs. Did women here really need all these damned layers?

"I think I could handle it," he rumbled, exhaling another pleased sigh as he settled back with Sansa's pleasant weight in his lap, both of his arms looped casually but firmly behind her, keeping her from bolting away. To that effect, the King bent his knees, slotting them even closer together, and Daemon's smirk slowly slid over his lips, satisfied.

"There," he stated. "Much better. Don't you think?"

Sansa knows her eyes are wide and she can feel the heat in her cheeks and creeping down her neck. She's never been handled like this before, for lack of a better term, and while she's not exactly afraid she is quite nervous about what this mercurial man might do to her next. She isn't used to being held this closely by a man but, she guesses, she's never really been old enough to have a fiance that wants her this way either.

"Better," she agrees, though she doesn't like the shakiness in her voice when she says it. What is she afraid of? Showing off her knees? If he wanted to hurt her, he would have done it already, wouldn't he? Besides, Robb wouldn't have allowed the proposal if he knew about any tendencies toward that.

"You know I've never done this, don't you?"

"Yes," Daemon replied simply, just letting her sit atop his crotch for the time being. He wasn't aroused enough for her to notice it, but if all went according to plan, that would change and fairly soon. "That's why we're out here, instead of back in the Keep where interruptions seem to be a way of life." His eyes rolled with his derisive snort.

"But listen to me, Sansa, and listen very well. I'm to be your husband, but I'm not your master, your jailor, your nightmare, or your tyrant. I don't need a woman's fear, but I do desire her pleasure. And that's all you'll ever experience from me, do you understand?"

He shifted a bit, pulling her closer so that their noses were perhaps two inches apart. "Now, princess," and Daemon let his voice lower and go gutturally primal, "kiss me." Rough fingers brazenly squeezed her rear, and he gave just a small buck of his hips, a teasing enticement. "Kiss me, Sansa.."

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