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 The North won its independence by backing Daemon's claim and Stannis had withdrawn to Gods known where with his army and his Red Priestess.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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"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.."

Sansa has a reasonable idea about how to kiss and while she's not sure about Daemon's hands being on her rear and squeezing like that, she does tilt her head and press her closed lips to his. This is how she'd done it every other time - Joffrey, her wedding, the Hound. She pulls back just enough to speak again and squints so she can look into Daemon's eyes.

"I'm guessing that's not what you want, is it?"

There's bound to be something else to it, something she doesn't know, so she keeps close enough that he might teach her. He's not her jailor, her master, her nightmare or her tyrant. She doesn't think he's going to be impatient with her right now since he took the time to ride all the way out here.

Again, he wasn't surprised. But this was a start, after all.

"It's a start," he told her, lips quirking in his grin. "Let me show you... Close your eyes, Sansa." When she did, Daemon told her, "Open your mouth, just a little." Then he leaned to her, nudged her head lightly with his until he could slot his lips over hers, gently sucking her lower lip before flicking just the tip of his tongue against her upper in a delicate tease.

A bemused chuckle rumbled between them, and Daemon leaned back enough to gaze into his betrothed's now-open eyes. "How was that?"

"I liked that. I liked it quite a bit, actually."

That comes easily to her because it's the truth and no lie. Sansa has spent a long time lying to people who have a hold over her but no longer. She's free to express herself and Daemon's made that perfectly clear to her. She laughs softly and leans in, trying it for herself. She isn't as practiced or expert, though, and she ends up bumping his nose with hers.

"I guess I just need to practice more, don't I? Until I get the knack of it?"

It seems like it's something very fun to practice and when Sansa tries again, she finds his mouth with hers and mirrors what he'd done, drawing his lower lip between hers for a moment.

Daemon let her learn and play, giving kisses when necessary and taking a few here and there for his own. He wasn't shy about letting his hands wander, and they did; calloused fingertips ghosting over Sansa's exposed skin, over her knees, along her thighs, and even between them, but not high enough to make her shiver. Not yet.

But the ties to her dress were quickly becoming irritating, and it was with a disgruntled grunt that the Storm King gave a sharp yank to the laces, snapping one, but achieving his goal of baring her lovely torso to his eyes.

"There." Said in a tone of sheer satisfaction, and then he cupped her breasts, still hidden by her irksome shift, but she was ripe enough for him to roll the nipples between two fingers, all while he kept her mouth busy with his own lips and tongue.

Sansa gasps into his mouth when he rips the front of her dress away and her hands come up between them, trying to push at his even though what he's doing feels so good. She's torn between stopping him because she ought to as a maiden and not because he's making her feel things she's never felt before. She settles for covering his hands with her own and squeezing his wrists before pulling her mouth away for a moment.

"You can't! You'll ruin me before the wedding!"

Part of her just doesn't care but she pushes that part away for the practical one. What if he decides he doesn't want her after he's ruined her and she bears a bastard? What if he dies before they marry and she's carrying his son?

"You have to wait!"

Daemon jerked back, nonplussed, at Sansa's vehement outburst. A sharp eyebrow went up, and he stilled his hands, staring up at her, confused.

"...what are you talking about woman? I'm not ruining you, I'm just touching you." He blinked at her, a little concerned. "Do you think me such a craven bastard as to just fuck you right here and now? Now stop your shrieking. I much prefer the noises you were making a moment ago."

"I'm sorry," Sansa says. She thinks about tacking a Your Grace on the end of it but unlike Daemon's princess, she doesn't use that as a pet name, she uses it as an honorific. Perhaps Princess is her true title as Robb's sister but he's certainly not using it in deference to her position and much more to have something...fun? to call her. At least in her estimation.

Properly chastised, she lowers her hands and takes a deep breath, trying to get back to the place she'd been before he'd ripped her bodice open when everything felt so good and she wasn't worried about anything.

"Will you kiss me again? Please?"

Daemon ducked his head slightly to catch her eyes. "You can trust me, Sansa," he told her quietly. "I'm not one of those dimwitted brutes they call lords here in Westeros. When I tell you something, believe it. And I'm telling you that you're safe, you never have to fear me, you simply have to enjoy me. That's all."

And he gladly kissed her again, putting a little more heated desire into it than he had previously. Her hands he guided to his leather Dothraki jerkin, bidding her untie the laces so she could touch him herself. Still bold, Daemon cupped Sansa's breasts, pinching the tight nipples a little roughly, but from the unconscious rocking of her long body he gathered she was enjoying his attentions.

"Feel good, princess?" It was a rough rumble, given against her smooth neck, even as he began to rock beneath her in time with her own untaught movements. "You feel good to me."

Sansa's fingers are clumsy against his laces but she manages it and pushes the leather away. His skin is bare beneath her fingertips and she leaves them lightly touching his shoulders at the first, a little nervous about touching anything other than that.

His hands are doing wicked things to her breasts and by the time he asks if she feels good, she can't really verbalize much more than a "mmhmm" and another roll of her body. She shouldn't like this and she knows that but she does. She likes it far more than she ought to admit.

She dares moving her fingertips along his arms, feeling the muscles there, and draws them up from his elbows and back to his shoulders before traveling the path again and again, never taking her mouth from his.

He carried scars from the remnants of his former life; collar marks around his neck and wrists, the latter of which he customarily covered with leather cuffs, and his torso bore the marks of whips, blades, and other weapons here and there, the dusky skin decorated by a life of hardship and struggle.

But her hesitant touches were pleasant, and Daemon rumbled his satisfaction against her skin, coaxing Sansa's tongue from her mouth with broad strokes of his own, hands leaving her breasts to shove that cumbersome dress off of pale shoulders to pool at her waist, an unwanted barrier. But probably prudent, given how high his passions customarily ran.

Now that Sansa knows that this won't go past a certain point, she tries not to tremble when Daemon pushes her dress back and off her shoulders. It pools around her waist and she bites Daemon's lower lip a little on accident, nervous about what he might do next and if it will mean revealing any more skin to him. No one is around but the horse but still. No one has ever seen her before.

She tries to focus instead on the little marks on his skin, finding each one with her fingertips and touching it lightly before moving on to the next. He has the body of a warrior, full of scars, and she wonders just how many battles he's been in over the course of his life.

She presses her palms over his chest not to push him away but, instead, simply to touch.

"A Dornishman's pike," he murmured as her fingers ran over a particularly jagged mark. "We were raiding a border patrol down in Sunspear, and I let him get a little too close." A huffed laugh warmed her neck, and Daemon gently squeezed Sansa's breasts, rubbing the tight nipples with coarse palms. Then he said, "A Braavosi dagger," to her next gentle exploration. "She didn't take kindly to having her strongbox looted." Again, he chuckled. "Qotho had to pry her off of me, I thought she was going to take out my throat with her teeth."

He lifted his head, smirking up at his soon-to-be wife. "All of them have a story," he shrugged. "Some more interesting than others. I'll tell you about them as we go along, if you like." Then he turned his attention back to her clothing, quirking an eyebrow at the ridiculousness of women's garments. A twist of his wrist, and Sansa's shift vanished, leaving her beautiful breasts bare for his eyes.

"...why do you hide behind all of these layers, princess? You're a beautiful woman. You aren't a treasure to be hoarded, but a vision to enjoy." That said, Daemon didn't waste any other words, but instead leaned his head to her breasts, boldly sucking a pebbled nipple right between his lips, tongue teasing her shamelessly.

"I...!"

The words die off in Sansa's throat because she's too shocked about Daemon's mouth against her bare skin to really make much of a protest. She hadn't allowed it, he'd taken it, but she isn't going to push him away. His mouth is too clever by half and she doesn't think she's coming out of these woods a virgin.

Startled as she is, she doesn't know what to do with her hands for a moment and settles with one threaded into his hair and the other politely perched on his shoulder as she lets him kiss her. If he's expecting someone who knows what to do, she doesn't, but she guesses she can try something even if it isn't quite right.

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