AN-Not much to say about this. I was intrigued by the fact that Sansa sees what Arya cannot, and how that might affect them later.
Enjoy~
.:See:.
Her auburn curls shine in the bright sun, done in the style of the Southern ladies, and her dress is the same color as her sweet eyes and the endless, endless sky. Not a cloud dots it today, and she thinks that is a good omen. The old gods and the new are watching over them today.
He is drug out, limping, and she smiles at him, thinking of how nice it will be to travel with him back to Winterfell, but her smile falters, because he will have to go further north, have to live out the rest of his days on The Wall as a member of the Night's Watch.
She can't help the timid smile as her father confesses his crimes, because even if she knows they are false, he will be okay, Winterfell will be okay, everything will be okay.
"Ser Illyn, bring me his head."
Her heart stops, her breathing hitches, and then she screams, she screams and shouts and protests and tries to get to him but someone is holding her back. She can feel blackness encroaching on the edges of her vision, can feel the darkness creeping in, and she knows she should just look up to that blue, blue sky, but she can't tear her eyes away.
As the massive blade lifts, she finds herself thinking of everything. Of Robb and Bran and little Rickon and her mother, with their matching auburn curls and blue, blue eyes of the Tully's, of Arya and her father—oh her father—with the dark hair and grey cloud eyes of the Stark's, and even of Jon Snow, who looks more like the Starks than the heirs of the name. She thinks of the cold walls of Winterfell, or the crypts down below, of Rickon and Brandon and Lyanna, lost before their time. She thinks of Grey Wind and Nymeria and Shaggy Dog and Ghost and the lone pup that Bran never got the chance to name before she left. She thinks of Lady—oh sweet, sweet, innocent Lady—and she wonders how everything can go wrong so very fast.
Sansa rolls those blue, blue eyes up to the blue, blue sky, hoping and praying that she will miss this, but when they rolls back down, the sword severs his head cleanly, and Eddard Stark's head goes rolling.
She falls, and the last thing she glimpses is that blue, blue sky.
She struggles against the tide of people, tries to shove through, her palm on Needle's hilt, ready to chop them down.
"Ser Illyn, bring me his head!"
Her heart stops, sputters, goes into overdrive, threatens to burst from her chest, and she fights like a wild thing, like a wolf, until someone latches onto her arm and spins her around.
She fights him, too, because her father is up there, some little king screaming for his head, and she can't let it happen. She can't let it happen.
The man is yelling at her, but it's all static in her head, all blurs together, all she catches is a word every time and again, and he holds her tight to him, and as the crowd gets louder around her, she looks up.
The sky is so blue, so so blue, cloudless, and she thinks of her mother's eyes and reddish-brown curls, and then Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon, all colored the same, and then of Jon, her favorite brother, his dark curls and gray sky eyes, of Jon, the gifter of Needle, the one that finishes her sentences, and of their father, so strong and noble and kind. She thinks of Ghost and Grey Wind, of Shaggy Dog and the pup Bran wasn't awake to name, and of Nymeria—oh, I miss you Nymeria-and—of Lady—I'm so sorry. She wonders how everything manages to go so wrong so fast.
Her eyes roll up, catch that blue, blue sky, and the flock of birds that fly by in their formation.
The crowd cheers, and her heart sputters again, numbs, and then she's being drug along again.