sansa stark ♛❅ queen in the north (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
toivory) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thesphererp2020-04-18 02:46 am
toivory) wrote in thesphererp2020-04-18 02:46 am
Memory Share: Sansa Stark (4)
CW: karmic justice. blood. murder.
This was it. She'd been sitting on this for some time, playing with it, running it over and over again in her head. She'd taken all the advice that had ever been given to her, and she'd absorbed it. Think ahead, imagine possibilities for every outcome so you can best prepare. And she had. She was right, she knew she was.
And she knew she had to do this.
She'd asked the guards to fetch Arya, now a grown woman and a pint-sized assassin. The tension between the two girls had always been there, but since Arya's return it had reached a boiling point. Arya had threatened her, said she could wear her face, be the lady of Winterfell. Petyr had mentioned it, too. What would Arya have to gain with Sansa's death?
Winterfell.
The Great Hall was dark and grey, as were the denizens inside of it. At a large wooden table, Sansa sits, her brother Bran to her left. Everyone is already assembled when Arya at last enters, flanked by two guards. The guards take their places amongst the Stark bannermen, and Arya comes to the middle of the floor to look at her sister.
Once the door shuts, locking them all inside, it's time to begin.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Arya asks, her voice even.
"It's not what I want," she looks down. She didn't want to hurt anyone. "It's what honor demands."
"And what does honor demand?" Arya asks her, like she doesn't know the answer. They were both raised by Ned Stark. They knew very well what honor demanded. But Arya wanted confirmation. To be absolutely sure.
"That I defend my family from those that would harm us." Sansa's voice is as even as always. She's certain in her words, what would come next. "That I defend the North from those that betray us."
"Alright then." Arya is cool under pressure, "Get on with it."
She takes a moment, looking at her sister in front of her. But she cannot take too long, and she knows this. "You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges-" the hall seems to grow with a restless energy. There's blood in the water now, they can smell it. They know of the rivalry between the two Stark Girls. She looks away from Arya, and turns her blue eyes to the man that had returned her to Winterfell in the first place: -"Lord Baelish."
Littlefinger can't believe it, he looks absolutely stunned, looking from the guards to Sansa, even as Arya begins to smirk. He's not sure he's heard right, that this is a joke and someone will step forward and save him. But no one moves, no one starts to speak. It's not a joke at all.
"My sister asked you a question," Arya prompts, unable to resist. Littlefinger looks at her, blinking, then he turns to Sansa again.
"Lady Sansa, forgive me, I'm a bit confused," he tries.
Sansa leans forward. "What charges confused you?" She's happy to lay it out to him, to explain it to him slowly like he was a child. "Let's start with the simplest one: You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the moondoor and watched her fall. Do you deny it?" She knew her audience, Lords of the Vale had been called to Winterfell to take up arms in the name of the Starks. They had never cared much for Petyr, an outsider and an upstart low-born.
"I did it to protect you."
"You did it to take power in the Vale," she corrects him, making it very clear to everyone. "Earlier, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him, do you deny it?" Jon Arryn had been beloved by the Vale, and his murder had set everything off.
Petyr has answers for everything. "Whatever your aunt might have told you, she was a troubled woman." There was no one in the room that could deny this. "She imagined enemies everywhere."
"You had her send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters that murdered Jon Arryn, when really, it was you. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it- do you deny it?" And he hasn't yet, she's noticed. He's twisted motives, spun half-lies made mostly of truth. He was a brilliant liar, a gifted speaker. But Sansa was better now.
He shook his head. "I know of no such letter."
But she's not done. "You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark." Her voice gets harder, her eyes watery, but she trudges on. "Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason- do you deny it?" She glares at him, producing enough heat that the fireplace seems unnecessary. Someone needs to pay for the death of their father.
"I deny it!" He calls to the room, taking a small step away from the table. He speaks to the crowd, rather than Sansa. "None of you were there, to see what happened. None of you knows the truth."
He thinks he's won. But Bran knows the truth. Bran, the Three Eyed Raven, who had been able to confirm everything Sansa had put together, speaks. "You held a knife to his throat." Bran had been in Winterfell when this had happened, three months journey at least from King's Landing. There was no way he should have known, and Littlefinger knows this. He turns to the boy he'd discounted. "You said 'I did warn you not to trust me'."
"You told our mother," that was Arya from behind him, "this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister." Arya draws the catspaw blade, the same one that had attempted to murder Bran in the middle of the night. "But that was just another one of your lies. It was yours." Something was wrong here, Petyr knows. The rumors of Bran's powers... He's fucked. He knows it. But he has to try.
He looks from Arya to Sansa, knowing she's the more reasonable of the two. The one he has a connection with, the one he knew. Now he speaks to her and only to her, coming to kneel before her. "I beg you, Lady Sansa, I have known you since you were a girl. I've protected you."
It's all she can do not to laugh in his face. "Protected me?" She asks him, no longer able to contain her rage. "By SELLING me to the Boltons?"
Petyr shakes his head, "If we could speak alone--" he has more power alone. But Sansa knows this and won't let him get away, "--and I can explain everything."
She won't hear it. She doesn't want his excuses. She wants justice for her family, for all that's been done to her and them since she was a little girl. She wants him to understand that he's lost. He has lost everything, and he has been molding the instrument of his own destruction.
"Sometimes," she begins pedanticly, "when I'm having trouble understanding someone's motives, I like to play a little game."
Petyr presses his lips together, looking down. He taught her this. He taught her all of this. He wants to laugh. But he's closer to crying.
"I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? That's what you do, isn't it? it's what you've always done. Turned family against family, sister against sister. That's what you did to our mother and aunt Lysa and that's what you TRIED to do to us."
"Sansa-- please." Let him save some face. Just a bit.
"I'm a slow learner," she admits, "it's true. But I learn."
"Can you give me a chance to defend myself? I deserve that." It was more than their father recieved, but she leans back, blinking slowly to indicate that yes, if he wanted to, now was the time to defend himself. Petyr takes the moment and looks around the court, before moving to Lord Harding. "I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie."
"I think not." Just like that, he's lost all allies he possibly could have had in this court. He looks around, turning back to the Lady of Winterfell.
"Sansa," he tries again, falling to his knees, "I beg you! I loved your mother since the time I was a boy!"
"And yet you betrayed her."
"I loved you," he says as his voice cracks with crocodile tears, "more than anyone." It's pathetic, really, watching him pretend to cry to illicit her pity. She wasn't the little girl he thought she was. She had grown and learned and she was not taking any of this anymore.
"Yet you betrayed me." And that was his mistake. She pushes herself up to standing. "When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me there's no justice in the world. Not unless we make it." She looks over at Arya, just briefly, before turning back to Petyr. "Thank you for your many lessons, Lord Baelish." He's still on his knees, blue eyes tearing up as she speaks with a clear honesty. "I will never forget them."
Baelish seems to shrink back until Arya takes his blade, slicing it across his throat with practiced ease. Lord Petyr Baelish dies with Sansa's name on his lips, in the Great Hall of Winterfell, as she watches. It wasn't what she wanted. But it was what honor demanded.
And Ned Stark had taught his daughter a great deal about honor.
This was it. She'd been sitting on this for some time, playing with it, running it over and over again in her head. She'd taken all the advice that had ever been given to her, and she'd absorbed it. Think ahead, imagine possibilities for every outcome so you can best prepare. And she had. She was right, she knew she was.
And she knew she had to do this.
She'd asked the guards to fetch Arya, now a grown woman and a pint-sized assassin. The tension between the two girls had always been there, but since Arya's return it had reached a boiling point. Arya had threatened her, said she could wear her face, be the lady of Winterfell. Petyr had mentioned it, too. What would Arya have to gain with Sansa's death?
Winterfell.
The Great Hall was dark and grey, as were the denizens inside of it. At a large wooden table, Sansa sits, her brother Bran to her left. Everyone is already assembled when Arya at last enters, flanked by two guards. The guards take their places amongst the Stark bannermen, and Arya comes to the middle of the floor to look at her sister.
Once the door shuts, locking them all inside, it's time to begin.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Arya asks, her voice even.
"It's not what I want," she looks down. She didn't want to hurt anyone. "It's what honor demands."
"And what does honor demand?" Arya asks her, like she doesn't know the answer. They were both raised by Ned Stark. They knew very well what honor demanded. But Arya wanted confirmation. To be absolutely sure.
"That I defend my family from those that would harm us." Sansa's voice is as even as always. She's certain in her words, what would come next. "That I defend the North from those that betray us."
"Alright then." Arya is cool under pressure, "Get on with it."
She takes a moment, looking at her sister in front of her. But she cannot take too long, and she knows this. "You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges-" the hall seems to grow with a restless energy. There's blood in the water now, they can smell it. They know of the rivalry between the two Stark Girls. She looks away from Arya, and turns her blue eyes to the man that had returned her to Winterfell in the first place: -"Lord Baelish."
Littlefinger can't believe it, he looks absolutely stunned, looking from the guards to Sansa, even as Arya begins to smirk. He's not sure he's heard right, that this is a joke and someone will step forward and save him. But no one moves, no one starts to speak. It's not a joke at all.
"My sister asked you a question," Arya prompts, unable to resist. Littlefinger looks at her, blinking, then he turns to Sansa again.
"Lady Sansa, forgive me, I'm a bit confused," he tries.
Sansa leans forward. "What charges confused you?" She's happy to lay it out to him, to explain it to him slowly like he was a child. "Let's start with the simplest one: You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the moondoor and watched her fall. Do you deny it?" She knew her audience, Lords of the Vale had been called to Winterfell to take up arms in the name of the Starks. They had never cared much for Petyr, an outsider and an upstart low-born.
"I did it to protect you."
"You did it to take power in the Vale," she corrects him, making it very clear to everyone. "Earlier, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him, do you deny it?" Jon Arryn had been beloved by the Vale, and his murder had set everything off.
Petyr has answers for everything. "Whatever your aunt might have told you, she was a troubled woman." There was no one in the room that could deny this. "She imagined enemies everywhere."
"You had her send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters that murdered Jon Arryn, when really, it was you. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it- do you deny it?" And he hasn't yet, she's noticed. He's twisted motives, spun half-lies made mostly of truth. He was a brilliant liar, a gifted speaker. But Sansa was better now.
He shook his head. "I know of no such letter."
But she's not done. "You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark." Her voice gets harder, her eyes watery, but she trudges on. "Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason- do you deny it?" She glares at him, producing enough heat that the fireplace seems unnecessary. Someone needs to pay for the death of their father.
"I deny it!" He calls to the room, taking a small step away from the table. He speaks to the crowd, rather than Sansa. "None of you were there, to see what happened. None of you knows the truth."
He thinks he's won. But Bran knows the truth. Bran, the Three Eyed Raven, who had been able to confirm everything Sansa had put together, speaks. "You held a knife to his throat." Bran had been in Winterfell when this had happened, three months journey at least from King's Landing. There was no way he should have known, and Littlefinger knows this. He turns to the boy he'd discounted. "You said 'I did warn you not to trust me'."
"You told our mother," that was Arya from behind him, "this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister." Arya draws the catspaw blade, the same one that had attempted to murder Bran in the middle of the night. "But that was just another one of your lies. It was yours." Something was wrong here, Petyr knows. The rumors of Bran's powers... He's fucked. He knows it. But he has to try.
He looks from Arya to Sansa, knowing she's the more reasonable of the two. The one he has a connection with, the one he knew. Now he speaks to her and only to her, coming to kneel before her. "I beg you, Lady Sansa, I have known you since you were a girl. I've protected you."
It's all she can do not to laugh in his face. "Protected me?" She asks him, no longer able to contain her rage. "By SELLING me to the Boltons?"
Petyr shakes his head, "If we could speak alone--" he has more power alone. But Sansa knows this and won't let him get away, "--and I can explain everything."
She won't hear it. She doesn't want his excuses. She wants justice for her family, for all that's been done to her and them since she was a little girl. She wants him to understand that he's lost. He has lost everything, and he has been molding the instrument of his own destruction.
"Sometimes," she begins pedanticly, "when I'm having trouble understanding someone's motives, I like to play a little game."
Petyr presses his lips together, looking down. He taught her this. He taught her all of this. He wants to laugh. But he's closer to crying.
"I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? That's what you do, isn't it? it's what you've always done. Turned family against family, sister against sister. That's what you did to our mother and aunt Lysa and that's what you TRIED to do to us."
"Sansa-- please." Let him save some face. Just a bit.
"I'm a slow learner," she admits, "it's true. But I learn."
"Can you give me a chance to defend myself? I deserve that." It was more than their father recieved, but she leans back, blinking slowly to indicate that yes, if he wanted to, now was the time to defend himself. Petyr takes the moment and looks around the court, before moving to Lord Harding. "I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie."
"I think not." Just like that, he's lost all allies he possibly could have had in this court. He looks around, turning back to the Lady of Winterfell.
"Sansa," he tries again, falling to his knees, "I beg you! I loved your mother since the time I was a boy!"
"And yet you betrayed her."
"I loved you," he says as his voice cracks with crocodile tears, "more than anyone." It's pathetic, really, watching him pretend to cry to illicit her pity. She wasn't the little girl he thought she was. She had grown and learned and she was not taking any of this anymore.
"Yet you betrayed me." And that was his mistake. She pushes herself up to standing. "When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me there's no justice in the world. Not unless we make it." She looks over at Arya, just briefly, before turning back to Petyr. "Thank you for your many lessons, Lord Baelish." He's still on his knees, blue eyes tearing up as she speaks with a clear honesty. "I will never forget them."
Baelish seems to shrink back until Arya takes his blade, slicing it across his throat with practiced ease. Lord Petyr Baelish dies with Sansa's name on his lips, in the Great Hall of Winterfell, as she watches. It wasn't what she wanted. But it was what honor demanded.
And Ned Stark had taught his daughter a great deal about honor.
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Good. I hope he's rotting in hell for the shit he's done.
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Good. It’s not enough.
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If he comes here ever we can just kill him over and over slowly if you want.
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[She would never do it herself. It was one of Petyr's many lessons: never get your hands dirty.]
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I am. I bet others would be too.
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[Bev’s voice is positively feral.]
Good. I hope he does then.