fic: the person who passes the sentence (ASOIAF, Sansa Stark)
the person who passes the sentence
ASOIAF / Sansa Stark + bonus Jaime Lannister / 547 words
for tragics, Tam, my love, happy holidays.
“The North is yours.”
This the Dragon Queen tells her.
They stand in the shadows of the courtyard, and from where they are the hulking bodies of the queen’s three dragons can be seen even from this distance. She has removed them from the Keep, at least giving in then, but she keeps them close enough.
Sansa does not tremble at the sight of them, but she does not like them either. She has seen what they can do on the battlefield, seen them bring to life the words of the Queen’s House.
Queen Daenerys, first of her name, and ruler of Westeros, turns to her. Her face is kind, and her eyes gentle when she elaborates. “Winterfell is yours again, Lady Sansa. May you rule it wisely.”
The wind blows then, rustling the leaves and flowers around them. Winter has long since fled the South, retreating back in the wake of its warmer Queen.
Home, she thinks, and it takes her several long seconds to picture it. Ruins she knows is what awaits her. But she will rebuild it.
“Thank you, your grace,” she says, and curtsies low, thoughts of snow and ice and stone in her mind.
--
The North is in ruins.
This she can tell as she passes through by way of the King’s Road. Where once were fields and trees and towns and villages, now there is nothing but wasteland. Muddied ground from the retreating snows and burnt out ditches from where armies have made this place their play ground.
She has been given an empty thing, a hollow promise, a shell of what once was the comfort of her home.
Still, she will take it.
It is hers.
--
Sansa sits on the wooden chair where once her father sat, only now it is hers. A thin circlet rests on top of her head, hair woven around it so it does not loosen and fall away. The small face of a direwolf leaps out above her brow.
“Am I to forgive them all then?” she asks this to her commander at arms.
Jaime turns from where he has been watching the men below in the yard. He shrugs, quick grin and sharp teeth. “I would kill them all for you.”
He speaks of those who sided with the likes of the Freys and the Boltons and the other murderers that had spilled into the North in a bid to take control.
She sighs, and gives him a heavy look. “I cannot do that.”
His fingers play over the hilt of his sword, a motion she has come to recognize as his from the moment he took her out of the Vale. “Then kill those you must. And pardon the others.”
Justice and mercy, she thinks. Has there not been enough blood already? She fears she will never be able to wash its taste away.
--
The dagger is a slim thing in her hand, light, weighing less than the circlet on her head.
Her father’s words are in her head, and her men stand at her side.
Justice and mercy.
Sansa slits their throats there in the yard, where everyone can see, and the blood falls to pool on the ground beneath her feet.
ASOIAF / Sansa Stark + bonus Jaime Lannister / 547 words
for tragics, Tam, my love, happy holidays.
“The North is yours.”
This the Dragon Queen tells her.
They stand in the shadows of the courtyard, and from where they are the hulking bodies of the queen’s three dragons can be seen even from this distance. She has removed them from the Keep, at least giving in then, but she keeps them close enough.
Sansa does not tremble at the sight of them, but she does not like them either. She has seen what they can do on the battlefield, seen them bring to life the words of the Queen’s House.
Queen Daenerys, first of her name, and ruler of Westeros, turns to her. Her face is kind, and her eyes gentle when she elaborates. “Winterfell is yours again, Lady Sansa. May you rule it wisely.”
The wind blows then, rustling the leaves and flowers around them. Winter has long since fled the South, retreating back in the wake of its warmer Queen.
Home, she thinks, and it takes her several long seconds to picture it. Ruins she knows is what awaits her. But she will rebuild it.
“Thank you, your grace,” she says, and curtsies low, thoughts of snow and ice and stone in her mind.
--
The North is in ruins.
This she can tell as she passes through by way of the King’s Road. Where once were fields and trees and towns and villages, now there is nothing but wasteland. Muddied ground from the retreating snows and burnt out ditches from where armies have made this place their play ground.
She has been given an empty thing, a hollow promise, a shell of what once was the comfort of her home.
Still, she will take it.
It is hers.
--
Sansa sits on the wooden chair where once her father sat, only now it is hers. A thin circlet rests on top of her head, hair woven around it so it does not loosen and fall away. The small face of a direwolf leaps out above her brow.
“Am I to forgive them all then?” she asks this to her commander at arms.
Jaime turns from where he has been watching the men below in the yard. He shrugs, quick grin and sharp teeth. “I would kill them all for you.”
He speaks of those who sided with the likes of the Freys and the Boltons and the other murderers that had spilled into the North in a bid to take control.
She sighs, and gives him a heavy look. “I cannot do that.”
His fingers play over the hilt of his sword, a motion she has come to recognize as his from the moment he took her out of the Vale. “Then kill those you must. And pardon the others.”
Justice and mercy, she thinks. Has there not been enough blood already? She fears she will never be able to wash its taste away.
--
The dagger is a slim thing in her hand, light, weighing less than the circlet on her head.
Her father’s words are in her head, and her men stand at her side.
Justice and mercy.
Sansa slits their throats there in the yard, where everyone can see, and the blood falls to pool on the ground beneath her feet.