LION TRAP, game of thrones

𝐈𝐕. iron

Jaime had been right and Tywin didn't come for a long time, which Sansorr thought was the three days he had been told. He was hungry, but it didn't come close to the hunger he had experienced before. Even the thirst was bearable this time and Sansorr simply drew on the memories of his short time with Jaime. At the same time, however, the fear lurked at the edge of his consciousness that he had ruined it.

But this fear did not come close to the fear that seethed inside him, alone in the darkness. Sansorr could hardly stand it; he could no longer sleep, not for a second. Sometimes he couldn't even remember whether his eyes were closed or open. He simply couldn't get used to the darkness and sometimes felt as if he no longer had a body. Maybe he really did just dissolve into the darkness. Maybe he ceased to exist. Or maybe he was already dead. He barely remembered the feeling of being alive.

Maybe it was more than 3 days. Maybe it was 10 years and when the door opened again, Sansorr would find that his hair was snow-white and his skin gray. But he couldn't imagine ever being an old man. He probably wouldn't make it that far.

Sansorr's stomach growled and he rolled over on his bunk, whimpering. His broken ribs had healed by now, but Sansorr had become so thin that everything still hurt and it was incredibly painful to lie on the protruding bones. When he touched his face, he could feel that he now had bloody, bursting patches there too. Jaime must have been pretty desperate; fucking Sansorr even though he probably looked like he had died two weeks ago.

Gasping, he sucked the stale air into his body, then let it out again. Somehow his body had stopped breathing on its own and so now he had to force himself to do so. As the dusty air filled him, he burst out coughing and spat out something slimy and bloody that he couldn't and didn't want to take a closer look at in the darkness.

He regretted his behavior and wished fervently that he had never angered Tywin.

As if his thoughts had been heard, footsteps approached and Sansorr jumped up as quickly as he could, settling on the stool, his breathing whistling.

The door was pushed open and Sansorr gasped in relief when he saw Tywin, his lips barely twitched at the sight of the chamber. It was hardly brighter beyond the door in the corridor, but Tywin had brought a torch that bathed the wretched chamber in warm, flickering light.

Sansorr dared not make a sound, only looked at Tywin.

"Good evening, Sansorr."

"Good evening, my lord," Sansorr whispered harshly, clearing his throat.

"Have you had time to think?"

"Yes," he affirmed and rubbed his eyes briefly with his sleeve, fighting the urge to cough. It was almost too much effort to keep himself upright on the stool.

"Good," Tywin handed him a plate and Sansorr ate the scraps of food without giving much thought to what he was even eating. The Hand of the King watched him and Sansorr tried to moderate himself a little. He quietly gave thanks as soon as he had devoured the last of the food.

His stomach ached again, only not from hunger. Hunched over, he looked up at Tywin, waiting for his usual questions.

"What have you been thinking about, Sansorr?"

"About my father," he mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself, lips twisted in frustrated pain, "He was a good father, to my siblings. I was the problem, there was... something wrong with me. He didn't need me, he already had two perfect sons and then a lovely daughter too... What could he have needed me for? The second-born twin, an unpleasant surprise."