They say Lady Adria wept for joy when she learned she would be queen. They say that Lady Dionne was so overjoyed she could not eat for three days. They say that Lady Marina rode out to the Temple of the Gods and remained there for an entire week thanking them.
Sansa wept when she learned she would be queen. She wept bitter, wretched tears. She did not eat for days, but because she was so disgusted. She rode out to the Temple of the Gods to pray for deliverance, to pray for mercy, to pray for freedom from the evil curse that was thrust upon her—the curse of Joffrey Baratheon.
How could so much evil, so much malevolence, so much wickedness and malice and cruelty and immorality exist in a boy of only seventeen? She asked herself that every time she saw his face. She asked the Gods when she went to pray. She asked her reflection in the mirror. But she asked no one else.
When she first bled, no one paid it any mind. The Queen certainly didn't say much besides the expected 'becoming a woman' speech. Sansa would never say it aloud, but sometimes the Queen looked at her and seemed to be seeing more than just the blood of the enemy, but rather exactly what Sansa really was. A girl in a strange place surrounded by hate and fear and enemies. And sometimes the Queen seemed to be not so much of a villain as she was a human. And then Sansa would squash the thought and think of everything she's seen, everything she's been through, and it would be enough. It would be enough to almost break her down and make her eyes well with unshed tears and she'd turn her head away if anyone was around and bury her face into a pillow if no one was.
The Queen said nothing after a while. Tywin never even spoke of it. Her blooming red flower became of minor importance and for a little while, Sansa began to push it into the back of her mind, to forget and try to inhale without tearing up, to go to sleep without the churning in her stomach. After a while, she'd wake up in the middle of the night and fear wasn't the first thing she'd feel. She wouldn't soak her pillow with tears and she wouldn't open the window and bite back a scream. She began to breathe.
And then came the news.
"Her red flower only blooms for five days a month," The Queen had explained to Tywin. "So we'd ideally have a wedding immediately after this next full moon."
And Tywin nodded like she was discussing the next rainstorm.
"It is done," he had said.
That night, Sansa had ridden out to the Temple of the Gods, and it was only when the middle aged Sister Savarine had gone away that Sansa fell to her knees before the statues and wept and wept and wept.
"On my honor as a Stark," she had cried. "I swear to give anything, to pay any price, to endure every hardship that will follow in silence," she looked up to the sky through the open hole in the ceiling. On the right days, the moonlight would shine through just so and it would be a stunning view, but that night it was nothing but frightening. "I have never asked for anything before," she whispered. "But tonight I ask only that you liberate me. If not tonight, then someday soon. I beg that you do not abandon me to this fate."
Sansa could not sleep for sadness and did not leave the Temple that night. She stayed where she had fallen, on her knees, wiping her tears and praying, pausing only as a fresh peal of sobs overcame her and not ceasing until the doors were thrust open and Sandor walked inside. She looked up at him. Behind him, she could see that the sun had risen fully and it could have been close to afternoon.
"The Queen Regent requests your presence in her drawing room," he said. He paused, taking in her tear stained cheeks, her flushed face, her blank expression. "Whenever you're ready," he added quietly.
She wiped at her eyes and got to her feet.
The Queen was holding up two different fabrics to the light by the window when Sansa walked in. A merchant stood a few feet behind her, holding open an entire catalogue of cloth.
"Lady Sansa," the Queen greeted her. "Come closer to the light. Hold out your arm."
Sansa held out her arm and the Queen pushed back her sleeve to hold the first fabric against her skin.
"You've gotten awfully pale," the Queen said. "At first it was attractive but now it is rather sickly. You and I will walk through the gardens today."
"Yes, your Grace," Sansa said automatically.
"Sandor tells me you spent the night at the temple."
"I have, your Grace."
"What did you pray for?"
"That I might give the King a healthy son."
"How sweet of you," the queen said, reaching forward and pinching a bloodless cheek delicately. "I have no doubt that Joffrey will be very pleased with you. I think this one flatters you, doesn't it? For the engagement ball?"
"It does," Sansa said, giving the fabric a cursory glance. It was golden and sparkly and pretty, but she hated it anyways.
"I wore something that looked a bit like this on my own wedding," the queen said, rubbing her thumb over the fabric slowly, as though playing with the memory.
"You must have been a vision," said Sansa.
She toyed with the notion that perhaps the reason her marriage to Robert Baratheon had gone so terribly was because he could see how ugly she was on the inside.
"It was the very beginning of the long summer," the queen said. "The day was breezy and bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Everything was golden and shining and everyone was happy. And he was waiting for me there at the end of the aisle with his black hair and his cloak." The queen sighed at the recollection.
"It must have been like a dream," Sansa said.
The queen looked wistful. "I was thinking of this one for the wedding," the queen said, holding up the other fabric. It was gray and silky. It felt like water and swished like it, too.
"It's lovely," Sansa said.
"Mmhm," the queen fingered the second fabric carefully, for a few moments seeming like she wasn't really looking at them. "You will dine with us tonight. To celebrate."
"Yes, your Grace."
Alone in her rooms, Sansa stared at herself in the mirror. While they walked through the gardens, Sansa couldn't help noticing the way that the queen's arms were held so close to herself. She held her arms together with this abominable pride and coldness. Her sleeves surely contributed to that. Sansa's own gowns had similar sleeves. How similarly they seemed to carry themselves with these heavy sleeves. Sansa took a few steps before the mirror. She walked like the queen. Disgusting.
So it was decided. Her sleeves would have to go. She'd never even dreamed of wearing gowns without sleeves before, but it was either the sleeves or her resemblance to Cersei Lannister. She reached for the letter opener on the writing desk by the window and cut at the threads binding the fabric, tearing off the left sleeve. She compared it to the right. Already she felt different. She almost smiled to herself at this as a knock on the door interrupted her.
"Enter," she said, cutting at the threads for the other sleeve.
The door opened. She paused.
"What have I interrupted?" asked Joffrey.
Sansa's heart and stomach and lungs and perhaps even her liver dropped down to somewhere near her hips. She briefly wondered if he could hear them land.
"Nothing, Your Grace," she said, sinking into a curtsey. "I'm simply…considering alterations."
"Get dressed," Joffrey said. "I've come to collect you for dinner in the garden."
"Yes, Your Grace," she said, hurrying behind the dressing screen. She heard the door shut and leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.
Dinner was always her least favorite meal, and this sentiment was encouraged whenever she found herself dining with them.
"I want to see Dornish fire-eaters at the wedding," Tommen said.
Sansa busied herself with pushing her food around on her plate, because she most definitely was never going to eat it. They needed her alive, so the food was obviously not poisoned, but she knew that if she took a bite, she'd be sick anyways.
"Wouldn't that be a spectacle?" Cersei smiled at him.
"Only if they catch fire," Joffrey said.
Had the Seven forsaken her?
"What do you think, Sansa?" asked Cersei.
"It would be an amusing sight, Your Grace," Sansa replied. "I've only ever heard stories of the fire-eaters."
"I wonder if they could actually swallow the fire?" Joffrey sipped at his wine. Sansa didn't even have it in her to cringe at the thought. "I'd bring them all the way here just to see if they could. Now wouldn't that be a sight to see, Lady Sansa?"
"It would certainly make our wedding unforgettable," she says.
Though, as the days dragged on and the wedding drew near, Sansa wondered if perhaps men swallowing fire would be overlooked by Joffrey if something more disturbing occurred that night—say the bride hanging herself from the battlements or throwing herself off the cliff or drinking poison.
It was because she so desperately wanted it to go by slowly that time seemed to go by with the speed of stormy wind. It was the Gods' way of mocking her. The more eager you are for something, the longer you have to wait for it. And this wedding was not something Sansa was eager for.
She did not sleep the night before the wedding. She did not eat or drink. She sat in her bathtub and watched the bubbles glide across the surface of the water and she wondered if she could conceivably drown in water this shallow.
She tried. Twice. It didn't work, and she was both relieved and devastated at the same time.
On the morning of the End, the maids walked inside to find her huddled in the corner, still as death and wrapped in a soaking cloth. The maester arrived and once it was determined that she had no fever, she was dressed in a gown of fine gray. Her hair was braided out of her face and swept behind her, touching the middle of her back. Perhaps she could have strangled herself with a braid. Too complicated.
The Sept was packed with familiar, pitying faces. Perhaps she could have fed herself to a pack of starving dogs. Too violent.
The Septon spoke slowly and bided his time, delivering eloquent blessing after eloquent blessing. Perhaps she could have ventured out into a thunderstorm wearing armor on the off chance that she would get struck by lightning. Too unlikely.
A cloak was placed over her shoulders.
Perhaps she could have suffocated under the weight of twelve feather bed spreads. Too convoluted.
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine from this day until the end of my days."
Perhaps she could have slit her wrists with the letter opener. Too messy.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love," said the smug, proud voice of the inbred king moments before he pressed his mouth to hers.
Perhaps she could have swallowed a glass full of Tears of Lys. Too suspicious.
Music played and people danced and people ate and people laughed and no one noticed the bride sitting silently by the balcony, staring out at the rocks beneath them.
Perhaps she could jump. Too frightening.
The king was above a bedding ceremony. But not above making a spectacle of carrying her off to the chambers himself.
Perhaps nightshade would have done better than the tears of Lys. It was popular as a sleeping draught, but in high enough doses that which could heal could just as easily kill. Too risky. But worth considering.
They lay together in the early hours of the morning. The sky slowly brightened and the sunlight illuminated the bloodstain on the sheets and she pulled a robe over her bare skin, turning for a moment and watching him sleep. His arm was still coiled around her waist. She raised it off of her body gently, laying it down on the pillow. He seemed to stir for a moment. She froze. His eyes fluttered open. He looked at her for only a second, eyes travelling over her figure before he raised his arm yet again. She crawled back under his arm obediently, letting him hold her close to himself again.
Perhaps she didn't have to die. Perhaps he could instead.
And just like that, she had found her purpose.