notes; i have found a new obsession.
dedication; for susanna and sharine, who got me into watching the show, c:
in the city we love
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i.
She floats under blankets of cinnabar leaves, cloaking her with a slight chill blowing through the air, which smells of stale smoke and second chances.
King's Landing is something carved out dreams and miracles ― threaded quilts are hung down weeping banisters and stairwells, the Lannister flag flying high above the establishment. Acervuline rows of townsfolk line the streets as she passes by, concealed by shadows of darkness - Arya is allowed to look outside the windows, to admire the wondrous sights, white cheeks pressed against the cold pane of the window, curious eyes peeking out, but Arya does not, because that is who she is, and Sansa envies her sister because though she does not, she can.
Little children can make mistakes. Once you are older, it's so much harder - mistakes come with disciplinary treatment, and more oft than not (based off the King's mood), time in a cell beneath the Castle at King's Landing. She sits, back pressed into the indents of the smooth carriage, wheels churning
Your father has talked of this matter, but I would like knowing what you think of the engagement, Cersei asks (commands) as if Sansa has ever had a choice, but for once, she does not lie, because Joffrey is handsome, he is kind and sweet, and he is the Crown Prince, if his previous attributes weren't enough for half the girls in the Seven Kingdoms to be his betrothed.
I would like it, your highness, Sansa murmurs, pitched tones weaving together to main tranquility over happiness; children can be happy in the presence of a royal. She is not a child.
What do you think of it, Arya? Cersei directs her attention towards the younger of the Stark sisters, words stated simply but with the purpose of malintent as though she is waiting for a mistake to be made by the new family, because there always must be somebody to pin the blame of.
Good. Sansa nudges her sister, eyes glaring, because Arya can't ruin this for her too; Arya rolls her eyes, Very good, your highness, and stares at a piece of parchment nestled between books and clothes on her lap.
Well, here we are. Welcome to King's Landing, children, Cersei says in a way that is not motherly and not welcoming but Sansa smiles nonetheless, and nudges for Arya to follow suit. Welcome.
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ii.
He is brutal to others, kind to her - she wonders if the roles will change as they often do in places and times such as these.
She is brought to her chamberoom within King's Landing, not to be shared with anybody but herself, and is assigned a new septa ― in the crevices of her mind, Sansa misses Septa Mordane ― but this is a new life here, at the palace of the king, with the highest members of royalty; all she had wanted was to be here, more than anything else, to be able to marry the Prince.
Dreams are a reality from now, she thinks. Septa Mordane walks through the doors, and a sigh of relief goes through Sansa, because there is only one person she is aware of that prides her own efforts over Arya's more grudging ones, and gives the septa a small smile, and thinks that life here will be perfect.
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iii.
Joffrey, prince Joffrey, crown prince Joffrey, heir to the Throne, approaches her on the morn of Wednesday.
Lady gives off a sharp bark, and Sansa crouches down to her direwolf's height, sending her a silent signal not to mess this up for her, but Lady barks once more, and she is taken away by one of the guards. She looks at the Prince as though he is one of those characters in storybooks, in fairytales - she is not quite a damsel in distress, she is a lady of the Stark house, but he looks like a knight in shining armor, the way that the sun reflects off of his garments.
.
(Except then, he lies, and she must tell the truth because she is a stupid, little girl and it's all Arya's fault really―)
She has lost Lady.
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iv.
Somewhere along the days, she thinks he is nothing more than a boy.
Children raised in walls such as these, with the only notions in their mind, of the unquenchable thirst for power, bloodshed and sacrifice secondary thoughts, brushed away, are praised for being strong, feared rules. Few are praised for being good rulers - it is most best to be feared than to be loved, for love is a feeble condition, a promise (and promises are meant to be broken) that one can twist to their own use.
She says that she loves him, but she thinks that she fears him more than anything.
v.
He lets his true colors show on a Tuesday.
Mother said we are to be married, he says; the undertones of Joffrey's voice are melodic and Sansa thinks she is in love. The two of them walk around the perimeter of King's Landing and her eyes gaze upon the roaring yet contained ocean, a natural boundary from invasions in the North.
Yes, my Lord, she replies - the words are fresh on her tongue, like the rosebuds that are trimmed and traipse down the bannisters and walls, with their vines and foothold ledges, and for a brief moment, she thinks of Bran.
I have always been taught that we should get to know each other before we are married.
I agree, my Lord. She does not mind the repetitive nature of the words, because she respects (and loves but does not fear) the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms and thinks that everything will turn out fine.
Later that day, she sits on the throne next to his, regal garments draped around her frame, head tilted high - Sansa feels like a little girl, and remembers how she used to play pretend princess when younger, and remembers that is the real thing, and allowa for a thin smile to grace her features. It will be a good day.
(And then Joffrey performs the penalty of death to an insignificant commoner from the outskirts of the kingdom and she is numb; Cersei looks at her knowingly, and Sansa can tell she is being judged because a queen must be graceful and bear children to be future Kings, but a queen must also be strong).
His true colors are nothing of his handsome allure. Joffrey is cold, and he's not just a bad boy - he's the bad guy, and she'd rather not be with the bad guys - but reminds herself that her mother and father love - loved - each other through imperfections and flaws. She tells herself that this is just one flaw of Joffrey. This is not him.
(Except it is.)
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vi.
Her father sends her a letter a fortnight after.
It conceals words of treason and the type of talk that get people publicly shamed and executed, and she throws it in the fire, into the licking ashes, and picks the winning side.
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vii.
The war is over, my lady.
Her father is dead, and the fate of her family is unknown, nothing of the sweet joy of victory that used to echo through her mind, laughs and festive celebrations. We have won, my lord, she says, expression plain, forcing the corners of her cherry-painted lips to curve into a smile that never quite reaches ambiguous eyes and thinks, has she really won?
Past the days, her responses and words are carefully constructed and rehearsed. It is better to be on the safer side, she thinks, and if anything else, she is safe with her 'thank you's' and carefully placed loyalties.
The more people you love, the weaker you are ― she stares at a haunted reflection in front of the mirror, eyes still clinging onto a childhood, but childhood and home are a world away from King's Landing ― and tells herself to be without emotion; but, she continues to be kind when it is not necessary, refusing power when others would have seized it, and does not belong in this world.
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viii.
She has lost Lady and her father.
Joffrey leads to her to a row of heads, all equally gruesome, traces of blood clinging onto parched necks which heat and emit stenches under the still-shining sun.
She had watched her father be executed, and murmured, He was a traitor to the kingdom. I have nothing to grieve for, and cries herself to night, doors shut (but somebody's always watching).
Sansa says I'm sorry and Please forgive me, my Lord, but the words are numb coming out of her mouth, and honestly, she doesn't really care anymore; at night, she does not dream of marrying him. She dreams of Joffrey impaled upon a stick, and she is not a child anymore.
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ix.
She has lost Lady and her father and her mother and her family, and it is still not enough ― it is only over when I declare so, Joffrey commands, egotistical King of fourteen.
She has lost all this but has not lost her obedience, the only thing keeping her alive at this point and mutely nods, Yes, my King. Because that is all she can do when her family is dead and she is nothing left. Pain always hurts, but it hurts most from the people you love; the more people you love, the weaker you are. It is her fault, really. She is the one who thinks he is handsome, he is the Prince, he will be King one day — but it's not even about the power back then — and she rushes into marriage.
Chaos isn't a pit, chaos is a ladder; she climbs up the corrupted rungs, lungs gasping and grappling for fresh breaths and bursts of air amidst the polluted city ambiance, a break from everything. She finds herself running, a burning sensation pouring through her legs; her voice is of gravel, coquelicots tucked behind low-quality pearl bows, burnt crisp curls pinned back, daphnean features shining with something akin to defiance - but she is nothing more than a songbird, you see, one of those songbirds who echo what they are meant to say - and she thinks that it's quite okay.
If anything else, she is a survivor, and survivors do not survive by questioning authoritative figures, by making enemies of the Crown.
Sansa thinks back to when the Hound scared her — the first time she conversed with Joffrey, and how the Hound, the one with the always too wise words, who called her a bird who repeated what she was thought, with the scraggly brown hair that reminded her of the soldiers back home; the one who had told her that it gives him joy to kill people - killing's the sweetest thing that there is - and how he was the only one who frightened her at King's Landing.
The role's have reversed now, as they often do at times and places such as these, and she fears Joffrey, the Hound's master, more. He was once a knight in shining armor in her mind ― never again, she swears to herself. Never again will I be so foolish and stupid.
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x.
People say that imperfections are what shape people - she stares down at her curves and more often than not, jagged edges, sharp inclines, like a free-fall from a cliff. She climbs up the sides of imaginary citadels, fingers grappling upon the sides of the stones, feet reaching farther upwards, breathing fire through rainbow veins, salty sea air inhaled through corrupted lungs; it's something akin to home, something familiar.
Her clavicle is narrowed, and she moodily grabs onto a bony wrist, pinching upon the cellulite layers which nonexistently hang off their sides, wrinkles forming underneath her eyes, shadows of darkness.
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xi.
She is easily compliant, much like a songbird after all, but she would rather be defiant - for once in her life, she would rather be able to say no, instead of having to lie to please the Crown (my one and only true love, Prince Joffrey) but it's her fault that she's in this situation in the first place. Sansa's just a stupid, little girl who makes the same stupid mistakes over and over (but not this time, she swears, not this time)
Winter is coming, she tells nobody.
Her father was executed under a false charge of treason (because it couldn't possibly be true, Sansa thinks, that her father would commit treason, except people change at King's Landing, and he too, could have changed) by the boy she had once declared her love for; her mother murdered, her eldest brother, Robb, murdered, stabbed countless times (his wife too had been stabbed to death).
Arya had fled to the Riverlands, believed to be dead; Bran, a fugitive beyond the Wall, must have died already; Rickon, yet another fugitive, had to have died on the dangerous roads where six year old boys did not survive. Even her father's younger brother, Ranger of the Night's Watch, had been reported to be missing, and missing meant dead.
She is the last of the Starks, now; Sansa Stark, lady of Winterfell, one day, Lady Lannister (a name she will grow to despise).
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xii.
Mother told me lies have detail, Joffrey tells her, sharply observant, malcalite eyes gleaming with hate and ardour and Sansa curses herself for seeing anything else. Have I reason to think you are lying to your King?
No, my lord, she says - the words are tired and exhausted now, reiterated on a constant basis, but it is a must, because the wife-to-be of the King is not meant to be powerful. She is meant to say what pleases the King; being frank and honest is reserved for people who wish to be the dead, so she lies and says what he wants to hear.
Good. You wouldn't look pretty impaled.
She fakes a gulp, and lets fear flicker through her eyes, because this is what he wants to see - but she is not scared of death, and there is nothing that they can do anymore, because her family and dreams are gone, and all she has left is a written agreement - and leaves the room.
Joffrey used to tell her that he didn't like to see her upset - she thinks that he takes pleasure in it now, like all the men do, and she pities the girl who must marry him (because it is not her now, a girl like her is a traitor by association, and traitors by associations are not to be Queens). He is a man now, not really a man, though; he is a boy who pretends to be a man, because boys are not kings.
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xiii.
She notices that he stops saying 'Mother told me' before his every words, and misses it - it is the habit of a child, and if he has grown out of it, it will take long for him to become an adult, and adults are the cruelest of them all.
Joffrey is Mommy's Little Boy until he is not, because kings do not listen to their mothers.
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xiv.
Robb would have been honorable until the very end - it was not the most achievable ways of gaining power, but that was not his biggest goal in life - and he would have stayed strong and valorous. Always. Arya wouldn't have complied - she would have fought her way out of the situation, only settling on what is right - and for once, she wishes to be her sister, because her sister is a child, and children have a life ahead of them. Bran would have climbed his way out of the castle walls - he had never had a fear of heights, never a fear of death (a true soldier, at heart, a much better and braver soldier than Joffrey would ever be). Even Rickon, six and a half years of age, born in the long summer, would have done something less idiotic than compliance.
But they are all dead now, and she is the last Stark remaining.
She remembers back when she was at Winterfell, at home, when she would have given anything to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, living at King's Landing, but now, she would have given anything to be back home. Her family would not be there, but she knows that they would not have wanted her to be forcibly married into the Lannister family; she does not know of a cruel enough family (besides the Lannisters) who would do such a thing.
Kneeling before the King (it was better when he was a prince, she thinks), Sansa watches the destruction of dreams trampled by carefully placed footsteps. Everything at King's Landing is carefully planned. A mistake ends with pain - that is how the children here are taught. It is no wonder that some of them turn out cruel, and a wonder that others can be innocent things, dreams and futures held in small hands.
She is a Stark of Winterfell - the words of her house, winter is coming - and she thinks those words must be true, because winter is coming; she has seen the frost settling upon trees, cold and winter settling upon King's Landing like a blanket, a harbinger of their deaths is to come; she has seen this much from behind barred windows and castle walls, overheard reports of men who are dying from mysterious causes in the woods, mysterious bite marks and flesh wounds on their necks, and thinks these men are boys, soldiers of summer. Winter is truly coming, and they will not be prepared.
.
xv.
She likes playing with Prince Tommen.
He is lonely, she thinks, without the love of a mother who prioritizes the son who is on the throne, because everybody here wants power more than anything else, but that is not her. Sansa simply wants to be happy, and now knows that power does not necessarily lead to happiness; happiness is for children, and she cannot afford to be a child.
She tells him stories and feeds him lemon cakes, occasionally indulging in a bite of the sweet treat, and hopes that he will stay like this forever. Prince Tommen should not end up like his brother. King Joffrey the First tells Prince Tommen to stop crying - princes don't cry, but Prince Tommen continues and Sansa thinks that it is best what he is doing, being a child for as long as possible. She had grown up far too fast. Joffrey looks back at her, disgust radiating through his eyes, and she moves forward, and brings the little Prince back behind the castle walls; he clutches to her leg, sobbing, and she misses being able to feel instead of having to conceal.
Sansa likes to call him Joffrey in her mind, because deep down, she is still a child, and children cling onto dreams and lies, and the Joffrey she thought she knew is not King Joffrey; King Joffrey is an irredeemable monster, and her Joffrey was a boy.
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xvi.
They say that she is now a captive of the Crown, not to marry Joffrey, controlled by them until they find a use for her, and she thinks that she has been a captive of King's Landing her whole life, but complies nonetheless, because King's Landing has not changed her.
She is still a stupid, little girl who makes the same mistakes over and over again, and at the end of the day, who she is is all she has left.
It is not as though she can return home. Home. The word is faint on her tongue, whispered like promises of a life she will never have, a normal one - what is normal in a world ruled by tyrants and children? She stares out the stained-glass windows, behind city walls, and thinks that King's Landing is not carved out of dreams - it is carved out of nightmares.
Winter is when everything goes wrong -
She clinks champagne glasses under false lights reflecting down from diamond chandeliers; at night, she closes her eyes, and thinks that she's been here before - the waves roll around her, a blanket of water enveloping her and carrying a paper corpse out to sea, but then again, surrounded by the crashing waves and stone ripples, salty brine caresses milky blue eyes, she's at home.
Once, she had loved Joffrey, admired and trusted the queen; they repaid her affections and compliance with her father's head - she had sworn she would never make that mistake again; but, she does, because she is now a Lannister, one of them. She walks through the streets, hands in pockets, blue-green eyes cold and narrowed, auburn hair hanging limply on her sides, without the effervescence and joy that a royal should have; there are rows of children she sees, silly little girls, dancing in circles and murmuring songs, loud and raucous boys too, with their toys, sticks and stones; they play toy soldiers, and she smiles and then erases the facial expression, because they have never seen a battle, they have never seen the cruelty of death, they know nothing of the world.
Their lives are carved from dreams (too young, always too young for nightmares), full of songs and aspirations and stories, the way that hers had been before Joffrey cut her father's head off. They murmur in respect as she passes by, and Sansa nods her head towards them - there is a mask of apprehension upon their faces, as is on most when looking upon a Lannister at a place such as King's Landing, and Sansa thinks that if she was ever a queen, she would have made the children love her. Fear is cold and effective, but fear is unstable (isn't everything?).
She was porcelain - a pretty little thing to look at, easily broken, but easily put back together by a few kind words or gestures, a flowers or a kiss on the cheek; then, ivory - capable of so much more - , and then steel, a facade because she is too young, always too young, to have seen so much, and she does not have dreams anymore.
She has nothing left but a steel exterior to keep her alive.
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xvii.
Tyrion Lannister is not the worst of the Lannisters, that much she is told (but her knowledge of the world only comes from what she is told - she is not fortunate enough to find out things for herself ) - he is a better man that Joffrey will ever be, but she does not love him. She does not fear him either, and thinks that no emotion is the best. It is up to the convenience of the Lannisters to decide when a marriage annulment is needed, and attachment is for children who cling onto lies.
She is not a stupid, little girl anymore.
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notes: all of me, john legend; pompeii, bastille; friends, jasmine thompson
prompts/pairings? xx