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Sansa stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror and cursed herself a coward. She’d been stalling for at least the last ten minutes, brushing her hair over and over and applying her hand cream twice. Before that she’d soaked in the tub until the water cooled and her fingers pruned. Taking a deep breath she hoped he wouldn’t hear, she stood, loosened the belt on her blue silk robe, and finally made her way over to her side of the bed.
Stannis was propped up on his side, book in hand and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t seem angry, but she’d been married to the man long enough to know that looks could be deceiving. They hadn’t spoken since they’d come upstairs from the party and Sansa didn’t know which she dreaded more, hearing him yell at her or this continued, quiet, brooding.
She’d made sure to wear his favorite nightgown, the positively scandalous one he’d bought her in Paris, and generously applied Mitsouko because it always made her feel dangerous and brave: the kind of woman who had adventures and didn’t worry about her husband being put out with her.
"Are you terribly angry with me, darling?”, she finally asked.
He made her suffer in silence a bit longer before finally looking up from the book. "And why would I be angry? Because you ruined Christmas --again-- or because you almost got yourself killed? Again."
Oh, he’d arched his eyebrow at her. She hated when he did that! How was she supposed to respond to that...that thoroughly superior look of his? Sansa wanted to pout and say he was not being fair. But she was smart enough to know now was not the time to start an argument. Instead she told herself she was wearing Mitsouko and silk. She was a femme fatale. She would seduce him into seeing things her way. Or make a cake of the whole thing and look the fool.
"But I didn't almost get killed ---you saved me, just like you always do. Just like you always will. And I can't be blamed for ruining Christmas. That is entirely the fault of our hostess and her horrible lover. They are the ones who decided a Christmas Eve ball would be just the place to try and kill her poor husband.”
Stannis finally met her eyes for the first time since they'd come up to bed. "She had a gun pointed straight at you, Sansa. A LOADED gun. If Lady Tanda's scream hadn't distracted her long enough for me wrestle it away, I cannot even allow myself to think of what might have happened."
Hearing his voice break, Sansa knew her husband was more frightened than angry. She had to admit she seemed to have a knack for getting herself into the worst situations, but he always managed to save her. He was her hero and even if he wore a bespoke dinner jacket instead of armor and drove a Bugatti roadster instead of a fine steed, he was still the brave knight of her dreams.
Choking back tears, Sansa threw herself onto his chest and buried her face into the side of his neck. "I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of that to happen. But if I hadn't confronted them when I did, they might have killed the poor man and be halfway to France by now. I couldn't allow them to get away with cold-blooded murder."
Stannis bit his tongue. He wanted to tell her that OF COURSE she could have let them go, that nothing was worth risking her precious life over. But she wouldn't be his sweet, brave, exasperating , Sansa if she'd behaved any other way.
He tightened his hold on her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I know you couldn't. You never can. But I hope you realize you are shaving years off my life every time something like this happens."
Rising up on her elbow, she frowned at him. "You make it sound as if I WANT to constantly be stumbling onto horrible crimes. I can't help it if every time we're invited somewhere somebody is murdered or someone’s jewels are stolen. It's not my fault if I notice things and people want to spill all their secrets to me. I don't ask them to take me into their confidence, they just do."
"Of course they do. No human alive can look into those blue eyes and not feel compelled to confess all. From maids to kings, you have them all eating out of your lovely hand and, just like me, they are helpless in the face of your charm."
"Oh, Stannis", she said as she peppered his face with kisses, "you always say the sweetest things. And you really can’t blame me for last Christmas, either. How is it my fault that your brother kept top secret plans locked up in his desk and then somehow hired an enemy agent to work as one of the musicians? It’s a good thing I noticed he was only pretending to play most of the songs and then got one of the maids to have a look in his room. Robert was very grateful to the both of us and you looked positively fierce rolling around on the floor with him and knocking him silly with that punch to the jaw.
And at least no one’s ever been done-in during our Christmas adventures. Not like the time our host was murdered by his own son while... indisposed ....and no one was poisoned right at the dinner table. Or bashed over the head in the garden. Or strangled at their own wedding. Honestly I shudder every time we receive a wedding invitation these days. As these things go, this house party was perfectly tame. I have every confidence that the next time we go somewhere, everyone will be on their best behavior."
"Let us hope. Or else people are going to stop inviting us. Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing, mind you. I'm sure we could figure out some way to spend all that extra time." Now it was his turn to do the kissing.
Coming up for air just long enough to toss the glasses and the book on the nightstand and switch off the bedside lamp, he couldn't help but add, "If you keep up all this sleuthing, everyone who works with me at the Foreign Office is going to start calling you Hercule Poirot."
THAT got a reaction. Suddenly Sansa was sitting up and pushing him off. "Hercule Poirot? That funny little Belgian detective with the mustache we met at the opera?"
"Well, I admit the mustache probably wouldn't suit you. What about Sherlock Holmes? I think you might look quite fetching in a deerstalker. We'd just need to teach you how to smoke a pipe."
Playfully swatting him on the arm, she couldn't resist teasing him. "Why Stannis Baratheon ---you need to be careful. If anyone else heard you right now it might ruin your carefully constructed image as a humorless man." And then, in an almost-whisper, "Does this mean you're not cross with me anymore, Lord Baratheon?"
"If I am, I have every faith you'll jolly me up in no time.
"Merry Christmas, my love."
“Merry Christmas, Lady Baratheon."