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 The North won its independence by backing Daemon's claim and Stannis had withdrawn to Gods known where with his army and his Red Priestess.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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"I believe the entire continent is looking forward to it," Daemon laughed lightly. "Any excuse for a celebration, and they're all due for one, given the hellish past few years." He'd ordered food to be shared with all of King's Landing, ale and supplies, nearly emptying the larders of the Red Keep to feed the people of the city.

"Not long afterwards," he told her, "we'll be making state visits to both Dorne and Highgarden, to set things aright and make peace. I've had more than enough of this endless bickering." The time for peace had come, and even with the looming threat of the Dragon Queen in the east, the Westerosi people deserved some respite.

"Everyone bickers in a kingdom, Daemon. You might as well get used to it now or you will continue to be frustrated," she says, giving him a little smile. "Your advisors know that well, though, and will be a great help. Still, this is a land that used to be ruled by many petty kings and has always had a great sense of identity in each region. It's hard to broker peace."

Sansa reaches between them and brushes the back of her hand against his cheek. "You'll do all right, I promise. The people do like you. You're different from most kings and I think the people are appreciative. We've had some bad ones in recent history and they are ready for change."

"It's the bickering with swords and armies and weapons that frustrates me," he told her. "If they want to shout, yell, and send nasty messages back and forth, that's fine, but I draw the line at sending assassins." The time for petty kings was long over. And no baby queen from the east was going to change that, either.

Sansa's praise and her touch took him admittedly by surprise. "Careful, Lady Stark," Daemon warned her, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "Mind your words or I'll start believing you actually approve of me."

"I never said I didn't approve of you," Sansa says, color high on her cheeks. "I wouldn't have consented to marry you if I didn't approve of you."

It doesn't hurt that he's handsome even if he's a bit handsy and a bit...well, he's a bit forward compared to some men she's met and she doesn't quite know how to handle that at times. She also has to get used to that because he will be her husband.

"Should I stop approving of you?"

Daemon actually laughed. "You might," he warned her, "before it's all said and done. I'm a plain man, Sansa," he told his future bride, "but at least I'm not a cruel one. And I want what I want, and I seldom bother with niceties when I want something." But he wasn't bastard enough to just take, however.

"And right now, I really want to give you something I know you've never had before, and I think you'll really, really like." His eyebrow twitched. "...provided you don't throw another fit and call me a 'ruiner' again." He pushed back his chair a bit and crooked a finger at her.

"Come here." Right between him and the table. "Right here."

"You want to give me something?"

That isn't what she expects of men in Westeros since marriages are often political but Daemon has proven himself to be different. When he mentions being "ruined," though, she's got an idea that this isn't a present she can wear or carry in her pocket but something else entirely. Her knees are shaky but she does move between him and the table.

"All right?" she asks, voice a little tight.

"Mmhmm." Daemon reached around her to shove the dishes away, making just enough space for what he wanted, then leaned back in his chair once more. "And I think you'll like it, but you have to trust me for it to work. No more screeching, indignant posturing, or huffy pouting. You're a woman now, and it's time to get on with that. All right?"

He'd never in life hurt her, but she wasn't a child anymore, and if she was going to be his Queen, then she was going to be his Queen in all ways. It was time for the little bird to be a dragon.

"Now." And the King's gaze was sharp and focused as he gazed up at his future bride. "Take off your dress."

Sansa has never undressed in front of anyone before other than a maid and she squeezes her eyes shut, horribly embarrassed to be doing this in front of Daemon. She doesn't know if anyone is going to walk in on them; she certainly hopes that no one will since it's a private supper and he won't have called a servant in while he's busy.

She deftly unties her dress and lets it fall to a heap on the floor, standing in just her shift. She cracks her eyes open to look at him, too shy to look him full in the face the way she probably ought to, and manages to speak without her voice shaking.

"Is this enough? Or did you mean everything?"

"It'll do." For a start, at least. Reaching up, Daemon took Sansa by the hips and guided her to sit back atop the table, and slowly but firmly worked her knees apart. He was prudent enough to reach down and pull off her shoes; he had no desire to have her kick him in the head while he was working.

Then, with the same nonchalance that he did most everything, the King of the Seven Kingdoms hitched his betrothed's plain cotton shift up over her knees, baring just the tops of her thighs for his gaze. Roughened palms slid over that pale flesh, thumbs stroking the tender inner skin brazenly.

"Wider," was all he said, voice gone guttural raw, an odd light beginning to burn in blue eyes.

Did he just want to look? Sansa has no idea what he's about but when he asks for her to spread her knees wider, she does so, and looks down at him quizzically. She braces her hands against the table, too, so she isn't in any danger of falling off of it. She doesn't think she is but she has no idea what is about to happen.

"No one has ever looked there. Not even a maid. Not even myself. You'd be the first person to...see anything."

Sansa isn't a complete idiot and she does know that her husband is meant to push himself inside her there so Daemon would have to look eventually but she thought he'd save it for the wedding night.

Daemon flicked a glance upwards, mildly chastising. "Mouth closed," he ordered quietly, then returned his gaze back to his work. "Just feel, Sansa. It's not a crime to enjoy things like this." Then he held up a silencing finger. "Hush." He wasn't interested in words, not right now.

The King was more interested in pale, pure skin, skin no living man had ever before touched. His hands were the first. A heady realization, when he thought about it. And to that effect, Daemon leaned forward and began to press soft, but firm kisses to that zaftig flesh, marching his way upwards along Sansa's long thighs, utilizing both lips and tongue to make it flush a lovely pale shade for him.

First the right, then the left, then he began all over again; this time adding just the gentlest scrapes of his teeth, wanting to see the mild red marks glowing against her skin.

Sansa bites down on her lip to keep from making any noise and she wants to say so much but he told her not to talk. She lets herself feel, instead, and focuses on his dark head between her thighs and the things he's making her feel. She never knew that a man would even be interested in just kissing there.

Why would he just want to kiss? Sansa supposes that he is honoring his promise to keep her a virgin until her wedding night but honestly, her mind is going in a thousand directions. She puts her right foot lightly on his shoulder and spreads herself a little wider.

Daemon rolled his shoulder to slide her leg over it, to rest against his back, and he slid further forward in his chair, the better to reach more of her skin. Rumbling approval to the widening of her long legs, the King of the Andals traveled higher still, finally reaching the apex of his intended's thighs. And Daemon didn't falter.

He brazenly licked a slow, wet line over virgin folds, retreating only to do it again, and again, and again. Firm hands at her hips held her still, and Daemon patiently kept up his devilish ministrations, determined to give her the first orgasm of her entire life right here on the dinner table.

What is he doing? Sansa whimpers a little under her breath and squirms even though she doesn't get anywhere with the way Daemon is holding her hips tight. She inhales sharply when his tongue touches her folds, though, because no one has ever touched her there besides herself and then only to watch. No one has ever done anything filthy like this.

There's a dim fear in the back of her head that someone is going to walk in on them and what's going to happen if that happens? What would Daemon do if someone interrupted him? Would she recover? Those thoughts are held in her head but for a moment and then she feels everything start to shake a bit. Is that normal?

"Oh!" she cries out sharply, sliding a hand into his hair and tightening it. "What..."

He hissed slightly when she pulled on his hair, but Daemon let her hand remain, although he'd do something about it if she started yanking too harshly. He knew this was her very first taste of true pleasure. He didn't let up, either, situating both of his shoulders beneath Sansa's knees, the better to splay her further backwards over the table and work at her a little firmer, a little deeper.

While his tongue worked its serpentine way between slick lips, he made sure to keep his nose bumping against the little nub above, even bringing a calloused thumb over her thigh to give it a few rough flicks as he worked her over with his mouth. It was a heady thing, being a woman's first, and he gave no though to being interrupted, as no one in the entire castle would dare.

Everything seems to pile upon her at once and the feeling she'd felt tickling at her since Daemon started touching her has finally come to a peak and she doesn't know if she will survive feeling any more. Then it happens and she starts cresting down over a wave she didn't know existed and, in spite of her desire to be quiet, a high pitched noise passes her lips even as she's lifting a hand to cover them.

If she'd been standing, she'd have collapsed and she's grateful she's on the table just now. Is this what he'd intended to do in the woods early? Or something else? Sansa had no idea this even existed so she has no idea what else exists either. All she knows is that this is the only time she's felt it and she'd like to feel it again.

"Daemon? What was that?"

"That's a woman's pleasure," was the quiet drawl as Daemon lifted his head and slowly sat back in his chair, sliding Sansa's bare legs down over his arms. "It's a man's responsibility to give it, as often and as many times as she wants."

He drew the back of his hand over his mouth, chuckling lightly. "And this, my little wolf, is only the beginning." The King's smirk became wolfish, itself. "There's so much more I'm going to teach you, after this."

Sansa's brow furrows a bit and her lips pout as she tries to work through the logic of that. Nothing of what they did gets her with child and she knows that men go to whores without that intention but men go to wives with that intention too? It seems odd to her and against everything she's ever known.

"I thought...well, clearly what I thought was wrong. I just didn't think men went to their wives with anything but the intent to make children. Or, I guess, if they loved one another but you hardly know me."

She smiles then and tucks her hair behind her ear nervously. "You said you were jealous of what's yours. Can I be jealous of what's mine too?"

His grin tilted, blue eyes glinted. "If you aren't, then I think I'd be offended." He took great pride in pleasing his women, or woman, now. For all that he was a debauched lecher and unapologetic, uncouth brigand, Daemon Storm wasn't, ironically, a whoremonger. He'd witnessed the ruination of a man's unchecked lust more than once, with his own bloody father being the prime example.

No. He'd not sully his name or inflict such an indignity on whatever woman he'd been given as a wife. It wasn't only his pride at stake, after all.

Daemon let his hands slowly coast up and down Sansa's thighs, just feeling her soft skin under his fingertips. "Want more?"

"Yes," Sansa says, smiling at him. "But perhaps you should leave some surprises for the wedding night. Otherwise, you'll know all of me and there will be nothing new left for either of us."

It's a more encouraging way of trying to preserve her maidenhood and she hopes it works better than getting upset and screaming as she'd done in the forest. She's trying and it seems to make him happier with her and she's been happier as well.

"So you have to wait."

The wedding was a moderately solemn affair, what with the presence of Robb Stark and all of the current nobility of the Seven Kingdoms. Daemon didn't exactly have to offer the High Septon violence, but there were a few hard looks exchanged between the men during the ceremony, but eventually it was done and the King of the Andals cloaked his bride in the Baratheon colors, cementing their vows and placing a crown on Sansa's head.

The wedding feast was definitely a lively one; considering that it was a public affair, with enough food to go around, at least once. Scores of armed guards patrolled, ensuring no shenanigans interrupted the festivities, and the entire city shared in the party, with wine and ale flowing like water. Daemon, for his part, sat at the high table, his crown somewhat haphazardly hanging off the back of it, and though his raiment was somewhat more well made than his usual attire - he'd absolutely refused to be dressed in any of that uncomfortable finery as other nobles wore, and the royal tailor had nearly swallowed his tongue when the king informed him so - he was visibly armed, as well as invisibly, too.

He'd left most of the details to his betrothed and to Tyrion, trusting them both not to bankrupt the city or burn it down in the event, and just now he sat absently chewing on a chicken leg and drinking ale by the cupful, idly talking shop with his new brother-by-law, all the while keeping a close eye on the revelries, "just in case".

Sansa, for her part, is eating very little owing to a bit of nerves and very tight laces. Everything is delicious, of course, but she doesn't want to be sick at her stomach on this night of all nights and she knows how to eat when she's laced into something tight like this wedding gown.

The gown is Stark, through and through, but there's hints of stag horns here and there. Concession to southern dressing styles, it isn't high necked, and she feels a little exposed with bare arms for everyone to see.

Daemon seems perfectly at home while she isn't quite and Tyrion has reminded her more than once that it's all right to relax and enjoy herself. He whispers advice to her. "The marriage is wanted. You can be happy, even in front of everyone. The people like it. Hold his hand, Sansa."

So Sansa reaches next to her and touches Daemon's hand, giving him a brilliant smile. "You look happy," she says. "Are you as happy as I am?"

It wasn't much of an effort to lace his fingers with his wife's, and Daemon even lifted it to his hips for a casual kiss. "Mmm, for the moment," was his grinned response, followed by, "...although once I see the bill for all of this revelry, I'll probably have a heart attack." To his left, Robb snorted into his cup, and Daemon laughed at his own small joke, but nodded.

"Aye. I have a wife, and a kingdom. A family and a name. All's well with me, my Queen, and whatever gods willing, life will settle for a while and the realm can recover." He had no doubt something would intrude upon that peace before too long, but he'd deal with it when it did. And not a moment before.

"We were frugal," Sansa says, laughing when he mentions how much the wedding cost the Crown. "And part of the gold came from the North's own coffers, as it should, because I have a dowry. Since I am becoming Queen, the question of my upkeep is taken care of but I used what would be my dowry to help pay for the wedding. I only thought it fair."

Practical, just as she is, and she hopes it's something he can appreciate.

"They'll like if you made a show of it when you take me off," she says, laughing nervously. "Since we're not having a bedding, they need something to be bawdy about and I imagine that's going to be the only appropriate thing to do. They'll want to shout cheers at you."

The concept of a "bedding" wasn't an unfamiliar one; he'd been born in Westeros, after all. But there was no way in all hells Daemon Baratheon was going to allow a mob of leering less-than-noble aristocrats to gawk and jeer while he fucked his wife for the first time. Coarse and barbaric he might have been, but he also had his dignity, and so did his new Queen.

"Do you want me to haul you over a shoulder and carry you off to be like some trussed prize, Sansa?" he inquired a little dryly, eyebrow arching in wry amusement over his ale tankard. "Seems a little undignified to me, but if that's what you want..." He trailed off, shrugging one shoulder, but a spark of mischief glinted in his eye.

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