A/N: My first Sword of Ice and Fire story, inspired by the idea that stories change with the teller. Sansa Stark loved the romantic ballads of old loves. How does her growth as a woman change her telling of the old tales? Not written in verse because poetry is harder than prose. All standard disclaimers apply.
As night falls they gather in the nursery for her favorite time of the day. Curled up in her chair close to the fire, the only throne she ever wanted to sit in, she loves to watch her family settle themselves around the room to wait for her tale. Her twins, dark and serious like their father, like her father, sprawl freely on the floor with their dogs; her youngest son perches primly on a footstool by her feet; her youngest daughter curled up on her cot. For a moment her heart goes out to the children not here tonight: safe and happy, no doubt, but so very far away.
"What would you like to hear tonight, my loves?"
A squabble breaks out then, young voices shrilling to outshout the other, but the rumbling of their lord father brings them back to order. "Florian and Jonquil!" calls the boy by her feet.
The others take up a chirping chorus, "Yes, yes! Florian! We want to hear about Florian the Fool!"
She smiles gently at that, stilling them with a graceful wave of her hand. "So be it. The Tale of Florian the Fool and his Lady Jonquil, then.
'The important thing to remember about Florian and Jonquil is that there are as many Florians as there are men in Westeros and as many Jonquils as there are women. The midwives tell this story one way and the maesters tell it another. But they're all correct.
'Once there lived a maiden named Jonquil. She was beautiful and clever, but even if she looked like an old boot men would have gazed upon her with longing and sung songs of her beauty and goodness for she was the only child of a great lord. Since before she was born, suitors had come knocking as she turned from a pretty little child into a beautiful young lady they only became more feverous. But they had no more luck wooing her as a lady than they had when she was a babe, for it was more important to Jonquil that she be loved than sought after.
'It was a stroke of luck, or fate, that she met Florian the Fool at all, he was just a common soldier in her father's pay: a little homely and very clever. But he was one to win the duty to guard young Lady Jonquil one particular day when she went walking in the woods, for neither suitors nor wild beasts would keep her away from the quiet forest pools she loved to swim in. Jonquil had never met a man quite like him before; as they walked the game trails beneath the trees he sang bawdy tavern songs and mimicked her ladies and men at arms mercilessly until she ached from laughter. To reward him, or maybe to tease him, she took a stick and tried to tap him on his crown and announced to any listening rabbits, "I knight thee Ser Florian the Fool, scourge of the ill-humored, champion of the tavern ballad."
'Florian evaded Jonquil's stick nimbly and disarmed her, holding her fingers a moment longer than was considered proper. "Aye lady, fools are knights and a fool am I, but none of us the fool you are for trusting a man out here in the woods with you."
'Jonquil was hurt by the accusation of foolishness, and even a little afraid of his words, for all he said them with a good intent and a wink. But he did not touch her further and did not stare at her while she bathed; going as far as to stand in the open with his back to her while she swam, instead of hiding behind a tree where he could spy on her to his heart's fill. And when a lion appeared, starved and mad with fire shining in its golden eyes, he was there to fight it off before it reached the pool; defending his lord's daughter with his very life against curved teeth as long as his dagger and claws like Valarian steel. But for all its fierceness, young Florian would not submit to teeth and claws, and he battled the lion to the edge of the pool before he killed it.
'Jonquil was frightened by the deep wounds on her protector's face and the rends in his mail, for hers had been a gentle life free of suffering and she knew nothing of wounds save these bled greatly. Once she had dressed she tried to fuss over his wounds as she had seen the maesters do once, but Florian pushed her away while singing, "I've beaten a lion, oh me, oh my!/ It came for a snack and then it died/ I wish it had been instead a fair lady/ For ladies smell sweet and are not quite so mangy." And so with his songs and his jokes he led her safely back out of the forest. And that, they both believed, was the end of their business with the other.
'Years passed, and stories of lovely Jonquil spread far beyond the Wall and across the sea, and even more men came to gaze upon her, offer their swords and loyalty and beds to her. Poor Jonquil tried to be polite and courteous to all who came to see her, for that was a lady's duty. But wherever she went, whatever she did, fights broke out among the men who felt slighted when they thought she smiled at them with less love than their fellows. Feuds grew from those fights. A great war threatened to break out and then the king sent a summons to Jonquil and her lord father. For the sake of peace in his kingdom he ordered her to take a husband, any husband; that the rejected suitors would return to their fiefs and manors and the kingdom would again be at peace. Jonquil's father saw the sense in this; for he could see the pain his child was unintentionally causing the kingdom.
'It was decided by the two men that they should hold a great tournament for the hand of the lovely Jonquil, and she gave the plan her blessing; for what did she know of the men pursuing her? They were all the same in her eyes. It was several moons before all the preparations were made ready, but when the day came it was a tourney whose like has never been seen since. It was as though all the men in the world had come to partake in the main competition, as well as the side events, for what's a tourney without jousting or archery, wrestling or pie-eating? But the only thing that anyone remembers anymore was the main event: a Grand Melee on a field the size of a castle. Now melees are fought on fields, in the open, but this one had a forest, a waterfall, and even some rude fortifications. The battle raged night and day for four days. On the eve of the fourth day, a single man in plain grey armor with a motley tabard of red and green and purple was the winner who knelt before the lady he had fought for. Jonquil herself lifted the worn helm off her champion's head to reveal the wicked eyes and smirking mouth of none other than Florian the Fool.
'Jonquil felt a stir in her heart as she looked down at the soldier, still bearing the scars from his battle with the lion. But she hesitated only a moment, and her smile was like the sun as she placed the victor's crown on his brow. Scarcely had she bid him rise as her champion and her betrothed when her father and the king descended on her, carrying her off to a hurried conference in the royal pavilion. It would never do, the two men agreed, to marry such a beautiful, powerful, wealthy lady to a common soldier with no money and only a bastard's name. However many men he might be able to face in combat, he'd never be able to defeat an army raised against them. Safer to give the prize to the second place winner: a wealthy third son from a populous Westeros fiefdom. To her credit, Jonquil argued furiously with her father and her king; but she might as well have sung the ballads she had heard from Florian those years ago for all she could sway their minds.
'It broke her maiden's heart when her father announced that she was to be wed to Ser Marcel the following morning and her heart broke again when she looked into Florian's, her Florian's, eyes and saw the betrayal reflected in them. With her great pain she realized she loved the soldier they called the Fool. Loved him with all her heart, as though she would never love any other as long as she might live. Jonquil's last night as a maid, she waited by the edge of the forest in the melee field, and was rewarded by his arrival. She had sent him no note, had no way of learning where he slept, or if he even knew how to read, but he was there by her side moments after she entered the wood.
'Jonquil had never been a shy maid, and so in the safe darkness of the woods at night she took Florian in her arms, crying with her love and her loss. She swore to the heavens and the earth that she loved him, only him, forever him. She begged his forgiveness for her marriage, clutching his hand kneeling in the churned dirt under the trees. All he could do was look down at her with a sad little smile on his face.
'When at last she ran out of words, he gently pulled pretty Jonquil to her feet, wiping her tears away with the scrap of motley cloth draped around his neck. "Come away with me, then. If I am your sun and moon and light and love, let me take you away from these mad men in their tin and their gilt. We can leave tonight, right now, and be beyond their reach by sunrise. No one could find us, no one could stop us. Come with me."
'For a moment her heart soared with all the tumultuous joy unexpected hope can bring, but then doubts set in. What will her father think when he finds her gone? Would he ever forgive her for fleeing her duty? Where could they possibly hide that would be out of reach of her king? Her Florian might be brave and strong but he couldn't save her from an army; no man could be so blessed by the gods to stand one against thousands and triumph. "Do you love me, Florian?"
'He sighed and touched her cheek with his fingers. "You are a fool beyond measure, beautiful Jonquil. There are no men, living or dead, who could look upon you and speak to you and then not love you until the sun burns out." But he saw something in her eyes and he knew then she would not flee with him, not this night or any other. So he kissed her quickly on the forehead, and turned to go.
'Jonquil was quick, and managed to grab the scarf of motley he wore. "I will always love you, Florian. Always. I swear it." But he left her holding the scarf, only calling over his shoulder than he will not hold her to that oath, and the following afternoon she is cloaked and married and spirited off to her new husband's country estate.
'Another year passes, and poor Jonquil remained caged in her husband's estate, always under guard, kept away from the forests and pools of her girlhood. With every day she mourned her foolish choice of duty over love for her Florian, and in her sorrow grew pale and delicate. One day while her lord husband was hunting with her guards, as he so often was since their arrival, the small keep was besieged by giants from the nearby mountains. They set fire to the plain wood castle, and as Jonquil ran out, one snatched her around the waist and ran away. It took her deep into the wilds, and kept her in its lair as a curiosity, a toy.'
The story teller takes a drink of the once warm cider, staring into the flames meditatively. She thinks of the raging winter outside, and the faint hope of spring in the hearts of her listeners. Her mother had said once that winter stories need happy endings, and she's inclined to agree right now.
'She never knew how, but it must have been the will of the gods, or sorcery, for she had to endure the giant's rough curiosity for no more than two days before a knight in dark grey armor, garbed in brilliant motley, appeared at the mouth of the lair. She didn't need to see his face to know he still bore the scars from the lion, but when he was victorious she kissed those marks all the same and begged his forgiveness for her stupidity. And this time, she went with him, from the damp dark caves, from the noble skirmishes of Westeros, to the Golden Cities across the sea and there they live out their days together, free.'
The image of the glittering cities in her mind's eye fades, and she surveys the children slumped over in sleep. "Was I really that boring?" She stands, smoothing her skirts and crosses to her husband as he beckons a serving man in to carry their children to bed.
He laughs at her gently, fingers brushing hair crimson in the firelight, "The world is poorer for being denied your mumming, Lady Clegane." As he kisses her with a passion still strong these ten years of marriage, he decides he likes this tale after all.