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Death Does Not Discriminate

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Sansa didn’t cry after receiving the letter. The Raven came in the early hours of the morning, detailing the explosion of the Sept, the end of House Tyrell, the death of her dear friend Margaery.


Sansa didn’t cry, she simply didn’t have time. Winter was coming, and with it the dead. Sansa had preparations to make, the Castle needed repairing, the armour needed to be winter proofed, weapons needed sorting, mouths needed feeding and it was up to Sansa to figure it all out. 


So Sansa did not cry when she read how the Queen had perished in the explosion of the Sept, instead she carefully folded the letter and placed it delicately in the drawer of her desk and went about attempting to solve the problems she already had and the million more that seemed to arise in the few hours she had allowed herself to sleep. 


Sansa used the many lessons she had learnt being held captive in Kings Landing and buried her feelings deep down. She didn’t have time to feel them right now, people were cold and hungry and scared and they were all counting on Sansa to do something about it. 


It wasn’t until later, much later, that Sansa set herself down at her desk and reached for the letter again with shaky hands. 


She read it. And read it. And read it. 


The words never changed. 


Margaery was dead. 


As was her brother and her father. 


Tears fell steadily down her cheeks. With eyes closed Sansa remembered the beauty of Queen Margaery, her stunning hair and warm eyes, her kindness and the way, even when surrounded by enemies and forced into a marriage she did not want, Margaery somehow made Sansa feel safe. 


What do you want?


For you to be happy. 


Sansa wanted to scoff. How could she be happy? Margaery was gone. She was gone and somehow Sansa was still here fighting the coldest winter the North had seen. 


Sansa had thought of Margaery every day since leaving Kings Landing. How was she? Was she safe? Was she happy? Did she have what she wanted? Did she think of her?


She thought of Margaery when she married Ramsay. When his lips crushed hers and he took her forcefully, brutally.  Sansa chose to think of Margaery during those moments. The curve of her smile as they walked through the gardens, her soft delicate hands holding Sansa as though she were one of her precious roses, her laugh the sweetest of sounds. 


Sansa had survived Ramsay by spending the times he’d torture her thinking of Margaery.


Fooling herself into thinking one day the could meet again. 


But how could they now? 


Sansa lived and Margaery had died. 


Had she thought of Sansa before dying? Of the sweet things they used to whisper to one another? The gentle kisses they’d share in the dark? The false promises of safety and forever?


Tears fell down Sansa’s cheeks as she mourned yet another death of someone she loved. And she loved Margaery dearly, the only happiness she had found a prisoner of the Red Keep, the happiness she had clung to as a prisoner in her own home. The tiny shred of hope she still held that they’d find each other again after winter and wars and far too much sadness. 


Sansa’s grief nearly drowned her. She cried for her father, her mother, her brothers, her sister, the girl she once was innocent and happy believing in the fairytales of brave knights saving princesses and she cried for the woman she had loved. Still did, and probably always would. 


Sansa cried, silently as she had learnt, heart broken and destroyed until someone knocked on her door. 


Another problem in need of solving. 


Sansa opened the door with all the grace of Lady Winterfell, no sign of how broken she was, or how lost in her grief she seemed to be, no evidence of tears on her face. 


Sansa built herself back up with the ice she had been carved from. 


Margaery was gone.


Her people weren’t, and her people were hungry.