courtesy | Recent Entries

Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. “Life is not a song, sweetling,” he’d told her. “You may learn that one day to your sorrow.” In life, the monsters win, she told herself, and now it was the Hound’s voice she heard, a cold rasp, metal on stone. “Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

( Game of Thrones )

Plotting, concrit, verses, etc go here. Anon enabled and IP turned off.

( you deserve more sweetness than not, miss sansa. )

( alone she sleeps, in the shirt of man. )

( songs are like birds, flying upwards over the mountain. )

( there are no vultures in this clearing. )

( She has the blood of a wolf. )

Her gaze drops, her shoulders rise again. Shame threatens now to drown her, all of her well-learned courtesies filling her mouth, but Sansa is not an animal. She is too genteel to fight and too well-trained to fly and so she remains rooted in her chair despite her squirming, hands curling in the folds of her dress but finding no comfort in the action. Light catches the pin affixed at Littlefinger's throat, the silver affectation of a mockingbird he wears constantly. It is only now that Sansa realizes that this is a lie, that Lord Petyr Baelish is no bird despite all of his talk of singing and lessons. If anything he is a snake, but one so simply and beautifully disguised that Sansa suspects she would choose to sit willingly amongst his coils, even as they threaten to tighten around her.

Sansa's innocence is no longer complete -- it split in twain the moment Ser Ilyn had lifted his sword -- but enough of it clings to her that she does not know the true depth or meaning of what she is faced with. Would the wolf lie with the snake to find her fangs? Would she hide behind his venom and pretend to still be a bird?

( at baelful )

( threads )( ❖ ❖ ❖ )

( playlist )( ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ )
( album )( the hazards of love, by the decemberists )

Sansa knows that there is truth to what Tyrion says, that the words themselves are not deceptive. The man who offers them, however, is another matter and although the Hand of the King has done nothing to affront Sansa personally, his name looms large about him. There, in the lions stitched in gold thread on the breast of his doublet and there in his sandy color of his hair. Lannister, they each decry. And oh, how the Starks found new ways daily to suffer beneath Lannister hands.

She doubts Tyrion's motives, though she is not quick to forget how plainly he spoke of Joffrey's unwieldiness. Very few would look to speak ill of the king, even if there was truth in the pronouncement, and so the Imp does not suffer the brunt of Sansa' distrust. Still, she is wary. Lord Baelish has begun to teach her as much.

( at hisdebts )

( threads )( ❖ ❖ ❖ )

( playlist )( ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ )

Songs were once carefree, lovely things that Sansa would bestow upon all who would listen and she thought worthy. In Winterfell there were few who did not seek the singing of Lord Stark's daughter, for although the winter was not yet upon them, the walls of stone were loathe to hold much heat and nothing burned brighter or felt warmer than one of Sansa's warbling refrains. Now, like all things -- a golden locket from a prince, a rook sent to the North bearing Sansa's hand -- those once gay and merry tunes held their treacheries. Nothing was sacred; no truly, nothing was good. The world had ways to rid itself of such goodness and, all at once, Sansa is filled with both a bracing terror for the fate of Robb's advance and trembling hope for his ultimate success. If there was a heart left in the Seven Kingdoms that beat with the fervor of an honorable knight, it would be her eldest brother, riding atop the wave of his glittering army, looking to purge the Lannisters and their merciless king from the Iron Throne.

That's righteous, isn't it? Her eyes seem to ask Littlefinger this question when she finally finds it in herself to meet his gaze again. To learn the things you teach, to wish their heads upon the wall. I am still good, aren't I?

( ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ )

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
				1	2	3
4	5	6	7	8	9	10
11	12	13	14	15	16	17
18	19	20	21	22	23	24
25	26	27	28	29	30	31

As it please Your Grace, I ask for mercy.

( She had practiced the words a hundred times. )

Recent Entries

( contact )( ooc )

( the sweetest of the wolves, of course )( playlist )

( songs are like birds )( playlist )

( the little bird's heart )( visualosities )

( cr )( theoregontrail )

( application )( theoregontrail )

( the mockingbird )( lord baelish )

( the lion )( tyrion lannister )

( playlist )( the direwolves )

Profile

December 2011

Syndicate

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags