These Haunted Halls; (Sansa & Jaime, K)
Title: These Haunted Halls
Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASoIaF
Characters/Pairings: Sansa & Jaime
Rating: K
Words: ~1.590
Warnings: Spoilers through AFFC
Written for: the got_exchange prompt "Jaime/Sansa- Jaime brings Sansa home and she tries to convince him to stay by showing him all of the wonders the north and Winterfell have to offer..." by hidinginmybones
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"And time is, of course, all-healing. Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return.
And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil..."
A Breath of Snow and Ashes-Diana Gabaldon
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It's both the best and the worst thing she's seen since Joffery severed her father's head from his body.
The charred stones and broken wood that stand as a dark and gruesome contrast to the bright, white snow that blankets the grounds are both achingly familiar, and devastatingly foreign.
"Best get on, then," Ser Jaime says beside her, and there's a part of her (distant and vague) that remembers to be exceedingly thankful that his words are void of the usual mockery and jest that has grown so familiar.
She's rooted at the spot though, torn between keeping what she's certain will only prove worst at bay, and urging her mare to embrace it at full speed.
How fortunate it is that she's become so adept at dealing with duality.
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There is much to be done, far more than she ever would have conceived, but she knows to be thankful for it. With so much to consider (the rebuilding, the empty larder, the men, the cold) there's little time to dwell upon the fact that the halls are missing far more than shutters and, in many a case, walls.
There's just as little time to dwell upon the conversation she had with ser Jaime earlier that morning.
"You're here, for better or for...worst," his lip twitched at that, but something in her expression must have effectively quelled any further jest. It's far too soon.
"I have lady Brienne and yourself to thank for that, ser," she demurred, though they both knew that her words were far more than an empty courtesy.
"Well, lady Stark was a rather persuasive woman," he smirked at that, and she was surprised to find that the casual mention of her mother didn't smart quite as much as it may have mere months prior.
Perhaps it was because she was here--alive, safe--after all, just as her mother set out to ensure when she instilled the vestiges of her protective embrace into two of the most unlikely sources. It didn't matter where (or, she thought with a slight shudder, what) she was now, she succeeded in what she'd set out to do and no one could rob her of that (much as many would have liked to).
She does not allow herself to dwell on the fact that only one of Catelyn Stark's two daughters found her way home.
Nor does she like to allow herself to dwell on the fact that ser Jaime did the part her mother set for him, that he has every right to want to leave this place he sees as nothing more than a cold and barren wasteland.
"Your men can't seem to abide my presence here, I'm afraid," he told her with a rueful smile. "Though you knew that much already."
And she does.
Though none of her men (the thought that they are truly hers is still abysmally foreign to her) openly contest with him, they do little else to hide their dislike between the frozen glares and the barbed remarks, always just loud enough.
If she's completely honest with herself, she'll admit that it's a wonder he hasn't left sooner, really.
If she's willing to extend a little further in her honesty, she'll admit that she doesn't want him to leave, that the conversation they had earlier about the imminence of that very prospect has jarred her far more than she'd like to admit.
It's not that she's forgotten who he is--what he's done (the memories of Bran's broken bones, his dreams of knighthood long lost don't seem nearly as distant as they should).
But she remembers just as well the man she nearly trampled, lithe as she was (and still is), on her way down the Vale's winding stairs--blood stained knife in hand.
He's asked nothing, simply eyed the knife in her hand with an odd mixture of amusement and wariness she'd soon grow accustomed to from him.
"Blood on a wolf isn't so far from common, I suppose," he finally said, head tilted and lips twisted, before guiding her (with surprisingly little resistance) to where freedom laid.
It's the memory of this need--base and nagging--to latch on to what little she has left of what's familiar (for surely he'd been familiar to her lady mother on some level--absurd as the very notion may be), that has her seeking him out less than a day following his rather expected revelation.
She finds him in the training yard (like she knew she would), swapping blows with lady Brienne and, even single handed, holding his own in a way few men can against the startlingly formidable woman.
The sun bounces off his golden hair in a way that makes Sansa's belly clench for the briefest of moments. Some memories are still far more vivid than she'd like them to be, it seems.
He spots her first, stops his sword mid-swing and has lady Brienne turning in the direction of his gaze.
She nods and smiles politely at the both of them as ser Jaime makes his way towards her, somehow sensing with as little as a quick glance passed between them her urge to speak with him.
"My lady," he inclines his head politely.
"May I have a word, ser?"
She leads them towards the godswood, though she's careful (for reasons she isn't inclined to put into words just now) not to tread too closely to the sacred grown with ser Jaime at her heels--not just yet.
Now that she has his undivided attention at her disposal, she's finding it rather difficult to find the words.
"Might this have anything to do with yesterday's ordeal?" He begins for her, and she can almost sigh with relief.
Stay...please, she wants to tell him, but she knows that the words with their desperate plea are unfit--shameful even--for a lady addressing her sworn knight.
"I think you're mistaken in wanting to leave so soon, ser Jaime," she tells him instead.
"And why is that, my lady?"
Here she hesitates once again, uncertain herself just why he might be better off in this foreign land where there's nothing beyond the prospect of grudging acceptance--if even that.
"You're safer here."
And it's true, to an extent. While Daenerys Targaryen occupies the Iron Throne, Jaime Lannister--the Kingslayer--can only claim to be as safe as the distance he puts between them.
"A queen's wrath is far reaching, my lady," he gives her a wry smile. "But surely, you of all people already knew that much."
For the briefest moment, she wonders if he deigns to mock her with her past, with the things he knows his sister and...nephew have done to her, and she's left with an almost alarming pang of regret at his betrayal. But the moment passes just as quickly as it came.
Frivolous.
"Perhaps, but it would do little good to make it so that she need not extend so far," she concedes, and he laughs in that strange way of his.
"Well played, lady Stark," he inclines his head. "Are there any other virtues your land can boast?"
There is me, she wants to say, but the thought of using her person--and the intimacy it would suggest exists between them--as a grounds for desirability, even in thought, makes her suddenly shy of him.
"You have little to haunt you here, I suppose," she says instead, and she almost regrets the words at the look he gives her. "Little more than other places you may choose to go, that is."
He accepts the correction with little argument, with no indication that there was anything absurd about her initial claim. His ghosts walk these halls as well.
"But still, far more than others, no?" He presses, and she does not contradict him.
Certainly, he could travel to the Free Cities where none will know him, where there is no echo of the past--for even his own mirror cannot give him that. But is there not just as much danger in the vastly unknown?
"You need not leave so soon," she relents, slightly. "There are still those who have need of you here, I think?"
Her voice softens at that last bit, and she finds herself almost unable to meet the direct green of his gaze--so unsettlingly familiar and yet so unlike any other she's ever seen.
So much like him...
"Well then, I suppose the decision's made," his smile is slight, and somehow void of anything equating actual mirth. "My lady..."
And with that he takes his leave, no doubt to return to his sparring with lady Brienne--and perhaps mull over his altered plans for the immediate future in the meantime.
It's fitting, she thinks, that he should stay. Though she's long since abandoned her fondness for songs, she can't help but remember (with a twinge of satisfaction she could not have boasted only the day before) that the knight does not simply leave the maiden when all is said and done.
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Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASoIaF
Characters/Pairings: Sansa & Jaime
Rating: K
Words: ~1.590
Warnings: Spoilers through AFFC
Written for: the got_exchange prompt "Jaime/Sansa- Jaime brings Sansa home and she tries to convince him to stay by showing him all of the wonders the north and Winterfell have to offer..." by hidinginmybones
+
"And time is, of course, all-healing. Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return.
And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil..."
A Breath of Snow and Ashes-Diana Gabaldon
+
It's both the best and the worst thing she's seen since Joffery severed her father's head from his body.
The charred stones and broken wood that stand as a dark and gruesome contrast to the bright, white snow that blankets the grounds are both achingly familiar, and devastatingly foreign.
"Best get on, then," Ser Jaime says beside her, and there's a part of her (distant and vague) that remembers to be exceedingly thankful that his words are void of the usual mockery and jest that has grown so familiar.
She's rooted at the spot though, torn between keeping what she's certain will only prove worst at bay, and urging her mare to embrace it at full speed.
How fortunate it is that she's become so adept at dealing with duality.
+
There is much to be done, far more than she ever would have conceived, but she knows to be thankful for it. With so much to consider (the rebuilding, the empty larder, the men, the cold) there's little time to dwell upon the fact that the halls are missing far more than shutters and, in many a case, walls.
There's just as little time to dwell upon the conversation she had with ser Jaime earlier that morning.
"You're here, for better or for...worst," his lip twitched at that, but something in her expression must have effectively quelled any further jest. It's far too soon.
"I have lady Brienne and yourself to thank for that, ser," she demurred, though they both knew that her words were far more than an empty courtesy.
"Well, lady Stark was a rather persuasive woman," he smirked at that, and she was surprised to find that the casual mention of her mother didn't smart quite as much as it may have mere months prior.
Perhaps it was because she was here--alive, safe--after all, just as her mother set out to ensure when she instilled the vestiges of her protective embrace into two of the most unlikely sources. It didn't matter where (or, she thought with a slight shudder, what) she was now, she succeeded in what she'd set out to do and no one could rob her of that (much as many would have liked to).
She does not allow herself to dwell on the fact that only one of Catelyn Stark's two daughters found her way home.
Nor does she like to allow herself to dwell on the fact that ser Jaime did the part her mother set for him, that he has every right to want to leave this place he sees as nothing more than a cold and barren wasteland.
"Your men can't seem to abide my presence here, I'm afraid," he told her with a rueful smile. "Though you knew that much already."
And she does.
Though none of her men (the thought that they are truly hers is still abysmally foreign to her) openly contest with him, they do little else to hide their dislike between the frozen glares and the barbed remarks, always just loud enough.
If she's completely honest with herself, she'll admit that it's a wonder he hasn't left sooner, really.
If she's willing to extend a little further in her honesty, she'll admit that she doesn't want him to leave, that the conversation they had earlier about the imminence of that very prospect has jarred her far more than she'd like to admit.
It's not that she's forgotten who he is--what he's done (the memories of Bran's broken bones, his dreams of knighthood long lost don't seem nearly as distant as they should).
But she remembers just as well the man she nearly trampled, lithe as she was (and still is), on her way down the Vale's winding stairs--blood stained knife in hand.
He's asked nothing, simply eyed the knife in her hand with an odd mixture of amusement and wariness she'd soon grow accustomed to from him.
"Blood on a wolf isn't so far from common, I suppose," he finally said, head tilted and lips twisted, before guiding her (with surprisingly little resistance) to where freedom laid.
It's the memory of this need--base and nagging--to latch on to what little she has left of what's familiar (for surely he'd been familiar to her lady mother on some level--absurd as the very notion may be), that has her seeking him out less than a day following his rather expected revelation.
She finds him in the training yard (like she knew she would), swapping blows with lady Brienne and, even single handed, holding his own in a way few men can against the startlingly formidable woman.
The sun bounces off his golden hair in a way that makes Sansa's belly clench for the briefest of moments. Some memories are still far more vivid than she'd like them to be, it seems.
He spots her first, stops his sword mid-swing and has lady Brienne turning in the direction of his gaze.
She nods and smiles politely at the both of them as ser Jaime makes his way towards her, somehow sensing with as little as a quick glance passed between them her urge to speak with him.
"My lady," he inclines his head politely.
"May I have a word, ser?"
She leads them towards the godswood, though she's careful (for reasons she isn't inclined to put into words just now) not to tread too closely to the sacred grown with ser Jaime at her heels--not just yet.
Now that she has his undivided attention at her disposal, she's finding it rather difficult to find the words.
"Might this have anything to do with yesterday's ordeal?" He begins for her, and she can almost sigh with relief.
Stay...please, she wants to tell him, but she knows that the words with their desperate plea are unfit--shameful even--for a lady addressing her sworn knight.
"I think you're mistaken in wanting to leave so soon, ser Jaime," she tells him instead.
"And why is that, my lady?"
Here she hesitates once again, uncertain herself just why he might be better off in this foreign land where there's nothing beyond the prospect of grudging acceptance--if even that.
"You're safer here."
And it's true, to an extent. While Daenerys Targaryen occupies the Iron Throne, Jaime Lannister--the Kingslayer--can only claim to be as safe as the distance he puts between them.
"A queen's wrath is far reaching, my lady," he gives her a wry smile. "But surely, you of all people already knew that much."
For the briefest moment, she wonders if he deigns to mock her with her past, with the things he knows his sister and...nephew have done to her, and she's left with an almost alarming pang of regret at his betrayal. But the moment passes just as quickly as it came.
Frivolous.
"Perhaps, but it would do little good to make it so that she need not extend so far," she concedes, and he laughs in that strange way of his.
"Well played, lady Stark," he inclines his head. "Are there any other virtues your land can boast?"
There is me, she wants to say, but the thought of using her person--and the intimacy it would suggest exists between them--as a grounds for desirability, even in thought, makes her suddenly shy of him.
"You have little to haunt you here, I suppose," she says instead, and she almost regrets the words at the look he gives her. "Little more than other places you may choose to go, that is."
He accepts the correction with little argument, with no indication that there was anything absurd about her initial claim. His ghosts walk these halls as well.
"But still, far more than others, no?" He presses, and she does not contradict him.
Certainly, he could travel to the Free Cities where none will know him, where there is no echo of the past--for even his own mirror cannot give him that. But is there not just as much danger in the vastly unknown?
"You need not leave so soon," she relents, slightly. "There are still those who have need of you here, I think?"
Her voice softens at that last bit, and she finds herself almost unable to meet the direct green of his gaze--so unsettlingly familiar and yet so unlike any other she's ever seen.
So much like him...
"Well then, I suppose the decision's made," his smile is slight, and somehow void of anything equating actual mirth. "My lady..."
And with that he takes his leave, no doubt to return to his sparring with lady Brienne--and perhaps mull over his altered plans for the immediate future in the meantime.
It's fitting, she thinks, that he should stay. Though she's long since abandoned her fondness for songs, she can't help but remember (with a twinge of satisfaction she could not have boasted only the day before) that the knight does not simply leave the maiden when all is said and done.
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