Chapter Text
“It’s just like her to upstage me at my own wedding.”
The sun blessing the bride and groom through the skylight roof pales in comparison to the cameras flashing. The paparazzi spent some time admiring the redheaded sweetheart of the socialite scene, their attention was quickly directed towards Sansa’s maid of honor—more specifically, Sansa’s maid of honor and her date. Last month, Arya Stark and Aegon Targaryen were announced to be the staring leads of an upcoming blockbuster, and though the news was a delight for the series’ fans, their rumored romance was the true treat for any gossip aficionado. Appearing as the date for her sister’s wedding practically solidifies the story.
Sandor, though far from a dashing groom, is dressed better than he ever has in his entire life. The suit is designer, and the ring costs more than his old apartment, but Sandor promised nothing but to satisfy Sansa’s every whim when planning the wedding. He put up with the paparazzi and the pleasantries, the judgmental relatives and the nosy remarks, all for his blushing bride. He places his arm around his now-wife, and whispers assurances in her ear.
“All the attention’s on you, little bird.” He kisses her lips. “I don’t see anyone else.”
Sansa rolls her eyes, but she smiles and kisses him back. “Fine,” she agrees. “I guess you’re opinion is supposed to be the only one that matters now.”
Sandor laughs and kisses her again, this time on the top of her head as he tells her not to be a brat. She counters that he’s only so wise because he’s old. Sansa remembers a time when they used to avoid those jokes like the plague when their relationship was still young and she was insecure about upsetting him. Now they laugh and drink their wine and talk about their perceived grievances, and just like that, Sansa feels her annoyance wash away. They’re here now; surrounded by supportive friends and family, with a sizeable flat in London waiting for them when this day is over. Soon, one of her investors pulls her to the side to congratulate her on her nuptials. Sansa is reluctant to leave her husband, but Sandor gives her a nod of approval and the new bride cheerily goes about discussing the launch of her brand with her husband sitting close as a shadow. He then pulls his attention away to greet more of Sansa’s incoming relatives.
Jon and Robb are not tacky enough to wear matching suits, but Robb’s tie complements Jon’s shirt quite nicely, and Robb’s hand around Jon’s waist shows off a Rolex pairing up with Jon’s cuff links.
“I see she’s as dedicated as ever,” Jon notes. Sansa does not notice them, too busy discussing figures and growth. She’s excited, the most excited they have seen her since Sansa decided to drop out of the design program and enter the business section instead. Now, instead of pandering to a corporation, she was the corporation.
Sandor shrugs. He gestures the whole of the venue. “This is for her, anyway. I’m just here for the food.” He takes another gulp of the wine for good measure. He nods at Robb.
“How’s the Boss doing?”
For some reason, Sandor doesn’t feel comfortable calling Robb’s father by his first name, and their ages made it awkward to refer to him as Mr. Stark. He found a middle ground when he started working for Stark Industries.
Robb gives him a cringe. “It’s Sansa’s wedding so…fine, I suppose?” He looks around and spots his father, taking small sips of his drink as he tries to answer whatever question one of their guests ask him. It looks awkward, and Robb can only hope it’s not another mention of Sansa and Sandor’s age difference, or Sandor’s checkered past. Robb turns back to the older man. “No man’s really ready to see his daughter get married.”
Sandor nods. “Good thing he only has to do it once.”
That earns a chuckle from all the men. They all turn to Arya, who is being gushed over by another guest. Aegon is on the side, talking to more fans but occasionally shooting longing glances at his date. They all get ignored. Jon stares at them a little longer than necessary, before excusing himself. “I have to use the restroom.”
Robb understands; he kisses him before he leaves, and reminds him that they have to leave early so that he has time to study for his exam.
Jon pouts, less irritated and more exasperated at the nagging. “I’ll do fine.”
“Fine isn’t something to be proud of,” Robb reminds him. “This is your career. You want to excel.”
“Spoken like a true honor student,” Jon replies easily. He remembers all too well those hard months of dead silence while Robb prepared for his final exams. Jon knew better than to bother him, but they were hard—each day wondering if Robb had stopped loving him, or had forgotten about him. On the day of his last exam, Robb had taken a train to Winterfell and fucked Jon like he was a blind man who’d forgotten how his lover looked like and needed to remember through touch.
In the first year of their separation, Jon experienced bouts of paranoia, wondering if some trollop had snuck her way into Robb’s heart while Jon was in his police training. He took a train to Edinburgh, only to find an empty apartment with no food and clothes everywhere. Jon had been so upset at the sight of his lovers’ dwelling that he’d spent the whole day making pre-packaged meals and organizing the apartment. When he was finished, he noticed twenty missed calls. Robb had confessed over a voice mail that he’d experienced a massive bout of jealousy and took a train to Winterfell to debunk his suspicions.
The two shared a good laugh about that for weeks and made plans for a weekend getaway. Robb wishes they could have another one of those short vacations soon. While they lived together now, nestle nicely in their house—a sizeable dwelling on the Winterfell property, the little, precious moments were rare. Both were swamped with responsibilities, both from Robb’s position at Stark Industries and Jon’s stress over his uniform obligations.
At least, both of them thought, they had a warm body to go home to at night. With that in mind, Jon kisses Robb again and walking to find the nearest toilet.
Sandor leaves the eldest Stark as soon as his wife calls for his attention. Like a dog, Sandor is at Sansa’s side with a single beck. Robb’s stranded status draws the ire of his youngest sister, who leaves her date to be by his side. They hug each other, and Robb asks how she’s suffering outside the single life.
“I can’t believe you brought him.” Robb shakes his head in mock disappointment.
Arya punches his arm. “I told you. My date was going to be a surprise.”
“Honestly, I thought you were going to bring Gendry,” Robb replies. “We all thought you were going to end up together.” For a second, he worries the truth is too much.
Arya smiles, and it has that gorgeous enigmatic quality that made her famous. “Nah, he’s seeing someone.”
“Serious?”
Arya shrugs. “Serious enough. She’s a friend of Myrcella’s. They met at one of her recitals. He sounds pretty happy.”
“How about you?” Robb asks. He considers asking her if she’s lonely, but when the thought comes to him, it sounds like a stupid question. “How’s the flat shopping going?”
“Good,” Arya reveals. “I’m closing in on this place in Chelsea.”
“Lannister owned?”
“Of course.” Robb can’t help but roll his eyes.
Arya sticks out his tongue. “It’s a great deal—you try finding a seller in London when you’re not even old enough to drink in some countries.”
Robb agrees with the sentiment. Arya has always done what needed to be done in times of a crisis. He leans over to pull her close and hold her. “I just want you to be happy.” He glances over at the Targaryen in the room. “Whatever that means for you.”
Arya smiles exasperatedly. “It’s just for show,” she explains, but there’s an air of added nonchalance that makes Robb doubt the validity of her statement. “Our contract is worth millions; these PR stunts are just apart of the game.”
“Just like your affair with your dancing instructor?”
“Exactly,” Arya says with a grin. “Nothing sells like a good rumor.” She grabs two flutes of champagne from a nearby waiter and hands one to Robb. “Where did Jon go?”
“Bathroom.”
“Ah.” Arya turns back to her date. She’s looking at him and there’s affection there, which further proves Robb’s theory that they are more than an act. “You know, he really does want to get to know Jon.”
“Yeah?” Robb doesn’t know how he feels about that. It isn’t a good feeling, but it is hardly bad. Truth be told, the man had apologized years ago and swore that he would do everything in his power to keep Rheagar away from his half-brother. The promise was effective because while Rhaegar still sends gifts on Jon’s birthday and Christmas, there has been no face to face interaction since that night. All was forgiven; though it was only a matter of time before they would cross paths again.
“I told him it was up to Jon, and that while we could come to the wedding, it wouldn’t be up to him to make the first move.”
“That’s fair.”
Aegon is seen laughing at a comment from afar. Neither of the Starks can tell if it is genuine or fake. When Aegon is done conversing, he turns to his date from across the room. His eyes meet Robb’s, and though his smile drops the slightest, he offers a shaky, nervous wave. Robb, out of pity and kindness, returns it. Aegon beams at the acceptance, and both Starks are taken back.
Arya recovers and shakes her head.
“Say what you want about Rheagar Targaryen,” Arya says. “But he makes beautiful babies.”
She raises her glass, and Robb is compelled to salute her.
***
Lyanna Mormont and Shireen Baratheon never grew up to be great beauties. Unlike the Starks, there was little in their bloodline to indicate otherwise. While they lack in appearance they made up for with sharp wit and high intellect, often earning admiration through their ambition. Shireen has been accepted to her father’s ala mater—Oxford, per course, while Lyanna was doing her work-study at one of the most competitive teaching hospitals in the country. The two of them are still the best of friends and have opted to attend the wedding as each other’s plus ones. The two of them are laughing about Lyanna’s latest ER disaster when they are interrupted by an unknown yet oddly familiar voice, telling them “it’s been a while.”
They turn around to face the stranger, and he must have been Death because he took both of the breaths away. The young man towers over both of them, and this is feat given that the two of them hit the skies like sunflowers after puberty. His suit is well fitted to line his muscles, and his skin is sun-kissed from obvious activity—real activity, like on a field and not gym work—and he is bitten with these gorgeous, lickable freckles. His ginger hair is loose and wild, but it comes off as rugged rather than slovenly. Then, there’s his face—and both young women swear they know that face, because it’s a face that was on the alter this morning saying her vows and it’s the face that was arranging the guest seating in a panic for her daughter’s wedding and—holy fuck.
“Rickon?”
Shireen’s mouth gapes.
Rickon smiles at them, and this is the grin of fuckbois across the world because they know that he knows he’s a snack, and he knows that they know he’s a snack, and god damn it, neither of them was ready to deal with their former playmate and ex-stalker growing up to look like a GQ model.
Rickon takes a step further. To both of their shocks, he leans in to offer both of them a kiss on the cheek. It’s not an offensive gesture; in fact, it’s standard. But Shireen swears that when his lips brushed against her scars, it feels obscene, and Lyanna knows in her heart that his breath on her neck is unavoidable but damn—damn, damn, damn, does she want that breath somewhere else.
“It’s good to see you two again,” Rickon tells them. He turns to Shireen. “You’re as stunning as ever.” Anyone else and the Baratheon heiress will have interpreted compliment as mockery or sycophancy. Instead, the speaker is Rickon, a kid who thought she was made of stardust and diamonds as a child and had spent every day of his summer sneaking into her bedroom to look at her.
To make matters worse, Rickon turns to Lyanna and tells her, “You’re not too bad yourself.” Lyanna cannot help but stare, because while it comes off as half-hearted praise, the genuineness is laced in his jest. Then, he gives her an extensive look up and down and has the audacity to smile in approval.
Lyanna wants to be offended by the obvious eye-fuck this teenager is giving her, but Rickon is so damn attractive that her horniness has long pushed her self-respect off a cliff. That arousal has crown itself the ruler of her mind, and turn sensibility to a throne it lays its ass on.
“Thank you,” Shireen tells him back. “And you…you look…wow.” Shireen’s face burns as she realizes what she just said. “I mean…you look, oh my gods…I…” Dear gods, Shireen turns red as her tongue ties itself. She is the future leader of one of the biggest banking conglomerates in the world. She will be attending Oxford next year as the scion of Stannis Baratheon. She cannot get flustered over a teenage boy!
“What did Harrow do to you?” Lyanna snaps, because her instinct for emotions she cannot control has always been anger and strife.
Rickon laughs like she said a joke. “I guess it really has been a while. Sorry, we couldn’t see each other sooner. I wanted to visit the last few summers, but there was a training camp for rugby last year that I had to attend, and the year before that, mum wanted to take us on a family trip, and the year before that, I really wanted to get better acquainted with the school so…” Rickon shrugs, and he gives this fake sheepish look to indicate his apology for revealing himself further. “Listen, how about I get us some drinks and we can catch up.”
Rickon doesn’t wait for them to answer and is already heading to the bar to order drinks he assumes they will like. The audacity of the gesture makes Lyanna livid.
“Can you believe him?” Lyanna turns to Shireen, who is too busy staring. Lyanna has never seen that look on her friend, but she recognizes on many others.
“Shireen, it’s Rickon Stark. Pull yourself together!”
“Lyanna, I’ve never had a man that looked like that look at me like that.” Shireen is still staring at Rickon, watching him smile and chat with the bartender as if they were old friends. “Hells, I’ve never had any man look at me like that.”
“That is not a man!” Lyanna protests. “That is Rickon Stark.”
“I know.” Shireen is still staring.
“The kid who used to watch you through your window and broke into our sleepover to stare at you through the closet.”
“I know!” Shireen whines. She turns to Lyanna. “But Lyanna…look at him!”
“I know!” Lyanna hisses back. “But he’s still Rickon Stark!”
“Okay, see my head knows that,” Shireen explains. “But this—” Shireen gestures to her groin. “Only sees what my eyes do, and that is a gorgeous ginger flirting with me using a mouth that wants to eat me alive. And out.”
Lyanna can’t even find the words to argue with that. She tries again with reason. “Shireen, he’s a kid. He may not look it—” Damn those Stark genes. “But he’s still a kid, and we have too much self-esteem to debase ourselves to a teenager just because he’s the hottest person who’s ever flirted with us.” And maybe the hottest person who will ever flirt with them.
The two of them halt their conversation when Rickon returns with three flutes of champagne. “Sorry,” he says when one glass almost tips over. There’s no childish mutter when he apologizes, just deep masculinity that is followed by a smile. “So, where do you want to sit?”
On your face, Lyanna thinks, because after downing the drink in one final gulp, Lyanna takes his hand and drags him out of the reception. Shireen is shocked, but she quickly gets the message as she chugs her own glass and follows them upstairs to an empty room. Despite the two female’s earlier reluctance, the three of them are laughing all the way into the bed, and Lyanna doesn’t allow Rickon’s bowtie to make it into the bedroom.
***
“I can’t find Shireen,” Stannis 2.0 tells his father and stepfather as he returns from his search. Stannis looks around the room and sees that Lyanna has gone missing as well. His first instinct is to be concerned, but Davos soothes with a touch.
“I talked to Steffon and he saw her and Lyanna leaving to get reunited with an old friend. Don’t worry.”
Stannis purses his lips into a line. “Weddings are a cesspool of debauchery. Was that friend male or female?”
Davos laughs, “Lyanna is with them; I doubt they’re doing anything nefarious. Unless you think she’s joining in.” Stannis makes a face towards the image. He is about to scold his husband when the former smuggler wraps his arm around his husband’s shoulders. “But if you like, I can look for her. I might even get her here before the bouquet toss.”
Stannis’ face spoke volumes, but his mouth mutters a soft insult instead. “Fine,” he says, as he leans back in his chair to watch the rest of the ceremonies. The bride is changing into her final dress and the bouquet toss will occur shortly after. Davos kisses him on the cheek and asks if he remembers their wedding—an empty courtroom with two strangers as witnesses and a magister signing the papers and wishing them the best of days. It was Stannis’ dream wedding, and Davos could never forget how elated the man looked when he was given their certificate.
Stannis frowns, but there’s a twitch there that indicates a struggling stoicism. “Yes.”
Davos nods and goes to get Stannis a glass of wine. He hands it to him and clinks them together in celebration. “May the bride and groom be as happy as us.”
Stannis doesn’t say anything, but when he initiates the next kiss, Davos knows the man is swooning.
***
“You look beautiful,” Bran tells his oldest sister.
Sansa smiles at him, which earns her the ire of her makeup artist.
“Sorry,” Sansa mutters as the man applies the finishing touches of her gloss. She wanted her look to match the bouquet—a collection of bluebells, white carnations, roses, and dried berries for an additional accent.
Bran takes the responsibility of grabbing her wedding shoes to put underneath her final dress. It is a sleek, satin blue dress that emphasizes her already elongated figure and makes her entire body look like silk. As he runs his hands over the embellished crystals on the heels, he offers an apology of his own.
“I’m sorry I can’t be there in the end.”
Sansa smiles again, which earns her another jab on her lips. When he is finished with the overall look, Sansa admires herself in the mirror. Then, she answers Bran’s concern. “Well, this wedding ends with Sandor fucking me in our apartment so I don’t think I’ll miss you too much.”
The two of them share a laugh. When they are done smiling, Sansa gets up and walks over to her brother. She ruins her lipstick by kissing his cheek, and the makeup artist looks close to throwing a fit but Sansa does not care the least.
“I have my fairytale ending. It’s time for you to get yours.”
With her blessing, Bran gestures Osha to take him out of the room. She drives him to the airport and makes sure he gets the proper treatment until he is through security. There she hugs him and waves him goodbye. At the gate, Bran calls his boyfriend to tell him it’s only a day’s worth of travel left.
“I can’t wait,” Jojen tells him. “I picked an apartment on the bottom floor, and the entire building is wheelchair accessible. I even added a few other safety measures…” Jojen goes on and on about the week he has planned for them. When he is finished, Bran remains silent so that Jojen can retreat to his safe and standard declarations of love.
“I love you so much, Bran. Thank you…thank you for waiting for me.” To become a man he deserved.
Bran smiles, even though Jojen can’t see it, he knows it's there.
“I love you, too,” Bran tells him.
***
A small stampede is heard as soon as the bouquet toss is to be announced. Both Lyanna and Shireen are struggling to get out of bed. They only barely manage to find their dresses in a reasonable amount of time, and the hurdle of putting on is having them trip over their own feet.
Shireen tosses Lyanna her underwear, and Lyanna helps her find a comb. Neither of them care about the activity itself, but the bouquet toss is a good indicator that they have been gone for far too long, and it won’t be long before someone suspects the worst (or rather the truth) of their disappearance. It does not help that the youngest Stark is lounging on the bed with his cock out. As the Baratheon heiress fixes up her hair in the mirror, Lyanna works on Rickon’s top.
“You’re so irritating,” she tells him. “I bet you did this on purpose.” All the buttons are uneven, and his cock is still wet. Rickon grins at her. Shireen hears her friend swear as she is pulled into their bed partner’s lap and taken in for another kiss.
By the gods, they just went through three rounds! Shireen storms over there to separate them, only to have her ass fondled. Before she can push off, Rickon pulls her down and kisses her. He switches between the two girls, and his lips are everywhere from Shireen’s face to Lyanna’s neck. Shireen tries to fight the attention, but it is intoxicating to be so wanted by someone so obnoxiously attractive.
“One more round,” Rickon whispers against her breasts. He pulls down her dress so that her breasts are bursting out and after he is finished kissing them, he returns to Lyanna and plays with her still bare cunt. “You two are so fucking stunning. I thought I’d be disappointed because it’s been three years and so much has changed but fuck—I can’t believe how much you both have accomplished.” He looks at them and grins. It isn’t a fuckboi smile, either, it’s one of genuine, childish, admiration that they use to be so familiar with. “You two are going to rule the world.”
Well, fucking hells. Shireen shares a look with Lyanna, who gives an exasperated expression as she rips open Rickon’s shirt. Shireen is taking off her dress again, and swearing as she does so because she is going to be in so much trouble and for what? A great fuck?
“Fuck,” Shireen swears. She removes her underwear. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Lyanna tells him as she pulls her dress over her head. “You can’t just say things like that.”
Rickon is laughing his ass off as he continues his filth. “I can’t believe you’re working at a hospital. At your age. Gods, I always knew you were tough, but you had to be brilliant, too.”
“Shut up,” Lyanna warns him. She kisses him within an inch of his life, and Shireen gets on her knees.
“And fuck, Shireen, I thought you were beautiful before, but look at you now. Just the thought of you running Baratheon Corp., being the boss I know you are, drives me crazy.”
Shireen slips his cock—which is unfairly gorgeous given the rest of the gifts the gods already bestowed on him—inside her mouth. Rickon moans; he allows both girls to take control, before turning the tables on them the next round. An hour later, the two of them will spend the rest of the wedding running half-naked from room to room, trying to avoid the entire Baratheon clan as they search for their heiress.
***
The bouquet they miss ends up having several keepers before landing on its rightful owners. Sansa counts to three, before tossing behind her head and the shit storm begins as follows:
First, it is directed towards Arya, who joins in the charade because it is her sister’s wedding and the girl personally requested her presence. She has the most obvious expression of panic when it comes spiraling towards her head and uses all her strength to whack it out of her vicinity. Her date sends her a look of disappointment, but it is quickly washed away but the humor of the situation. Because of her actions, the bouquet has completely left the vicinity of the group of women it was intended for, and it ends up heading to the Baratheon table. While Shireen is not there, her brothers are, and Steffon has become far too infatuated with one of the serving boys for Stannis to feel comfortable. He volleys the bouquet to the other side, and it lands directly in the center where some of the bride’s favorite people reside.
Robb, whose wolf-like canine is in attendance whistles for him to play catch. Within the seconds, Greywind, renown for his speed, makes a speedy recovery of the bouquet. Robb waits for it to be returned to his master, and everyone is in hysterics as he holds it up triumphantly to the crowd. When Robb finally sits down from the cheering, Jon rolls his eyes.
“You know it’s cheating if we’re already engaged.”
Robb does not answer and kisses his future husband instead.