#the sullen sad mood really fits Arthur too

[redds-art828]

A thought

England and “Yesterday “ by the beatles

I could go on and on about him and this song and why I think its his favorite of all the Beatles songs, and the reason he likes it is bc he can relate to it

I dont even know where to start. So ill start with the beginning of the song

“Yesterday, All my troubles seem so far away, now it looks like they’re here to stay.” England dealing with his past catching up to him, tho i also see how he doesnt have to worry about a lot of things anymore, but he worries anyway.

“Suddenly, im not half the man i used to be. There’s a shadow hanging over me, oh yesterday came suddenly.” A man once know as the Great British Empire, is now a shadow of his former self. And that former self hangs over him like guilt for what he has done.

“Why she had to go, I dont know, she wouldnt say,” idk what really to put here , but you could say it fits with Ancient Britannia and her disappearing (most definitely because of Rome.)

“I said something wrong now I long for yesterday.” As mentioned before, England has done so much in his life, especially a lot of wrong things, but i also think he dwells on the past and wishes he could go back and maybe change a few thing, as well as go back to being the empire he was and just feel that power again.

“Love was such an easy game to play, Now I need a place to hide away.” I believe England had many lovers over his time, especially at his peak, and i think he broke a lot of hearts. And with the second line, needing to hide away, he likes to isolate, he likes being alone, but I also believe he isolates to protect himself.

And here is my essay on England and this song. If I had the energy I would write a fic about this. But i do not.

[justadram]

Words Written on Wings

Jaime x Sansa fic written for @storey1. Thank you for your donation to help fight Nazis!

Request: continuation of Words Written in Steam

The soft sweet sound of Sansa’s high harp echoes in the chill of the corridor. Sansa once told Jaime that the harp was one of her weapons, and while that might be the case, he has heard those who play with more skill. Lady Leonette, her first teacher, while proficient and pleasant enough, was not Prince Rhaegar returned. Knowing it is Sansa’s head bowed beside its golden frame, however, lends some enchantment to the playing that few could duplicate in Jaime’s estimation. The only thing that might improve upon the glissandos would be the accompaniment of her voice. She rarely sings, but the beauty of her sad voice can cut as keenly as any blade. That is her true weapon.

Listening to her fingers pluck the taut strings is a fleeting pleasure: when he makes his presence known, she’ll put her instrument away for the night. For she plays either in solitude or for company, and he is something else to her. She doesn’t think to entertain or win him over, as she does the others, but he is also not yet a fading piece of furniture adorning her chamber.

Slowing his steps, Jaime tries to recall the song without the benefit of the words sung over it, but as soon as he thinks he’s caught a thread, she misses a note, two, and the music stops. Without yet turning the corner, he can picture her elegant white hands pressed flat to the strings, dampening their ring. Her face will be pinched with annoyance, drawing her finely arched brows down. It isn’t like her to make a mistake. Not on the harp, nor on any other field she commands, and yet tonight, she was not herself long before her notes went astray.

Something disturbs her practiced calm, enough that Jaime wonders whether he should have bent his feet this way to stretch out before her hearth and stare into the flames as is their habit. Custom overcame hesitation. That and the fear of the emptiness he feels, when he is left to his own devices. Those long nights when she must see to those more important than him in this new world order reverberates with voices lost forever, the past washing over him as relentlessly as the tide.

His good hand wraps around the thick frame of the door, as he dips his head through its entrance, clearing his throat to announce his presence. She ought to have a guard posted. It is a well-worn argument between the two of them.

Why do I have need of constant guard, when a lion stands beside me?

To protect us from each other, a more honest man would admit.

She lifts her gaze to him, and he swallows at the pull of her lower lip through her teeth as she stands and lets the harp rest back flat on the floor. How long was it before vague attraction, a sort of detached appreciation turned into this clawing hunger?

“You’ve been listening long enough to know I’m in need of practice.”

“Are my footfalls that heavy?”

“Just a wager.”

Sansa’s intuition is honed sharply enough that she could make a real menace of herself at the gaming table, should she ever take it into her head to indulge the pursuit. Indulgence of any kind is not her practice. Ned Stark’s daughter indeed.

“But yes, I heard. A disastrous effort to be sure,” he says with a slow grin.

If she would give an inch, he would be lost. It is her caution that keeps him in check. He is half a man at best, and the loss of his hand was not the cause. Nature made him this week: strong in body, weak in character. He is at best the reflection of others. Choosing the right mirror is the real trick. Ser Arthur Dayne for a time, his sister, now Sansa Stark. His honor, the one he sought so desperately, is only hers reflected back.

She hums her assent, though she knows he teases, and gestures at the two chairs before the hearth. It is an invitation he scarcely requires, as he strides to take his place beside her, but she is nothing if not courteous. It gives them a script to follow, which he appreciates. Knowing one’s role is half the battle.

“You might wish you’d sought out better company tonight, ser. It’s not only my playing that suffers if that weren’t yet plain.”

Even on her worst day, Jaime has known worse company. Certainly less beautiful company. Less quick. Less gentle. It is she that is forbearing of his moods more often than not, so he can afford to be tolerant.

“Will you ask what is amiss?” she asks, as she sinks into her chair and rests her head against the side of its high back, turning her lash shadowed eyes on him.

Crossing his ankle over his knee, he watches the light play over her unlined face, tracing the slope of her nose, her cheekbones, the bow of her lips, consuming every detail to sate himself. This is how they wile the hours alone, trading verbal intimacies and looking. It is only in the attendance of others that he ever dares touch her, freed from constraint by the safeguard of their presence.

Kneeling at her feet, he could wipe away that careworn look she wears.

The silence between them beats with the pulse of the blood in his veins, not yet sluggish with enough wine, watered down as it often is, though spring has come. Thriving vineyards are not the most pressing need of a thawing Westeros.

Giving up on his ever prompting her, she lets her head roll towards the fire with a purse of her lips. “A raven brought word today. Jon has arranged a marriage. For himself.”

His gut twists.

Just as Sansa’s giving of Winterfell to Jon Snow as a poor substitute for herself brought Jaime no real joy, he feels no thrill in this announcement. If she’d gone with Jon to the North, he could have dispensed with this attempt to be someone he fears he’ll never quite manage to be. The mummer’s act could be dispensed with and there would be some relief in that, he suspects.

Though Sansa will never admit it, Jaime can’t even claim victory over the dour faced bastard. He knows he is not Sansa’s first choice anymore than she is his. It is circumstance—mostly unwanted circumstance—that has thrown the lion and the shewolf together and formed them into a two person pride or pack.

If anything, he feels trapped. Like a hare in a foot soldier’s snare.

He runs his hand over the plush fabric covering the left arm of his chair. The fibers give under his touch and spring back, as he asks flatly in what he hopes sounds like bored disinterest, “One of the Mormonts?”

“The daughter of that hedge knight Daenerys raised up in High Garden.”

Jaime snorts. The men elevated in these days aren’t fit to sit at the same table with the likes of Tywin Lannister, much less hold a great house. He supposes his brother thinks it helps his queen consolidate her power to surround herself with loyal upstarts.

“She’s a child, is she not?”

Her narrow shoulders lift and fall. “Older than I was when Daenerys made land.”

“A child and a Southroner.”

That is like to irk Sansa more than the girl’s age. She is wary of all Southroners, and with good reason given what she endured at their hands. His family’s hands. He does penance for that, keeping his hands to himself, when he would like to run them over her smooth skin.

“Yes. It’s not what I was expecting from Jon.”

“You’re... disappointed? In his choice?” he falsely clarifies for her benefit.

“No,” she says, her eyes narrowing as her lips curl into something approaching a smile. “It makes more political sense than I gave Jon credit for.”

“How astute. That hedge knight’s wife was a crofter. A finer match was never made.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Daenerys favors these new families. She’ll be pleased. And Jon prefers a simpler woman, I think. It might suit him.”

He lifts his brows at her insincerity. “This message appears to have earned the old saying for you. Dark wings, dark words. What is the source of your upset then, if he has chosen so wisely, pray tell?”

She refuses to turn her attention on him, staring fixedly. Never will she admit what she really feels for her bastard brother, and while he taunts, the last thing he truly wants is an admission from her. Jaime seeks assurances of his place here. With her. If he is a rabbit, he’s sought the warmth of her lap. There were no need of snares.

“I own I am surprised in his choice. He demonstrated rather more refined preferences in women when last I saw him. More appreciation for those he’d call family too.”

That finally rouses her. Its an icy glance, as cold as any Northern winter she casts his way.

He’d rather she be full of wrath than sullen, so he presses further, as he extends a boot towards the fire. “Shall I arrange an assassination? Solve both your problems once and for all?”

“Don’t jest.”

“Was I?”

She exhales slowly as if in exacerbation. “Sometimes I don’t know with you, ser.” She reaches across the space and trails her fingertips over the linen of his shirt. His hairs respond, standing at attention in the wake of her touch. “But don’t you dare.”

He lowers his voice. “I’d do it for you, my lady.” Perhaps he would. He’s done worse or close to it. He’d feel some conflict, but not enough. “And then your honorable Jon Snow would come for my head.”

As surely as if he’d spoken of what he might do with his cock in the seclusion of her bedchamber, her cheeks color. She’s a bold thing, when she wants to be, however, and her hand finds his, slender fingers slipping between his sword calloused ones.

“No, I wish Jon and his bride all happiness.”

He would laugh at the absurdity of her statement if the tension in his chest permitted it.

He curls his fingers in, squeezing too hard in his rising desperation to hold tight to what feels like is slipping away from him even as obstacles are removed from his path. “Of course you do. Your concern for his happiness was most evident when you sent him away, trading him a kingdom for your love.”

She didn’t choose Jaime, but he would accept her claiming she did, plying him with some prettily worded lie here alone with her hand in his. He could live off that lie.

Her fingers dig half-moons into his palm. “Jon does not always know what is best for him.”

“And you do?” She normally does a better job of obscuring the fact that she believes she knows better than anyone else. Men do not like to be so blatantly managed. Most men. Jaime finds it easier to submit. Just a touch of artifice will do.

“His parentage doesn’t change what was. Ned Stark was his father. He needed to believe in the meaning of his Targaryen blood, but Jon and I are both Starks. Not Targaryens.”

“Nor Lannister.”

She nods. “We can’t always silence our hearts, but we can choose what’s right.”

It is not a romantic girl’s notion. She sounds like a septa. It would cool his ardor if he did not think stripping a septa’s veil from her coppery locks appealing. Jaime always appreciated playacting.

“Well, he lacks a sense of humor and fails in conversation, but I cannot fault him for his taste.” Neither in choosing Sansa nor a sister. “Best wishes to them both, I suppose.”

She gives her head a tired shake. “It’s all for the best.”

He turns his hand, letting her palm fit into his. “Sounds practically medicinal.”

“Not all tinctures are loathsome.”

Pulling their clasped hands from the arm of his chair, something dances in her eyes. Something other than the reflection of the flames. Something freed by a raven’s message.

“I can be plenty odious.”

She clicks her tongue and draws their hands to her breast. “I am aware of your questionable qualities, ser.”

Tilting her head down, she kisses each knuckle in turn, as his breath quickens.

“The songs never celebrate those who did what was best for them.” And while this Southron upstart might be just the thing for a lovesick bastard prince, Jaime wonders that Sansa’s skills at deception—even self-deception—can extend so far as to believe him a salve for what ails her.

“Imagine how dull it would be if they did. But they might sing of the wolf and the lion. Mightn’t they?”

They might.