Ek þú hann hon þat. I you he she it.

Mik þik hann hana þat. Me you him her it.

Words for things were easy. Now it was getting more complicated. The words in between the words. Some days, Sansa learned very fast, cramming new words into her mouth like breadcrumbs. Athelstan ran out of stones and began to use the walls and table-tops, until Aslaug saw what he had done to the fine centre table in the longroom. At other times, it seemed impossible to understand Athelstan's markings. Even he seemed to be frustrated, though his frowns would not last long – whenever he saw Sansa scratching her forehead as if to dig something out of it, or scraping the table with her nail, he would lean over enough to catch her eye. Smile. Smiles that said, it doesn't matter. Have patience.

Still, it was simpler in some ways. Less jewelled like her own language, less words around the important ones. Words could be swapped around like cyvasse pieces and still the sentence would mean the same thing. I go boat to fish. To fish go I boat. And the more words she learnt, the more she understood what was important to these wild freefolk. Fire, warmth. Flour, grain, ale. Fur. Blood. To kill. And gods.

'How many gods?' Ragnar had asked her, his eyes bright, jagged waves. Floki had been with him, at his shoulder, twisting his shoulders like a snake. The question had seemed like a challenge. Sansa had held up seven fingers and been able to name and show almost all of them in their tongue, apart from Stranger. Athelstan had written them down eagerly and Floki had hissed at him, a nest of asps. She had tried to tell them about the old gods, too, though it had been more difficult. Stones, trees. Weirwoods. Children of the forest.

Athelstan had begun to tell her about their gods. There were so many. Every day, there seemed to be a new one to learn. Odin, the great god. Thor, who carried a hammer. Frejya, a mother-god. Sif, goddess of the earth. There was a god for each important part of their world, for the moon, the sky, the sea – there seemed to be many for the sea. They made her think of her father, kneeling in the godswood, his greatsword by his side, blood-red leaves like hearts around his head.

V*V*V*V*V*V

'She has more gods than you,' says Floki to Athelstan, with a lazy, dark grin. 'One god. It makes no sense to have only one to do everything.'

'It's fascinating though, isn't it?' says Athelstan. 'Her gods represent the essence of humans. The mother, the father, the young girl, the old wise woman, the craftsman, the fighter and – I'm not sure what the last one is. The dark one, maybe?'

'How can a human be a god?' says Floki. Today his black trickster-eyes run down to his chin. 'It sounds too much like your god.'

'But she seemed to say there were other gods, too,' says Athelstan, drumming his fingers together on the fireplace. 'Gods in the trees, the stones. Much more like our gods.'

Floki's hiss got lost amongst the sizzle of the wood.

'You seem to find her very fascinating,' Ragnar says to Athelstan, nudging his knee with his boot.

He looks down very quickly. 'She's – it's – it's interesting to me, that's all. Another land that no one has heard of, not even in England. New ways, new words, new gods.'

'There is a little fire in his face,' says Floki, catching onto to Ragnar's tone. Loki-voiced. 'Perhaps he wants more from this Blóðughadda than just her words.

'I'm – it's hot. That's all,' says Athelstan, standing up, turning around more than is necessary, fleeing the room as if Hugi himself.

V*V*V*V*V*V

A god for everything. Gods for the seasons, gods for life and death and war, gods for wisdom, strength. Sansa was walking at the edge of the village, trying to remember the names of the ones Athelstan had taught her.

When she looked up, someone was crossing her path. They wore a great cloak, leaning heavily onto a stick, as if it driving it deep into the earth. Trembling. Perhaps they needed help. She took a step forward, and went to speak. As she did, the person turned, and her breath caught like a fish on a hook.

She ran.

V*V*V*V*V*V

You had been fishing, though there was nothing more boring. All you wanted to do was raid, but you had a whole winter to see through first. So fishing it was, and you tried to count the number of battles you had been in while you waited for something to take your hooks and cursed Njörður.

Back in the village, a few mackerel hanging from twine in your fingers, and there was a flash of red. The girl ran smack into you, which was about as painful as being attacked with a feather. There was fear in her eyes, and it was not because of you. Something in you hoped that she had seen attackers from another place approaching, so that you could see a bit of blood, for a change.

You caught her wrist. 'What is wrong?'

She stuttered, in her own tongue, pointing behind her. You couldn't see anything.

You shook her a little. 'What? My language.'

She swallowed. 'A man,' she said.

'What man?'

'Old. His –' she touched her lips. You tried not to think about them being on you, around various parts of you. Not until Ragnar had decided he had had enough of talking to her, anyway. 'Black.' She swiped her hand over her face. 'No eyes.' A shudder ran through her, like a winter wind on a young tree.

'You met the seer,' you said. 'A man who knows the future.' She didn't understand. A grumble of frustration, like your stomach always did. 'He talks to the gods,' you said, not caring if she understood. 'He tells us our fate.' You leant a bit closer, to get a look at that trace of dirt on her neck. 'Maybe he will tell you yours.'

Maybe it was your stomach. Time to eat. You let go of her wrist and she stared up at you, winter leaves and twigs and tiny rodents. Shaking.

'Go,' you said. 'You are safe.' She didn't move. 'Come,' you said instead, and walked her down the path back into the village. Her sleeve stayed close to yours, and she glanced back over her shoulder more than once.

At the longhouse, she turned to you. 'Thank you.' A flash of red, and she was gone.

V*V*V*V*V*V

When Ragnar next came to her, Sansa had questions first.

'We know about your land,' she said. 'We know of a land, east, with dragons.' When Sansa had asked Athelstan about dragons, thinking of the boat-prow she had seen, he had told her that Alsaug's father had slain a dragon, that there were several stories of dragons and gods. The man she had seen had looked monstrous, scaled, deformed. She had not understood Rollo, apart from the word gods. Perhaps he had been a god. Perhaps they did walk among them here. Dragons and gods, slipping amongst them like men.

Ragnar pursed his lips, shrugged. 'It may be us. I have never seen one. They _' Live? Exist, maybe?

'Do you know Daenerys Targaryen?' she said. With Athelstan's help she explained that she was a princess – a queen - with a claim to the throne, that her grandfather had once been the king of Westeros.

Ragnar listened, drew his fingers down his beard, over and over. 'I do not know this queen of dragons. I have not heard of this. She must be far away. But I should like to meet her.' Spoken with a faint glint-grin, before he dragged his chair right up to Sansa's, gazing at her intently. 'And now. Your four kings. Your land. Do they all fight for this one place? For West-er-os?'

What did they fight for? For honour? For land? For their families? She really didn't know anymore. 'Yes.' It seemed so far away. Another time. 'My brother fight,' she said, before correcting herself. 'Fought. He is dead.' She could not say more, even though she knew she knew enough to be able to explain. She did not want to use their words to explain what had happened to him. What they had done to him.

Ragnar put his hands together and his eyes became much warmer. 'I am sorry that your brother is dead. I do not know what that is like.' All of my brothers are dead, she thought. All except Jon. He put a hand on top of her knuckles. There were small cuts all over the skin, old and new scars. 'But I _ a daughter.' When Sansa didn't show understanding, he said. 'My daughter. Girl. Dead.' Lost, maybe.

There was something in his face she had not seen before, then. A deep sadness, like a mist on the sea, far off. 'I am sorry,' she said, and, after a moment's hesitation, put her other hand on top of his.

They stayed there, very still, for some moments. Outside, a goat stuttered, and she could hear a child's footsteps, their voice lightly pattering. Sansa thought of Arya, who truly was lost. Of everyone. Everyone was gone. Winterfell was lost. What did she have now, truly?

Ragnar took a long, deep breath in, as if waking up from a milk-poppied sleep and turned his palm up. He brought her own hand to his face, turning it as you might a stone in the light, eyes dangerous. Sansa felt a small piece of grit lodge in her throat. Perhaps she had gone too far, placing her other hand on his. He was a king. She was –

'Your brother was a _?' His voice was absent-minded.

Athelstan gently cut in. 'A fighter? Warrior? He fought with the king?'

She sat up very straight. Robb. Robb, who wheeled her about until she was ten and two, who teased her and praised her embroidery and sat quietly when she sang. 'No,' she said. It was as if a slow fire had been placed in her belly, and was warming her Starkblood. 'No. My brother was a King. The King of the North.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

A princess.

You lay awake next to Siggy as she slept softly, curled up on her side.

'A princess,' you had said around the fire, after the night feast. Sansa had sat at the end of Ragnar's table, next to Athelstan, their heads very close, as always. She ate like a Christian, pulling apart each bit of food until it was no bigger than an insect, putting it into her mouth as if it were a jewel.

Ragnar shrugged at the flames, as if he had simply said that she was a girl, or had red hair. 'A princess.'

'She is from a Northern country,' said the priest to the men there. 'Maybe like ours. Her brother was called Robb, and was one of five kings fighting for Wes-te-ros. I do not think he died well.'

A princess. 'We only have her word,' you said. 'She could say she was anyone. She could say she was one of Rán's daughters and you would believe her.' You saw her trembling again, and the look in her eyes when she had thanked you. Looking for trust.

'But she didn't. She said she was the daughter of a man, Ed-dard Stark, and that her brother was a king-in-the-north, until he was killed. She says that her family lived in great house, as high as five of our houses, made of stone. She says that there are many places with houses this big.'

'There will be great treasure there, if what she says is true,' said Bjorn. 'Think of it, father.'

'Stories,' says Floki. 'They may be stories. Like her gods who are human.'

'Or they may not,' said Ragnar. 'There may be lands far West, further than England, greater than England. And we may be the first to find them.'

Bjorn's face had lit up, two sticks struck together.

A princess. Of the North. A princess like Aslaug. Of a great land.

A princess.

V*V*V*V*V*V

NOTES:

Blóðughadda is one of Aegir and Ran's nine daughters. She is 'bloody-hair' names after red sea-foam. the one with blood-red hair – the color of the waves after a naval battle

Hugi is a young giant, who outran Thialfiin a running contest in Utgard. Hugi is an illusion and the embodiment of thought and no one can run faster than thought.

Njörður is the god of wind, sea and fish.