#//the baratheon rage can not be beat out of her i fear

[stormfuryd]

in her beggar queen verse, i dont think rhaeana could necessarily fix viserys (bc it's not her job and they're both as traumatised as each other) However! i do think she could make him Worse

[teenagecriminalmastermind]

blue blood - chapter 4 (an aemond targaryen x team black daughter fanfiction)

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chapter 1: prologue chapter 2: the bells chapter 3: the race

chapter 4: claw isle.

Aemond is delirious with rage. 

That girl, that little bastard brat, not only had the audacity to steal the Crown of Jaehaerys from the very dead body of her grandfather, but then has the unmitigated gall to taunt him and hand it over to his wretched half-sister? He can hear her laughter still ringing in his ears, the sound somehow carrying over the thunder and the rain. 

Impertinent witch.

He cannot go back home yet, cannot go back with the failure of his mission. Not only was his quest to make that treaty with the Baratheons cut short by Lucerys Strong, his bastard sister just had to add fuel to the fire. He has to find some way to fix this, some way to retrieve that crown within time. He cannot go back empty-handed. He lands Vhagar upon one of the uninhabited islands by Storm’s End, the large dragon shuddering to a halt upon the sandy shores. 

He slides off the beast’s back, smashing his fist into the nearest cliff rocks over and over until he feels his knuckles bleed, until the sting of broken skin and blood is enough to calm his nerves. “No, no, NO!” He roars, his dragon sounding just as incensed as him, “that little fucking bitch does not get to do this to me!” He watches his bleeding hand, watches the blood trickle down his fingers and down his palm in swift, dark rivulets as he turns his hand over. Fire and blood. Daella Targaryen will pay, in fire and blood.

He sits on the shore, letting the rain wash away the blood, soaking through his coat down to his bones, his hair a flat curtain that clings to his face. He has to regroup. Think this over. See what he can do next and not what he wants to do. 

What does he want to do? 

He wants to go back to Dragonstone and gut Daella Targaryen like a fucking fish, watch the girl bleed upon his person as he wrenches the crown out of her hands and holds her beating heart in his palm, his face being the last thing her defiant eyes see. 

However, he cannot do that lest he be labeled Kinslayer and truly kick start a war of bloodshed and dragons. No, for now he has to find a different way to win the crown back, or at least force the girl and the crown back into the open and wrest it from her. No, that would not work. No, she has probably handed over the gold circlet to her wretched mother and her father Daemon. Gods, that girl is far too much like her father Daemon Targaryen, in all the worst ways that the Seven could conjure. It is as if they bottled up every single one of his worst impulses and characteristics and poured it into his eldest.  

So what does he do? 

Well, alighting upon one of their smaller vassals with Vhagar would be a good start. It would put the fear of all things holy in them while letting them know that he has not relented, to let her know that this is not over yet. 

Claw Isle is nearest.

Lord Celtigar is steward of Claw Isle. The man is loyal, slightly tough, and not easily cowered. But no one in the Seven Hells can look upon Vhagar and not be scared shitless, and he plans to do just that. “Vhagar,” he speaks to his dragon, voice hoarse after his prior screaming bout on the island, “time to move.” She will feed once they return to King’s Landing, which won’t be too long from now. 

When he lands on the shores of Claw Isle, there is already a small group of soldiers collected, bows aimed at the ready and Aemond has to resist the urge to laugh. As if some measly bows and arrows could incapacitate him and his dragon. “Lord Celtigar,” he says in a cool, even voice, spotting the gruff man. “I come bearing regards from King Aegon.” 

“We only recognise the one true Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” the older man says, steely eyes looking into his own. He tamps down the ire that threatens to bubble over, the prior events still rankling in his mind. 

“My brother holds all the symbols of legitimacy, my Lord,” he says calmly, “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields his sword Blackfyre. The Queen, as my half-sister calls herself, wears a stolen crown that she had her craven daughter steal from the Keep.” 

“A crown that is rightfully her mother’s,” the man replies, not budging from his stance. So Aemond is not winning any allies here. “Daella Targaryen did what needed to be done.” The mention of her name is enough to almost send him in another rage, her voice echoing in his mind as she called him a thief, spoke of him stealing her birthright, as if it was ever a bastard’s to begin with. 

“Very well,” he says, plastering a polite smile on his face, resisting the urge to bare his teeth. “Well, my Lord, I hope you let your Queen know that her younger brother has come calling for her. Send a raven to let her know that I shall wait here for the crown to be returned, and that I shall wait for as long as it takes and do whatever it takes. And that if she has any true integrity, she sends the thief her daughter to return it herself.” 

The man takes his message and sends a raven in front of his own eyes, making Aemond wait by the shore. “I don’t mind, my Lord,” he says lightly, “I can wait here by the sea. After all, it should not take long, should it?” 

Hours pass, and it must be far past the witching hour when he starts to doze off, shielded by Vhagar’s wing as he rests by her head. The sound of footsteps on the sand shakes him awake, and he rests a hand on the pommel of the sword on his hip, body slightly relaxing when he sees that it is just a mere messenger. “A message from the Queen Rhaenyra,” the man says, barely keeping his voice even. 

“And?” He prompts the young man, the latter barely older than him. 

“The Princess Rhaenys shall be here to negotiate with you, my Prince,” he says, voice wavering. “Her and the she-dragon Meleys are on their way to speak to you.” Why? 

“And why has she not sent the Princess Daella?” He questions sharply, anger rising up again. So now the little witch intends to hide from him, huh? Seems like cowardice runs in the family blood. 

“The Crown Princess is not in any condition to leave Dragonstone, and the Queen does not intend to risk her Heir’s well being and safety,” he answers. He must have injured the girl worse than he thought then, and a smile of cruel satisfaction lingers on his lips. So she isn’t here not because she is a coward, but because she simply cannot. He wonders how much he made her bleed, whether it hurts for her to take a breath because of him, whether she looks at her hands and thinks of how he is the reason they are stained bloody. 

Aemond wonders how much of a mark he has left on Daella. 

“Very well then,” he says coolly. “If the Crown Princess cannot make it herself, then I suppose her aunt Rhaenys shall suffice.” It does not take his aunt too long to arrive, the Red Queen coming to a smooth stop next to Vhagar as the older woman dismounts, walking towards him tall and proud. 

“Nephew,” she says, giving him a curt nod. 

“Aunt Rhaenys,” he nods back, hands clasped behind his back. “I suppose you are here to do the right thing and return the crown.” 

Rhaenys’ eyes harden, the ghost of an angry smile playing on her lips. “You have quite the delusional belief, my dear boy,” she states. “Such treachery, and that to your own House? To your own sister?” 

“I have only one sister,” he replies, keeping his voice level. “And she is now the Queen Helaena.” 

“Aemond,” she says, “I am here as an envoy, merely to convey Her Grace the Queen Rhaenyra’s wishes. She does not wish to sow further discord in the family, and she wishes to keep her brothers close. She knows you are sensible, and she hopes that you, the honorable and level-headed one of the two, will see beyond Otto Hightower’s treacherous machinations.” She seems sincere in her beliefs, and he cannot believe that the one woman he would wholeheartedly have bent the knee to has bought into this con. 

“You are being led astray by the counsel of evil men, nephew,” she stresses. “Please, consider our words, our side. See sense, and make Aegon see it too. Otto Hightower and Larys Strong are the vipers that seek to destroy the House of the Dragon from the inside.” The nerve to call his own grandfather a viper to his face. 

“Thank you for your sage counsel, Princess Rhaenys,” he replies, voice curt and clipped, “but I suppose I shall withhold myself from taking your offer and let my brother the King know that his treasonous half sister refuses to see sense. Tell my half-sister and her bastard daughter that I will retrieve the crown and return it to its rightful owner.” 

Rhaenys does not retaliate, mouth pressed in a thin line as she nods at his words, mounting Meleys. Soon, she and the Red Queen are specks in the sky, on their way back to Dragonstone with a message from him in hand. He debates whether he should head back home now, or let Vhagar have her fill on this small island. It would be cruel to rob the island of a sizable chunk of its livestock, but they have decided to pledge fealty to his wretched half-sister, and they must pay the price of siding with the treasonous queen and not the rightful king. 

“Are there any parts of the isle not populated by people?” He asks Lord Celtigar, who points him in the western direction, understanding the nature of the request. “Good,” Aemond adds coolly as he takes Vhagar to that segment of Claw Isle, letting the dragon feed to her heart’s content. Celtigar invites him back to his Keep, ever the observer of guest rules himself, and Aemond surmises it would be prudent to take some food and rest if he is to continue his search for the crown and if he is to alight on the Black stronghold itself. 

Aemond sleeps fitfully over the next few days, leaving as soon as Vhagar is ready to depart. This is now enemy territory, and he does not wish to stay here a moment longer than is necessary. He cannot go to Dragonstone just yet. No, he must be prudent and return to King’s Landing. 

The sky clears further as he approaches the city, Vhagar’s wings darkening the stretches she flies over, echoing his mood. He dismounts the dragon with an easy grace and then makes the journey back to the Red Keep on foot, his gait determined but erratic, anger bleeding through every step he takes. The guards swing the gates open without question and he walks into the Small Council chamber, black coat billowing behind him as he comes to a stop at one of the chairs, his mother and grandsire watching him intently.

He picks up one of the marble balls on the table and throws it at the wall, the force of the impact ripping through the wooden frame of one of their maps and Alicent winces, startling back in her chair. “Apologies, mother,” he mutters, too restless and angry to sit down. 

“I take it you do not have it,” Otto Hiightower speaks, his voice slow and measured, as if trying to avoid upsetting him. He whirls around on his heel to glare at his grandfather, memories of that insolent girl laughing at him running through his head. 

“Rhaenyra Targaryen has been crowned Queen at Dragonstone,” he grits out, trying to keep his voice level. “She sent Princess Rhaenys as her envoy, and the Blacks have no intention of handing the crown over.” 

“And what of Daella?” His mother questions.

“Daella,” he says slowly, the name poison on his tongue. “Is apparently indisposed. Too injured to even face me.” Hiding behind her mother’s skirts, on the volcanic island of Dragonstone that she calls home. His mother seems not too happy at this development, brows furrowing in worry. “Mother, what causes you concern?” He asks. “If Daella Targaryen is indisposed, then she and the Black Bane cannot take to the skies. This is a development in our favour.” 

“I do not wish for the girl to be maimed,” Alicent fires back, fixing her son with a worried and angry glare. “We are not yet at war, Aemond, and I do not wish for us to be the ones to begin one by attacking Rhaenyra’s eldest child.” 

“My half-sister declared war the moment she had her daughter commit that brazen theft. It is treason, mother, an insult against our family, against the crown and my brother, but still you wish for it to go unpunished?” He does not understand her hesitance, the kindness that still lingers in her heart for his half sister and her bastards. 

“Not like this!” The bite in her words takes him aback, and he stares back at her, surprised at the turn of events. So his mother is more than content to usurp his half-sister, but when it comes to taking concrete steps against her transgressions she wavers. 

A week passes, and he raises the same question to his mother over and over again, only to be greeted by the same form of resistance and restraint. Nevermind, he tells himself at dinner that night; he shall rectify this inaction soon, but for now he is tired, he is angry, and he needs a listening ear. 

Aemond dons his cloak once night falls upon the streets of King’s Landing, weaving his way in silence and anonymity until he darkens the doors of an establishment he last visited a week ago in search of his brother Aegon. He barks orders to one of the attendants, asking them to bring the head of the place to him for a private audience and soon enough, he is whisked away to a quieter part of the silk house, the lit candles surrounding him like the altar of a Sept. 

“Your brother has not been here since, my Prince,” she says, raising an eye with a knowing smile. 

“I am not here for your services,” he replies gruffly, lowering his hood as he sits there, fully clothed. “At least, not in the way one would surmise.” 

“Then what is it?” She asks. 

“I need someone to speak to,” he admits. “Someone outside of my family, who shall not judge me for my words and my deeds just yet.” The woman does not interrupt him, her silence an invitation for him to continue. “A grave error was made in the hours following my father’s death.” She fixes him with a probing gaze, and Aemond knows that somehow, she knows what he speaks of. 

“We all saw the Black Bane and his rider depart King’s Landing a day after the bells were first rung,” she states, inching closer to him. So word has spread indeed. He doesn’t protest at first when she pushes his cloak off his shoulders, her hands wandering over his person. “I can imagine you must feel slighted and incensed, that your brother and your family were disrespected so.” 

“I do,” he mutters darkly. “That bastard girl had the audacity to steal from the crown, and she thinks she has gotten away with it. That her treasonous actions are actually serving the Realm,” he scoffs. He thinks of Daella’s smile, her cool voice taunting him in the skies. The way she raced to Dragonstone, her body thrown off her dragon in a desperate attempt to reach the sanctuary of home before he and Vhagar caught up with them. 

“The heart does not listen to reason, my Prince,” the madam speaks, her fingers carding through his hair as she leans in closer. He knows this should distract him, ground him, but all he can think of is the impertinent girl hiding in the clouds, her voice sure and solid even amidst the storm.

He thinks of the blood seeping through her cuts, the wounds that must litter her pale flesh. Wounds, some of which will scar, a permanent reminder of that stormy night, a permanent reminder of him. He wonders how many more scars she carries on her body, whether he is the only man to mark her. 

Aemond rips himself away from the madam’s ministrations, haphazardly throwing on his cloak as his feet carry him rapidly out of the establishment and away from the Streets of Silk, but not towards the Keep. He keeps walking and walking until he comes to a halt at a familiar place, the ground rumbling from his dragon’s sleeping purrs.

Aemond wakes the beast up, hoping she is well-rested enough for another short flight to Storm’s end, where he shall take a small boat and head to Dragonstone. It will not be difficult to slip into the fortress undetected, for they would be expecting him on Vhagar, not arriving on the island by boat and then on foot. 

“Come on, old girl,” he says as Vhagar regards him with a doleful golden eye, “we have a visit to pay.” 

[thatlongspringnight]

The Tides of War - Ch 1 - Storm's End

Summary: The Dance of Dragons through the eyes of Lucerys Velaryon, had he lived, and what his life meant for the war.

The rain beats down as Luke calls to Arrax to halt, to land, his heart racing at the imposing rise of storm’s end…and at the other dragon, looming just beyond. He can see her, even in the rain, the storm doing little to hide the massive, ancient beast. 

Vhagar. The teenager utters a curse under his breath, rubbing Arrax’s neck in a soothing motion. “You’re alright.” He speaks, a crooning sound in Valyrian, the roll of his words doing little to stop the anxiety coursing through his veins - or that of his dragon. 

He should turn back. He knows that is what his mother would want, she would want him to be safe - she would gladly take him back at dragonstone. He remembers the feeling of her warm hand on his cheek, as she bid him farewell.

He wants to be perfect like her. He wants to be brave, like Jace - like Daemon…like his father, Laenor, who had fought in the stepstones. He doesn’t want to be a coward. 

He wants to be strong, and more than just in the way Aemond snickered it. Calling him a strong boy at every opportunity. 

He wants to prove himself.

So he mounts the steps, leaving Arrax in the hands of the guards, no doubt glad to have a dragon in their care who couldn’t swallow them whole. 

He mounts the steps, his fear only slightly mitigated by the warmth of the castle and finally being out of the torrential downpour. He follows the hallway until he reaches the round room, greeted by a familiar voice as Borros Baratheon doesn’t even bother to rise to his feet.

“Little Luke Strong, the bastard", There he is, Aemond - and Luke resists the urge to call him Aemond One-eye in return, gritting his teeth as he remembers his mission. “Tell me, are you wet from the rain or have you just pissed yourself?” The crude joke draws a laugh from the black haired girl beside him.

One of Borros’s daughters, Luke thinks, a frown on his face. He had expected warmer welcome.

“Lord Borros.” And Luke bows. “I have a letter here - a missive, for you.”

“Aye?” and Borros waves him forward. “No don’t give it to me, lad, give it to the maester.” So Luke does, feeling the trickle of rain mixed with sweat drip down his neck. 

Could Lord Borros not read? “And who writes me this letter?”

 “Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name - the one true Queen of the Andals , the Rhoynar , and the First men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms , and Protector of the Realm .” Luke keeps his voice firm, even at the scoff he hears Aemond make. “She writes to remind you of your loyalty to the crown, of the vows your father made her.” “My loyalty, eh?” And Borros laughs, treating this as child’s play. “And if I allied with your mother, boy, which of my daughters would you wed?” It's only just now that Lucerys even realizes there are more people in the room - namely a collection of girl children, all with that same black hair. “See - this one here - “And Borros points over to Aemond. “He’s promised to wed my first born, I’d love to see how you top that.”

“I - I cannot.” Luke is quick to admit. “I am already betrothed to my cousin - the lady Rhaena Targaryen.” Rhaena, he thinks of her now, of her gentle smile, and quiet courage. Rhaena would be brave here, too, wouldn’t she? 

“I thought as much.” Borros barks in reply. “If you won’t take one of these girls off my hands then you're better off going home, boy.” 

“But, Lord Baratheon - “ “Tell your mother that the lord of Storm’s end doesn’t obey like a dog, not even for a bitch like her.” And the man chuckles as fury bleeds into Lucerys’s veins.

What had he just called his mother? “Don’t look so troubled at only a jest - I remember the blood that ties us together.” Borros calls, seeing the look of rage in the teenager’s face. “Be off now - I grant you safe passage…for the moment.” 

Luke internally curses, because he can’t find his words, lost in his own see of rage and failure. So he bows instead, fully intent on doing that, turning on his heel.

“Not quite yet.” And its Aemond, sword already drawn, keen on approaching him. “You owe me a debt, strong boy.” And a sly grin slices across his face like a knife. “A debt you’ll be paying today.” and he lifts his eyepatch, the sapphire glinting underneath. “So tell me, will you take your own eye, or should i?” “I won’t fight you, and I won’t be taking any eyes.” Luke finds his courage then. “I’m here as an envoy, not a knight. I didn’t come to fight.” He speaks loudly, hoping to remind Aemond and Borros of his status as an envoy.

“Its your eye or your life.” And now Aemond is grabbing him by his shirt - going to pull him closer - Luke flinches, he can’t help it - knowing full well Aemond would kill him if he had the chance.

“Remember yourself!” Borros yells, his voice deep and angry. “You’d make yourself a kinslayer over this, you fool? Drop the boy.” And Aemond does, giving luke just enough time to put distance between them. “No blood will be shed under my roof - certainly not by you two children.” And that word has Aemond scowling. “Guards, take the Velaryon boy back to his dragon.” There is no talk of the storm, no pushback as the guards dutifully escort him back where he came…but Lucerys is unnerved, thinking of Aemond, of the dark haired girl beside him who’d been keen on taunting him, on bringing the worst out of Aemond.

He thinks of Jace, sending up a prayer to the warrior that his trip is going safer, and then another to the mother…for Rhaena, for his mother the Queen.

Then he is mounting Arrax, the urgency burning in his blood like fire - urging his oldest friend into the storm. He needed to escape, the thought shocks him, picturing Vhagar, then Aemond…And then…

“Arrax.” He speaks to his dragon. “Arrax, we won’t be going home.” And he pulls the reigns, beckoning his dragon to the west.

He can see the moment Aemond lifts off on Vhagar, flying into the storm - flying over Shipbreaker bay, and its only then he breathes a sigh of relief...and takes his dragon towards a place he knows he will find shelter.

[waitingforwinterwinds]

A Clash of Kings - 02 SANSA I (pages 34-46)

Joffrey hosts a (discount) tourney for his name day, Sansa does her best to not die after speaking up/"out of turn," and Tyrion returns to King's Landing.

-

"What do you think it means?" she asked him. "Glory to your betrothed," Ser Arys answered at once. "See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace's name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor? The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey's Comet." Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure. "I've heard servants calling it the Dragon's Tail." "King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son," Ser Arys said. "He is the dragon's heir - and crimson is the color of house Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey's ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies." Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey's enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king's command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn't the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?

*looks at the camera like we're on The Office* Oh. gee. I wonder. why it's. Lannister Red. and not. Baratheon. themed. what. could this. mean?

It's fun though, to see how each of the groups interpret the comet and its meaning, how they see it hanging in the sky and conceptualise its likeness. A wound in the sky, a bloody sword, a banner of victory. (Insert meta commentary on fandoms also interpreting source materials based on biases and pre-formed ideas, knowledge and experiences here.)

The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey's gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her.

That's the thing with abusers like Joffrey, the mentality that "I didn't lay a hand on her, so I didn't abuse her, I didn't do anything wrong" coupled with the fact that he's having her beaten for things she literally had no control over. Beating people is never acceptable (IRL, but in fiction it gives the mental catharsis many people/readers will never have otherwise), but for Sansa to be stuck in this situation where, no matter what she does right or wrong in his eyes, in the end there is nothing she can do to prevent this, because it's not about her, it's about him asserting control and dominance through fear and violence.

Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not as hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might, and at least he argued. ... He fell silent as a column of Lannister guardsmen marched paste, in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms. Ser Arys was fond of gossip, but only when he was certain that no one was listening.

What, should I give him a "Not as Big of an Asshole as you Could Have Been" award? I'll reserve my judgments for the time being, thanks. But the fact that he seems to be an ally to Sansa at the moment in the context of the series' vibes...

*starts a timer to countdown Arys's death or reveal as an even bigger POS than Joffrey*

In the back of the box, Sandor Clegane stood at guard, his hands resting on his swordbelt. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was draped over his broad shoulders and fastened with a jeweled brooch, the snowy cloth looking somehow unnatural against his brown roughspun tunic and studded leather jerkin.

"roughspun" = 🥛

Joffrey waved a curt dismissal while he studied Sansa from head to heels. "I'm pleased you wore my stones." So the king had decided to play gallant today. Sansa was relieved.

How about we relieve Joffrey... of his head 🗡️

Oh, he's in a nice mood, we'll see how long that lasts.

Aaand it's gone, straight into making Sansa uncomfortable with gory murder details and "how I'll kill your brother" plans. "I'll challenge him to single combat." pffff, you'll get your ass kicked. Do it!

I hope he falls and shames himself, she thought bitterly. I hope Ser Balon kills him. When Joffrey proclaimed her father's death, it had been Janos Slynt who seized Lord Eddard's severed head by the hair and raised it on high for king and crowd to behold, while Sansa wept and screamed.

Starting to think Sansa fainting at the execution was a show invention by D&D to make her seem more meek and damsel-ly, and like she wasn't capable of repressed rage enough to level the Red Keep like season 8 Dany.

Finally a chestnut stallion trotted into view in a swirl of crimson and scarlet silks, but Ser Dontos was not on it. The knight appeared a moment later, cursing and staggering, clad in a breastplate and plumed helm and nothing else. His legs were pale and skinny, and his manhood flopped about obscenely as he chased after his horse.

Oh hi Ser Dontos. 🧼👀🪥 scrub my mind's eye~ with the soap~ and then we rinse with bleach~

Interesting that D&D shoved so much tits and vag into GoT, but they skipped out on this pre(un)packaged bit of nudity. almost like they see women's bodies as an open source commodity that everyone is entitled to, and male nudity as something which must be taken more seriously and done only in respectful precision drops. (Sorry if that was overly mean, I have another headache. Did not sleep much last night, kept having weird dreams... hope they weren't foreshadowing for anything...)

Sansa heard herself gasp. "No, you can't." Joffrey turned his head. "What did you say?" Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn't meant to say anything, only... Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm. "Did you say I can't? Did you?" "Please," Sansa said, "I only meant... it would be ill luck, Your Grace... to kill a man on your name day." "You're lying," Joffrey said. "I ought to drown you along with him, if you care for him so much." "I don't care for him, Your Grace." The words tumbled out desperately. "Drown him or have his head off, only... kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please... not today, not on your name day. I couldn't bear it for you to have ill luck... terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so..." Joffrey scowled. He knew she was lying, she could see it. He would make her bleed for this. "The girl speaks truly," the Hound rasped. "What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the year." His voice was flat, as if he did not care a whit whether the king believed him or no. Could it be true? Sansa had not known. It was just something she'd said, desperate to avoid punishment.

So here we're seeing Sansa's compassion getting the better of her, now that she's not in a deeper dissociative state and her brain isn't tamping down on it. There's still some disconnect, probably the stress from being so close to Joffrey and being aware that he was getting bored.

This was an incredibly dangerous slip up, but that was an amazing recovery, even though she did need the Hound's back up to land it.

Oh, Sandor. Why you gotta go and be on the Sansa Protecc Squad, when I know what you're going to do later? Stop making me like you. But don't stop Sansa Protecc. Oh right, can't really do one without doing the other... hmmm...

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. "You should go with her," she told the king. "Your brother might be hurt." Joffrey shrugged. "What if he is?" "You should help him up and tell him how well he rode." Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

I know she's going to survive, but every time, I kind of clench up waiting for him to snap. It's good that she cares, and that she cares enough to speak up, but Joffrey gives literally zero fucks about anyone who is not himself, this one? Is a losing battle. (I'd say save it for later but his good will isn't exactly a transferable resource. gotta try while you've got the leeway, I guess.)

In their midst, riding a tall red horse in a strange high saddle that cradled him front and back, was the queen's dwarf brother Tyrion Lannister, the one they called the Imp. (...) Down his back flowed a shadowskin cloak, black fur striped with white.

Hi Tyrion. Welcome back. I notice you aren't arriving in time to stop Sansa from being stripped and beaten in front of the entire court thereby increasing your Heroic Nature levels tenfold in the eyes of the audience. You know, I've been assuming up til now, that shadowskin cloaks were made from shadowcats, which I had assumed were some form of panther, but that sounds like white tiger fur.

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel." Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was He mocking her? It wasn't the gods who'd been cruel, it was Joffrey. "I'm sorry for your loss as well Joffrey," the dwarf said. "What loss?" "Your royal father? A large fierce man with a black bread. You'll recall him if you try. He was king before you." "Oh, him. Yes, it was very sad, a boar killed him." "Is that what 'they' say, Your Grace?" Joffrey frowned. Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said. "I'm sorry my lady mother too you captive, my lord." "A great many people are sorry for that," Tyrion replied, "and before I am done, some may be a deal sorrier... yet I thank you for the sentiment.-"

Classy Joffrey, very convincing, you almost sounded like a real boy there for a second.

Ah, so that expression came from Septa Mordane. So a second chapter in a row where a Stark sister recalls the words of a mentor figure to help them through a tough moment. Nice. Fascinating it it's similarities and differences.

We also get a good comparison to Tyrion and Sansa's... "allowance of snark," if you will. Tyrion has no fears of being out right rude to Joffrey, but we've spent a chunk of the chapter seeing Sansa scramble for recovery for speaking up or risking death.

He speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke to me gently too, He's still a Lannister, her brother and Joff's uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head, Sansa would never make that mistake again.

She deserves to be safe and loved, and instead she's had her world and her trust irreparably damaged.

[esther-dot]

While Dany was cold to Viserys death, I don't think she completely detached from him. She named her dragon after him thinking he would do what her brother couldn't. She still hear his voices because his influence didn't vanish. Infact she is becoming more like him. Its because he was her family who raised her for 13 yrs. It would be difficult for her to let go of him.

This is one of those things, like a lot of things regarding Dany's story actually, that is incredibly uncomfortable to write about.

I don't like that this moment, that Dany watching someone who abused her die and feeling nothing is a warning for what is to come, but I do think that's how Martin intended it, I think D&D correctly picked up on it, and I think fans who think it's icky to use it that way are right. “Curiously calm” shows up a few times and seems to be indicating the same thing each time.

The sound Viserys Targaryen made when that hideous iron helmet covered his face was like nothing human. His feet hammered a frantic beat against the dirt floor, slowed, stopped. Thick globs of molten gold dripped down onto his chest, setting the scarlet silk to smoldering … yet no drop of blood was spilled.         

He was no dragon, Dany thought, curiously calm. Fire cannot kill a dragon. (AGOT, Daenerys V)

and

Ser Garlan shoved Tyrion aside and began to pound Joffrey on the back. Ser Osmund Kettleblack ripped open the king's collar. A fearful high thin sound emerged from the boy's throat, the sound of a man trying to suck a river through a reed; then it stopped, and that was more terrible still. "Turn him over!" Mace Tyrell bellowed at everyone and no one. "Turn him over, shake him by his heels!" A different voice was calling, "Water, give him some water!" The High Septon began to pray loudly. Grand Maester Pycelle shouted for someone to help him back to his chambers, to fetch his potions. Joffrey began to claw at his throat, his nails tearing bloody gouges in the flesh. Beneath the skin, the muscles stood out hard as stone. Prince Tommen was screaming and crying.         

He is going to die, Tyrion realized. He felt curiously calm, though pandemonium raged all about him. They were pounding Joff on the back again, but his face was only growing darker. Dogs were barking, children were wailing, men were shouting useless advice at each other. Half the wedding guests were on their feet, some shoving at each other for a better view, others rushing for the doors in their haste to get away.

Ser Meryn pried the king's mouth open to jam a spoon down his throat. As he did, the boy's eyes met Tyrion's. He has Jaime's eyes. Only he had never seen Jaime look so scared. The boy's only thirteen. Joffrey was making a dry clacking noise, trying to speak. His eyes bulged white with terror, and he lifted a hand . . . reaching for his uncle, or pointing . . . Is he begging my forgiveness, or does he think I can save him? "Noooo," Cersei wailed, "Father help him, someone help him, my son, my son . . ." (ASOS, Tyrion VIII)

and

Nage led them up a low hill, the seven-tailed peace banner lifting and turning in the wind, the polished seven-pointed star shining bright upon its staff. He would see Cersei soon, and Tyrion, and their father. Could my brother truly have killed the boy? Jaime found that hard to believe.         

He was curiously calm. Men were supposed to go mad with grief when their children died, he knew. They were supposed to tear their hair out by the roots, to curse the gods and swear red vengeance. So why was it that he felt so little? The boy lived and died believing Robert Baratheon his sire.                 

Jaime had seen him born, that was true, though more for Cersei than the child. But he had never held him. "How would it look?" his sister warned him when the women finally left them. "Bad enough Joff looks like you without you mooning over him." Jaime yielded with hardly a fight. The boy had been a squalling pink thing who demanded too much of Cersei's time, Cersei's love, and Cersei's breasts. Robert was welcome to him. (ASOS, Jaime VII)

Actually, now that I think of it, I suppose this is a connection she shares with Tyrion—being abused and horribly treated by family and turning into them all the same. I think it’s in ADWD, but at some point she even uses the “wake the dragon” phrase which is such a pointed way of indicating that she hasn’t only adopted his goal as her own. ☹️ So yes, I think you are right that even though Viserys died, Dany had been influenced by him, and accepts the Targ way. There wont be any undoing it.

[theusurpersdog]

A Bird in a Cage

Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is all about boxing her in. Not only is she a hostage in King’s Landing, she’s also expected to pretend she’s not; she has to attend Court with a smile on her face, playing the role of Joffrey’s betrothed every day. Showing any honest emotion is punished by verbal and physical beatings. Her entire life becomes a performance she must put on to keep the monsters at bay. Everything about her world is meant to be stifling; from the physical restrictions to the emotional ones, it all makes her retreat deeper and deeper within herself.

But the real magic of this book is the moments where she finds a way to push back or escape her bounds . . . 

Captive

In more ways than one, Sansa is a captive in King’s Landing.

The first kind of abuse she’s subjected to is physical. Beatings are a part of her everyday life. Because Robb was crowned king, or because she was happy Janos Slynt was sent to the Wall, or because Joffrey decided to be especially cruel one day. Sometimes for no reason at all.

She has to take care to dress carefully to hide the bruises:

The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey’s gifts as well.

This should go without saying, but domestic abuse is not rational; nothing Sansa does could stop Joffrey from abusing her – no clever words or tricks she could do to keep him happy. Half the time he has her beaten, it’s because of something Robb did.

Because she could be beaten at any moment, Sansa always keeps one eye on Joffrey, terrified that his mood could turn:

So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was relieved.

. . .

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

Not only is she afraid of being hit, she’s genuinely afraid he could kill her:

When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat.

Sansa knows her life balances on an incredibly delicate string. Jaime being Robb’s prisoner gives the Lannisters a reason to keep her alive, but Joffrey had reasons to keep Ned alive, too. If anything were to set him off, he would kill Sansa without hesitation. That’s why Sansa feels safer with Cersei around to watch her son, because she’s the only thing that remains to keep Joffrey in check. And Sansa knows that if Robb were to do anything to Jaime, her life would be over:

Gods be good, don’t let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

The beating she endures after Robb wins the battle at Oxcross is so bad that she can barely walk afterward; and as I already mention above, she has to be careful to wear dresses to hide her bruises.

And not only does she have to endure the abuse, she also has to carry on the farce for the rest of the court. Everyone knows she’s a prisoner, and everyone knows that Joffrey is having the Kingsguard beat her, but she’s not allowed to show it; all of her pain has to be kept hidden, pushed deep down inside herself.

Which leads me to the other kind of abuse Sansa experiences in King’s Landing. Everything about her time there is meant to emotionally destroy her. Joffrey intentionally tries to taunt her with threats to murder her family:

“It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him.

. . .

“I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,” Joff said with a sly glance toward Sansa.

. . .

“I’ll deal with your brother after I’m done with my traitor uncle. I’ll gut him with Hearteater, you’ll see.”

He loves to play mind games with her, like when he promised to show Ned mercy and then cut off his head and said that was mercy. The constant way that he twists reality around messes with her head and leaves her understandably paranoid:

What if it was some cruel jape of Joffrey’s, like the day he had taken her up to the battlements to show her Father’s head? Or perhaps it was some subtle snare to prove she was not loyal. If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she’d come?

The constant cruelty she suffers, and Joffrey and Cersei’s profound betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones, make it hard for her to trust anyone, even when they show kindness:

He speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke to me gently too. He’s still a Lannister, her brother and Joff’s uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

How is she supposed to trust anyone, when everything around her is false? When everything is a carefully constructed jape at her expense? Especially because she’s surrounded by enemies; anyone making their home in Joffrey’s court is sworn to kill Sansa’s family.

And Cersei intentionally makes her isolation worse, rotating her bedmaids:

Sansa did not know her. The queen had her servants changed every fortnight, to make certain none of them befriended her.

Sansa truly has no one to talk to, not even friendly servants to keep her company. Her loneliness is so profound that she enjoys being watched over by Arys Oakheart because he’s the only person who will actually talk to her.

She realizes that no one in King’s Landing cares if she lives or dies:

She [Cersei] spared Sansa not so much as a glance. She’s forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won’t even think about it.

And before the Battle of the Blackwater started, Tyrion told her this:

“I ought to have sent you off with Tommen now that I think on it.”

Unlike Joffrey and Cersei, Tyrion doesn’t wish Sansa any harm; he orders Joffrey’s men to stop hitting her, tries to comfort her afterward, and doesn’t want her to be married to Joffrey. But she is not one of his priorities. It didn’t even occur to him to try and get her safely out of the city.

This is dehumanizing. Sansa has no friends or even anyone to talk to, and the people around her treat her life as an afterthought.

Sansa also suffers from the emotional fallout of Joffrey’s abuse. She blames herself when he has men hit her:

She must learn to hide her feelings better, so as not to anger Joffrey.

The fear of being hit by Joffrey is nearly all-consuming for Sansa. It affects everything down to the smallest details of her life, like how she dresses and does her hair:

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in this gown, this color.

Instead of getting to live as her own person, doing things to make herself happy, Sansa has to live for Joffrey’s satisfaction. Even when she’s being physically beaten, she thinks of him instead of herself:

Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.

Everything about her life is a performance for other people. She wears the gowns and jewels Joffrey likes, dressing to hide the bruises his men leave all over, and says the words they tell her to say:

“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once. “And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.” That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

Sansa repeats that phrase over and over throughout the book, always at once. Almost like a reflex. An actor on stage repeating their lines, rehearsed and performed a thousand times.

The worst part of the act is that everyone knows it’s exactly that: an act. Sansa is required, every day, to declare that her family are traitors who deserve to die, and for no reason at all. The way Joffrey abuses her is an open secret:

“He’s never been able to forget that day on the Trident when you saw her shame him, so he shames you in turn. You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation.”

There is no way anyone could ever believe Sansa actually loves the boy who killed her father and intentionally humiliates her in front of his court. No matter how well Sansa tells the lie, it will always be see-through; especially because everyone knows that she’s a prisoner, being held until Jaime is freed. Sansa has to repeat the lie of believing her family to be traitors to try and please the Lannisters – if she said anything different she would be beaten or killed – but there’s no way they will ever be happy, because even when Sansa says the lies as convincingly as humanly possible, they know they’re lies because there’s no way they could be anything else. Sansa cannot win.

That’s never clearer than during her conversation with Cersei inside Maegar’s Holdfast, while the Battle of the Blackwater rages on:

“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.

“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.”

If Sansa told Cersei the truth in this moment, she would be severely punished. And Cersei knows that, because she would be the one doing the punishing. Yet she verbally berates Sansa anyway.

The same dynamic plays out between Sansa and the Hound. At the end of A Game of Thrones, he gives her this bit of advice:

“Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

And as one of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, he knows first hand of the abuse Sansa suffers if she says anything that could even be construed as out of line. Yet when Sansa tries to follow the advice he gave her, he throws it back in her face:

“ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you”

Everyone in King’s Landing is always threatening to kill Sansa if she tells them the truth, and then calling her stupid when she repeats back the lies they want to hear. They’re forcefully dehumanizing her, demanding she remove all of her own thoughts and emotions and replace them with hollow lines they’ve given her, and then getting mad when her words are empty.

This plays on one of Sansa’s greatest insecurities about herself, which is her intelligence. Because of her low self-esteem, she already thinks of herself as being less-than. That’s very clear whenever she does an act of kindness – she steadfastly refuses to give herself credit for anything:

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court?

. . .

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

She never thinks to herself You are doing this because you are a good person. She always punishes herself internally, calling herself stupid and childish for believing in good things. Joffrey and Cersei have destroyed her so much that she can only see herself through their eyes, cruel and mocking.

The fear that she’s stupid is one of her greatest anxieties:

“My Jonquil’s a clever girl, isn’t she?”

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

And she doesn’t like to be watched by Ser Preston Greenfield because he treated her like a lackwit child.

Everyone around her is comfortable calling her stupid and emotionally abusing her, and it’s easy for Sansa to start internalizing those messages. Joffrey and Cersei’s betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones forever changed Sansa; the fear that she could ever be so wrong again, and the fear that she was stupid to believe in them, haunts her. Throughout her time in King’s Landing, her self-worth plummets, and she really starts to believe all the things that Joffrey, Cersei, and everyone is always telling her about herself.

Because she has to endure so much abuse and cruelty every day, it starts to become normal to Sansa. Compared to the way Joffrey treats her, anything would be an improvement; she has a soft spot for Arys Oakheart because he hesitated to hit her once:

Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued.

At least he had argued is one of the saddest lines in a series of books that has a lot of sad lines. Sansa expects so little of the people around her, and is subjected to so much cruelty, that the mere act of hesitating before hitting a defenseless child is enough to stand out in her memory as an act of kindness.

And Sansa thinks this when Tyrion asks her if she’s flowered yet:

Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.

This is a perfect moment to show the small ways in which Joffrey is breaking her down emotionally. Tyrion’s question is embarrassing and impolite, but Sansa doesn’t even care because it is so much less embarrassing than the humiliations Joffrey makes her suffer. Joffrey has set the bar for cruelty so high that Sansa is willing to ignore others mistreating her because it isn’t as bad as Joffrey.

The secret friendship she has with Dontos makes this even worse:

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”

Dontos is not wrong, but it doesn’t make it any less toxic a message for Sansa to hear: I’m cruel and hit you for your own protection. That’s on display when Joffrey is beating Sansa for Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a “Morningstar” whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all.

Sansa is happy that Dontos is the one hitting her, because at least it’s better than Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Dontos volunteering to hit her is an act of kindness for Sansa; which further reinforces the idea that someone hitting her is okay.

All of this works to lower Sansa’s standards and warp her perception of what is and isn’t okay; and in the case of Dontos, it is outright grooming on the part of Littlefinger. He intentionally paid an older man to win Sansa’s trust and get her used to the dynamic of secrecy and pushing boundaries, all so he can swoop in during A Storm of Swords. Sansa’s stuck in an endless cycle of her abuse conditioning her to accept more abuse.

All of the abuse and isolation Sansa suffers also leaves her incredibly depressed throughout A Clash of Kings. When she gets the note telling her to go to the Godswood, she thinks she will kill herself before she’s caught:

If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself.

After the bread riot, Sansa has panic attacks; so much so that she feels suffocated in small rooms:

Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there was no air to breathe.

She likes to go up to the roof of the tower so she can see the entire city laid before her; it’s the only place where she doesn’t feel so claustrophobic and trapped.

That passage is also so fantastically written to show just how depressed Sansa is. Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She's too depressed to go riding around the courtyard; she doesn’t see the point in going around in circles. We know from A Game of Thrones that Sansa has plenty of hobbies: playing the high harp, needlepoint, reading, and sharing gossip with her best friend. In A Clash of Kings, she’s too isolated to have anyone to talk to, but we never see her doing any of her other hobbies either. Nothing brings Sansa happiness in this book.

Especially because she’s constantly surrounded by reminders of her trauma. The way Sansa copes with her grief is by pushing it out of her mind and pretending like it doesn’t exist:

Sansa did not know what had happened to Jeyne, who had disappeared from her rooms afterward, never to be mentioned again. She tried not to think of them too often, yet sometimes the memories came unbidden, and then it was hard to hold back the tears.

Sansa actively tries to forget about the people who mean the most to her because it hurts too much to think of them.

But she can’t forget about Ned when she’s surrounded by reminders of his death. Joffrey and Cersei intentionally throw it in her face, and she has to walk through the same halls his men died in:

Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.

The reminder that hurts the most is the presence of Ilyn Payne, a recurring figure in all of Sansa’s nightmares. Just his presence makes Sansa’s skin crawl:

She was climbing the dais when she saw the man standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father's greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. Sansa's breath caught in her throat.

. . .

She looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He's close

When Sansa’s afraid she’s going to die, it’s always his blade she fears:

I'll not escape him, he'll have my head.

. . .

Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it.

. . .

If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she'd come?

. . .

If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

Watching Ilyn Payne kill her father is the worst thing that ever happened to Sansa, and she lives in constant fear that the same thing could happen to her.

The only thing that keeps her going is the thought of her family. Sansa is insecure in herself enough to start believing the abuse that Joffrey and Cersei inflict on her; but she loves her family too much to ever believe the lies about them. Even though she’s forced to declare them traitors every single day, her internal monologue is always fighting against it:

Rob will kill you all, she thought, exulting

. . .

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.

She even finds a way to make Joffrey’s words work in her favor:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

One of the only moments where Sansa is even remotely happy in this book comes when she’s talking to Tommen, because he reminds her of Bran:

Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.

Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.

That’s a short passage, but it so beautifully captures a small piece of what Sansa is truly like, outside of the abuse and the fearing for her life and the never being able to express her emotions. She loves her family so much and wants nothing more than to be with Bran again. And while Joffrey mocks Tommen for his knightly dreams, Sansa is so nice to him, building up his confidence before he competes. She’s old enough to have grown passed the childishness of Tommen facing the quintain, but because she knows how important it is to Tommen, she gladly plays along with him. We never got to see any scenes in A Game of Thrones of Sansa interacting with Bran and getting to act like a big sister, but this scene does such a good job of showing us that Sansa was a great sister to him.

Sansa also feels a much stronger connection to the Godswood, the ancestral home of her father’s gods:

The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood, even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

And even though Lady’s long dead, Sansa still has a strong connection to her wolf. When she believes she’s going to die during the Blackwater, Lady is the first thing she thinks of:

“Lady,” she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

The more abuse Sansa suffers and the more pressure is put on her to denounce her family as traitors and give up on ever going home, the more Sansa falls back on her family. That’s the only form of comfort she has in King’s Landing; the memory of Winterfell, and the belief that Robb is coming to save her.

The Lannisters have Sansa held captive physically and emotionally in King’s Landing; she has to suffer through beatings and repeat their words to stay alive. But as long as Sansa has her family - has Winterfell - to hold onto, there is a part of her that the Lannisters can never have. Even if it’s only within the walls of her own mind, Sansa has fought herself a small piece of freedom.

Courtesy is a Lady’s Armor

Trapped within the political machinations of King’s Landing, Sansa starts to learn how to play the game in earnest.

Even before she consciously starts to do it, though, Sansa is already in many ways an adept political actor. There’s a reason that all highborn children are taught from a young age how to conduct themselves; Westeros is a society built on the cornerstone of tradition, and knowing how to perform courtly behavior is important. Because Sansa took all of Septa Mordane’s training seriously, she already knows how to walk the dangerous tightrope of courtly speak:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”

This is the same skill we saw in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, when she was proud of herself for telling the Hound that no one could withstand Gregor during the tourney – she managed to say something courteous without telling a lie. Just as she did then, Sansa manages to say an apology to Tyrion that’s true.

It also shows just how good Sansa is at keeping a level head, because just moments before she was thinking this:

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel."

Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.

Faced with the men responsible for killing her father, she manages to think on her feet and fulfill the role of a Lady.

She also learns how to use that same skill to benefit herself. Whereas at first she was just trying to perform the functions of a Lady, she starts to use her courtesy to talk the people around her into helping her in such a way that they don’t even realize it’s happening:

“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked.”

Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”

Part of why Sansa’s so naturally gifted at this kind of political double speak is because she understands people so well; she’s an empathetic and emotional character, and is extremely aware of the emotions of everyone around her. To affectively influence others, you need to understand what they want and be able to give it to them. Because Sansa is so aware of the people around her, she intuitively knows what they want; and all she wants to do is give it to them, because she doesn’t want to be hurt again.

The whole conversation she has with Tyrion in the Tower of the Hand does an excellent job showing how intelligent she is:

“I . . .” Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. “I only want to be loyal.”

“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?”

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. “I pray for an end to the fighting.”

Again, she shows an unparalleled ability to lie without actually lying. And she’s clever enough to tell Tyrion what he wants to hear without saying anything that’s actually false, that way it can’t come back to bite her later. She learned her lesson in A Game of Thrones not to trust someone just because they’re kind, and is careful not to show her cards to Tyrion. But in case he’s being honest in trying to help her, Sansa does not reaffirm her love for Joffrey. That’s why her answer of I only want to be loyal is so smart; whether Tyrion is playing her false or no, Sansa has given him the answer he wants to hear. She’s kept all of her doors open without creating additional risk for herself.

Having to survive Joffrey every day also teaches Sansa how to get what she wants without actually having to say it. When she saves Dontos’ life, she plays to Joffrey’s ego:

Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at Ser Dontos. "Take him away. I'll have him killed on the morrow, the fool."

"He is," Sansa said. "A fool. You're so clever, to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he? You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

All Sansa wants is to save Dontos’ life, and in the moment she comes up with a spectacular lie. Of course Joffrey would think it humiliating to make Dontos into a fool, so Sansa convinces him that would be an even greater punishment than death. She manipulates Joffrey into doing what she wants him to, and he doesn’t even know it’s happened.

Learning how to slyly insult Joffrey is one of the few ways Sansa can actually express herself as a prisoner, and she gets incredibly good at it. She starts by passive-aggressively getting one over on him:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

But as she gets better at politics she goes even further, actively tempting Joffrey into getting himself killed:

“They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is thickest,” she said recklessly. “Though he’s older than Your Grace, to be sure. A man grown.”

Joffrey’s biggest insecurity is that he can’t rule in his own right; Cersei won’t let him do certain things, and Tyrion is in charge of him as the Hand of the King because he hasn’t come of age yet. While Joffrey’s anger is normally aimed destructively at Sansa, here she figures out a way to make it work for her; using his own emotions against him to do something reckless.

As well as learning the art of political double-speak, Sansa starts to understand the broader political machinations at work. Because she was a diligent student of Catelyn and Septa Mordane, she has almost every sigil in Westeros memorized; at Joffrey’s name-day tourney, she recognizes every competitor by their House. This may seem unimportant at first glance, but it’s actually very important; twice in Arya’s chapters in A Clash of Kings she wishes she knew Houses and Sigils as well as Sansa, because than she would know who she was dealing with.

Since Sansa knows who everyone is, she has head start in understanding where everyone’s loyalties lie. On top of that, she’s also incredibly observant; she’s constantly taking in everything around her, stopping to pay attention to every little detail and interaction between people. Even though Cersei and Joffrey are trying to keep it hidden, Sansa notices that Joffrey’s tourney is held inside the Keep because he would be mobbed if they went out into the city. And she knows the Redwyne twins are hostages just as much as she is:

The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests, even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.

That’s not something anyone would have told Sansa. For one, no one is even allowed to talk to her per Cersei’s orders. For two, Cersei doesn’t let anyone acknowledge that she has hostages – in the same way Sansa has to pretend she is a guest of Joffrey’s court, the Redwynes have to pretend they’re willing guests. That means that Sansa, with no help from anyone, has of her own accord put all the pieces together and realized the Redwynes are political pawns just like her. Very impressive for a twelve-year-old.

Sansa’s attention to detail is clear when she meets Shae, and immediately notices something is not right with her:

Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to show her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes.

And when she’s entering Maegar’s Holdfast at the start of the Blackwater, and notices the guards:

The two guards at the door wore the lin-crested helms and crimson cloaks of House Lannister, but Sansa knew they were only dressed-up sellswords. Another sat at the foot of the stair – a real guard would have been standing, not sitting on a step with his halberd across his knees – but he rose when he saw them and opened the door to usher them inside.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Westerosi Houses and her attention to detail combine to give her a really good head for political machinations. She sees how the Lannisters use empty titles to flatter their lesser servants while saving the best prizes for their family:

Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’ was raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister.

She manages to keep pace with Littlefinger and Tywin’s games:

She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

I cannot emphasize enough that Sansa, following the tiny thread of Littlefinger looks happy to be Lord of Harrenhal, manages to predict the Red Wedding a whole book before it happens. That’s pretty incredible. Right now, Sansa has no power to start pulling meaningful strings of her own, but it’s clear that she fundamentally understands the complexity of geopolitics and would be well-prepared to make decisions of her own when the time comes.

Another way Sansa continues to learn about the realities of ruling is through people around her trying to teach her lessons. Because Sansa’s a hostage and isn’t allowed to say anything she feels, she basically becomes a blank slate for people to project whatever they want onto. Cersei, Dontos, and the Hound all try to “teach” her something as they project all of their own fears, insecurities, and trauma onto her.

Dontos tells her to play the fool:

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

“Let them. You’re safer that way, sweetling. Queen Cersei and the Imp and Lord Varys and their like, they all watch each other keen as hawks, and pay this one and that one to spy out what the others are doing, but no one ever troubles themselves about Lady Tanda’s daughter, do they?”

Of course, Sansa already knows this. All the way back in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, Sansa thinks to herself that Moon Boy is smarter than he looks and is only pretending to be a fool so he can go wherever he likes; and Dontos confirms her suspicions when he reveals Moon Boy is a spy for Lord Varys.

It’s a consistent pattern that everyone around Sansa is constantly underestimating her; partly because of their own biases, and partly because Sansa is an almost entirely internal character, rarely letting people hear her honest thoughts. People assume she’s as hollow as the words they force her to say, but in reality she’s an introvert and a hostage.

The Hound also feels the need to impart some “lessons” onto Sansa:

Sandor Clegane snorted. “Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They’re all liars here . . . and every one better than you.”

Again, he’s assuming Sansa’s much dumber than she actually is. Sansa already knows that everyone in King’s Landing is a liar, and has sworn to herself never to trust them again.

The most valuable lessons Sansa gets are from Cersei during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”

In this moment, even though she’s not doing a particularly good job actually doing it, Cersei articulates what’s really important about politics: optics. Her true motives for protecting the Ladies don’t matter as long as the Ladies believe that Cersei is doing it for the right reasons. That’s what monarchies are built upon. They’re a fragile house of cards constructed out of people’s belief.

That’s a lesson Sansa learns again when Joffrey sets her aside and takes Margaery as his bride. Sansa knows it’s going to happen, and is coached by Cersei how to react:

I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her, no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”

But in front of the court, Joffrey carries on the charade, pretending Garlan’s offer of his sister’s hand is brand new information. Sansa watches from the sidelines and sees how people react; chanting and cheering to the theatre of it all. She gets to learn in real time how important it is to be performing your duties for the people. Other characters – most notably Jon Snow and Daenerys – can never quite figure that part of ruling out, and it has grave consequences.

I don’t mean performing in the negative sense. Of course, it can be used like that, like when the Tyrell’s intentionally starve King’s Landing so they can swoop in and make a big show of providing food. But it can also be used for good; it is an absolutely necessary aspect of ruling to let your people know what you’re doing for them. Jon in particular gets in trouble at the Wall because he doesn’t explain why he does things; he just does them and hopes people will trust him. Part of the courtly aspect of ruling is doing the work of showing your people how you’re helping them. That way you build trust with them, and they know you care for them. That’s what Sansa’s learning how to do.

Sansa’s also very good at the literal courtly aspect of politics; the time actually spent in court, sitting for hours and hours as the tedious day-to-day of ruling takes place. After the Battle of the Blackwater is over, Sansa has to sit in court for an entire day as soldiers are given their reward. She manages to stay focused the whole time, giving incredibly detailed accounts of each prize that’s awarded and each act of valor that caused it. She handles herself better than the grown men in the hall:

By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king’s leave.

Actual adults can’t even tolerate it, but Sansa manages just fine. This talent of hers is taken for granted by readers, but really stands out when you compare it to other characters. Sansa has the benefit of being raised to be a Lady, unlike a character like Daenerys who never had to sit through the training. Dany can’t make it through one day holding court in Meereen, and calls a lid early because she’s so bored – then stops holding court all together. Actually being a Queen is horribly bureaucratic, and that’s a skill that takes some practice to be able to perform.

Sansa’s ability to hold her own as a leader also really shines during the Battle of the Blackwater, when all hope seems lost and Cersei abandons the women in Maegar’s Holdfast:

“Oh, gods,” an old woman wailed. “We’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.” Several children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?

She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. “Don’t be afraid,” she told them loudly. “The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes . . .”

“What’s happened?” demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. “What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?”

“Tell us,” someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.

Sansa raised her hands for quiet. “Joffrey’s come back to the castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The queen will be back soon.” The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the galley. “Moon Boy, make us laugh.”

Sansa has no reason to do this. Cersei has given Ser Ilyn orders to kill her if the castle falls, and all the women in the holdfast are older than she is. She’s the last person who should be capable of standing up to take charge, considering her age and her impending death by execution.

She knows she’s faced with a choice: try and save her own life, or stay and comfort the women in the holdfast. And she decides to stay.

True Knights

This book sees Sansa’s worldview start to deepen. She’s only a child when the series starts, and like most kids has a very simple understanding of the world; there’s good and bad people, and good and bad things that happen. Songs were the way Sansa gave that worldview structure. They taught her that the good things happened to the good people, and the bad things happened to the bad people. Westeros is fair, and only the good people could be put in charge to do good things. Kings, queens, and knights were all avatars of the inherent goodness of the world; people put in place specifically to protect others.

This worldview became unsustainable for Sansa after Ned’s death. Every single rule the songs taught her was violated by her father’s execution. In her last chapter of A Game of Thrones, we see Sansa turn to nihilism as a result; her father is dead, her prince is a monster, and the knights sworn to protect her are the ones beating her. She doesn’t believe in anything anymore, so much so that she just wants to die.

In A Clash of Kings, Sansa starts to grapple with the overwhelming cognitive dissonance. Ned’s death and Joffrey’s cruelty taught her how evil people can be; but she also knows how good they can be, because she grew up in Winterfell. For all of their shortcomings, Ned and Catelyn were loving parents who tried their best to do good, and raised their kids the same.

Sansa still believes in goodness, but sees that everyone around her fails to live up to it:

Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them.

Notice how she thinks They are no true knights. Sansa is surrounded by unimaginable cruelty, but she holds on to an undying sense of optimism. She knows that real knights don’t fight for the right, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing to believe in those ideals. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, when her belief in good was attached to specific people like Joffrey and Cersei, Sansa’s new worldview isn’t dependent on people to live up to. She believes in doing the right thing no matter what, even if the people around her let her down.

Sansa’s conception of beauty is the same way; in the first book, she assumed that beautiful people must also be good. But in A Clash of Kings, she reverses that order; people become either beautiful or ugly to her based on how good or bad they are. We view Joffrey through many POVs, and it is clear that by any standard that he is objectively attractive; yet Sansa now finds him ugly:

His plump pink lips always made him look pouty. Sansa had liked that once, but now it made her sick.

And she thinks this of the Hound:

The scars are not the worst part, not even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger.

It’s not his physical appearance that scares her, it’s the anger in his eyes. That’s the part of him that’s ugly to her.

This evolution in Sansa’s understanding is never clearer than in her interactions with Dontos. The parts of his appearance that Sansa finds unattractive are his blotchy skin and broken veins, which are both symptoms of his constant drinking. It’s his drinking that bothers her:

“I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?”

. . .

This is madness, to trust myself to this drunkard

But Sansa manages to look beyond that as soon as Dontos invokes Florian the Fool. As much as Sansa understands that the songs aren’t true, the idea still appeal to her. When Dontos says he wants to make amends and become a true knight, in spirit if not name, Sansa treats him as if he actually were a knight:

“Rise, ser.”

. . .

Sansa took a step . . . then spun back, nervous, and softly laid a kiss on his cheek, her eyes closed. “My Florian,” she whispered. “The gods heard my prayer.”

Sansa’s growing understanding of the world around her also changes the way she thinks of class. To some extent in A Song of Ice and Fire, every single character is classist because they’re all rich people in an extremely hierarchical society. The entire structure of kings, lord paramounts, lords, knights, and peasants requires you to be classist; if you believe everyone in Westeros is equal, the entire structure of the society crumbles. While some of the POV characters like Jon and Davos make great strides in understanding how bankrupt the Westerosi class structure is, they’re still generally classist; it’s almost impossible not to be when you grow up in the culture they did. Davos grew up poor, but the indoctrination of classism has given him an almost religious fervor to follow Stannis as the “true” king.

Sansa especially had a very rigid understanding of class in A Game of Thrones; Arya making friends with the butcher’s boy was anathema to her. But the more that Sansa sees the people in power as the monsters they really are, the more sympathy she has for the people below her. In the sept praying before the Battle of the Blackwater, she holds hands with a washerwoman:

The old woman’s hand was bony and hard with callus, the boy’s small and soft, but it was good to have someone to hold on to

The more Cersei and Joffrey try to isolate Sansa, the more they try to snuff out any feeling of goodness or loyalty she had, the more Sansa reaches out to connect with people. Everything bad that happens to her makes her feel more connected to the people of King’s Landing. She’s too young and privileged (class-wise) to have a fully functioning understanding of the true evils of hierarchy, but she fundamentally understands something most of the aristocracy do not: that the common people are people and should be treated with respect.

She knows the common people will suffer the most if Stannis breaches the city walls, and prays for theme:

She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike

Sansa gladly positions herself alongside the working people, not offended to be among them the way the Lannisters certainly are.

Sansa’s deepening worldview also gives her an incredibly complex relationship to the songs and stories she used to love. As I’ve already mentioned, she doesn’t disown them entirely; the high ideals of the songs are still very important to Sansa. The concept of a true knight, who would actually defend the defenseless, is the cornerstone of Sansa’s belief system, and she doesn’t need that person to actually be a knight – as long as they fulfill the moral obligation of being good. (Little does she know that very person is later tasked to find her.)

But now she knows that the stories lie. She understands their role as propaganda; when Arys Oakheart tries to say the peasants believe the comet heralds Joffrey’s reign, she doesn’t believe him:

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure.

And she can’t even finish a sentence defending knights without realizing it isn’t true:

“Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn’t, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there’s such a dearth of good sacking songs.”

“True knights would never harm women and children.” The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

The words ring hollow in her ears because Sansa does know what happens when a city is sacked; earlier in a previous chapter, she thinks this:

The whole city was afraid. Sansa could see it from the castle walls. The smallfolk were hiding themselves behind closed shutters and barred doors as if that would keep them safe. The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

Cersei underestimates Sansa, assuming everything she knows is from a song, but here we see that Sansa knows that the songs don’t tell the whole story. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, she no longer holds them in complete reverence. The Sept used to represent everything beautiful about the songs to her:

Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli.

It was the song’s come to life. But after Ned’s death, she hates it:

When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she’d thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. “I want it burned.”

She literally wants to set fire to the things that used to represent the songs.

But songs and stories are the foundation of Sansa’s world; even though she doesn’t believe in them the way she used to, they still shape her perception. She doesn’t want to let them go:

There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.

She still uses the template of songs and stories to interact with the world, but now with the understanding that the world is so much more complicated. Whereas before, the songs represented a sanitized version of war, Sansa begins to understand it in its entirety:

Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle. The singing almost drowned them out, but the sounds were there if you had the ears to hear: the deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.

It was another sort of song, a terrible song.

Thinking about something through the lens of a song no longer represents a childish fantasy for Sansa. Her conception of them is no longer permanent; her view of the songs has changed to fit with her new reality, but it’s still a comforting way for her to make sense of the world around her.

She even incorporates her love of the songs into her political manipulations:

"You're lying," Joffrey said. "I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much."

"I don't care for him, Your Grace." The words tumbled out desperately. "Drown him or have his head off, only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please . . . not today, not on your name day. I couldn't bear for you to have ill luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so . . ."

Her use of the songs nearly saves her life here. Joffrey doesn’t know enough to be sure that she’s lying, so once the Hound corroborates her story, he has to believe it’s true.

Sansa’s attachment to the stories is integral to her character, and GRRM does a tremendous job of making it important to the arc she starts in this book, which is her continued journey from pawn to player in the Game of Thrones. Sansa’s perspective as a political actor is entirely unique from anyone else for many reasons, and one of those is her connection to the ideal version of Westeros that lives in the songs. Even as Sansa realizes the songs are lies and that the world is so much darker than she thought, she never gives up on the hope that it could be good. Her unwavering optimism for the world, in the face of so much trauma, means that she will never stop trying to make the world better.

Flowering

Throughout her time in King’s Landing, Sansa’s experiences with sexuality are inextricably linked to violence. The way Joffrey physically abuses her comes with a nasty undercurrent of sexual violence. The total control he exerts over her means she has to let him do what he wants:

The king settled back in his seat and took Sansa's hand. His touch filled her with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made herself sit very still.

The subtext of that scene is drawn to the forefront when Joffrey has Sansa beaten after Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

. . .

“Boros, make her naked.”

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel.

This is one of Sansa’s first experiences with sexuality, and it is nonconsensual and done specifically to humiliate her.

The relationship between sex and violence is never clearer than at the start of the Blackwater:

"Bless my steel with a kiss." He extended the blade down to her. "Go on, kiss it."

He had never sounded more like a stupid little boy. Sansa touched her lips to the metal, thinking that she would kiss any number of swords sooner than Joffrey

Joffrey is asking Sansa to kiss his sword; the metaphor here is not exactly subtle. To Joffrey, sex and violence are one in the same; having power over someone, hurting someone, turns him on as much as physical attraction. And as his betrothed, Sansa is on the receiving end of his sexually charged violence.

Unlike Joffrey, Sansa’s not turned on by violence, seeing it and sexuality as two separates things. And she would rather suffer through the violence, thinking to herself she would rather kiss the sword than kiss Joffrey. Her experiences with being found attractive to someone have all been so traumatic that actual violence scares her less.

Arguably the most traumatic experience she has is during the bread riot:

Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side. They had torn the High Septon to pieces and smashed in Ser Aron's head with a rock. Try not to be afraid! he said.

In the nightmares she has of that day, she dreams of being murdered; a knife cutting through her stomach until she’s left in bloody ribbons. It’s not hard to see the violent sexual imagery in that description. Sansa knows what those men planned on doing to her, and the memory haunts her. It’s no coincidence that she wakes from those nightmares to her first period:

“No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.

The way GRRM writes her reaction is so visceral. As tears streams down her cheeks, she tries to wash herself, cuts apart her sheets, burns them, and tries to drag her entire bed into the flames as well. And the whole time she does this, she keeps thinking They’ll know or What will I tell them? or I have to burn them. She’s so completely and utterly terrified that anyone could ever know, she’s hardly even thinking. It’s just sheer, overwhelming panic.

This line in particular stands out:

The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

Down to jewelry she wears and the way she styles her hair, Sansa’s body belongs to Joffrey. Her job in King’s Landing is to look pretty for him in the hopes that it will save her from his wrath. Her body exists solely to please him. She’s literally stripped of her own agency and control.

Flowering is the last straw for Sansa because it means she can be tied forever to Joffrey through marriage, and he’ll be free to rape her and force her to have his children. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to stop it. Her own body has betrayed her by merely existing.

Sansa’s period is again equated to physical violence during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“You look pale, Sansa,” Cersei observed. “Is your red flower still blooming?”

“Yes.”

“How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.”

Then a second time, Cersei compares sex to violence:

“You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it.”

Through Cersei’s eyes, we get the clearest summary of the point GRRM is trying to make. Existing as a woman in Westeros is inherently oppressive to the point of smothering the life out of her. Where the men are given swords, women are given marriage and childbirth; but the latter is no less violent than the former. In Cersei’s words:

“We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.”

“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said.

“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all.”

In many ways, Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is centered around this idea; the violence of femininity in Westeros. Being a child isn’t enough to spare Sansa the horrors. The whole reason she’s trapped in King’s Landing to begin with is because of her body; the Lannisters want to use her like property – a broodmare to sire them sons to inherit Winterfell.

It’s no surprise the climax of Sansa’s chapters in A Clash of Kings pushes this concept to its furthest bounds . . .

Ser Dontos and The Hound

Throughout Sansa’s chapters in King’s Landing, GRRM is deconstructing the trope of the Princess in the Tower. Sansa more than any other character is aware that her life takes place within a story, and she prays to the gods to send her a hero to save from the Red Keep. GRRM had already subverted the idea of a charming Prince with Joffrey in the first book, so A Clash of Kings subverts the trope of a knight coming to save her. That’s why her two protectors in King’s Landing are Dontos and Sandor Clegane – two men who aren’t quite knights.

For most of the book, the narrative treats Dontos and Sandor as foils. The story of why either one is not a knight puts them on two opposite ends of a spectrum. Dontos has his knighthood taken away from him because he’s too soft. He would rather drink and let people laugh at him than fight with a sword, which is why Joffrey makes him a fool. On the other hand, the Hound likes killing too much to be a knight:

“Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat, “there’s no man on earth I need fear.”

This dichotomy between them is made clearer in the way Sansa has to escape their advances. Around Dontos, she’s dodging kisses:

"Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck." He swayed toward her.

Sansa dodged the wet groping lips, kissed him lightly on an unshaven cheek, and bid him good night. It took all her strength not to weep.

But it’s a steel kiss she has to dodge from the Hound:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

The idea of Dontos and Sandor as opposites is driven home further by their different approaches to Sansa’s love of stories; Dontos uses it to win Sansa’s trust:

“I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you . . . your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself." His voice dropped. "The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all . . ."

"Florian," Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her.

"Sweet lady, I would be your Florian," Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her.

The Hound uses it to berate and belittle her:

“There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”

Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”

“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

But underneath the superficial differences, Dontos and the Hound have the exact same relationship to Sansa. When Joffrey is having her beat after Robb’s victory at Oxcross, both make efforts to help her – Dontos volunteering to hit her with a melon instead of a sword, and the Hound telling Joffrey “enough” – but stop short of doing anything that would put themselves in danger. They both make advances on Sansa against her will – Dontos with kisses and the Hound with knives, but the overt sexual nature of both cannot be denied. They both position themselves to Sansa as a sort of mentor figure, telling her how to act and what to believe, with the implicit (and often explicit) message that she’s not smart enough to think for herself and it would really be in her best interest if she just trusted them instead. Both men position themselves as Sansa’s “protector”, but they never protect her from much of anything; in the few moments they’re actually given the opportunity, like during the Battle of the Blackwater, they both panic and leave her to fend for herself.

What really connects the two men is how they use Sansa. To them, she’s the paragon of youth and innocence; the way she believes in the stories reminds them both of what they used to be like before the world beat them down. Sandor was a boy who played with toy knights before Gregor burned his face, and Dontos was saved as a child by the knight of knights Barristan Selmy.  While they’ve both grown jaded, Sansa brings out the parts of them that still believe in the stories. That’s clear from the way Dontos reacts to the Lannisters winning the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”

And even though the Hound claims to hate the stories, it’s a song he wants from Sansa:

“Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids.”

Sansa as the princess in a tower appeals to the fantasy of both men to be her hero.

But this is a subversion of that trope, not a straight retelling. Particularly in regards to Sandor, GRRM really deconstructs the destructive nature of this male fantasy. Before Sandor asks Sansa to sing him a song, he comments on her body:

“You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you’re taller too, almost . . .”

Sandor wanting to play the knight with Sansa is always tied to his sexual attraction to her; in every single instance, GRRM always ties them together. There is never one without the other. It should go without saying that this is not good; Sansa is barely twelve, and hasn’t even had her first period when Sandor’s sexual advances start. She is a child. In Maegar’s Holdfast, she’s shocked that men would view her sexually:

“Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.”

“Me?”

“Try not to sound so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember?”

This passage also very clearly draws the connection between Sandor’s relationship to Sansa and violence. Cersei explains to Sansa the way battle makes men into monsters around women, and then the next chapter Sandor appears in Sansa’s bedroom with a knife. This is not meant to be a romantic scene, or else GRRM would not have framed it with threats of rape and violence.

This is further re-enforced by the song Sansa sings to Sandor. When he holds the knife to her neck, he demands she sing the song of Florian and Jonquil:

He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

But Sansa can’t remember the words, and instead sings the Mother’s Mercy hymn:

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, sooth the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

It is incredibly symbolic that the Hound demands Sansa sing him a song of romance, but she physically can’t; the only song she can remember the words to is one of forgiveness.

So much of Sansa’s narrative in A Clash of Kings is people demanding things that she can’t give them. Joffrey wants her loyalty, Cersei wants her words, Tyrion wants her trust, and Dontos and Sandor want her love. Everyone is pulling her in different directions, and her entire personality starts to crumble under the pressure; there’s no way she can give all of these people everything they want. Something has to give.

And when Sansa can no longer play her role, when the fear of dying is too visceral for her to wear her courtesy like an armor, the one thing Sansa can still give Sandor is her mercy. . .

Radical Empathy

The running thread that connects all of the themes in Sansa’s chapters is her being trapped. Physically through Joffrey’s abuse, emotionally through Joffrey, Cersei, Dontos, and Sandor, and even by herself mentally as she begins to internalize the abuse. Everything about the Red Keep is meant to turn Sansa cruel and self-interested, just like everybody else; even if they aren’t intentionally cruel like Joffrey, they’re okay with Sansa being hurt because that’s just how life is, like Cersei. Or Dontos and the Hound, who don’t intend to hurt Sansa but do because they’re too caught up in their own narrative to acknowledge her humanity. Even Arys Oakheart, who really doesn’t want to hurt her, but is too afraid to say no and defy the class structure of Westeros.

That makes Sansa’s defiance through empathy stand out in such radical contrast. The kindness Sansa shows everyone, even those who hurt her, is how GRRM brings the songs to life. Sansa doesn’t love those stories because she’s silly and naïve; she loves them because they justify her belief in the inherent goodness of being kind.

Empathy and kindness are Sansa’s defining character traits, and that’s why her arc in A Clash of Kings opens with her saving Dontos’ life:

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm.

Even though just moments earlier she had noted Joffrey’s mood was turning dark:

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

The way Sansa stands up for Dontos is particularly notable because he had the chance to do the same for her in A Game of Thrones, but chose not to:

Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

- Sansa V

Dontos wouldn’t even risk treating Sansa with basic courtesy, yet she risked her live to save his.

And that’s not the only time Sansa stands up to Joffrey to save someone:

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag.

- Tyrion IX

The only other character we ever see move to actually stand up to Joffrey is Tyrion, who is also the only person in court who doesn’t have to be afraid of Joffrey’s retaliation. Everyone else sits by day after day and watches as Joffrey abuses Sansa and says nothing; or worse, they actively participate. But whenever Sansa sees Joffrey hurting someone, she risks herself to make him stop.

Sansa also uses her kindness to give herself courage:

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

She’s too afraid to speak back at Joffrey when he’s abusing her, but as soon as she sees him mistreat Tommen, she finds the courage to stand up for others.

Kindness is almost an involuntary reflex for Sansa:

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

Lancel Lannister, who stood by and egged the crowd on as Sansa was stripped and beaten after the Battle at Oxcross. She has every reason not to help him; she knows if she stays in that room, with the battle all but lost, Ser Ilyn is going to kill her solely because of the Lannisters’ spite. She has no reason to stay and help Lancel. But she can’t stop herself.

The moment where Sansa’s kindness stands out the most, though, is when the Hound comes to her room during Blackwater:

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.

I think reading this passage out of context is what allows certain fans to paint this scene in a romantic light. The softness of Sansa reaching out to touch Sandor is an indelible moment. But it does the moment a disservice to read it that way. This scene is so well written because of what comes before it:

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” he heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

Afraid for her life, Sansa closes her eyes. But Sandor is too bitter, jaded, and wrapped up in his own self to realize that’s why she closes her eyes; he thinks it’s because she still can’t look at the burned ruin of his face. He came to her room with kindness the furthest thing from his mind; the flames dancing on the Blackwater Rush made him scared like a wild animal, and he’s come here to get something from Sansa – whether she wants to give it or no.

(And while certain people are interested in carrying a lot of water to redeem this character, GRRM has really left no ambiguity in Sandor’s intentions. The passage He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed, taken in tandem with his confession to Arya, I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf, make it very clear that Sandor intended to rape Sansa. That is not up for debate.)

Sansa singing the Mother’s Mercy hymn is the last thing Sandor expected. The idea that in this moment, as Sandor becomes all of the worst things he’s ever believed about himself, about to do one of the most monstrous acts a person can do – that in that moment, Sansa could still show him mercy, is enough to stop him. He can no longer pretend that all the songs are lies and that everyone is only pretending to be good, because in this moment Sansa is still somehow capable of showing him kindness. 

Sansa’s ability to have empathy for seemingly irredeemable characters is not limited to Sandor (though certain shippers would like to pretend that’s some unique characteristic of their relationship, it most certainly is not). The dynamic between Sansa and Cersei is so rich because of Sansa’s inability to hate her, even though Cersei is responsible for pretty much every bad thing in Sansa’s life.

The Sansa and Cersei dynamic is one of the narrative’s most dynamic and complex, as Cersei represents a dark mirror of Sansa. Both were in love with the idea of becoming Queen as children, but arrived in King’s Landing to find their Prince is not who they thought he would be – Cersei both literally and figuratively, as she realizes she’s not to marry Rhaegar Targaryen but instead Robert Baratheon. They’re both subjected to emotional and physical abuse by the King for things that aren’t their fault – Robert hates Cersei because she isn’t Lyanna, and Joffrey hates Sansa because of his fight with Arya on the Trident.

But Cersei’s Lannister upbringing and life have made her cruel in all the ways Sansa is kind. She can see the parallels between herself and Sansa, but instead of reacting with empathy, she uses it to justify her cruelty:

“You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation. I did.”

Being afraid of the men in her life has taught Cersei that’s the correct way to wield power:

“Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”

But Sansa reacts the opposite way:

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

This line has become the definitive statement of Sansa’s character because it so wholly embodies her ethos. Cruelty is not in her nature, and her instinct is always to show kindness. It also ties a direct connection to her own personal experiences shaping how she wants to be as Queen:

“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”

Sansa knows what it feels like to be afraid, and she never wants anyone else to ever feel like that. Where the cruelty Cersei suffered taught her it was normal and good to rule that way, Sansa learns what it feels like to be at someone else’s mercy. If she ever has control over someone, which she will in books to come, she’s learned to always be kind because she knows what it feels like when someone isn’t.

All of her chapters in A Clash of Kings are full of moments that show how much Sansa values kindness. While I’ve already highlighted the life or death examples, she also shines in the small moments, like when she encourages Tommen before he faces the quintain at Joffrey’s name day tourney. And she comforts him when Myrcella leaves for Dorne:

Prince Tommen sobbed. "You mew like a suckling babe," his brother hissed at him. "Princes aren't supposed to cry."

"Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon," Sansa Stark said, "and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound."

- Tyrion IX

She tries to comfort Lollys Stokeworth across the bridge to Maegar’s Holdfast:

She greeted them courteously. “May I be of help?”

Lady Tanda flushed with shame. “No, my lady, but we thank you kindly. You must forgive my daughter, she has not been well.”

“I don’t want to.” Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. “Please, please, I don’t want to.”

Sansa spoke to her gently. “We’ll all be thrice protected inside, and there’s to be food and drink and song as well.”

Her prayer in the Sept before the battle starts shows just how much she cares for everyone:

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

There’s only one person in the whole of Westeros Sansa won’t extend her empathy to:

But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet. The aisles were jammed with people. She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey’s sword and shield, the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need. Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.

This line feels especially important. A lesson that’s drilled into Sansa time and time again by Cersei and Sandor is that her kindness makes her weak. It was used against her in A Game of Thrones, where her trust in Cersei and Joffrey left her completely vulnerable to Ned’s death. But this passage shows that it is not weakness that makes Sansa kind - it’s strength. For a character as kind as she is, and subjected to so much abuse, it would be easy to see her narrative as someone repeatedly letting herself be run over. By including this line, showing that Sansa’s empathy is a choice she makes – and making it clear that she chooses not to have it for Joffrey – it shows that Sansa still has control over herself, and will set boundaries. 

Instead of using her experiences in a negative way like Cersei, Sansa learns to carefully apply the lessons of her life; she won’t let abuse stop her from being kind, but she knows when to stop herself from trusting someone again.

Because Sansa’s kindness and optimism are the most important aspects of her character, her arc in A Clash of Kings ends there. Joffrey setting her aside in favor of Margaery is an emotional rollercoaster for Sansa:

Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me, he’s . . .”

He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely begun.”

Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”

Throughout A Song of Ice and Fire, the narrative is constantly testing Sansa’s commitment to her ideals. Everything she knows is constantly turned on its head, going from a dream to a nightmare. The momentary joy she feels knowing she doesn’t have to marry Joffrey is only allowed for a second, until it collides with Dontos’ harsh reality.

But instead of ending there, the narrative takes a page out of Sansa’s book and leaves on a vision of hope for the future:

It was a hair net of fine spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. “What stones are these?”

“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight.”

“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic, you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. “It’s home.”

[crazycoke-addict]

Hints that Sandor Clegane And Sansa Stark are going to meet again in the books and Sansa has feelings towards the hound.

Sansa Stark And Sandor Clegane aka the hound are fictional characters in a book series called A song of ice and fire by George R.R. Martin and also from a HBO show called Game of Thrones. In the books, many characters have POVs in which we hear their thoughts and perspective on other characters as well, Sansa Stark being one of them. Sansa and Sandor are different but both similar at the same time. She’s a high-born lady while he’s basically a lapdog for Joffrey Baratheon hence his nickname being the hound. In a way it’s like Beauty and the beast. However the similarities is that their time in kingslanding they don’t exactly fit in, Sandor isn’t in the Kingsguard And is much of an outsider while Sansa is the daughter of the “traitor” Lord Eddard Stark. Although they do interact in the show, I feel like the books gives us a bit more information. Even when they are far apart Sansa still thinks of them in both Friend and romance alike. I believe she has feelings for Sandor and I’m pretty sure the fans can agree as well.

Sansa and Sandor meet in the first book, “Game of Thrones”. Sansa is betrothed to Prince Joffrey and Sandor is joffrey’s bodygaurd. Later in the books, he tells her the story about how his brother pushed his face into the leaving a burnt scar on his face. The reason why he decided tell Sansa this is to basically show that they live in a dangerous place and that the stories she has read about handsome princes and knights aren’t what they appear. Sansa’s father Lord Eddard Stark is executed under the orders of King Joffrey. After dismissal of Ser Barristan Selmy, Sandor replaces him despite not being a knight himself. In the Capicity, He is often assigned to watch over Sansa and despite his gruffness attitude, he shows kindness towards her and even tries to protect her from Joffrey’s sadism. When Joffrey orders Ser Meryn Trant to slap Sansa for her back talk, Sandor was the one to wipe the blood off of her lip.

In second book, Clash of Kings, Sandor strategically defends Sansa and is the only one whom doesn’t abuse her even when Joffrey orders him too. During Joffrey’s name-day when he makes his Kingsguard drink Ser Dontos to death, Sansa makes up lie by saying that it’s bad luck to kill someone on your name-day, Sandor backs her up. When Ser Meryn Trant is abusing Sansa in front of the lords and ladies, Tyrion Lannister along with Bronn and Timett Stop the abuse before It can get any worse and orders someone to cover her due to Ser Meryn Trant ripping her dress off, Sandor puts his white cloak around her. In one part of the story, Sansa is stopped by a drunken Sandor whom brings up about her almost growing into almost womanhood, Sandor asked her sing to him about knights and fair maidens since he still sees her as a little bird, in which Sansa replied that she will gladly sing to him. Although, he was rough with her during the encounter, Sansa still trusts him because he’s more gentle and protects her from Ser Boros Blunt. After seeing the departure of Myrcella Baratheon, a riot in kings landing breaks out. Sansa gets herself in a terrible situation where a group of men are about to rape and possibly murder her, Sandor kills the groups of men and rescues her before they could go any further. During the battle of Blackwater due to his fear of fire, Sandor walks away from the battlefield and goes to find Sansa. During the battle, Sansa prays to the mother to save Sandor and also to gentle his rage. Sansa goes back to her room where she meets a drunken Sandor. He tells that he’s getting out of kingslanding and ask her to come with her and says that he will keep her safe, Sansa decides to stay but Sandor leaves his cloak. Sansa wraps the bloody cloak. In the future chapters of Sansa’s POV, she talks about a kiss that happen that night, but the thing is there was never a kiss.

With them being apart from each other, Sansa wishes Sandor was here with her and still has his bloody cloak with her where she kept it in a chest with her sumner dresses, when she is forced to marry Tyrion Lannister. Sansa even says that Tyrion is uglier than the hound. During the death of King Joffrey Baratheon, Sansa escapes from kings landing with the help of Ser Dontos (whom Sansa saved from death) and Petyr Baelish. Sansa is sent to the Eyrie were her aunt Lysa Arryn lives. Sansa almost gets raped again by Lysa’s singer Marillion but is saved by Ser Lothor Brune, Littlefinger’s bodyguard. She briefly believe to be Sandor who saved her and not lothor who rescued her. In one part of the story, Sansa befriends an old blind dog and sleeps in front of a fire place and has a dream of her marriage with Tyrion in which she’s in her marriage bed however Tyrion turns into a tall scarred-face man and tells her to sing to him. The scarred-face man obviously resembles Sandor. I find this part interesting, I find it surprising that people don’t talk about this part in the story because it shows Sansa’s feelings towards Sandor Clegane to the point where she even dreams of marrying him.

In A feast of Crows, where she disguised herself as Alayne Stone, she let’s Robert Arryn whom she has nicknamed sweetrobin kiss her, when his lips touch hers, she remembers Sandor kissing her.

Quotes where Sansa mentions Sandor

“He is no true knight, but he saved me all the same. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him”- praying to the mother during battle of the Blackwater.

“I wish the hound were here. The night of the battle, Sandor Clegane had come to her chambers to take her from the city, but Sansa had refused. Sometimes she lay awake at night, wondering if she’d been wise. She had his strained white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. She could boy say why she’d kept it. The hound had turned craven, she heard it said;the height of the battle, he got drunk the imp had to take his men. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned his face. It was only the fire he feared. That night, wildfire had set the river itself ablaze, and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, Sansa had been afraid. Outside.... she could scarcely imagine it”

“As the boy’s lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, When his cruel mouth pressed down on her Own. He had come to sansa in darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.”

“I would be gladder if it were the hound, Sansa thought. Harsh as he was, she did not believe Sandor Clegane would let any harm come to her”.

In the book Sandor Clegane’s whereabouts is unknown and it’s even unknown if he’s alive. There’s a theory that he’s the grave digger which is mentioned in the fourth book, A Feast for Crows were Brienne of Tarth and her companions have arrived on the Quiet Isle, they walk uphill passing a lichyard on the way, where she noticed a brother bigger than her struggling to dig Brother Clement’s grave. Unlike the show, Sansa is still in the Eyrie and is still Alayne Stone, her new identity. With Sansa always thinking about him to the point where she has a dream of him being her new husband, I do believe that they will meet again that is if Sandor is alive in the book.

Their relationship reminds me of a syndrome is called Lima Syndrome which is complete opposite to Stockholm syndrome. Lima syndrome is when the abductor develops sympathy towards their captive. Granted, Sansa wasn’t kidnapped but after the death of her father, she was held hostage by the Lannister in Kingslanding. Sandor whose around her a bit more due him having to protect Joffrey is the only one who feels sympathy for her. He defends her, doesn’t follow Joffrey’s orders when it comes to beating her up and even saved from a group of mob, he even asked her to escape kingslanding with him even though he knew they’ll be consequences.

[quantifiableme]

Controlled

Jealous!Gendry and Oblivious!Arya as promised, plus some #PodtheRod to appease the masses!

***

“Ohhhhh ho ho ho, look at that!” slurred a very drunk Bronn. “Pod the Rod got himself a Lady!”

“Please refrain from giving my squire vulgar titles,” coldly commanded Brienne of Tarth. Gendry hadn’t noticed her there when he had looked out the window- a bit to focused on another sword-wielding Lady. “Once more, a squire cannot have a Lady. Not that Arya Stark would ever put herself in a position like that.”

“For that one she might,” responded Bronn. “Kid’s got another sword bigger than The Mountain’s. If you know what-”

“I believe we all know what you mean, Bronn.” Scolded Tyrion.

***

Gendry hit the molten steel into some formidable shape, letting his anger be the momentum for his swing. 

He could hear Arya practicing just outside the forge, which he usually found comforting, but today just made him more frustrated. However, while he tried to convince himself that it was her that caused his current tantrum, he was really mad at himself. 

The night before, Arya had come to the forge while the rest of Winterfell slept. Gendry had been putting the finishing touches on the sword she had asked for -- a project he worked on tirelessly since she brought him the design and left him breathless with her new found confidence. 

She had changed since the blacksmith saw her last. Obviously, they both did, but Arya in ways Gendry hadn’t expected. Gone was the young boy-girl who let her emotions drive every decision she made, who it took a simple tease to burst into a fit of rage bigger than the girl herself was. While he was in King’s Landing, it was the thought of her little pout and infuriating stubbornness that kept him going -- kept him alive. 

Her passion that he fell in love with was still there, but buried. No, not buried, controlled. She still a force to be reckoned with with her sword, only now it was tactful. Strategic. Instead of blowing up at Gendry’s M’lady comments, she smiled and gave a pitiful retort. Gendry was ashamed to admit that her simple calculated spin that night in the forge was enough to leave him without feeling in his legs.

He was terrified of her.

The night she came to receive her new weapon, she swaggered into the forge as if she owned it. Actually, reminded the asshole part of Gendry’s brain. _She did own it. _She had sat herself on his work table with the ease of a cat and held out her hand. Gendry laughed to disguise how loud his heart had been beating in that moment. When he handed in to her, she tugged it just slightly to make him stumble closer to her.

“Thank you,” she had said with a mischievously. 

His vision was drowning in her grey eyes, causing the rest of his surroundings to disappear until he lost all feeling in his body. In his inebriated state, Arya took the moment to lay her finishing blow on his poor soul. 

She gently placed her lips onto his, and suddenly Gendry only felt the warmth and sultry of her mouth, so different to the cold, dry air of the North. She moved in perfect rhythm against him, reminding him so much of the water-dances she practiced in the yard outside the forge everyday -- steady, circular movements that had no plan but to keep moving. It was strange for her to be so gentle, Gendry remembered. He never thought she could be gentle.

She moved to grab his shirt to close the distance from their bodies, but as soon as her fingertips grazed his chest, Gendry’s heart was shocked back to life. Immediately, he pushed away from the situation and stood staring at her.

“_A-arya!” _he had said, his voice higher than he intended. 

She giggled. It was open and happy, and it made him want to kiss her again. The only thing stopping him was the reality of the situation. 

_“You can’t do that.” _He forced his voice back down into its usual baritone. Firm. 

“_Well obviously I can, since I just did.” _She replied casually, the giggle still present in her tone. 

“_No, I mean you can’t do that,” _Even at the time, Gendry felt he was being too aggressive in the situation. “You’re a high-born, a lady-”

_“Gods, still on about that?”  _

“Yes! It’s important!”

“Why? Danerys will legitimize you after she wins the war anyway, and she said to treat you as such.”

_“It’s still different-” _

_“Why?” _

Gendry banged his hand against the worktable, having just then realized he had been moving closer toward her the whole time. It was this, he realized, that he missed most. His attraction to her was deeply rooted in their shared desire to endlessly frustrate the other. 

Arya hand’t even startled at the noise, despite it vibrating through the table she  had been sitting on. As he looked at her, he sighed to calm himself down. She was right that he would soon be Gendry Baratheon, and with Davvos’s help he would try to regain Storm’s End after the wars were over. But no title was ever going to make Gendry a high-born. He missed his chance at that life -- a life with tutors and trainers, of men who could teach him to fight and how to act. He was an orphaned bastard who had to step over rivers of shit every morning to make weapons for people who would drink themselves stupid in bars. 

And Arya deserved better. 

“_You gotta leave.” _He looked across the room, at anything but her. 

“You can’t be serious-”

_“Arya.” _His voice was stern. Stubborn and impassable. 

He felt her eyes on him, but he only concentrated on the spot of the floor in front of her. After a moment, she stepped off the high counter -- like a cat -- and left. 

Gendry had to work out his emotions on the singing steel until morning, and just when he thought he had control again, Arya showed up. The memory of last night was enough to reinginte the fire of Gendry’s anger, and he got back to work. 

Out of pure exhaustion, he finally had to take a break and walked to the window he usually used to stare at the girl as she practiced. In a quick glimpse, he was able to see that she was fighting the squire-kid that followed the tall woman around everywhere. Gendry sat on the floor just below the window and listened to the sounds of their steels hitting each other in their battle. 

At that moment, Ser Bronn and Lord Tyrion stumbled onto the floor on the opposite side old the wall. After reaching Winterfell, Brown had explained how Cersi sent him to kill the Lannister brothers. Ironically, his coming was evidence to the Northern Lords that Jamie was truly on their side, and once the Dragon Queen offered Bronn a good sum of money in exchange for not killing her Hand, he and Tyrion quickly made to reunite as soon as possible. Which for them, Gendry supposed, meant a lot of wine. 

“Ohhhhh ho ho ho, look at that!” slurred a very drunk Bronn. “Pod the Rod got himself a Lady!”

“Please refrain from giving my squire vulgar titles,” coldly commanded Brienne of Tarth. Gendry hadn’t noticed her there when he had looked out the window- a bit to focused on another sword-wielding Lady. “Once more, a squire cannot have a Lady. Not that Arya Stark would ever put herself in a position like that.”

“For that one she might,” responded Bronn. “Kid’s got another sword bigger than The Mountain’s. If you know what-”

“I believe we all know what you mean, Bronn.” Scolded Tyrion. The scorn lost it’s effect, however, when Tyrion burst into drinking giggles moments later. “Imagine how many cows would have to be killed to make the leather for that scabbard though!”

Both of the men laughed at their fairly terrible jokes.

“What are you talking about?” Brienne demanded. 

“Your ‘squire’ has a bit more to offer than you are giving him credit for!” said Bronn.

“Years ago, when Podrick was under my... education, I had gifted him with some prostitutes after he rescued me from some rather dangerous situations.” Explained Tyrion. 

“Best prostitutes in the land,” interrupted Bronn. “Not some tavern wenches or sloppy shit like that. Practiced. Professionals.”

“After the night, however, Podrick came to me the next day and gave me back the rather sizable amount of money I had given him for the services.”

“He didn’t do it?” asked Brienne.

“The girls wouldn’t take it!” said Tyrion. “Whores of King’s Landing, where a man would sell his son for a shilling, gave back the money I left them for Pod.”

“Boy’s got a magic cock,” giggled Bronn. 

Silence overlapped the conversation, the sound of the dueling partners amplified.

“Podrick?” questioned Brienne.

Mummering of agreements came from the drunken men followed by more S_ting_ and Swang of the swords. 

“Payne?” she clarified. 

“I didn’t believe it myself when he first came back,” replied Bronn. “But then all the girls in the whore-house kept asking me where he had gone all hours of the day, and I had to believe it was true.”

Gendry sat stunned on the other side of the conspiring trio. Fear settled into his gut, a fear far deeper than the one he had felt the night previous. He thought about the squire -- full-faced, dark hair. Gendry’s first though of him was that he was a wimpy high-born prick, but if it was true that he saved Lord Tyrion’s life and that he had... other qualities. And Arya was a woman grown now, and one that obviously was thinking about the other qualities her opposite gender had to offer, if last night had been any indication. And Gendry had just sent her to the man with a magic cock. 

He shot up at once. Screw being “good-enough” and high-born titles of crap. Gendry could live with Arya deserving better than him, because at the end of the day no one would ever truly deserve her. _Especially not this Pod-dick, _he thought to himself. What he could not live with, though, is her living with someone who didn't deserve her who wasn’t him. 

_“_M’lady!” he shouted across the yard. Walking toward the sparring couple, Gendry felt the stares of the drunken men and knight woman on his back, and he even heard a slurred “Oh, the plot thickens!”

Arya swept Podrick off his feet in a quick motion, and then stood to face Gendry. Her face was pure anger, and the sight made Gendry’s pulse quicken. 

“I told you not to call me- Gendry what are you doing?” The man in question had picked up the girl by the waist and turned to carry her away from the squire and his magic cock. Arya banged her small fists against his back and screamed at him to Put her down!. 

He carried her to the Godswood and placed her in front of the vibrantly colored tree. It had reminded him of her, in a sense. A spark of fire in this wintery hell-scape. The whole scene was gorgeous. 

She looked up at him, ready to speak something vulgar and hurtful, but before she got the chance, Gendry cradled her face in his hands and kissed her violently. He wished he could have been delicate like she was, but they were both in too high a state of anger to be anything but the emotional psychopaths they were. Arya kissed back with equal energy.

After a moment, the kissed slowed down to something softer. Still not delicate, but a controlled sort of chaos. When they finally broke apart, they each breathed heavily, but still close enough to not loose the intimacy. 

“What the hell is g-” 

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Gendry. She closed her mouth very quickly and stared at him. “I’m sorry for making you leave, and for being a fucking moron, just please don’t fuck the squire.”

“The squi- Podrick?!” Arya pulled away as she shouted, but kept her hands clasped around Gendry’s neck. 

“Please. Just promise me.” Gendry’s voice was drenched in desperation.

She looked about to protest, but then stopped herself and made the pouty expression he had dreamed of for last few years. 

“Fine, but on one condition,” she replied.

“What?”

“You have to kiss me like that again.”

[crowkingwrites]

Vicious (Ch. 4)

Pairing: Ramsay Bolton X Reader

Summary:  The story of Lyanna Baratheon, the trueborn daughter of Robert and Cersei, and the Bolton Bastard and what happens when they decide to take the Iron Throne for themselves.

(Prologue) (Chapter One) (Chapter Two) (Chapter 3)

Words: 2046 // Ao3 Link 

Here’s where you can buy me a Ko-Fi!

The storm raged against the castle. The winds took leaves off the ground and moved them far from their home. Branches thrashed against one another. One branch cracked from a godswood tree and fell to the ground. Storms in the North could be terrifying. Lyanna backed away from the window to find her cousin in the room. She sharply flinched and he laughed.

“Is the North truly that terrifying, cousin?” Markus chuckled.

“No.” Lyanna shook my head.. “You must admit that this storm is nasty. I’m glad we got here when we did.”

“Aye,” he responded.

A short, sharp knock came at the door. Both turned to see Ramsay Bolton looking back at Lyanna. He was dressed appropriately for the weather outside, and in his hand he held a lit candle.

“Ramsay, what can I do for you?” she asked. Ramsay’s blue eyes stared back into her green ones. For a moment, he seemed to be more lost in thought than present. Lyanna was about to ask again when she watched him snap out of it.

“My father, Roose, wishes to have you at tonight’s dinner,” he said. “In lieu of a tour. He wished to hold off due to…” Ramsay gestured to the weather.

“Thank you,” Lyanna nodded. “I will be there.” Ramsay walked away with the lit candle. The small light following him down the corridors. A small interaction, but a meaningful one. Cersei left her a dagger for him. Allyis’ words warned her of him.

“You’re not marrying a man. You’re marrying a monster.”

He only invited her to dinner. He clutched his stomach at the sight of her. Not much of any kind of monster. Lyanna shrugged it off and pushed Markus out of the room so she may change for dinner. Allyis, Lysa, and Theodosia flocked to her as they assisted her in changing.

“Black, my lady?” Lysa asked out of curiosity.

“I wish to make a statement. I’m still grieving for my brother. Joffery meant the world to me, and now he’s gone.” Lyanna told them while stepping away to her vanity. Red jewels adorned her neck as if she had been sliced open. It would’ve been the kinder death than the one her younger brother faced. Her girls stayed mostly silent.

“I know what your thoughts are. I know what he did to you.” Lyanna continued. “I remember him striking me when I defended all of you. I’m not blind. Joffery was a monster. He deserved every bit that happened to him. I imagine my Uncle Tyrion enjoyed every bit poisoning him.”

“The trial,” Allyis said to herself. “I expect your uncle is in the dungeons by now.”

“That’s exactly where he should be,” Lyanna said. Her harsh tone was noted by her girls. Theodosia tied her hair back in a hybrid of north and south hair with black ribbons. With Markus as her escort, Lyanna entered the dining hall for dinner.

The private dining hall was intimate and strange to Lyanna. It was larger than the one she shared with her family, and instead of windows that displayed Blackwater Bay, there was snow. Fire raged inside the large fireplace where ancestral swords and shields were displayed. The Bolton banners were hung on each side of the fireplace.

At the table sat Roose and his wife, Lady Walda Frey, at the head of the table. Ramsay, who still looked sick, sat quietly and stared at his empty plate. Ser Aeron Payne sat proudly next to Roose and bragged on about his victories that Roose did not care for. Another vistor joined them. One that Lyanna did not anticipate.

“Uncle Kevan?” she said aloud. Kevan Lannister was a bit rounder than his older brother, Tywin. He still had the blonde hair and green eyes like any Lannister would, but he wasn’t considered handsome by most of the family. His grand sword and crimson velvet grments made him look prettier than he was. Cersei saw him as exhausting. Lyanna saw him as a constant pillar in her own upbringing.

“It’s good to see you, Lyanna,” he greeted her with an embrace and kiss on the head. Something familiar meant much ore to her now more than ever. “I am sorry about your brother. Are you still grieving?”

Lyanna nodded. Her eyes welled up, but she shook it off. The Boltons couldn’t know that she was weak.

“When did you get here? I didn’t see you here,” Lyanna inquired.

“Days before you. I had a feeling Ser Aeron Payne’s skills would get you here later than we hoped. I’ve come to settle our alliance with the Boltons. And to make sure you’re comfortable here.” Kevan glanced back at the table and stepped closer to Lyanna, speaking in a voice only she would hear. “The North is much more dangerous than you think. I’m not leaving you here until I know you are safe.”

“Uncle,” Lyanna’s brows knitted together. “is there something I should know?” The question hung in the air between the both of them. Her ladies-in-waiting told her the truth about Ramsay Bolton. She wanted someone to fess up. Her great uncle shook his head.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” He patted her back and offered her a seat. Lyanna let out a long sigh before sitting directly across from Ramsay. After the food was served, Lyanna watched Ramsay push around his food and say next to nothing other than nodding at his father’s comments and chewing his food. This monster that was described to her was nothing more than just a man slightly older than her who was sick. She wasn’t impressed.

After dinner, the storm had finally quelled. Fresh snow sat undisturbed on Winterfell as everyone cozied up inside the palace. Lyanna took time to write a letter to her sister, Marcella, who like her was in a different world arranged to marry a man she barely knew. From her sister’s letters, Marcella had confessed to falling in love with Trystane. How deep his voice had become, how smooth his dark skin was, and how he tasted like oranges.

Lyanna’s mind slipped away as she tried to think of Ramsay the same way. His dark mess of hair was a bit boyish, but his eyes seemed to have something behind them. He wore thick layers of clothing. Lyanna didn’t know if he was fit or stout. He was quiet or normal to her. Why would people describe him as a monster?

Still, could she fall for him like her sister fell for her sunshine? Possibly. Lyanna always liked darker boys. She once had a small crush on a particularly sadistic knight named Dom. In tourneys, Lyanna would watch him beat his opponents to a bloody pulp. Once, he won the king’s tourney and presented a crown of flowers to her. She had only been thirteen. Her face flushed with color. Robert was almost too drunk to notice it, but then he saw Ser Dom have a certain twinkle in his eye.

It wasn’t long after that Ser Dom wasn’t seen again.

“My lady?” a croaky voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She looked up to see Ramsay Bolton, standing there, waiting for a response.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Lost in thought.” Lyanna covered up her letter to Marcella and pushed it aside. “Writing to my sister. Do you have any siblings?”

“I had one, yes.”

“Had?”

“He died from sickness,” Ramsay explained. “He was my father’s firstborn and his only trueborn. Unfortunately, he was a weak boy.” Lyanna frowned. She didn’t realize losing a sibling would be the first thing they had in common.

“Ah,” she reacted. “I assume you understand my pain then. Losing a brother is…indescribable.”

“I can’t say I’ve known my brother as long as you have known yours,” Ramsay offered his hand to her. She accepted it as she took his arm. They both began walking through the corridors. “But perhaps you and I view death differently. Here, death is common thing. I feel nothing about it. You people in the South are safer with your pretty armor. Death is not common especially among the rich.”

“You didn’t mourn your brother?” Lyanna asked, searching his face for an emotion.

“No. Why would I? His illness would have made us look weak to enemies. They would’ve taken the Dreadfort from us. Better to get rid of the weak to move us forward.”

“I agree,” Lyanna said. Ramsay stopped them both. He turned to her in surprise.

“You agree?”

“How can we have a legacy or a dynasty if we leave the weak ones to lead? That’s asking for an entire family to be forgotten or killed.” Ramsay smirked and started to hum the Rains of Castamere. Lyanna cracked a smile, knowing the tune.

“I’ve forgotten how proud your family is of their revenge. A Lannister always pays their debts?”

“We do, but those are not our words.”

“They might as well be. People up here live in fear of the Lannisters. There was quite the disagreement among the folk here.”

“I’m assuming those loyal to the Starks are not keen on the idea of having me here,” Lyanna smiled.

“Your namesake is entirely northern. They should be proud someone of your status is here,” Ramsay glared at a guard who watched you both. The guard nodded and continued his way back to his post. “Besides, anyone who is loyal to the Starks are gone. Anyone who tells you otherwise can be sent my way.”

“Thank you,” Lyanna nodded. Ramsay grabbed onto her bedroom door handle and opened it.

“Tomorrow morning, I should like to take you around Winterfell on horseback. Get you used to your new surroundings.” Ramsay’s eyes watched for her reaction.

“I should like that.” Lyanna nodded and closed the door behind her. He was nice. Nicer than a monster, she supposed. Maybe he was just sick. His voice was croaky. His eyes had bags under them. Getting to know your own husband was harder work than she thought. She wondered if her mother had any advice. She made a mental note to write to her soon.

Lyanna untied her cress and corsets, letting the fabric fall to the floor. She felt free of the constant tightened strings and felt like she could breathe more freely. She felt the idents in her skin where the corset was tightened the most. Her fingers rubbed over them, feeling the bumps and waves it made.

She slipped on a simple sleeping gown and wrapped herself in the thick fur blankets that Kevan had gifted her earlier. He called it ‘a housewarming gift’ to welcome her to her new home. If Lyanna was going to be the Lady of Winterfell, that morning tour was necessary. Lyanna needed to deeply know her new world in order to rule it.

She could hear her mother now. Power is power. She remembered that encounter with Littlefinger. She remembered the shadow of a smile she slyly gave to her mother, but she disagreed with her. Power is not power. Knowledge is power. The more you knew about everyone, the further you could get ahead.

The sky was darkening now. Everything was silenced to a hush. Knowledge wasn’t as important as sleep should be. Lyanna felt her eyes drooping. A deep yawn escaped her mouth as she laid in the soft bed.

Maybe it was because she was exhausted. Or maybe she was half-asleep. Lyanna heard someone outside her window. She rubbed her eyes and went to look through it. Nothing. No one was outside. Not a single footprint disturbed the fresh snow.

‘Lyanna…you’re home…Lyanna…you’re home.’

It was an old voice. One that had known years and years of living. It creaked and croaked and repeated the same thing over again.

‘Lyanna…you’re home…Lyanna…you’re home.’

Lyanna looked again. She had to be mistaken. Someone was outside in the cold. Talking to her. Again, there was no footprints in the snow. Not a single creature walked out from the woods. All Lyanna saw was the old godswood tree. Snow weighed down some of the leaves and branches. It stood tall and proud. Its eyes cried out a red, thick sap that streamed down its face as if it wasn’t too happy to see her.

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[thelegendofclarke]

Sadly, girls’ trauma is more likely to be missed than that of boys… Girls tend to react by becoming “people pleasers”. It’s as if they see trauma as a punishment, and hope that they can avoid it by being “good”. They will talk less, work harder, always be springing up ready to help anyone with anything at the slightest indication they may want it. They watch the emotional states of adults like a hawk and soothe, placate and offer practical help at the slightest sign of anger or displeasure. As this is the kind of behavior encouraged in girls, no one takes any notice until it’s too late. (x)

This quote just reminds me so much of Sansa Stark and how what so many people point to as her condemning character flaws and defining weaknesses also happen to be incredibly common behavioral manifestations of trauma and coping mechanisms for victims of abuse and domestic violence.

In canon, Sansa is nothing if not a people pleaser. All through out the series, Sansa often times finds herself in situations that cause her to feel extreme fear and helplessness. Her monsters may be human but the terror they cause her and the abuse they inflict upon her is just as real as any other fantasy monster. But, unlike in many fantasy trope and narratives, there is no hero coming to save her, because in Sansa’s story “there are no heroes.” Additionally, even those she would have considered heroes for slaying her monster Joffrey (Olenna Tyrell) and for helping her flee Kings Landing (Ser Dontos and Peter Baelish) also end up betraying her in the end. And in some cases (such as that of Petyr Baelish) they being to become yet another monster she fears.

Sansa’s growing fixation on, and determination to be a “lady” and a “good girl” is, in large part, a behavioral manifestation of the trauma she has suffered and is continuing to experience. It is a character trait that becomes more and more distinct as she spends more and more time in Kings Landing and is subjected to more and more abuse. And as the above quote so aptly points out, it is exactly the standard of behavior that society (especially an extremely rigid patriarchal society like Westeros) encourages in, and often times imposes upon, young girls. 

Sansa uses ‘good girl’ to refer to the ideal, obedient lady she is meant to be as a means of coping and deflecting. It has become instinctual for her, a reflex, a survival mode, a means of trying to protect herself. Sansa’s major preoccupation is simply surviving and trying to avoid Joffrey’s own abuse of her and his abuse by proxy. Her “lady’s courtesy” has now become a survival strategy in the same way it is utilized by many domestic violence and abuse victims:

“She woke murmuring, ‘Please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t’.” — AGoT

“Courtesy is a lady’s armor.” — ACoK

“[Ser Dontos] trotted his broomstick around her, shouting “Traitor, traitor” and whacking her over the head with the melon. Sansa covered herself with her hands, staggering every time the fruit pounded her, her hair sticky by the second blow. People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces. Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.” — ACoK

Joffrey frowned. Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.” —Sansa addressing Tyrion, ACoK

You look very handsome and splendid this morning, Ser Boros,” Sansa told him. A lady remembered her courtesies, and she was resolved to be a lady no matter what. “And you, my lady” Ser Boros said in a flat voice. — AGoT (Ser Boros is one of the Kingsguard who Joffrey often orders to beat her)

Even during moments and in situations where she is completely terrified...

“The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.” — ACoK

She made herself look at that face now, really look. It was only courteous, and a lady must never forget her courtesies. The scars are not the worst part, nor even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger. “I… I should have come to you after,” she said haltingly. “To thank you, for… for saving me… you were so brave.” — ACoK

Or deeply unhappy and extremely uncomfortable...

When Sansa turned, the little man gazing up at her, his mouth tight, his face as red as her cloak. Suddenly she was ashamed of her stubbornness. She smoothed her skirts and knelt in front of him, so their heads were on the same level. — ASoS

Or seems to completely loose control of herself, her reactions, and her emotions... 

“I did as the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I wrote what she told me. You promised you’d be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won’t do any treason, I’ll be good, I swear it, I don’t have traitor’s blood, I don’t. I only want to go home. Remembering her courtesies, she lowered her head. “As it please you,” she finished weakly. — AGoT

She even remains mindful of her manners after her own assault and attempted rape by a mob... 

"Here, girl." Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip. The moment was gone. Sansa lowered her eyes. "Thank you," she said when he was done. She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.— AGoT

She tries to remain polite and poised in order to survive in a hostile environment, but not because of vanity. She stays quiet and keeps her head down and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, but not out of passivity. She clings to her courtesies as a way of hopefully pleasing and pacifying her abusers. She uses them as a means of self preservation. As a defense mechanism that will hopefully spare her from further abuse, and those mentioned above are just a few of the many, many examples. 

And I would argue that she displays plenty of other coping and compartmentalizing behaviors as well:

Acting manipulatively to feel she’s in control or maintain control of situations

Lashing out in anger or frustration when feeling scared or anxious or backed into a corner

Seeming difficulties displaying emotion/disassociation (i.e. being perceived, and often described, as “cold” and “frigid”)

But can also be prone to emotional outbursts and aggressive behavior

Difficulties trusting and opening up to others

Shame, guilt, embarrassment, and humiliation

Seeming dedication or devotion to, and trust in, their abusers

Distorted self-perception and distorted perceptions of others

Denial and dishonesty, both with themselves (The UnKiss) and others (”I swear he never touched me!”)

disillusionment with and abandonment of prior ideals (”There are no heroes, in life the monsters win.”)

These types of behavior are victims’ own desires to (metaphorically) arm themselves so as not to be vulnerable again. Sansa is not “frigid” or “cold” or an “ice queen,” she is just a (very young) lady trying to stay alive in a world where there are no heroes to protect her and she has none of the means, capabilities, or knowledge needed to physically protect herself. Instead, she has to protect herself using other means, she has to find ways to cope and keep going and stay alive. These behaviors aren’t simply vilifying character flaws, they aren’t weaknesses that render her unworthy of our trust or respect or the benefit of the doubt. They are Sansa’s armor. They are the way this Stark will endure. 

This isn’t me trying to “romanticize” or “white wash” or “woobify” Sansa’s character or “do her a disservice.” This is just presenting the idea that these character traits are not the narrative’s way of presenting her as a villain or an antagonist; but instead, they are it’s way of presenting her as a human and a victim.

[moiraineswife]

Why do you hate Tyrion?

Oh, where do I begin :’)  You do not know what you have Unleashed, nonnie (this is all going to be book based, and I’ll probably forget some stuff, BUT THERE’S ENOUGH IN MY HEAD TO FUEL THE FIRES OF MY RAGE) 

Short version: 

He’s arrogant, selfish, self-obsessed, self-pitying, and utterly without conscience or morals, he’s deeply misogynistic, a rapist, a killer, and he refuses to acknowledge his own flaws and shortcomings. 

Long version: 

-Even as early as AGOT he’s doing things that benefit him, and only him, without a single thought/care towards the consequences (because it’s not as though he isn’t intelligent enough to figure them out) eg: arming the mountain clans of the Vale which causes untold destruction and pain for the locals when they return with the weapons and armour he gave them as the price for his own skin. 

-Tyrion’s POVs are incredibly well written and constructed. A reader is inclined to view him as he views himself: an essentially good creature, who tries hard, and is halted and punished by the world for things he can’t help. Which...is not entirely true. 

I think it’s easy to get sucked into Tyrion’s POV, and the way that he thinks and acts. For the first few books, we very rarely get anyone’s opinion on Tyrion/view of Tyrion save Tyrion himself. 

It’s easy to get caught up in his assumptions of prejudice that the world has against him (and it’s easy to understand why he has these, I don’t deny that, but I just can’t get over it) 

If you actually pay attention, Tyrion assumes that everyone treats him badly/dislikes him etc because he’s a dwarf and they’re therefore prejudiced against him. Undoubtedly some of them are, but some of them have seriously good reasons for disliking them. 

See: Sansa Stark, who’s had basically her entire family killed by his, but Tyrion just assumes she doesn’t want him as a husband/won’t confide in him because he’s ugly. Disclaimer: IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU BUDDY. 

Also see: small folk in King’s Landing, who are angry with him for clearing away their homes and livelihoods during preparations for war. Tyrion understands why Tyrion is doing what he’s doing: it’s a practical measure for the sake of the defence of the city but...The people whose homes he’s destroying don’t understand that. But he blames their hatred of him on their prejudice of him being a dwarf. 

This isn’t necessarily a surprising character trait, not given how he grew up (I would never try and argue that Tywin wasn’t abusive towards him...But that doesn’t give Tyrion the right to be abusive in turn) but it does fill him with a certain amount of self-pity, and it limits his ability to actually self-reflect and realise that, shockingly, not everything he does is perfect, and people can dislike him for seriously valid reasons: ie, he’s a little shit. 

-The way he treats women is, frankly, disgusting. 

His disgust at being outsmarted by Catelyn in AGOT comes from the fact that someone outsmarted him, but it’s more than that, it’s because she’s a woman. he even remarks on the fact that her scheme worked in a large part because she is a woman. 

The general language he uses to talk about women is...gross. He views most of them as sexual objects/tools for him/other men to use. His liking of Robert Baratheon because Cersei hated him sticks out in relation to this. Robert, who repeatedly emotionally, verbally, and physically abused his wife, humiliated her publicly, blamed her for his abuse of her, and raped her, makes Cersei reasonably despise him. Tyrion, instead of showing sympathy for his sister, decides he likes Robert, because hey, who cares if he’s raping an essentially defenceless woman, right? He’s pissing her off, too, A++++ bloke. 

He’s surprised, indignant, and irritated that even women are allowed to participate in the votes/discussions of the mountain clansmen, like, how dare. 

People rage against Cersei for her hatred of Tyrion but it’s....Not exactly unfounded. Ignoring her being a child who had just lost her mother, whose father was giving her no support, and was blaming her newborn brother, and the prophecy that made her fear that Tyrion would kill her. 

Tyrion has, in the books that we know of: poisoned Cersei, manipulated her, undermined her, schemed to take her children away from her without her knowledge or consent, threatened her children on more than one occasion, including threatening his eight year old nephew with beatings and rape if Cersei doesn’t do what he wants, would have gone through with whipping said eight year old nephew just to hurt her,fantasised about raping and killing Cersei,  to the point that this is his ‘terms’ for working with Dany when Illyrio makes the offer to him. So...yeah, Tyrion has reason to hate Cersei, but Cersei has just as much, if not more, reason to hate and mistrust Tyrion. 

He’s also raped a slave at Illyrio’s manse, fully aware that she’s a slave, fully aware that she does not want him to have sex with her, fully aware that she cannot say no to him, which is why he does it. And the way he treated the prostitute in, I believe, Volantis, forcing himself on her again, and using the fact that they didn’t have a common language and she didn’t understand him. 

His treatment of prostitutes in general is...gross af. He views them as objects without agency. He treats them like possessions: he’s bought them, he can do whatever he wants with them, they’re his now. And his self-pity over Tysha when he learns the truth about her is also...gross af. Like, this poor girl was gang-raped while he watched, and then raped her last, the man she loved and agreed to marry, and all he can think about is his poor self. Fuck that shit.  

Shae. 

Literally everything about the way that he treats Shae. An eighteen year old, lowborn prostitute, who was forced out of her father’s house because he abused her and raped her as a child, with absolutely no agency, power, or person to speak for her. 

Everything about their travesty of a relationship is an abomination from the get-go. Starting with Tyrion’s commands to her: that he’s not only hiring her for sex, but to essentially act as his partner. She’s to please him in bed whenever he wants, but she’s commanded to also laugh at his jokes, pour him wine, rub the ache out of his sore legs, mourn for him if he dies, etc, etc, etc. Like if you don’t understand that it’s fucked up of him to do that to another human being, regardless of how much gold he’s giving them, I don’t know what to say to you. 

Tywin flat out tells Tyrion not to take Shae to court with him. Tyrion takes her anyway, to spite his father, knowing full well that if they’re found out, he won’t be punished, but Shae will likely be killed for his disobedience. 

He’s incredibly controlling towards Shae throughout her time with him. He essentially locks her up in a manse “for her safety” he deliberately gives her ugly guards, so she won’t be ‘tempted’ by them, and only visits her when he wants to fuck her. He complains that she’s a child when she complains about this, and he’s paying her, why should she complain? Because Shae is not a human being with her own thoughts, feelings, and desires, clearly, she’s just a sex toy for lord Tyrion. He’s bought her, and paid for her, and can do what he likes with her. 

The way he treats Shae is a pretty good representation of how he sees/treats most prostitutes. Like an object. Like a thing that he’s bought and can use as he wishes. Shae is not a human being to him, she’s not a person, she’s a thing that he can fully possess and control because he’s paying her and it’s disgusting. 

Throughout their time together, Tyrion constantly dismisses her feelings/emotions, reminding himself that she’s “only a whore” that she doesn’t love him, and is in this only for his money. (And, reminder: Shae acting like his wife, telling him she loves him, wanting on him, and being only with him, is what he commanded her to do, and paid her to do, at the outset of this little arrangement) Yet he then kills her for being a prostitute and doing her job.

 Tywin hired her and she slept with him as she slept with Tyrion, because he was paying her, and she was only a whore doing her job. But when she wasn’t doing that for Tyrion, then she had to die. Nineteen years old, helpless, abused, used, and murdered by a cold, shallow, selfish little man who, again, wallows in self-pity and thinks only of himself in the face of another’s suffering. 

The entirety of ADWD is just...Tyrion at his worst/typical, without the illusions of being an excellent, poor unfortunate soul. He drinks, he uses whores, he rapes, he cheats, he manipulates, he lies, he kills, and generally does a whole host of Bad Shit with the sole aim of benefiting him, him, and only him. 

He’s an undoubtedly well-written character. He has, in many ways, a very sympathetic arc and narrative, especially with the way it’s written. But he has a huge host of problems and things that are..beyond redemption. And the way fandom moons over him, and fawns over him, and pities him, and forgives him for every little thing he’s ever done wrong because he’s just so hard done to, boils my blood as much as anything else. 

So, yeah, an abridged rant on: why I fucking hate Tyrion Lannister. 

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Ramsay Bolton/Snow x Fem!Lannister Reader

King's Landing was busier than usual,being a fine Spring day,and Sandor Clegane,again,had to take care of the oldest Baratheon child, Y/N,who kept pulling on his hand to walk with her through the gardens. Her golden blonde hair kept swaying as she twirled in the divine light of the Sun,her giggles rang out like lullabies,which made Sandor chuckle softly at her childish behaviour. He knew,however,that despite her innocent and lovely appearance,her deep,emerald eyes held only mischief and cunning. She,like her mother and grandfather,was a true Lioness,despite her 'Baratheon' title. She was stubborn,and everytime someone would call her by her proper name,she'd offer a poisonous grin and correct them.

"Y/N Lannister,if you please."

The girl was the epitome of freedom,a powerful feline who manages to trick everyone into letting her do whatever she pleases,and therefore,she's either out with her beloved Guard dog,or inside,bugging into the Kingdom affairs,much to Tyrion's amusement.

And just imagine the shocked faces of Robert's advisors when they saw his daughter sitting on his leg,reading a book,and when she heard a rather disagreeable statement,she'd refute in a second,shocking everyone.

Y/N:Come on,Sandor,loosen up a bit!It's such a gorgeous day,it'd be a pity to be all grouchy~! Sandor:Sorry,little song bird,but being a Sunflower isn't my thing. Y/N:Dear Sandor,I am a Lioness,not a useless song bird,but you are excused.However,you won't be excused from missing out a nice dance with me! Sandor:Don't be ridiculous,girl,I'm your guard,not some fancy shit lord. Y/N:*chuckles* You are Sir Woof Woof,whatever do you mean~? Sandor:You're crossing a fine line there,girl,I'd pay attention if I were ya. Y/N:And what are you going to do,sweet Sandor?Bite me? Sandor:Sometimes I wonder who's a bigger cunt. Y/N:Joffrey.Always Joffrey.Definitely Joffrey.He doesn't care about you like I do~. Sandor:And he doesn't use me like you do either. Y/N:Oh,Sandor,your words cut me deeper than the Marianna Trench.Honestly,you must know my intentions of dancing with you are purer than the first snow of the year! Sandor:It hasn't snowed in King's Landing since the last Winter. Y/N:*giggles*Then...I want to see the North!Don't the Starks always say how Winter is coming?Oh,Sandor,I've never seen snow!It must be so beautiful!I am quite tired of this golden landscape,it's so old-fashioned!Silver is the new trend! Sandor:You might like snow,but only when you first see it.It's like a gorgeous enchantress,but sly and deadly,much like you. Y/N:*arranges her hair*Oh dear,that was so poetic of you,sweet Sandor!If I were to go to the North,would you come and crown me the Queen of Winter? Sandor:Snow is much better than fire,anyways. Y/N:*gleams*SWEET!I shall talk to uncle Tyrion at once!I overheard my lord father when he was talking to someone from the Small Council.Apparently,Jon Arryn died mysteriously,and he wants Ned Stark as the new Hand of the King~!Do you know what that means~? Sandor:Oh great,more death in the City of Death,how unexpected. Y/N:Call it Murderville.But I wonder...why did they call it "King's Landing"?Is here the place where Kings just...land?Fall?To their death?*gasps*Oh no,it's raining Kings! Sandor:How childish...it almost fooled me. Y/N:Come on,Sandor,relax.Let's go to a pub,and I'll treat you to all the ale you wish!Just smile for me~! Sandor:Not bloody likely,little song bird.But I'll take your offer,for now.After you.

#####

After talking to the right people,she convinced her father to ride on a horse along her beloved Hound on the way to the North,which was oddly entertaining for the both of them,much to the displeasure of her mother and brother. When they arrived,however,they were not only expected by the Starks,but another noble house- House of Bolton.

The girl quickly asked her friend about the Boltons,not having heard much about them,and found out a few details about the Lord,Roose Bolton,and his bastard son,Ramsay,who's treated just like his legal son. Much to the dismay of every existing courtesy,seeing Ned Stark,she jumps off her horse and runs to hug the said man. Most of the ones witnessing the act were horrified,while the others were quite impressed,much like the youngest Stark daughter,and a certain Bolton.

Y/N:Uncle Ned!It's so good to see you again!Oh,how I've missed you so dearly!And now that I'm finally here,I get to meet your children!I'm so excited! Ned:*ruffles her hair*Welcome to Winterfell,my Princess.These are my children,though they are a bit younger than you,I believe you will enjoy their company. Robert:Ned Stark,you look much older.The cold sure took its toll on you. Ned:And you got significantly fatter.Is it the privilege of being a King? Y/N:*giggles*You sure are best friends! Robert:*laughs*Ned Stark,my greatest friend,and Y/N Baratheon,my dearest daughter.Might I say,she reminds me so much of Lyanna... Y/N:*confused*I don't know who Lyanna was,but she must have been a truly amazing woman. Robert:Y/N,go play with the others,I and Ned have some catching up to do. Y/N:Yes,father~!Have fun! 

She got her siblings and they all introduced each other merrily or shily,and then went to play together. Arya,Myrcella and Sansa were cheering as Tommen and Bran were sparring. The young lioness,on the other hand,noticed the older Bolton boy staying lonely and observing the youngsters. Being a princess,she got in front of him and smiled brightly at him,surprising him.

Y/N:*extends hand*Hello,I heard your name is Ramsay,it is nice to meet you!I am Y/N Lannister.

Ramsay,however,smiled charmingly at her,and kneeling in front of her,he took her hand delicately and kissed it,making her cover her mouth lightly and giggle,a light blush blooming  on her pale cheeks. She was used to having people be court with her,but never this... Charming. She gently put her hand on his hair,then caressed his pale visage,smiling softly.

Ramsay:It is my honour of meeting you,Your Grace. Y/N:Honestly,Ramsay,please get up,there is no need to go this far.I'm nothing important,just another Southern girl.Forget of my titles and enjoy our time together.Shall we? Ramsay:My lady's wish is my command. Y/N:Ramsay~ Ramsay:Yes,my lady, Y/N: Just Y/N is fine,please.

He chuckled lightly and went to the group of younger children along with the fair princess. Obviously enough,Tommen lost against Bran,and the next round was Robb versus Joffrey. Much to the annoyance of the young blond,the only one cheering for him was Sansa. Robb obviously beat him up easily,but when he turned around to put back the sparring sword,Joffrey ran to attack him. To his dismay,his older sister grabbed the sword from Tommen's grasp and easily parried his blow. When the two swords collided,everyone but Joff,who growled angrily,gasped. The girl smirked victorious and easily disarmed him.

Y/N:*grins*That wasn't very honorable of you,younger brother,now,was it~?Is this how you were raised? Joff:Don't cross me,sister!

The girl was japing and taunting him further,until Robert and Ned came by,and seeing the scene unfold,rushed over.

Robert:Were you fighting again? Y/N:No,papa,but I wanted to play fight too,and one of the boys volunteered~! Robert:Are you sure you didn't beat Joffrey at sparring again? Ned:Robb? Robb:Father... Y/N:*giggles*Busted~! Ned:At this age,Lyanna was beating me up too... Robert:At this age,everyone was beating you at sparring,Ned. Y/N:*bows*What can I say,I trained with the best in the Seven Kingdoms. Robert:*laughs*She has the Baratheon fury in her blood!Look at her!Who did you train with? Y/N:Woof~

The King was confused,until Sandor Clegane handed her Joffrey's discarded sword,and patted her back,then barked,smirking proudly.

---

That night,at the feast,Y/N had both bastards sit with them at the table,making everything more chaotic than it was.

After Arya threw lemon cakes at Sansa,making her cry,Lady Catelyn made them both go to sleep.

During the commotion,Ramsay whispered a nice plan in Y/N's ear,making her slip away unnoticed,and meeting the older bastard outside,in the freezing cold.

Y/N:Why,Ramsay,whatever do you wish to show me? Ramsay:It's your first time in the North,is it not,my Princess? Y/N:It is,but it is not the first time I'd correct you. Ramsay:My apologies.I only wished to show you the North's beauty,at its finest.Nevertheless,it will always pale in comparison to you. Y/N:*giggles*Oh dear,if I had a golden dragon for everytime I've heard that,I'd be rich. Ramsay:Aren't you,already? Y/N:Borrowing money from the Braavosi Bank doesn't make you rich. Ramsay:The affairs of King's Landing are much too troublesome and confusing,so I will not bother with it. Y/N:Neither should you~.

As they walked and chatted,the girl started trembling from the freezing cold,and even her voice became shaky,making Ramsay chuckle and put his furs tightly around her. She tried to protest,arguing that he will get cold too,but he merely smiled and pointed out that Northmen are cold resistant. Getting to a high peak,the girl was left awestruck at the godly landscape in front of her.

Having started snowing,the dark blue sky suddenly lit up with thousands of powerful coloured lights,dancing and sparkling. The young lioness was gleaming and cheering,more enthusiastic than she had ever been before in her life time,and much to his shock,she hugged him tightly,thanking him.  The young bastard was rooted to the spot,not having expected such a physical act of pure affection and warmth from one that is supposedly a mere stranger in his eyes. Having grown up as a bastard and with only his father,in a cold and harsh environment,he never experienced any emotion that would make his heart leap,and not from fear.

Instinctively,he wrapped his arms tightly around the frail girl's frame,protectively,and unconsciously smiled,seeing her happiness. All his life,he's only witness dread,hate,torture,sadness,rage,misery...but this time,it seemed like a light of hope appeared in front of him. A light of purity that seemed to fill him... And he couldn't seem to get enough of it. He was greedy.

Big snowflakes were slowly falling,and with that,they knitted a crown of crystals in her golden hair,sparkling,making her look like a true Queen. And that's what he was going to do. He'll make her his Queen. All those playthings he's had his fun with were dirty,unclean,disgustingly plain,worthy of being tainted and abused. But her... This young lioness... He was going to preserve her purity and innocence... All to himself.

Being already late enough,he picked her up bridal style and walked her home,promising to take her there each night.

###

The true reason why the Boltons were at the Starks to greet the King and his family was so Roose could ask for a favour and legitimize his son,so he could one day inherit the rights of the House,which,with little persuasion,Papa Baratheon agreed (much to his daughter's glee).

Without even realizing,when she got home,she started telling Uncle Tyrion of all the nice stories she shared with Ramsay during that little amount of time,and seeing his sweet niece so happy,he decided to make up an elaborate plan and make her dream come true,as much as possible. Since Ned Stark kindly refused the Hand of the King position,saying that his kin must always remain in the North,her father had no other wise option but to trust Tyrion,yet another Lannister. And thus,he organised frequent trips to the North,giving her the role of the Ambassador of the Seven Kingdoms,and along with her dear Hound,they'd travel all day long.

---

One beautiful day of Spring,the golden maiden was taking a stroll through the forest,enjoying a light conversation with her potential paramour,when she noticed a few changes in his behaviour.

Slightly more affectionate acts

More compliments More smiles More protectiveness

And all this made the girl smirk-but she had to keep her façade,still.

Y/N:Why,sweet Ramsay,if I didn't know better,I would have said you might be...courting me~? Ramsay:And if I were to admit my crime,what would you do,My Princess? Y/N:I do not know,my dear.Your punishment might depend on the gravity of your actions~. Ramsay:But would Your Grace be merciful if this one would dare to be so bold and ask for her hand in marriage? Y/N:Honestly,I hope you are not jesting,for it would be quite a pity otherwise. Ramsay:I may love japing,but not about this subject,for I am thoroughly serious.Princess Y/N Lannister,would you allow me to be the happiest man in Westeros and become my sweet wife? Y/N:But are we not too young for this,sweet Ramsay?This is very serious,and if we don't take in account everything that might occur- Ramsay:There is no rush,so do not fret,my love.All in due time,and everything will be resolved. Y/N:Ramsay...I have only one request,before everything...and it might sound weird but... Ramsay:What is bothering you,my sweetling? Y/N:So far,we have only ever done and discussed mine own passions,but I know nothing of yours.I wish to know everything about you before I take such an important decision.Therefore...*smiles*next time you flay someone,please call me to assist you. Ramsay:*hesitant*I...am not sure how that will influence or affect your final decision,however,if this is your sincere request,and you will not be bothered by any illicit or nefarious deed I might do...then by all means,you are my guest even now.The Dreadfort has enough prisoners to last a lifetime. Y/N:*grins*Thank you for trusting me,my dear.Now,let us prepare for an entertaining activity~!

He chuckled at her and during the whole week,he showed her the dungeons,the flaying,the torture,and the hunts,in which she was greatly interested,and asked to join as well. It was a great shock for the man,who never expected such a pure golden light to enjoy and embrace his darkness,but he felt more and more attracted to her. He was lost in the well of light that engulfed her,and swore solemnly that he would make sure no harm ever comes to his angelic saviour. He will protect her from anything and anyone that might wish her ill,despite being loved by the Realm. He was now Lord Ramsay Bolton,son of Roose Bolton,and rightful heir,and he would make sure Y/N Lannister,his golden lioness,is going to love him forever.

####

All the time alone,he tried to straighten his priorities,all while still enjoying his release with Myranda,but truly,he felt rather bored of the plain girl. Nevertheless,she was the only woman worthy of keeping around for such deeds,for he would never dare taint his paramour,sent by the loving Maiden to be his light during the darkest times. He just needed her near him,to touch him with those soft and delicate hands,to gaze at him with her forest green eyes,full of love and admiration,to rest his head on her lap,by the calming river,as she played with his dark hair,and would sing some foreign song she'd hear from the travelling singers.

All of these seemed like the sweetest Utopia,which quickly broke when he realised days and weeks passed,and upon the turning moon,she hadn't returned. Gravely worried and not having received any word or letter from the South,he quickly mounted and got a few trusted members of the Bastard's Boys,and went for a private audience at the court.

But much to everyone's horror,he found out that the girl departed two weeks prior and was expected to arrive soon. Because the King specifically requested the Hound to guard his other three children during a very important meeting,the girl took with her other knights on the journey- Proving unsuccessful. Cersei was the first to go hysterical,being her mother,and ordered Varys and Maester Qyburn to gather as much intel as possible. Tyrion,thinking of a shrewd plan,sent word to Bronn to search around all low-life building and find anything useful. Within the week,they haven't found out much,which shook the whole Realm- Until a strange Raven arrived,and with it,a barely readable scrap of parchment tied to its leg.

"Save twins frey flay me save"

The paper had drops of blood and liquid that could only be tears,and the writing was as messy and shaky at it could get,but at least they had a lead,false or not. What would the Freys have against the poor girl,though? Ramsay returned to the North to tell the problem to the Starks and call all their bannermen,to aid the cause of the kidnapped Princess,and great was everyone's shock and rage when they found out the circumstances of such a horrible crime against the Crown.

In less than a Fortnight,an endless army,lead by Jaime,Ned and Ramsay went against the Lord of the Twins,the abominable Walder Frey,who kept the Lioness in his basement dungeon. After an outright war,the young Bolton's Bastard Boys managed to sneak inside and raid the castle,searching around the dungeons,until the sharp hearing of the anxious brunet heard a soft whimpering from one of the cells. Gently opening the door,he saw his golden maiden all bloody and broken,struggling to breathe,and tied up on a wooden X table,made to resemble the Bolton flaying methods.

His breathe hitched in his throat as he sat there,rooted on the spot,unable to breathe,due to the burning rage. He could only see red in front of him,as damaging thoughts were attacking his  sanity.Shaking,he could only think of the answerless questions that kept swarming his head. why her? why like this? what had he done wrong? was he not  worthy of happiness or love? No...He had to save his beloved angel sent to him by her Maiden God as a gift... The only gift he’s ever got. The only gift he’d ever need..

Regaining himself,he quickly cut off her restraints and caught her as she fell like a feather in his arms. Seeing his only means of sanity damaged and tainted,he swore eternal revenge and cursed the whole family tree of the wretched House of Frey.

###

Days later,the girl,treated by the best Maesters brought from Oldtown,managed to remain stable,but she wouldn't leave her room,nor accept any visitors. Instead,the maids would have to leave the food trays in front of the door,and relatives would have to write letters and shove them under the door,hoping-in vain-to receive a reply.

But she felt disgusted. Wretched. Tainted. She wasn't what she wanted to be. And what frustrated most,is that the true Mastermind's identity was known to her,but she just couldn't seem to remember. It was someone she knew very well... Someone she saw often at the court in King's Landing... Someone she obviously knew not to trust... But who was to be trusted in that God-Forsaken place?

knock knock knock . . .

knock knock knock

Ramsay:Love,I know you're there.I know you want to hide,but you're worrying everyone.I am not one to beg,and you know it,but open the door. Y/N:Go away... Ramsay:Don't make me break down the door. Y/N:Leave... Ramsay:My sanity is going to disappear if I don't see you soon.I can't breathe,I can't think,I can't control my anger around anyone,not even my own father. Y/N:You won't like me anymore... Ramsay:There is nothing in this world that will make me not love you.

With a soft whimper,she put her hand on the handle and opened it,still hiding behind the door,and looking down,avoiding any eye-contact. Upon seeing her,he dropped to his knees and embraced her torso,trying to calm himself. The whole scene unfolded like a bad tragedy mummers’ show,and she put her bandaged hand on his tired and desperate visage,just like in the old,happy days that passed way too soon. He kissed her hands,all her knuckles and fingers,then raised and kissed her forehead,hugging her properly and holding her tight.

The girl had had her fingernails peeled away,a cut on her face,slightly damaging her eye,and multiple cuts along her limbs,along with obvious malnutrition,which weakened her greatly,barely keeping herself standing. She let herself be engulfed in his warmth and closed her eyes,finally feeling safe,after having endured so much,for no reason,and allowed herself,for the first time,to weep at her own misery. After she managed to calm down slightly,he wiped away her tears with his thumbs,and touched foreheads.

Ramsay:The King requested an urgent Council meeting and wanted you to attend.It was the order of your little dwarf uncle. Y/N:Uncle Tyrion asked that...? Ramsay:I think there's more to it than meets the eyes.Do you know who kidnapped you? Y/N:I do,in a way.But...I'm not sure...I told Tyrion of this... Ramsay:Then this is his master plan. Y/N:How despicable...how unsightly of me...to be seen like this... Ramsay:You are the only light I see in this darkness,never doubt yourself. Y/N:So easy to speak when you’re not the ugly one. Ramsay:You are the Grace of the Realm.All these wound will soon fade,but your beauty is eternal. Y/N:Better pray you’re right,or I’ll kill you...

With help from her beloved,she out on a hooded cloak and walked to the court room,where all the Council people,Cersei,Jaime,Ned and Tywin sat,letting the couple stand in the middle of the room.

Cersei:Y/N!My sweet babe,you're finally standing.Have the Maesters attended you properly?I'll put their head on a spike otherwise. Y/N:I'm fine...but it was rather cruel to summon me while looking like this,Uncle Tyrion.Nevertheless...I... Tyrion:My sweet niece,I do hope you are feeling much better.All these people came here to see how you fareth after such a horrible crime. Y/N:*scanning the room*Yes,I am feeling much better,but I cannot say I'm fully cured yet.

Saying that,she went into a bloody coughing fit,making her lose her balance and dirty her bandages,and leaning on her paramour for support. Her mother tried to rush over,but Jaime stopped her. It was all according to the plan. She slowly took of her hood,revealing her bandaged eyes,and smirked.

Y/N:It has come to my attention that the perpetrator of my kidnapping has been caught and punished accordingly,am I correct? Varys:Yes,your Grace.Lord Walder Frey has been set up in our dungeons and is currently tortured. Y/N:Perfect.And what of the Mastermind?Varys,you and Lord Baelish are the ones with the greatest information network across Westeros and beyond. Petyr:Your Grace,I think you are mistaken,there was no Mastermind. Y/N:*smirks*Uncle Tyrion~!It seems my memory hasn’t betrayed me yet~!The disgracious cockroach that came to visit me just before I've received this wounds...was him.Petyr Baelish. Petyr:Excuse me,your Grace,but I am confused.I have not left the Kingdom. Tyrion:Is that so?Because funny enough,my trusted sources said otherwise. Petyr:Well maybe your trusted sources failed you! Tyrion:That is where you are wrong,again.You see,money never fails.Humans are so easy to corrupt with a few golden coins. Y/N:Oh,but what a shame.You were a decent Master of Coin to the Crown...But that’s where your shrewdness stops and mine overshadows yours.Don’t you know?A Lannister always pays his debts.Always.And I believe it’s high time we get rid of your treacheries and betrayels to the Realm and to the King and...experience the horrors of being tortured and humiliated. Ramsay:The flayed man is on our banners for a reason,filth.we’ve been flaying our enemies for 1000 years. Y/N:Never go against the Realm,or cross a Lioness and a Flayed man.It’s bad luck~!

Being attacked from everywhere and not being able to refute,he tried escape,but Jaime got to him much quicker,and in his rage,almost choked him to death,until his calm,but triumphant “niece” stopped him,saying that he needs proper torture,not just a petty beating.

---

All is well when it ends,and the two retreated for the rest of the day,enjoying the peace and quiet in each other's loving embrace,after such a rollercoaster of emotions and bad things happening. He held her tightly,not daring to keep his eyes off of her,in fear of the nightmare repeating itself over and over again.

Y/N:Sweet Ramsay... Ramsay:Yes,my sweetling? Y/N:I will marry you.

The time stopped for him,and he didn't even realize he was smiling brightly for the first time in his life,until he felt a light kiss,which woke him up from his trance. Seeing her gentle smile and her doe-eyes looking at him lovingly,he kissed her back just as softly,as if not to break her,but all the emotions were unleashed. As she rested her head on his chest,snuggling to him,he would sing softly a song and play with her soft golden hair. And for the first time,they finally felt at peace. Together. Forever.

((Picture by @littleaestheticmonster Thank you so much!They do amazing aesthetics! :3 ))

[ohmytheon]

I know you said you were kind of in an ASOIaF funk (can't blame you), but have you ever considered an AU where Cat is the Baratheon brothers' only sister? Like, maybe she and Stannis are fraternal twins, or maybe she's younger and constantly trialing after the Robert and Stannis? Either way, she would totes dote on Baby Renly and give crap to Robert and try to get Stannis to grind his teeth less, and hers would be the fury and she'd still marry Ned and just ... yeah. It could be epic.

Wow, out of all the ASIOAF/GOT prompts to get me back into writing for this fandom again, I was not expecting it to be something like this. Honestly, I’d never once considered an AU like this, but the moment I got this ask, I became intrigued and then, with my time freed up, a bit of inspiration struck. So congratulations to not only convincing me to write ASIOAF fanfiction again, but also something not in a Modern AU. This felt…a lot more natural than expected. I didn’t do the last bit of this prompt (Ned is not the betrothal prospect mentioned and neither is Brandon, as it wouldn’t make sense for both Robert and Catelyn to marry into the Stark family), but I left it ambiguous on purpose. I actually had a lot of fun writing this, but then I’ve always loved writing about the Baratheons and Catelyn. This would be set about two years before Robert’s Rebellion.

sometimes pain is like a storm

Catelyn had the fiercest frown that Stannis had ever seen. Despite her diminutive stature, fair skin, and delicate nature, he had known his sister’s frown to make grown men cringe and look away. Not even Robert, who was as loud and abrasive as they came, could match her. He could scowl up a storm when he was angry, which came often than not now that their parents had passed, but it was nothing compared to the silent fury that Catelyn conjured with a single downward drop of her lips.

What power, Stannis wondered, did Catelyn drawn her anger from?

It must’ve been the sea. Much like the storms that would rage across the sea and lash against Storm’s End, Catelyn’s anger would come at any notice. It hit out of nowhere, beating against and smothering them, though she was never as loud as the storms. No, that was Robert, who raged about the castle like thunder whenever he came to visit from the Eyrie, or even Renly, whose cries were louder than the wind. No, Catelyn’s anger was the rain. It swept over them, relentless and full of suffering, an undeniable fury that could be quiet even at its worst.

Stannis was by no means big - he had not gained the burliness that Robert had grown into in his teen years - but he was tall at least. Catelyn had apparently been the only one of them to not inherit the Baratheon’s trait of height, although Renly was still in the growing process and much smaller than her at only three years of age. However, when Catelyn’s anger rose to its peak, she looked as tall as any of them. She seemed to loom over all of them when she was like this and was powerful, even when Stannis realized after that she had been standing on something and using her skirts to hide it.

Whenever Catelyn was in one of those moods, Stannis couldn’t help but freeze and stare at her with wide, blue eyes, unable to look away from her. She demanded attention and it was given to her, like it was her right. It was a very Baratheon thing of her, something made even more awing by the fact that she was the only girl. That didn’t seem to stop her though. The person who her anger was directed towards, if there was one, would shrivel up on the spot under her frown and glare alone. He was lucky that he was very rarely the target, as the two of them were extremely close.

Robert, on the other hand, was not so lucky.

As the Lord of Storm’s End after the death of their parents, it was up to Robert to perform many lordly duties, most of which he left to anyone that wasn’t himself. That left either Ser Harbert, their castellan, or Maester Cresson, but typically fell to Stannis to finish. He was only a year younger than Robert, but felt both less equipped and more capable than his older brother, who had been groomed for the position of Lord of Storm’s End. As the second son, he had been taught all the same things, but not in the same capacity. Besides, it didn’t feel nearly as good to do a job he knew he would get nothing for in the end.

If it wasn’t for his twin, Catelyn, he surely would’ve drowned under the weight of his own insecurities. He did not have Robert’s boisterous persona or his bold confidence. He had concerns and worries and an unsure future without his parents. It would be up to him to secure things that his parents would have performed before. And he had siblings to take care of and a castle to mind while his brother had adventures, played in the Vale, and sired bastard children everywhere he went. It did not seem fair to him at all.

But what truly did not seem fair - what seemed downright monstrous - was when Robert came back to visit Storm’s End to announce idly over dinner that he had managed a betrothal for Catelyn.

It was something their parents would’ve done, had they not been too focused on finding a wife and princess for Prince Rhaegar under the command of King Aerys, but after their deaths, it had fallen to the wayside. Robert has his own betrothed in Lyanna Stark, the only sister of his best friend, Eddard Stark, a pretty Northern girl of Winterfell. Catelyn’s and Stannis’ own futures had been uncertain, but they’d pushed it aside in place of other things. Stannis did his best to run a lord’s castle and Catelyn did her best to become a lady mother to their infant brother. Neither one of them had been prepared for the jobs, but over the past few years, they had become satisfactory.

There were times when the two of them were tired from their lessons and daily chores, but would have a moment to themselves. Renly with a maid or Cressen and Stannis a moment of reprieve, they would sneak off to the beach where they could walk through the sand and frothy, dark water barefoot, Catelyn holding up the skirts of her dress and giggling and Stannis finding rocks and skipping them on the waves. Like children again. Stannis would talk about the technical details of sailing and being a captain on a ship and Catelyn would tell fanciful stories about the sea that didn’t seem real.

They didn’t talk about the true future. To them, Storm’s End was their future. It felt like it would never end. This was their life, their world, their everything. They would grow old together, Catelyn teasing the way Stannis’ ears turned red every time a girl looked his way and Stannis pointing out that Catelyn grew nails twice as sharp if a boy so much as tried to touch her. Renly would grow up to be a kind, loving boy in a kind, loving castle, the way their parents would’ve done it. Of course Robert would come back one day - he was the lord of Storm’s End - but “one day” seemed so far away on those days on the shore.

Until one day was today and then the reality of their situation crashed around them.

The awful part was the casual way Robert had mentioned Catelyn’s betrothal - like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter, like she didn’t matter - in the middle of dinner, just a side note. A little, “Oh, I also managed to get our little Cat betrothed, if you can believe it,” in between large bites of a greasy turkey leg before moving on to tell a story about a very attractive barmaid that he’d come across on the way to Storm’s End. Stannis had nearly dropped his fork while Catelyn took a sharp intake of breath and stilled so suddenly that it was as if she’d been turned into a statue by a witch.

Versed as he was in the mannerisms of his sister, Stannis knew what that sudden stillness meant: it was the calm before the storm. And judging from the darkening look on her face, it was to be a fearsome one indeed. Instinctively, Stannis moved to hold Renly, who had never seen his big sister like this. He adored her with every inch of his being and looked to her for everything, so Stannis was afraid that Renly would be fearful of this other side of his sister that he didn’t know existed.

“You had me betrothed?” Catelyn asked in a quiet voice. It was so placid that Stannis almost gulped.

Robert kept eating like he didn’t notice. How did he not see the warning signs? “What-? Oh, yes, I was able to fix it up a few weeks back. Took a bit of finagling, but I can be a very charming and convincing fellow.”

Catelyn’s lips twitched into a frown. It wasn’t the scary one yet, but it was getting there. “Without telling me? Without even asking what I thought?”

“Sister, please,” Robert sighed, like talking about this wasn’t worth it. He wouldn’t understand though. He didn’t realize what this meant or what this betrothal was doing to them. Stannis felt a flash of fury of his own and even more resentment. Robert was taking Catelyn away from not only him, but also Renly. What would they do without her? How long did they have? He loved his little brother, but he knew little about child-raising. Suddenly, he wished that he’d paid attention to Catelyn more and vowed to do so from here on after. “I’m the Lord of Storm’s End. It’s my duty to see you betrothed. Stannis as well, but it was easier to find a match for you first. It helps that you’re very pretty. Those Baratheon genes came in strongly in you.”

In more ways than physical, Stannis knew, but Robert was not here as often as he should’ve been. He wasn’t as present in their lives. Perhaps it was for the best, as Catelyn’s true rage only came about when Robert was around. The two of them butted heads more than Stannis and Robert did, if only because Catelyn had the gall and wit to stand up to their older brother.

“But you didn’t even talk with me about it!” Catelyn insisted. Her voice wavered for the first time. Stannis was surprised to hear notes of hurt in them, not just anger. She wasn’t only mad; she was also upset. That made Stannis feel a bit distraught and he wished he could step beside her to comfort her. She would only shrug him away from right now though. Later, when Robert and Renly was gone, when they could be alone, she’d allow him to see her pain, but only some of it, he thought. She was good at hiding. It was what women did, she told him.

Robert fixed her with a hard look with what he thought was his Lord look. It may have worked on others below their station, but not on Catelyn or Stannis themselves. They knew Robert too well and grown up alongside him. “It is not your decision, Catelyn; it is mine. You are not the Lord of Storm’s End. Do you think father or mother would’ve asked your permission to betroth you?”

At the mention of their parents, Catelyn bit her lip, but she did not wither as Stannis would have. He liked to think that they would’ve at least spoken with her about a betrothal before setting it up, but in the end, Robert was right in that she did not necessarily have a say. Stannis thought that a terrible thing. He would be able to give his input when the time came for his own betrothal.

“Will I be allowed to meet him before I’m married off?” she asked.

“Of course,” Robert huffed. “I’m not letting my sister marry a man who is a complete stranger.”

Catelyn set her knife and fork down, probably so she wouldn’t think to use them against him. “Just a man of only your choosing who I have never met before.”

“I went out of my way to get the best possible match for you,” Robert said, jabbing a fork in her direction pointedly, which made Stannis flinch but not her. “It wasn’t easy. You’re known for your difficulties and stubbornness. Luckily, you’ve already proven yourself fit to raise a child, you’re exceedingly well-groomed and versed, and you’re not hard on the eyes. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful,” Catelyn echoed, strangely hollow, reminding Stannis of the way the wind howled throughout the castle at night during a particularly rough storm.

Robert bit into his food and nodded his head viciously. “Grateful.” He swallowed his food, his focus back on something else. “Don’t fret. It won’t happen yet. You’re only five and ten. I convinced them to give you a few more years so that you’ll be - ah, what was it? - better equipped to bear children. Besides, I want Renly to be more independent by the time you leave.”

It was a miracle that Catelyn didn’t explode in that very moment. If it wasn’t for Renly being in the room, Stannis was most certain that she would have. He pictured her picking up her plate full of food and throwing it at Robert, furiously howling at him, her blue eyes flashing dangerously. He saw Robert’s stunned face, gravy slipping from his beard to his lap, as Catelyn raged at him. All the while, Stannis would’ve done nothing but saw there and watched the terrible scene unfold. It was always best to wait out a storm than try to wade in it, lest you get caught up in the violence. He’d learned that from experience.

Instead, Catelyn’s lips twisted into a frown. Slowly, she stood up from her seat, her fists balled at her side, her eyes never once leaving Robert, who would not be able to ignore her no matter how hard he tried.

“You are a despicable, loathsome creature, Robert Baratheon,” Catelyn spat in a cold voice. She was swelling up, somehow getting larger than all of them. It helped that both Robert and Stannis were still sitting while she was standing, but Robert was so tall and broad that it sometimes looked like he could make up two of Catelyn when he was standing. Now though, he looked very small and like a boy of six and ten than a lord or man who had sired two bastards already.

Robert thickly blinked up at her, like he didn’t know what to say. Their sister was good at rendering people speechless, whether out of the kindness of her actions, cleverness of her words, or fury in her temperament. Stannis wondered if he would ever be able to learn that or if it was something that you had to be born with. Robert was excellent at captivating and inspiring people as well. Maybe they’d inherited all the skills with words from their parents and left him with none.

“I pity Lyanna Stark, as you do not have a caring bone in your body,” Cately continued fiercely, dragging Robert to the lowest depths of the sea. “If you were so concerned with Renly’s upbringing, you would at least visit him on his name day. I should be grateful? You should be grateful for all that we have done in your absence. Stannis does a thankless job and performs thankless duties that are not even his own without a single complaint that he will get nothing in return for his loyalty. I have been raising our little brother as my own before I even had my first moon’s blood and retaining the support of your people in the Stormlands for you when you return. You are nothing but a selfish braggart who only knows how to whore, drink, and fight - and not even that well.”

For a moment, a heavy silence fell over all of them. The only thing that could be heard was the crackling of the fire. Even Renly, who was quite talkative for a three year-old and would babble on for hours if allowed, was completely silent. He clung to Stannis in a way that he only ever did Catelyn, looking up at her with wide, confused eyes. Catelyn never spoke badly about Robert in front of Renly, leaving only a glowing version of him in Renly’s mind, and to see her speak to Robet in such a way was probably shocking. She tried not to speak ill of people in general, but she and Stannis would occasionally swap frustrations and gossip here and there.

This was not speaking ill or even being rude. This was…degrading, downright insubordinate, and so very unlike her.

“I’m sorry, but I shall excuse myself from dinner,” Catelyn said in a tight voice. “It appears that my brother selling me off like a cow has ruined my appetite.”

She turned sharply on her heels, the skirts of her black and gold dress swirling around her, and then started for the door. She hesitated once there, ruining the dramatic effect, but it didn’t seem to matter to her. She twisted partially around, but did not look at either Robert or Stannis. Instead, she held out a questioning hand, one that could be turned down if so desired, but then Renly immediately detached himself from Stannis and ran to her. She picked him up with ease, allowing him to bury his face to hide his sniffles in her shoulder, and then left the room, the door slamming behind her on its own.

Robert winced. Stannis did not. He glanced down at the tightly held silverware in his hands and forced himself to loosen his grip. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until now.

“She’ll come around,” Robert said, possibly to Stannis, possibly to himself. One couldn’t be sure.

Stannis didn’t want to say it out loud, but he didn’t want Catelyn to come around. He wanted her to keep fighting and fighting until Robert gave up and called the betrothal off. It was ridiculous, of course. He knew, just as Catelyn did, that she would have to marry and leave one day. It was just that… Now that it was happening, they would never be able to ignore it completely. Things would never be the same. Robert would go off back to the Eyrie, have his fun, and do whatever he did while Stannis and Catelyn would stay here at Storm’s End, the weight of their future pressing down on them. It would be a wedge - Stannis could see that now - that would drive them apart in some ways.

Why couldn’t she stay here? With him and Renly? With the castle and their people? Did Robert not care about her at all? But then, securing a good betrothal for her meant that Robert was looking out for her, even if she didn’t like it right now. Later on, it would count for something and she might even be grateful then as he told her she should be now.

“You didn’t even tell her who it was,” Stannis finally said. “You just…sold her off to some nameless person to a nameless place. Of course she’s mad.”

Robert glanced at him. “Would it have mattered if I told her who it was?”

When Stannis frowned, it didn’t have near the same effect as when Catelyn did. It came off as more disgruntled than angered. “No, I guess it wouldn’t.”

“She’s too worked up over it right now,” Robert sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I suppose I could’ve talked it over with her first - at least written her - instead of springing it on her like that, but it wouldn’t have gone much better.”

“This is her home,” Stannis pointed out. His brother nodded his head, his eyes faraway. Stannis couldn’t tell if he was paying attention to him or not, but continued anyways. Catelyn always told him that he let his insecurites hold him back. “She’s probably scared too.”

Robert barked out a laugh. “Scared? Our terrifying sister? I think not.”

“Some things still frighten her.” Like being on too small of a ship. Their parents had died on a large vessel, but the wobbliness of smaller ships scared her. Spiders made her squeal in fear and run off, but snakes did not. Blood didn’t phase her one bit, but if Renly ever got sick, she flew into a frenzy. Robert didn’t know the small things about her that Stannis did. “You’ll be back at Storm’s End by the time she’s married, won’t you?”

“Sure, sure, of course,” Robert replied, but now his voice was faraway too. He was thinking about something else.

Stannis took a deep breath and forced himself to finish his dinner. He’d bring something to Catelyn later, as she had eaten very little, and she would deny being hungry but would sneak a few bites anyways. Maybe she would want to talk about it; maybe she wouldn’t. Stannis could do little but listen, but it felt as if the walls were crumbling around them. A storm was brewing and it felt every bit as dangerous as the one that had sank their parents’ ship in Shipwrecker’s Bay. All he could do now was watch and wait.