Chapter Text
“You can’t be serious, buir.”
Jaster sighed heavily at his holopad, already exhausted with this repeated argument. When Jango was informed of his adoptive father’s decision of an arranged marriage, not pleased was a kind description of his reaction. That wall still held a dent even now, two weeks later.
Not taking his eyes off the words he was reading, Jaster drawled out, “I would’ve thought that you had grown tired of me repeating things you already know, Jango.”
With a growled huff, the teen flopped down onto Jaster’s bed, glaring mutinously up at the ceiling. His silence was telling enough to Jaster that Jango was more uncertain than angry. The anger had already passed in the first week. Now, he was just unsettled by this sudden upheaval in their lives.
After learning of Montross’ betrayal and the grueling battle against Death Watch, and finally defeating Vizsla, the True Mandalorians have been unsteady, trying to find their footing in the galaxy despite their victory. The remnants of Death Watch were scattered, and Jaster had his best hunters hunting them down. There had also been the slow rise of the New Mandalorians, citing neutrality and pacifism, and only offered to help heal the injured after the Jaster’s people came out the winners from the civil war. The Republic favoured their pacifist ways, of kriffing course. The True Mandalorians stayed out of the Republic business, not wanting to get leashed by all their polices and politics. Jaster also had a huge disliking for it too.
With the New Mandalorians, he could understand their reluctance to get involved with the war, but it frustrated Jaster and his people to no end. To just forsake their history and culture like it was nothing.
They luckily enough had a planet to rebuild their society seeing as Mandalore was not an option with the pacifists barring them entrance. But even having a planet, giving them a home-base to come back to after jobs around the galaxy, eased the stress of living post-war. A place for his people to settle their families and begin creating a society that did not need to heavily rely on the super-commandos protecting and providing for them. Jaster prided in those that fought and took up the job as mercenary and bounty hunters, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew that was not the best basis for creating income, as some people were not warriors entirely, preferring the use a non-violent trade to bring in money.
The only problem was that they were low in terms of material to start the building process. Currently, their Mandalorian city was primarily tents and ships, creating a haphazard community on a large plot of land that stood close to the planet’s sea and with mountains in the distance. The land was a strange mix of sand and earth, the grass cropping up from the ground the closer you got the mountains, but the tentative city standing on sand. The sea was fresh water, not the common salt type he had come across most of his life, which made keeping their water stores full easy. At least he wouldn't have to worry about his people dying of dehydration.
The planet was practically uninhabited too, only a small settlement on the other side, a community of farmers who were more than happy to trade animals and food for protection. However, it wasn’t sustainable. They needed their own crops to grow. They needed actual buildings that could last against the elements and future attacks.
Westeros, a planet that sat mid-rim, but was more outer than core, offered up their help. Or, more specifically, one of the kingdoms on the planet did. The largest, simply called The North, offered their massive resources of wood and different stones. What they wanted in exchange was help fortifying their borders after suffering major loss from their own recent war. A war that they won as well, but all battles came with a cost.
Though they weren’t warrior people to the extent that Mandalorians were - no one could really hold a candle to the Mandalorians - the Northerners held a respect and understanding for them, and reached out. They were also a planet that was self-governing, not within the Republic, and Jaster was pleased with that fact.
However, their help came with one main condition: an arranged marriage.
The people from Westeros were steeped in tradition, almost archaic in their ways compared to many planets in the galaxy, and their main way of forging alliances was marriage. And Jaster was the marry to King of the North’s eldest daughter.
Another grumble of annoyance pulled Jaster from his thoughts, and finally he turned to look at his son, and wry amusement pulling at his lips at seeing the frown on Jango’s face. The boy shuffled on the bed until he laid facing Jaster, and like this, the man could see the worry finally making it’s way onto his face.
“What if she’s horrible?”
Softening, Jaster ran his hand through his kid's hair, “If she’s in no way able to accommodate herself to our culture, then I’m sure that we could find a place for her to stay far from our people, and still keep within contract boundaries.” He answered diplomatically. He didn't want to worry his son, especially with all the many concerns he had about his future wife. Jaster could only hope that, at the very least, they could be amenable with one another, if not friends.
Sansa stood frozen in place, eyes blankly staring out the window past her parent’s heads. She couldn't stand to look at them in that moment. The second she heard the news, it was like her body became stone, mind a deafening silence. She ignored the way her heart skipped a beat in horror, ignored the way she felt a scream trying to claw it’s way out from her chest. Instead, she swallowed it all down and just felt her heart crumble with betrayal once more.
Her non-responsiveness brought concern from her parents, and when Sansa’s mother came to her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, Sansa unfroze. Smacking the hand off her, Sansa staggered back, and felt her body become alive once more, anger igniting.
“You can’t make me do this. Not again.”
“Sansa-“
Furious, she cut off her mother’s plead, “You promised me peace! You promised me a choice! And now you want to steal that from me again!? I can’t believe you!” Tears of anger burnt in her eyes as she stared in horror as her father tried to soothe, “It’s for the good of the kingdom, of our people.”
She snarled, hands clenched tight, “What have our people done for me!? They stare at me with pity. They talk about me as if I am nothing but damaged goods. The last time I did something for them I was abused! I was treated like I was nothing, in the hands of a monster that you-“ She stopped in her tracks, head shaking softly in disbelief, a hysterical laugh escaping her. Hands covering her wet eyes, Sansa breathed out, “Why am I even saying anything to you? You never listened before.”
“That’s not true, Sansa!” Her mother insisted, trying once more to comfort her, “We love you, but-“
Sharply, Sansa looked up at her father, ignoring her mother, “Anything before ‘but’ is horseshit, father. Remember?”
The King let out an exhaustive sigh, as if she was tiring him with her justified anger, “Sansa,” He rubbed at his eyes, and met her angry ones with firmness, “It’s been five years. You’ve had so much time to heal.”
Beneath the anger Sansa showed, the hurt was far more raw as she hissed out, “A hundred years could not give me the true healing that I need to become the girl I was before. How dare you suggest that my suffering is something I could just get over.”
“The Mandalorians are honourable people,” He insisted, “Like our people.”
A scoff of derision escaped her lips, arms crossing, feeling vulnerable and needing a defense, “Honourable like how Ramsey was? Because he was Northern too, Father.” She reminded him derisively.
His voice was a quiet rumble, eyes stormy with regret, “Sansa, we did not know.”
“That doesn’t make it any better!” Stabbing a finger in his direction, Sansa growled, “You didn’t know about Joffrey, you didn’t know about Ramsey, and now I bet you don’t know shit about this new person. Your words do nothing to ease the betrayal I feel just looking at you.” Her words were filled with venomous disgust, and they subtly flinched back, stuck by her words.
They could only stare at her, eyes sad and so frustratingly full of pity. Just like how her people looked at her everyday. But she hated her gods damned loyalty and duty that had been taught to her since she could talk. The duty that made her remarry even after all the warning signs. Hissed air escaped her teeth and she glanced away. Voice a cold, frigid tone, Sansa quietly announced, “Twice I have been married. Twice you have bartered me off to monsters. Twice I have spent a marriage in fear, in pain. I have been brutalised by men who were meant to protect and cherish me. I have had too much taken from me. And once more, you are selling me like cattle. Have you not learnt a damn thing!?” Her words rang loud in the room, tears of rage forming once more as she spat, “Know this; if this man treats me like the others, I will leave. I will leave him. I will leave you, this family. I will leave everything behind. Because I am not going through any of that ever again!”
At her declaration, her father sat back with a resignation, but gave her a warning, “They are warriors, Sansa. They would not let you escape unharmed if it was their will.”
Chin titled up in defiance, Sansa stated with conviction, “Then I will die free than live a prisoner once more.”
And with that promise, Sansa turned and stalked out of the room, door slamming hard behind her. Fists shook where they clenched by her side, and not even the soft butt of Lady’s head against them would unfurl her white knuckles. People scurried out of her way, and Sansa had barely a mind to care.
In the safety of her room, Sansa shucked off her shoes and crawled under her covers. Shoulders trembling, she wept into her blankets, memories of pain and isolation hovering over her like an omen. Phantom aches flare with every memory, like her scars reopening with just the thought of their infliction. When Lady crawled onto the bed with her, Sansa pressed her wet face to the warm fur, seeking comfort from the near and uncertain future that awaited her.
The North was a land filled with wild forest, a small mountain range, and flat plains covered in snow, Jaster observed, as they flew over it. The sky was grey and currently snowing. The plan was for them to land in the ship port nearest to the Winterfell castle and trek up from there, as there was no place to land nearer.
When they flew over Winterfell, he felt his eyebrows raise, impressed by the architecture of the castle. It took up a massive foot print, managing to hold a decently sized wood inside it’s walls and Jaster heard his son’s breath gasp in wonder. Despite technology being far ahead, the people of this world still kept many of it’s old architecture and way of life.
Continuing past the stone keep, they came to the town just below the castle, Winter town. When given the allowance to land their ship, Jaster stood up from his seat, preparing to gather the last of his supplies to leave. They were to stay a week, hash out the contract, get married according to their traditions, and then return to his home again. From there, they will have to see, as it all depends on whether it not him and his wife got along.
One wedding was too many already for him, especially to a stranger, but it’s for his people, so he will do as was needed for their survival. Jaster had only taken himself, Jango, and two other commandos for guards. He could protect himself just fine, but it was good to present a strong front to potential allies.
Armour cleaned and scuff marks painted away, he was as presentable as he could make himself. The dark clothes under his armour made the red painted bes’kar stand out, along with the heavy cape he wore, also in a deep red colour. Normally, he would not want to stand on such ceremony, but the cape was worn by the Mand’alor symbol of power and status. And their people were all about showing their power one way or another.
The darksaber was hooked on his hip, along with a blaster on his thigh. Those were the two of the more visible weapons he had stashed on his person, and dearly hoped it wouldn’t be seen as an offense. But weapons were part of themselves, and to be without one was to be vulnerable.
The people of Winter Town were mainly humanoid, though some other species and droids flitted about, many staring at the passing Mandalorians. Facing forward, helmet on, Jaster paid no mind to them besides cursory glances. The village was more stone and wood then metal like many planets tend to lean towards, and the road was of cobbled stones.
Through the commlink, Jaster heard his son mutter, “It’s so old looking.”
“This is an old kingdom, Jango.” He reminded the boy, knowing for a fact that his son had researched in-depth on this planet and kingdom. Jango wanted to be cautious, and make sure there was nothing that could be used against them here. Jaster was proud of him taking the initiative like that.
Still, the boy scoffed, “Yeah, but you would think that they'd be more advanced then this.”
Humming lightly, Jaster replied with a subtly warning, “I do hope you can keep those remarks to yourself when we meet the king.”
The boy scoffed once more, but became silent, a tension in his shoulder leaving as they passed through the town. He was not good with crowds, and finally away from them and winding up the road to the castle, Jango relaxed minutely. Taking a glance down at his son, Jaster gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze, the boy leaning into it.
The castle walls towered high above them, and Jaster couldn’t help the low whistle at the sight of it. The guards at the gate gave them a suspicious eye, but after a quick word of who they were, the Mandalorians were escorted through. Across a moat, through another gate, and they stood in Winterfell.
More buildings, much like the ones from the town scattered about, along with more bustling crowds, though not as chaotic as Winter town. Weaving through the streets, soon enough the castle that stretched far into the sky was before them. As well as a small group of people.
The man at the front was of a severe expression, hair dark and greying, cloaked in fur. He cut a powerful figure, along with the younger man by his side, just as fur cloaked but with red hair. Hair that matched the older woman on the other side of the first man. There clothing could be seen as old-fashioned, especially in the Core, but the wildness and detail on every piece of fabric, Jaster could appreciate the craft.
However, Jaster was not expecting to have been greeted directly by the King of the North, Eddard Stark, thinking he would instead be brought to the throne room. But did not let how caught off guard he was show. Giving a short bow of his head, as he too was a king and would not bow lower than his station, the other king responded in a similar motion.
“Welcome Mand’alor. Thank you for arriving in such short time.” The man had a quiet voice, though that did not lessen the power behind his words.
“Time is of the essence for my people.” Jaster pointed out, not one to fuss about formalities. Luckily, the man was of the same opinion, quickly introducing the other two people in his group with a wry smile upon his stern features. The King agreed, “Of course.” And then gestured to the other man, “My son and heir, Prince Robb, and my wife,” He gestured then at the red haired woman, “Queen Catelyn.”
Under his helmet, Jaster rose an eyebrow at the near hostile and guarded look in the Queen’s eyes, but made no remark. Instead, he introduced himself, wanting to get out of the cold as soon as possible, not used to such temperatures.
“Jaster Mereel, and my son, Jango Fett.” Said boy just gave a jerked nod, but said nothing more. Knowing him, Jango was glaring at the lot of them, not wanting to be here. “And these are my guards, Myles and Zaran.” Said guards simply nodded silently in response to their introduction.
Thankfully, after that, they moved into the castle, the prince heading off in a different direction as the king and queen led them to the rooms they would be staying in. Of course, in no way would any of them be sleeping in private rooms, not wanting to be alone in potential enemy territory, so Jaster informed the monarchs of their silent decision. Though a little surprised by the decision, they did not take offense, nodding in response.
Soon after, they were then escorted in a different direction of the castle, entering a private room. By the looks of the furniture and items, it was a large private study for the king, Jaster concluded, surveying with a critical eye.
His guards stayed outside the room, with only Jaster and Jango taking a seat across from the king at his desk. With an internal sigh, Jaster knew it would be a while as the king started on their contract.
They went over all the contents, adding what would be needed in the first initial shipping of their required material, as well as discussing the amount of Mandalorians that would be stationed here for the time being.
It was when they began to discuss the actual marriage that Jaster had to ask, “And where is the other person for this marriage? Shouldn't she be here too?”
The monarchs shared a private look, one that spoke years of learning one another deeply, before the queen nodded and stood. “I will call her here.” And then swept out of the room.
Sitting in front of her vanity, Sansa did not react as her mother came into her room, just continued to plait the last of her hair. The older woman silently watched her, waiting for Sansa to finish stalling. She knew that her future husband would be arriving today, and purposefully did not join her brother and parents in the courtyard. She wanted them all to know exactly how much she did not want this marriage, even if it was in silent defiance.
Tying off the end, Sansa swung the long, thick plait of hair over her shoulder and stood from her seat. Sansa had done her research, learning what colour symbolism the Mandalorians used, wanting to make a statement. Westeros weighed heavily on the importance of colour and sigils that they wore day to day, mainly the wealthy. But even the common folk held importance to what they adorned their bodies with, showing their alliances through each outfit.
Sansa stood before her mother in a grey dress, sweeping low to her ankles and sleeves belled at her wrists. Around the collar, down the middle-front, and along the sleeves, were heavily embroidered strips. All in bright scarlet, depicting wolves, birds, trouts, and nature. Her hair, long and reaching her knees, was loosely braided into two separate locks, both having small, light green strips of ribbon tying the ends.
Lastly, a thick embroidered and beaded band went over the top of her head, tucked behind her ears. Also grey with red accents. To the people of the North, they would see the grey of the Starks and the red of the Tully. But to the Mandalorians, they would see scarlet; defiance. And grey; mourning. They would of course understand the scarlet, but the grey was for Sansa.
She was mourning the loss of her innocence, the loss of freedom and choice. And the sliver of green, subtle and hidden, could either be for duty, or for a lust of peace. Either meaning worked for her.
Sansa barely even glanced at her mother, striding out of her room with her head held high, knowing that her betrothed would be in her father’s solar. Past guards and servants, Sansa kept her back straight and poised. Just like her last two marriages, she would go in with her dignity intact and strength apparent. Just like her last two marriages, she would not be crushed easily either.
Two Mandalorians stood before the door, the helmet showing no reaction on their faces, but Sansa still gave them a soft nod in greeting, before continuing into the room. If they were to be her people, polite was the way to go. She was no warrior, would not gain their respect nor admiration that way, so she had to find other ways.
Inside, her father sat at his usual spot behind his desk. And in front, were two armoured males, and unlike the two outside, these Mandalorians had their helmets off. One was young, dark skinned, black hair curling, and possibly in his teen years. The other had hair just as dark, though the skin was lighter than the boy. And his eyes met hers the second she stepped into the room.
Though face weathered from battles, he was handsome, soft white marks of scars scattered across his skin. He was older than her, by maybe a decade, and even age did not detract away from his comely features. But Joffrey was handsome too. Beauty did not mean anything when it came to people's true intentions.
Behind her, her mother closed the door, walking over to her father as the Mand’alor stood from his seat to greet her. Instead of a bow, he offered his arm, and she clasped his forearm with only a slight hesitation. A different greeting to the usual bows and hand kisses in her culture, but she would accommodate.
“Sansa Stark.” She announced herself softly, gazing up into the hazel eyes of her future husband, looking for any danger. In return, he gave a gentle squeeze with his hand before letting go, “Jaster Mereel.”
Behind him, the boy watched their interaction, a frown on his face. He seemed to be assessing her every move, not unlike how she lived as Joffrey’s wife, surrounded by a court of snakes and lions. He was suspicious of her, and she could not fault him for that.
As they continued the negotiations, Sansa sat and watched, observing Jaster. He was loyal to his people, that was the first thing that stuck out to her. He was adamant about making sure all were fed and safe, and as a king, it was far more than Joffrey had ever done. When it turned onto their marriage, Sansa kept her face perfectly blank when the topic of heirs came up.
Jaster laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, firmly stating, “Heirs are not really necessary in our culture. Jango isn’t mine by blood, but he is still my son. I would have him take on the role of Mand’alor, if he so chose, but if not, then it will be whoever could beat me in a fight.” He then turned to look at her, speaking for the room but directly to her, “If Princess Sansa does not want children, then it will not be forced upon her.”
Pleasant words. Could be taken at face value or as a lie. It could be that he didn’t want the North nor her family to have any hold over his people and title. It could be that he wanted the heir he groomed to take over, trusting his son to follow in his footsteps. Or, it could be a lie to lure her into a false sense of security, and when she was alone and at his mercy, the words would crumble like ash. She does not allow herself to hope, just knows that she will just brace herself for what was to come on their wedding night.
Her parents seemed unsure about his words, but nodded in agreement, her father stating, “Per tradition, the marriage is to be consummated.”
Jaster scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, “Isn’t consummation about creating heirs, even though I just stated I don’t require them from her?”
Her father conceded, “That is true, but even still. It is tradition.”
Jaster’s face contorted into one of displeasure, “And if I just don’t want to?”
At that, her father faltered, as if not understanding why the other man did not want to have sex with her. She herself was also confused, thinking that sex was something all men desired. She hated this confusion, and continued to snuff out the hope that tried to form with his words.
His soon to be wife was an interesting creature, a delicate ease to her behaviour, face set to be calm and accommodating. But the second he met her eyes, all he saw was coldness. It was unsettling how quiet she was, only watching, never speaking. He wondered if these people were of the opinion that women held no sway. Going by the way the queen also sat and observed, he figured he was right.
So not only does he have a wife that he doesn’t want, he has one that's compliant despite the anger that raged behind her mask of indifference. She was no warrior either, that was for certain. From her noble posture and behaviour, down to the way she dressed. However, Jaster could see that there was a possible strength to her, under all those fancy clothes. Just one look and he could tell that she did not want this marriage either, and showed it subtly in the colours she wore. That’s even if she understood the meaning behind each colour for his people.
After they hammered out the contract, finalising all the details, Jaster had his two guards take Jango back to their room, and asked the princess if she would take a walk with him. He wondered if her meekness was due to her actual personality, or because she was in the presence of her parents and rulers.
They looked uncertain at first, glancing over at Sansa. The woman however stood up and gave him a nod, already leaving to room. After seeing Myles and Zaran off with Jango, Jaster caught up with her.
Silently, they walked through the corridors alone, and Jaster took this time to appreciate the architecture and stone work of the castle. It was some excellent craftsmanship, especially if made before modern technology. He was also curious about the history of such an ancient building. If his new wife and him got along well, he would have to ask her.
However, as the silence dragged on for too long, he then eyed the woman next to him. Young, was what he noticed about her features first. An adult, which he was relieved about, but still far younger than him. Jaster wondered if it was considered rude to ask her age. Observing her more, he noted that she moved gracefully, and he could admit that she was very beautiful, even if her hair was at an impractical length. Lingering on the colours she wore once more, Jaster had to ask, “Do the colours you wear have a symbolism to them?”
A faint quirk of her lips was her first response, looking at him with that accommodating smile. He wondered if everything about her was like that, or if she just acted that way with strangers. Her voice was near musical as she responded, “I had researched before hand, and as someone who puts much weight on appearances, I thought it appropriate.”
Jaster raised an eyebrow, not expecting someone who didn’t want to get married, to put a lot of thought into their future spouses culture. And if she knew the meaning behind every colour she wore, that meekness he thought of before was more than likely a front.
Deciding not to address her defiance, as it was obvious enough to it's reason, he went for the other more prominent colour, “And can I ask, about who you mourn?”
Sansa stilled in her steps and looked up at him. With the lack of movement, Jaster took in her height, and noticed that he was only a few inches taller than her. Her response to his question was just a simple shake of her head after a pause of deliberation, and Jaster could understand the silence, them being strangers to one another. Not wanting to push, he gave an understanding hum, before continuing on their way. They walked together through the halls, neither making anymore conversation.
He wondered if it would be best to try again later, asking who she mourned for, but decided to just observe her in her home, watching the way she interacted with her people. She gave smiles to those that greeted her, murmurs of ‘your highness’ following them. But Jaster was used to reading small movements, little ticks, observing what people really felt when their words did not match.
Uncomfortable. Guarded. Not just with him, but with everyone she passed. Her posture was perfect, however the tension in her shoulders made it seem as if she was ready to run at a moments notice. Like she was ready for an attack, surrounded by enemies. And this was meant to be her home too.
For someone who lived a life of nobility, Jaster thought it strange that she would be so taut with tension, especially in her own home. There was something more to her, something that might have happened in her past. Because she held the same characteristics as those warriors who have returned from a harrowing battle. And he wasn’t going to learn if he never asked. Clearing his throat to gain her attention, they walked out a side entrance of the castle and into the bitter cold once more as he asked, “How old are you?”
“25.” She answered promptly.
Jaster couldn’t help the relieved sigh that left his lips, and a spot of amusement played in her eyes before it left just as quickly as it came. His future wife was terrifyingly good at hiding her emotions. That worried him a lot.
Chuckling, mainly to himself but hoping his humour eased her nervousness, “I have to say, I’m very happy that I am not marrying someone too young for me.” And then he tacked on at the end, “I’m 34, by the way.”
She gave an elegant and indifferent shrug, “Westeros has had bigger age gaps before. But I guess I too am relieved that I am not marrying a very old man.”
He huffed another laugh. There was a subtle humour to her. However, their short conversation seemed to help to ever so slightly lighten the tension in her shoulders, and soon enough they moved through a small stone wall, the entrance curving at the top. Jaster had to pause in his steps at the sight of the trees before them, the heavy silence that hovered in the air, like all the bustling of the workers in the keep disappeared the second you step through the archway. It was unsettling.
Sansa, on the other hand, did not pause, continuing on with her steady pace, a comfortable stroll through the trees for her. Jaster knew instantly that the woods around him were not normal. He couldn't help the way his hand trailed over to the darksaber at his hip, knowing that he was a stranger, possibly invading lands that he shouldn't be entering. The weapon seemed to hum, louder within this unsettling wood.
The woman’s voice was soft, reverent, as she spoke, “This is the godswood. Our place of worship.” Her eyes looked brighter outside, surrounded by nature. Gazing up at the tree branches above him, he marveled at the thickness of all the trees, towering above them. They were old. That he could tell with just a glance. More than likely existing either before or during the building of Winterfell.
“An interesting place of worship.” Was his response. And it was. He would have thought people of their high society and traditional culture would worship in a place richer than in a literal forest, but there was something wild about this kingdom, so it wasn’t that surprising to learn.
She hummed in agreement, continuing on deeper into the Godswood, “Yes. I suppose it would be to a warrior culture.” Jaster smiled down at her, nodding in agreement. The place any Mandalorian would feel closest to the divine would be on a battlefield, where life walked a fine line of death and survival.
“So you come here to...?” Jaster trailed off with a tilt of his head, curious to know more of her culture, of her life. Anything to know more of what laid behind that mask she wore.
“Pray. Weddings are held here too.” She answered easily at first, but then paused. Eyeing him for a short second, she added, “Though I personally come here for some peace and quiet.” Jaster was now a bit surprised that she offered personal information up, and wondered what she prayed for, but that would be too intrusive to ask.
“Can’t say I find this place...peaceful.” Another delicate comment, and Sansa seemed to appreciate how he was accepting of her religion, but still agreed with his remark by shrugging and bobbing her head.
“It can be unsettling to outsiders. The Old Gods are faceless and strong, especially under the weirwood tree.”
And at that, they stopped in front of a pond, a thick white tree towering on the other side of it. It’s leaves bright red and large, swaying gently in the chilled breeze. If he came across it anywhere else, Jaster would mark it off as normal, if not for the weeping, smiling face, carved into the bark. The red tears had a chill running down his spine, and Jaster couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched. This was not a place to be messed with. If you’ve explored and visited many worlds, sometimes you come across places that held sentience. Places you would not have thought to have such intelligence. He once came across a planet where they entire thing was one entire sentient mind, covered in just plant life. Too wild for anyone to think of trying to control. The heaviness on his shoulders told Jaster that he should be careful in this place, and he wasn’t the kind of person to ignore his gut instincts.
Sansa peered over at him, eyes narrowed faintly. She seemed to be in the midst of contemplating something, so Jaster took that time to ask, “What do you want from this marriage?”
It would be best to lay everything out on the table, and depending on her answer, Jaster could discern more on her person, whether she could be trusted to be around his people. Her body stilled again, breath disappearing at his question. Once more, he saw a hint of vulnerability, eyes widening, and then it was hidden again. Jaster was determined to smash that mask to pieces, curious to see who she was without it.
Turning away from him, Sansa walked over to the tree, sitting down upon the large roots that clawed it’s way out of the ground. A seat for prayer, by the looks of it. Jaster stayed where he was, not wanting to intrude on her space nor get any closer to that tree unless necessary. His future wife stared up at the red leaves, and her pale skin and hair colour, she could be the human version of the weirwood tree.
Then, her voice broke the silence, the wind that played around them disappearing with her words, “Respect. Not for my station, but for me as a person. That my thoughts, opinions, and decisions are respected. Of course, I can accommodate, as I’m not unreasonable. But I would like to be respected.”
Jaster was stunned, not having thought she would request such a basic thing. Why would she ask that? What caused her to need such assurance? He voiced his thoughts, “I would’ve expected fidelity, as I’m sure many would want that from a marriage.”
She laughed. It was self-deprecating and cold. Jaster hated it’s sound because it was still beautiful despite the ugly emotions behind it. “We aren’t married for love.” Her mask was good, but not enough to hide her resignation in the winter blue eyes. “Why would I demand that from you? If you have a lover, I would not fault you for it, nor demand you to remain celibate. This is a contract.”
Jaster couldn’t refute that, and nodded slowly. She then asked, “What do you want?”
Eyeing her contemplatively, Jaster replied shortly, “Honesty. Can you do that for me?”
Sansa gave a short bow of head in agreement, and he wondered if she would actually follow through. “If you could do the same for me.” Guarded was her expression, as if expecting him to negotiate instead of agree, so Jaster walked over to her, and knelt down in front of her sitting form.
Sansa startled back at his sudden proximity and position, especially when he gently gathered her hands into his. Dainty things, barely a callous on them. Meeting her gaze firmly, Jaster spoke solemnly, “I want us to, at the very least, be neutral with one another. Neither of us wants this union, but I will go through with it for my people. I promised to lead them and keep them safe. I put them first. Can you understand then, why I would want you to be honest? My people aren’t really ones for subterfuge unless in battle. We are blunt and forward people. I need that honesty from you, princess. If you can give me that, I promise to never overstep with you. You will be heard, and you will be treated respectfully. I promise.”
She wished she could speak her mind. Scream and yell without fear like with her parents, but she couldn’t. Sansa doesn’t know this man, doesn’t trust him. With her parents, her family, she knew she was safe to speak her mind, as they wouldn't raise a hand, or a sword, in reply to her defiance. She can be angry with them. But not with the Manda'lor. So she pulled her mask on tight even as she prayed that he would not like be her last two marriages. If she needs to don on clothes and colours to please him, like with Joffrey, she will. But if he turned violent, she would rather take her own life than go through that pain once more. Her defiance had always been a silent one. And it will continue to be so.
Still, Sansa responded with the promised honesty, “I would never ask you to put me before your people. As a ruler, that is something I find commendable. But I will tell you this.” She leant closer to him, hands moving until she was the one to grip his tightly, voice going low as she promised him what she promised her parents, “If you ever raise a hand to me, hurt me, abuse me. I will leave. I don't care about the agreement and contract. I will leave and I don't care of any of the consequences I leave behind. Do you understand?”
Hazel eyes stared back as he replied, “Completely, princess.” Then, standing up, Sansa allowed him to gently tug her to her feet, giving her a wry smile as he spoke once more, “To honesty and respect?”
At the very least he seemed to have decent humour, her lips twitching against her will. “To honesty and respect.”