Not wholly did he believe the claims she made. Nor, he suspected, did she. Still was the boy at fault ( if for nothing more, than for lack of greater control of self ). Eyes tarried a moment upon the gesture, the arm which in some sense troubled her. Darkness concealed any cause, but one need not see to find answer in supposition. But it was not his concern, and guesses he shoved behind. ❛ That is not an excuse. ❜ Boys will be boys, as if one could not be taught to quash all supposed instinct, to hold oneself on a higher plane and behave as one superior to common boys. No sympathy for any such would he deign feel.
Slightest temptation of amusement curved the corner of his lips ( barely noticeable ). ❛ Then you are in good company, Miss Stark. I cannot count the times I have been accused of rudeness. ❜ But for all the almost-smile, tone stayed just shy of humour.
❛ I shall hope that none shall find you wandering again, for there are officers who would gladly see you face what charges they could conspire. And other denizens of the night even less courteous… ❜ And she was barely more than a child, after all. Steady strides kept even pace with her own, giving no sign of following, for all that it was only she who knew their destination.
Heavy swallow blocked her throat, a pained burial of guilt — or innocence — by association with one so fallible. This man reminded her of Lord Lannister, leonine patriarch of his golden-haired clan, stoic and disinterested in all save that which benefited him. Though she could make no supposition as to her escort’s greed, nor his ego, Sansa sensed that at least in spirit these two men might find commonality. Only a faint hum, noncommittal, acknowledged that she had even heard the dismissal; duty lay fulfilled, no untoward suggestion given on the girl’s part that mayhaps her beau failed in his chivalrous duties.
A nervous smile, however, met the near-stranger’s assertion of incivility. “I find that quite difficult to believe, sir; courtesy is hardly a quality stumbled upon infrequently, and you have shown me nothing save the greatest consideration.” Flattery came readily to the chirping bird, a weapon of sighs and smiles no less potent than knives or sulfurous powder. “A warning heard most heartily, for I hardly relished such a long, lonely walk along deserted streets. I only hope such trivial errands have not distracted you from matters more worthy.” At the next crossing Sansa turned left, along a street equally dim, equally foreboding in its misty twilight; she walked furthest from the street, yet still city debris occasionally jumped and shuddered across her path, born by winds whipped high between towering buildings. “Only a few more blocks,” she promised. “Joffrey’s mother prefers that he live close by.”
❝ Joffrey is an exemplary young man. Sadly it is ONLY a mother’s task to teach their child the ways of the world, so oft do children go through life without guidance. I am sure your mother has taught you well enough for Joffrey to take such a liking to you. ❞
Truth was she taught the whole pack of Stark children raised by wolves. They lacked manners and control over their tongues, something that did not reflect well on their parents. They were wild & untamed like the Northern regions where their civilisation hardly set foot.
Pride flushed her cheeks with flattering pinkish hue; compliments paid to the mother so often reflected back upon filial doppelganger, well-bred, well-groomed, and well-suited to receive the attentions of one so promising as the heir to Lannister fortunes. So long as Arya kept to the kitchens at their soirees, more fascinated by a busboy’s boasting than any bejeweled guest, then she might continue striving to endear herself to every banker, lawyer, and politician deemed worthy by a few moments of attention from their golden hostess.
“Oh, but Joffrey stands every inch the young gentleman you raised him! I only hope not to embarrass him, raised so far from the city and all its attendant graces. You cannot know how deeply I treasure your esteem, Mrs. Lannister; I hope you know how sincerely I wish to make your son happy.”
❝ Men are creatures of habit and boys even more so. Only a few
focus on the importance of what their woman wants. Think
of yourself as blessed, are you ever to come across one. ❞
“Joffrey certainly suffers from no such malady, perchance thanks to the sage advice and guidance of his mother. Would that so many others might benefit from your wisdom, Mrs. Lannister — no one should pass through life bereft of the blessing that true love bestows.”
The girl was young enough that her words might well speak truth. Before the eyes of the law, however, i g n o r a n c e could be no excuse. Collin was not of the l a w, nor did he favour it nor trust those who claimed its enforcement. Too meek were they ever, to refuse force of justice and let those deserving of death slip past their futile, grasping hands. And oft too like to unleash fury when unneeded. Perhaps it was her youth that somewhat tempered his former annoyance, set to reason thoughts roiling for utterance. No good would he do by shouting, no matter the temptation born of long years in military service.
❛ Your boyfriend ought to have enough sense not to send you out onto the streets so late. Certainly not a l o n e. I’m General Collin Martin, of the British Armed Forces. I’ll see you home. To make sure you stay off these streets. ❜ The name and title he gave but in reassurance that he meant her no ill, that he might be trusted. And surely there was no greater cause for his involvement than to see her off the streets. For there ended his duties.
Military title solicited a greater start than initial warning alone; Joffrey’s family employed former soldiers, men of action, most all of them distinguished solely by an inclination towards barbarity. Honorifics granted power, power fed ego, and ego — as Sansa swiftly learnt — drove its bearer to reckless exhibitions of might. Feet shuffled atop dusty pavement, the girl unsure whether flight or quiet submission presented greater risk, though if her accoster drew a little gold from Lannister coffers then her story was already as good as told. “I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble,” she murmured, knowing full well the general’s offer stood non-negotiable.
“And it isn’t his fault, really.” One step, then another edged her back along interrupted path; while the cause of her lonesome midnight walk lay rooted in falsehood, her final destination did not. “All boys let loose now and again.” Idly, Sansa rubbed an arm where fingerprints had at last faded from ruby, to aubergine, to a faint, sickly yellow. Let loose, indeed. After several moments stretched out in interminable silence did she catch her faux pas, introductions failing in light of potential censure. “You must find me terribly rude, sir —— I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark. And I promise,” she added with and embarrassed chuckle, “you shan’t find me wandering again.”
and
it’s only then that lisbeth allows herself to take in her company. for once,
she’d been absorbed in herself—teleborian, her father, bjurman, and all the
bloody bastards in between. it’s time to push them to the back of her mind once
more, and lisbeth allows her eyes to zero in on the other. she’s tall. beautiful—irritatingly so. she doesn’t have the
body of a pubescent fourteen-year-old boy. and she has hips. and breasts. she’s
the stark opposite of everything that lisbeth had ever been. but she only takes
a moment to wallow in inadequacy—she’s skinny and runty, but this need not have
bearing on this unnervingly personal conversation. ( it makes her uncomfortable beyond her belief, but hasn’t the
heart to twist and run. )
she knows nothing of the starks—thinks she’ll research now,
makes a mental note to traipse through whatever articles she can find online
and trail her way back to some semblance of truth—but she had spent two years
in st stefan’s children’s psychiatric unit. though she’d spent most of that
time strapped to a bed and dosed up on the strongest psychiatric drugs that
teleborian could find, she’s seen sad
kids before. and in her time skittering around in the gutters of stockholm,
she’s seen her fair share of sad people
skulking in the shadows and drinking cheap bourbon from the bottle.
this one looks
sad.
every instinct in her is telling her to run—to turn and
disappear down into the underground. fingers curl into pockets. lips purse.
what she utters is inexplicably calloused—an impulsive decision to drag herself
away from being drowned by another’s sorrow and resting that on her back, too.
‘ but you’re not. you’re being an idiot. ’
However much this sullen stranger knew of her unlikely company, Sansa could discern only what blue eyes once so prejudiced might take in. Not long ago the sight of a girl with jaw set and clothes cobbled together from varying shades of well-worn black would have sent her scurrying across the street, head ducked lest any acknowledgement be taken as aggression. She had learned as much from Joffrey: a silent tongue and downcast gaze protected one more readily than any assertive show. Now palpable tension only reminded her of Arya, a sister lost, vanished, dead. Anger filled those final months between them, blame thrown to and fro until they sneered at one another more from habit than animosity; Sansa carried such rage alone now, smoking embers which pulsed and flared against her ribs.
It never showed, though. Whenever she reached down within her chest to contemplate enduring fury, such introspection inspired only melancholy. Why? Why me, why them, why us? Sansa begged of a god who never answered, never cared, never changed. She might have spoken to stone for all the good prayer served yet time and again eyes turned to the idols of her parents with something too dark to be called hope.
Beneath what strain she labeled so quickly as hostility Sansa wondered if there was not the thread of discomfort pulling taut ebon-shrouded limbs. Did she too not tense and curl away whenever strangers approached? Had she not long, long ago determined attachment presented a greater threat than any gun or knife? Always know what someone wants, Petyr taught, but never let them in. He fancied himself a sort of genius — perhaps he really was, underneath all those expensive suits — yet Sansa required no expert opinion to learn what danger lurked in every stranger’s greeting.
“Maybe. I guess we all have our moments — present company excluded, of course.”
and she has learned to kill everything. kill your whimpering—it doesn’t help. kill your innocence—no, that was taken. kill your father—almost had it. so what a pair they make—the reaper and the reaped—and she can see it in how they stand. she crowns herself in black, studs herself with piercings that scatter themselves haphazardly across her body, singe deadened skin with ink and stares only with the palest of complexions.
but she had been reading—it had never been a topic that lisbeth had been interested in, but she had never seen the logistics behind it. what is learned can be unlearned. psychology was something she’d tended to stay away from, due to the hazy, faded border that tiptoes between psychology and psychiatry, and under the squirming feeling in her stomach that tells her she may stumble upon egomaniacal psychopathy and see herself pinned down against the pages and the drawl of dr peter teleborian’s voice instead of the bed he’d strapped her to when she was thirteen. but she believed some of the principles could still be drawn upon.
so unlearn it. ( she could never—her memory wouldn’t permit it. she still remembers how burning flesh had smelt, or how teleborian’s chaste touch against her forehead had felt, and how his cologne had assaulted her, and how he smiled, and how bloody excited he’d get when she writhed and squirmed and lashed out against him and strapped her feet down to the bed as well. but she remembered how blomkvist smelt—coffee and cigarettes. fabric softener. faintly of the cat who’d set itself home in his cabin. she remembered gamla stan, and sandhamn, and every tunnelbana ticket she’d purchased, every computer hard disk she’d pinched, but also every beating. every foster home. every school bully. every psychiatric stay. every vicious slur that labelled her crazy, retarded, sick, insane, a bitch, a whore, a cunt, a dyke— )
no. she has not learned to kill everything. she’s learned to watch herself die.
‘ you’re not dead yet.
Life seemed more punishment than blessing, for what crueler fate could one earn than to be a pack animal stranded alone across frigid wilderness? Sansa had never been a wolf, not like Robb, not like Arya, and not like Jon, that adopted son her mother looked on with such scorn. Even he had fit into a mold of brawn and coltish enthusiasm for all things rugged. A father’s family had been no place for one inclined towards lacy dresses, cosmetics dotted with glitter, dreams of acting or singing, rather than the militaristic bent taken on by so many male predecessors.
Yet alongside family so too perished aspiration — of the girlish sort. Petyr taught her that one need not carry a gun to seek vengeance, a few well-thought words, well-placed in the proper ears could topple governments, much less a measly family dynasty. Just as their crimes spidered out across the globe, oily tendrils which contaminated all that touched them, the Lannister downfall would come slowly, a thousand seeds planted amongst friends and foes alike, carefully spread wherever she could reach.
Such satisfaction rang hollow with none about to share it. Once Sansa might have believed lost kin to scorn vindictive acts, no matter what embers glowed scarlet, gold, opal in her chest. She would return every last burning pleasure for but a moment with her father, to hear his voice, to feel his broad palm rough with calluses pat atop auburn crown once again. Had her mother felt so tired, there at the end, praying for respite with no regard for its permanence? It was a dangerous path to tread, narrow steps between regret and self-righteousness, yet forward she moved, towards what Sansa knew not, only that she would arrive eventually.
Too tame, cities with their thousands ( or more ) of people and their busy, everyday lives. And too quiet the night, for one accustomed to the ringing of explosions, of men’s shouts, booted feet. And so returned home, what might he do but p r o w l the hushed streets? At least tonight purpose drove him, though often this was not the case. To block the path a parade was to take, to ensure the safety of those of r a n k and p r i v e l e g e who were to drive the streets come the morrow. Not his task by assignment, but why trust another, when already sleep denied him peace?
Yet another was there, and stern words left his grim lips.❛ These streets were ordered empty by nightfall. ❜ A lie… no such order was given, but a request had been issued, that they might better prepare
Curfew mattered not to a lion, most certainly when it was not he who must prowl darkened, abandoned streets after its inception. Though one might presume a girlfriend merited the luxury of a spare bedroom or couch when waylaid past appointed departure, alas, such chivalry evaded one Joffrey Baratheon, content to shoo her home with nary more than a chuckle-laced warning for caution as she walked. Staccato taps of leather to concrete — footsteps! — felt like bony fingers tapping at her back, skeletal, spectral proddings from the imagined ghouls which haunted every girl enshrouded in a city’s glowing dark.
“Oh! I — I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Someone official, then, for what citizen would care to stop another? “My boyfriend, he had too much to drink.” A fib that came easily, Sansa defending him even in the boy’s absence, even through his least caring gestures. “I was only walking home, a few blocks that way, I swear.”
“Who’s Robb?” he asks. He assumes it’s a friend, maybe a sibling. Not that it really matters. He doesn’t know either of them – nor his latest girl. “But, seriously? Swing? I– dunno what that is, actually. Is it that 50s stuff?”
“My brother — oh, I’m so terribly sorry! And you can call me Sansa,” the girl offered, hand extended in friendly greeting. “He tells me that’s a fault of mine, talking about other people as if everyone should know them. Haven’t you ever seen Grease? That’s swing; much more impressive to a girl than whatever you pick up watching music videos online.”
❛ I prefer Chevorlet, if I’m being honest! Their color palette better suits my tastes. Of course I would buy something more lavish if I were given a choice. But Fords are not for me. ❜
“Such a commonplace conveyance for one I might have accused of a more refined palate — and bank account. Though I suppose there is a hidden romance to cars full of gears rather than computers; my brother says some men simply cannot trust one that does not roar down stretches of empty highway.”
“Weren’t really talking ’bout breakdancing, but I’ll keep that in mind. But, really, you wouldn’t be impressed if I did a bunch ’a spins on my head?”
“Not at all! An utterly ridiculous method of wooing, unless, of course, it’s some windmill’s affections you hope to gain. No. You ought to do what my brother did and learn swing. There’s no girl alive who can resist a good twirl or dip. Robb met his latest girl at a party, dancing, and they’ve been together months now.”
sure, ellie’s really the SPECIALIST, here, but he’s pretty positive.
❝ ––––––––––she must haveMISTAKEN it for another. these four specimens are okay, but those, over there, i wouldn’t RECOM- MEND using them for a bouquet. ❞
But of course Arya would take any opportunity to make her sister look the fool! And here in front of a scientist…keeper…person…Though he spoke with ample authority Sansa could see no cartoonish name badge on his chest.
“An honest mistake, no doubt. You needn’t worry on that front! I might not know every species, but it seemed as though I was the only person in that welcome group to stay awake for our safety talk. Unless it comes from the hotel or the visitor center — no touching.” Arya, on the other hand, had probably broken that proviso eighteen times already.
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.
