Steel
"There are three things extremely hard: steel, a diamond, and to know one's self," Benjamin Franklin.
"You fear blades," said an accented voice, deep, but light.
Sansa Stark did not flinch at the sudden approach from the Sword Master, Syrio. It was close. Her body was young, full of inconvenient reactions and ungainly form, especially her face, so free with its emotions, but her mind was sharp and cool as the hard woman she had become. So her only reaction was her fingertips twitching in the direction of the small blade she had in her sleeve. Perhaps a moment of too much stillness. Turning, carefully away from Arya hard at work at her lesson, she looked up at the slightly taller man, face placid.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked, evenly. Her voice at times still startles her, the highness and the liveliness she tries to temper.
Lashing blades, meant to protect, meant to shield her, a lady, noble maiden. Instead, the shining knights smiled, baring teeth like lizard lions, gnashing teeth and glowing eyes taking in her pale, young body with eagerness. Bared before them like a meat to the hounds. They hit sharp and true, swinging with increasing force as wildfire eyes stare on with growing, rapturous pleasure. The grin upon his face is something she loathes, for it is nothing like the forced, stilted smiles he had graced her when he had to be kind to her.
The man, Syrio, someone she could only vaguely recall looked to her, a single dark brow raised. She had only ever seen the man in passing, of course, so sure in her superiority over Arya to know that she did not need a dancing master, as she had perfected all of the courtly dances favored by both North and South by the time she was nine name days. It was only later, in the last days that the still, quiet Arya had whispered about what he really been.
"He wasn't exactly a dancing teacher," Arya had said, faintly sharpening her long thin blade, Needle. Her face is marble, her eyes hard moonstones, but something gives. Something so small that if Sansa had not been trained to do so, she would have missed it.
It is affection… Awe.
The awe of a child who loved the grand stories of Knights and exploits of warriors just as much as Sansa had. Only in a different way. Arya had loved the glory, the warriors, Nymeria the Warrior Queen… Sansa feels something there, a small, distinct longing for those innocent days, so long gone. She has changed so drastically these years past- but Sansa can never remove herself completely. Some part of her will always long for the Winterfell she long lost. For the sweet child, she had been and had to leave behind…
And all of the people she had lost...
Little Arya Underfoot, messy, angry Arya with twigs in her hair, glimmering grey eyes and so ready to snap and pull. Nothing like the composed, angry woman she has become. She has gone from steel, to a leaf in the wind, to a wrathful shadow.
Arya's other weapons lay around her on coarse fabric, short knives, both steel and dragon glass, thin long needles coated in something vividly vicious. All gleaming blades. So many that Sansa wagered they were more than three dozen blades, along with Needle and her second, larger sword that she had yet to name. A gift from one of their smiths, Arya's one-time companion, if she recalled- Gendry. Gendry Waters, a bastard from King's Landing. The man that sometimes Brienne looks to and cannot bear. His look is Baratheon, his face shockingly like the well-dressed man Sansa vaguely remembers as the King's brother, Renly. But Sansa thinks him more handsome- for his face is kind, his manner even more so.
Nothing pompous, nothing artificial in his manner.
Sansa avoid looking at the bigger, thicker, nameless sword, instead of watching as her sister carefully passed her stone across her thin blade. It makes a sharp, familiar sound. She is reminded of her father, sharpening and cleaning Ice until it gleamed dark, a potent beauty that even she could not deny, much as she paid little mind to swords in those days. She misses the blade, and at times when she looks at Brienne's Oathkeeper part of her wishes to snatch it away from her sworn shield's capable hands. Break it into a million pieces and reforge their ancestral sword. Especially whenever she is near Jaime Lannister, who had left the twin blade in his son's care.
For it will always be a desecration of her family's treasured blade. Even with the glittering lions removed, the rubies struck away, a plain, iron dire wolf replacing them… even if it is now used to defend House Stark. Or what little remains of it. A legacy of four hundred years was struck away and reforged as a mockery and show of power. Red and black blade, gleaming the influence of the house on the Iron Throne. And that will always remind Sansa how their family had been torn apart.
"Oh?" asked Sansa, blinking in surprise. It is the only change in her face. The rapid flutter of her eyes.
"He taught the Water Dance- A sword form. He said a true dancer could move across water without disturbing it. I wished I had learned it properly."
Arya sword form is not inelegant. It is still… Silent and deadly. But it is not a dance. It is honed, tight, but not fluid. As shadow, as constant and controlled. As far as Sansa could see, anyway, as someone ill-versed in such things. She only carries a small blade in her sleeve as an emergency measure, not because she knew how to wield it well. She wished, at that moment to allow herself to furrow her brow, or twist her hands together in her lap, but she did not. She, instead only lifted a single brow.
"Father was wise."
Arya looked up, carefully, grey eyes narrowing.
"He should have made you attend. Maybe you could have escaped with me."
Sansa allows a small, still smile to pass upon her face. It is acceptable humorous to allow that little slip.
"I would not have done it. A lady does not use swords. It is up to our father, our brothers or Lord Husband to protect us," it is an automatic, perfect answer, ladylike answer. She is too well trained to say anything but, "And you would have been so angry at having to share the activity, as I would have been forced to attend."
Arya looks at her, eyes relaxing. She doesn't even scowl at her answer, as the old Arya would have done. She just looked at her. Then she returned to her sword and did not speak again for the remainder of the night. Sansa returned to her needlework. She ignored how her hands trembled.
It had only been in passing mention, but Arya had seemed to become the girl that Sansa remembered, not the hard woman she had become. It was for that reason that she had made sure that Syrio would teach Arya to defend herself again. She was so young- just six name days- but it was important. It was so important. In this life, she begged her father to arm his daughters in the ways best suited to them. Sansa was no swordswoman and while she thought herself craven for it, she doubted she would ever be. She did not have the temperament, nor the will to reach for a blade. Thin white scars across her back, raised and marred skin. Arya would be even better prepared than in their first try at this life. Sansa herself could not deny she was curious, but uneasy at Arya's progress. She was so young. It was why she made an effort to come and see her sister, at least once a week in her busy schedule. With Robb better informed, she had even less time to herself, trying her best to hon her brother into the man she had never met...
Now, Sansa tried to avoid the urge to lick her lips, curling her fingers tightly in her long flowing sleeve instead at Syrio's question. At his steady gaze.
"You, lady. You do not like blades. You flinched when I brought forth the true steel blades to check balance," said the Braavosi man, that brow still lifted, "Looked away with far eyes."
Sansa does not shift from foot to foot as her young body wished to. She only lifted a single brow at the man, mirroring his expression.
"Oh?"
"I am curious, why one daughter would wish to learn and the other not. Especially since the North has such a reputation for female warriors, rare here in Westeros. I have my answer. Fear."
"I am a Lady," she says, automatically, demurely, dipping her head in a courteous nod. It is a gesture to acknowledge how ridiculous his suggestion is, in a polite way, "It is not my place to touch a sword."
The Dancing Master, Syrio hums. Something in his eyes is kind, and something in them sharp.
"Fear should never be ignored, girl. It should be conquered."
Sansa fights a grimace. Her face is unused to being placid, unused to her mask and her expressions slip far more than she would like. It is not natural for someone often to try and be expressionless or so poise all of the time. But if Margaery can master it by the time she is six and ten, then in this life Sansa would master it now.
"But fear keeps you alive," is her reply, distant, unaffected.
The Braavossi man laughs. That kindness in his eyes grows. It is almost pity, perhaps understanding that lingers there.
"Survival. Yes. One thing. But what of living? Fear stills you, keeps you. That is not living."
Be sweet and chirping, be pleasant and still. So much fear keeping me complacent.
She blinks.
Is all I want survival? What did that get me? A cold, cruel disposition. A sweet mask to show the world. I don't want to survive. I survived for so long…
I want to live.
"I am not like her," she gestures to her sister, standing so still, one leg folded into the other, arms wide with too heavyweights in each of her hands, teetering so unevenly. But there was a glint of delight in her eyes.
I did not realize I missed that until now.
Arya had been lost, a little, in the passing moons. Sansa could not help but feel guilty. Arya was too young to know why Jon was pulling away, not exactly by his own choice. She had ruined that, in telling him the truth. Sansa regrets it to some extent, but as always her brother rose to the occasion. Unlike before he was now burdened with a purpose- a knowing that made him determined to an unhealthy degree(not that Sansa was any better) and made him neglect. She felt for Arya, lost in the activity in the great game with nobody to turn to for reassurance. She needed this, not just to defend herself, but so Arya would know she was not forgotten. Arya needed this.
The Invisible Wolf… Will not fade into the cracks like before. Not be swallowed by nothing, by no one.
"I do not ask you to be her. I ask you to try in your own way. No one person dances the same. We know the same steps, the same movements, but each performance is unique. Yours."
The man stares at her, and Sansa stares back. She licks her lips, allowing herself that slip.
"I… I do fear blades. But can you take that away from me?"
The man stares at her before he smiles.
"I will make your sword part of you. Familiarity will take your fear away."
Sansa curls her fists in her long sleeve.
"I must attend to my duties. But, I will ask my father to give me the morns before breaking my fast. Away from your lessons with Arya, so your attention does not wane from her entirely. Is that acceptable?"
The man nods. His smile grows wider. Fuller.
"Tomorrow, lady."
Something clenches in her stomach. It is not a pleasant feeling, but she is determined to push past it. If this will help her, help her let go- Then she must force herself to do it.
"Tomorrow."
She nods to him, before she leaves, smiling faintly at Arya who grinned excitedly back, her dark grey eyes shining with a mirth that Sansa is sad to think was ever rarely directed to her. She is halfway back to her father's solar when she sees Jon and Robb, carrying an arm full of scrolls. Faded and aged. She walks to them, hands extended as she takes half the burden from Robb. He stumbles, in surprise at first, before he readily lets her hold some of the scrolls in his hands. She hums, falling into step with her brothers.
"What's all this?" she asks, quietly.
Jon sighs, next to them.
"Father wants the yields of our current glass gardens from the last hundred years. He wants to make a final projection of the new glass gardens for the gathering of the North."
She hummed.
"I suppose I will have my hands full in the next few weeks," she murmured, wondering if she would have time to go to Syrio. Perhaps she would need to wake before dawn, instead of at dawn to attend to her duties.
Sansa pushed back a sigh.
"Years, you mean. We only have so long before winter is here," was Robb's flippant response. He sounded exhausted and quite put out.
Sansa felt her lips twitch.
"Have I burden you, Robb?" she asked, nearly laughing.
"With too much, Sansa. Tell me again, something good."
Bright, Tully eyes, the same ones in her own face, looked to her. They were not altogether cheerful, but held a shade of darkness… Her own doing, she guessed. But it was not jaded as her own nor father's, simply more understanding of the world they lived in.
"Every battle he ever engaged in," she says, simply, "Was won."
She does not have the heart to say what those victories cost her.
"Look at that Snow, a great general."
Jon rolls his eyes.
"Yes, yes. But who was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"
"Must you poster?" was her question.
"Sansa," said Robb seriously, "We are boys. It is in our nature."
At that, she could not help but let out a laugh. It felt so strange to laugh, in her mind, but in body, her body of ten was quite used to it. It filled the corridor, loud, unrestrained, had her horribly flinching in some ways, but felt so good that she did not temper herself. Jon and Robb joined her, and like many things in this beautiful, glorious past, had tears threatening to spill from her eyes at the sound of their laughter. It was… Foreign a sound to her, from herself, from them, together, and she is heartbroken at the remembrance that they never met again after they parted from each other at fifteen. She had forgotten their friendship, how deep that brotherly connection had been…
At how close they had all been, before the King's court had come to Winterfell…
"Jon," she said, losing tact and any pretty words, "You must speak to Arya again. Spend time with her."
Jon stumbled, nearly dropping all of his scrolls. He looked back at her, squinting his grey eyes.
"Why? Arya's fine, and I have so much to do-"
Sansa stepped forward, taking his scrolls from him.
"She misses you. Duty is important, my brother, but so is Family. She doesn't understand and I suspect she will not understand until we tell her. But that won't be for a while yet. She only sees that you're pulling away."
Jon stares at her, lower lip trembling.
"But-"
"Snow," and that's Robb, dropping his scrolls altogether, reaching over to clasp his shoulder, "She has a point."
Jon gives a sigh.
"It's unfair when you both are of one mind," is his only response, before he gives a nod, and starts making his way back the way they had come.
Sansa only smiles, pleased. Work they may have too, hard and long, but to neglect each other she could not stand. It was such a divide that had made her hesitate to be parted from the Queen and Joffrey… And subsequently caused her greatest horror. She would not allow such a history to repeat itself. Robb lets out a chuckle when Jon is out of their sight.
"It is all sorts of frightening on how well you can get him to do things."
Sansa looks at the scrolls scattered at his feet with a raised brow in response. Robb readily picks them up, stacking them in a neat little pile.
"And now I follow. Very odd to be the eldest all my life and suddenly not be," is Robb's continued musing, looking at her.
She can only raise another brow at Robb, both shooting to her hairline. He gives a nod before he sighs out:
"I feel but a child to you, Sansa."
"It is something that I cannot enjoy, sweetling. I know not what caused this. All I can be is grateful," she whispers, quietly.
She starts to walk, again, towards the solar.
"Tell me something else… Something good."
He always asked. Never for the bad… Just the good of the future. He wanted to see the good in the world, even after she told him of the bad that was possible. She admired that in Robb, in the true… Goodness, her brother held.
"I believe he was deeply in love. Before he died. Very, very deeply in love."
Robb can not quite smile. But there is a hint there, a small twitch of his lips that cannot fully form.
EDIT: 01 AUGUST 2021