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fandomweekly2020-11-29 02:51 pm
m_findlow) wrote in fandomweekly2020-11-29 02:51 pm
Entry tags:
[#075] HOMECOMING (GAME OF THRONES)
Theme Prompt: #75 - Hearth and home
Title: Homecoming
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Rating/Warnings: PG. Spoilers for Season 6.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Coming home is not the same as a homecoming.
Sansa’s slippered feet barely made a sound as they swept along the stone floors. A peace had descended over the castle as the last remnants of evil were being dispelled from its walls. She had returned here almost a year earlier as nothing more than a dowry for the men who'd taken her home and made it theirs, but it had not felt like home. Like so many places she'd been, it was just one more where she was a prisoner to someone more powerful. Now though, the castle once again belonged in the hands of the Starks, and that feeling of home was finally returning.
She paused before the large wooden door at the end of the hall, pressing her fingers to it. Its timbers were as rough as she remembered from days long since past. Memories of her and Arya pressing their hands and ears to the door, listening for sounds on the other side, and the scampering away at the first noise of someone coming to the door to catch them in the act filled her mind. She gently leaned forward now and pressed her ear to the timbers once more, but the room beyond it was silent. She tugged on the cast iron latch and let herself in.
The fabrics adorning the large poster bed and curtains were different, but the rest of the room remained unchanged. She almost imagined she could smell her mother's scent and feel the warmth of her father's voice enveloping her. Though they were long since dead, she could feel their presence in Winterfells halls, but most of all here in their own bedroom. It only occurred to her now that she was of an age with her mother when she'd first come to Winterfell, wed to a Northman she hardly knew. Unlike Sansa, this would not have felt like home. It was hers now, the eldest surviving Stark apart from her half-brother Jon. When she peered into the looking glass on the wall she saw not herself but her mother's face, framed in that same long red hair. Her mother had been fierce and now so would she.
She'd left Winterfell a lovesick girl who wanted the adventure and grandeur of King's Landing - to attend court with the noble lords and ladies, to walk the gardens inside the palace walls and have tea and lemon cakes with the Queen , discussing her future as Joffrey's wife and her ascendancy to the throne. Not that she'd desired power. She merely enjoyed the romance of being wooed by a prince who would be king after his father. She'd imagined their courtship as one of peace and prosperity. Joffrey would not have to go off to war like his father had, to defend the throne from savage Targaryens. She would not have to wait in her castle tower, pining and fearing that something terrible might befall him. Theirs would be the fairytale engagement followed by the most glorious wedding. What a handsome couple they would make.
Now she thanked the gods that her father had betrayed the kingdom. But for that she might have indeed had to wed that awful beast Joffrey. She had dodged that fate, only to end up in yet another wedding ceremony, with a man who made Joffrey look meek. Ramsay Bolton was an even more vile and wicked creature. She was glad that on her wedding night he had merely raped her and not flayed the living skin from her body. The flayed man was the sigil of their house and Ramsay lived up to it.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. A bent old woman in grey wool bowed and entered, bringing food and a pitcher of hot water. ‘His Grace sent me to bring you supper, my Lady.’
Jon had more important things to worry about than whether she was hungry, but the sentiment reminded her that there were still a few people left in this world who cared. ‘Thank you.’
The old woman bowed even lower. ‘Tis my honor to serve, now and always.’
Sansa studied her with a keen eye. Once she'd been unable to tell friend from foe, but now she applied caution to everyone. ‘And who do you serve?’ Loyalty had become everything to her. It was loyalty after all that had won them back Winterfell, and Sansa felt a great desire to rally as many around her as she could. A winter like no other was coming, and the world sat on a knife's edge, but nowhere more so than here. They had reclaimed their home but now they had to keep it.
‘You were only a child when last I saw you, but I knew then that you'd be as beautiful and just as your mother.’
‘You’ve been at Winterfell all this time?’ Sansa couldn't imagine any of her father's subjects having survived the pillaging and burning.
The woman set down the tray and brushed her hands down her apron. ‘I remember when Theon Greyjoy took the head of Ser Rodrik for refusing to surrender the castle. And I remember Theon Greyjoy being led around the castle grounds by Ramsay Bolton like one of his whipped dogs. There's a curse upon this castle, make no mistake, my Lady, and it is a curse to any who would take it away from House Stark. We served those false lords, aye, but only to preserve the lives of those who would live to see the Starks take back their rightful home, so forgive us sweet lady, if our loyalty has not always appeared steadfast. Those who vow to die rather than serve never see the fruits of their labours.
So, you need not fear for we shall always be here for you, to serve every Stark that graces these halls. We are the North and the North remembers.’
Sansa nodded. It had cost them dearly but they'd taken back what was theirs and no one would be made to forget it.
Title: Homecoming
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Rating/Warnings: PG. Spoilers for Season 6.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Coming home is not the same as a homecoming.
Sansa’s slippered feet barely made a sound as they swept along the stone floors. A peace had descended over the castle as the last remnants of evil were being dispelled from its walls. She had returned here almost a year earlier as nothing more than a dowry for the men who'd taken her home and made it theirs, but it had not felt like home. Like so many places she'd been, it was just one more where she was a prisoner to someone more powerful. Now though, the castle once again belonged in the hands of the Starks, and that feeling of home was finally returning.
She paused before the large wooden door at the end of the hall, pressing her fingers to it. Its timbers were as rough as she remembered from days long since past. Memories of her and Arya pressing their hands and ears to the door, listening for sounds on the other side, and the scampering away at the first noise of someone coming to the door to catch them in the act filled her mind. She gently leaned forward now and pressed her ear to the timbers once more, but the room beyond it was silent. She tugged on the cast iron latch and let herself in.
The fabrics adorning the large poster bed and curtains were different, but the rest of the room remained unchanged. She almost imagined she could smell her mother's scent and feel the warmth of her father's voice enveloping her. Though they were long since dead, she could feel their presence in Winterfells halls, but most of all here in their own bedroom. It only occurred to her now that she was of an age with her mother when she'd first come to Winterfell, wed to a Northman she hardly knew. Unlike Sansa, this would not have felt like home. It was hers now, the eldest surviving Stark apart from her half-brother Jon. When she peered into the looking glass on the wall she saw not herself but her mother's face, framed in that same long red hair. Her mother had been fierce and now so would she.
She'd left Winterfell a lovesick girl who wanted the adventure and grandeur of King's Landing - to attend court with the noble lords and ladies, to walk the gardens inside the palace walls and have tea and lemon cakes with the Queen , discussing her future as Joffrey's wife and her ascendancy to the throne. Not that she'd desired power. She merely enjoyed the romance of being wooed by a prince who would be king after his father. She'd imagined their courtship as one of peace and prosperity. Joffrey would not have to go off to war like his father had, to defend the throne from savage Targaryens. She would not have to wait in her castle tower, pining and fearing that something terrible might befall him. Theirs would be the fairytale engagement followed by the most glorious wedding. What a handsome couple they would make.
Now she thanked the gods that her father had betrayed the kingdom. But for that she might have indeed had to wed that awful beast Joffrey. She had dodged that fate, only to end up in yet another wedding ceremony, with a man who made Joffrey look meek. Ramsay Bolton was an even more vile and wicked creature. She was glad that on her wedding night he had merely raped her and not flayed the living skin from her body. The flayed man was the sigil of their house and Ramsay lived up to it.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. A bent old woman in grey wool bowed and entered, bringing food and a pitcher of hot water. ‘His Grace sent me to bring you supper, my Lady.’
Jon had more important things to worry about than whether she was hungry, but the sentiment reminded her that there were still a few people left in this world who cared. ‘Thank you.’
The old woman bowed even lower. ‘Tis my honor to serve, now and always.’
Sansa studied her with a keen eye. Once she'd been unable to tell friend from foe, but now she applied caution to everyone. ‘And who do you serve?’ Loyalty had become everything to her. It was loyalty after all that had won them back Winterfell, and Sansa felt a great desire to rally as many around her as she could. A winter like no other was coming, and the world sat on a knife's edge, but nowhere more so than here. They had reclaimed their home but now they had to keep it.
‘You were only a child when last I saw you, but I knew then that you'd be as beautiful and just as your mother.’
‘You’ve been at Winterfell all this time?’ Sansa couldn't imagine any of her father's subjects having survived the pillaging and burning.
The woman set down the tray and brushed her hands down her apron. ‘I remember when Theon Greyjoy took the head of Ser Rodrik for refusing to surrender the castle. And I remember Theon Greyjoy being led around the castle grounds by Ramsay Bolton like one of his whipped dogs. There's a curse upon this castle, make no mistake, my Lady, and it is a curse to any who would take it away from House Stark. We served those false lords, aye, but only to preserve the lives of those who would live to see the Starks take back their rightful home, so forgive us sweet lady, if our loyalty has not always appeared steadfast. Those who vow to die rather than serve never see the fruits of their labours.
So, you need not fear for we shall always be here for you, to serve every Stark that graces these halls. We are the North and the North remembers.’
Sansa nodded. It had cost them dearly but they'd taken back what was theirs and no one would be made to forget it.
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