A Song of Ice and Fire

Title: No matter how bright a Torch may Burn by mayfriend

Synopsis:

It is the end of the world, and due to magic and plot, Sansa's consciousness is permanently transported into the past; into Cersei's body immediately before she meets King Robert in the Sept of Baelor.

How does Sansa, as Cersei, change the realm for better or for worse politically and personally as Queen? How does Sansa, as Cersei, deal with being married to Robert? And how on earth does Sansa, as Cersei, deal with being Tywin's daughter, Tyrion's hated sister, and Jaime's beloved?

Genre: ?

Rated: M

Words: 42868+

Status: In-Progress (Hopefully 😖)

Spoilers:

Chapter 1:

She sways suddenly, Melisandre's burning form turning to ash before her very eyes – the actual world itself turning to dust, and fire, and blood, and she clenches her eyes shut so she doesn't have to see this hell anymore, no more darkness, no more death, and then she is falling away and-

"My lady?" a hand catches her arm, the ground is suddenly solid, and for the first time in years sunshine beats against her back. She is heavy, weighed down by fine clothes, bedecked with jewels and gold, which feel so strange after years of darkness and cold and thick furs. Instead of the terrible silence of the world after the Wall had fallen, she hears life – shouts, cheers, everything in the background like a fly buzzing around her head. More hands reach out to hold her as she stumbles, and this strange, stationary world's spinning axis slows down to a gentle stop. "My lady?" the same, unfamiliar voice, says again.

Sansa opens her eyes.

"I just need a moment," she says, in a voice that is not her own, "I just need a moment." Apparently satisfied, the hands release her to stumble a few steps away, and she takes one deep breath, and then two. Three, four. Finally, she trusts herself to examine this body which doesn't belong to her.

She looks down at her hands as she leans against a smooth marble wall, unable to truly take in anything about her current location other than that the sky is blue and the sun is shining, like it had in her childhood. They are long, and thin, white knuckled and soft, much like her own hands, before the Others came, but they are not.

Melisandre had said that she would be back in her own body, if young. But her hands had never been this manicured, never been this narrow. These are not her hands. And this is not a child's body. Surreptitiously, aware that whichever noblewoman's body she had stolen was being watched, she gently pulls a strand of hair in front of her eyes. Blonde, not auburn. Next, she inspects her dress. It is golden, with red details. It is gorgeous – a smaller house would not be able to afford this kind of finery, in fact, the Starks of Winterfell would struggle. So it would have to be a rich house, possibly a great one-

It occurs to her, suddenly, whose body she could be inside, and an icy hand curls around her heart. She hadn't looked like this, her body, when she'd known her, but years before perhaps this would have been-

"Lady Cersei?" The same girl's voice from before. Sansa's throat contracts. Cersei. She is inside Cersei Lannister's body. She is lucky that Cersei hadn't had any breakfast, otherwise she would be losing it at that moment.

Somehow, she manages to pull herself together enough to respond, straightening up and going inside of herself, like she had taught herself to do all those years ago at court. Or rather, Cersei had driven her to teach herself. What had happened to Cersei, she wondered? Where had that vicious, cruel woman disappeared to? "I'm alright," she said, turning to brush the gown down before blanching at the sight that greets her.

Thousands upon thousands of people are cheering, held back by ribbons, garlands and guards in Lannister gold, and they are all screaming for her. It is a miracle she doesn't faint right there. Closer, there are three people, two little girls with flowers in their hair and one older girl who had spoken previously. The maiden, a blonde haired green eyed girl, who is almost certainly another Lannister, rushes forward to primp at Sansa's dress, hair, jewellery. The girl steps back, and beams.

"You look beautiful, my lady," she says, sounding awestruck. Sansa doesn't mean to see herself, eleven years old, in the girl but she does. The queen is so beautiful, she remembers thinking, when she had first seen Cersei Lannister in Winterfell, I want to be just like her. Just like her... Sansa wonders if Melisandre had messed up the spell, or if she had. No need to linger, she tells herself. There's no going back, the Red Woman made that clear. She smiles a tight smile that she hopes looks thankful, before remembering that Cersei had never had to try at seeming benevolent. In front of her, perhaps in reaction to that smile, the crowd grows louder in their chorus.

"It's alright to be nervous, my lady," the girl said, smiling kindly up at her, "it's not every day you get married after all. Best to have the nerves out here than in there."

Sansa bites down so hard on her tongue she draws blood. Coppery, slick, thin and terrible, she swallows it all down Cersei's pale throat. That is why there is a crowd. That is why they love Cersei instead of despise her – they don't know her yet. Like in a nightmare, she slowly turns to see the entirety of the marble building she had been leaning on moments before.

The Sept of Baelor, decked out in banners of black and red and gold, with stag banners and lion banners and so many goddamn flowers she thinks she's going to scream. "Mmm," she makes a sound of agreement, all the while scrambling for what she can do, where she can go, how she can get away- but she comes up empty.

"We'd better go in, my lady," the girl says, and as if on cue the two little scowling flower girls each take up one corner of the golden train. The flowers shoved into her lax fingers are red roses, and without meaning to she brings them up to her nose and breathes in the scent of them. It has been so long since she has smelled roses.

She pays for her inattention, as the Lannister maid gives a signal to the guards at the door, who begin to pull the great oak doors open, and music begins to pay. Sansa's stomach rolls, and the thorns on the rose stems dig into her hands. Without meaning to, she begins to walk, Cersei's muscle memory propelling her down the aisle. The last thing she hears before she steps inside the sept is the maid's squeal in her ear: "You're so lucky to be marrying the king!"

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