FIC: To Love One's Duty (Stannis/Sansa)

[linndechir]

Title: To Love One's Duty
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairings/characters: Stannis/Sansa, Shireen, Margaery, Davos
Rating: PG
Words: 3288
Warnings: spoilers for ASOS
Summary: Three different looks at a marriage that should have been a disaster, but turned out much better than anyone could have hoped – through the eyes of a daughter, of a friend, and of one who could have been a friend in a different world.
Author's note: Written for nightwatchgal for round eight of got_exchange. The prompt was "Stannis/Sansa, through any point of view except their own".




I. The King's Daughter

Shireen Baratheon had every reason in the world to hate Sansa Stark.

A girl, barely younger than herself, who had the kind of beauty that Shireen could never have dreamt of, even if her face had not been scarred since her childhood. A girl who had not only taken her mother's place by her father's side, but who had grown much closer to him than Shireen's mother had ever been. A girl who had done within a year of her wedding what Shireen's mother had not managed in over a decade – to give Stannis Baratheon a son, a male heir to the Iron Throne who had taken Shireen's place in the line of succession.

Nobody could have blamed Shireen for hating the girl who had become her stepmother. But Shireen was not prone to hatred, and even if she had been, it would have been hard to hate Sansa.

Arrogance and vanity were a queen's prerogative, indifference or even dislike for the children from her husband's first marriage a stepmother's. But Sansa was neither arrogant nor vain nor cruel. She had been nothing but sweet to Shireen since they had first met. She had even apologised to her, and said that she could not even imagine the pain of losing one's mother aggravated by seeing her father wed another woman. She had offered to be a sister and a friend to Shireen, since they were so close in age.

Yet there were moments when Shireen felt not so much jealousy, but still pangs of sadness and bitterness when she watched the new queen. She loved her little brother – she had always wanted siblings, and little Steffon was a sweet babe – and she loved to see the hint of a smile on her father's stern face when he sat by Sansa's side and, somewhat awkwardly, stroked the little boy's black hair. But still, she wondered. Wondered if her own parents' marriage might not have been happier if her mother had been able to give father the son he so desperately wanted and, more importantly, needed. And as much as she felt ashamed for thinking that her father cared for such superficial things, she also wondered if their marriage might not have been happier if her mother had been a stunning beauty like Sansa Stark.

She was happy for them, for her father to have found more fulfilment than he had in his first marriage, for Sansa to have found peace (Shireen had never been fooled by her courtesies and her smiles – there was a profound sadness in those bright blue eyes that only truly dimmed when her son was born). Shireen was even happy that she wouldn't have to be queen, after all. She could see on her father's face how heavy the burden weighed on his shoulders, and she did not envy him his duties, nor did she envy little Steffon a life that would consist of nothing but lessons and preparations for the throne. But as much as her father remained as kind, if distant, as he had always been, as much as Sansa did her best to keep Shireen close and be a sister to her, Shireen was not truly a part of this new family of hers. Despite their closeness in age, she felt like a child next to this young woman who was already a wife and a mother, and she was too old to be truly close to her brother, especially once Steffon had younger siblings himself, a close-knitted group to whom Shireen would always be a half-sister only.

It was odd, she thought. On the rare occasions that she had been at court before the war, she had often heard people say that her parents had been made for each other. Those voices had been mocking both of them, she had known that even as a child, but in a way she had still thought there was some truth to them. Both Stannis and Selyse were serious people, dutiful and calm and quiet – at least before her mother had found her new faith and with it a fire Shireen had never seen in her before. It shouldn't have been impossible for them to find happiness with each other, but Shireen had not seen her parents smile at each other even once.

Meanwhile, her father's second marriage should have been doomed from the start. A much younger, beautiful woman, who had suffered too much cruelty in her short life and who would have probably preferred to return home rather than become queen, a smiling girl who loved poetry and dancing and all those things her father deemed frivolous and unnecessary. They should have been miserable, but somehow they had managed to find something in each other that bound them together. Shireen didn't know if it was their shared sense of duty, or the sadness and grief she could see in both their eyes. Sometimes, when she watched the queen charm even the most sullen lord at court, Shireen thought that maybe Sansa Stark had simply put it in her head not only to love the king, but to make him love her, and against all odds she had succeeded.

Shireen was happy for them. She only wished that her father's first marriage had been all the things the second one was.


II. The Queen Who Lost

The queen was radiant.

It was hard to think of her as anything but the queen these days. The young woman who stood by the king's side next to the Iron Throne as if she had been born to it, who observed the petitioners with courteous smiles and clever eyes, who was said to sit at the king's left in the Small Council, was nothing like the girl Margaery had known a few years ago. That girl had been a child, a wounded, hurt child, still naïve and full of dreams despite all the injustice she had already suffered. Margaery had liked that girl, she had truly wanted to help her, to be her friend. In another world, in another time, they would have been wonderful friends – if Sansa had married Willas and led the life Margaery had promised her.

But in this world, in this time, Sansa Stark was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, clad in the black and gold of House Baratheon, and there were no roses on her dress or her crown. King Stannis' court was austere, especially compared to the previous opulence of the Lannister reign, and the queen's clothes reflected this. She wore no jewellery safe for a delicate necklace, a ring and a golden crown that matched her husband's, and her dress was more simple than would have befitted a queen. But she did not need adornments to shine. Her hair was like spun copper, worn simply braided in the Northern fashion, her skin was the palest, most flawless ivory, her eyes were filled with an intelligence and wisdom that exceeded her youth. She only spoke when doing so meant no disrespect to her husband, but her words were always courteous and finely honed, charming and disarming when the king's bluntness roused a petitioner's anger.

She was the jewelled hilt to his blade of Valyrian steel – a seemingly useless ornament, but indispensable if one thought about it, for the best sword in the world was worthless without a hilt to wield its power.

She had become the queen Margaery had always wanted to be, and as well prepared as she had been for the role, now she was not sure anymore if she ever would have been as good at it as the Stark girl she would have made Lady of Highgarden.

Margaery had not been at court in the early years of King Stannis' reign – the Tyrells had made themselves scarce, fearing reprisals even after they had bent the knee – and she would have expected Sansa to despair at the side of this dour, grim king. Maybe it had something to do with her giving the king two healthy sons, but surprisingly Sansa seemed to have found a way into the heart of a man who was said to have none. And if she had not won his love, she certainly had his trust. Margaery could not tell at first glance if there was truly any affection between the royal couple – King Stannis seemed to be incapable of any emotion but anger and annoyance, and Sansa's features were far too schooled to betray any misgivings she might have about her marriage – but it was made obvious by the fact that he kept her so close that he valued her, considering that he had sent his last wife off to Dragonstone whenever he could.

King Stannis did not bother with more than a contemptuous glare at Margaery when he finally got up from the throne and turned to leave the hall, but his wife, after whispering a few words into his ear, turned to face her.

“Lady Margaery,” she said loud enough for the other attendants to hear. “I am pleased to see you found your way back to King's Landing.”

Her voice was formal and distant, and she let Margaery see that her smile was not genuine. The king had pardoned House Tyrell, if grudgingly, but he had even less love for them now than ever before, and his queen seemed to share the sentiment. Much as it saddened her, Margaery could not blame Sansa. It had been necessary, of course, but she had never been happy about letting Sansa take the fall for Joffrey's murder.

“I am very grateful to Your Graces for welcoming me,” she said demurely and curtsied, painfully conscious of her position at this new court. She was the daughter of a barely pardoned traitor, the widow of three illegitimate kings, a queen who had lost her title and her crown without ever truly enjoying their power.

She had made her play, and she had lost, and was luckier still than most who had bet on the wrong king, because at least her head was still attached to her shoulders.

So she waited.

Custom would have dictated for the queen to invite Margaery to have tea or dinner with her some time, or maybe to offer her to meet her children. After all, Margaery was still a highborn lady from one of the richest houses in Westeros, even if House Tyrell's political influence had been reduced to next to nothing. But nothing came. No invitation, no friendly enquiry after her health or her family's well-being, nothing. Sansa kept Margaery waiting for what felt far longer than the minute it probably was, her beautiful blue eyes like ice, and only then did she turn away to follow her husband.

She will not forgive me, Margaery thought, and realised only then that until now she had still hoped to become at least the confidante of the new queen, now that she had no hopes for the crown left. Margaery had heard that it had been Sansa who had asked the king to allow the Tyrells to return to court, but apparently that had been as far as her forgiveness and her mercy went.

Margaery watched as the queen joined her husband by the large door that led from the throne room back towards the Council chamber, saw her put her slim hand on his arm, a gesture that seemed so easy and natural that it could only been born out of habit, and as abrasive as the king usually was, his wife's touch seemed welcome – his hand brushed over hers briefly as they exchanged a few words, and even from where she stood Margaery could see that this time, Sansa's smile reached her eyes.

And she realised that the queen was not only radiant because she was beautiful and intelligent and powerful, but because she was happy.


III. The Hand of the King

Davos remained sitting as the other Council members slowly milled out of the chamber. The queen left last, after gathering a few papers from the large table, accompanied as so often by Ser Rolland. Davos allowed himself to follow her with his eyes for a moment. She had changed in the two years of her marriage. Stannis had married her shortly after winning his throne, in desperate need for an heir whose aptitude to rule would not be called into question by the lords of the realm, as well as for an unbreakable alliance with the North. She had still been half a girl then – a girl who had seen more pain and grief than anyone that young ever should, but still a girl. In the past two years she had grown into a woman – her face had turned from pretty to beautiful, her eyes had lost their haunted look, and although her dresses were more modest than revealing, her body had clearly become a woman's, too. If Davos had been a younger man or less happily married, he might have found himself staring once or twice.

But what had changed most was that she had found her place in the world, a place she must have lost when her father was murdered and she became first a prisoner, then a fugitive. A crown can break a man, Stannis had once said to him, many years ago when King Robert had been so drunk at a feast that he threw up on his wife's dress, but if anything the crown had made Sansa Stark. She had grown into it as if she had always been made to wear it, as if all those years of war and grief had been nothing but a delay before she would take the place she had always been meant to have.

She smiled at Stannis before she left (“I will see you at dinner, husband – don't be late” – gentle teasing, and instead of glowering at her Stannis squeezed her hand before he let her go), and not for the first time watching her also brought a smile to Davos' face.

“Is there anything you find amusing, Lord Davos?”

Stannis' voice was sharp as a knife, the previous hint of a smile gone from his face. Even his marriage had not truly convinced him that people could smile for reasons other than mockery, and he still suspected slights and insults everywhere.

“No, Your Grace.”

“What is it, then? You look like you have something to say; don't make me order you to speak your mind like you're some grovelling courtier who's too worried about whether I will like what I hear.”

Davos forced himself not to smile even more at that. It was hard to hide anything from Stannis, especially when sitting this close to him – the Hand of the King traditionally sat at the king's right in the Council, and on some days it served as a surreal reminder to Davos that he had become the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. And yet that was hardly less odd that Stannis Baratheon voluntarily touching his wife, smiling at her and – if the chatter in the castle was to be trusted – sharing her bed almost every single night. And as much as Stannis wanted him to speak his mind, Davos had to be careful how to voice his thoughts. He wouldn't forgive himself if he harmed the king's marriage by saying the wrong thing, by making Stannis doubt his good fortune.

“The queen looks happy,” he said finally.

Stannis frowned in confusion, as if he couldn't possibly imagine what that had to do with anything.

“With you,” Davos added, keeping his voice soft. “As a matter of fact, so do you.”

“My happiness,” Stannis spat out the word like an insult, “is hardly relevant to the well-being of the realm.”

“And hers?”

For a moment Davos thought he had gone too far, but instead of snapping at him the king remained quiet. He looked down at the papers lying in front of him – the draft of a new law, written in Stannis' neat hand, with a few annotations made in the queen's more ornate writing – as if they held the reply he was looking for.

“Sansa is most dutiful,” he said finally, but there was a quiet tenderness in his voice that belied the formality of his words, words that in themselves already meant quite a bit coming from Stannis' lips. Not to mention that Davos could count on one hand the times that he had heard Stannis refer to Queen Selyse by nothing but her first name, while Sansa's name slipped from his lips as easily as if he whispered it far more often than he'd ever admit.

“Her duties don't seem to be a burden to her,” Davos said gently.

She loves you, he thought, every bit as much as you love her. He was certain Stannis had never said those words to his wife, and he doubted that Sansa had yet worked up the courage to say them to him. But he could see it in their smiles – hers open and happy, his more hidden and only visible to those who knew him well – and in their casual touches, in the way he listened to her advice, and the fact that she had lost every last bit of fear and distrust towards him.

Davos had no doubt that Sansa could see it, too, and he could only hope that Stannis would see it as well, some day. That he would stop thinking he was only the smallest evil Sansa Stark could have faced, that she was only grateful to him for not being cruel to her, that her kindness to him was only born out of a gentle nature, not true affection.

“I suppose not,” Stannis said suddenly when Davos had already stopped hoping for a reply. “And that's what happiness is, isn't it? To love one's duty rather than simply bear it.”

He stood up so abruptly that Davos almost knocked over his own chair when he hurried to follow suit, and before Davos could think of anything to say Stannis had already turned to leave, as if he couldn't wait to get away from a conversation he did not want to have.

Maybe, Davos hoped, remembering how much Stannis had always ground his teeth about his first marriage (“a nuisance of a duty Robert forced on me”), the king had realised that his last observation applied to himself as much as to Sansa.

It was an odd way to define happiness, but it was probably the only kind Stannis would ever allow himself, as if happiness needed justification. Davos thought of his Marya waiting for him at home with little Stanny and Steff (and sometimes it still struck him that his youngest had the same name as the king's heir), of Devan who was to be knighted soon, and he thought of how easily happiness had come to him. Life was short and hard, and he always thought a man would be a fool to deny himself what love and joy he could find. But he was a simple man, while Stannis Baratheon was anything but, and if Stannis had to convince himself that he was only embracing his duty when he found it in himself to love his wife and let her love him, Davos would certainly not try to disabuse him of that notion.

After all, there were precious few things in the world that made Stannis Baratheon smile.