heretherebemuses | Open post

She's still lounging like she has no care in the world, but at his words her expression seems to shift into one more... sad. To add to that, she doesn't respond right away, taking her time to drink some more wine.

When she finishes, her cup's empty, and she lets her hand rest on her thigh. "I only have one request," she begins earnestly, her recent playfulness gone. She almost wants to turn away, embarrassed at the weakness she's about to admit, but if they are to be wed and she is to be his queen, she needs to earn his trust. "Most nights I do not sleep well. Sometimes not at all." She keeps her gaze on him. "Will you hold me, if the terrors come?"

For she still dreams of her father, who'd fallen on his sword in his disgrace. Of the asp she'd smuggled into her mother's chambers and ultimately killed her. Of the gold chains on her wrists and the march of shame she and her twin brother had to endure. Of her little brother wilting away as he's taken by disease. Of the night she'd stolen the Shard from the Temple of the Vestals and led one of the temple maidens to lose her sight. Of Tiberius—

She might not have had to face the Dead, but her nights have been dark and full of terrors.

He doesn't know, yet, what events she has faced that would cause her to have terrors at night, but there is plenty of time to have those discussions. Or not. He has agreed to accept her as she is, and that includes her history, too. Whatever that history might be. Perhaps she will share it one day, in exchange for the parts of his own history that she doesn't know yet.

He sets his goblet down on the table and approaches the bed, then leans against one of the posts. He won't come any closer without an invitation.

"If you will do the same for me." He has seen plenty too. The deaths of first Ygritte and then Rickon. Battles. Those who have died at his hand, especially Olly, whose face he will never get out of his head. Olly, the one he tried so hard to reach, but in the end had failed. An army of the dead. His own death. It makes for unquiet sleep of his own.

There's a flicker of surprise in her eyes; not because he has his own terrors, but because he admits to having them. Nearly all the men she's known have stubbornly held on to their pride, even her twin brother who'd been far weaker than she was. Yet here was a king who saw no need for that, who was, in a way, openly showing his vulnerability. And the things she could do with that...

Tonight, however, she's not a scheming once-queen hell-bent on revenge. Rome's downfall can wait. Egypt's restoration can wait. Right now there's something else in the room that she wants to take hold of, something that she hasn't felt in so long: the feeling that she no longer has to be alone.

She reaches back to set her empty goblet down the bedside table, then she slowly slips off the bed and approaches him. She gazes into his eyes for a moment before taking a chance and resting a hand on his chest, over his heart.

"Aye, I shall do the same for you." Her voice is barely above a whisper now, nearly drowned by the suddenly furious beating of her heart. It must be the wine.

How many others might have seen this as weakness, as something that could be exploited for their own gain? Or as something that was outside of what their responsibilities involve. Was this something Sansa had picked up on during their meeting? Or is it just a lucky coincidence?

Instinct tells him to shrink away at her touch, that there are only a few layers of fabric between her hand and the scars on his chest, the one directly over his heart that had finally killed him. But he doesn't. If she hasn't heard the story yet, she will eventually. There's no way to avoid the stories and songs about him, least of all in his own keep, at his own feasts.

And then his heart beats faster at her touch.

"I think you and I are going to get along just fine."

She smiles now, and while there's a hint of playfulness at the corners of her lips, her eyes only shine with genuine delight at his declaration. She hadn't really expected him to like her. Be attracted to her, maybe. Or perhaps be curious enough to want to get to know her. But not to get along. It sounds simple, and yet somehow so... profound.

Not really giving it too much thought, she tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his lips. She's so much shorter than him that she shouldn't be threatening, should she? Not even when she practically closes the gap between them, the motion bringing their bodies closer than ever before.

"More than I fine, I think."

He would have preferred having more time to find a wife, to have one less thing to adjust to all at the same time, but in the end, he had been convinced that it was more prudent to choose one soon. With that position filled, some of the scheming would hopefully settle down, and the sooner he has an heir, the better, as well. With more time, he could have made sure that he and his wife would be compatible. Instead there had been time only to determine that they could stand to be in each other's presence and that neither of them would regret making this choice in a few months from now.

It seems that he's gotten lucky. They could be on the path to having a marriage like that of Ned and his wife, which had appeared to be a good one.

He doesn't pull away when she kisses him, or when she draws closer to him. Truth be told, he has missed having someone this close to him, and he hopes with his whole being that this time turns out better than his previous attempts.

"We're off to a good start."

He doesn't pull away, and it encourages her to keep going. Not overbearingly so like she's someone paid to alleviate his loneliness and feed his desires, but enough to let him know that she's genuinely interested in him. Her arms slowly come up and around his neck as she continues kissing him; slow, savoring, lingering.

Had it been like this with her parents, she wonders? A relationship that started out as entirely political, but later blossomed into something more? She'd never doubted how much her parents loved each other, and even if she didn't understand it back then, she knew now that even in death, they had chosen each other. She felt a sliver of hope that maybe, maybe, she could have something of the same.

"Mmm. And it's a long night." Long enough for two people who have trouble sleeping, anyway. "We have time."

He finds himself relaxing into the kiss more, as he becomes more comfortable in the situation. His arms move up and encircle her waist; his hand presses against her back. It's a firm embrace, but gentle, and loose enough that she can get out of it if she wants to. After what happened between Ramsay and Sansa, he wants to be sure that Selene is certain that she has a choice. She should be comfortable with this, too.

"We do." He doesn't really want to go back to his own chamber. He'd rather stay in hers, where no one would expect to find him yet. A few moments of peace is all he asks. "And no one to expect anything of us." The evening is theirs.

Open post | Jon Snow

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