LION TRAP, game of thrones

𝐈. capital

An agonized howl escaped Sansorr's throat and he struggled harder against the guards holding him before all strength seemed to drain from his body and he slumped. He was still being held, his arms now twisted at an awkward angle behind his back, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. But he was a Stark, he was a Wolf of Winterfell and he would not cry, he would not cry, they would not make him cry.

With bared teeths and eyes burning, Sansorr stared down at the square in front of Baelor's sept from the balcony they had dragged him to. He was still wearing the same soft sleeping clothes he had worn when the guards had brought him from his chambers in the red keep, and the stony ground dug painfully into his knees.

Likewise, the sight of his older brother's severed head dug into his memory. Ned Stark's head lay in the dirt, his slumped body a little further away. Dead eyes stared up at the sky and Sansorr gagged. His brother's eyes were gray, like those of all his siblings. Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, Benjen and him. And now it was just Benjen and him. Ben, at the other end of Westeros and himself in the City of Lions.

"No... No- Sansa!" he shouted as the red mop of his niece's hair suddenly stung him in the eyes as she lay unconscious on the floor. She was just a child and he had to look after her, he couldn't let her fall victim to this city. "Let me go to her, let me go!" he growled and began to rebel against the guards again, letting his muscles, hardened from swordplay and working in the forge of Winterfell, fight against the men.

But he was no match for them, pinned to the ground. Pebbles dug into his cheek and he gasped out, his sword arm twisted roughly behind his back. "Let me see her..." he demanded, knowing full well that he would soon be pleading.

But still no answer. He was dragged back inside the building, but the sight of his house being smashed to pieces in public was probably burned into his eyes forever.

His father and eldest brother had died in this city, and now Ned, the great Lord of Winterfell, followed them. This was how far Ned's honor had taken him. To the slaughter of an executioner. For a crime he was not guilty of, Sansorr had no doubt... He could never doubt his brother, could he? Ned had fought in the rebellion, had started heroic deeds. And now he was dead, just like the oh-so-great Robert Baratheon, also a hero, supposedly at least.

But Sansorr knew better. This man had believed that he could possess Sansorr's twin sister, Lyanna. When Rhaegar Targaryen had fallen victim to the same mistake, the seven kingdoms had been plunged into war. And Sansorr had lost Lyanna.

Nevertheless, Baratheon had become king and in people's stories he was a great warrior. But the dead king had been a drunkard and an unfaithful husband. Perhaps the image Sansorr had of his brother was just such an illusion. Perhaps Ned really was a traitor.

His heart rebelled violently against the thought.

The guards shoved him into a cell in the guts of the red keep, and Sansorr scraped his hands as he broke his fall.

"I am Sansorr Stark of Winterfell, how dare you deal with me like this! I need to go to to my nieces!" he growled harshly, but his voice shook and felt heavy and unruly in his throat.

A soft laugh from the semi-darkness was the only answer he got and then they left him alone.

"Let me out!" He jumped up and threw himself against the bars, screaming until his voice was hoarse and his mouth tasted of blood. Then he slumped in a corner of the cell like a beaten dog.

Sansorr's chest rose and fell rapidly, but damn it, he didn't let the tears make their way to the surface. He was the penultimate son of a dead lord, didn't have much to give, and he knew he was a good-for-nothing and madman. But he was a Stark of Winterfell and would not allow them to make him a nobody.