Sansa Stark (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lastchanceforhonor) wrote2012-06-17 10:31 pm
lastchanceforhonor) wrote2012-06-17 10:31 pm
(no subject)
It was, she supposed, very simple. She had cleaned her rooms the best that she could, although given her own state of affairs the best she could was not entirely satisfactory. Still, it was simple. It was time for her to get rid of the things she had been holding onto - those dresses that were too short, the bright jewelry that was featherlight and painted with colors that she had never seen, the frilly, girly things that had no business in her wardrobe.
Sansa Stark knew full well that there was no escaping who she was. There was no escaping her duty, her name, her birthright. She was not free, here - not unless she made herself free. She wondered still if she should have killed him outright, if she would have been able to before she would have been imprisoned, and if that would have changed things. She knew who she was, knew- Oh, her father would not have been disappointed in what she had done, but this - the things, the things that were not fitting or proper, those were...
She still wished for them. Perhaps she was torn from the disconnect, from what she wanted, and what she thought she should do; perhaps it was something more than that, that she knew that by taking her own fate by the hands, as Sansa Stark, The Wolf of Winterfell or something else similar, that if she would follow in her family's footsteps and never let a Lannister or any other family rule her life, it meant that she could not have such things, could not think on such flights of fancy.
She stopped, staring at the pile on her floor, before she shook her head. No. There was no room for them. Not anymore.
Sansa Stark knew full well that there was no escaping who she was. There was no escaping her duty, her name, her birthright. She was not free, here - not unless she made herself free. She wondered still if she should have killed him outright, if she would have been able to before she would have been imprisoned, and if that would have changed things. She knew who she was, knew- Oh, her father would not have been disappointed in what she had done, but this - the things, the things that were not fitting or proper, those were...
She still wished for them. Perhaps she was torn from the disconnect, from what she wanted, and what she thought she should do; perhaps it was something more than that, that she knew that by taking her own fate by the hands, as Sansa Stark, The Wolf of Winterfell or something else similar, that if she would follow in her family's footsteps and never let a Lannister or any other family rule her life, it meant that she could not have such things, could not think on such flights of fancy.
She stopped, staring at the pile on her floor, before she shook her head. No. There was no room for them. Not anymore.