open | prompt five | ENDINGS

[wrens]

prompt five | E N D I N G S dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all.

 

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[weirwood]

[ 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.

[hisfinestact]

[ 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.

[weirwood]

[ 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?