#dark!sansa

The Dragon Queen was small, tiny really, even in her furs, that she seemed but a child. The woman smiled, hopefully, that too struck Sansa of childishness. Hope was a risk few survived. Even so, Sansa felt a small pull towards the woman, as if her dainty hands had reached into a part of her she’d neglected to sheath in ice.

“I fear that our introduction left much to be desired.” The Targaryen smiled; the Stark mimicked it, poorly. “The North, you, need not fear me. I love your brother. I would learn to know and love all his family and his people. I would learn of your ways, I understand your struggle, and I will fight for you all.”

Sansa could only arch an eyebrow at the outpouring of the girl. It should be endearing, effusions of love and concern, loyalty. To be the most powerful woman in Westeros, the most powerful person in the world, and to understand so little. Foolish, foolish child.

The Queen moved closer to her, believing her silence meant she listened, “I would make your brother my consort and heed his advice in making decisions for the good of all my people. I count you, all the North, as mine. And I am loyal to my own.”

“Your Grace, these are words. Words have failed me my entire life. We understood each other perfectly in our first meeting. You have my brother's devotion; there is no need to seek mine."

The dragon recoiled. "The North holds you in a place of honor, that even their king did not ascend. If the Lords do not believe you accept me, they will not." "That is perceptive of you." The testament to her standing failed to move her. "What can I do to assuage your fears?"

Sansa smiled with real feeling this time, not even attempting to temper it. "I have no fears."

"I will defeat Cersei Lannister. I will send you her head if you wish it." "Her head? No, a second head is not necessary. My own is quite sufficient. Cersei Lannister is a vile, cruel woman; I am not Cersei. I want her dead, but a raven will suffice. I will not see the bodies of my enemies treated as they treated my family’s, no matter how many times over they have earned their fate.” Sansa leaned closer, her hand resting on Daenerys’s wrist. “Rumors are that she took to her twin's bed, that it was Jaime Lannister who fathered her children. That it was his sons, the blood of your father's murderer, who sat the throne. And now he's here, under my protection, under my brother's --your lover’s-- protection.”

The Queen flinched, her smile remained fixed, but something new flickered in her eyes, doubt, and Sansa, with a wolf’s instinct, saw the weakness, the faltering step of the injured, the small hand clenched in anger. “That is cruel, isn’t it? To finally have the man who took everything from you within your grasp and be denied justice? I lost my father too. I know your pain. To have it disregarded…” she took Daenerys’s hand, and stroked her fingers gently across the back of it, as if offering comfort in sincere understanding of her pain. “Crueler still that it is the man you love who stands between you and what you want. What you deserve.”

Daenerys’s chest rose and fell visibly, those innocent eyes darkening in pain.

Sansa leaned closer, “I may be a Lady rather than a Queen of legend, but you and I are more alike than you know. I was eleven the first time I decided to kill a man. He was my betrothed, and I meant to watch him fall to his death, even if I followed. I was stopped, but no one stopped me when it came to my second husband. I heard you killed your first. There’s nothing like taking a life from someone undeserving of it, is there? When I killed Ramsay, I could taste the blood on my tongue. I hope I always taste it: justice. Oh, but you loved your husband, didn’t you? He wasn’t cruel?” Sansa continued, not waiting for a response, “Maybe you can taste the kingslayer’s. Not now, but later, in the heat of battle, flame, a dragon’s claw, and blood. Does it horrify you that I should say such a thing?”

Daenerys was dazed, she did not know where Sansa would have learned of her husband. Had Jon told her? Had she even told Jon? Tyrion? Had she told Sansa? She could not remember their first conversation, if she had been foolish enough to give this—this creature—any part of herself. Why was Jon denying her what she deserved? A life for a life, she was owed it. Her head was throbbing, and she tasted the metallic tang, the flavor she loved—oh, how she loved it—and told herself she would have her fill soon, not vengeance: justice.

A soft thumb pressed her lip.

“You’ve bitten your lip, your grace. You’re bleeding” as Sansa swept aside a drop of blood, and then wiped it on a cloth, staining the snow-white material with a smear of red. Her fingers returned to Dany’s, the faintest of taps on the back of Dany’s hand. “I leave the pursuit of power, intrigues and maneuverings, to men like Tyrion. Your hand is all brilliance and machinations, while I am but a Lady, who worries about food and clothing. I am not Cersei. I am no queen to be conquered. Any power that I might have had is lost. I am only a façade of strength now that all my assertions on behalf of my dear brother prove me to be so extraordinarily naive. A lifetime of lessons cut into my body, and what good did it do me? I am just a little bird, who mustn't fly far beyond the nest for anything stronger than a breeze might carry me off. It took Arya slitting the throat of Lord Baelish to set us free. He came to our aide, but he threatened us, and so the dagger made him smile one last time. His blood I don't taste, but I hear it, running from his throat, as if it was as anxious for his death as I. It pooled on the floor, and when I sit at table, I conjure it, because it makes me smile. Watching the life leave the eyes of those who wronged you, who used you, there is nothing sweeter than that. But, I am no Cersei. There will be no treachery against allies, no secret plans.” Her fingers closed around Daenerys’s, “I would never allow a sibling of mine to stab a Targaryen in the back.”

Daenerys struggled to breath. Her skin was burning beneath Sansa’s cool hand, and for all the Lady of Winterfell’s soothing words of powerlessness, it was Sansa that the Lords turned to, it was Sansa that Jon turned to; Jon may have bent the knee, but the North was not his to give away.

Sansa declared herself a harmless girl, yet her grip was not that of a songbird, but a bird of prey.

“I heard my brother rode a dragon. How extraordinarily generous of you to give such a gift to another. I wonder that you would risk your beast growing attached to anyone but you. Love changes even the most hardened of us, does it not? We give and give, and what do we receive in return? Sometimes I think we bestow it on those wholly undeserving. We can never win the affection we crave, the more we seek it, the more they deny us. Almost as if the more we love, the less they love us in return. I was once told, ‘love no one but your children.’ If only our hearts listened.” Sansa stopped her tapping. “I’m surprised that the dragon permitted Jon to ride him. I always thought it was necessary to be a Targ—ah well, perhaps blood matters not.”

The slow throb of her heart stuttered, and then rushed ahead. It had been strange that Drogon allowed Jon to approach him, strange that Jon had managed to ride Rhaegal, but surely it was their love of her that allowed—Jon was not—

Sansa withdrew her hand, pushed herself to her feet, “You must retire to your chambers, Your Grace. You’re shaking from the chill in this drafty room.”

Daenerys found herself ushered to the door, seething, uncertain which words, which implication, which insidious idea to respond to—

The night had proven to be long. Sansa had tossed and turned. Her mind on too many things. Too many ghosts. Sleep was becoming a long lost memory, along with the fading faces of her family. Each one so blurry and distant now. So far gone. Never to be seen again. She was not exactly sure why she was feeling all these empty emotions now. This was not the time for them. She had to be strong. Like her lady mother. But everything was thrown into disarray; again. Nothing seemed to fit into its place anymore. Sure, the direwolf banners rippled in the breeze again, but what did it really matter? Everything she had ever wanted was gone from her. And perhaps Ramsay was right. The North did not look to her as their savior. They looked to Jon. The King in the North.

That thought made her frown as she stared at her reflection in the mirror at her vanity desk. Her mind shifting to this Targaryen woman. The would be queen. The woman who was claimed to have three dragons. The woman who was claimed to have an army full of savages like Westeros had never seen. The woman that Jon was unwittingly enough going to see under the pretense that she would lend help to their cause. She would have to intervene in this somehow. She would have to gain the loyalty of the North to her, and only her. A Stark. And Jon was not a Stark.

"No." She suddenly said aloud, shaking her head at herself. What was she thinking? That was not like her. Or was it? Who was she anymore? Porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Steel was cold an unrelenting. Was she truly at that stage? Ramsay is just getting to me. Playing his games. She thought to herself, reaching for the goblet of wine before her on the desk. That was what she would make herself believe. All of this was his fault, some way or another. She had no one else to blame; but she could place all the blame she wanted on the man who had done his best to break her completely.

A knock on the door made her jump. She turned quickly in her chair, "Enter!" She said, smoothing out her still lank hair. She had been in the process of fixing it, but had been too absorbed in her fatigue to get that far yet.

Jon walked in quietly, closing the door just as quietly behind him. "I hope I am not disturbing you, so early."

Sansa gave a wan smile, "No. I have been up awhile."

Jon nodded. He could feel the exhaustion around her. He took a seat on the edge of her bed, staring down at his hands. "Sleep has not been a friend of mine either."

"No, I suppose it has not. Things are very different for us both now." Sansa confirmed with a small sigh.

"Aye. I came here to let you know I will be leaving soon. But also... what do you plan to do with the Bolton bastard?"

Sansa chewed the inside of her bottom lip and took her time in answering. That was a question she had been asking herself since she left him chained in his own blood after deciding against feeding him to his own hounds. "Nothing." She finally said.

Jon scrunched his brows in confusion and shot her a bemused look. "Nothing?"

Sansa nodded. "Nothing. You see, the way his mind works... always playing games. He's expecting something. Some kind of retaliation from me. For me to hurt him. And I told him it was my turn to bestow upon him the same as he did to me. However, nothing is best. For now. It will eat away at him. The constant anticipation. He will break himself in his madness and wonder. Because that is what monsters do. That is what tyrants do. They rip themselves apart. And I look forward to seeing that."

"Sansa, I think you are underestimating hi--"

"No, Jon. I am not. It was you who underestimated him. No one alive knows him better than I. I am his wife. I have lived with him. I have watched him play his games. I have been the subject of many of his games. I am a slow learner. I have been told this. Many times. But I know Ramsay. He cannot hurt me anymore." She cut across him. An edge to her voice. She was resolute in her thinking. She would not be wavered.

"Of course, Sansa." Jon relented, watching his sister carefully as he stood.

She gave him another wan smile, "You need not worry."

Jon simply nodded again, his face impassive and solemn as ever. He did worry. He worried for Sansa. For her mind. Davos was right, she was no longer the girl he had once known who dreamed of noble knights and fair crowns made of flowers. Of kind hearts and soft love. He averted his eyes from her and rubbed his hands together for want of something to do with himself. "Of course. I need to finish getting things ready. I hope to leave by midday."

Sansa just gave a wave of her hand to show that she had heard him. He took that as his approval to leave, saying nothing else. She gave a small sigh when she was finally alone again. At a loss of what to do about anything. Just as Jon could not convince her to rid the world of the Bolton bastard, she could not change his mind in leaving. A small pang in her chest at the idea that Jon, her only surviving relation may never come back once she saw him through those gates. Then she would truly be alone in this world. She finished her hair, pacing her chambers for a while before deciding to leave and see the rest of the castle. People would start to talk and wonder and worry if she kept herself shut away. But that was all she wanted anymore. To be alone and left to her own devices.

She gave forced smiles to those who bowed to her as she walked down the halls with her head high. "Has Lord Bolton been attended to this morning?" She asked a passing serving girl.

"Yes, m'lady." The girl said, bowing her head to her lady.

Sansa gave a simple nod. Her mind still not made up entirely about what to do with Ramsay. Though, she supposed she would probably have more piece of mind if she ordered his damned tongue be removed. It would make him less likely to utter annoyances in her ears, at the least.

A small sigh, watching men coming and going, making last minute preparations to go south with Jon. A small warmth of hurt and anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach at the thought again. Mind swimming back to what Ramsay had said the night before. She knew it was all a game to him, and his words were just that, words. She hated that he was making her second guess all her own, private thoughts. She tutted at herself, making way further down the hall. She would see Jon off, as was her duty as the lady of the house. Then she would ask the gods to keep him safe -- if the gods even heard her anymore. But more importantly, she would start helping those in need of their lady's help for winter. Because she cared about her people, in the now. Not some fantasy future where things turned out okay because you simply hoped they would.  

Perhaps she would make Ramsay come with her to visit the people in Winter Town. He’d complained about them many times in her presence. How they meant nothing. How they deserved whatever ailments happened to them. She may even make him sit with her while she preformed her duties and listened to grievances of the people she ruled over. As many of them were likely to place the blame on Ramsay for all he had done. The lives he had taken. The sons who were now dead at the hands of his battle. She did not expect him to be sorry or feel any remorse, but maybe it would annoy him and get under his skin. Enough for him to crack even further. His violence and wrath no longer held any power here.

Parading him around may give him enough humility to calm the beast like temper. Even if just enough to open up his mind. She had many questions for him. Questions she knew he would not answer freely or truthfully. But even a cliff face eroded when enough of the sea continually crashed into it. It was her turn to play games and no one would feel sorry for Ramsay.

Mind made up she decided she would visit Ramsay and then see Jon and his company off. Feet carrying her to the chamber she had requested be made for Ramsay, stopping before a guard as he gave her a small bow and unlocked the door. He made to open his mouth and speak, but Sansa waved the words away before they were out of his mouth and he simply gave her another nod as she walked into the room.

Closing the door quietly behind her, eyes falling on Ramsay immediately. Lounging comfortably on his bed, leg hanging off the edge and tapping idly against the stone floor. He picked his head up slightly and gave a coy smirk to Sansa.

“My sweet lady wife, what a pleasant surprise on this chilly morning.” He said, sitting up completely and nodding to the window, the sky overcast and a chill in the room despite the fire and the warmed walls of Winterfell itself.

Sansa pursed her lips at his welcome. “My lord.” She responded curtly, stepping further into the room and casting a quick look to the window.

His cold eyes examined her closely, trying to determine what the stony look on her face meant. Why she was wearing such a cold, hard mask. But he held his tongue. He would let the prey come to him. He was still a hunter, even without his weapons.

However, Sansa seemed in no hurry to rush into anything as she too examined him closely. She stood tall and proud, no fear in her features. She was the noble huntress this time. And Ramsay would not take that from her. Not now. Not ever again.

“Something is troubling you, my lady?” He finally said in the form of an inquiry. A brow raising ever so slightly.

“I thought that maybe you would accompany me today. I am riding out of the gates later to visit the people of the village.” She said smoothly, watching his face closely.

“Well, I dare say I am in no position to deny my lady, am I?” He said back with the same satiny smoothness. Even though inside he was very curious to know what she was up to.

Sansa gave a nod and turned her back to him, reaching for the door without another word.

“Wait.” Ramsay blurted, confused and stung that she did not further acknowledge him or engage him in more conversation. “That’s it?”

Sansa hesitated and threw a simple look over her shoulder at him. “Aye, my lord. That’s it.” She felt a small smugness in her chest as she watched his features deflate a bit. Almost as if she could see his mind working quickly to try and figure out what had happened. “I shall send for you when I am ready. I will be sure to supply you with a fine, heavy cloak. It is chilly after all.”

No sooner do his lips make contact with Brienne’s than she takes a half-step back, a perplexing blend of desire and consternation in her oceanic eyes. He gives her a rakish grin- he’s tried this on the Maid of Tarth before, and the roses in her cheeks plainly prove its effectiveness each and every time- and rests his left hand on the handle of her bedchamber door, a not-terribly-subtle sign of his intentions.

She gingerly places her hand on his shoulder, but gives him nothing but a light squeeze and an apologetic smile. “Good night, Jaime,” she murmurs in a falsely-even tone, and as she nudges him to the side and creaks her door open, he notices a deepening of the red hue overtaking her face. But she swiftly enters her chamber and pushes the door shut behind her, offering no invitation to her fellow knight.

The chill of rejection clenches at Jaime’s gut- between Cersei’s determination to keep him away and Brienne’s refusal to give him her maidenhead the night before their inevitable deaths, he finds himself once again mired in a dark torrent of thoughts, cursing himself for his longing for connection, cursing the women in his life for their constant denials…

He intends to head down back down to the hall in the hopes of finding Tyrion still buried in his cups, prepared to drink himself to sleep - I’ll be little use tomorrow if I’m drink-sodden…but then, how much use could a one-handed, middle-aged knight really be, anyhow?

But he finds himself distracted by a flash of tawny crimson in his peripherals; he pivots on his heel to face the Lady of Winterfell standing in the corridor, arms crossed over her chest, posture erect and chin tilted upwards. Not for the first time, he marvels over Lady Sansa’s ability to approach without a sound, every bit as silent as the mysterious coterie of assassins to whom her sister owes her training.

“My lady,” he calls by way of greeting. But Sansa replies with only a slight tilt of the head and an (uncertain? Annoyed? Disapproving?) furrow of the brow.

After a seemingly interminable spell of silence, Sansa takes a step in his direction, casting a pointed nod at Brienne’s bedchamber door. Her voice, usually smooth and mellifluous, bears an urgent and bitter edge when she hisses:

“Leave her alone.”

And in spite of the solemnity of her tone, the fierceness of her expression…Jaime cannot help but release a snort of laughter. Lady Sansa’s blue eyes flare with violent rage, and Jaime wonders for a moment whether they’d looked like this when she condemned her husband to death, when she watched his body torn to shreds by a pack of hungry dogs….

“You needn’t fear, my lady- Ser Brienne has already taken her leave of me for the night.”

“Good.” One silent step, then two, and Lady Sansa stands mere inches from him, her eyes nearly level with his own, the warmth of her skin radiating through the thick furs and wools she dons.

She’s close enough for the fragrance of her hair- juniper and lavender, an odd melange of northern and southern scents- to waft into his nostrils, and he feels a desperate impulse to slink into the shadows, far from her appraising stare and wordless accusations-

Her next question reverberates through the chilled air of the castle hallway: “And what would you have of her?”

Hesitation, coupled with a sardonic twist of his lips into something halfway between a mocking grin and a pained grimace. A heavy pause, then: “It’s the end of the world, my lady. No one wants to be alone tonight.”

She smirks as she extends her arm and uses a tapered finger to brush the one piece of Lannister iconography he still wears: a lion-engraved gold ring that’s occupied the index finger of his left hand since before he took the white. Cersei has one exactly alike, and he’s never seen her without it…

…nor, it seems, has Sansa Stark-

“But you’re never really alone, are you?”

He’s too astonished by the pointed nature of her question to make any attempt at correction or explanation-

She grains away from him only slightly, angling her body toward the darkened end of the corridor leading away from Brienne’s chamber. “Best to keep away,” Lady Sansa cautions with another nod to Brienne’s closed door. “Brienne deserves better than a dead man walking, don’t you think?”

The cool derision lurking in each syllable puts him in mind of Cersei, just enough to send a tingle racing up his spine. “We all could be dead on the morrow, my lady,” he responds, annoyed with himself for the stunned breathiness of his tone.

She answers him with a smile almost brilliant enough to be genuine as she laces her fingers through his and delivers a deliberate yank to the lion ring. “I’m not just talking about tomorrow.”

He realizes a moment too late that she’s leading him down the corridor toward her own chambers, and he can’t bite back the query itching at his lips:

“A dead man walking isn’t good enough for Brienne, but he’s good enough for you?”

Her eyes are canyons as she meets him with a long and hard stare- if not for the pressure she puts on his fingers where their hands are entwined, he could easily miss the sting of regret in her next statement-

“Brienne still has something to give away. Something precious.”