Disclaimer: I have taken some license and liberties with the original plot in order to suit the alternative universe of this narrative. In this world, I have replaced Lyanna Stark with a character of my own creation, Elaynna. In this story, Elaynna was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, a true love match, but on the eve of her wedding, she was kidnapped, raped and murdered by Rheagar Targaryen who had been spurned by Elaynna's rejecting of him. The Lyanna of the original series and show cannon, in this narrative, was instead a Wildling woman and lover of Mance Rayder.
Chapter Nineteen: The Past is Written, the Ink is Dried
"So you're the Kneeler who tamed the White Wolf."
It was not Jon Snow at the entrance of the tent. The realization gave Sansa brief pause, a sigh of relief escaping her. She felt...what, exactly? Euphoric? Elated? Disappointed?
No, she would not allow herself to dwell on the latter. She could not allow her already treacherous and duplicitous mind to take her to that dark and abysmal dwelling. If she lingered there for too long, she would then be forced to confront and face some hard truths? Truths Sansa was neither brave enough or willing to confront just yet, possibly never if she had her say.
In a world where truth and lies were often blurred and hardly discerned, what the fuck was truth anyway? For the longest time, Sansa had been made to believe that one should always tell the truth, that transparency was always a sign of good faith. The Starks were renown for their honor and probity. Ned had claimed that integrity was worth more than a chest of gold, land and titles combined.
Yet, it was that same fucking honor that had gotten both her Uncle Brandon and her grandsire Rickard Stark killed in King's Landing once upon a time, all those many years ago. It was that same fucking honor that caused thousands of Stark bannermen to rally South to the aid of their liege lord and die at the hands of the Mad King and his wild fyre. It was honor (or lack thereof) that caused her aunt, Elaynna, to be kidnapped and murdered on the eve of her wedding day to Robert Baratheon, the unwilling and unwanted victim of a silver-haired Dragon Prince's lust and objectification.
Honor. Sansa sneered at the word. Honor was what got you raped. Or immolated at the amusement of a crazed and untethered monarch. Or strangled to death within the darkened, forgotten oubliettes of The Red Keep. It was such a seemingly innocuous word, truly, but an ill-omen to all who strived to live by it.
And Sansa had done being defined by it. She had done being dutiful, being sweet and unassuming. She had done being Lord and Lady Stark's prized daughter. She had done with all of it. None of it would ever serve her here, in this forgotten wasteland of tundra and ice.
Squaring her shoulders, Sansa turned around to face the stranger fully. She was angry now, and it would be good to hit somebody. And let the consequences fall where they may; she was already damned. Yet, the stranger facing her was neither Jon Snow or that russet-haired Wildling who had slapped her earlier.
Sansa's cheek throbbed at the memory. She was unconcerned, however. She would pay the bitch back tenfold. She just had to bide her time and wait. Waiting was all a part of the game and Sansa had an infinite amount of patience.
Instead, it was a petite, Wildling woman a few years older than she, with waist-length, ebony hair. If Sansa's memory served correctly, this was Muirgayne, Tormund's woman. She was attractive, Sansa conceded, her almond eyes striking against the heart-shaped contours of her face. Although her skin was of pale milk, it held but a slight touch of warm honey, a curiosity considering the infrequency of the summer sun. However, it was not her features that set Sansa aback, no, for she was no stranger to beautiful women. It was instead the smile upon her countenance that caused her to stare.
It was warm and friendly, this stranger's smile. Welcoming, almost, if not for the slight hesitancy in her body language, as if she were waiting for Sansa to grow fangs and attack. The only looks Sansa had received upon her arrival to the Wildling camp were open, hostile stares and cold derision. Wildling or no, such friendliness and reciprocity was a much-needed welcome in this viper's nest.
Sansa had always prided herself on being a good actress, at pretending. Such pretense and conviction served her well since her betrothal and suffering Ramsay's presence. Yet, it was tedious work, this continuous charade. Sansa had grown weary of wearing so many masks: the glacial and frigid ice queen, the apathetic hostage, the scared and victimized daughter. Despite all of this, these games she was forced to play, the subterfuge and deception, Sansa needed an ally, a pawn at the very least. Someone to help her alleviate the weight of this nightmare and help her navigate through this world until she could do so on her own.
Upon seeing the open gesture of reciprocity and welcome upon this stranger's-this Wildling woman's-countenance, something within Sansa began to soften, ebb and erode away, at least towards her. She was sanctuary, an oasis within a vast and arid desert, and Sansa was grateful. So damned grateful.
A moment passed, the Wildling woman waited, expectant. Her smile-warm and welcoming-started to slowly cool and falter. Sansa could not risk alienation, not now. She was loath to admit her need of her.
"P-Pardon?"
The smile immediately returned, as did the warmth, spreading like the Southrone sun across the Narrow Sea. Good...Good...Make them like you. Become passive and unassuming.
The Dragon had its fire; the Kraken had its oceans. The Lion had its pride. Yet, it was the Wolf who had its cunning. And Sansa had cunning, beneath all assumed artifice and passivity, it lurked. Waiting. Ready.
When Sansa was two and ten, her brothers Robb and Bran, along with Theon, went out riding through the godswood. It had been Bran's fifth nameday and he had been gifted a destrier-a present from Lady Barbrey Dustin. It was a beautiful horse, blue roan and high spirited. Lady Catelyn had had her reservations, of course. Not only was the gifted stallion too extravagant and exorbitant for a young lordling of five, but there was most certainly an ulterior motive in the faux courtesy.
Lady Barbrey was a capricious woman, the elapse of years had made her harder, embittered. She had resented Catelyn for her betrothal to Brandon Stark, a marriage that Cat never truly desired or pushed. While Brandon was handsome, roguish with his brunette hair and slate-colored eyes, he was pugnacious and temperamental. Many attested his bellicosity to his "wolf's blood" that ran wild within him.
He was a pretty man, Cat conceded, reluctantly. A pretty man with all the pretty words and courtesies that caused half of the realm's women to swoon. Yet, despite his multiple and incessant promises (pretty, yet empty promises), Cat knew he could never be faithful to just her alone. Catelyn was a Tully, aye, she knew the words-etched and engraved upon her heart like chiseled stone-but she wanted fidelity above all else. The one thing Brandon Stark, with all his capricious moods and dark beauty, could never afford to give her.
She had heard the rumor of her betrothed and Lady Barbrey Dustin, of how they had been lovers driven apart by an unwanted, impending marriage and forced alliance. While her father assured her the rumors were false, the manifestations of a covetous and spurned paramour, Lady Catelyn was no fool. No, it was best to keep Lady Barbrey at bay, preferably as far away as possible. A snake was still a snake no matter how less potent the venom.
As Bran and Robb returned from their excursion, they were set upon by a trio of Wildlings hidden within the thicket. Robb and Theon had make quick work of the two men, one of which held a rough, obsidian blade to young Bran's throat. A woman had been captured among the fray, Osha. Sansa had been afraid of her then. Terrified of this strange, wild entity with her small, suspicious eyes and unrestrained tongue.
She was no lady, that wall all but certain, but yet despite Osha's unconventionalism and candor, she became one of Sansa's most trusted friends. Sansa loved Osha and missed her terribly.
This woman-Muirgayne-reminded her of her friend, possessed the same warmth and vibrancy and Sansa could not help but be drawn to it. She almost felt bad for what she had to do, for the duplicity was forced to assume. It could not be helped, now.
"You are the one the speak of. The red She-Wolf. You are the one who the elders speak of, who tamed the wild Wolf of the North."
Sansa sat there, immobile, for she was bereft of words. Was this how they saw her? As some sort of tamer, conquering savage beasts with naught save apathy and cool disdain? Was it truly that easy?
"I did not know such a man like that could be tamed." Sansa could not help but be intrigued now. Initially, she had planned to give this woman a wide berth, guilty of becoming too attached. Now, she realized the folly in her plan. She could use her in further cementing and ingratiating herself within the wildling camp. This woman could help her, be her eyes and ears and help her curry favor among those who mattered.
It should not be so difficult. Already, Muirgayne looked upon her with something akin to reverence and worshipful awe. Sansa could use this.
"You are a Stark, are you not? Little wonder Jon is so taken with you. Wolves draw to their own. So many women have tried to win his heart and he has refused them all."
Sansa thought back to the red-haired Wildling woman who had assaulted her, remembering the hatred and loathing that radiated off her. Sansa knew jealousy, she knew envy. Yet this transcended far beyond any petty emotion she could think of. What this woman felt for her at that instant was dangerous and unbridled. Had Sansa been any other woman-a lesser woman-she would have been afraid.
Fortunately for her, she was not a lesser woman. She had seen the worst and had survived. There was nothing anyone else could do to her now.
"Why did he take me, Muirgayne? Why did Jon choose me?" Sansa had not meant the desperation, had not meant to allow anyone to let on, but yet she was curious.
Muirgayne started, eyes widened slightly in shock. She hand never told this Kneeler her name, she was certain of it. "I think you have it the other way around, She-Wolf. The past is already written and the ink is dried. Your stories are aligned with one another's. Jon chose you, aye, but the gods willed it. Jon only listened."