#sadhippie

[sad-hippie]

Naked, gagged, chained, and seen. She had felt overwhelmingly seen by all, all those years ago. Nowhere to hide. No comfort to be found. No relief to be offered.

Argella hoped Orys felt that same way.

a measure of solace, by Sadhippie

[sad-hippie]

They didn't speak of the North and all that had went on inside its borders.

For some reason or another it seemed akin to treason. To speak of kinder places, warmer halls, gentler people. And yet they also didn’t speak of the war, for a different reason entirely. Because it had been fought and because it had been won. By those who had not the right to hold banners, to hear the cries for their name, the cheers, and the clamours.

During those five years, King Rhaegar hadn’t mattered, and all his wives - the ones that had been and those that were yet to be - hadn’t made a difference.

a shield of silence, a sword of hope, by Sadhippie

[sad-hippie]

Chapter 8

His eyes.

It was how she knew something was wrong.

Jon just looked at her and didn't dare draw breath, waiting for her to guess whatever it was that he could not bring himself to say. It was the same every time.

Half of his face was covered in blood. A ghastly cut above his eye, caught his eyelid all the way down to his cheekbone. It swelled with every second they spent in this damned interlude.

An ocean of people separated them.

Wives running towards their husbands, towards their children. Waves of people crashing around them and yet she could not bear to look away from his grey eyes.

"Tell me," she whispered, having finally reached him. Running her eyes over him, looking for any more cuts, any more bruises. Any burned or mangled flesh. Taking notice of the deep cut on his thigh that kept him from placing his full weight upon both legs.

It could not be Arya, or Bran, she kept repeating to herself.

It couldn’t.

Jon wouldn't be able to look at her if it were either of them. He would blame himself so deeply, so fully, that he would withdraw from Sansa and never bear her presence again. He would have punished the both of them this way - it would have been well earned.

(...)

[sad-hippie]

Chapter 2 - love is the death of honour

Birthing fever.

Margaery died from birthing fever.

Sansa should have seen it. She should have known. And perhaps she did. Perhaps she had seen her delirium as such. Perhaps she had felt her brow scorching to the touch. Perhaps she refused to act upon it. And perhaps, she had chosen to look away. To focus on the trespasses committed against her. To not tend so carefully to the heed owed to Margaery.

The King stood in the Great Sept of Baelor.

Surrounded on all sides.

All the lords gathered around him. Overflowing the house of the Most Devout. Paying their respects to the fallen Queen. Their daughters dressed in flattering mourning dresses, rosy cheeks and wide eyes fluttering towards the King. Margaery was loved, but not so beloved that her replacements hadn't begun being searched for when her womb didn't quicken with the strength deemed necessary for old men. Uncaring that their opportunity to advance their household should follow the days the King spent locked in his chambers. Howling from his grief until exhaustion overtook him, for all in the keep to hear and bear witness to.

The little food Sansa had managed to swallow threatened to come up every time she looked at them.

(...)

[rbejusca]

My new friend the #sadhippie. He will be joining me on my "bad day" posts.