aviary | open | prompt five

[ Sansa has more than enough practice in schooling the planes of her face into a look devoid of grief, though she has seen much of it in her life. It is a thought that has occurred to her more than once and that, even with the weirwood crown upon her head, visits her still. There is nothing that would please her more than to be with her family once again, to be returned to the snows of Winterfell — but that is a dream, nothing more, and there is naught to be won from dreams.

Carefully, she reaches up and adjusts the crown upon her head. ]

No person loves another as much as that, [ she says and though the words have their truth, they have their lie as well. ]

Edited 2012-03-24 20:44 (UTC)

[ Jaime tips his head to one side, raising his chin slightly as he regards her down the length of his nose. His welcome in her court, he knows, is a political one at best, pragmatic, bound to grow even frostier than moment his lack of use outweighs his usefulness. If not by Sansa's calculation than by her master's.

But much to their disappointment, he was sure, he would never have the pragmatism of his father, sister, or brother. Jaime's understanding of the strength of holding his tongue was abstract at best and not nearly a match for his understanding of the strength of a sword thrust. Even now. And even now, it still made him unconcernedly careless with his tongue at times: ]

More talk of love, is it? I'd been given to understand you'd grown out of that.

[ His words sting but they sting out of truth, though Sansa bites back the cower and flinch that would normally be offered in response. She is a queen now and can no longer afford such posturing, or so her father— no, not a father any longer —Petyr Baelish tells her. If it were known that single knight (and a shamed one at that) could pierce the queen's armor, then all would be lost before she, her claim or her bannermen ever left the Vale.

I am to be true steel now, she tells herself. Cast aside your silken heart, or else be torn to tatters.

Sansa tips her chin proudly, her gaze leaving the captain of her guard to regard the ceiling of the throne room (a sign of impatience). ]

A queen who thinks she can rule without love is barely fit to be a queen at all. [ When she lowers her eyes to find Jaime again, the look she gives him is cool. Winter is in her, some of the knights say and — on occasion — they are right. ] Cersei taught me that. [ Cersei, her familiar address. The former queen has fallen while Sansa has risen and so she affords her no courtesy. ] It is such a shame I was not able to thank her for such a lesson.

[ Jaime suspects he knows what reaction is expected from him at the mention of Cersei. He imagines her waiting for a flinch or a tensing of the jaw, a sign of regret or loss or anger. She's been well-tutored, or perhaps it's learning through experience, in how to use her words to maximum effect.

(Or maybe it's only that he knows what his reaction would be, in private, and is imagining her desire to see it where none exists. Regardless.) ]

For the best, probably, [ he replies, forcing his mouth into the shape of a smirk. ] Cersei was never one to take thanks gracefully. Even where she felt it was due.

[ She would like very much to watch the shape of his mouth, to see where the seam between truth and falsehood lies, but Sansa knows that to stare would be far too deliberate. All men were were mask upon mask, faces and voices traded in and out in the hopes of garnering favor or earning ire — whichever sentiment suited them best. At least— these were the methods of men worth salt, or so Lord Baelish has lead her to believe (and believe him, she does).

Sansa has made quite diligent study of those around her — both men and women alike — and though she has made some guess at their muster, there are some whom she cannot yet fathom completely. Petyr for once, Jaime for another, and though she has come to accept the former, the later still chafes her terribly. ]

A family trait, Queensguard?

[ once, robb stark wore an iron crown and commanded thousands of bannermen. once robb stark had the whole of westeros at his feet. once he'd been a conqueror ( three victories do not make you a conqueror, he'd once been told, but it had seemed such a foolish thing then ) and a king.

but no more.

they called him brandon stone, and the tully red is washed from his curls, red turning to brown. robb stark died at the twins, and anyone who knows otherwise is bought or buried. and robb does not say otherwise, for the sake of his sister, who has rised up where robb had fallen. ]

There are some who do. There will always be some who do.

[ he does not speak of his lady wife. he does not. he does not speak of their parents, of their brothers, of their family. they had loved each other, that robb knows. scattered and broken and full of deceit as he and sansa are now, that has held. but he does not speak of it.

littlefinger took the truth from robb's tongue through hard instruction. a skilled liar he is not and shall never be, but he is better than most, has learned to twist the truth and deal in vague trappings and half-lies.

starks and their honor. even now it is impossible to wean robb from it. ]

[ This is what Petyr Baelish remembers:

He remembers lying on his back upon the grass at Riverrun, the sun in his eyes and his fingers wound through those of a girl with red hair and the sort of warm gaze that could swallow you whole. They had made so many promises to each other, then. She had told him of the future she planned to live, and through each fantasy he had followed her, determined, at the very least, to simply stay in her shadow, to exist at the very fringes of the light that she seemed to cast. He had loved her that much, once upon a time.

He remembers Brandon's blade cutting through his flesh, the sun twinkling as his blood poured through his fingers and his legs buckled beneath him as easily as a house of cards.

He hadn't died, then, and neither had she.

When Petyr speaks, it's in an almost absent tone of voice (as close, at least, to absent as she has ever heard). ]

No. Never.

open | prompt five | ENDINGS

Queen of the Mountain | asoiaf, future!au

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OH RIGHT I HAVE NO ICONS WHO IS SURPRISED.

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