Does Bryce become likable again at any point in HOFAS? I’m really struggling through her character so far… I’m on Chapter 57 and just really don’t like her anymore.
Harry waited until the sounds of turning doorknobs and clicking locks had subsided before emerging from his office, glancing around to ensure almost everyone else had departed. Satisfied that he was, at least, mostly alone, he made his way to the back staircase and up several flights of stairs. To the Mirror of Erised. Somehow the Ministry had discovered it and recovered it. He knew he shouldn’t use his name or status as an Auror to find its location and sneak through corridors and into forbidden rooms... but old habits die hard.
And so he stood outside of the room in which he knew the mirror was locked, feeling suddenly nervous. He knew it was a terrible idea. Dumbledore had said as much, once upon a time, and yet he found his hand raising his wand and his lips uttering a few counter curses until the sound of a lock sliding open echoed in his ears. He glanced down the corridor again before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
“Malfoy?” Draco looked over his shoulder, though didn’t seem surprised to see Harry, though neither man should have been there.
“Don’t bother, Potter,” Draco muttered, turning his gaze back to the mirror, clasping his hands behind him. He was wearing a long coat and dark pants, as well as his usual scowl, reflecting back at Harry through the mirror. “It’s broken.”
Harry felt himself frown as he stepped forward, Draco moving out of his way. Instantly his parents appeared behind him, his mum’s hand on his shoulder, his father beaming. “What are you talking about? It’s perfectly fine.”
“What?” Draco scowled deeper, using his shoulder to shove Harry out of his way. If possible his scowl deepened. “Don’t play me for a fool.”
Harry rolled his eyes, “I’m not. What do you see?”
“Seems a bit personal, Potter,” Draco sneered. It lasted a second before his muscles relaxed. “I see nothing. Just my reflection, like any other mirror.”
Harry frowned, stepping forward as Draco stepped away. And there they were again, his parents, beaming at him. He smiled in turn.
Draco made a noise of irritation, looking frustrated as he looked on from the sidelines, wringing his hands together. “Maybe you need to be calm,” Harry suggested.
“I am calm!” Draco retorted, in a manner that was the very opposite. Harry smirked. “Well, who can be calm when it’s hot as dragon’s breath in here.” Draco muttered, his cheeks turning a light hue of pink as he shrugged off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Harry’s eyes immediately went to the Dark Mark on his forearm, which did not go unnoticed by Draco, who’s blush grew deeper as he wrapped his hand over the Mark. “May I?” He asked gruffly, and Harry turned back to his parents for a moment more before stepping out of the spotlight.
Draco stepped into place, closing his eyes and letting out a breath, letting his arms hang at his sides before opening those grey eyes once more. He gasped audibly. “It’s gone,” He whispered, the fingers of his right hand trailing over his left forearm. “Like it was never there.”
Harry thought Draco must have forgotten he was in the room, with how freely he was speaking, his voice laced with emotion Harry felt was almost too intimate for him to hear. And then Draco laughed. A beautiful, airy sound that filled the room. He turned to Harry, looking a little bit like he was drunk. “Like it never happened!” He laughed again, turning back to the mirror.
So many thoughts raced through Harry’s mind as he watched Draco stare at his arm, smiling in a manner Harry had never seen. He doubted many had. He felt a pang of sympathy, though he knew saying as much would certainly earn him a curse from the business-end of Draco’s wand. “What do you see? When you look in the mirror?” Draco asked after awhile.
Harry moved back in front of the mirror, though this time Draco stayed this time, there arms brushing together. “My parents,” He smiled, and Draco smiled a bit for him. “It’s odd,” Harry decided to continue. “I am older now than they ever were.”
His eyes were fixated on them, and as they moved to his mother’s hand on his shoulder, the touch suddenly felt real. His hand flew to the one now placed on his shoulder, grasping it tightly. He knew it was Draco, somewhere in the back of his mind, but it felt so comforting... So real... He couldn’t bring himself to let go, and Draco did not pull away.
He let himself lean into the contact, his eyes briefly flicking to Draco’s in the mirror, who’s eyes turned to him in turn, neither saying anything as Draco once again rotated his forearm to face the mirror. The silence settled around them as they starred into the mirror.
At a future that did not get to happen. At a past that could not be erased.
{{Drarry — Draco and Harry moments after the Sectumsempra spell. TW: violence, wishes of death}}
Harry rushed after Draco, following him into the bathroom, calling out spells and shattering sinks. The water pooled at his feet as pipes burst, spells slashing through porcelain when they were deflected from slashing through skin.
He didn’t know what else to try, “Sectumsempra!”
The flashes of magic coming from the other man stopped, and Harry thought the room had grown suddenly very cold. He walked slowly through the water, dread washing over him as the water ran red, his heart pounding in horror he saw Draco lying on the ground, convulsing, blood pouring from lacerations in his skin.
Harry fell to his knees beside Draco, “I’m sorry.” He immediately rushed out, not knowing any way to counter the curse. “I’m so sorry.” He pleaded again, pressing a hand against one of the lacerations on Draco’s chest, trying desperately to hold the blood inside of him. Draco was choking on his breaths, his grey eyes starring blankly at the ceiling. “I didn’t mean to do this.”
---
The pain was intense. It surged through him with every beat of his heart, his breath coming in tattered gasps as blood pooled in his throat, gurgled up and out onto his chin. “I deserve this,” He muttered to Potter’s apologies. “I deserve this.” He repeated again, his grey eyes registering Potter’s green ones, looking at him sadly, so filled with guilt and something Draco couldn’t name...
He felt his body convulse, his head smacking hard against the stone floor. Immdaitely after he felt Potter’s hand cup the back of his head, cushioning the blow when Draco’s body thrashed again. “I deserve this.” He felt the tears in his eyes, tears brought forth from the pain, from the guilt, from the desire for it all to just be over.
Draco turned his eyes to look at Potter, to focus on him. “Let me die.” He whispered, watching Potter’s look of concern grow deeper. “Please. Please just let me die,” he begged.
Better to die. Better to die than to face the choices that were coming. At least here he could die with Potter-- With Harry, who was looking at him as though he were worth something. If he died with Voldemort, with his father... There would no emotion. There would be only cold, calculating stares watching Draco fade from existence. A worthless boy dying a worthless death.
“Let me die. Please, Harry. Please let me die,” Draco felt the tears falling from his eyes. He felt Harry’s thumb start to brush them away; one hand holding-up his head, the other drying his tears. The pain surged through him violently again and he convlused, felt his head smash Harry’s knuckles against the ground, but when his vision came to him again it was Snape hovering above him instead.
Snape was looking at Harry with a mixture of anger and confusion, and Draco heard Harry retreat from the room. In the next breath Snape was waving his wand over Draco’s body, and he felt the curse fade, and his thoughts return to him.
--This takes place sometime after the Cursed Child, where Ginny has existed but has passed on (sorry, I had no clue how to write this otherwise and I wanted to write this haha)--
“I want to invite Scorpius to Christmas,” Albus said, the nervous tone of his voice confusing Harry.
“Well, I think that sounds like a great idea,” Harry responded, still confused as to why his son was focusing intently on his shoes, unable to look his father in the eye.
Albus fiddled with the hem of his shirt, exhaling a deep breath. “Well, if I invite Scorpius, that means his father would be alone on Christmas, and I was thinking, well Scorpius wouldn’t come because he wouldn’t leave his father alone on Christmas, so maybe--Maybe we can invite Draco, too?”
Well, Harry hadn’t seen that one coming. “Albus, I don’t think--”
“--Please, Dad. I want to spend Christmas with Scorpius. He’s my best friend.” Harry hadn’t seen his teenage son look so timid, so nervous, in years.
“He wouldn’t want to come, Albus.” Albus sighed, dejected, but nodding. He was clearly trying to understand where his father was coming from, and Harry was thankful for it. They had spent so many years at odds, it was nice to see his son considering his feelings, and not reacting on emotion.
Which, Harry realised, is exactly what he was doing.
“Wait--” He sighed, already knowing he was going to regret this. “Fine, okay. You can invite Scorpius... And his father to Christmas.”
Albus light-up, running to Harry and wrapping him in a hug. “Thank you!”
“Happy Christmas, Scorpius!” Albus grinned as he threw open the door, and immediately hugged his best friend. Harry was shocked to see him also hug Draco, offering the same cheerful greeting.
“Happy Christmas!” Scorpius chirped back, his voice still not yet having settled on a tone.
Draco’s and Harry’s eyes met from across the room, and Harry couldn’t help but think how odd this was. Never, not in a million wizard lifetimes, would he have anticapted having Draco in his home to celebrate Christmas. He mustered-up an awkward smile, and Draco did the same, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders.
Harry wondered what Draco’s conversation with Scorpius had been like. Harry knew lonliness, and wondered if hadn’t been quite so hard to convince Draco to come today. They weren’t friends by any means, but work forced them to keep in contact, and ever since their sons had become chums, those collaborations had been much more fruitful.
“Would you like a drink?” Harry offered. “I’ve made eggnog, a terrible Muggle drink, but it’s pretty stiff--”
“Stiff sounds great,” Draco responded, and Harry found himself laughing a bit at that.
“Coming right up.”
---
Albus and Scorpius were squished on an oversized armchair, laughing together. Lily sat cross-legged with a book in her lap, and occasionally pestered Scorpius about a word she was unfamiliar with. He was always more than happy to oblige.
James was seated next to Draco on the couch, going on about Quidditch, which had been doing for at least the last hour. “James, you don’t even ask me this many questions about Quidditch, and I was a much better Seeker than he ever was.”
“You wish, Potter,” Draco retorted, his tone playful.
“I bet I’m better than you both,” James smirked. “Mum always said I inherited her flying skills.”
“Alright, game on then,” Harry laughed. And that was how he found himself at the local field, tearing through the air with his sons, his daughter, his once worst enemy, and his son.
Lily shouted from her broom, grasping it tightly. “Alright, I’m going to release the Snitch, and whoever catches it will be deemed this Christmas’s best Quidditch player.”
Lily released the snitch, and the boys tore off after it, all of them zooming through the skies, various looks of concentration painted on their faces. Harry flashed forward, easily gaining on the others, his eyes locked on the golden prize dancing around him.
Suddenly James was just beneath him, turning his broom nearly straight to the sky and zipping upward, missng the snitch by mere inches. This caused the snitch to change course, and it dove toward the ground. Harry tilted his broom, doing the same. Draco appeared on his left, mimicking the movement.
Down, down, down they dove, the wind whipping at their hair, Harry’s a dark mess on top his head and Draco’s in a sleek ponytail that was becoming less sleek by the moment. “It’s mine, Potter,” Draco shouted through the wind, still with the playful tone. It made Harry wonder what Quidditch could have been like if they hadn’t hated each other quite so much back then.
Both men must have been lost in their thoughts, as neither noticed the ground rapidly approaching, and neither reacted fast enough as the snith switched directions, and neither manged to avoid the crash.
The tips of their broomsticks hit the grass, and they were flung forward, crashing into the dirt and into each other. Harry blushed as he found himself on top of Draco, and he quickly rolled himself off, lying in the grass next to the blonde-haired man. “I’m getting too old for this,” Harry laughed.
“Agreed,” Draco’s own laugh was something Harry wasn’t sure he had ever heard before. “Still,” He said, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly. “I think this has been the best Christmas I’ve had in awhile.”
Harry grinned, turning to face Draco, surprised to see his grey eyes so close. “Agreed.”
It had been years since Scorpius and Albus had messed around with time, and yet the nightmares still haunted him. It wasn’t so often anymore, but there were still nights where he screamed in his sleep, feeling the same pain of the cruciatus curse he had felt so long ago. Tonight was one of those nights.
Before he used to be shaken awake from his screaming by his father, or, as the dreams grew more quiet, he would wake with a start to find Draco asleep in an armchair in the corner of Scorpius’s bedchamber.
It took him a moment to realize that tonight he was being shaken awake by Albus, his bright eyes wide with fear as he whispered Scorpius’s name. “Sorry,” Scorpius muttered, turning his gaze away. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Are you okay?” Albus asked, the mattress sinking under his weight as he sat down, one hand mindlessly rubbing up and down Scorpius’s shoulder.
He thought about it. However the two had agreed not to tell lies to one another, and so Scorpius shook his head, feeling a small sob escape him without warning. “No,” He whispered.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He thought about it. “No,” He repeated, still starring at the comforter he was knottting in his hands.
“Okay,” Albus said. “Do you want me to stay?”
This he didn’t need to think about. “Yes.”
He felt Albus climb onto the bed behind him, sliding an arm over him and pulling him close. Scorpius pressed his back against Albus’s chest, feeling suddenly safer. He could still feels tears pricking at his eyes, but they were silent now, the memories fading for the time being.
Albus’s hand moved from Scorpius’s chest into his blonde hair, mussing it lightly. Scorpius sighed contendely, allowing the warmth of the other boys movements to lull him to sleep. A sound, dreamless sleep.
{{Sansan Fic -- Nightmares. Sansa has struggled with nightmares for as long as she can remember; one night, Sandor is standing guard when the dreams plague her. CW - Mentions of rape and abuse.}}
The nightmares had never stopped. They still haunted her, night after night, preventing her from any true rest. Tonight was no different-- She lay starring at her ceiling, her eyes scrolling over the pattern of cracks in the stone. Sleep never came easy, for she knew what awaited her when her subconscious overtook her. The nightmares that were not nightmares at all, but memories replayed like a queer song one could not rid themselves of, no matter how strong the desire. She tossed in her featherbed, sighing as she nuzzled into her pillow. A Queen with no sleep was a Queen destined for death, but Sansa had been destined for death for a long time now. And yet here she was. Living.
The thought gave little comfort, but comfort enough that she was able to close her eyes. She had thousands ready to protect her now. Thousands who would throw themselves on a blade if it meant she may live-- She would never ask of them such a task, but still, this thought gave comfort. Little comfort after little comfort built a wall inside her head, the same wall she built every night before she slept, the same wall that was dismantled in her nightmares.
Her nightmares changed often in their stories. Most often they were the face of Ramsay, hovering over her with hellfire burning in his eyes. Always his image brought with it the memories of pain-- She could not feel the pain in her dreams, but it burned her body when she opened her eyes. Sometimes the nightmares were of her lost family, the beheading of her father, the brutal scene she imagined as the deathscene of her eldest brother and mother, the arrow that struck her youngest brother dead... Some nightmares were stories drawn from her own subconscious, of the things she feared most; more death, more rape, more pain.
She woke to the sound of screaming, and sat bolt-upright in bed, wondering who it was the made the sound, wondering who it was that required assistance. It sounded like the scream of a frightened child, and she prepared herself to leave her room with a small dagger in hand and fight the threat as best she could. It was only when she forced herself to catch her breath that she realized the sound had come from her. Her throat was sore and her cheeks wet with tears. She allowed a sob to escape her, and she pulled her feather-blanket tighter over her, letting out a startled scream as her chamber door flung open.
The Hound stood before her, a sword outstretched as his eyes took scan of the dark room. The only light came from the fullmoon outside, and it cast shadows on the wall, shadows Sansa found herself weary of. "Are you harmed?" Sandor demanded, bristling at the expectation of a battle.
"No, Sandor. I am fine," Sansa offered sheepishly.
"People who are fine don't alert their guardsmen by screaming bloody-murder."
"My apologies, Sandor. I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," he sheathed his sword, the sound of metal against metal grating to Sansa. "What woke you?"
Sansa considered lying to him. She considered saying a stray rat had crawled across her bed and startled her, but she knew Sandor would be the wiser. She had become quite adept at lying over the years, yet still she could never lie to him. "Nightmares." She felt a fool after admitting it, and pulled her knees to chest, wrapping her arms around them. "Only children are frightened by dreams." She chided herself, resting her chin on her knees.
"Children dream of ghosts and monsters who live under their bed. I trust your dreams are of neither."
"No," Sansa said coolly, daring to glance up at him. "My dreams are of the monster who lived *in* my bed."
Sandor's face fell into a look she had never seen on a man before; some combination of hatred and sorrow. She shivered in her featherbed, only partly due to the cold. Her fire had since died, with only a few embers remaining in the hearth. Sandor moved to the stack of firewood she kept near her hearth, grabbing a few small pieces and kneeling down in front of the embers. "You don't have to, Sandor. I know you do not care for fire." He just grunted in response, prodding log and ember until a flame took root, steadily growing, illuminating the room with moon- and fire- light.
"You may be a Northerner, but Northern men still freeze," Sandor chided as he stepped away from the fire, the flames causing shadows to dance across his facial features. Sansa openly starred at him-- His scar was colourless in this light, but tore his face nearly in half, and the shadows that danced along it made the cuts seem deeper, more severe, like rivers jutting through a forest. He had gained new scars over the years, and those too were hooded, shadows dancing across them as he moved. Still, she found no fear in her heart when she looked at his haggard appearance. She thought him handsome, a handsome that went deeper than pretty skin and chiseled jaw. She drew comfort from his appearance, from his ability to appear when he needed her.
He crossed the room, making for her door now that her breathing had settled and her fire had grown. "Sandor," she called to him, her voice wavering. He stopped in his tracks, turning to look at her. He was wearing a heavy fur cloak that rustled as he spun to face her, and his sword made a light smack against his breeches. "Will you... Will you stay with me?" She felt a fool for asking, for daring to invite another man into her space when her cause for fear had been due to the very reason. But Sandor Clegane was not Ramsay Bolton. Sandor Clegane was not a great man, but he was a good man. He had proven such in fighting the dead, in fighting against Cersei, in returning to her and becoming the head of her Queensguard. He had proven such during all the times he could have done terrible things, and chose not to.
Even now. It was her alone in her bedchamber. No other guards were around, Sandor had elected to stand guard on this night. He could have been evil, or wicked, but the thought had not crossed his mind, she knew. Even with open invitation to remain, he seemed hesitant. "Please," she whispered, feeling her cheeks heat at the request, thankful that the discolouration in the room would hide her embarrassment. She made room for him to sit next to her on the featherbed, and, hesitantly, he did.
Her bed sagged under his added weight, and the depression in the mattress caused her to fall closer to him. He had taken off his sword and sheath and rest it on the table near her bedside, and she now sat with her legs still under-cover, still close to her chest, and his back nearly resting against them. "I am so tired, Sandor," she admitted, and both knew it was only partially due to her lack of sleep.
Sandor turned to her, running large, calloused fingers through her soft, fine hair. "I know, Little Bird, I know."
She smiled at the nickname, feeling a wave of peace rush over her. Little Bird. She was always safe when he called her Little Bird. "Will you sit with me, just until I fall asleep?"
He nodded, and she smiled. She stretched her legs out once more, her feathercover resting over them, Sandor sitting near to them, with his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled the cover up over her shoulder she settled onto her side, and his fingers brushed her red hair from her face, lightly grazing her cheek. "Goodnight, Little Bird."
"Goodnight, Sandor."
She awoke late the next morning, the sun at full height and beating through her chamber window. She felt rested, more rested than she could even remember. She had not been plagued by nightmares for the second-half of the eve. And she felt warm. So warm. She turned under the cover, slowly sitting upright. Sandor's fur cloak was draped over her, twice her size and warmer than the fire that had once again turned to glowing embers in the hearth. She pulled it tightly around her, inhaling. The smell of pine greeted her, and she remembered her dream, the dream that had not been a nightmare, the dream that had kept the nightmares away-- She had been seated in the wood, the smell of pine overpowering all else, and a scruffy dog lying happily at her feet.
Send me some GoT ship prompts— I’m feeling very shippy right now and need some ideas and what to write. (I only write based in the GoT world.) Thank you!
Sansan After the Battle of Winterfell - “Chapter” 2, Stitches
She let herself be carried through the gate “There’s still so many,” she whispered sadly, looking at the bodies of the fallen. She didn’t know how they were going to clear them. The air was still thick with the smell of burning flesh, the night still clouded with smoke and ash. She asked Sandor to put her down; she was back among her people, and here she had to be strong. He grunted as she did so, and that was the first time she noticed the blood soaking through his shirt.
“You’re hurt,” she frowned. “You need to go inside, let the Maester take care of you.”
“‘m fine,” he grunted, shifting his dark furs and leather to hide the blood stain.
“No, you’re not,” Sansa protested.
“Don’t fucking worry about it,” he snapped. “Worry about the people who might bleed out before the damn sun rises.”
Sansa was a bit stricken, the last thing she wanted to do was worry about more people dying tonight. She looked around Winterfell, at the multitude of bodies. How many more would join them before day break? Sandor saw her expression and his own softened, and he sighed, though he didn’t say anything. “At least let me have a look at it,” Sansa said with irritation. “If you don’t do something about it, it’s going to get worse.”
“You sound like your fucking sister, you know that?”
“Good,” she smirked, and the Hound rolled his eyes.
[[Sansan-- Clearing bodies after the battle. This is a fic I may give multiple parts too. Likes/Reblogs/Comments always appreciated! This will be continued on AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/18687181/chapters/44317873)]]
Everyone had gathered in the great room, a fire flickering in the hearth, offering a small bit of warmth and filling the space with a dull glow. Sansa watched as everyone organized themselves to the best of their abilities. She watched as Gendry spotted Arya from across the room, and ran to her, lifting her off of her feet and pulling her against his chest. Sansa watched as Daenerys walked into the room, looking stricken and defeated, and found Jon, who held her up as she sobbed. Sansa watched also as Brienne and Jaime walked into the room, a little too close for just friends.
She sighed heavily, glancing around the room. Grey Worm had found Missandei, and they were tangled in a passionate kiss. Samwell and Gilly were grinning despite the hell around them, fawning over their young child. Sansa felt the tears in her eyes, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to force herself to remain composed. She wanted to feel nothing but happiness for these reunited lovers, but all she felt was envy. Envy and sorrow.
Sansa excused herself from the room, going largely unnoticed. The bodies outside needed to be cleaned-up. She could do that. She didn’t need to suppress her tears for the dead, so she let them fall as she gripped the ankles of a fallen wight, using all her strength to tug it towards the gates leading outside. “Come on,” she cried, huffing as she dragged the full weight of the thing. She glanced around. There were hundreds more. “Please,” she choked-out, giving another heave. The corpse didn’t budge, and she stared at it long and hard. She recognized it as one of her men, and sobbed again. “Move!” she shouted.
Nothing happened as she tugged, her strength waning. She closed her eyes as she made to pull the fallen soldier/wight, grunting through her tears. Shock overcame here when the body easily moved with her this time.
She opened her tear-filled eyes to see Sandor Clegane standing in front of her, easily holding the top-half of the victim and moving it with Sansa’s motions. Without words Sansa readjusted her grip, lifted the wight’s legs and moved towards the exit. Sandor silently followed.
Sansa led them out of the gate, as far as she could manage, and then gently set the bottom-half of the soldier down. She was surprised at Sandor’s gentleness as he rested the top-half of their fallen friend on the ground.
Their eyes met and Sandor walked towards her, still saying nothing. Sansa had no words. Instead she threw herself into his chest, sobs wracking her body. She felt his strong arms wrap around her, pulling her close.
She nuzzled deep into his broad chest. His armor had been removed, and the supple leather was warm from his body heat. The warmth was greatly welcomed. She had given her cloak to a returning fighter who had been shaking from the cold, and the air out here chilled her to the bone. “I’m cold,” she said sadly, unsure of why.
Sandor’s arms released her, and she was about to frown when she felt herself being lifted into the air. One broad arm was behind her back, the other under her knees, cradling her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head against his collarbone. Suddenly the cold melted away around her, and the utter terror in her heart and mind dulled slightly.
Sansa lifted her head up, tentatively placing a kiss on Sandor’s scarred cheek as he walked. He stopped when she did, his brown eyes shifting down to her, his heavy brow making him look tired, and a little confused.
She matched his gaze for a minute, before sinking back against his chest. He carried her back through the threshold of the castle, keeping her warm all the while.
[[Sansan fic. Sansa running into Sandor after the Battle of Winterfell. Honestly I don’t know where I am going with these one-shots anymore, I just have the sudden drive to write whatever nonsense pops into my head. I did not spellcheck, whoops.]]
The air smelled like death. It was thick with ash and smoke, the fires that had started during the battle slowly dying. Sansa coughed, her breath hot and dry from the inhalation of the toxic air. She walked along the ruins of Winterfell, searching for any survivors. She did not believe she would find any, but the walk calmed her all the same.
Almost everyone else had gathered inside, needing their wounds tended to, wanting to hide from the horrors that Sansa now walked through. She had hidden from them for long enough, she needed to see them now. And she did not want to be around anyone.
The news of Theon’s death had hit her hard. She had not been able to stop the sobs, even now her eyes were still raw and red, streaks on her cheeks left by her tears. Tyrion had tried to comfort her, and for a moment she had let him-- But then she needed to be alone.
She stepped over bodies as she walked, a rush of relief shaking her every time she did not recognize the face starring blankly up at her. She thought her legs would have carried her towards the godswood, to say a final farewell to Theon, but they must have realized her heart was not ready for that. Seeing him would shatter her. She needed a few more moments of lying to herself, of pretending Arya and Bran had mistaken the fallen corpse.
Sansa picked her way up the cracked stairwell leading to top of the wall, her pale fingers dragging along the cold stone, stained with splatters of blood. The wind whipped at her face; when she closed her eyes it was almost as though she were standing on the beach once more, the breeze lifting her hair around her face and billowing her dress out around her, but this breeze was far too cold. And it carried with it the smell of burning flesh.
A small fire dully burned in the distance, at the other end of the wall, where wights had crawled through. She walked towards it, startled to see someone sitting next to it, his large figure balanced on a fallen white walker. “Sandor?” She recognized him as she got closer, and a smile spread across her face.
She could tell he was taken aback by her greeting, perhaps not expecting a slight excitement in her tone. His gaze snapped to hers. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I’m not alone. You’re here,” she grinned, her hands still tucked firmly in her pockets. He grunted in response. He made to stand, but grunted again, this time in a bit of pain, and remained seated. “If you’re hurt, you should see our Maester.”
“Your Maester can’t fix it,” he stated, a bit of ice in his tone, as he outstretched his leg. “It’s not from tonight.”
“Oh,” Sansa said, rather unintelligently.
“What’re you doing out here?”
“I wanted to be alone,” she realized, as she said it, that it was not true. She did not want to be alone, she just did not know who she wanted to be around. Sandor seemed a good choice. She sat next to him, and he raised a brow.
They sat in silence for awhile, watching the flames in front of them die. “What happened out here?” Sansa asked timidly, after some time had passed.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to, Little Bird.” She smiled at the nickname. “What’re you smiling about?”
“Little Bird,” she almost laughed. “I almost forgot about you calling me that.” She laughed again, though it was mixed with something akin to a scoff. “You know, that was the only time I ever felt safe in King’s Landing. Whenever you would call me Little Bird.” She blushed as she admitted it.
He turned slowly to face her. “Does it still?”
She surveyed the scene in front of her. The unanimated corpses of the dead, fallen friends, ash and smoke swirling through the air... “Yes.” Their eyes met briefly, an intensity there that neither mentioned. “How did you injure your leg?”
“Fighting to protect your fucking sister,” he grumbled, and Sansa laughed.
“You do that a lot. Protect Arya,” Sansa smiled. It was replaced quickly by a stone-cold expression. “I’m jealous of her. I wish had gone with you. Then you would have protected me.”
[[A little something to entertain myself while I wait for Sunday. This focuses on Sansa after the Night King has been defeated (finding Arya/Bran, finding Theon, running into Daeny)-- I wrote this without putting much thought into it, so pardon any inaccuracies/misspellings. As always, thank you for reading! ((Theonsa/Jorleesi-- the relationships aren’t really the focus.))]]
As soon as the dead fell before her, Sansa turned to the exit. She gave Tyrion’s hand a gentle squeeze before she raced outside, the cold of the night chilling her. She needed to find her brothers and sister. She needed to be sure they were still alive. She did not know where Jon or Arya may be in the mess of the battle, but she knew where Bran was stationed. She would find him there. Theon, too.
She lifted her cloak and ran as fast as she could, adrenaline coursing through her. She had spent so much time in the godswood recently, it was the best setting for quiet thinking. The cold wind tore at her exposed skin and her red hair fell from its braid as she raced on, taking every shortcut she knew.
Arya was hunched over in the snow when she arrived, Bran still seated safely in his chair. “Arya,” Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, running to her sister and wrapping her in her arms.
“I did it,” Arya whispered, her body sinking into her sister’s embrace. “I killed him.” It was a statement, not a brag.
“Killed who?”
“The Night King,” Bran responded, his voice dull, without emotion.
Sansa’s eyes widened, starring at a shell-shocked Arya. She turned back to Bran, “Is Jon alive?”
A pause from Bran before, “Yes.”
It was then Sansa realized who was missing from the scene. “Bran, where is Theon?”
Bran’s gaze looked past Sansa’s shoulder, his expression passive. Sansa turned to where he looked, and felt her breath hitch in her throat. Theon’s body was sprawled awkwardly in the snow, the white powder dark underneath him. “Arya, take Bran home. Find Jon.”
Neither sibling protested, or if they did Sansa did not hear, she was already running the short distance to Theon’s body. She collapsed in front of him, her eyes burning as tears fell down her cheeks. “Theon,” She cried, taking his hand in hers. She closed her eyes, not able to look upon his face. She felt her body stiffen when Theon’s fingers laced through hers.
She forced herself to look at him then, nearly sobbing when she saw him blink. “Theon,” she said again, forcing herself to gain composure. The spear was lodged in his stomach, but he was still alive, somehow. Sansa knew he would not stay that way. He had been here, lying in the snow, bleeding out and suffering, for who knew how long. The thought caused another strangled sob to spill from her.
“You’re a good man, Theon,” She choked out, forcing herself to smile at him. Blood pooled from his mouth. “I love you,” she said, this time unable to control the sound of sadness in her voice, the sob that escaped from her. She pulled the dagger from her coat, her hand shaking as she placed the blade lightly against Theon’s throat. “I love you,” she said again, before dragging the blade swiftly across his jugular, ending his suffering in one fluid motion.
She fell against him, sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking.
Sansa didn’t move again until she heard footsteps approaching. She lifted her head from Theon’s chest, and rose to her feet, standing in front of his body, holding the dagger out in front of her. She relaxed only a little when Daenerys appeared from the shadows of the trees, but tucked the dagger away. She looked exhausted, and terrified. “Sansa? Where is Jon? He was coming to save Bran last I--”
“--He’s with everyone else. He is okay.” Daenerys nodded. “Are you?” Sansa wondered, eyes trailing to Daeny’s blood-soaked cloak.
Daeny followed her gaze, a hand resting over the mess of dried blood. “It is not mine,” she said, sadly. “Ser Jorah--” The words died in her throat. Sansa did not need to hear them.
Only then did Daeny see the body behind Sansa, and Sansa could see the sadness she had been trying to hide return. Daeny’s eyes moved from Theon to Sansa, and their gazes locked.
Wordlessly they threw their arms around each other, falling into the snow, their bodies shaking as they both began to cry again. Sansa gripped the back of Daeny’s cloak with her hands, and she felts Daeny’s hands weave through her hair. They understood each other’s pain. Their hearts were shattered for lost love.
They sat locked in an embrace until the first rays of sunlight began to filter down. “We had better return. They will be looking for us,” Daeny said, breaking their hug. Her eyes were red, Sansa’s were too. Sansa cast one last glance at Theon, using her palm to shut his eyelids.
Daenerys helped Sansa to her feet, and together the two women walked back to the heart of the North, side by side.
[[Theonsa - Moments Before the Battle]]
Sansa knew it would be only moments before Theon left her, trading one Stark for another. She looked for Bran, but did not see him amongst the bustle of the men and women preparing for war. Part of her wanted to be among them. Part of her wanted to be with Bran and Theon in the hours to come. She knew either would be foolish, she was no warrior, her skills were better matched as the Lady of Winterfell than they were for combat.
“I should go,” Theon stated, rising from the table. He needed still to gather his weapons of dragon glass, gracing them with a few more minutes together.
Sansa nodded, standing with him. “I’ll come with you.” Theon nodded, but did not smile. Sansa did not seem him smile often anymore, and it pained her. Smiling had once been so natural for him. And for her, too, she supposed.
The walk to the armory was short and uncrowded, most men had gathered their weapons hours before. Sansa walked close to Theon, close enough that their arms brushed against one another as they moved. “Promise me you will come home,” Sansa said, her voice barely above a whisper. It was fool’s request, a sign of the stupid, naïve little girl she no longer was.
“I promise Bran will come home. And I promise to try my hardest to be at his side,” Theon offered. Sansa stopped in her tracks, and Theon stopped next to her.
Sansa reached out, taking his hands in hers. “I need you to come home to be at my side,” she said, her voice gaining strength. The truth of her words surprised her. She did not know when she had fallen in love with Theon Greyjoy, but when he asked to fight for Winterfell and they wrapped their arms around each other, she knew she had.
“Sansa,” Theon began, his wide-eyes locked on their hands. “You know that cannot happen.” His eyes moved to hers, an intensity burning there.
She frowned, “Why can’t it?”
“I don’t get to be with you. You don’t end-up with me,” his voice was soft, but his eyes did not leave hers. “You don’t want me.”
“Why does everyone else presume to know what I want? I was the prisoner of a man I did not want. I have been married to two men I did not want. But I am not the girl I was then. I get to decide what and who I want now.” His gaze had fallen back to their hands, their fingers woven together. Eye contact was not easy for him, she knew. “Theon... I want you.”
Those bright eyes rose to meet hers, filled with an emotion she could not explain. They shone with the promise of tears, and a light she had almost forgotten he possessed flickered in them. He smiled. The full-face, goofy, genuine smile she treasured. She removed her hands from his, placing one on his cheek. “I want you,” she repeated, smiling herself, before pulling him into a kiss.
His lips were soft, gentle. The moment hers touched his her heart began to soar, the chaos around them melting away; there was nothing but her and Theon and an emotional understanding no one else would ever know. She didn’t know a kiss could be like this. She didn’t know a kiss could heat her skin in a blessed way, that it could make her heart flutter in her chest, that it could make her feel safe, and loved.
She felt his hand on the back of her head, gentle at first, but pulling her closer when she did not tense at the touch. His fingers wove through her auburn hair, and goosepimples crawled along her flesh. Her own hands had become tangled in his hair, holding onto him as though she never had to let go.
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