Blue Skies, Prompt #19: Summer's Child (ASOIAF)
She sits behind the body, which is not yet cold, and she stares at it wondering if it is her hand that has killed him, the man who had made her call him father. She cannot recall. Alayne is dead and seemingly half her memories have fled with her.
The hand on her shoulder that calls her back to the present is not rough. It is also not made of flesh and bone.
“We best not linger.” It is the second time he has said as much, only his breath is less ragged now from the effort of killing left-handed than it was before. She has learned to watch and take note, so she is certain that losing his sword-hand has left the Kingslayer less dangerous with a blade than before, but it made little difference, as blood pools on the ground nonetheless.
She once dreamt of a true knight rescuing her. Now that one has come, she does not know whether she cares to go with him.
Fuck your ‘sers’.
She looks up at him, his blond hair falling in sweaty hanks into his eyes, his cloak torn. It is neither Lannister gold, nor Kingsguard white. She does not know who he comes to her as. “I had not thought it would be you to come for me, ser.”
He still manages to smirk as he wipes some bit of matter from his stubbled jaw line. “Who did you think it would be?”
Jaime would undoubtedly mock her if she confessed it and she will not share a piece of herself with a Lannister.
His good hand grabs her by the arm and wrenches her to her feet. She stumbles and catches herself on his breastplate. “You’ve good reasons to hate me. More than you know, Lady Sansa,” he grinds out with an alarming lack of agitation so close to her face that she can count the fine lines that appear as he narrows his eyes at her. “But I’m your best hope to survive this winter with the dragons bearing down upon us.”
“Perhaps I’ll side with the Targaryen forces,” she spits back.
He ignores her threat, and his eyes focus on her lips as he continues, “And you’re my best hope to recover my long lost honor. It will make a pretty song. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t care for songs.” She did once, but that was long ago.
“I made your mother a promise once.”
He speaks more kindly, but practiced words mean nothing. He lets loose of her and she steps back, smoothing the sleeve he’s left bloodied from his dirtied hand. She doesn’t believe him for a moment. Her mother would not have treated with a Lannister.
Sansa straightens up, feeling herself emerge from Alayne’s dead shell as she finds her voice. Winter need not defeat her. She is summer’s child, which need not be a weakness, for her people are of snow. “I am a Stark, ser. I know winter better than you.” Though she burns within, she sounds as hard as ice. Enough to almost make herself believe it to be true.
Jaime chuckles, his eyes skimming over her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t remind you that you’re a Lannister too, sweet sister.”
He could not have said anything more provoking, which was no doubt his intent. Sansa balls her fists and she feels the color rise in her cheeks. She wonders what this true knight would do should she smack him across his cheek. She is tall enough that she could do it quite easily.
“Come,” he says, gesturing towards the door. “Unless you would rather wait for the bodies to stink and bloat.”
She shakes her head and gingerly steps over the body, since her slippers are wet with blood and floor is slick. She will go with him for now. She will wait. She will find her opportunity.
“Good. My sister and I have had a falling out, and I would rather it not be said I abandoned my brother’s wife as well.”
His taunt falls flat this time, as his mouth twitches at the mention of his sister. His mask is not as practiced as her own. It makes her bold. “My marriage to your brother was a farce. He never bedded me, and you are no kin of mine, ser.”
She can see that he doesn’t quite believe her, when he answers, “As you say, my lady.”
“I was a girl.” The Imp showed her some kindness in refusing to do what was commanded of him. She never could quite look him in the face either. She used to be afraid of all the wrong people.
She pauses, turning back to the corpse to lean down and unhook his purse. She knows the jingle inside is the sound of gold coins, and this will no doubt be just as useful as Jaime’s left hand. If not more so.
He looks bemused by her cool composure as she tucks the purse in the folds of her skirt. “You were a girl, but you’re not one anymore.”
No, and she will be a pawn no longer.