Nemuri-Oba all but lives in one of the spare bedrooms.
She has her own home, an apartment that is nearly two cities away, but she rarely, if ever stays there. And is instead nearly over every day she is not on Call for her hero work or in her studio.
She is an Artist, a Hero, and a woman of singular beauty.
Sansa can admit that she is in awe of the juxtaposition of a woman so in tune with her femininity and also unafraid to fight. In Westeros, it was never both. It was one or the other. Arya and Brienne alike had thrown feminine pursuits out the window to become warriors. Sansa had shunned the practice of the North and been all the vulnerable for it. Cersei had lamented the limitations of her sex constantly, bragged of her intelligence as being that of a man's instead of a woman's.
But Nemuri-Oba was a woman. And acted as if that was not a limitation. As if it did not mean her lesser than her fathers.
Sansa is a bit in awe of her, wary as she is of the woman. Same as Lady Chiyo-sensei. Here are women that stand beside their male counterparts. In the case of Lady Chiyo-Sensei, she stands ahead of her male contemporaries and everyone bends to her kind will. The Stark Queen would have never seen its like in her lifetime, much as she ruled the North, she had been questioned, mocked, and disobeyed.
"What was your favorite thing to do?" Lady Chiyo-sensei gently pushes another slice of lemon loaf her way.
Sansa takes a moment, even as she gently ignores the slice. They are having tea, what she would think of a woman's circle that has all of her pack in one space instead, so cultural practice that has taken place after a mid-day meal. To-san is the deftest hand at tea-making, indeed, while Lady Nemuri-oba tends to burn water, somehow. She thinks back to Queen Stark. A plan well executed had been the most pleasing thing at the end of her life. But as those warm eyes look at her, Sansa knows that is not what she was asked.
She cannot think of things she enjoys, for a moment. Because she finds herself automatically wishing to censor her like of the 'frivolous'-
She blinks.
"Embroidery. Prayer… Kingdom Management-" Lord Nezu throws her a wicked smile at that, "... Dancing. I dearly loved dancing. But I cannot remember the last time I danced."
Had it been in Baelish's arms? Harry's? Robin's? No. The last time she had danced had been with Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, while Pod sang proudly of the Queen of Winter's return. The two knights had spun and spun her around in the godswood in nonsensical steps. It is before the very beginning of the End. Before her knowledge of the Night King made her realize that every moment of struggle across Westseroes had meant nothing.
She thinks…
She thinks that is the last time she laughed as the Stark Queen. As Ser Jaime beamed at her hand warm in her own as he lifted and spun her in the snow-filled air, as Ser Brienne clumsily twisted her round and round at the foot of the heartstree, as Pod sang proud and deep of the sweet Lady Queen of the North.
"Wanna dance now? Just show me the steps as we go," It's Lady Nemuri-Oba who asks. Holds out her calloused palm as she jumps to her bare feet. Her hips wiggle in excitement.
"Sing a few bars, Sansa-Joō, I can follow it!" To-san is beaming with his own eagerness.
She thinks. And she wants no mournful songs. No. No laments, no hymns of gods that had ignored her prayers. She sings a wordless song of the North, quick and fast-paced steps that take her a moment to remember. It was a song you danced as a group, clasped hands and parallel legs in complex and heavy steps. She demonstrates flowing steps that Ned Stark had taught her with an indulgent smile before her Septa had taught her 'proper' dances of the South. Lady Nemuri follows quickly, her long languid legs graceful and quick even as she missteps, joining Sansa, hand in hand. Lord Nezu puts a paw in her hand and follows in a surprisingly accurate step next to her a moment later. Lady Chiyo-sensei follows. So does a grinning Ser Oji, dragging at a flushing Ser Nighteye. To-san's warm voice joins her in a base, as Ser To-san studies the movements and jumps into the dance with her father's hand in his.
They spin and twist.
They stomp and clap their hands.
Sansa is crying before she can think to stop it. And laughing in sheer joy at this part of her life brought back to her. Where she falters in her song due to her emotion, her pack lift the chorus for her.
With her pack, she thinks she never will hardly temper herself.
They dance two more sets, a song of the Riverlands on her lips, and another of the Free-folk in rough Old Tongue until she cannot breathe and cannot move again.
Already, she is thinking of the next time she will dance.
Also here's a link for a new Instagram for my fanfics. Might as well. Doodles and moodboards will be posted, as well as more detailed images of my fanfic covers. All you fanfic people can follow the link after taking out the spaces.
www . instagram moonwitch . 9 . 6 /