Author's Note: {AU} one-shot written for sansasource 'Sansa Week' 2018 Tumblr challenge.

Prompt: 'Queen'.

The Girl In The Painting

And I love/And have no need of phrases/My need/Is that we gaze into each other

"If I am to wed under sufferance, I would at least like to see the face of my future bride," Jon said quietly, turning to face Tyrion, who parried his gaze with a raised eyebrow.

"If Your Grace allowed" -

- "I allowed you to broker this alliance," Jon cut across him, "perhaps it was a freedom too far."

Tyrion glanced down at the ground, brow furrowing. Ever since the last living Targaryen had ascended the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms had finally known stability, a peace Tyrion was keen to prevail by uniting the North and the South, wedding Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, to Jon Targaryen, the First of his Name.

Jon had reluctantly agreed to the idea, love a luxury he could not afford. His marriage was a matter of state, nothing more. But in the depths of the night, he would remember red hair that burned like flame, all too aware that Ygritte was right; that he knew nothing, least of all his heart.

"As I was saying," Tyrion began again, signalling for Jon to follow him, "if you would allow me to lead you to the dais, I will show you the face you so desire to see."

"Desire has nothing to do with it," Jon muttered. "Fair or not, she will still stand as a stranger in my eyes."

"Well, this particular stranger is fair and exceedingly so," Tyrion said lightly, leading the way, "her beauty is much boasted of in the North."

Jon raised his eyes upwards, but he followed Tyrion outside regardless. For too many years, he had fought for a throne he had never seen, living like an outlaw, Sansa Stark a name unknown. But now she was to be his wife, the mother of his children, the thought frightening Jon despite himself.

"Here," Tyrion said smartly, coming to a stop before a large canvas propped up against a pillar, its frontispiece shrouded by cloth of gold, "behold your betrothed." With one swift flourish, he swept the covering aside, revealing a portrait set in an ornate carved frame.

For a moment, Jon could not speak, caught against his will by the girl in the painting. The artist's skill was such she almost stood before him as flesh and blood, immortalizing her flowing amber hair crowned by winter roses, echoing her indigo eyes. She was dressed in a simple grey gown, her hands clasped before her, but something in the curve of her lips contradicted the demure pose, hinting at the iron underneath.

"She will be a righteous and just queen," Tyrion said quietly, "her face may be admired, but her mind is respected."

"And she comes at her own freewill?" Jon asked, not for the first time, but it suddenly seemed vital in this moment that it was so, even as the notion was ridiculous.

"Yes."

Jon just nodded, sensing the world shift around him, rearranging it into lines he didn't want to recognize. He looked at Sansa's face for a long moment, and then he abruptly turned and left the dais, feeling her painted gaze following him.