Surrounded by cheerful music and buzzing laughter Robb cannot find peace.
It's torturous, watching his sister's fiery red hair mingle with silver as the Dragon Prince spins her around and around in their astonishingly graceful dance. Her smile is wide and eyes shining, but he can see the falseness she carefully hides. He can see the fear in the shadow of her face, and it makes him curl his hands into fists under the table.
The queen looks at him and quirks her eyebrow. "You seem quite restless tonight, Your Grace," she says. "Why would that be?" Her purple eyes are playful, challenging. His jaw flexes out of its own accord.
"I would call it a common anxiousness of a brother of the bride, Your Highness," he replies sternly, bringing the goblet to his lips and downing its content in one gulp.
She takes in the way his fingers curl tightly around the goblet, and the way his eyes dart nervously from his sister to her new husband.
"You do know that he's not going to hurt her, don't you?" Her voice is low and he has to give her his full attention to hear her words. "I've promised you that, and I can promise again."
Robb shakes his head. "This is not what I fear, Daenerys," he says, even though that's a lie. "I just – ". His eyes flicker to the dance floor for the barest of moments. " – I got my sister back mere months ago. I can't bear the thought of losing her again."
The queen's eyes seem almost sad when she looks away. "This is your duty. It is what I have learned on my way home – your only concern should be fulfilling your duty. There is no place for feelings. Not anymore."
The northern crown feels heavy on his head, and he knows that; gods, he knows.
.
.
"You shall ask me to dance," Daenerys says. It leaves no room for objection and he's glad to at least do something, instead of sitting idly and agonizing over the future.
He bows at Jeyne who's been sitting stiffly by his side the entire time, and offers his hand to the queen. She's a vision in red and jewels, her silver hair (so much like her nephew's) curling loosely about her shoulders. Her hands and breath are so terribly warm, as if dragon blood was running underneath her skin.
They spin in tact to the music, indulging in small talk when close to the others. It's been easy between the two – months spent together on the battlefield, sleepless nights filled with arguing strategy and future plans, then the quiet evenings of remembering the past and their loved ones - all long gone.
They switch partners, then meet again halfway. From the corner of his eye he can see Jeyne dancing with Edmure, and he's almost glad that at least his uncle seems to be sensible tonight, (he can't forgive himself for neglecting her like that, but he can't bring himself to do anything about it, either).
The next change of partners however leaves him even less sensible than he's thought possible, when his outstretched hand meets Sansa's. She shoots him a bright smile (she's learned to lie so well), and he brings himself to give her one of his own. He tries to be as reassuring as he can be, while what is left of his heart breaks into pieces. He spins her around, arm wrapped tightly around her thin waist. She always feels so terribly small and fragile to him, her every touch gentle and feather like (except for the times when she begs him to make her feel alive again, begs to make herfeel, and he obliges, red scratch marks marking his back on the next day).
"Are you happy?" he asks.
She has a number of lies on her lips, reassurances and pleased exclamations, but none of them feel right directed at her brother.
"I will be," she says, and she wills herself to believe. She will grow to love him, the gentle prince with lavender eyes and warm smiles, just like their lady mother learned to love their father. Love comes to those who work for it, she would say, it takes time and effort, but someday it may come.
Sansa wills herself to believe it, when she returns to the arms of her prince, but she also remembers about a different kind of love – selfless, thrilling and pure. (The love of family).
.
.
"Bedding! Bedding!"
She feels her heart drop and suddenly there seems to be no air left in her lungs. Aegon smiles reassuringly and leaves her side, a wave of giggling women enveloping him in no time. Sansa freezes, her smile slipping from her face, and all she can think of is not again, not again please, while Tyrion Lannister's face flashes before her eyes. The men are coming, drunk and loud, their hands outstretched greedily, and she can't breathe.
Suddenly there are arms holding her up and a familiar scent hits her nostrils.
"That would be enough, my lords," she hears her brother's voice somewhere above her head. She keeps her eyes closed, while he scoops her into his arms and carries out of the room. Growls of disappointment and muffled laughter can be heard behind them, but they quickly dissipate as they make it through the corridor. She hides her face in the crook of his neck and chants thank you over and over again in a harsh whisper. His grip on her is strong and safe, and she doesn't want him to ever let go, (he's promised that once, she remembers; when he held her dark-haired and bruised, he said "I will never let you go again" and made her believe it true).
He opens the door to the bedroom and carries her inside. She can hear the giggling again, behind the wall, and it makes her shiver so badly her teeth chatter together. Robb lowers her gently on the bed and she finally opens her eyes.
His face is consorted in anguish and any remnants of his previous mask are long gone. He grits his teeth together, muscles of his jaw flexing madly underneath his skin. He takes her hands into his and squeezes so hard her knuckles go white.
She can hear the women coming closer, she can hear her husband's voice and laughter reverberating through the walls. Panic grips her heart with steely fingers and she locks her eyes with Robb's, (the blue of winter roses, like her own). "What if he – " she chokes, her voice nothing more than a strangled whisper. " – if he feels disgusted by – " but that's when bile rises in her throat and it takes everything she has to stop herself from vomiting.
Robb knows what she means, of course he does, he has seen her scars multiple times, has touched and kissed and shed tears over them; felt her pain multiplied by the knowledge that they were all his fault (he should have found her sooner, he should have saved her and he didn't).
"You are the most beautiful creature in this world, sister," he says. The door opens with a soft creak. "Don't you ever dare think otherwise."
Aegon stands by the door, merely in his breeches and a torn undershirt, his cheeks reddened by the wine. Sansa blinks back the tears and squeezes her brother's hands one last time.
As he rises to leave, Robb places a kiss on the crown of her head. It's gentle and meant to be reassuring, but it burns through her, its ghost lingering underneath her skin long after he leaves the room.