#letters clothing sigils children’s toys

[buildoblivion]

*sits bolt upright in bed* what if howland reed has lyanna’s wedding cloak

[it-was-so-human]

I read you for some kind of poem

It reminds her that what they have is little, no nothing, more than an arrangement. He is a prince and has all the power in the world. (And she has little more than her ability to stay invisible.) Jon and Sansa AU.

- - -

They make fun of how she always tries to keep clean. Trying to keep mud from splattering her hem despite sleeping on the floor at night.

They tease her for her love for songs of romance and princes. They snicker at how she stays hidden in the tunnels just to listen to another ballad sung in court.

Varys even calls her his Little Ladybird.

The other little birds pull her hair and elbow her for her fanciful ways, say she thinks she’s better than them.

But that’s not true. She’s knows she’s not better than anyone. Most birds have mothers and even fathers. Others have brothers or sisters.

She has no one.

But the songs about chivalry and love leave her feeling warmer at night and make her raggedy dress feel like beautiful silk.

- - -

But regardless she is good at being a little bird.

There are many many of them, but she is among the ones that gets to fly around the Red Keep.

She collects whispers and reads secrets from the letters just as Varys taught them.

And one day she is given a special assignment.

The young bastard (but no-longer bastard) Prince Jon Targaryen is older now. And Varys wants to know his doings.

She needs to spy on his chambers when he retires at night. Hear his whispers, read any letters.  

Though she is proud that she’s been entrusted with such an important duty, she wishes she was told to watch Prince Aegon instead.

(He’s such a beautiful prince, with long blond hair and sharp violet eyes. He looks just like Aemon the Dragonknight. Probably.)  

She shakes her head, who is she to judge anyone? A (no-longer) bastard (now-legitimate) prince is still a million and one ranks above a street rat.

But she is still considering Jon Targaryen’s shortcomings with his serious features and dark curls when she hears him.

“I know you’re there. I can hear you. Come out,” he calls.

She didn’t realize that children were far harder to spy on than adults.

They notice more. Listen more.

“Come now, don’t you think I know the best hiding spots in my own chamber?”

She was found.

Sansa is trembling now; she knows what happens to little birds who make mistakes.

She slowly unravels her limbs and crawls from the small crook behind the wall.  

And now she is standing in front of the youngest prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Are you one of those little birds?” He sounds more curious than angry.

But her legs are barely holding her up now.

He’s not much older than her own six years, but he’s a prince.

He will have her head by sunrise.

Her legs give and she falls to her knees, bowing down to him

“No don’t do that.” His voice is firm, before he lets out a sigh. “I don’t like being spied on, but at least they sent a pretty one.”

She sniffs, the gods were kind in their own cruel way. The realized dream of a prince’s regard, right before she was to die.

He studies her, and she in turn studies him through lowered eyes.

His clothes are fine and he has the unmistakable air of… of a prince.

(But when she sees him in court he seems to carry himself with a stiffness, as if an intruder in the royal family.)

“How about we make a deal? I won’t tell anyone–and you will extend the same courtesy to me.”

Could that be possible? No. It could not.  

“They’re going to know I’m not doing my job,” she whispers. As if it was his concern

He shrugs and points his finger to a corner seat.

“Sit there, where I can see you. Pretend you’re spying.”

She moves to the corner he points at, and instead cautiously lowers herself on to the floor. She stares at her grimy feet, her heart beating so loudly.

A few minutes later and she hears him coming toward her, she flinches away expecting pain.

She knows how to defend herself despite her frail size. Little birds learn to use claws—but she cannot attack a prince.  

But instead he places a little yellow cake in front of her.

She knows she should not, but she cannot resist this temptation. (She is always always craving the candied fruit Varys gives them on occasion.) Especially since she’s still not sure whether she is to die or not.  

She takes a hesitant bite. It’s sweet and rich with oh—a pleasant tang.

“Good?”

She nods.

She takes small bites, resisting the desire to gobble it up in one go.

“When you have to spy on me, you can stay here instead. Far more comfortable for both of us. I’ll even slip you some secrets.”

- - -

The next time she is sent to spy on him, she sits quietly in the corner of her chamber.

She refused the chair he offers, so he comes and sits next to her.

A prince, sitting crossed legged on the floor. Next to her. (Were there songs about this?)

She can’t answer his questions about why she was sent and what she knows. So he changes his approach.

“Who are your parents?” he demands instead.

This she could be honest about at least.

“I… I don’t know. I am an orphan.” She frowns, struggling to find the right words. “Sometimes however I feel like I did have parents.”

He laughs at that, “Everyone has to have parents. We don’t drop down from clouds.”

She feels her cheek burn from embarrassment, from frustration. She lives in Flea Bottom, has heard the screams of childbirth her entire life. (She probably knows more about how babes are born than he does.)

Sansa can’t explain it, but she has these fuzzy memories. A beautiful woman singing to her and stroking her hair. A dark haired man, strong but gentle, smiling down at her. (She grasps on to them at night. Praying they’re real, but knowing they’re not.)

“It’s just that… I think they loved me.” She feels so stupid when she realizes what she’s said out loud.

He raises his eyebrows as if amused.

She shrinks back, she feels tired and just so little.

“I know, it’s just a silly dream.” (Her head is always in the clouds, but it’s far better than the filthy ground she walks on.)

He watches her for some time, and she wishes he would just let her be. Go do some princely things.

But then she feels him cup her cheek, gently.

“Not silly in the slightest. I am sure you were a beloved daughter.”

She knows he is teasing, but his voice isn’t unkind.

(And for a moment she believes him.)

- - -

She wants to stay out of his way. As much as is possible at least.

He’s sitting at his desk, composing letters. So serious for a boy of ten.

She sits in her corner, playing with a small bit of thread and singing very softly to herself.

“That’s a pretty song,” he observes absently.

She stops singing and focuses more on her stitches, it’s rare she finds any thread to practice with so she has to be careful.

“You don’t have to stop. It’s a pretty song, but I’ve never heard it.”

She swallows.

“It’s one I hear mothers sing to their children.”

No one’s every sung to Sansa, but she’s sat outside windows listening in. Pretending their gentle voices and sweet words were for her.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says it with a sad smile. “I don’t have a mother either, little bird.”

She’s a little bird, but she isn’t really one right this moment.

“My name… my name is Sansa,” she tells him.

“Okay then, Sansa. Please keep singing.”

- - -

She hears whispers that there’s growing unease, that the other realms are increasingly unhappy.

Robert’s rebellion may have failed, but the unrest it stirred and the legacy of the Mad King remains.

Especially with King Rhaegar growing even further obsessed over his prophecy of three dragon riders.

Sansa knows these concerns have nothing to do with her. (But she does worry just slightly at what it means for Jon.)

-

“I have something for you,” Jon says, arms hidden behind his back before holding up the most beautiful doll she has ever seen.

“It was one of Princess Rhaenys’, but she’s outgrown her toys.”

She reaches eager hands for it, but pulls back quickly.

They were grimy, unclean, and the doll’s silk dress so fine-looking.

She does not deserve it. Didn’t want to know what she would have to do to be worthy of such a gift.

“I… I can’t accept that.”

She knew why men gave women things. (Even though she was not a woman yet, she knows.)

She heard a maid yell at her daughter that the only reason a boy gave her flowers was to rut between her legs.

(And that was just a butcher’s apprentice and some wilting blooms. This was a prince and the most beautiful doll ever.)

She didn’t want that. She didn’t want Jon to hurt her like that.

“You can accept it. I’m giving it to you.”

She shakes her head furiously but her fingers are itching to feel the soft face and pretty hair.

She’s never had a toy before, let alone one so precious. (The little doll was probably worth more than her life.)

“Rhaenys would be glad that it was still being loved,” he offers So she takes it, is too weak. She could love it so easily. She grasped it tightly, as if the doll was some kind of a talisman.

At night, snuggled under her thin bedding, she holds the doll close to her.

And she doesn’t feel so alone.

- - -

“You need to be quiet today. I need to have this memorized this for tomorrow. Maester says that Aegon is further ahead, and my eyes are growing tired.”

He’s grumbling, but Sansa knows he has but a friendly rivalry with his half-brother. They do seem to care for one another.

“I could help you?” she says hesitantly.

He scoffs and she’s indignant. “I know how to read!”

And he only laughs, “Okay, then you read this to me.”

She sees what he’s studying and smiles brightly.

“Oh I already know this!” she smiles.

“Why would you know of Northern Houses?”

She doesn’t mean to feel hurt, but the jab reminds her who she is and who he is. (Sometimes she forgets.)

“Birds pick things up. That’s our job.”

And she does—Varys even encourages her to learn the names of all the Lords and their sigils and mottos.  

So she tests him, gently guiding him when he makes a mistake. (He is a prince after all, she means to not forget that again.)

“My favorite is House Stark. Doesn’t a direwolf sound magnificent?” she says with a smile at one point after they both note how absolutely terrible the sigil for House Bolton’s was.

“There is no more House Stark,” he snaps at her.

Oh.

Varys also encourages her to learn the North’s history.

And she suddenly remembers that his mother was a Stark. And though she died, his King Grandfather had the Stark family called to King’s Landing. And he had them burned.

And he then gave Winterfell, their centuries-old home, to a more loyal house.

She wonders if he’s angered by the Starks or if he’s… saddened.

Sometimes Jon Targaryen seems so lonely when she spies him from afar, and she wonders if this is why.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“So am I,” he answers softly. “Please continue.”

And they review until late at night when she’s feels heavy-eyed and so very sleepy.

She wakes up to a delicious unfamiliar warmth.

She stretches lazily before realizing with a start where she was. Still in his chamber, but before daybreak, thank gods. With velvety soft furs tucked around her.

- - -

“I need you to whisper something to Varys. Tell him that you hear I’m fighting with my brother. That’s I’m upset with him. Fuming in my chamber.”

“But you’re not,” she says forgetting.

He puts a finger under her chin and lifts her head, making her look into his eyes.

“Is this something you can manage or not?”

“I can manage it.”

But she hates when he does this.

It reminds her that what they have is little, no nothing, more than an arrangement.

He is a prince and has all the power in the world.

(And she has little more than her ability to stay invisible.)

((But sometimes she forgets.))

- - -

“He’s no direwolf, but It thought it might please you to play with him tonight.”

It’s a little pup. Snow white and cuddly with adorable little yelps. But he would grow up to be a handsome one.

There are dogs a plenty in Flea Bottom, but they’re normally angry and ready to attack. As they should be if they want to survive.

She lets out a laugh as the dog nips at her fingers.

It’s as if Jon is making amends for the past week. (But he has nothing to apologize for, it’s not his fault she forgets.)

He kneels down next to her.

“Sansa, we all have our duties, but I have no right to treat you unkindly.” He pauses before continuing, “No one has the right to do so.”  

She buries her face in soft puppy fur.

(She doesn’t want to tell him that his greatest unkindnesses are far kinder than how most people treat her.)

- - -

She hears whispers that he’s to be engaged. A beautiful and charming and witty young lady. The Lannister granddaughter, Myrcella.

But he only shakes his head when she tells him what she’s learned.

(She can’t deny him the secrets she’s learned that are about him.)

“That would never happen. My father does not trust the Lannisters.”

But he doesn’t sound very certain. She knows he is wary of his father, and growing only more so.

“I hear she’s very pretty,” she offers, but knows there’s a grudging tone to her voice. (She cannot help it.)

The two of them will make quite the pair. Like in the songs. A prince and his princess.

He’s becoming quite… handsome too. His seriousness more appealing on a young man than it was on a child. He also has a genuine smile, attractive dark curls, and bright gray eyes.

(Sometimes she feels a sharp tug that he reminds her of something, but there’s never been anything so good in her life before.)

“You’ll grow up to be pretty too,” he says knowingly. “Don’t fret.”

He says that as if she should be pleased about this. Jon Targaryen might be a prince and sit in on council meetings and learn swordsmanship, but he knows little of reality.

“I don’t want to be pretty.” And it’s the truth. (She knows what happens to pretty girls.)

“What do you want then?”

So much. More food, a bed, a family to love her and for her to love, and for you to not forget me.  

Instead she offers an easier answer.

“Lemon cakes.”

“Well, that I can manage.”

- - -

She knew what would happen when she got older.

What type of employ a street rat turned woman could get.

Not even enough respectability to get a job as a scullery maid at the lowest of inns.

She’d be one of those women men thrust against the wall for pennies.

The thought sends panic through her, she can’t breathe when she starts thinking of it.

She will do anything to avoid that, she saves as many coins as she can, ate even less than the little she could afford. She found discarded needles and thread throughout the castle to practice on.

She was very good with a needle; she knew she was. She just needed a chance. (But who would employ a street rat as a seamstress?)

She’s scared every time she sees her skirt hem is falling higher and higher.  

Little birds are supposed to be little.

- - -

She’s grown tall, still skinny skinny. But not so little anymore.

Varys told her that she would no longer be a bird. But he was sending her somewhere.

She doesn’t know where, but she knows she’s leaving King’s Landing.

She knows she’s going to miss Jon Targaryen.

He made her feel… as if he cared for her.

He called her by her name.

She didn’t mean to start crying when she went to tell him goodbye, but she feels tears prickle the corner of her eyes.

Her throat hurt and her chest ached. She was dirty and a low low lowborn.

And she was ashamed to want so much that was not made for her. (She would never see him again and she wants to see him for forever.)

“Why are you crying, Sansa?”

Because I’ll never ever see you again.

“I’m being sent away, I’m too big now,” she manages.

He steps closer to her.

“Where? Where are you being sent away?”

“I don’t know, but I made you something.”

She still has the doll, keeps it hidden during the day and close to her at night.

She wants him to have something from her too.

She knows he probably doesn’t care.

(Maybe he thought she was just an amusing little street child.

Maybe he was using her to feed Varys his red herring secrets.)

But she wants him to remember her a little longer.

She pulls out a small square of fabric and hands it to him. She had struggled to find it and used the pennies she’d saved to get the right thread.

On it was embroidered a direwolf. The Stark sigil.

He might think it’s treasonous, but she doesn’t think so.

He runs his finger over the delicate threads, creating the wolf’s fur in varying shades of gray, "It’s beautiful, Sansa. Thank you, thank you.”

She feels her face redden, but she’s so pleased.

He swallows heavily. “Don’t, don’t go. You don’t have to go. I can keep you here in King’s Landing.”

She shakes her head furiously.

Even if Varys would her go, she was almost eleven now and afraid she’s becoming pretty. She sees the way men’s eyes follow her.

She didn’t want to know what kind of work he could find her. (Not him. Not her prince.)

“Are you going to be safe?” he finally asks.

The slight panic in his voice is the first time she realizes this… this friendship might mean something to him as well.

So she does her best to act brave, lifts her chin, and says with more confidence than she feels.

“Of course I am.”

A small fond smile grows on his face.

He places a firm kiss to her brows.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Goodbye, Sansa.”

- - -

“Be brave, Little Ladybird,” Varys says as he walks her past the castle walls.

He hands her into a waiting cart, but not before whispering in her ear.

“I know you’ll miss your cousin, Lady Sansa. But do not worry. One day you’ll be his Queen of the North.”

- - -

Also on AO3.

- - -

I’m like posting this from a flight (no one’s sitting next to me!), so like I blame this on bad circulated air.

Ugh. My next story is just going to be an AU where Sansa just wears cozy sweaters and drinks hot chocolate, I swear.