LION TRAP, game of thrones

𝐈𝐗. flowers

Sansorr did not know why the boy king Tommen had allowed him to pay his last respects to Myrcella. He didn't even believe in the Seven and there was no weirwoodtree nearby. Nevertheless, he sent a prayer to the old gods. He hoped that they would accept the prayer and take care of the girl, even though they certainly didn't love Sansorr anymore. But they weren't really evil gods, were they? They wouldn't turn away an innocent girl just because a sinner said the prayer for her.

Sansorr felt Jaime's gaze on him, but brought his prayer to a good end. He had often prayed for the deceased, he could do it in his sleep. Unfortunately.

Then the words were spoken. He bent down and kissed Myrcella's cold forehead before placing the dried flower back on her belly, which he had taken back at Jaime's request earlier, on the barque to Kings Landing. Cersei would not like to see her deceased daughter with a flower from the land whose poison had cost her her life. But Sansorr could not bring the girl back to her beloved gardens, so he brought the gardens to her. If he were to die one day, he hoped that perhaps he would be given some soil from the north.

He felt even more eyes on him now, but paid it no heed. "Goodbye," Sansorr whispered and swallowed the pain. Was he mourning Myrcella or Lyanna? Both.

Then he turned away from the dead girl and to Jaime, whose gaze was now focussed on something else. An old man in rags approached them.

"Go and wait for me," Jaime ordered and Sansorr obeyed, knowing that he was only not locked up again because he was somehow part of Jaime, like some kind of squire. The main thing was that it protected him from Cersei's rage, which raged mercilessly.

He walked up the steps of the great sept and sat down outside, outside the archway. Kings Landing surrounded him and he sighed softly. Where was it worse, under the watchful gaze of the foreign gods or in the heart of the cruelty of Westeros? Actually, both were equally bad. It was as if he had to choose between the greyscales or the tears of Lys. At the thought, he felt the tender twinge of guilt in his heart. Too soon? Definitely too soon. After all, he was only a few steps away from Myrcella's body.

Groaning, he stretched out his splinted leg and massaged his thigh, which had been cramped and stiff since his first step back into King's Landing. His palms were also permanently sweaty. So far, however, the panic had never been more than a harmless feeling of pressure in his chest. But the monster was still calm, not rearing up.

Sansorr wished with oppressive fervour to know how he could make this monster of fear and panic disappear again. Had it moved into his chest before Tywin's death, or only afterwards? Had it grown in the darkness of the chamber in the Red Keep, or had it always lurked in his chest?

He may not have been an adventurer like Lyanna had been, but his father had often claimed that Sansorr also had the so-called blood of the wolf that had drawn Brandon and Lyanna to their doom. But where was it now? Had he simply bled it out? Had the wolf been exorcised from him? He wasn't a Stark, but his blood... it was still blood from the North, wasn't it?

He clenched his fists.

Of course he wasn't a bloody maester, what did he know about blood other than the pain and fear that accompanied it. And what could maesters know. Qyburn was the only Maester who had ever really helped him, through the splint on his leg. All he had to thank the others for were countless scars and a complete loss of faith in his father.

A warm wind drifted towards him from somewhere in the city. Judging by the smell, from Flea Bottom. Sansorr groaned softly and rubbed his mouth, where the cut he had received in Dorne was now only slightly painful.

Footsteps on the stone, then Jaime stood beside him. Foolishly, Sansorr wished for a moment that the Lannister would sit with him. Of course he didn't, so Sansorr groaned and got to his feet, holding on to Jaime for a moment, but immediately let go when he saw his gaze.