partially stars ☆.*･

"Sansa Stark." It’s not supposed to be like this. Three in thousands, the odds were in her favour. Unlike her brothers, who have always been dutiful, she has never had to pay the price. They made certain of that, splitting the tesserae’s cost between the two of them, five and four each year for the seven mouths under their roof since their father’s passing. And yet is it not any of their fifty slips drawn from that bowl, and there is nothing they can do to change the one that has been. Her stomach flips and her head feels light, a blinding white creeping into her vision, the crowd’s whispers dulling into a low buzz in her ears. For a moment, she thinks she may faint, but Jeyne Poole’s hand is at her elbow, fingers pressing the seams of her cotton sleeves into her tender flesh. The touch is an anchor, to keep her from falling, and to remind her that this is somehow real. Her eyes are drier than she ever thought they could be, than they would be if it were one of them and not her. Mechanically, she glances at Jeyne, but does not meet her eyes, and the brief look is enough to get the other girl to release her. She doesn’t want to make them call for her twice. One step forward feels like a mile, and the stage ahead of them may as well be in another district altogether. But she manages to lift her sole from the pavement and plant it down in front of her. She peels away from the rest of the group, focused solely on the podium. One step at a time. I must be brave. Behind her stand Robb and Jon, grouped with the other sixteens, though she cannot bear to turn and look at either of them. What’s happening to her is terrible enough without having to read the guilt in their expressions. Nor can she seek out the rest of their family, much as she longs to bury herself in their arms, have her mother smooth her hair, kiss her on the forehead and tell her that things would work out. A voice cries out from among those gathered at the edges of the square: “I volunteer!” Only then does Sansa look away from her destination, the shout so jarring that it halts her in her tracks and forces her to turn sharply. For a second time today, she feels her heart stop and her breath fly from her lungs. ”No! Arya!” someone shouts, but it’s too late. The girl in the wrinkled dress, newly torn from snagging against the sea of strangers in her way, is already halfway across the square by the time anyone’s caught up. No one stands in their brothers’ path as they rush to intervene before the Peacekeepers do.  It’s Jon who manages to grab her first, scoops her into his burly arms, though she struggles against him, kicking and thrashing as she screams again, “I VOLUNTEER!” For the moment, it’s as if the rest of the world has melted away. All have fallen into a complete hush, even the chatty escort from the Capitol, perhaps so enraptured by the family drama unfurling in real time that she cannot summon the wit to commentate upon it. This Reaping will be replayed over and over across the nation, Sansa thinks bitterly. People love stories like this. She did, too, once. “Arya! You can’t! You’re not old enough!” Jon yells into her ear, grunting when their sister’s teeth sink into his arm, but not hard enough to break his grip. She spits, and lifts her head, grey eyes wide and wild and wet. (It surprises her, to see Arya cry for her, after all the spats they’ve had, yet Sansa feels ashamed for it. They are still sisters, after all. There is still so much love between them.) “But I will be! It’s just one month. One! What difference does it make? I’ll do it! Put me down!” “No. They won’t let you.” Robb’s voice is firm and calm, and he has never sounded more like their late father than in this moment. He glances at Sansa, an apology in his bright blue eyes, and she’s grateful for the knot in his throat that keeps him from saying it aloud. It would break her. They both look back to Arya, gone slack in their half-brother’s limbs and set back down on the ground, though the fight’s not gone from her completely. Her tears fall freely now, leaving clean streaks down her slightly sooty cheeks. Desperation and anger flood her strained pleads, “But I could win the Games! I know I could. Sansa—” “Arya,” she finally manages, the name pushing past her lips, words feeling heavy and foreign on her tongue. “Arya, stop. Stop it. Please.” She swallows. Her voice does not even sound her own anymore. “I have to do this.” She smiles, sadly, at her sister, and each of her brothers, even Bran and Rickon, in their mother’s arms. Sorrow lines the woman’s face; they’ll speak shortly, after the ceremony ends, and it will be more brutal than even this. I must be brave. Then she turns back, and the country watches their newest tribute resume her march to the stage.