her voice rang out above all else, the lord looking up to see his tully haired daughter coming towards him. upon hearing her words, his heart sank. ned knew it was only a matter of time before she learned of the fate of her brother. there was not much they could do for now, there was not much else they could trade that had of equal value to robb. ned could see the look in her blue eyes, knowing that she knew without having to utter a word. however, what kind of father would he be to allow his daughter to live in the ignorant bliss of this world?
“aye…it is true, my daughter. i am doing everything i can to bring robb home.”
Dreams of home vanished, smoke pulled away from the dying embers of a forgotten fire, what little peace the girl had found after such upheaval rendered meaningless by brother’s capture. He meant to return Sansa — and younger sister, as well — to Northern home, no other save one of lupine blood deemed worthy of the duty in such uncertain times. With Cersei’s secret revealed, her children removed from succession and Stannis hastening towards the capital, there remained no call or cause for her to remain. Though her heart broke over what had been lost, the dreams shattered like rainbow glass, Sansa tok some comfort in believing she might soon know home’s comforts once more.
“Have they hurt him? And what of mother, have they taken her as well? Father, what people say…the rumors…I cannot bear to listen to them a moment longer.”
Heart sat high in clenched throat, decorum forgone as she raced through halls of carmine brick. Throughout court tongues wagged of the latest tidings, whispers from the battlefield; not all sympathized with Lord Stark’s noble cause, wary of Lannister wealth, what men it might summon to march over western horizon and reclaim that which had been stolen. Yet Sansa trusted none of them — friend or foe. Only from kin’s own admission could she believe such horrific news.
❝ "I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t want to repeat history."
“ — Then stay your hand, ser!”
Though her father spoke of the knight as lacking honor, a man whose vow meant little when confronted with a choice between duty and family forsworn, such a stain could not diminish what talent he naturally possessed. Beyond physical prowess lay a clever mind — all lions were clever, a lesson learnt no sooner than Sansa understood the true purpose of Cersei’s words penned in her careful script. Kingslayer, oathbreaker…ought one add fool to his sobriquets? Neither Trant nor Blount had yet managed to beat a brother’s victories out of her; failure, however, did not inspire defeat. Mayhaps he believed leonine blood would serve more faithfully; mayhaps he merely thought her scared. Sansa would not yield so easily, would not grant the king such vile satisfaction.
“Yes, my brotherlikes to fantasize that he knows how to swing a sword, I understand your weariness, Lady Sansaand I am sorry. I do wish to spend more time with you, do you enjoy reading? mayhapes we can sit in the library and have lemon cakes, someday.”
“Prince Joffrey shall no doubt prove himself a valiant warrior should the city require his protection; a lady, however, oftentimes fails to lend the proper appreciation for such talent, as another brave soul might. But you flatter me, princess — I have long enjoyed a book’s pleasures, though few traveled with me from Winterfell. ‘Twould stand a great honor to accompany you in your leisure, whenever you might desire.”
“The gods are merciful to you, indeed. But I worry, I haven’t see you among the other ladies in the sewing circle; have you been ill? I do miss your company.”
“No, my lady, simply weary. His Grace speaks often on the coming battle, what preparations he has made and his hopes for victory; I fear a young woman’s constitution allows for such talk before she becomes utterly overwhelmed.”
And yet even the truly just could lapse to human emotion. Still the truly just could find the truly just could find themselves acting in bounds of justice different from the ones they thought to find. Perhaps her history was not near so good as it should have been, perhaps she gave less time to books and studying than to music and dancing. But still she knew the stories - knew which family was blamed for the death of Elia Martell. Knew, too, that there had once been friendship between the Lannisters and the Martells of Sunspear. Friendship until her grandmother’s death had torn a rift between them.
The notes of sincerity make her glad, some small part once sure that Sansa would wish to distance herself from someone going so far away (someone so closely linked to the brother who had hurt her).
“Then I shall tell you everything ink can write of - though I fear my courage shall not match up to these peppers you speak of.”
And then her smile sobered, talk of war reminding her of what she left behind. (Perhaps it was more blessing than she knew, to be sent to Dorne like some golden gift. Perhaps her uncle knew well what he was doing.) Her smile slipped to an expression more sober, and she nodded decidedly.
“With the aid of the Seven, I am sure all right shall be done and my brother’s armies see victory.”
She says no more, and the words are so pretty and polite that it could well be wondered how acutely they were felt. For though she did not wish her family to fall, neither did she wish injury or death on Sansa’s brother or even the uncle who, it seemed, now hated her.
“But your letters could never bore me, Sansa, that I promise. I shall be glad to hear every ordinary detail of days spent here…and every detail of the extraordinary days, too!”
Surely none could miscarry justice so severely as these southron lions; if such cruelty permeated their world, infested every heart and every mind, then Sansa knew she would go mad for it. Hope expressed for the princess’ happiness extended to her own, small wishful prayer that the gods might yet deliver her from these carmine walls. There could be no fault in relishing cheerful tidings from the queen’s own daughter, surely, where even a flicker of pleasure at word of Robb’s victories risked painful censure. Yet soon she too would know freedom, whether by Stannis or her brother, wings blessedly unfolding from their golden cage, a dove transformed to northern lark as Sansa rushed away into the great blue wheeling sky.
Do not let her brother’s defeat bring much pain, she prayed. And let her know the mercy never given to my father, for Joff’s faults ought never fall upon her head.
“If you should even find the opportunity to bring quill to paper, princess! With so many new sights to see, I do not doubt Prince Trystane shall keep you quite occupied once you arrive.” And let him woo you as I never was. That feast seemed eons ago, when her prince would serve his lady the choicest morsels, cutting her meat and pouring her wine with an impeccable chivalry. Lies, all of it. Joffrey cared no more for her happiness than he did the value of kingly words; how many others would trust him and fall, before all this madness ended?
She wondered then if what men whispered in darkened corridors lay true, that ‘twas Stannis who rightfully claimed that throne of molten swords. Not only the lion king stood to lose from such scandal, innocent brother and sister both likewise accused of uncertain parentage; and what use had the Martells for a bastard princess, decidedly too leonine of blood to serve them any gain?
“Oh, but I could almost wish that they shall. Though talk of battle makes for a rousing missive, one can only hope that such conflict will pass over this good city. Gods be good you shall weep with boredom to hear of my breakfasts and short rides about the bailey; if they find themselves particularly kind, I need not write to you of my wedding at all, princess, for you will have long since returned to witness it yourself.”
He smiles for what seems like the first time in forever. GENUINELY smiles– It’s accompanied by a soft laugh only familiar to his chubby little frame. A laugh that many claim to be the light of the Kings; a cheerful reference to the very kingdom he resided over. With his life constantly in fear from the cruelty of his own blood it wasn’t often he got to laugh and have fun. Fun wasn’t allowed in the presence of Joffrey… He always felt the need to destroy the smile on his little brother’s face. But with Sansa, he finally felt wanted. Perhaps not by words or expression but he could see it in the way she’d smile. Tommen decided he liked her smile, more so than most others. Her true smile of course… Being engaged to his brother hardly left time for smiles and laughs. A bitter as it sounded, but Tommen found silent joy in making her smile… Everyone deserved to smile– And they had so much in common, or so he thought. ❛ Lady Sansa… You have a pretty smile…. I like it a lot– You should smile more. ❜
Despite her own hardships the girl could still readily see how her betrothed saw fit to torment others without any defense of traitor’s blood to excuse his cruelty. The princess endured kingly brother with enviable grace, though she might also pass days in quiet peace before supping or taking her ease alongside him; brothers, however, spent far more time in one another’s company, no doubt exposing the poor cub to brutality an elder sister would only hear of in passing whisper. Amongst a pack of lions Sansa felt warmth towards only them, children caught up in their parents’ misfortunes and schemes, forced to continue on with half-hearted prejudices as if mummers acting out before an empty hall. She had heard how Joff talked of his brother, poorly veiled disdain over the boy’s weakness, how puerile he seemed, yet Sansa could think only of little Rickon, how frightened he must feel, how alone. Tommen stood no different in Tully eyes, no matter that he wore doublets of crimson and gold.
“Thank you, my prince, you are too kind. I was just remembering your bravery in the bailey, daring to ride so large a pony! One day soon they shall have you trotting about on great destrier, a noble warrior fighting for his king. Would you like that, Tommen? To become a knight?” From all of them, you might find some honor in it.
There had been moments she’d entertained notions of asking for more companions than just Rosamund - - asking if Sansa might come along, might sail to Dorne as well. But the moments had passed with some thought, for she knew it impossible. Sansa was needed at King’s Landing, and Myrcella’s fate was sealed. She was to seal an alliance with marriage to a Dornish prince.
“I hope I shall not have made enemies before I even set foot on Dornish soil,” she said with a smile. “Though I have heard the same. I hope only that he is as kind as he is said to be handsome. And that he thinks well of me when we meet.”
She would be so far from home with little reminders of the family she’d left behind - - her septa was coming with her, and cousin Rosamund, but familiar faces would be few. She would need to carve a new life for herself from this new place, and an intended husband who would be handsome and kind would surely make such a thing easier.
“Shall I write to you, Sansa? When I am in Dorne? Would you like me to? To tell you of the prince and of the other Martells, the gardens and all the rest?”
“No truly just man could ever lay blame for a father’s conflict at the feet of his child, princess.” And in what way did that paint Joffrey? A tyrant? A madman? Sansa prayed the little lioness might find greater comfort in her second home than ever she had in the capital, for no child dictated the happenings of Dornish court. So long as she could secure a prince’s love — a feat far easier when the boy did not find pleasure in tears and pain — rose-hued fate stood assured, one kingdom traded for another, new crown all the steadier. How joyous she too had felt, setting out southward, Tully eyes straining for their first glimpse of a red keep rising out above the countryside! Would Myrcella strive to see Sunspear jutting out on the salt-stained horizon? Or would she look back to the city, long vanished, as Sansa sometimes pretended she had done upon the king’s road?
“Nothing would please me more, princess,” she offered, sincerity coloring every word. “You must tell me of their foods — I have heard they eat peppers so hot they blister one’s tongue! I only pray my letters shall bore you in their turn; though the men lust for a great battle, we should all find ourselves better served if Lord Stannis would at last recognize his great folly.” Let it be Robb who exacts justice, instead, after you are far, far from here. “Gods be good, this will feel like no more than a terrible dream in time.”
A less than pleasurable man, there hadn’t been many things in King’s Landing nor the Red Keep that had truly captured his attention and that he had enjoyed. Aside from the whores, there were the battles and the fine wines, yet despite the simple pleasures that he had been offered, he found that most of his entertainment came solely from the remarks that Sansa had made to him when he had angered her. Aside from his brother, there had never been a man nor woman who had managed to successfully frighten or intimidate Sandor, but it had always been a treat watching the little bird try her damn hardest.
Oftentimes, empty threats had poured from her lips, and while the words could have been enough to frighten the meaningless life out of some commoner or a handmaiden, they had only been fuel to a roaring fire for Sandor. His betrothed, she had called herself, and while he could not find any emotion behind her words that might have suggested she had enjoyed the title, it still was bitter to his ears. She had been a much different girl from the moment they had left Winterfell on that first journey to where they stood now, twisting through the winding corridors of the castle; quiet at first, and now she had been brave enough to speak up to The Hound. To lash back.
Her comment angered something deep within him, and as they continued on the journey to her chambers it took every bit of effort in him not to think about striking her across the face as many people had done before. Sure, his Grace would not have liked his cruel tongue, but he had already permitted what might as well have been the entire King’s Guard to lay their hands on her. Perhaps she had needed reminding. Yet, as his hands clenched at his side, his eyes grazed over the bit of her face that he could see. He would have never hit the little bird, not even if he had been ordered. “His Grace might not appreciate it, aye, yet he has let every other man in his service hit you. You are lucky I have more sense than to lay a harsh hand on a delicate little thing such as yourself,” he rasped, and as they turned the corner he grasped her shoulder with a firm hand, turning her around to face him so that he might address her directly. “Be thankful, girl. I could be a thousand times worse than Ser Meryn if provoked.”
The Hound claimed ‘twas a brother’s cruelty that had made him so, yet all about her in a father’s keep roamed men and boys alike who had seen similar injustices. None of them dared menace young girls, nor did they contend what horrors had before graced their lives granted clemency for whatever future indiscretions they might perform. Many marched beside Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon, and her father against a king turned mad by dragon’s blood; nary a tale from those rebellious months spilled forth without stains of blood and loss, yet men of northern stock took no cause to snarl down on those fortunate enough to avoid war’s sting.
Sansa thought he must have entered this world with such rage in his heart, fire’s coals mere excuse to unleash it upon surrounding souls. Some men were born hateful, the prince one of them most assuredly, yet behind flickering embers never extinguished in silvery gaze she could just spy a glimpse of tenderness. Mayhaps in time, with prayer, it might grow to more than simply shadows and mist, though he would ever be a knight rooted in crimson anger. He killed Micah! she heard a sister’s voice shriek. He was my friend and the Hound killed him! Had he enjoyed such duty, as Trant and all the rest relished serving their liege by beating helpless girls? Or had he grimaced to raise steel against a child, bound by duty rather than blood lust to the task ahead? No doubt he would claim to relish such an act.
She knew her threat fell ‘pon ears unhearting, a heart uncaring; this man was Joff’s dog and would do precisely as he was bid. A few bitter words seemed almost a kindness in compare to all else the King saw fit to inflict on his betrothed, no matter that they carried spiteful truths. Fingers remained in rigid splay against her legs, demure tendencies averse to the self-same flex of knuckles Clegane exhibited; breath left and entered in tense rasps, cutting at her throat in spite of the tepid summer’s air. “You will do as you must, ser.” Joffrey gave his orders whilst she stood before him, able to hear whom he named, watch as each man stepped forward with either trepidation or excitement. If he excluded a favorite pet deliberately then Sansa knew not his reasons, nor did she dare presume the Hound had at some time privately refused participation. “Why does he see fit to make you stand aside?” the girl asked, abruptly, chin jerking towards him in the narrow corridor. Tully eyes had narrowed in suspicion. “Does His Grace fear for my life with such ardor?”
Time and time again, the little bird had sat quietly as her wings were crushed into fragmented pieces, rendering her unable to fly. She kept her mouth shut, and there was no more he could do than standby and watch helplessly. He could advert his eyes from seeing what they did not want, but he could not close his ears to the sounds of demands, whacks, and helpless cries. He had tried time and time again to convince himself that she had meant nothing, and she had just been another pawn on the chess board that Joffrey and his family had played mercilessly, yet each time Joffrey had called upon her, Sandor found that he had felt something that could have mimicked sympathy for the young girl.
He hadn’t understood how it had been from her end. In all his years, he had learned to successfully manipulate his opponents; say what he needed to say and keep a thick skin, yet it seemed to him that despite her situation, the foolish girl had taken the comments and the blows as though they had been common her entire life and keep her mouth shut. The few times she had spoken back to Joffrey, Sandor had noted that she was set back in her place. Each situation had been different, yet he would have been pleased to see more retaliation. Her skin was still paper thin.
He had escorted her back to her chambers one early evening after supper upon the King’s request, one hand stationary at his side and the other grasping the handle of his sword as though it might have slipped away. Since he had not been permitted to wait around in the dining area while the family enjoyed their meals, he had no idea what had gone on as they dined. If he had to guess by the way Sansa had walked quietly with her head down, it hadn’t been good. He remained quiet, listening to the sound of his heavy metal boots as he escorted her through twisted corridors towards her room. Truth be told, he hadn’t been pleased to escort her to her rooms, feeling more like a dog now than he had at Joffrey’s side. When Sansa had looked up only a moment to glance upon his face, he was certain she had noticed it and positive when she spoke up. He kept quiet, only speaking up when he knew that they would not have been heard.
“You’re gettin’ yourself in trouble, girl,” he rasped, eyes locked on the corridor ahead of them. “Haven’t you learned by now?”
Not once had Sansa sought advice from the king’s burned knight. Though his rasped story of a brother’s youthful sadism awoke pity in her heart still the girl looked upon him as one irrevocably broken. The queen, the prince, the Hound…all of them entrenched within their sneering disbelief of any goodness lingering in a world trampled by armies and greed, determined to beat away with tongues and fists what innocence remained among air-pocketed bones. Silence earned her fewer lashes, a lion quickly tiring of prey that offered no resistance, yet a dog would pursue his quarry stubbornly, teeth dug in and paws set until surrender was declared.
“Her Grace invited me to supper.” Plainly, tone said, a touch of haughtiness meant to stay the knight’s tongue. “I have no wish to disappointed my beloved prince, or the mother he cares for so deeply.” She had but rarely heard Joff speak of his sire or the woman who carried him, always with a sneering derision, as though darkly amused two such lesser creatures ever could have created him in their image. To acknowledge or imply any rift among royal blood might amount to treason, a crime the Stark girl suffered for in blood, though not yet in life.
Oftentimes she wondered at the king’s choice to bid Ser Clegane escort her from room to room, more often than any other of his guard. Surely he knew of the proclivity each harbored for striking her, or the lack thereof; Ser Meryn would seemingly frighten her a great deal more, with his dark, hooded eyes and mailed fists. The Hound unsettled her, undoubtedly, yet Sansa knew as readily as the truth of her house’s words that he would not raise a hand to Joffrey’s little bird. Such faith could not force riverine eyes to regard burned face, nor make her tongue wag out more pleasantries than a simple greeting and farewell. Friendship and antagonism both passed unpursued, purported honesty making Clegane no less a Lannister man. “His Grace would not appreciate one of his guards speaking with such impunity to his betrothed,” she threatened, venom pointed in its utter lack.
It was a M I R A C U L O U S series of affairs that landed Ella in these bedchambers this morning to attend upon the king’s betrothed. But long after her exile, she had been plucked from the gutter to wait upon a Lady Miranna, one who not only saw through Ella’s mask of calm and composure, but who also sought to remedy the sorrows deep under. Though Ella would have been blithe to carry out the rest of her days by Miranna’s side, the lady soon left to join the rest of her family far away–and dismissed her household. But Miranna’s friendship with a man named Varys saw that Ella would not go hungry, and dropped her at the heart of King’s Landing … facing a girl with a brow of white marble and hair like spilled fire.
❝ My Lady? ❞ Ella frowned at the question as she approached, taking the brush at the vanity.
❝ I’ve yet to meet Her Grace, I’m afraid. I’ve only just arrived this morning, ❞ she gave a small smile, taking a handful of red to begin the combing.
Arrived that morning and already a lady’s maid? Only the work of one so interested in her, as Cersei quite clearly was, could arrange for such a swift rise in station. Sansa found herself unperturbed; she confided nothing in her attendants, never speaking to them of anything that one might deem salacious or intriguing. When they shared scraps of gossip their mistress simply nodded, her sole contribution in return, at times, murmured confirmation that she too had heard such a tale, or else a muted hum indicative of bland surprise. Though ‘twas another girl who saw to her hair, and always after bathing, Sansa allowed this newcomer her gesture of competence. It mattered not, as nothing else did, empty motions filling empty days. No advancement would come in service to traitorous Stark, no companionship from strangers who sought only to profit from the taint of her blood.
“How wonderful you must find it to return,” she offered, leading. “Surely you must find the city greatly changed since last you were within its walls. At times it feels as though all seven kingdoms have sought shelter from Lord Stannis’ advance.”
Every fortnight, it seemed, a new girl arrived claiming joy and honor to serve as one of the Lady Sansa’s handmaids. She knew better. Many of them pocketed the queen’s coin in exchange for news of how the traitor’s daughter spent her days; mayhaps if they could not provide sufficient fare, Cersei dismissed them as readily as she assigned them. Or perhaps this one belonged to the Master of Whispers, no doubt as interested as any other. So much curiosity, Sansa mused, without a drop of compassion alongside. Nary a glance was spared for the newcomer, greeting spoken lightly across berobed shoulder.
“And has Her Grace sent you as well? Flattered though I am, I have never thought of myself as quite so needful of attentions as our queen surely does.”
Every time they came to fetch her Sansa delayed, dawdling by her vanity or else questioning each man in enameled plate of gold and ivory as to what precisely they might do to a girl intent on remaining in her rooms. Joffrey had ordered her brought before him enough now that she knew each of their dispositions intimately: Ser Meryn and Ser Boros need hardly hear the end of their king’s command before acting, whilst Ser Preston seemed to find her beneath even such violent attentions. Ser Arys attempted chivalry, though not so far as to stay his fists. Only the Hound only ever met gruff words with measured touches, nor had he been asked to punish her as the others had.
Whatsoever stayed his hand had not stayed his tongue, however, condescension often coloring grunted remarks. Though he disguised it as concern, worldly knowledge for the naive child, Sansa knew he cared as little for her as all the others. A gentle heart, mayhaps, if not for the tale of his scars. She had not told a soul what he shared in that darkened corridor, not even Arya; cruelty bred cruelty, an unstoppable wheel beneath which so many found themselves crushed.
“Pray forgive me, ser. ‘Twas not my intention to make your duty onerous in its execution.”
“OF COURSE I’LL be by the king’s side, girl. Stannis will never make it to the holdfast, as long as those fighting remains STRONG. I’m leading men to give him a welcome, when the time comes. Been too long since I’ve seen battle. I can almost smell the blood already. Sniff the air, girl. Can you smell it?”
Naught save filth wafted on breezes blown across the bay, across the keep, across any corner of a city harboring only liars and thieves. Some donned rags, whilst some concealed their crimes ‘neath expensive silks and glimmering stones, yet still could Sansa see the ugliness beneath it all. “I — I shall pray for you, ser. ‘Tis no easy duty, asking men to follow you towards the crash of steel. And I shall ask the gods to make this battle brief, to keep good men from meeting death. Does such a thing not frighten you? Even dogs may shy away from those who mean them harm.” And how shall you protect me, then, when Stannis himself might strike you down before the gates come crashing in?
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
