Sansa I
Sansa Stark knows with a certainty that magic is completely, utterly, out of her perspective of knowledge.
What had Bran said, as Arya told tales of face wearing, as Jon spoke of coming back to life? And little Rickon spoke of letting his mind fall to his direwolf? And they all gleefully agreed?
"Sansa has no magic."
Sansa stilled, and looked at her strangest brother with surprise barely tempered. She had said not a word, only listened as her siblings spoke. Disbelieving but awed, and yet something about the way that Bran the Raven spoke startled her. For his voice touched in sadness… Touched in emotion he rarely ever expressed anymore. His brow was furrowed, oddly enough, a small crease between them. The most emotion she had seen in his face for some time. His eyes were still blue, however, if tinged with a frightening grey that had not been in his eyes before.
"Why not?" Arya's voice was demanding, but there was something else in her expression- something that reminded Sansa of the little girl that took glee in her strangeness from the other Starks.
Arya forgot sometimes, despite the time that had passed, that Sansa was not the little bird that she had known. Nearly four years had passed since they had parted ways in King's Landing and now that they were home… Some things returned to old habits. Forced perhaps, to try and retain the old habits they had held then. Arya especially fell to the old way of teasing and pulling at Sansa. Sansa thinks it is Arya who was the most startled by her changed nature, of how quiet she was, of how stilled her manner was in comparison to before. At how little she scolds them or reprimes them for manners or anything like that. Sansa wondered if Arya tried her best to get a reaction from her because of the more antagonistic relationship they had shared as children.
'Sometimes I play a little game.'
Rickon, pressed into her side, curled his hands protectively around her arm. He did that, her wild little wolf, clung and bore his teeth like now when he sensed insult. Perhaps it was because he still blurred the line between seeing a sister he barely remembered and the mother he confused her for. But mostly it was because he had seen her scars. He had come to her at night, missing his Osha. And he had when he had crawled into her bed that night he had seen her back. Seen her back and traced her scars with a trembling small hand...
He was to turn only seven namedays, and was yet her fiercest defender because of that.
"It doesn't matter," he said hotly. And his hand squeezed around her's gently.
"But it does," said Bran, voice stilted, "Sansa has no magic. And the rest of us do."
"Bran-" started Jon, ever the peacemaker.
Funny to think of that sullen boy in the corner being the one to be the most even-tempered of them all in the end. But Bran the Raven never tempered himself.
"She was torn apart. When Lady died, something died in Sansa as well. It was pain unlike anything any of us would understand. Her magic died and so did part of her. Sansa has died, much as you did Jon, but worse, for you came back whole. Or well, whole enough."
Sansa just held back the urge to clench her fists and flinched when Arya sent her a horrified expression. Bran looked at her. Face growing perfectly blank, eyes as bright as quicksilver.
"It was written. And so the ink dried."
Sansa clenched her fists now and felt completely and utterly out of her depth. From her estimation, magic had happened to her. Not done by her own hand, as her siblings. For the first time in her magicless existence since the death of her beloved Lady. How else would she escape death? How else would she find herself naked and in front of a dead dragon prince, two score and five years in the past? For the first time in a long time, Sansa wished to be able swear. If only to express her disbelief over this course of events. Because she had been many things in her life, traitor, bastard, queen-
But never magical.
And she had no idea how to proceed from here.
Because how does one even claim their own name, when their parents have yet to wed? How does one claim their kingdom when the events that made it come to be have not passed?
Stupid girl who never learns. I thought I was safe, Queen of the North, and now look at where I stand. No feasible connections, not even small clothes as I sit in the room of a doomed Princess… Or perhaps not so doomed. The Mad King was seized and taken away. That I know never happened. Gods, old and new, what has been done?
"It is hard- she is so tall and slim!" called out whom she guessed was Lady Ashara Dayne, as she pawed through the princess's wardrobe, her purple eyes and falling star sygial could make her no one else, "And none of these will do her fair skin well! Yellow, I think will do her ill. And orange will clash with her lovely hair!"
"Please, my lady," Sansa said softly, "I am sure there is something more appropriate from another woman's-"
"I am the only one among us as slim as you, sweet girl, though I am afraid I am not as tall, but one of my longer trained dresses shall do you well enough. Perhaps the black one with rubies, Ashara," said Princess Elia Martel, voice gentle.
She was sitting next to Sansa on the same chaise. Not pressed against her, but close enough that Sansa could feel the warmth of her skin. Steady and noticeable. It felt so hot here in the past. So unbearably hot. She had just come from the Winter to end all Winters, and here she had been forced through and time and turn to the South in midst of a warmer season. And she knew from her history that this was only spring.
Well, the False Spring, I believe, a short span of time before Robert's Rebellion. But will such a thing happen with- With the Mad King being seized as he had? Rheagar is set to be king now. What in the name of the gods Old and New has caused such a thing to pass? I can estimate from Sir Jaime's lack of white cloak that this is the very beginning of the Tourney of Harrenhal. So no winter roses have been placed on my Aunt's head, and mayhaps Uncle Brandon and Grandfather Rickon are not to die in flame… Oh Father, will you not marry mother and be Lord of Winterfell? Will we not come to even live due to this magic?
She was utterly confused and just so tired.
"Yes, Princess! It should be perfect! As for the small clothes- I think I will fetch something from my own wardrobe as she is better endowed than you. I have some new ones that I was saving for-"
The woman blushed. The lover her child came from? Was it Uncle Brandom? The tragic lady, how many of them there are, shook her head and tsked her tongue around the blush on her tan skin.
"I will retrieve them!"
She left the room in a flurry of lovely cotton and silk skirts.
Leaving Sansa alone with Princess Elia.
Oh, that was done on purpose, thought Sansa, suppressing a frown as Elia turned to her with a soft smile. She was a beautiful woman. And in her face, Sansa could see remnants of Prince Oberyn in her memory. Poor man died shortly after I fled. They had the same sharpness to their face if tempered by Elia's female softness. Their eyes were near the same shade, but Elia's were lighter, warmer, larger, and tilted up fetchingly instead of down. Her nose was more elegant as well, smaller, and did not have the small dent that Sansa recalled her brother to have. She had a sweetness in her smile that her brother in the future must've lost with her death. Her hair was black, rich as ink, and flowed past her bronze shoulders straight as a pin. A beautiful woman of twenty and so namedays, and slim despite the fact that she had already given birth to a Princess.
As far as Sansa could remember her history at least.
"I realized that I have yet to ask your name," said the Princess, carefully.
It had been a whirlwind, Sansa could admit. One moment she was in the grounds of Harnhell made into Tourney fields, and the next she was being moved as quickly as she could to the Keep. King's Gaurd at her side, with Princess Elia holding her arms as Lords and Ladies alike looking at them. Trying to speak- but not been allowed at all. She had been hustled to rooms deep with the castle… Strangely enough, the rooms she had held in the Castle near twenty and five years in the future.
Sansa dipped her head. Careful to keep hold of the prince's cloak around herself.
"I am Sansa, your grace."
Elia smiled wider. And startled her when her fingertips pressed underneath her chin and tilted her head back up.
"Sansa," her voice was lyrical and pulled strangely if prettily on her name, "A fitting name. It has the meaning of praise or charm in the old tongue of the North, does it not?"
Sansa returned her smile if only to appear pleased. She even managed a blush, and to push down a flinch as the princess gently cupped her cheek.
"Yes. My father chose it. I was the first child to be born with him present. It brought him such joy that every bell in Keep and town rang in my honor. And he did so again, for every one of my namedays."
Elia's eyes narrowed.
"I must ask, Lady Sansa, what sort of witch are you to appear in wildfire? Beyond your beauty, you appear as ordinary as I."
Sansa felt her chin go parallel. Felt the manners of her queenhood settle about her shoulders as she stared at the princess in her warm, calculating eyes. She gave a soft smile, trembling to ease the Princess's suspicions.
"I am no witch that I know of, Princess Elia, and I have no idea why I have come to be here. I… I am frightened of what just occurred."
Sansa used to be a bad liar. But she had lied for so long, that this much was easy to say to a stranger. And lies were like honey when they were spoken with a touch of truth. Sansa knew no conscious magic to be a witch, and she did not know why she was here. But she did know she had been sent through time through the wildfire that had been thrown upon her as a means to kill. Efficient, if brutish. And she was frightened. She could not hide that and felt it best not too. Elia hummed. Caressed her cheek a second longer before she dropped her hands. Sansa resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief.
No weakness. I am steel.
"A bath, I think will do you well to ease your worries. And you are covered in cinders."
"I beg your pardon for my appearance. I must look ghastly," said Sansa softly, touching absently at her own face. She felt the grit of ash on her face, and she grimaced at what must be in her hair.
Elia laughed.
"You are a beauty, cinders or no. I shall go fetch a maid-"
"Your grace, please-"
"I am Elia to my friends, Sansa. And despite everything, I very much like to take care of you."
Sansa pressed her lips together tightly to prevent herself from frowning.
"Of course, Princess Elia."
A lady's courtesy is her armor, and I will always be armed in mine.
The princess tilted her head, face falling for a moment, before she nodded, and went herself to fetch a maid. She is kind. Or perhaps foolish to leave a prospective witch alone to gather her thoughts. Sansa felt her shoulders drop, for a fraction of a second, before she stood up. Her legs felt weak. They trembled. Her bare feet touched the stones of Harrenhal, and she shivered. Last, this chamber had been hers for the counsel of Queens. She had thought this was the last time she would leave Winterfell, to settle the split of North and South... The Seven Kingdoms were to split for once and all. The borders to be the Westerlands and the Riverlands. The Dragon Queen in the South, The Wolf Queen in the North. Or so I thought. Instead of peace, all I got was wildfire thrown upon me in another mockery of guest rights.
Careful, holding herself onto the chaise and whatever she could, she reached the window alcove and dropped onto the plump orange pillows that were there. They had not been here during my own stay. Her breath felt ragged, her eyes stung. Sansa pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She pressed her fingertips to cool panes. And she sagged.
Gods it is hot. So unbearably hot.
Sansa felt a sob working its way into her throat. She tried to stop it. Held it tightly in her throat. And she just managed to.
She wanted her brothers. She wanted her sister.
A stupid little girl who never learns.