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Sansa sat back in her desk and blew out a sigh. She was, she felt, facing pressure on all sides to marry. The lords wanted to see her married in order to see her line continued, and the commoners were no better. She couldn’t be bothered to really put any effort into her search. She didn’t want to marry.
She’d done her piece for her kingdom. She’d married Tyrion, and never consummated it. She’d married Ramsay, and consummated it too much for her liking. She’d had enough of men. If she were to find herself a life partner, she didn’t want to take yet another man to her bed.
She couldn’t think too much on it, regardless. It didn’t matter what she wanted, just as it never had. It’d always been easier to want the inevitable, rather than fight against it as Arya insisted on doing. If you dreamed about a prince, and got a prince, what was there to complain about? It was far better to look forward to marriage and children than it was to resist them, in her eyes.
The facts of the matter were that she needed an heir. Regardless of how much she did or did not want to, she would have to remarry. At the very least, she would have to look at her options. She started as she often did when looking at these situations, writing everything out. It was a useful trick learned from Baelish, to clear your thoughts by writing them down. Naturally, the next step after you’ve made your decision is to burn the paper so that no one had easy access to your mind. She'd originally thought it the odd quirk of a paranoid mind, but eventually realized it had been to save himself from righteous suspicion.
A list formed beneath her hands:
Arya (current heir, not viable long-term)
I marry a man, have children (ugh)
I marry a woman and we adopt (who??)
I live on alone and adopt (who??)
A bastard, legitimized (lords will dislike)
Marry Arya off, take her child as heir (she’ll be upset)
Bran’s child? (can Bran conceive?)
She stared down at her ‘options’, if they could be called that. Ruminated on them for several minutes. Made no decisions, then sighed and settled herself more firmly in her chair. This needed to be done. She crossed off Arya. While she could simply leave the kingdom to her sister, they were not nearly far apart enough in age for it to appease the lords. On top of that, Arya would hate being Queen in the North, and Sansa wouldn’t subject her to it if she could avoid it.
She looked at her options yet again. Marrying a woman would be chafed against heavily, but she could do it if she so desired. In the light of the Seven, it was frowned upon, but the Old Gods had nothing against it. She didn’t know who she believed in after the early events of her life, but she made a point to visit the Godswood regularly, if only for her people. It wouldn’t do for the Queen in the North to be seen worshipping Southron Gods. Besides, they no longer gave her the comfort they once had.
Visiting the Sept used to symbolize her connection to her mother, but it had frayed over the years. She preferred the connection to her father, the silence that the Godswood carried in a way the Sept did not, could not.
Regardless of the gender of whomever she took into her bed, it would have to be delicately done. A man would have to understand his place beneath her, and be content in it. She misliked the idea of needing to break a husband in, though she had low hopes of finding a man that wouldn’t be necessary for. He’d have to content himself with laying with her on her conditions, something many men found hard to accept.
A woman presented different issues, namely convincing the Southron influence in her court of its legitimacy. She wouldn’t do any life partner of hers the dishonor of being a permanent consort, the instability of the position despised by one with her experiences. No, anyone she took would be recognized. The other issue arising, naturally, would be the matter of birth. Marrying a woman does not produce an heir. She could sire a bastard and legitimize him, that was an option.
She could do that on her own, as well, with no outside help. What she was finding more and more as of late was how little she wanted to continue on alone. She wanted a partner, someone to shoulder the burden as her mother had her father. Her parents had been a source of great support and comfort for each other, and she desperately wanted that for herself.
She knew the chances were low, even if she was able to obtain someone fitting her high standards. Low, but not nonexistent. She could not bear to crush the small flame of hope flickering in her chest when she thought about it. Clearly, she had not learned from her experiences as a young child, dreaming about a chivalrous prince swooping in to take her to his palace, make her his Queen.
She had managed to become a Queen even without all of that, and she was perfectly fine without a prince. Still. It might be nice… She shook her head to keep it from wandering again. Decision made, she swooped on the piece of paper and threw it in the fire. On the morrow, she would announce that she was looking for eligible maidens and lords in order to marry. She wouldn’t limit herself, and the court would just have to accept that.
After watching the way the flames danced over the dark words written, seeing the edges curl as they heated and slowly crumbled to ash, she stood up. Her stomach grumbled at her. Clearly, it was time to eat. Unfortunately, that would have to wait as she was not yet done with the tasks set before her.
She sat back down, wishing desperately that Arya were not on a trip as an envoy of the Queen, checking each of the realm’s corners to keep the people happy. Her sister was excellent at guessing when she needed someone to bring food to her desk, and would often make sure she was eating and drinking at regular intervals. Unfortunately, the trip was more important than her personal comfort.
She drew a paper and her pen towards her and began writing to Bran. She started off good-naturedly berating him for refusing to write, given that she had received no response to her last letter (a boring report on the food supply, with estimations on whether or not they’d be able to make it through winter). She quickly got down to the substance, knowing her brother did not appreciate fluff. He needed a wife and heir. She was going to be looking at eligible women in the North. Would he like her to see if she could find anyone suitable for him? An alliance between them was desirable, but she understood if he preferred to strengthen his position in the South instead. If he was more willing to look in the South, would he be willing to suggest options for Arya? She would need to wed soon, and again, and alliance between them was preferable.
She got her letter sent and then went down to eat, finally.
…
The next morning she announced her intentions to her small counsel. They were appropriately surprised by her decision to look for women, but she was ultimately left with little resistance. They immediately start suggesting options.
“Lord Manderly, please refrain from continuing to suggest your niece. I understand that she had expressed an interest in girls, but a second daughter from a second son is not appropriate for a Queen. I’d appreciate options that take into account my status.”
Her eyes swept over the lords and ladies assembled. Lord Manderly looked appropriately chagrined, lowering his eyes instead of meeting hers.
After that, they were able to form a decent list. She looked it over. Once upon a time, she had hoped to marry Margaery Tyrell, that they would run away from the atrocities of the Red Keep and live happily ever after together. Instead, she was here and Margaery had died at a cruel queen’s hand. Not that any of that was worth remembering in the moment.
Over the next few weeks, she began narrowing down her options. She met with the heads of houses and felt out which women would be willing to marry her, and which men. The North needed to rebuild, and she would not take a firstborn son from any house, as they were needed. Finally, she settled on a firstborn daughter from the Hornwood family.
The girl seemed lovely, though not eager to marry. Her parents had been getting worried they weren’t going to find an alliance good enough for her, as she had outright refused to marry in her youth and had spent several years away from home, visiting (apparently very indulgent) cousins in Dorne. She was a couple of years younger than Sansa.
The only drawback is that she is in love with a man who she met upon her return from home, a handsome second son of the Marsh family. Sansa is somewhat confident this is a hurdle they can overcome.
…
When the girl arrives in Winterfell, Sansa is out in the courtyard to greet her. Her lips are practically blue, and her hands are cold. Sansa takes one hand in her own and nearly gasps. Clearly, the years in Dorne have had some sort of impact on her if a Northron-born woman is this affected by the cold.
“My lady, please come inside. I am sure you are tired from your journey.”
Freya Hornwood gives her a long look with ice blue eyes, nods, and accepts her hand down from her horse.
“I am, thank you.”
Sansa smiles, hoping to warm her up. “Your things will be brought up to your room, and a welcome feast has been prepared for you. There is about an hour between now and then for you to settle in.”
Freya nods yet again and takes her arm as Sansa leads her inside. The walk to Freya’s rooms is silent as servants trail them, presumably whatever staff she has taken from home in order to feel comfortable.
Dinner goes smoothly, with little conversation. Questions about Dorne, her childhood, and even her favorite color are all rebuffed. Freya seems an unwilling participant in the current events. Sansa feels bad for the girl, but she surely didn’t think she would never be married. Freya had been raised as Sansa had, a noble girl who knew her place.
…
Two weeks pass in this manner, with Sansa attempting to speak with Freya at dinner, engage her spouse in any manner she can think of. One morning, she requests Freya’s presence on a walk through the greenhouses. She attempts to get to know her future spouse.
Freya not only ignores her attempts, but actively rebuts them. The greenhouse meeting ends with Freya stomping away upon Sansa mentioning her position as future Queen-consort.
Sansa, after that, has had enough. She sends a note to Freya, requesting her presence at breakfast the following morning. She does her best to make it clear that it’s less of a request and more of a demand.
That morning, Sansa rises early for her discussion with Freya. She dresses plainly, wondering if the finery she often chose for important events such as first meetings made an undesirable impression on the as yet unresponsive Freya.
When the girl arrives in her chambers, the first thing Sansa does after they are both seated with food in front of them is dismiss all of the others from the room.
“So tell me, child, what are your true feelings on this marriage?”
Freya sits up straighter at her words. “I am not a child, and have not been for many moons, my queen.”
Sansa resists the urge to smirk, happy to get more than a dull one word answer after all this time. “Are you not? As yet, all I have seen is you acting as such. I will not address you as a child when you stop sulking like one. Despite numerous attempts to get to know you, you continue to act coldly towards me. Did you not agree to this marriage?” Freya, upon hearing this, looks as though she is resisting the urge to cry. Sansa sighs, praying to the Gods for compassion.
“Answer me, child.” Much more gently this time.
“I am only two years younger than you, my queen.” A sharp look from Sansa has her re-thinking her response. “I- I am sorry. Please allow me to explain. I am in love with Asher Marsh. He and I have known each other since we were small, and I thought- I thought perhaps we would be wed. My parents led me to believe that they had already planned such a marriage several years ago, and they had not. Instead, I have been sent here.”
Sansa wanted to heave a great sigh but held her breath. “That does not explain why you have been acting as though you are throwing a tantrum for the past two weeks. You are engaged to the Queen in the North, to be my consort. I can understand some time to settle in, but surely you must understand what that implies? I do not want you to be uncomfortable here, but I have made my decision. I was under the impression that you came here willingly, did you not?”
Freya shook her head and Sansa felt her mouth tighten into a grimace. Of course, nothing in her life could be easy, or go as planned. “Explain.”
“What is there to explain? I told my parents that I wanted to marry Asher, and they made the arrangements. Then, I am told that they never made the arrangements, and that I am now to marry the Queen. I am shipped here with no say, and any plans that I’d made for my life previously are disregarded.” The girl does have tears streaming down her cheeks now, and Sansa sighs.
“I did not know that your parents forced you here, or I would not have chosen you. I was under the impression that no plans had been made for your future.” She steeples her fingers and brings them to her lips. “I cannot call the marriage off now. Forgive me for being selfish, but the arrangements have already been made. However, there may be a solution. I do not know if you will like it, or if your Marsh boy will like it.”
“Tell me.” Freya has something of a light in her eyes.
“We will still get married, as planned. I need an heir. Asher Marsh will be brought in in order to fulfill that duty to his queen. I do not mind sharing you, my dear.” Sansa looks up to see Freya staring with her mouth slightly opened and winks. At the girls blush, she continues. “We will have to be careful. You cannot have the firstborn, it must be me so that there is no dispute over our child’s validity. Unfortunately, we are not men, and it is not so easy to hide. There are several options for your Asher. He could be a consort himself, which is the preferred option. He would marry me, as you have, and we three would rule. Stranger things have happened in the past. I could take him on as a knight, and assign him to you. This is more subtle, but leads to more complications. I shall leave the choice up to him. You say you are in love with him, is he in love with you?” Sansa does not mean it to sound challenging, but Freya clearly takes it that way.
“Yes, of course he is. He would do anything for me.”
“I hope that you are right, my dear. Now, there are other things to discuss. Are you over your fit? Can we behave as adults now?”
Freya’s blush has returned quite violently. “Yes.”
“Good. Eat while I talk, the Gods know you need it. We are to get married in six weeks’ time. My dress is being prepared, I need to know if you would like to have yours done up by my dressmaker. In addition, I’d like your input on the menu and decor. I am not the only one getting married, I’d rather it be a joint decision. Naturally, some things are non-negotiable due to tradition.”
Freya begins to serve herself. Sansa watches as she daintily takes bites from the food. Her future Queen is not eating nearly enough. No wonder her figure was so slight. It was something to worry about after the marriage, though. Not now. Although it wouldn’t hurt to tell the servants to make sure she was eating enough at her meals.
The rest of the meal passed quickly, with talks of the marriage, and Freya’s duties. Sansa would like her to begin learning how to manage the household as quickly as possible so that she could take that particular duty off of her own shoulders. After breakfast, she left the girl to her own devices. She had some letters to write.
…
Six weeks later, she watched as her betrothed was escorted to her down the aisle of the Godswood. Freya looked radiant in her cloaks, and Sansa admired her openly. The ceremony was beautifully done, and Sansa knew her mother would have appreciated it.
Freya had been much warmer to Sansa in the past weeks, and they’d been able to get to know each other as well as could be expected. Freya’s lingering feelings of disappointment seemed abated by the knowledge that Asher had agreed to come and discuss arrangements with the Queen. Once she had gotten past her sour mood, she had proved to be lively and excitable. She seemed to be particularly interested in getting to know Sansa.
Once, when Sansa had asked her about it, she had said that she did feel bad for how she had acted in the beginning. In addition, somewhere along the line she had realized that she and Sansa were going to be together for quite a long time, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter. They might as well be friends. Sansa wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but took it as a good sign.
Their wedding feast was lavish and delicious, as was fitting a royal marriage. Bran had not come himself, but had sent some representatives. Arya had gotten back around the third week after Sansa and Freya’s discussion and told Sansa she approved. Somehow, Sansa doubted she had come to that conclusion without some minor grilling of Freya. Hopefully minor. Probably minor, given the the girl hadn’t run screaming in the other direction.
At the appropriate time after their marriage, Sansa escorted Freya up to their rooms. Their night was lovely, although Freya was a bit shy at first. Sansa didn’t mind coaxing her, leading her through the actions that would become routine for the two of them eventually.