2Aegon Targaryen weds Sansa Stark
She stood by the window glancing past the wrought iron motif at the snowflakes dancing like young maids as they swayed silently in a graceful descent to earth. The room, warmed by glowing candlelight, and the shifting shadows on the stone walls kindled scenes from her childhood at Winterfell. Her mother's eyes raising slowly as Lady Caitlin pulled the ivory comb through her auburn hair as she sat before the ornate ironwork looking glass that Sansa had coveted as a young girl.
She was so young then – arrogant and stupidly naïve – untarnished by pain and loss. It was the night of the feast after the arrival of His Grace Robert Baratheon and his royal party at Winterfell. Sansa stood shyly in her cream silk and gold brocade with an elaborate braid winding across her collar bone. The braid required repeated attempts by her handmaids to accomplish the precise arrangement Sansa had desired. She felt her mother's eyes upon her and sensed the warmth of her gaze. Words of praise slipped rarely from Lady Caitlin's lips but Sansa sensed the strength of her love and pride in the daughter whose appearance matched so closely her own.
No. I will not mourn now. Not yet. Not until her bones are returned from the Twins. Not until that day when I will kneel and lay a winter rose at her grave and weep. Sansa shivered and pulled the silk sheet across her bare shoulder.
The clink of glass behind her brought her back to the present. She glanced around, the light dancing lightly across her auburn tresses as they fell down her naked back. Aegon's eyes met hers as he poured arbor gold into two finely decorated goblets from Meereen. A wedding gift from Daenerys, each goblet was engraved with the Stark and Targaryen sigils – the direwolf and the three-headed dragon seemed to intertwine across the glass in a fiery dance.
It was Daenerys who made this night come to pass. With no prospect of an heir by Daenerys, Aegon must produce a Targaryen heir. "Who better for you to wed than his high-born cousin, the Lady of Winterfell?" Daenerys argued. Aegon had protested, had railed against his Aunt for days. "We have grown up brother and sister," he repeated again and again pacing up and down the throne room agitated and forlorn. Daenerys did not relent, would not relent. "You are the blood of the dragon. We do not follow the rules of Westerosi commoners," she hissed. "Sansa is your cousin, she's always been your cousin." Sansa fled to the Godswood seeking peace from their arguing and bickering.
Aegon moved slowly toward her with the goblets in hand. "You're cold," he said gently, as he handed her a glass. He placed his glass on the mantle and reached for a light-grey wolf-skin that was draped across the bed. He wrapped it tenderly around her shoulders. It reminded her of the way just hours before he had wrapped the Targaryen cloak around her shoulders as they stood together before the weirwood tree in the gathering dusk surrounded by the assembled noble families of the North. "The North remembers," Sansa smiled at Aegon as they walked through the crowd hand-in-hand to the wedding feast.
"I'm sorry that you had to endure the bedding ceremony," Aegon remarked as he picked up his glass once again. "I had hoped that it could be dispensed with, but I was overruled." He sipped from his glass. "Again," he added, with a wry smile. "It was necessary," Sansa replied, "and brief, thank the Seven's." "Yes, " Aegon grinned. "Samwell had been given specific instructions as to how your bedding was to be undertaken." "That's cheating!" Sansa laughed and took a sip of her wine. "Tormund Giantsbane was clearly not following instructions," she noted as Aegon raised his eyebrows.
The wine tasted honeyed and warm and cheering. "You seemed to enjoy the women undressing you. I heard guffawing that was unmistakably yours." Sansa remarked in a haughty tone that she found she enjoyed using when speaking to her cousin. "Not just cousin, her husband," she reminded herself – a faint blush creeping prettily up her cheek. Aegon smirked. "I had to laugh to hide the fright I felt at the sight of Brienne of Tarth ripping off my small clothes," he chuckled and Sansa joined his laughter with her own the noise echoing loudly off the stone walls.
They both drew silent. Aegon's eyes were focused on his wine as he tipped his wrist in a tiny movement and watched the wine flow from one side of the goblet to the other.