Mágoa

(n. that heartbreaking feeling that leaves longlasting traces)


The sky had a way of burning, just on that moment before day's end.
She wished for the burning to be real.

It was what she dreamed of at night, blinding flames and black smoke and screams...

She'd wake.

The dream wasn't a wish, was it?
No, no, just a passing thought behind a placidity moon-pale, hiding in the blue eyes of that Queen who waited in the lie of hiding, in the dull browns now staining her hair.

(it used to be red, a red as sunbright as the fire in her dreams.)


Alayne.
Al-ayne.
A-layne. No matter how she said it, the name tasted the lie it was.
She would always, in some part of her, be Daughter.
Little bird.
San...sa.

She dreamed of fire, of a sword meeting the back edge of a neck, the head on a pike.
Of a mother's, a brother's, slit throat.
Of a vanished sister, a little wolf with needles for teeth.
Of the sky burning and a freed bluebird flitting away from the death and the scars of a man that concealed a rough sort of kindness.

She didn't wish for those who had harmed her to die, but maybe she did.


She'd once been afraid of the night, scared of the shadows and ran crying to the edge of her parents' bed. As a little girl, she'd felt the night as a terrifying thing.
Intangible.

Now her parents were dead and she sat alone in the Eyrie by the window, watching the stars blink. There was no Alayne at night and in the dark all colors, every red and every brown, were the same. In the night, her mind liked to scatter itself among the constellations, half-violent and part complacent.

She wished for the burning to be real.
No, she didn't.
Yes, she did.

The night felt like a precipice of madness, and it was something the girl considered as she twisted her hair around her fingers and counted the stars and lost count.
(six, seven, eighteen, forty-something)
The night proposed things that the day did not, from simple things like what if everything tasted the way one wished it would, to much more complicated things such as slitting Littlefinger's throat.

Sansa sighed, dropping her hands to her lap, and gave the night one last glance.
Maybe this time, as she went to sleep, she'd dream of water.


What.
I'm sorry for the complete OOC-ness, but I'm trying to work out of a writer's block...and this is the result.