LION TRAP, game of thrones

𝐈𝐈. whisper

Sansorr was a weaponsmith.

He knew his way around armor, swords and axes. With every shape that metal could be forced into. Dealing with these forms was no challenge for him either. He could wield a sword, swing a battle axe and use a bow and arrow. The heat of the forge and the heat that spread through his muscles when he fought, that was the only kind of heat he could feel comfortable in as a Northman.

The temperature in Kings Landing had pushed him to his limits, had made him long deeply for the cold of his homeland. For the forge in Winterfell, for the work he loved so much.

The Riverlands were only a slight relief.

It was not as mercilessly humid here as in the capital, but Sansorr was still in the lions' den. The Lannisters had made sure that even metal had become alien to him, the material whose forming he had made his vocation. The red and gold armor he was made to wear was too heavy and restricted his movements. It had not been adapted to him and squeezed his biceps, so that when he was finally allowed to lie down to sleep after merciless hours on the battlefield, he found red welts and bloody spots on his skin.

The weapon he was entrusted with - a blunt, unwieldy sword, as if he were a simple squire - was also alien to him and made his muscles protest. He had truly become a squire, condemned to accompany the Kingslayer on the battlefield, like a dog crawling in the dirt while his noble lord towered over him on his warhorse. Sometimes Sansorr toyed with the idea of simply throwing himself into the blade of a knight from the Riverlands, putting an end to his suffering and captivity. But in the end, his will to survive won out and so he fought against his house's allies, slaughtering one fighter after another until he almost collapsed from the effort.

He would not allow himself to die. Although Sansorr was not allowed to leave his tent, where he was chained in the later hours of the day, he had overheard the conversations of the Lannister troops. Robb gathered his banners and would soon march against them. He could return to his family if only he could break free at the right moment... The thought of being able to return to Winterfell brought tears to his eyes.

But he wouldn't let himself cry. Never. He refused to cry when the Kingslayer's servants regularly shorn his hair back, when they forced the strange armor on him or when he was chained up like a dog at night. For Sansorr was a wolf, a Stark of Winterfell, and he would not give up, he would not give in.

He was a wolf, he was a bloody wolf.

"Good morning, Stark," the Kingslayer was enthroned on his white warhorse, looking like a knight from a fairy tale in his gleaming armor. Sansorr almost didn't hear him, his own mantra had been too loud in his head when two knights had pushed him to the Kingslayer's side as they did every morning.

"Kingslayer," Sansorr retorted through clenched teeth, baring them into a grin, "I'm looking forward to seeing my nephew tear you apart. Robb is only 15 but damn, you don't stand a chance against him."

The Kingslayer looked down at Sansorr, who was swaying slightly from fatigue, with a sour expression on his face. "He'll probably tear you apart too then, you're a Lannister soldier."

"I'm not a Lannister, I'm a bloody Stark of Winterfell and I'll-" Sansorr rumbled, but the Kingslayer interrupted him with his usual arrogant tone.

"Yes, you are," Lannister replied and signaled to one of his squires. Sansorr was pushed to his knees and they roughly placed a red and gold helmet on his head, as every knight wore here. Sansorr brought his fingers under the metal with a growl and tried to tear the helmet off his head again, but they strapped it tightly to his armor with leather. He was unable to free himself, losing only a fingernail to his hopeless endeavor.