Suzy. dutch. infj. escapist. lannister. living in my own fairy tale fantasy world. i like reading books and staring at flickering lights.
this is a blog about jaime & cersei, sam winchester, sansa stark, poetry and hands. |
how you survived the war
“I am a Stark. Yes, I can be brave.”
Eighteen months after witnessing the brutal murder of her father, Sansa Stark is ready to enter the game. Disguised as Alayne Stone, she is sent into the lion’s den under the wing of Casterly Rock’s most competent and underrated senior partner, Petyr Baelish. Picking up secrets to send back to her brother, Sansa’s only desire is to keep her head down and not get caught. But lawyers are more observant than she could ever believe, and it isn’t long before her quiet astuteness and political brilliance catches the eyes of a fair few high-ranking members of the firm.
Sansa digs for survivors in the rubble, not because she knows any one of these stable boys or serving girls, not even the highborn ladies who once sat beside her at table. She digs, until ashes blacken her brow and mix with the blood on her hands, desperately, like a mother looking for her lost children.
Isn’t a queen a mother to her people? Would a mother stand aside while others search, when every moment matters for the countless innocents pinned beneath unyielding stone?
So she digs. She exhumes only broken bodies from their graves.
It takes them three days to reach the Throne Room. Sansa cuts her arm, crawling over the debris, and, looking down, realizes it is a piece of the throne, no less malevolent for being in ruins. Not my throne, she thinks. Not mine. The Realm looks to Winterfell now, to the old throne of the Kings of Winter. Of the Queen of Winter, now. She keeps looking.
A hand protrudes from beneath a pile of fallen timbers. Sansa takes it in both her own - with no tears left to shed, she has no other way to mourn, to show she cared for all of these nameless people who died - and she gasps when the warm fingers clasp her own.
“Lift these!” she calls out. Her men obey faster than a winter freeze, but they almost drop their burden at the horror beneath. The Little King hasn’t escaped after all, hasn’t fled to Essos as she has commanded. He is clutched tightly in his mother’s arms, the two of them crushed under what remains of the Iron Throne. Tommen, she recalls from some other life. His name was Tommen. And hers Cersei. Sansa mourns her too. She cannot help it.
Worse is the hand she holds, that holds onto her so tightly - the only one this man has. “Jaime Lannister.” One of them.
The beam that crushed his sister - and his son, as if it even matters now - had only pinned him.
“Lady Stark.” His voice is raw, his half-smile twisted into a grimace. “I was better off buried. Now you shall have to do it all over after you kill me.”
But unlike so many others she has killed, this man, lying in a pool of Lannister blood like it were his own, this man wants to die.
When you know what a man wants, you know who he is, and how to move him. Sansa can hear Petyr’s words as if he is still alive and standing beside her.
“No. I will not kill you,” and in that moment he becomes hers, just another piece she holds in her hand. “Get him to a maester.” No one questions her, just as no one questioned her father. They respect her too much for that, but she can hear them anyway. He is the enemy.
But he isn’t. Not now. Not with the war that mattered over, and the war in which her father died already forgotten.
Now he is just another broken piece that she gathers up, while she tries to make herself whole again.
∟For SUZY
HGHDFSAGS LAURENNNNN!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!
game of thrones meme: eight friendships or otps [6/8] → Daenerys Targaryen & Jon Snow
She sees him across the blood and smoke of a battlefield, his sword drawn, his face pale with regret. His sword is red with death and his skin shimmers with sweat, like the glimmer of rare metal. The battle is almost won as it is, her men swarming like locusts over the few survivors from the other side. “Not him,” she says. Her word spreads throughout her army and the word of the khaleesi is law. He is not to be harmed. (x)
take my castle, take my heart | a robb x jeyne fairytale au
Once upon a time, there was a girl who held a castle in her hands, and a boy who wore a crown and pretended he was king.
“Take it,” she insisted, pressing the broken thing in his open palm and closing his fingers over the mess of stone and melting snow. “I have nothing to give in return,” the boy whispered, his eyes sad at the thought of disappointing the girl. She smiled at him, tossing her hair over her shoulders, her face alive with secrets. “You do. You only have to find it.”
For three days, the boy left a gift at the doors of the castle, hoping the girl would come out and accept it. The first day, it was his crown that sat on the ground, its iron glinting in the sunlight, its promise of a kingdom loud and brittle. The girl looked down at the boy from her tall tower, smiling and letting dark curls fall below her window. “Soon, I will have a crown of my own. Why would I need yours, boy?” The girl disappeared from his sight and the boy stared at the castle she had given him, his eyes bright with tears.
The second day, it was his wolf that growled outside the tower, tied to a tree, staring at its master and speaking no words. Again, the girl looked down from her window and smiled, brushing dark hair that had grown longer in the night. “Soon, I will have a wolf husband of my own. Why would I need yours, boy?” The window shut and the girl was lost from sight and the boy stood there unblinking, tears staining his face.
On the third day, the boy sat with his back to the tower, his crown on his head and a heavy sword in his lap. His wolf stood by him, guarding the boy who pretended he was soldier and king and when the moon had risen and it was the hour of magic, the wolf spoke.
“It is a high price to pay, boy.”
“But she gave me her castle,” the boy whispered, he who knew nothing of love and war and kingdoms, he who sat playing with the sword as though it were a toy.
“Then do what must be done, boy, and strike true.”
He didn’t shout out as the blade bit into his chest, though he was only a boy and the sight of his blood terrified him and he had only ever used his sword to play. The loyal wolf licked at his wound and gave the boy courage as he carved out the pulsing thing that had buried itself inside him. He held it out as his fingers trembled in a steady beat - live, die, live, die - and stood up with the help of the wolf to offer it at the girl’s feet.
“Take it,” the boy insisted, holding his hands high in the air, his fingers wet with warm blood. The girl appeared at the window and this time her smile was sad as she untied her hair and let it drop to the ground beside the boy.
“I’ll keep it safe. I promise.” And so, the boy who was king and soldier and lover believed her and began to climb the tall tower’s wall. And when he saw the girl who was to be queen and fighter and lover, he pressed the beating thing in her open hand and closed her fingers over the mess of blood and stubborn life.
“I took your castle, ” he whispered, holding her close, “so take my heart.”
omg. no i had not seen it yet!! (i just noticed my url-tracked tag stopped notifying me of new posts?? ARGHHH KARP WHAT IS THE POINT OF YOU?!@!!!!!!?) THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!!! KJFSGFHJGF ITS PERFECT!! i’m just gonna link to it here so i can have it on my blog:
jaime/sansa: police officer ned arrests jaime
i was so involved thinking about politial strategies that i had not even thought about the best one: THAT LAST LINE. YESSSS. BEST THING. ahhhh i really hope you will write a part 2. that cliffhanger is just too good.
I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY AS WELL LAINE!! does it sound too melodramatic if i say you already made mine? ILU!
the winds of winter were cold but not as cold as stoneheart. even a shawl couldn’t warm the parts of her throat where the skin had rotted away, leaving only clattering bones. Her heart too, was cold, cold and empty, but that had nothing to do with winter, cause it had been dead for a long time. When Jaime finally met her he felt sorry for the small bag of bones that stood before him. I should have sent my regards to her as well, he thought. He watched her trying to say something, but laughed when no words managed to pass her lips. ‘You look a bit angry lady Stark’, he said unsheating his sword. ‘Wait til you see this. Do you still remember poor dead Ned?’ He started to whistle a tune. About lions. Claws. Jaime didn’t know about the winds of winter as she did. His hand would never freeze, never get older, never die. Stoneheart was jealous of that. Even now she wished for a heart like that, made of pure gold, full of love and warmth.
But all Stoneheart felt was ice, Ice making a way through her chest, ice entering her heart. She had seen her husbands blade often enough to know what it would feel like. Like winter was coming. For all of them. Ned was here. Armed in Valyrian steel. She could feel him making the blood inside of her flow again. Stoneheart was a Stark too. She could feel it. He wouldn’t leave her behind a second time.
Ned didn’t.
Jaime did. Leaving what was left of her body for the crows.
It didn’t matter though. Jaime had proved his nails were still long and sharp. He would make it through the winter. he laughed at the peasants who cared about anything else.
THE END.
Him that gives and him that takes.
Jaime and Tyrion. Spoilers for A Storm of Swords (or, rather, a preseries thing revealed in aSoS).
Oh! I’m the worst at saving fanfiction, but these are some random favorites i recently read and really enjoyed:
hmm ok these are the only ones i can find right now. i love bb!jaime/cersei the best as well but somehow every fic i ever read about them as kids/teens somehow disappeared?
Title: The Last of a Line of Lasts
Author: just_a_dram
Pairing: Jaime/Sansa
Prompt(s): winter’s rage and Smashing Pumpkins lyrics.
Word Count: 1810
Rating & Warnings: T
Summary: A cheery little tale of death and loss.
( The Last of a Line of Lasts )
She wears the garb of those she’s conquered.
On some days she is Baelish, cloaked in his beloved purple velvet, tailored to her subtle curves. Jaime watched her take them in herself, deft with a needle even after all these years. On others she is Walder Frey; his furs ensconce her tiny frame. Jaime’s seen her slouch beneath them, weak and small, but ever after, raised by his murder, she tilts her head and stands up tall.
On the mad days, she is Sandor, with his bloody cloak around her neck. She has not bleached it, has not sown it, just swirls in tatters that he left. She can be brutal, when she has to.
But on most days she is Sansa, dressed in gowns but cloaked in others’ fear, Petyr’s bird pin at her breast, Walder’s death cries ringing in her ears. And still she steps with eager feet, eyes like walls to keep out winter.
Jaime likes her— loves her, actually —in gowns and pearls and cloaks and furs, would like her still and bloody with a dagger in her palm. He’s seen her at her worst and best, with her flipping flashing outfits that change with every day, and through it all he dons the same white cloak, the same glinting armor, the same thick skin and set jaw.
He would not be her king, even if she asked him. What he knows of kings is this, that they do only deep destruction to the ones they claim to love. A king owns and takes and devours until there is nothing left to feed on, and then he drowns in the stinging acid of his own mistakes, which toward the end tastes of nothing but tears.
There is once, a simple, frightening once, when he creeps into her bedchamber at the end of his long day. His armor is already piled in the corner, his book laid open on the desk. Sansa lies in bed, head thrown back, auburn hair drawn up above her head into a careful knot. Around her shoulders, where belongs the garb of lesser men, men who she has overturned and burnt and ruined, is Jaime’s bright white cloak.
It hurts to look at, twists him into knots that he does not understand.
“Jaime,” she says, when she looks up and sees him, and the cloak slips from her shoulders. “I am so tired.”
He takes her in his arms, white cloak warm beneath them on the bed. Conquered my heart, he thinks, as her hair tumbles down around them. You may wear my cloak whenever you please.
7. a drabble through the eyes of your favorite (still-living) character at the end of the series or before their death—whichever you think will come first.
————-
The rough wetness of the kitten’s tongue on his face kept him from slipping into unconsciousness and dying as soon as he would have liked. Jaime wasn’t afraid of death - death was easy. The eyes that he could feel on his face made him quake and shiver though.
He drew in a rattling breath and tried to speak, but the words turned into a gurgle in his throat and the horrifying sound of it made the boy in the doorway take a step backwards. There was just enough terrible clarity left for one more thought.
Wonderful. It wasn’t enough that he had to watch me kill his mother. I have to give him nightmares about my death rattle too. I was never good at thinking things through.
He knew he should have waited until he was sure that the young king was long gone, but the fury had been hot and there was no patience in that feeling. He could still feel the smooth column of Cersei’s neck under his hand and wished again for an end to it all. The blood was sticky under his face and the kitten had left little red paw prints all the way back to its master.
Tommen was shaking and weeping in the doorway and he couldn’t stand it anymore. It took the last of his strength to roll over, but it felt right. His hand found Cersei’s leg. It was as close as he could manage but they had always done everything together.
The histories would get it wrong, like histories always do, taking from the conquered and giving to the conqueror. Even the one without an army.
Nameless: A Tale of Lann the Clever
