Song of The Blessed - 14

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 14 – A Feast in the North

~ Jamie Lannister ~

The wind that howled through the streets of Wintertown was not merely a weather phenomenon; to Ser Jaime Lannister, it felt like a personal insult orchestrated by the Old Gods themselves. It was a biting, malicious being that sought to find every chink in his gilded armour, every gap in his crimson cloak, and freeze the very marrow of his bones.

He trudged through the slurry of mud and half-frozen slush that passed for a main street in this miserable collection of hovels outside Winterfell’s grey walls. The Kingslayer, the Golden Lion, reduced to a glorified errand boy in a land that smelled of wet dog, pine resin, and unwashed bodies.

"Fetch him," Cersei had hissed at him, her green eyes flashing with that familiar mix of irritation and command that Jaime found both rousing and exhausting. "The feast begins at sundown. If the little beast is drunk or absent, Robert will make a scene, and I will not have my evening ruined because our brother cannot keep his cock in his breeches for a single day."

And so, here he was.

The Wintertown Brothel was easy enough to find; it was the only building that emanated a semblance of warmth and the raucous noise of men trying desperately to forget they were freezing to death. It was a sturdy structure of heavy logs and thatch, smoke billowing aggressively from its chimney.

Jaime pushed the heavy oak door open. The heat hit him like a physical wall—a thick, humid mixture of roasting meat, cheap ale, woodsmoke, and the musky scent of sex. The common room was crowded with northerners, merchants, and a few of the crimson-cloaked Lannister guards who had slipped away from their duties.

The chatter died down as he entered. It always did. The sight of the white cloak and lavish armour of the Kingsguard, the golden hair, the sheer arrogance of his posture—it marked him as an apex predator in a room full of grazing cattle. Jaime ignored them all. His green eyes scanned the room, dismissing the serving wenches with their rough wool dresses and red cheeks, looking for the tell-tale signs of his brother’s presence.

He didn't find him in the common room. Of course not. Tyrion had expensive tastes, even in a hovel like this.

Jaime moved toward the back, toward the "private chambers." He nodded to a burly guard who looked like he had more giant blood than human, who stepped aside without a word. Jaime stopped before the most ornate door in the hallway and didn't bother knocking.

He shoved the door open.

"Time to go, dear brother," Jaime announced, stepping into the room.

The sight that greeted him was exactly what he expected, yet somehow, Tyrion always managed to add a flourish of debauchery that was almost impressive.

The room was surprisingly well-appointed for the North, draped in heavy furs and lit by a roaring hearth. In the centre of the massive bed, buried beneath a pile of wolf and bear fur, was Tyrion Lannister. And he was not alone.

Curled into his side, her pale skin glowing in the firelight like polished marble, was a woman. She was a redhead, a true kiss of fire, with a face that was pretty enough to belong in a minor noble house rather than a northern whorehouse. But it was her body that drew the eye. She was voluptuous, a landscape of soft curves and generous flesh. As the door opened, she shifted, the furs slipping down to reveal breasts that were, frankly, magnificent—heavy, round, and tipped with large, dark aureoles that hardened instantly in the cooler air from the hallway.

Tyrion held a goblet of wine in one hand, his other hand resting possessively on the woman’s hip. He looked up at Jaime, unbothered by the intrusion, a wry smirk twisting his mismatched features.

"Jamie," Tyrion drawled, his voice thick with wine and satisfaction. "You have a terrible sense of timing. I was just about to explain the intricacies of the Casterly Rock drainage system to Ros here. She seemed fascinated."

The woman, Ros, giggled, pulling the fur up slightly but making no real effort to cover the impressive swell of her chest. She looked at Jaime with bold, appraising eyes.

"Drainage systems," Jaime scoffed, kicking the door shut behind him to keep the heat in. "Is that what you call it these days?"

He walked over to the table near the fire, pouring himself a cup of wine from the pitcher resting there. He took a sip and grimaced. It was sour, thick stuff. Northern swill.

"Cersei sent me," Jaime said, leaning against the heavy wooden post of the bed. "She wants you scrubbed, dressed, and presentable. The Starks are expecting us at sundown for the feast. The King is already shouting for more wine, and he's liable to start groping the serving girls before the first course is served. I’d rather not have you add to her already angered state."

Tyrion sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. He nestled closer to Ros, burying his face briefly in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. "The Starks," he muttered. "Stoic people. Have you noticed, Jaime? They treat smiling as if it were a taxable offense. And the cold... honestly, how do they breed? I would think the necessary parts would retreat inside the body for warmth and never return."

"They breed just fine, apparently," Jaime said, thinking of the brood of Stark children. "Now, get up."

"I can't," Tyrion said simply.

"Can't?"

"Won't," Tyrion corrected. He gestured to Ros with his wine cup. "Look at this, Jaime. Truly, look. This is Ros. She is a flower of the North. A rare, blooming rose in a field of snow. We are currently engaged in a very important diplomatic mission. I am fostering relations between the West and the North. It involves a great deal of... friction."

Ros smiled, running her fingers through Tyrion’s hair. "The Little Lion is a generous lover, My Lord," she said, her voice a husky purr that hinted at a throat used to earning coin. "He says he likes the way the North feels."

Jaime snorted. "I’m sure he does. But the 'Little Lion' is needed by the Crown Prince."

At the mention of Draedon, Tyrion’s expression sharpened slightly. The lazy hedonism didn't vanish, but a gleam of intelligence cut through the wine-haze.

"Ah," Tyrion said. "Draedon. My favourite nephew. And how is the Crown Prince? Breaking hearts? Breaking bones?"

"Both, likely," Jaime said. "He asked for you as well. He said something about needing intelligent conversation because Robb Stark only talks about snow and swords."

"Robb Stark is a boy," Tyrion said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "Draedon... Draedon is a shark in human skin. I prefer him to Joffrey, certainly, but he has that look in his eye. The one Father has."

"Don't let Cersei hear you say that," Jaime warned.

"He is certainly something," Tyrion mused. He took a long drink. "But Jaime, look at me. I am comfortable. I am warm. I am in the arms of a goddess. You cannot expect me to leave this paradise for a drafty hall and boiled potatoes."

"I thought you might say that," Jaime said. He pushed off the bedpost and walked to the door. "So, I came prepared."

He opened the door and whistled.

From the hallway, three more women entered. They were a variety of Northern beauty—one blonde with braids down to her waist, one dark-haired with skin like milk, and one with a wild mane of curls and a mischievous grin. They were all dressed in the sheer, flimsy shifts of their trade, leaving little to the imagination.

Tyrion’s eyes widened. "Jamie... you shouldn't have."

"I didn't," Jaime said with a smirk. "I just paid for them. Consider it a bribe. You have one hour, Tyrion. One hour to 'sample the courses,' as you put it. But if you aren't at that feast when the King sits down, I will come back here, drag you out by your ears, and throw you into the snow naked."

Tyrion sat up, the furs falling away to reveal his stunted, scarred body. He didn't care. He looked at the three new arrivals with the hunger of a starving man at a banquet.

"One hour," Tyrion bargained. "Make it two."

"One," Jaime said firmly. "Do not be late. Cersei is in a mood, and Draedon specifically asked for your presence. You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Fine, fine," Tyrion grumbled, though his eyes were already dancing between Ros and the blonde. "One hour. I shall be the soul of punctuality."

Jaime nodded. He looked at Ros one last time. "Keep him entertained, but get him out the door."

"I will do my best, Ser," Ros said, offering him a wink.

Jaime turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. He needed to scrub the scent of this place off his armour before he faced Cersei.

Back inside the room, the atmosphere shifted the moment the latch clicked shut.

The three new girls giggled, moving toward the bed, but Tyrion held up a hand. The playful, drunken lust was gone from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating look that belonged to a son of Tywin Lannister.

"Stop," he commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it had the crack of a whip.

The girls froze, confused.

Tyrion turned to Ros. She was looking at him, her smile faltering slightly under his intense gaze.

"My Lord?" she asked uncertainly.

Tyrion sighed, setting his goblet down on the bedside table. He reached out and cupped her chin, his fingers surprisingly strong. He looked her straight in the eyes, analysing her, not as a piece of meat, but as an asset.

"I will not bed you now, Ros," he said quietly.

"Did... did I do something wrong?" she asked, hurt flashing in her eyes. "I can be better. I can—"

"Hush," Tyrion said gently. "You are magnificent. That is the point."

He released her chin and sat back against the headboard, ignoring the other three women who were hovering awkwardly by the hearth.

"You have ambition, Ros," Tyrion stated. "I can taste it on you. You don't belong in this frozen wasteland, spreading your legs for timber merchants and smelly guards."

Ros straightened, pulling the furs up to cover her breasts, sensing the shift in the conversation. "I do what I must to survive."

"Surviving is boring," Tyrion said. "Thriving... that is where the fun lies."

He reached into the pile of his discarded clothes on the floor and pulled out a heavy purse. The clink of gold dragons was a sweet music that made all four women in the room hold their breath.

He tossed it to Ros. She caught it, the weight of it shocking her.

"Get dressed," Tyrion ordered. "Something that shows your assets but leaves a little mystery. Pack your things."

"Where am I going?" Ros asked, clutching the gold.

Tyrion smirked, a dark, conspiratorial expression. "You are going to Winterfell. Not the brothel. The castle."

He looked at the other three girls. "You three, help her. Make her look like a lady. Or at least, a very expensive mistake."

He turned back to Ros. "My nephew... the Crown Prince, Draedon Baratheon. He has... appetites. Specific tastes. He tires of the court ladies with their endless chatter and their starched morals. He needs something raw. Something real."

Tyrion leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Be ready tonight. I will have a wagon waiting at the back gate. You will be snuck into the castle. When the Prince retires from the feast... he will find you. If you please him... if you truly please him... you will never see the inside of a place like this again. You will walk the Red Keep in silk."

Ros stared at him, her heart pounding. The King's Landing. The South. The Prince.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why do this for me?"

"Because," Tyrion said, swinging his short legs off the bed and grabbing his breeches. "Draedon likes gifts. And I need to ensure that when the time comes, the Crown Prince remembers who kept him happy."

He looked at her, his mismatched eyes gleaming.

"Now, get moving. Winter is coming, sweetling, but for you... things are about to heat up considerably."


~ Sansa Stark ~

The chambers of Sansa Stark were usually a sanctuary of calm, smelling of lavender and lemon cakes. Today, however, the air was thick with the frenetic energy of three teenage girls on the precipice of a life-changing event.

Outside, the grey sky of the North loomed, but inside, the room was a cocoon of warmth, heated by a roaring fire and the flushed cheeks of its occupants.

Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. Across from her, sitting on the rug and the window seat respectively, were her closest friends: Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole.

They were giggling. It was a high-pitched, breathless sound that grated on Sansa’s nerves even as she joined in.

"Did you see him?" Jeyne squealed, hugging a pillow to her chest. "When he got off his horse? I thought I was going to die. I literally forgot how to breathe. His shoulders... they’re so broad!"

"And his eyes!" Beth chimed in, her face red with excitement. "Blue as the summer sky, but... fierce. Like a wolf, but a man. A prince-man."

"He looked at me," Jeyne insisted, for the tenth time that hour. "I swear it. When he was walking toward the Great Keep, he looked right at me and smiled."

Sansa felt a twitch in her left eye. A sharp, hot spike of jealousy pierced through her chest.

"He was smiling at the crowd, Jeyne," Sansa said, her voice a little sharper than she intended. She smoothed her skirts, trying to regain her composure. "He is a Prince. He is polite to everyone."

"But it was a special smile," Jeyne argued, lost in her fantasy. "Maybe he likes blonde hair. His father married a Lannister after all."

"He is the Crown Prince," Sansa stated firmly, lifting her chin in that way she had practiced in the mirror—the way a Queen would look. "He is not going to marry a steward's daughter, Jeyne. He is here for... alliances."

She let the word hang in the air, heavy with implication. He is here for me.

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, letting the image of him wash over her again. Draedon. The name tasted like honey and wine.

She had seen him in the courtyard. The way he moved, like a panther, liquid grace wrapped in black steel. The way he had taken her hand. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips on her skin. It burned.

He wasn't like the boys in Winterfell. He wasn't like Jon, with his brooding silence, or Theon, with his arrogant, unearned swagger. Draedon was a man. He had a presence that sucked the air out of the room. He was dangerous. She had heard the stories—the Resurrected Prince. The man who had walked through death and come back stronger.

In her daydreams, which were becoming increasingly frequent and vivid, he didn't just kiss her hand. He pulled her onto that black horse of his. He rode her South, away from the snow and the cold, to a castle of gold and sunlight. And in the marriage bed...

A deep, visceral blush spread across Sansa’s chest and up her neck. Her mind, usually so guarded and polite, betrayed her with images she had only gleaned from the whispering of older maids and the more scandalous songs. She imagined his hands—large, rough from the sword—on her waist. She imagined the weight of him.

"Sansa!" Beth’s voice snapped her back to reality. "You're doing it again. You're blushing like a tomato."

"I am not," Sansa lied, touching her burning cheeks.

"You were thinking about him," Jeyne teased. "About the bedding ceremony?"

"Jeyne!" Sansa gasped, scandalized, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "That is improper!"

"Oh, please," Jeyne rolled her eyes. "We're all thinking it. Whoever marries him... gods. They say he has an animal’s ferocity. That he can go all night."

Sansa bit her lip. All night.

The door to her chambers creaked open, interrupting the illicit conversation. The laughter died instantly.

Lady Catelyn Stark swept into the room, followed closely by Septa Mordane. The atmosphere shifted from a warm, girlish sleepover to a cold inspection.

Catelyn looked tired. Her hair was pulled back severely, and her blue eyes were sharp with the stress of hosting the Royal Family. She looked at the three girls—sprawled all over the room, flushed, giggling—and pursed her lips.

"Sansa," Catelyn said, her voice brisk. "Why are you not ready? The feast begins in two hours. The King does not wait."

Sansa stood up hurriedly, smoothing her dress. "We were just... talking, Mother."

Catelyn’s gaze softened slightly as she looked at her eldest daughter. She saw the flush on Sansa’s cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. She knew that look. It was the look of a girl who had seen a prince and forgotten that fairy tales often had teeth.

"Talking," Catelyn echoed. "About the Prince, no doubt."

Sansa looked down, studying her shoes. "He is... very gallant."

Catelyn sighed. She walked over to Sansa, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear.

"He is a man, Sansa," Catelyn warned gently. "And a Prince of the South. They are different than what we are used to. They charm, they flatter, and they take what they want."

"He was kind," Sansa defended, a little breathlessly.

"Charm is a weapon, dear daughter," Catelyn said. Then, her tone became business-like. "Now, about your dress for tonight."

She gestured to the bed, where the Septa had laid out a gown. It was a heavy, grey wool dress, embroidered with the direwolf of Stark, with a high collar that reached Sansa’s chin. It was beautiful in a stark, Northern way. It was warm. It was modest.

And Sansa hated it.

She stared at the dress with horror. A nun’s dress.

"Mother," Sansa said, her voice trembling. "I... I cannot wear that."

Catelyn frowned. "And why not? It is the colours of your House. It is warm."

"It makes me look like a septa!" Sansa cried, her desperation rising. "The Queen... the court... they wear silks. They wear colours. If I wear that, I will disappear against the walls!"

"You are a Stark of Winterfell," Catelyn said firmly. "We do not dress like Southron peacocks. We dress with dignity."

"Draedon... the Prince," Sansa stammered, saying his name aloud for the first time to her mother. "He... I will be sitting next to him. You said so yourself!"

At the mention of Draedon, Catelyn’s expression tightened. "Yes. You will be seated next to the Crown Prince. Which is exactly why you must dress modestly."

Catelyn stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The Prince... he is a man of appetites, Sansa. I saw the way he looked at you in the courtyard. I saw the way he held your hand."

Sansa’s heart leaped. "He liked me."

"He wanted you," Catelyn corrected bluntly. "There is a difference. You are a maiden of a Great House. You are not some tavern wench to be ogled at. You will not display your body to him on a platter. You will command respect, not lust."

Sansa felt tears prick her eyes. Her mother didn't understand. She didn't understand that Sansa wanted him to look. She wanted that heat she had felt in the courtyard. She had spent the last year growing into this body—her hips had widened, her breasts had blossomed into something that made the other girls envious—and now her mother wanted to hide it all under grey wool?

She had already showcased her body to him in the courtyard, in the blue dress. He had seen the curves. He had liked them. To retreat now... to wrap herself in wool... he would think she was a child. He would look past her to someone else. Maybe even to Jeyne or Beth.

"Please, Mother," Sansa whispered.

"No," Catelyn said. "You will wear the grey. Septa Mordane will help you if she must. I must go check on the kitchens."

Catelyn turned and marched out of the room, her skirts swishing. Septa Mordane gave Sansa a stern look, pointed to the grey dress, and then followed Catelyn into the hallway to receive final instructions.

The door clicked shut.

Silence descended on the room.

Sansa stared at the closed door, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. A rebellious fire, hotter than anything she had ever felt, ignited in her belly.

She turned to Jeyne and Beth. They looked sympathetic, but also resigned.

"It's a nice dress, Sansa," Beth offered weakly.

"No," Sansa said. Her voice was low, trembling with a new emotion. Determination.

She walked over to the bed, picked up the heavy grey wool dress, and threw it onto the floor.

Jeyne gasped. "Sansa! The Septa will be back!"

"Let her come," Sansa hissed. She turned to her wardrobe, the large oak chest at the foot of her bed. She threw it open.

Buried at the bottom, hidden beneath piles of winter furs, was a package wrapped under cloth. Sansa pulled it out.

"What is that?" Jeyne asked, eyes wide.

Sansa unwrapped it. The fabric spilled out like liquid blood.

It was red. A deep, rich crimson silk, imported from Myrrish weavers. She had bought the fabric months ago when the merchants had come with the Manderlys, with coin she had saved, and she had bullied the seamstress in the winter town—a woman who didn't answer to her mother—to sew it in secret.

She held it up.

It was not a Northern dress.

The neckline was an off-shoulder cut, a daring plunge that was fashionable in King's Landing but scandalous in Winterfell. The bodice was boned and stiff, designed to cinch the waist to an impossible smallness and push the breasts up and together, creating a shelf of creamy flesh. The skirts were full but fluid, designed to sway and cling with every step.

"Sansa..." Jeyne breathed. "That is... that is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

"It's red," Beth whispered. "Like the Lannisters."

"It's the colour of passion," Sansa corrected. "The colour of fire."

She turned to her friends. Her eyes were bright, feverish.

"I am not going to wear the grey," Sansa declared. "I am going to the feast. And I am going to make sure that Prince Draedon looks at no one else. Not the Queen, not the serving girls, and certainly not his wine cup."

She reached back into the chest and pulled out two more bundles.

"And you two are not wearing grey either."

She tossed a bundle of blue silk to Beth and a bundle of bright yellow to Jeyne.

"We are the future ladies of the North," Sansa said, her voice sounding far older than her years. "Tonight, we do not hide."

"Sansa," Jeyne said, clutching the yellow silk, looking terrified and thrilled. "Your mother will kill us."

"My mother will be sitting at the high table," Sansa said, beginning to unlace her bodice. "By the time she sees us, it will be too late. The Prince will be there. The King will be there. She cannot make a scene in front of the King."

She stepped out of her day dress, standing in her shift. She looked at her reflection in the glass. She was curvy, soft, and ripe. She was ready.

"What happens in this room," Sansa said, looking at her friends in the mirror, "stays between us. We walk in together. We hold our heads high. And we take what is ours."

Beth and Jeyne looked at each other, the thrill of rebellion overcoming their fear. They nodded.

"For Draedon," Sansa whispered to herself as she reached for the red silk.

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

The Great Hall of Winterfell was a cavernous beast of a room, usually dark and drafty, but tonight it had been transformed into a spectacle of warmth and splendour.

Hundreds of torches burned in iron sconces along the stone walls, casting a flickering, orange light that danced over the banners hanging from the rafters—the Grey Direwolf of Stark, the Golden Lion of Lannister, and the Crowned Stag of Baratheon.

The air was thick, almost solid, with the sensory overload of a royal feast. The scent of roasted boar, venison, onions, and gravy mingled with the sharp tang of ale and the sweet, cloying aroma of Arbor gold wine mixed with the strong, rustic smell of the Northern ale. The noise was deafening—a mix of laughter, shouting, the clattering of pewter plates, and the barking of dogs, or direwolves, fighting for scraps under the long tables.

At the High Table, raised on a dais above the common rabble, the royalty and the nobility sat.

King Robert Baratheon was already three cups deep into the wine, his face flushed, his laughter booming over the din as he regaled a stony-faced Ned Stark with a story about a tavern wench he had encountered on his journey here. Queen Cersei sat to his right, her face a mask of polite disdain, her fingers gripping her wine cup as if she wished to crush it.

And then there was Prince Draedon.

He sat with a relaxed, predatory grace, leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the back. He was wearing a doublet of black velvet slashed with gold, the colours of his house, which fit his muscular frame like a second skin. He wasn't drinking heavily like his father; he was sipping, watching, calculating.

Beside him sat Robb Stark. The heir to Winterfell looked stiff, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the event and the presence of the royal family.

"Your brother," Draedon said, his voice cutting through the noise effortlessly. "The bastard. Jon Snow. Where is he?"

Robb stiffened. He turned to look at Draedon, defensive lines appearing around his mouth. "Jon is... not here."

"I can see that," Draedon said, swirling his wine. "Why?"

"Lady Stark," Robb said quietly, glancing down the table at his mother. "She thought it... improper. For a bastard to sit at the high table with the Royal Family."

Draedon’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. He looked at Catelyn Stark, who was currently forcing a smile at something Queen Cersei had said.

"Improper," Draedon mused. "That is a favourite word of your mother’s, isn't it?"

Robb frowned. "He is my brother. Bastard or not."

"I know," Draedon said. "And frankly, I find the exclusion tedious. I have heard stories of this Jon Snow. They say he has the Stark look more than any of you. The long face. The grey eyes."

"He does," Robb admitted. "He is the best sword among us, other than perhaps myself."

"Is he?" Draedon smiled, a sharp, challenging expression. "Then it is a crime to hide him away in the shadows. We are Baratheon men, Stark. We judge a man by his steel and his wit, not by who his father bedded on a campaign."

He leaned closer to Robb.

"Tell him," Draedon commanded, "that Prince Draedon wishes to meet him tomorrow. In the yard. I want to see if the Bastard of Winterfell fights as well as they say. I have a fondness for men who have to fight for every scrap of respect they get. They tend to be... hungrier."

Robb looked surprised, then grateful. "I will tell him, Your Grace. He will be honoured."

"Good," Draedon said. He turned his gaze back to the hall. "Now, where is Lady Sansa? I seem to be surrounded by bearded men and dogs."

As if summoned by his words, the heavy double doors at the far end of the Great Hall swung open.

A draft of cold air swept in, causing the torches to flare and gutter.

The noise in the hall didn't stop all at once. It rippled into silence, starting from the tables nearest the door and spreading like a wave toward the High Table as heads turned.

In the doorway stood three figures.

For a moment, Draedon thought he was back in King's Landing, or perhaps even Lys.

Sansa Stark stood in the centre, flanked by her two friends.

She was a vision of fire in the grey hall. The red dress was a masterpiece of glamourous tailoring. It hugged her torso with a tightness that bordered on indecent, the boning of the bodice pushing her breasts up so high they looked like two scoops of cream threatening to spill over the crimson silk. The off-shoulder cut exposed the creamy expanse of her neck, her collarbones, and the tops of her shoulders, skin that gleamed like pearl in the torchlight.

The skirt, though full, was cut to drape over her hips, emphasizing the flare of her waist and the roundness of her behind.

Beside her, the Cassel girl in blue and the Poole girl in yellow were similarly attired, their dresses tight and low-cut, showcasing their youthful bodies with a brazen confidence that shocked the conservative Northerners.

But it was Sansa who commanded the room. Her auburn hair was loose, cascading down her back in waves of fire. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and defiant.

The silence in the hall was absolute.

At the High Table, Catelyn Stark dropped her fork. It clattered loudly onto her plate. Her face went pale, then red with mortification.

Ned Stark stopped mid-sip, staring at his daughter as if she were a stranger.

Queen Cersei raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling her lips. "Well," she murmured. "It seems the little wolf has claws after all."

Every man in the room—from the lowliest stable boy to the knights of the Kingsguard—was staring. The lust was palpable, a heavy, humid weight in the air. They were looking at the exposed swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist.

Sansa hesitated for a fraction of a second, the weight of a hundred stares hitting her. But then, she looked up.

She locked eyes with Draedon.

Draedon Baratheon didn't look shocked. He didn't look scandalized.

He looked hungry.

A slow, appreciative smile spread across his handsome face. He set his wine cup down deliberately.

In a move that broke all protocol, Draedon stood up.

The scrape of his chair against the stone floor was loud in the silence.

He walked around the High Table. He descended the steps of the dais, his black cloak billowing behind him. He walked down the centre aisle of the hall, ignoring the stares of the crowd, his eyes fixed solely on Sansa.

Sansa watched him come. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs. He looked like a god of war and desire, moving toward her.

He stopped in front of her. He towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room.

He looked her up and down, a slow, deliberate perusal that felt like a physical touch. His gaze lingered on her cleavage, openly admiring the view she had provided, before moving up to her eyes.

"Lady Sansa," Draedon said. His voice was low, intimate, meant only for her. "I was told the North lacked the beauty of the South. You seem determined to prove them wrong single-handedly."

Sansa felt her knees turn to water. "Your Grace," she whispered, sinking into a low curtsy.

As she dipped, the cut of her dress dipped with her, offering him an even deeper view. Draedon didn't look away.

He reached out and took her hand, pulling her upright. He didn't let go.

"You look," Draedon said, stepping closer, invading her personal space, "ravishing. That colour... it showcases your beauty like no other."

"I... I wanted to look nice for the feast," Sansa stammered, drowning in his blue eyes.

"Nice is an understatement, my love," Draedon murmured, bringing her hand to his lips again. This time, he kissed the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse point. "You look dangerous. I like dangerous."

He turned his charm to the other two girls, nodding to them. "Ladies. You brighten the room."

Beth and Jeyne giggled, turning crimson.

Draedon offered his arm to Sansa. "Come. Your seat is beside me. And I warn you, if any man in this hall looks at you for too long, I may have to blind him. Lady Cassel, Lady Poole, do join us."

Sansa took his arm. The velvet of his sleeve was soft, the muscle beneath it hard as iron.

He escorted them up the aisle, back toward the High Table. The silence broke as they walked, replaced by a low murmur of gossip and awe.

As they reached the dais, Draedon guided Sansa to the chair on his right. He pulled it out for her, gesturing for her to sit down. Her two friends sitting on either side of her and Draedon.

Even after they sat, the tension in the room remained thick. Ned Stark looked like he was about to have a heart-attack. Catelyn was pale as a sheet.

But then, a booming laugh shattered the tension.

Robert Baratheon slammed his hand on the table, shaking the plates. He looked at his son, then at Sansa, staring at her heaving bosom with an appreciative, drunken grin.

"Gods be damned!" Robert roared. "Ned! Your girl has bloomed! By the Seven, she’s a beauty! And feisty too! Just like Lyanna!"

He turned to the crowd, raising his massive goblet high, wine sloshing over the brim. He saw the fire in his son's eyes—the same fire he used to have for Lyanna, or perhaps just for the hunt. He saw a man taking what he wanted. And Robert Baratheon respected that above all else.

"What are you all staring at?" Robert shouted at the silent hall. "Eat! Drink! We are in the North!"

He gestured wildly toward the musicians in the gallery.

"Play something loud! And let the feast begin!"

The music crashed back into life. The conversations exploded once more, louder and more frantic than before, everyone desperate to discuss the spectacle they had just witnessed.

Draedon leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his wine. He felt Sansa trembling beside him. He rested his hand on the back of her chair, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her shoulder. She shivered, but she didn't pull away. In fact, she leaned into his touch.

He looked across the table at Robb, who was staring at his sister with wide eyes. He looked at Catelyn, who was practically vibrating with suppressed rage.

And he smiled.

The game had begun. And Draedon Baratheon had just made his opening move.

Author’s Note

Things are heating up well. Next chapter, Draedon finds some delight in the North.