Sansa's always wondered how the rest of the world keeps moving; whether she's the only person that's stuck in a thick pool of congealed blood. The only one who seems to be fighting not to drown when it all flooded into her life the moment King Robert stepped foot onto the soil of her home, Winterfell, all those years ago.
She used to think that there was no greater honor than to be noticed by the Iron Throne and its keepers. She thought the golden-haired Lannisters were enchanting, and the large, dark king was imposing but striking in the way that most fierce warriors are. When Prince Joffrey had first smiled at her after riding through the gates on his fine steed, she had been in awe. But then Arya did what she always did best: orneriness. She got into a spat with him and as a result the royal family became more distant to her own. Well, pardoning King Robert and his old friend, her father, Lord Stark. The king had come to ask for her father's support in the role of the King's Hand, a most prestigious position, and her father accepted.
On the day that they were to depart from Winterfell and make their journey south to the capital city of Westeros, King's Landing, Sansa turned on her horse at the main gate and gazed over the turrets and towers, the glass gardens in the distance and all the people waving the party off, and she felt… cold. Living in the North since sliding from her mother's womb gave her an edge on all the Southerners: she was used to it. Sansa no longer felt the cold any more than those from the South felt the heat. But on that day, for the first time in eleven years, Sansa Stark had felt the chill in her bones, and she knew, even then, what her father was always telling her was true.
Winter is coming.
And come it did; with a vengeance, destroying everything in its path, including almost the entirety of her family. The Seven Kingdoms were thrust into a war, not unlike Robert's Rebellion had in her father's youth, and everyone seemed to think they had a claim to the Iron Throne-the ancestral seat of Westeros' crown ruler for the last several centuries. Families turned on each other, life-long friendships were torn apart, and sometimes even entire armies turned on their leaders. It became a time of strife and discord, trust was a thing of the past, and mercy seemed never to have existed at all.
The only shining light in Sansa's life is that although she is trapped in a den of Lions- the Lannister House sigil- her sister, Arya, who had also accompanied their father to the capital, had escaped with an old comrade of her father's, Yoren. She saw it happen shortly after watching Lord Stark's body be cropped at the neck by order of the, oh so honorable King Joffrey.
The King's Justice, Ilyn Payne, had swung the blade and as it arced through the air, the metal caught the sun and for a moment-just a second really- Sansa had seen her own face reflected back at her, wide eyes and pale skin against a splash of braided copper.
But then the moment was gone, and so was her father.
Sansa went numb, and her eyes roved the wild crowd instead of looking to her feet where her father's head had rolled onto the trail of her dress. That's when she noticed Arya being led away by the tall Night's Watch recruiter. She never saw her again after that.
It has been three years now since the war began. Sansa's nameday is a few moons off and soon she will be five and ten, almost a woman, by society's standards at least. She rather thinks she became a woman the day a raven came with news that her mother had her throat slit open and her body tossed into the river shortly followed by her eldest brother's decapitated head. She's heard awful things about what they did to his body, so she never thinks on it.
For three years she has cowered here in a fortress crawling with lions, and bided her time. She was too young, too naïve to be anything other than the perfect captive back then. But she has grown, she has suffered, and she will not let her back be broken under these lions. Sansa thinks it's about time to remind these people that she is a Stark. Their sigil is a fierce direwolf, and now more than ever it's time for everyone to get a rude awakening.
She has teeth too. It's about time she used them.
"Lady Sansa! How are you this evening?"
The Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister, always one for courtesies.
"I am well, thank you, Your Grace," Sansa forces a cordial tone.
Cersei's smile is brittle, "I was sorry to hear that you have declined, once again, to go with Lady Margaery to the seamstress that I procured for her."
Ah, King Joffrey's new paramour. After the war broke out, and Sansa's older brother Robb became the leader of the North's army-and eventually was proclaimed its King- Sansa was branded a traitor by blood, and tossed aside for the prettier, more graceful , Lady of Highgarden. Sansa pities her.
"Indeed. It was a most kind offer, Your Grace. But I do not have any need for new gowns, and I thought it reckless to spend the Crown's gold so frivolously."
Cersei smirks looking her well-worn but still wearable dress over, before nodding and walking very closely past Sansa, forcing her to move over a step so as not to collide with her.
"No need, indeed, Lady Sansa."
Sansa swallows and keeps her head down as the rest of Lady Lannister's entourage follows behind her. When they have gone, she resumes her leisurely pace towards the Godswood. As a child, Sansa was raised with a duality of faith. Her mother, Catelyn Tully, came from the Riverlands, and they practiced the Faith of the Seven. Seven faces of one entity: Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger.
Sansa has always identified with this faith more so than her father's, because when she was younger it seemed happier, more joyful and full of songs and tales. But as she has grown older, and become less sheltered to the ways of the world, Sansa finds herself more and more drawn to her father's faith. The Old Gods of the Forest is a religion that has roots all the way back to the First Kings of Winter. And theirs is a solemn and contemplative worship; the Godswood is a forest centered on a Weirwood tree, which has a face carved into it. This is where Ned Stark always went to pray: at the base of the Weirwood with eyes bleeding red sap. As a child, Sansa was frightened of the Godswood, and the face carved into the tree had never seemed to bring comfort to her as it did to her father.
As she spent more and more time here in King's Landing, Sansa draws far more comfort than she ever thought she would from the Godswood. It makes her feel closer to home, to her family, wherever they are. Today is actually a rare trip for her. Sansa usually tries to make weekly trips, but Joffrey is far from the kind boy she once thought he was, and one of his favorite punishments for his pet traitor is a regular beating from his Kingsguard. The beatings have almost always interfered with her ability to walk about unimpeded because of the bruises and sores. There was a rather particularly brutal lashing a few nights ago, and Sansa can barely walk at a normal pace without feeling the sting. She didn't want to skip the trip though, so here she is, hobbling along as ladylike as physically possible and attempting to remain inconspicuous. It would not do to draw unnecessary attention.
Sansa exhales deeply, her shoulders slumping when she passes far enough through the thicket at the opening to the Godswood to not be seen by anyone who isn't directly behind her. Walking further into the small woods, she comes upon a bench stationed directly in the center of the area. The Red Keep- the name of the castle at King's Landing- is very young compared to her own ancestral home, and does not have a Weirwood tree in its Godswood. It's not the same as Winterfell's, but the atmosphere is calming regardless.
Taking a seat, Sansa makes sure not to lean into the back of the chair; her cuts are far too fresh. For that reason she wore a dark colored dress in order to hide any potential bloodstains that leak out. Bowing her head and saying a quick prayer to the Old Gods, Sansa freezes when she hears a twig snapping.
Here in the South, the Seven are the predominant gods and thus, Sansa has never seen anyone enter the Godswood before. So whoever is here, most likely followed her.
"Is someone there?" Sansa lifts her head slowly, and turns to look behind her.
The leaves on the trees are swaying in the gentle wind that is brewing, but there is no one in sight behind her. She turns her head at an even pace, scanning the trees on her way to seat herself back in her original position.
"Are you frightened, Little Bird?"
A short shriek escapes her mouth, unbidden, when the voice comes from the opposite side of her. She whips her head over to see a very large, armored man standing beside her in front of the bench. He's not looking at her, but instead somewhere over her shoulder.
"Sandor," she smiles.
He looks at her then, a twinkle in his dark, grey eyes.
Sandor Clegane is a member of Joffrey's Kingsguard. He is well known for his penchant for violence, ale, and loose women. He's also the only person who has ever been kind to Sansa in her stay here, and been sincere about it. He's a gruff and unapproachable man, but he's also not what others paint him to be. A large part of their perception of him comes from his face. Sandor was scarred as a child by his brutish older brother, Gregor. He pressed his face into a brazier over a small argument and ever since Sandor's borne the scars on almost half his face.
Sansa wouldn't lie if asked: they aren't flattering, and she doesn't forget they're there. Rather, to her, they are a sign of his bravery, his strength to go on after enduring such a traumatic experience. Sansa can identify. Though, her scars are not as convenient for others to see, she still has them. And she feels a kinship between herself and Sandor. They're survivors.
"What are you doing out of your rooms, Little Bird?" His eyes are still warm, but his mouth twists into a grimace.
He's not pleased.
"I wanted to visit the Godswood. I'm fine, Sandor. If I didn't think I could handle it, I wouldn't have come."
He grumbles, but eventually his grimace disappears. Good, she prefers when he smiles. Sansa knows he doesn't though. The scars covering the right half of his face create a rather cringe-worthy patchwork when stretched into a smile so he tends not to; but it makes his eyes light up and crinkle at the corners, and his teeth are whiter and straighter than she has ever seen. It makes her warm inside.
"I've noticed that you have been declining all invitations. I would know, because if you went to any formal events, you know I am always the assigned guard to accompany you."
He phrased it as a statement, but I can hear the question in his tone. I deign not to answer it though. He can't know. Not just yet.
"Yes, I haven't been feeling very well, what with the punishments I have been receiving. As I'm sure you remember."
He was witness to most of them. Sansa doesn't blame him for not stepping in, it would cost his life. But she can thank him for never being the one to raise his hand against her. She is even more thankful that Joffrey has never asked him to; because that is something that she knows he would rather die than do.
Sandor cocks his head to the side and peers into her eyes intently. She tries with every ounce of training she has ever been given, not to let him see past her mask. Like before he doesn't seem fooled, but he must see something that helps him decide to let it go for now. He gives her a curt nod, and then bows slightly- traitor or not, her station as Winterfell's heiress earns her a certain modicum of respect (she has a feeling that's not why Sandor bows to her though).
"I've got to get back, Little Bird. I saw you walking, and decided to see how you were."
"I'm fine, Sandor. Thank You."
"You're not fine, you're hiding something. Just don't get caught, Little Bird. Be careful," he warns firmly.
Sansa just nod silently, and he seems satisfied by that.
"Make sure the whore cleans those cuts real good tonight; don't want them to get infected," he growls out, obviously uncomfortable with his earlier show of concern.
Shae, her handmaiden used to be a pleasure servant. Sandor's the one who first had suspicions when she talked back to him once, more bravely than anyone who draws baths for a living usually is. Well, that and he said she shows more skin than he'll ever see in a brothel. Sansa doesn't care what Shae did before, because now she's a dear friend and irreplaceable. Sandor's still sore that she tried to lie to him though; prideful man.
"Stop calling her that, you know she's not a pleasure servant anymore, Sandor," Sansa rolls her eyes.
"I didn't call her a pleasure servant, Little Bird," his lips quirk.
He finds her propriety amusing.
"Don't be out too late. It's not safe after dark for ladies like you," he warns on his way past the bench to exit the woods.
Sansa follows him with her eyes until he disappears from sight.
"Yes, well. I'm not a lady."
Her lip curls, and she can feel the sharp points of her canines lengthening. Running her tongue over her fangs, Sansa feels a swell of anticipation building in her blood. Her eyes drift upwards to the rapidly darkening sky.
It's almost time.
