Author's Note: Happy holidays, everyone! This will be my last update until after the New Year- a healthy dose of Sansa-angst is my Christmas present to you. Please keep the reviews coming- I can't tell you how inspiring they are! -LM
It would be so easy.
The window faced east; while the other side of the castle would still be in darkness, the earliest light of morning trickled into the bedchamber, painting the walls in streaks of orange and gold. Lady Sansa Lannister blinked the crust of sleep from her eyes, squinting against the sudden brightness. The sunlight found a focal point on a dagger mounted on the wall. Sansa let her gaze wander over the intricate carving of the scabbard, the ornate bracket that affixed the weapon to the stones. The knife is loose in the scabbard- I could pull it out quick as lightning. Of course, she'd have to slip from the bed and cross the floor to reach it- I can be quiet. I'm very good at being quiet.
She shifted a bit beneath the coverlet until she faced the man lying beside her. Jaime Lannister- my husband- looked younger in sleep, his beautiful face peaceful, his fair hair and beard shining in the dawn. Sansa's eyes trailed down to his exposed neck- there it is. Light as could be, she brushed her fingertip over the large vein. One quick, clean cut, and that would be the end. She closed her eyes and imagined it: her white skin coated in blood of Lannister scarlet, the breath exiting his body, Cersei's horror-stricken face, coming upon the lifeless form of her golden twin...And me? Oh, they'd hunt me down, likely burn me alive as the Mad King would, but it would be an honorable death, blood will have paid for blood...
A visceral shudder shook her body as the images flashed through her mind. She gave a little squeak of surprise when Jaime responded to the movement, drawing her closer until her head rested just below his chin. He murmured something into her hair- a soft, sibilant sound that may have been a name, perhaps her own. Sansa lay still, barely daring to breathe, but she couldn't restrain a little quiver when he rested his left hand on her bare breast. In spite of the uncomfortable aching between her legs, she felt rather flushed when she recalled the events of the night before.
He had tried to be gentle, that much she understood. She even felt the urge to giggle when she recalled the feeling of his lips and tongue on her sex, when she recalled the warm tingling in her lower belly. But while he may have taken her maidenhead as carefully as he could, Sansa felt no tenderness toward this man to whom she'd been given. She looked back at the knife, then again at Jaime's still face. He looked enough like Joffrey, looked more than enough like Cersei, that she could still summon up the proper contempt.
And yet she knew that she would never do it. The knowledge settled upon her like a cold sheen of sweat, and her dry mouth filled with a bitter-sour tang- the taste of defeat. She'd felt this before, only days ago, when she realized that the Lannisters would never relinquish their hold on her. She may have escaped Joffrey, been released from Tyrion, but now they were just passing her off to another of their own, tasking him with the responsibility of filling her womb with a golden-haired, green-eyed brat, shackling her to them until the day she died. And when she considered everything, absolutely confirmed that there was no one left in the world to care for her well-being, the answer seemed laughably simple.
She made the attempt the next day: a bad half-hour standing on the roof of a tower, one hand clinging to the windowframe, one foot hovering over the edge. The sun glinted off of the stony ledge- she suddenly remembered Bran, the way he would leap from rooftop to rooftop as though carried aloft by the wind. His balance, so unerring that he could walk a ridgepole from one end to the other without so much as a waver. She wondered how many steps she could manage before tumbling down- two, maybe three? And then she looked down over the edge at the stone floor of the courtyard below. Deep breaths in and out as she visualized her body plummeting through the air, her skin and bones pulverized on impact, her skull bursting open like a gourd. Her vision blurred, her head reeled, and she angled her body back into the window. I am afraid to die, afraid of the pain. The thought was so fundamental and humbling that she quite lost her breath. She could not do it, could not take her own life- not out of love for others nor any moral objection, but out of pure, selfish, unshakable fear.
And this same fear would keep her from pulling the knife from the wall, would keep her from doing her part to avenge her family's deaths at the hands of the Lannisters. Sansa began to shiver in earnest, wrapping the coverlet tight around her and pressing her body flush against Jaime's. I was never the brave one. Robb was brave, and Jon and Arya...but I'm naught but a craven. I cowered before Joffrey, I did not speak for Tyrion, I let them rope me into another Lannister marriage.
I am the last of the Starks, but the one least worthy of survival.
She started to cry then, for the first time since the announcement of her betrothal. All of the defiant energy that had sustained her up until this point exited with the tears, with the hard, cold realization that she'd lost- lost without even presenting much of a fight.
Here in bed with her husband, her limbs entangled with his, his heartbeat echoing against her ear, Sansa felt that she'd never been more alone in all her life.
Jaime stirred, his emerald eyes fluttering open, and Sansa hastened to wipe the tears from her cheeks, clearing her throat and nasal passage with a loud sniff. She felt him against her leg, half-hard already, and despite her instinct to recoil, she shifted her weight until her thighs rested on either side of his hips. A pulse throbbed between her legs, but she steeled herself nonetheless, hoping it would be over quickly.
Although his grasp grew firmer on her breast, Jaime made no attempt to enter her. He only darted his gaze about, eventually letting it rest on her face. "Good morning, Sansa," he whispered, placing his golden hand on her hair. It bumped against the tender skin of her scalp with more force than he probably intended; she winced, only slightly.
"Good morning," she mouthed, breath still bated. Jaime moved his left hand from her breast, lifted it to hover over her face, where she could feel a streak of moisture that she'd neglected to clear away. She met his eyes and felt both perplexed and terribly vulnerable when faced with the surprising kindness she found there. He barely rested the pad of his thumb on her cheek, but withdrew from her before wiping the tear away. With a light, careless kiss to the top of her head, he slid from the bed and retreated into his dressing chamber.
Sansa nestled herself into the warm imprint in the mattress where Jaime had been, a prickling sort of anxiety competing with the gnawing emptiness within her. Her husband quickly re-emerged, clad in training garb, and Sansa, suddenly very aware of her own nakedness, pulled the bedclothes tighter around her body.
"I'll be out in the yards. It is very early yet- you should try to sleep." Astonished, relieved, almost disappointed, Sansa could do nothing but nod. Jaime moved to the side of the bed to retrieve his sword- he paused for a moment, as though deliberating whether to touch her, but then pivoted on his heel and walked toward the door.
"I shall be back to collect you in a few hours- the King and Queen expect us to break our fast with them." Sansa nodded again, her mouth slightly ajar, knowing that she surely looked like a simpleton. Jaime's lips curved up into a vague smile, and he bowed his head to her before exiting.
She tried to take his advice and return to sleep, but her erratic lapses into slumber were fitful and disturbing. Images assaulted her with no particular narrative or priority- her body tumbling out of the window, the knife at Jaime's throat, Joffrey's cruel smile as he watched his Kingsguard beat her, Cersei's silver filigree ring, the Hound's mangled face hovering over her in the dark, Jaime's bare skin shining golden in the candlelight, her father's head on a spike-
She awoke with a high-pitched shriek, only to discover that she had company. A pair of dressing maids bustled about the large chamber, arms filled with silks, brocade and jewels. She recognized them both from the Queen Regent's staff- older women both, and exceptionally stern.
"My lady," the taller one- Elspeth, maybe?- began, "we have been sent to ready you to dine with the King and Queen."
"Oh," Sansa breathed. She slowly rose to her feet, still clinging to the bedsheet that covered her. The smaller woman quickly handed her a satin chemise and drawers, and the two maids politely averted their eyes until she put them on.
They drew her into a second dressing chamber off of the main room, pulled and prodded at her with a no-nonsense, brusque demeanor, one that had obviously been a key factor in Cersei's decision to send these particular women. But the Queen Regent needn't have worried; Sansa, still mired in thoughts of resignation, did nothing to interfere with their handiwork.
She first found herself laced into a rather ostentatious confection of maroon and gold, but the maids soon shook their heads in tandem, one clucking her tongue in disapproval. A quick glance at the looking glass told Sansa why; a small purple bruise on the top of her right breast, barely peeking out over the lavishly embroidered neckline. She blushed furiously, prompting the following comment from the short, plump maid (whose name she guessed might be something like Joleyne, but she honestly wouldn't swear to it): "By the Seven, Lady Sansa, you're red as a poppy. It isn't at all flattering with your hair."
Sansa gritted her teeth but said nothing. Once maybe-Elspeth and maybe-Joleyne changed her into a more modest gown of green and silver, they plaited her hair atop her head and tied a heavy collar of jewels around her neck, one that she was sure she'd seen Cersei wear before. Her heart sank into her stomach when she saw her finished reflection in the mirror- a proper southron lady, through and through.
Jaime arrived for her shortly after, just as he said he would. He'd been cleanly scrubbed and clad in finery, and she felt a little prickle of goosebumps at the sight of him.
He stepped into the light of the doorway, his eyes looking her up and down in obvious appraisal. He shook his head, then spoke quietly: "No, this won't do at all."
She felt her cheeks burning once again- heard the tongue-clicking from those damnable dressing maids- but before she could speak, Jaime reached his left hand behind her neck and untied the ribbon that fastened the jeweled collar. She sighed in relief as its weight lifted. Jaime tossed the necklace on the bed, then turned to regard her once more. Slowly, deliberately, he slipped his hand into her intricately-styled hair, pulling the pins out one by one and letting them drop to the floor. His fingers combed through the braids until her thick waves of russet hair tumbled about her shoulders. At the last, he stroked his fingertips over her brow, his voice barely above a whisper: "Much better."
Something stirred in the cavernous expanse inside, a spark of energy that she did not understand. Blue eyes locked on green, a flinty flicker passing from one gaze to the other. And though it had been so long that her facial muscles felt stiff from disuse, Sansa smiled.