A definite loose take on the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, this was inspired by a tumblr gifset I made and wanted to write for. (I haven't read it over for mistakes yet, so I'll be doing that tomorrow). Hope you like it!
There's a flow of red cascading down her back as she runs, her strawberry hair swaying in the cool winter wind.
Mother wanted her home by supper, ready for their routine meal of cooked rabbit and earthy potatoes.
So when the sky's blue had started darkening and the moon was already half there, she'd left her best friend alone with the twigs and flowers they'd been picking for the better part of the afternoon, and she'd rushed through their small village in a hurry, almost knocking over barrels of the local brew on her way.
She couldn't be late. Mother would be unhappy, and an unhappy mother meant supper would pass slowly, achingly so.
When she gets back to her home, her sister is stood outside, arms folded over her small chest with her short brown hair tucked behind both ears. Her thick brows raise as she grins, licking her lips before speaking.
"You almost missed the surprise."
Copying her little sister's look and brushing her red locks behind her ears, Sansa frowns. "What surprise?"
Arya just shrugs, maintaining a secretive smile on her thin lips when their mother comes barging through the main door, the rusting metal hinges creases into the old wood.
"There you are." She wraps her fist around the collar of Sansa's dusty grey cape, fingers ushering her forward with a tug. She forces Sansa into the small house, and makes sure Arya follows, before slamming the door the best she can and ushering them forward. "Hurry along."
She points a finger out towards the children's bedroom, the one the girls share with their crippled younger brother. The oldest of the siblings having married and moved out of their cramped flat and even the small rustic village, they'd been left to share it, the three of them, given their baby brother was still cuddling up with Father in his chair every night.
"Why?" Sansa spins as she talks, walking backwards past the thin hanging curtain that separates the room from their living space. Her brows knit, "Mother."
"We have guests coming."
"Guests?" She pauses, at an utter loss, "Who?"
The Starks rarely ever have visitors, mainly because the children have a tendency to misbehave and Catelyn gets embarrassed due to her matriarch skills being questioned. Father doesn't help much, either, barely ever moving and staying in his seat, furs over his lap and a half smile forever toying on his lips.
He hasn't been the same since returning from the Winter Woods two years back. He almost never sleeps, and when he does he usually wakes up in a sweat. He doesn't earn anymore. They all mostly rely on Catelyn to prove herself as the village's seamstress. Thankfully, work thrives in winter, and she hopes her eldest daughter will one day take over part of the workload.
"Just get changed. Nicely." She stresses, blowing a strand of dark red hair from her face, "Please."
The girls obey at that, turning to their bedroom and rummaging through their chests until they both pull out an outfit they deem appropriate for the meal.
"Breeches?"
"That dress?" Arya lifts a brow, pulls a face mockingly, "Again?"
Not in the mood to start a fight over her sister's masculine choice of attire, the redhead rolls her eyes and slips out of her cape and dress. Freezing in her shift and smallclothes, she makes work to quickly slip the thicker wool over her body, slipping her arms in the sleeves and tying the front strings together.
Arya extends a brush out to her, and Sansa returns a knowing smile before pushing her to sit down on a stool. Unable to braid her own hair, the dark haired girl chews into her bottom lip, twirling her thumbs around as Sansa brushes her tresses. "I bet it's the Boltons."
"Why would it be the Boltons?" She knows why it could be, but part of her hopes she's wrong and their guests for the evening aren't the village's banker, who makes shady work of business and his son, who has always spent too much time staring after her than she would like.
"You're eighteen now." Arya shrugs, as though the answer is obvious and simple and should make sense.
No, it shouldn't. Sansa doesn't want it to be obvious, doesn't want it to be simple. She'll fight the inevitable if she has to.
"Okay." She pats her sister's shoulder to usher her up before beginning to brush her own hair quite abruptly.
"What are you doing?" The shorter girl shoots her a dazed look, "You always take weeks to do your hair."
Ignoring the sarcasm, Sansa places the wooden brush back down onto the dresser before wrapping her long hair around her fingertips and braiding her locks furiously fast. She grits her teeth, feigns a smile. "Yes, well, maybe I don't want to be so presentable today."
She will fight the inevitable if she has to. An alliance between her and a bastard will not be obvious.
As they leave the bedroom and sit themselves down for supper, Sansa ignores her mother's confused glances, given she is usually the one all prim all proper but the card has fallen on Arya tonight.
"Sans-"
"Hello."
Catelyn turns at the sound of a man's voice in the doorway, familiar to everyone in the village. He steals for a living, while his son seems to be a devil in disguise, hunting wild animals for fun and following young girls around.
"Roose."
Sansa isn't sure how or when her mother became so acquainted with the banker as to be on a first name basis, but she lets it slide for now.
Supper passes by rather quickly, faster than even Sansa could have hoped for. They all eat in harmony, with only Bran retiring early due to strenuous pain in his legs. He joins Ned, their Father, on the chair, drifting to sleep against the ailing man.
But though their mealtime breezes past them, what follows after seems to last an eternity.
Mother talks with the banker out front, with the door ajar and his bastard son thankfully joining them. Arya stands by the wooden door, trying to eavesdrop. She shoots Sansa conflicting glances across the room every now and again, either a smile or an odd stare.
"What is it?" The redhead whispers, hoping the younger girl catches on.
As she goes to talk however, the door swings open fully and Catelyn walks back into the space, hand behind her back against the battered wood.
"Arya!"
"She told me to!" The brunette sells her out, nodding her head over at her older sister.
Sansa sighs, casting her gaze to the floor momentarily.
"What did you hear?"
"I didn't hear anything. Nor did she." Sansa points out, one brow raised sharply as she swallows a harsh breath. "What did they want?"
Her mother crosses the room then, stepping around Father's chair with a hand against the dry fur. She stops just in front of her eldest daughter and forces a smile.
"You'll marry Roose Bolton's son… A week from now."
As though it was obvious, simple even.
"No."
"Sansa. We need this."
"He has been after me since before I even bled, Mother! He has been watching me, day in and day out. I'm not going to give him the privilege of finally having me."
"We need the financial support, and Ramsay's father is the-"
Sansa gulps, arms folding over her heaving chest, "I don't care."
"Do you not care about us, then?" Catelyn grasps her upper arms, blue eyes daring. "This isn't a game, sweetheart. Robb did his duty."
"Robb is a man and he got to chose who he married. He had a choice and he made it. And I'm not even allowed that small privilege, am I?" She shakes her head, shrugging off her mother's condescending touch and stare, and retreating back into the bedroom.
"Don't be selfish, Sansa."
"It isn't selfishness, it's called dignity."
She is left alone then, after she falls onto her and Arya's bed and curls up into a ball despite the thickness of her dress and her overall sadness.
Sometime later, Arya joins her, a cloth in her hands and a bite to her bottom lip. She sits down beside Sansa, knowing she was still awake. She nudges her side and whispers,
"Mother made this for you."
"What is it?"
"It's a cape. A new one."
"I don't want it."
"It's your favourite colour."
Turning over onto her other side so she faces her sister, she opens one eye, "She made it for my wedding." She speaks the word with dread, as though it bruises. "I don't want it."
"She made it for the winter, you idiot. I have one, too." Arya smacks her arm quite hard and then grabs her own clothes, showing off her new deep green cape. "See?"
"It isn't for-
"No, idiot." Arya lies down, head against a feather pillow and pulling up the layers of furs she was lay on. "Winter is coming. We're gonna need to stay warm somehow."
Sansa blinks, watching as her little sister closes her eyes then, succumbing to sleep. The girl looks so much like Father, and Aunt Lyanna, and Grandma Lyarra. She is a Stark through and through, dark hair and dark straights.
The only thing Sansa inherited from the father's side was a dark soul, a habit of being moody when she wanted to be. But she is her mother's daughter, and she got the ice blue eyes of the cool spring and the fiery hair of the lucky ones.
But luck isn't on her side, it seems. Luck wouldn't let her become enthralled in this mess.
Grandma always said that she was stronger than she thought, that she was capable of anything if only she convinced herself into it. But there was no convincing herself to marry a sociopath in the making and letting herself become a pawn.
Her family wasn't so poor that they needed this alliance, she knew it. Mother probably only used that card as a last resort because she knew Sansa would never agree to the union.
Grandma would want her to fight it. Grandma would help her, side with her, if she was here. But she has lived in the woods since Sansa was but a toddler and she'd had to settle for yearly visits.
The Winter Woods were dangerous when the snows started to fall, but the sky wasn't a shroud a white yet which meant she still had a while to go before the snow began to greet them.
Before long, Sansa finds herself in a trance, imagining the path to Grandma's cabin. Trying to remember the way proves a challenge, but she recalls certain elements of the journey from her last visit, and she is almost positive she could make her way there.
She doesn't need absolute certainty to convince herself into this.
She would go to Grandma's house, and bring her home to challenge Mother. If anybody could win her over, it would be Father's mother.
When she's sure Arya is asleep, Sansa slowly rises up in the bed, slipping from the fur comforters so slowly she fears she might trip and fall by accident. On her feet, she pulls the furs back up the bed so the younger girl doesn't suspect her absence.
She begins to gather her important belongings in a wicker basket, having been unable to find her worn leather's satchel. The wicker creaks almost silently and she thanks the Gods it doesn't give her away.
Once she's equipped herself with a small amount of food and two flasks of water, she drags a piece of cloth over the top of the basket to keep the items warm. Though before she leaves the room, her eyes catch sight of the red cloth falling off the edge of the room. It must have been the new cape Mother had made her, the one Arya had brought in earlier.
Red is her favourite colour, and the surprising brightness of the material stuns her. It's perfect, large and thick and protective against winter chills.
She slips she cloak around her shoulders then, letting the heavy weight incase her in its warmth. She ties the front clasps closed and knots the sturdy strings.
Casting her sister a last glance for a short while, she heads into the main room, making sure her Father and Bran are fast asleep in the chair before she steps around them and pulls the front door open with all her might but trying to remain stealthy. Mother and Rickon will be asleep in the other room, she thinks to herself.
She would only be gone for under a week, anyway, but she knows that her family would try to prevent her from even doing that.
As the heavy door slides open, miraculously with no creak, she slips through it calmly, basket held tight between her fingertips and red cloak sweeping the floor.
Once outside, she closes the door with the same patience, breathing a sigh of relief when it locks her out.
Completely dark outside, the sky is pitch black aside from the glowing moon in the corner of her eye. She thanks the Gods for the moon's presence tonight as it will help guide her through the village into the edge of the woods. Once there, she knows what she's doing.
It's a simple trek straight ahead until you reach the Praying Tree. Go around it. Take a right. Go left. Straight ahead. Keep on until the sky changes from night to day. Right. Straight. Left. And so on, and so on.
Ducking her head low, she sways down the icy pathways of the village, keeping weary of the rowdy, drunk villagers. Hoping the make it past the inn full of drunken hunters, she curses under her breath and stills when a hand curls over her shoulder.
The fingers are slim, feminine, and Sansa turns bashfully to see the reported witch hold out a flask of what she can only assume is ale in her other hand.
The deep red haired woman who dresses scantily, who goes by the name of Melisandre and has a reputation for being a mysterious keeper of secrets, smirks and places the contained down atop of Sansa's basket when she makes no move to take it.
"The night is dark, Stark girl. But the flames have spoken and what you seek may not be what you think. You'll find him, Stark girl. And he will guide you." She speaks knowingly, and Sansa questions whether or not she winks at her before spinning back around and heading back into the inn, to a loud uproar and cheer.
Shoving the bottle of ale beneath the cloth, Sansa determines forward, ignoring the red witch's riddle.
She flicks the red hood of her cloak over her long hair as she reaches the edge of the village, where icy dirt meets muddy leaves.
With a deep breath, she heads into the Winter Woods, keeping her eyes on the moon's light for a moment, for guidance.
Some time must have elapsed by the time she reaches what she assumes is the middle of the forest, for the sun is up and the birds are chirping.
It turns out that the woods were a lot easier to navigate through in the summer, and in the daytime with her older brother at her side.
Where she should be turning right, she finds a wall of trees, blocking any clear path that once may have lay there.
Realising that her lack of sleep, and hours of trudging through muck and ice, is becoming an issue, and her misdirections are getting her nowhere, she settles herself down beside an oak tree. The trunk is wide enough to lie down upon and she finds a comfortable position after a short while.
A few moments rest couldn't do her any damage. She was already lost, most likely, and if her rest proved useless in terms of remembering where it was she was supposed to go, she would head back, the way home her only guarantee of safety.
Placing her basket down by the trunk, she picks at a piece of bread before taking a swig of water and pulling the cloth from the carrier to form a pillow. Having set up her makeshift bed, she walks by another tree to relieve herself, knees aching as she creases from her long walk. Yes, a rest wouldn't hurt. It should still be bright when she wakes up, the sun shimmering and the sky white.
She pulls her smallclothes back up her legs, and wraps her dress and cloak comfortably around her frame as she lies down.
By the time she wakes up, she finds the nighttime sky is out, black and frightening. Curse the Gods.
Rising to her feet, she kicks her feet against the trunk of the tree in anger at the realisation that she will have to struggle on through the darkness, again.
Rubbing a hand over her face, she pulls the hood of her cloak back up over her red braid, pulling the tress down her shoulder. Leaning down to pick up her basket, she notices it has tipped over, with the bread gone and the ale flask on the iced ground. The water flask is nowhere to be found, and she wants to scream if it weren't for the problems that could cause her.
A young girl screaming in the middle of the night would attract wild animals and strange men.
It's then that she realises that nobody has seemingly caught up with her yet, if anybody has even been sent out at all. After all, an entire day must have passed since she fled her home in search of her Grandma.
"Alright." She rubs her gloved hands together, and breathes into them for an instant, trying to bring some warmth back to her limbs.
She forgets about the lost food and water, and instead tosses the flask of ale back into the basket as she picks it up now, messily pushing the blanket into it, too.
As she goes to step away from the tree, she notes that both paths away across from her are eerily similar. With trees lining their lengths and and dirty, leafy cobbles paving the way. But she doesn't remember having come down any of these roads on her travels.
Perhaps it's the Winter Woods playing tricks on her. The witch always said magic lurked nearby, and maybe she had given her the ale as a coping mechanism for when she'd be touched by the magic. Maybe the forest was messing with her, toying with her head.
Deciding to just take a path and work from there, Sansa steps away from the tree trunk with a slip on the ice, but she manages to balance herself on time before falling. As she regains her balance, she looks up at the sky, notes the way small white flakes begin to descend upon her.
Snow. Now. When she was alone and trekking through treacherous woods in the middle of a wintery night. What an enchantment this was.
She follows the left path, continuing straight ahead with slow steps and careful jumps over logs and the like.
Snow falls down around her, and upon her as she travels, walking through the small storm as though it charmed her, didn't frighten her in the slightest.
She is a Stark. She can be brave.
"Oh."
When she reaches the end of the long path, there's another clearing of trees up ahead. From there, it's a series of decisions and choices as to which way to go, which road to follow.
The snow thickens as night gathers, and she finds herself weakening by the weight of her cloak and her stomach having skipped out on meals.
When she thinks she's been wandering for a good amount of time, a handful of hours at least as she sees the moon start to fade slowly, she stops to pick at a bush of fruit.
Uncaring if this is a trick the supposedly magic forest could be playing on her, she plucks a fistful of strawberries from the plant and bites down into one, juice sliding down her chin as she savours the sweet flavour.
As she goes to plop another one between her teeth, she stills, sensing a presence behind her.
And then she hears it. A growl.
It's low and sounds starved.
And she's most surely going to suffer at the hands of this beast, she notes as she turns around to face the animal, spotting a large white wolf creeping out from behind a tree. Its eyes glow red and she curses under her breath as it approaches, teeth bared and tongue wet.
The fruit slips from her fingertips before she can even register what is happening, as the wolf approaches her at a fast pace with a growl.
Her icy eyes shut close as she readies herself for the sting, for the sharpness that will surely penetrate her skin any second now.
But she finds herself surprised when, instead of harming her, the wild animal licks her empty palm and nuzzles its nose against her cloak.
"What?"
She breathes, questions what is happening for a split second before she feels the wolf pull away, and her eyes flicker back open to watch it stroll away from her, back where she thinks it came from.
Unable to stop herself, she follows the creature. It has surely twice her weight, at least, and it could have taken her as a meal if it so please. But it didn't. And she doesn't understand why. Or maybe this is a predator luring its pray and she's falling through a trap, where wolves by the masses await her.
Her boots lead her down the snowy path though and she follows the wolf with shaky breaths, fingers curled tightly around the handle of her basket.
It leads her far away, even throwing a look every now and again to see if she is still following. She finds it all so puzzling, abnormal for a creature of its size and nature.
When it finally stops, and she almost stumbles into the mass of white fur, she hears it howl this time. A little late for that, no?
Sansa only manages to stroke one hand through its fur before he leaps away, down past some brushes. She follows, shoving the leaves and cobwebs from her face as she goes, spurting and coughing.
"Wait." She goes to call after the animal when she reaches the end of the narrow path, but instead refrains when she spots a small cabin up ahead.
It isn't Grandma's, she thinks. It was too small, too dark, too plain. Grandma liked flowers and she had a bench out front. This is haunting, buried deep within the Winter Woods with nobody nearby and a large wolf lingering around its premises.
She approaches the cabin daringly, head held high beneath her hood and basket almost shattering in her strong but weakening grip.
The wood of the place is dark, darker so than even her home, and she notices the boarded-up windows all around it. If somebody still lived here, or if anybody ever had, they obviously didn't like company. And she doubted that any current occupants would want some strange girl from the village lurking around their home.
Wanting to get a closer look at things, but feeling faint from fatigue, despite her rest, and uneasy around an odd cabin, she holds herself back when the wolf howls again, officially selling her out to any inhabitants.
As she sees the door opening, and a mass of black appearing on the front step, she goes to apologise for trespassing and make her excuses, but her body stops her and she feels her eyes drifting to a close from fatigue. No, no.
She faintly hears her basket fall with a thud, before she collapses herself, knees buckling under her tired light weight. Her cloak crinkles around her as she lays on the snowy ground, and she hears a northern man's gruff voice shout out before her ears give up their fight.
"Ghost!"
Eyes flickering, she notices that the mass of black has approached her, in the shape of a man, the wolf at his side. He strokes its fur and it growls. Then the man lowers himself to her level, knelt at her side with what she can only see as a blurred frown. She feels him slip a hand beneath her neck, pulling her head up so he can see her clearly.
Through her tired eyes, she can barely make him out. Curly hair, white skin, pink lips. But he's blurry, and a mess, and she probably won't even wake from this to see him more clearly.
This is the forest's magic playing with her.
He already has an arm through her basket by the time he picks her up, a palm wrapped around the back of her neck as the other carries her legs, holding her against him safely.
Sansa can just about make out the door to his cabin as they approach it, before she blacks out completely, arms falling loose around her finder.
"I got you."