I always wanted something between Sansa and Cersei before the end of the show. An airing of their trauma or whatever. An understanding. Closure, in any form. I don't think this is the kind of relationship that ever truly finds a resolution, but Sansa, at least, deserves to come to terms with it, to make peace with what Cersei did to her, and who she was in her life, and the influence she exerted. I wanted to give her that. I hope I succeeded.
(Also, yes, don’t worry, it’s still Jonsa, lol)
Noble Rot
“’You’re to be executed in the morning.’ Sansa draws a deep breath in, exhales slowly. ‘This may be your last chance to speak.’
Cersei purses her lips at the reminder, glancing away a moment, jaw tightening. ‘And you think you’re the one I want to spill my last words to, is that it?’ she bites out.
‘I think no one else will listen,’ Sansa answers gently.” -
Sansa and Cersei. Words exchanged before the end.
Read it on Ao3 here.
* * *
It smells like aged iron and tepid water. Sansa scrunches her nose as she descends the steps into the dungeons, skirts gathered gracefully in her hands. When she makes it to the base of the stairs, she sees her then.
Cersei.
The older woman is sitting slumped against the stone wall, her head resting against the bars of her cell. Her once golden, flowing hair is dim and sheared – now straw-like. Her eyes flick up at Sansa's movement, narrowing when they recognize her. A sneer graces her lips.
"Come to revel in my demise one last time?" Her voice is no less clipped, no less confident than Sansa remembers.
It stirs something in her gut she is loath to relive.
Sansa clears her throat, nodding to the maidservant behind her. The woman dips her head in acknowledgement, moving past her lady to set the tray she carries along the floor near Cersei, and the former queen quirks a brow at the two chalices and flagon of wine atop the tray. With another nod toward the guard posted at the end of the cell, Sansa directs him to settle a chair beside the tray. "Leave us," she tells them once everything is in place. The maidservant and guard leave with her dismissal, up the stairs Sansa had taken.
She stands quietly in the damp dungeon, watching Cersei. And then she moves to sit along the chair, hands smoothing over her lap as she looks down at Cersei through the bars. "I've come to talk," she tells her.
"And what have we to talk about, little dove?" Cersei asks, head leaning back against the bars.
Sansa ignores the memories Cersei's moniker dredges up. "Whatever you wish."
Cersei scoffs. "How very gracious of you."
"You're to be executed in the morning." Sansa draws a deep breath in, exhales slowly. "This may be your last chance to speak."
Cersei purses her lips at the reminder, glancing away a moment, jaw tightening. "And you think you're the one I want to spill my last words to, is that it?" she bites out.
"I think no one else will listen," Sansa answers gently.
Cersei glances back to her at that, throat flexing with her control.
It's not precisely that Sansa wants to listen, truly, but that she needs to hear.
She sighs, eyes drifting to her hands linked together over her lap.
Cersei blinks back a sudden wetness, swallowing tightly, before she sits up straighter. "Well, then." She motions to the flagon of wine on Sansa's side of the bars. "I'll need a glass of that first."
Sansa offers the slight quirk of her lip in response, a hint of knowing to her smirk. She leans down and grabs the flagon, filling the first chalice and handing it through the bars to Cersei.
Cersei takes it eagerly, bringing it to her lips almost instantly. She gulps down three large swallows of the stuff before Sansa even has her own glass poured.
Sansa releases a soft chuckle at the sight, settling back in her chair, swirling her glass gingerly before her.
Cersei gives her a scornful look, chin raised. "I suppose it brings you pleasure to see me in such a state," she sneers.
"It does," she answers honestly, taking a sip herself. "A bit."
Cersei scoffs, cutting the sound off with another gulp of wine.
"But truthfully, it will bring me greater pleasure to witness your state tomorrow, when your head is cut from your shoulders."
Cersei stills at that, hands curled around her wine glass.
Sansa grips her own glass tightly, the words lingering in the air around them. Because it's not truthful, really. Even when she wishes it was. Even when she wishes she could feel relief at Cersei's execution. There's a part of her that does, she knows. The part that is still living captive in King's Landing, still balancing at the edge of a knife, always, just a fall away, just a lurch of the heart away. The part of her that misses the girl she used to be.
That part will know relief when the dawn comes. That part of her will taste freedom for the first time.
And yet...
Sansa looks away, bringing the glass to her lips. The wine is sweeter than she likes.
The only truthful part of all this is that she doesn't really know what she feels about Cersei's impending death. And maybe that's precisely what scares her the most.
Cersei watches her quietly a moment, before her lips are pulling into a wide grin, a chuckle easing past her rough throat. "My, how easy it is to bare one's teeth when you're on the right side of the bars," she marvels mockingly.
Sansa meets her gaze once more, the hardness of memory settling over her. "You've taught me well," she tells her.
Cersei laughs at that, leaning back along the stone wall. "Yes, I suppose I have."
Sansa takes a steadying breath, settling the chalice in her lap, eyes fixed to the way her hands wind around the fragile stem of the glass.
"Speaking of," Cersei begins, turning where she sits, so that her knees are settled underneath her now, her shoulder resting against the wall when she brings the chalice up for a quick swig of wine. "I hear you'll be marrying that bastard brother of yours soon."
"He's not my brother," Sansa snaps too quickly.
Cersei seems to catch it, a smirk etching along her lips. "Is that what you tell yourself at night, hmm? When he's between your legs? Tell me, is the shame less, then?"
Sansa's spine snaps straight, her shoulders pulling taut. "You don't know anything about it."
"Oh, but I do," she says fiercely, eyes narrowed on her. "And you're not half as convincing as you think you are."
Sansa's mouth clamps shut, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Cersei's.
"Tell yourself whatever lies ease your guilt. In the end, it won't matter. Whether he's Targaryen or Snow, or Stark for that matter," she scoffs. "It doesn't change a thing. Even if all the great Houses see otherwise, in your heart, he will always be your brother." She levels a roguish smirk her way. "And that's how you like it."
"I think you confuse us, Lady Lannister," Sansa says tightly.
Cersei gives her an appraising look at the title, lips pursed into a thin line. But Sansa will not apologize for addressing her as less than a queen. Because that's exactly what she is – less than a queen.
And because she will always be Cersei Lannister, not Baratheon, and it has nothing to do with bearing her own twin's children.
It's about blood. It's about being Tywin Lannister's daughter. It's about the lineage she prides herself on, the lineage she will never relinquish.
As innate an instinct as Sansa's own. The blood of Winterfell, she'd called herself once.
And here she is, sitting before the blood of Casterly Rock. It's just who they are. Sansa has put that burden to rest already, long ago – when she first saw her father's severed head bouncing down the muddied steps of the Great Sept.
I'm a Stark. I will always be a Stark.
Looking at Cersei now, it seems all the more apparent. They are what they are.
There is no turning back.
"I won't insult you by pretending to understand your bond with Ser Jaime," Sansa begins, "But I can say with certainty, that Jon and I are nothing like you."
Cersei cocks her head at her. "My dear, that is not the boast you think it is."
Sansa blinks at her, tempering the scowl that tugs at her lips.
For a moment, there's a fondness that branches over Cersei's face, a remembrance even these bars cannot hold. She swirls her chalice in her hand slowly, eyes staring out past Sansa's shoulder. "He was more than just my twin," she says softly, almost to herself. She gulps steadily, brows furrowing, that remembrance a painful thing now. "We were a part of each other from the start. From even before the start. Since the womb. And you can't... you can't..." She swallows thickly, a lance of pain etching over her features. Then she downs the last of her wine, holding her empty chalice out through the bars for Sansa to refill. "You wouldn't understand," she says briskly.
Sansa refills her chalice in silence.
Cersei takes a long, even swallow of the stuff once she pulls her glass back through the bars. She licks her lips, the back of her wrist wiped across her mouth when she lowers her glass.
Sansa looks down into her own slowly emptying chalice. "I am... sorry," she says, though the words come rough along her tongue. "For his passing," she finishes, glancing up at Cersei. She takes a sudden swig of wine, hoping it will ease the sensation in her gut at the words.
Her captive scoffs, head leaning back along the stones. "You don't have to lie to me, Sansa, I'm perfectly capable of grieving alone."
"What makes you think I'm being untruthful?" she asks, fingers gripping her wine glass.
Cersei looks at her a while, considering, and then she turns away, takes another gulp of wine. "I suppose you have no reason to be. Not now, at least, so near the end."
"Yes," Sansa agrees quietly, nearly a whisper. She takes another sip of wine, quickly, not to let it linger long on her tongue. The sweetness is thick and obtrusive, not cloying, as she expected.
Cersei watches her expression carefully, settling her glass in her lap. "It's called noble rot," she says suddenly.
Sansa piques a brow at her.
She nods toward the glass in her hand. "The wine. It's called noble rot."
Sansa furrows her brows in distaste at the expression.
Cersei laughs. It's a genuine sound, short as it is – unexpected and throaty, as though it surprises even herself. "It's clear you haven't a sophisticated enough palate for it."
"I tried to bring what I remembered you drinking most," Sansa responds coolly, choosing not to respond to her shallow dig.
Cersei gives her an appraising look. "One last mercy, hmm?"
"A bribe, maybe," she says with the shrug of one shoulder.
Cersei chuckles under her breath, bringing her glass back to her mouth. "A well-thought one, at least," she tells her. "I hadn't expected to ever taste the stuff again."
"A true travesty, I'm sure," Sansa mocks, taking another sip herself.
Cersei unwinds her legs from underneath her, stretching them out with a languid mewl. She sighs, cradling her chalice to her chest, looking through the bars at Sansa. "Not that you would appreciate the intricacies of harvesting such a wine but it's quite the process, let me assure you."
Sansa only gives her a silent, expectant stare.
Cersei takes a slow, savoring sip of the wine in her grasp, eyes slipping shut. "You have to let the grapes rot, you see." Her eyes slide open, catching Sansa's. "But you have to be careful. If the air is too chilled, or too hot, or there's too much moisture, or the rot sets in for too long, then it becomes unusable. There's a very slim window where you can harvest the grapes. It's all about timing."
Sansa purses her lips, looking down into her glass. "Seems an awful lot of effort for rot, if you ask me."
"And yet, you're drinking it," Cersei points out.
Sansa chuckles, leaning back in her seat. "Something else I can blame you for, I guess."
"The least of my sins, I'm sure," she deadpans, drinking nonchalantly.
"Yes," Sansa agrees on a whisper, watching the woman. Her chest tightens, her fingers flexing over the stem of her wine glass. Her eyes wet, and she blinks it away, turning to face the far wall as she breathes deep. "The least of your sins," she repeats on a bite, lips pursed.
Cersei raises a brow her way. "What was that, little dove?"
Sansa swings her gaze back to Cersei's, her shoulders pulling taut. "I'd like to know why."
She doesn't even know where the words come from, or why they're the first to leave her lips. She clamps her mouth shut after speaking them, her throat flexing with her control.
Why, why, why.
It's an endless need, a forever unanswered question, a blade and a salve and a wound all at once.
Why?
Sansa looks at Cersei.
The broken Lannister stares back. And then she swirls her glass in her hand, takes a steady sip, lowers the glass as she watches her through the bars. "Why, what?" she asks.
Sansa scoffs, the sound ugly and jarring in the dim quiet of the dungeon.
Cersei only takes another sip, before settling the glass back in her lap, both hands winding round the stem, as though bracing.
Sansa fumes suddenly, her nostrils flaring with her instant ire. "Why were you... why were you so cruel? Why did you target me so? Why did you try so hard to break me? Why – " She stops, the word lodging in her throat.
Why, why, why.
She blinks the salt-sting of tears away, mouth dipping into a harsh frown. "Why did you hate me?" she asks hoarsely.
Cersei sighs, glancing back down to her chalice. She watches the swirling motion of the wine in her glass. "I don't know," she tells her.
Sansa stands swiftly, splashing wine along the cold stones when the glass tips in her hand. She doesn't mind the spill, only stares at Cersei, her free hand clenching into a fist at her side. "That's not a good enough answer," she seethes.
"Well," Cersei shrugs, "That's all I've got for you."
Sansa stalks away, back toward the stairs, and then she heaves a great breath, fingers curling around her wine stem. She turns, stalks back toward the cell, stands there a moment.
Cersei quirks a brow up at her. "Are we done chatting, then?"
Sansa blows a hot breath through her mouth, teeth grinding when she plops back into her chair, hands clenching in her lap, wine glass between them. "Even now, you jest. You distract. You have nothing of meaning to say, even here, at the end." She steadies the breath in her chest, her words coming slower, more controlled now. She blinks disbelievingly at Cersei. "Haven't you any regret?"
"And what do you know about regret?" she spits suddenly, sitting up straighter, her legs drawn back beneath her.
"I know I regret ever having trusted you when I was a girl."
Cersei laughs. "Yes, you were wrong for that one."
"And yet, you were sincere with me once."
Cersei stops, watching Sansa with narrowed eyes.
Sansa sighs out, looking down into her now emptied glass. She squares her jaw, reaching down for the flagon still atop the tray on the floor beside her chair. She fills her glass halfway, setting the flagon back down. "I'll never forget it," she begins again, voice even, steady now. The fire in her lungs has slowly ebbed.
Cersei picks at a thread along the knee of her soiled breeches. "Is that so?" she asks indifferently.
But Sansa recognizes the curiosity in her tone. She's known her long enough now to catch it. She smiles softly. "Yes."
Cersei glances up at her, feigning disinterest.
"'Love no one but your children'," Sansa repeats back to her, the words still fresh in her mind even after all these years, "'On that front a mother has no choice.'"
Cersei offers an unreadable grin. "Are you with child, dear girl?"
Sansa takes a meaningful swig of wine. When she lowers her glass, she gives Cersei an amused chuckle. "Not yet."
She rolls her eyes in answer, turning to lean her shoulder against the wall once more. "Not for lack of trying, I'm sure. I hear that bastard brother of yours is a handsome fellow, and we both know how easily you spread your legs."
Sansa doesn't meet her bait this time. Instead, she only leans back, arms crossing languidly. "You were wrong, you know."
"About what?" she sighs in exasperation.
"About loving no one else."
(Because if Jon has shown her anything, it's that.)
Cersei purses her lips, refusing to meet Sansa's eyes.
Sansa taps a smooth nail along her elbow, before uncrossing her arms and taking another sip of wine. "But I gather you get that now."
"Is this the part where you start gloating? Because it's rather unattractive."
"No gloating. Simply..."
"What?" Cersei snaps. "Pity? Do you pity me, now?"
Sansa cocks her head at her. "I don't know," she tells her honestly.
Cersei scoffs, leaning forward to shove her empty glass through the bars.
Sansa considers it a moment, watching Cersei raise an expectant brow up at her, leaning forward there on her hands and knees and Sansa is –
She stops, unsure.
She truly doesn't know what she feels.
So, she pours Cersei another glass.
Maybe coming down here was a mistake. There's nothing here to be gained. Nothing to be salvaged. Nothing to reminisce.
Cersei takes an angry gulp of wine and then wipes at her mouth, eyes flicking up to meet Sansa's.
"You loved Jaime, didn't you?" she says finally.
Cersei coughs on her sip of wine, a hand to her mouth, an incredulous look sent Sansa's way. "Why does that even matter now?"
She shrugs noncommittally, glancing down into her wine glass. "It doesn't, I guess. Nothing you say seems to matter now."
Cersei narrows her eyes at her, wiping at her mouth.
Sansa sighs, throwing her head back to take in the ceiling. "I think maybe I thought that... if I could understand you, if I could – " The words catch on her tongue, unsure. She licks her lips, tries again. "I guess I thought that maybe I could understand myself."
Many moments pass with nothing else between them. Sansa stays staring at the ceiling, her hands fidgeting over her glass. When only more silence answers her, she finally glances back down to Cersei.
The older woman's not looking at her. She's staring out past the bars, her wine glass forgotten in one hand, the other gripping at her knee, her legs curled up beneath her. There's a quiver to her brow, her chin jutting out when the wetness dots her eyes. She blinks it back instantly, a frustrated breath leaving her. She shakes her head. "I wasn't lying," she tells her.
Sansa sits stiffly, watching her. She doesn't ask her to clarify.
Cersei shifts along the stone, turning to lay her back against the wall, facing Sansa fully now. There's a curl to her lip, a distaste. But it isn't clear if it's meant for Sansa, or for herself.
The look startles Sansa into breathlessness.
"When you asked why," she continues, swallowing thickly. She shakes her head, her voice small suddenly. "I don't know."
Sansa sets her wine glass down along the stones at her feet, before she straightens in her seat. "That can't be all it is."
She laughs again, but it's rueful this time – anguished. Her eyes slip shut on an exhausted exhale. "I don't know," she says again, shaking with it. "To protect my children? To protect myself? Maybe." She scoffs, opening her eyes to meet Sansa's unhindered gaze. "Because you had a chance I never did? Because you were simply... there? Because it was easier than looking in a mirror?" She lets out another dark laugh, her free hand rising up to dig the heel of her palm into her eye, sucking a sharp breath between her teeth. "I don't know," she grinds out, voice breaking. "I don't know," she snaps.
Sansa grips at the seat beneath her, her nails curling under the thin cushion. Her resentment flares harsh and biting, filling her chest, wetting her eyes, burning hot beneath her skin. She tears her gaze away.
Why?
Cersei shakes her head, hand over her eyes.
I don't know.
And maybe that's what hurts the most.
To hate, without reason. To hate, simply because one can.
(To hate, so that it doesn't turn inward.)
The bile fills Sansa's throat and she swallows it back with effort, eyes shifting closed on a heavy exhale. "I don't know how I ever aspired to be you," Sansa whispers, gathering herself. She opens her eyes, her frown trembling as she watches the dirt-covered woman in the cell before her. "Such a stupid, little girl," she mutters to herself.
Cersei sits up quickly, a hand wiped over her cheek. "What do you want from me?" she demands, eyes flashing. "Huh? What is it? Is this not low enough for you?" She spreads her arms wide to encompass her state, wine sloshing over the rim of her glass. "Am I not in a sorry enough state for you, huh? Is it not enough that they'll take my head come morning? Tell me, what?" Her teeth snap together over the words, her shoulders shaking with her sudden vehemence. "I've lost all my children. Every one of them. I've lost my brother, my father, my crown. My... my home, my name, my... my..." She chokes on a gasp, head shaking, the tears hot on her lids. "I lost my children, gods, my children, don't you understand?" she shrieks, throwing her chalice at the bars, the sharp clang reverberating throughout the cell. She drags her hands to her face and screams into her palms, her knees drawn up to her chest. "What do you fucking want from me?" she shouts.
Sansa stands – swiftly and cleanly, hands fists at her sides. She looks down at the chalice spilling wine over the stones, rolling to a stop against the bars between them. She simply stares, her chest tight.
Cersei's ragged cry of bitterness breaks through the air, and she wipes at her cheeks in frustration, staring up at Sansa with tear-lined, red-rimmed eyes. "What do you want from me?" she croaks out.
Sansa blinks, her mouth tipping open, and then she purses her lips, glances back down to the spilled wine glass.
She had wanted so much, once.
Had even been ready to swallow the rot, so long as it promised enough sweetness.
Sansa closes her eyes, breathes deep.
But rot is still rot, no matter how sweet it tastes.
And Sansa knows now that what she wants cannot be found in this dark, dank cell.
So, she heaves a steadying breath, opens her eyes, smooths her hands down her skirts. It's not a lie when she tells Cersei, "I don't want anything from you. Not anymore."
Cersei laughs, blinking the tears away. She drops her head back along the stones and wipes a hand over her nose.
Sansa turns to leave, then stops, looking at her over her shoulder. "Have you any last requests before the morning?" she says with a gentleness she doesn't have the heart to question.
Cersei scoffs, arms wrapping round herself. And then she catches sight of the tray still sitting along the floor beside Sansa's abandoned chair. "Sure," she gets out on a watery chuckle, reaching toward it. "Slide the wine closer."
Sansa watches her with a desolate look, her lungs tight in her chest. And then she leans down and pushes the tray toward the bars. Cersei grabs the flagon easily enough, bringing it to her lips. She takes a long, slow drink from it, dropping it into her lap when she finishes, a satisfied sigh escaping her.
Sansa gives her one last nod. "Farewell then, Lady Lannister." She moves toward the stairs.
"Cheers, Lady Stark," follows her through the damp corridor, accompanied by a broken off laugh, dwindling in the dark, and then ending with a sob so low Sansa swears she must have imagined it.
She gathers her skirts in her hands, taking the steps up from the dungeon with a somber surety, never looking back. When she makes it to the top, she braces a hand to the door, opens it wide, and finally lets the light in.
