this birthright was blackened, asoiaf, sansa starktalkstosheepNovember 26 2011, 05:28:33 UTC
Her bannermen bring them to her, one by one, in shackles and cages, and one by one they fall to their knees, pleading for mercy. Sansa Stark ignores them all, but tilts her chin to the heavens, her sharp, even teeth pressed together in a show of strength. She shan't sing, not for them, not anymore. The weight of the crown settled against her brow doesn't even set her neck to aching anymore. She slots her fingers between the barbs of iron on her throne and nods to have her enemies dragged away, to wait until it pleases her to strike off their heads. Looking over her shoulder, she nods silently to a spectre that no one else can see.
She spends hours in the yard with the blade they made for her, from the melted iron of her father's sword, hacking away at logs and blocks of ice until the blisters on her palms break open and speckle the snow with bright blood. It is only when the pain no longer shoots through her, and it feels like it takes no effort at all to slice through the tough wood of one of her northern trees that Sansa knows she is ready; she calls for her prisoners and the block to be brought up from the bowels of her winter palace.
They protest, they beg and scream and howl, beseeching the goodness of a child who is long gone. She's different now, and they should know; they're the ones who have forced the transformation, and cut the kindness away from her bones. Her face is impassive as she slides the gloves over her fingers and shoulders her blades. She can't even feel the grief anymore, only the weight of what she must do to set the world to rights again. Even the restoration of that earthly balance doesn't feel much like a burden anymore, not when she studies the faces of those who cut her family down like weeds. The task before her seems almost trivial, in comparison to the months of torment brought by her own demons. They are there with her, she knows, and it sends her spine to shivering.
Her husband his first. He tries to speak to her as he's brought forth, but the chill in her bright blue eyes stops him; he dips his head and her blade brings the gush of crimson in one swift stroke. The snow melts with the heat of it, and the puddle of blood stains the hem of her white skirts as she motions for another one.
It continues, on and on and on, until they're all extinguished, the Lannisters, the Freys, Baelish, all of them, and with each head that bounces against the ice and cobbles of her courtyard, she can feel them around her. Her family, there, watching her make right the wrongs done against her house, take blood for blood. She never falters, not once, though the red is everywhere, soaked into her skirts, streaked against her pale skin, clotting in the loose tendrils of her hair. When it's over, she does not speak, but drags her blade behind her as she stalks towards the crypts to lay the blood-drenched iron at the foot of her father's tomb.
Sansa doesn't beseech him, as she might once have. She knows they're there, all of them, her parents, Robb and Bran and Rickon and Arya. They're with her, as they always are. They wail at her, they berate her constantly, baying for the life force of the ones who struck them down. She hadn't even wanted to, she'd meant to rule peacefully, now that she'd claimed her throne, but the shades wouldn't let her be. And so she'd done as she'd been commanded by her murdered family, and brought the proof to them on her own hands.
Now, with her filial duty completed and the ghosts of Winterfell lain to rest, the Queen can hopefully get some sleep.
It is only when the night comes that the spectres begin to cry out again.
She spends hours in the yard with the blade they made for her, from the melted iron of her father's sword, hacking away at logs and blocks of ice until the blisters on her palms break open and speckle the snow with bright blood. It is only when the pain no longer shoots through her, and it feels like it takes no effort at all to slice through the tough wood of one of her northern trees that Sansa knows she is ready; she calls for her prisoners and the block to be brought up from the bowels of her winter palace.
They protest, they beg and scream and howl, beseeching the goodness of a child who is long gone. She's different now, and they should know; they're the ones who have forced the transformation, and cut the kindness away from her bones. Her face is impassive as she slides the gloves over her fingers and shoulders her blades. She can't even feel the grief anymore, only the weight of what she must do to set the world to rights again. Even the restoration of that earthly balance doesn't feel much like a burden anymore, not when she studies the faces of those who cut her family down like weeds. The task before her seems almost trivial, in comparison to the months of torment brought by her own demons. They are there with her, she knows, and it sends her spine to shivering.
Her husband his first. He tries to speak to her as he's brought forth, but the chill in her bright blue eyes stops him; he dips his head and her blade brings the gush of crimson in one swift stroke. The snow melts with the heat of it, and the puddle of blood stains the hem of her white skirts as she motions for another one.
It continues, on and on and on, until they're all extinguished, the Lannisters, the Freys, Baelish, all of them, and with each head that bounces against the ice and cobbles of her courtyard, she can feel them around her. Her family, there, watching her make right the wrongs done against her house, take blood for blood. She never falters, not once, though the red is everywhere, soaked into her skirts, streaked against her pale skin, clotting in the loose tendrils of her hair. When it's over, she does not speak, but drags her blade behind her as she stalks towards the crypts to lay the blood-drenched iron at the foot of her father's tomb.
Sansa doesn't beseech him, as she might once have. She knows they're there, all of them, her parents, Robb and Bran and Rickon and Arya. They're with her, as they always are. They wail at her, they berate her constantly, baying for the life force of the ones who struck them down. She hadn't even wanted to, she'd meant to rule peacefully, now that she'd claimed her throne, but the shades wouldn't let her be. And so she'd done as she'd been commanded by her murdered family, and brought the proof to them on her own hands.
Now, with her filial duty completed and the ghosts of Winterfell lain to rest, the Queen can hopefully get some sleep.
It is only when the night comes that the spectres begin to cry out again.
this is weird idek sorry i don't write things
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so there you have it.
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