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Recovered Jonsa fics #2: Sansa’s Silent Treatment

Still reposting/restoring fic from my deleted blog!

Prompt: Sansa is jealous when Jon pays attention to other females so she gives him the silent treatment. He cannot understand why she is mad at him and it drives him nuts.

There is chatter and delight running throughout the queen’s ballroom as the court feasts on wild boar, baked apples, strawberries, spinach, and a variety of fine dishes and wines. Jon sits, content and happy, listening with rapt attention as Asha Greyjoy regales the main table with tales of her travels. Every so often, Obella and Loreza Sand contribute little anecdotes of their late father whenever Asha mentions a place the Red Viper had been. Arya occasionally interjects with a story about Dorne.

Jon is happy, despite his extravagant surroundings. He rarely feels this good at formal events, but this one pleases him. It’s his Name Day, so he is permitted to dispense with most of the formal seating arrangements that his wife has to usually plan meticulously to suit the current political climate. Instead of being surrounded by pretentious, grasping lords, the main table is stocked with his favorites: Asha Greyjoy, his wards Obella and Loreza, Arya, Sam, Ned Dayne, Brienne of Tarth, Tristopher Swann, Wylla Manderly Tyrell, Mya Stone, Myranda Royce, Satin Flowers, Gendry of the High Hill, Alysanne and Lyra Mormont, Meera Reed, and Patrek Mallister. Arya, who was usually seated to Sansa’s right, gets to sit to his left: the place usually reserved for his Hand, Willas Tyrell, who is down the table a bit, next to his wife, Wylla. The only one in her usual place is Sansa, to Jon’s right, who sits and eats quietly. Every so often, Jon leans over to his queen, pressing a happy hand to her swollen belly, and inquires as to whether or not she is feeling alright. Thus far, she has nodded each time.

Jon does feel a little guilty, though. Since Sansa first conceived, he has remained in the city, usually staying in the Red Keep itself. He is obsessive about keeping her close, keeping her safe, keeping her healthy, keeping her comfortable. He has brought in two maesters to assist Grand Maester Durin, four top midwives, including one from Braavos who had attended the Sealord’s wife through no less than seven successful pregnancies and births, and three septas. He has yet to go a night without massaging his wife’s ankles and back. Arya jokingly calls him “the nursemaid.” Even Bran and Rickon, in their letters, have taken to calling him this.

Jon doesn’t mind. He would rather be a nursemaid than neglect his wife. He still winces with guilt whenever he has to hold her hair, or she grimaces from her aching back, or looks weary, or experiences any other form of pain or discomfort related to her condition. Not that the pregnancy has been nothing but pain, but it hasn’t been bouyant, and there was more pain and risk to come.

But for his name day, his wife encouraged him to spend some time with friends, so he has taken three days spending more and more time outside the castle, including a sail around Blackwater Bay with the newest ship in the royal fleet, and culminating in today’s hunt. He could not help but feel some euphoria about spending so much time in the woods, bow and blade in hand. He is still a creature of the wilderness, north or south, and it had felt so stifling and unnatural to spend so much time indoors. He enjoyed this hunt, perhaps more than he should.

But he is with her now, and though he was not the one to ultimately slay the beast, he feels proud of being able to bring this hearty creature home and feed it to his wife and unborn child. And she is eating: after three months of illness, she is eating constantly. He loves it.

Asha Greyjoy begins telling a tale of the carnal conquests of some of her lustier crewmen when Patrek Mallister, well into his cups, calls out, “Sounds like he has a king’s appetite for female company!”

Most of the table laughs, and Jon raises one eyebrow. There had been ribbing all day about the amount of ladies in his personal hunting party. “I have an appetite for fine company!”

More laughter, and Asha eagerly continues her tale. A short while later, she is interrupted by the sound of someone tapping their cup with a fork. Everyone quiets and looks over to the source of the sound.

Garlan Tyrell rises from his seat at the second table, straightening his doublet and clearing his throat. “A toast, to our most valiant and talent King Jon, for providing us with such a bountiful meal!”

There are many “hear hear”’s, but Jon feels compelled to speak up once the toast is made. “I thank you, Ser Garlan, but I must admit, credit for slaying the boar must go to Lady Greyjoy. It was her arrow that found its mark! To Lady Greyjoy! Terror of the seas and the kingswood alike!”

“LADY GREYJOY!” The crowd echoes. Jon smiles at his vassal, who looks proud as a peacock.

Jon left the banquet, pleased and weary, and a little in his cups. He holds Sansa close as they returned to their bedchamber, stealing kisses to her cheek and hair every so often. When the door closes behind them, she turns to him, and he cups her cheek, looking into her big, blue eyes.

“Did you enjoy yourself today, Jon?”

“Yes, thank you,” he says, smiling at her hazily. “You are so… You are my queen.”

Even now, after over a year of marriage, he still cannot believe she’s his.Every so often, he has these moments where he’s almost paralyzed by awe.

“And you are my king,” she replies softly, reaching downwards to his breeches, “Would my king like his queen to do her duty?”

“Mmmm…” He pulls her close into an embrace, eager to bury his face in that red hair. “I’m tired. I’d rather just…”

She pulls away. “As you wish, My Lord. But I must prepare for bed.”

Before he can offer to help her undress, she calls in her maid. Jon sighs and quietly strips down to his tunic and smallclothes and crawls into bed, waiting for his wife to join him. But he dozes off before she does.

When he wakes, she still sleeps, and he spends some time just watching her until finally calling for his steward and manservant. The Mormont sisters need to have an early morning meeting, and Jon reluctantly pulls himself away. After that, it’s surveying the new updates of the Royal Fleet with Asha Greyjoy at the harbor, whom he ultimately asks to take lunch with him, Arya, and Meera Reed.

It’s not until he holds the afternoon court that he sees his wife, who seems preoccupied. He doesn’t have time to ask her what is bothering her before the petitions begin. Throughout the session, his queen offers an unusually high number of interjections, even openly disagreeing with him twice. While Jon isn’t displeased, he is surprised. He takes no issue with his queen contradicting him in public, indeed, he outright encourages it whenever necessary. But it is Sansa who usually protests this. She thinks it is inappropriate to do so publicly, that she should reserve her contrary opinions to private or semi-private discussions. Indeed, she is usually adamant about this.

Jon, however, can imagine why she might break her rule about it: normally, before court sessions, they meet together for a preliminary meeting to go over the scheduled petitions— which is usually where his wife voices her positions. When they were wed, Jon asked his wife to help him rule, to be his partner. She has taken this request in earnest, though she prefers to keep this somewhat private. She considers them both better off if she plays the role of a more traditional consort when not behind closed doors, and her prior years in the capital have taught her to keep her views and activities as opaque as possible. But as devoted as Sansa is to image, she is even more devoted to duty. Her husband asked her to rule with him, and she will. She’d not gotten to voice her feelings in private today, so this was her only option. Still, Jon feels guilty. He should have taken lunch with her to go over things before court.

After court is complete, the Small Council meets, where he and his Mistress of Ships go over the development of the royal fleet. He beams as he and Lady Greyjoy recount the progress, proud of their work. After the meeting, he hangs back to thank Asha again for her work. Once he has done so, he turns around, expecting to see his wife and Mistress of Laws waiting for him by the door, as was her habit. But oddly, she is gone.

Jon’s stomach sinks. He’d wanted to take a walk with her in the gardens before supper. But he shrugs and heads for the training yard instead. He returns before supper, muddy and laughing. He and Arya had taken turns putting one another on their backs.

In the bedchamber, he finds his wife on the bed, having her maid massage her ankles. Jon is surprised— usually that is his duty. He walks over to kiss her cheek, but she pulls away, reaching into her skirts and handing him a handkerchief. He blushes. He’s covered in sweat and mud. He wipes his face, then goes in for another kiss. Sansa stays perfectly still, and barely responds.

Deardra, the maid, speaks up, “Your Grace, perhaps you should have a bath and a change before supper?” “Erm, yes, call my manservant in,” he says awkwardly, eyeing Sansa with confusion. She doesn’t look at him. Deardre hurries out, and Jon speaks to his wife.

“Are you well, Madam?”

Sansa responds by turning on her side and hugging her belly. A no.

Jon stares at her, thoroughly confused. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

If it were not Sansa, Jon would have described the noise she makes as a grunt. But Sansa does not grunt. She does, however, make an indignant throat noise.

“What is wrong?” He asks again, reaching out to her. She turns her head and glares. Jon realizes, to his horror, that this is one of those cases where his wife feels he should realize his error on his own, without her having to tell him.

These situations don’t occur often, but when they do, it is the worst, for three reasons: 1) He never manages to figure it out nor fix it until after she finally breaks down and tells him; 2) It’s something big and offensive enough for Sansa to consider it obvious; and 3) Once she has divulged her grievance, it’s usually something that seems obvious once spoken, and he always feels like awful for not figuring it out.

“Sansa, please tell me. I cannot fix it if I don’t know.”

She turns away again. He sighs.

“Will you be taking supper with me?”

She shakes her head. He sighs again.

“Very well.”

His bath and changing is awkward, as is his good-bye to his wife when he leaves for supper. He sends an invite to Asha, Meera, Sam, and Arya to join him for supper in his private dining room. It’s a quarter hour into their roast duck that Arya finally asks, “Alright, Jon, what’s wrong?”

He reddens. “Nothing.”

“Liar.” Arya says. Jon doesn’t answer. Their other dinner companions exchange glances, finish their food quickly, and excuse themselves. Arya orders the servants to take their food away, and, once the room is empty of all but the two of them, she speaks.

“Sansa’s not ill, is she?” Arya asks, looking concerned.

“I don’t think so. Not that she’d tell me is she was,” Jon replies resentfully, “She isn’t speaking to me.” “Ah.” Arya sits back in her chair, appraising him. “And you don’t know why.”

“How can I know why if she won’t tell me?!” The king stands and starts pacing. “I know it must be something serious, if she’s this upset. Usually she tells me things!”

“Of course. She knows you’ll listen. Like Ser Patrek so insightfully remarked last night, you enjoy the company of women.”

“Right, I’m not the sort to expect women to be silent! So why won’t she just tell me what is wrong?!”

At this, Arya rolls her eyes and scoffs.. “Jon, you are so dense sometimes!”

Oh gods, not her too. If Arya was pulling this as well, then it had to be bad. “What is it, then?”

“Ugh!” Arya stands. “Why don’t you ask Asha Greyjoy?”

Jon gets to his feet. “Maybe I will!” It seemed Lady Greyjoy was the only person willing to make sense today. He walks off, angry. Arya was supposed to be on his side. She was always on his side.

He goes back to his chambers, and Sansa is asleep. He gets into bed, but doesn’t sleep.

Why doesn’t he ask Asha Greyjoy? She was a woman. And she was one of the more level-headed people he knew. And she was Ironborn, and as frank about things as any Ironborn could be. She wasn’t particularly close with Sansa, but there seemed to be a certain… understanding… all women seemed to have. So he invites Lady Greyjoy to take breakfast with him in his privy chamber.

Asha arrives, oddly enough, with two of her men, looking a bit uncomfortable. Jon blushes. “Um, Lady Greyjoy, I had hoped to dine with you alone, to discuss a personal matter.”

“I do not think that wise, Your Grace.”

And that’s when it hits him.

He rises from his seat, nearly knocking over his plate of poached eggs and venison sausage, horrified.

“Deepest apologies, Lady Greyjoy, but something has… I need to attend to something at once. I’m so sorry!” He bows deeply —- he doesn’t want to displease his wife any more by being discourteous to a vassal, even who… Jon rushes back to the bedchamber.

Sansa isn’t there. He heads for her privy chamber, desperate to speak to her. He is about to have himself announced when he hears a shout. It’s Arya. “Shut up, Margaery!”

Glancing awkwardly at the guard at her door, Jon humbles himself by pressing his ear to it, like a sneaky child.

“Arya please!” Sansa says, her voice strangled.

“No, I’m sick of this horseshit! Jon is an idiot, but he would never do such a thing! And either way, Sansa shouldn’t just sit by and take it!”

“Lady Arya,” Margaery Tyrell says, her voice condescending and firm, “I realize you are not prone to courtly pursuits, but you must understand that I am merely giving your sister the best advice I can. Men, even good men, are men. This sort of thing is common, especially with kings, and especially during periods where their wives are in Her Grace’s condition. It’s to be both expected and accepted, if one does not wish to be miserable. There’s nothing Her Grace can do about him sharing another’s bed. But what she can control is whether or not these women end up being passing fancies or her husband’s confidantes. If she is kind and sweet and forgiving, the king will always end up coming home to her, seeking out her and her alone for support, confidence, and advice. He’ll even feel more guilty about betraying his ever-lovely wife, and be more malleable as a result. If you are harsh, abrasive, and resentful, he’ll seek out women for more than just pleasure, but for comfort and solace. He will tell them things, he will become intimate with them on a level beyond the physical, and he will prefer their company to the queen’s. She will spend more time alone, and create true rivals, by being abrasive than if she turns a blind eye.”

“You don’t know anything about Jon! He’s not some Lannister or Baratheon, not some southern ponce! He was raised by our father, who was always loyal to our mother!”

“Don’t be so sure of that. Just because King Jon wasn’t truly a bastard doesn’t mean—”

“—Don’t say another word, Margaery!” This time it was Sansa who interrupted, her voice wrung with fury that Jon currently shared. Margaery Tyrell was never his favorite person, but he never loathed her. At the moment, however, he does. How dare she?

“Apologies, Your Grace. I did not mean to besmirch your father’s good name.” The Tyrell woman has the decency to sound chastened.

“What do you think, Myranda?” Sansa asks.

“I think men are men, and their eyes will wander. But that their cocks don’t always catch up. Our king is a good man, and while he might be tempted, that doesn’t mean he’s acted on it— yet. I think you can, and should, nip it in the bud.”

“And if he has strayed already?”

“My advice is the same. Make sure it doesn’t become a habit. But maybe…”

“What?”

Myranda sighs. “…Maybe try guilt instead of anger. Shed some pretty tears, bemoan your broken heart, make him hate himself. Men have a way of feeling justified about things women get angry at them for. Margaery isn’t entirely wrong.”

“If that doesn’t work, I’ll geld him!” Mya Stone offers cheerily. At this, the room laughs, even Sansa.

Having heard enough, Jon walks away, determined. He goes to his privy chamber, tells his steward to cancel everything except court that day, gives special instructions for the kitchens, and sends word for his wife to meet him on the balcony outside their bedchamber.

He receives her for lunch with a table laden with flowers, fresh trout, sweet lemongrass salad, peach preserves, lemoncakes, arbor gold… all of her favorite things. He dresses in a doublet she made him of red velvet, the one she likes the most. When she arrives, he helps her into her chair and pours her wine himself. It’s only when he’s seated that he speaks.

“I’m so sorry. Nothing has happened, I swear it. I’ve not touched another woman since Ygritte, I swear it upon the Old Gods and New. Upon the grave of Eddard Stark. Upon our child’s life.”

Her breath catches at this. And, to his horror, she bursts into tears. He panics. This was supposed to make her feel better.

Sansa instantly reaches into her skirts for a handkerchief and tries to dry her eyes. “I’m terrible! I never should have doubted you! I just…”

“What?”

“It… It wasn’t just that I thought you might have been unfaithful. It was that others might think so. Others might doubt me, doubt us. Even if you hadn’t done a thing, it would seem that I was dishonored, and people would try to take advantage of that.”

Jon swallowed heavily. “I know.” He did, too. He knew what she meant. Word gets around that the king has strayed, and people start taking the queen less seriously, start propping out their bonny daughter to catch their liege’s eye. Since taking the throne, Sansa had helped him grow accustomed to his new role, instructing him on certain aspects of court life. This happened even before they were formally betrothed. And indeed, her early counsel had been one of the reasons he’d married her. She’d explained this aspect of court life before she was ever his designated bride. “I should have… But I never thought—”

“You are so often surrounded by women. Women who are strong and brave and wild and fierce. Who wield blades, who are warriors. Women who have the sorts of adventures and pursuits you have. Who aren’t anything like me.”

His stomach sinks. “That doesn’t mean I love you any less, or would have you any other way, Sansa. You are all I want. I just…”

“… I know! You have friends who share your interests, and you don’t care if someone is male or female. I love that about you. But I can’t help but look at them and think of all the things they share with you that I don’t. I can’t help but look at them and wonder if you wish you had one of them instead of me.” She buries her face in her handkerchief.

Jon gets up and hurries to her. He pulls her hands away, holds onto them, and looks into her eyes. “Sansa, if I had one of them, who would I go to when I need the fighting to end? How would I have a life without the monotony of everything being the same all at once? How would I remember that there is life beyond a battlefield? You are all I could ever want, Sansa. The only wife, only lover I want. I have you, and I’m a eunuch to every other women I meet. Sometimes, I can’t even believe you are mine. That I get to be yours. And if anyone doubts that, I will do whatever I can to show them how wrong they are. Just please, if I ever act inappropriately, tell me. Margaery Tyrell can go hang.”

There is a pause. The look of delight that came over Sansa’s face as he spoke slowly turns to suspicion. “Wait, how do you know what Margaery said to me?”

He freezes. “Oh, I…” Seven Hells.

She clutches the bridge of her nose between two fingers, her eyes shut in consternation. “For pity’s sake, Jon!”

“Well! You weren’t telling me what was wrong! I needed to know somehow!”

At this, she starts laughing. She clutches his face and kissed him. “Alright, Husband. I will tell you next time. And you won’t eavesdrop.”

He smiles then, and gives her another kiss. “Alright. And I meant what I said. Margaery Tyrell can hang. I hope you won’t take her seriously.”

“Well, she wasn’t entirely without cause. Many kings have strayed, especially when their queens have… this…” She gestures to her belly.

Jon lowers his head and mouth. “Well, I love this.” He kisses her belly, his blood suddenly heated. “I could spend an eternity worshipping this, and every other inch of you. Would you like me to prove it?”

A smile creeps across her face. “We can’t afford an eternity, but…” She glances over her shoulder to make sure no one was around to see, then starts lifting her skirts, her reddened eyes now flashing. “Let’s see how much you can manage between now and court.”

“Out here?” He asks teasingly. “My Lady!”

“Out here, and in there.” She points behind her to the door to their bedchamber, grinning lasciviously.

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sansa-lover

1 year ago