Grace
"Grace is the beauty of form under the influence of freedom," Friedrich Schiller.
Sansa had long come to the conclusion that she was a graceless rider.
It is more evident to her, however, as she stares at the soft brown mare that Theon had procured from the stables, that she at ten namedays, she was even worse then she had been at twenty. She cannot recall, really, if she had ridden much at this age, or at all, really. She had not been found of horses, for their smell, and had no place to really travel before her family's journey to King's Landing. On occasion, from her vague memories, she recalled small trips with the family, which had become so infrequent after the birth of Rickon. Who would have thought I would have missed such rides? Longed for those forced trips and moments with my family? She had been clumsy, if adequate equestrian, and had skirted by on whatever short rides she had been forced to attend. In her later years, horseback had been a harsh requirement of speed and stealth, and later the only mode of transportation left to her.
At least until we had to sacrifice our horses to feed ourselves. The gardens produce was just not enough to sustain every person, let alone a population of horses.
She suppresses a frown, as she watches Arya- little Arya, so much younger then her, who like her has hardly ridden more than her at this point, jump onto her own small pony without aid nor block. It is clumsy, but she still more or less grasp the mechanics of how to mount within a few seconds of examining the stirrup, and true to her slightly wild nature, she is astride like a man, rather than correctly sitting with her legs aside. It looks a bit ridiculous, really, as she is in a riding habit that is fit for a young girl of her station, the long soft brown skirt that was now bunched across her waist, the only thing preventing it from being scandalous was the fact that she was wearing trousers underneath, instead of proper stockings. Arya has never been one to let something such as wardrobe, nor her lady's saddle, stop her. Sansa, at that, does not suppress the small smile of humor.
Some things do not change, I see, sister.
"Lady Sansa?" asks Brienne, and she is already kneeling in front of her, hands cupped together as a step for her. It had been normal, for Brienne or Ser Jaime to aid her in mounting whatever horse could be spared for her.
Sansa shakes her head, a slight furrow in her brow before she forces her face to relax.
"Let me attempt to mount myself," she commands, gently, and Brienne gives her a swift nod, the newly shorn head glistening in the soft morning sun.
It is soft yellow and looks as soft as newborn chick fluff, and on Brienne's broad face, familiar to Sansa. Despite her youthful face, it looks more akin to what they were. Part of Sansa is envious. What would it be to have the body I left in flame and ash. Sometimes I look at my reflection and see nothing of who I became. Just a soft child that made so many mistakes, playing at being a Northern woman… But at the same time, she is glad to be looked as a child. The weight of men's stares, so long endured, is all but gone. Never in her life, has Sansa been so glad to be overlooked, to be dismissed as not a worthless woman or a sexual object, but instead an innocent child with no chance of being a player in any sort of game.
Brienne steps back, just a pace, brows furrowed, hands hovering and at the ready, in case that Sansa makes a fool of herself.
"As you wish," she says softly, nodding gently.
Sansa turns back to the horse and sets her jaw in slight determination. I must become accustomed to it, as no wheel-house nor liter will be so ready to use most of the time. I must be self-reliant where I am able, just as I was forced to do before. Now it will not be forced- It will be done with ease. She tries to copy her sister's movements, leg and all, as she doubts she can mount as is due to a lady without making a fool of herself. She nearly falls, but for her own determination, she waves off Brienne and comes to be astride the horse, like a man. She arranges her skirts quickly, the reflexes of a grown woman needing to guard her body compelling her, pressing her green skirt as proper as she could, hindered by the back seat of her saddle.
The first thing she notes that is it far more comfortable than to sit side-saddle, even without a stirrup in the correct place and sighs in reluctance.
"Theon," she calls, somewhat unhappily, gripping tightly at the reins, "Is it possible to find a normal saddle, instead of a lady's saddle?"
Brienne raises a broad brow, gentle surprise, but she sees understanding in her beautiful eyes. But the Greyjoy Ward's mouth falls open, his shock for a moment removing the small smirk that is so prominent on his face. At eight and ten, Theon Greyjoy was just one cusp of true manhood, and while Sansa had never seen him as handsome, his arrogance taking him to be so unattractive, there was something heartening in seeing him… Whole. Like most times, when she sees the before, the boy before the wrecked creature that Ramsey had made, she feels a certain fondness, and unease all in the same moment. Because despite the events that had taken Winterfell, the hell that had found him afterward was not something she would have wished for him.
No one deserved Ramsey.
You could betray us. In order to prove yourself to a man, you remember from boyhood, to remove the stain of being nothing but a hostage... But if we show you just a little more love, will you side with us instead? Will you ignore the call of your homeland? I am not sure.
"I agree with Sansa," says Arya, frowning down at her own, "This saddle is stupid."
Theon's mouth comes to a close before he gives a sharp nod.
"I'm sure I'll find something."
Sansa dismounts and nearly falls flat on her face. She manages to catch herself against the horse and waves off Brienne's hovering hand. She, despite her internal age, cannot stop the small flush as Arya lets out a loud snicker. Had she been her body's true age, she would have screamed at her sister for- For, well, making her feel embarrassed. Instead, she managed to force a soft giggle, because Arya is only a child with childish humor that was not meant to be cruel. Arya hopped off of her pony in a bouncing dismount, her snickers blending with Sansa's practiced giggles. Her little sister shifts and gives her a small smile, which Sansa's allows herself to return. Their small moment is taken from them as Theon takes the reins of Sansa's horse, and Brienne, frowning, but not saying a word, goes to attend Arya's.
She follows the Greyjoy into the stables careful of her riding skirt and her boots, Arya bouncing behind her, with Brienne at their heels. Brienne helps Arya, showing her the proper way to unsaddle her small horse, voice soft as she explains the buckles. Sansa watches as Theon removes the saddle they had found to be proper, some remnant of a lady child past, in better condition than she would expect. Sansa wonders, but is not sure if it is her personal saddle, memories of nearly a decade long faded. She suspects it is, but cannot know for sure. I never rode much, never bothered to be any good at it. Only expected to be lead by my gallant lord. She pays careful mind of what Theon is removing, her brows intent.
"Wouldn't you prefer this saddle?" Theon's question is soft, and he doesn't look at her as he removes the small, dainty seat, making a show of heaving it off of the gentle mare, leaving the pale blue blankets as he went to examine the racks for another saddle, "You shouldn't let how everyone else rides make you think less of the proper way to ride."
"I should," she replies, allowing another small smile to appear.
Theon looks back at her, brow raised. A curious look in his eyes. Such a stark difference from the dead look that had greeted her in Winterfell so long ago. Such a difference from the skittish fright that had filled them when she had whispered his true name in sheer surprise.
"Aye. You want to be a proper lady, do you not?"
"I am a proper Lady," she says, gracefully dipping her head. That much has not changed, from when she had been but a bastard girl in name, she had been a lady, damn what anyone else said, "But I also wish to be a proper rider."
Theon smiles, a sort of a smirk.
"Need more than a saddle to be a proper ridder, there."
"That comes with practice."
"Not much practice time, with all your airs there, Sansa. I should help you learn to ride nice and proper."
If she had been but a child of ten, such a comment would have flown above her head. She would have thanked Theon prettily, but with ill ease at his expression. As a woman of twenty namedays in her mind, something close to cold fury enters her, as she watches the turn of his mouth turn into that lean, clever smile of his. It was the smile that always made her ignore him, the boy-man that Robb always had at his heels. He had always made her uncomfortable, made her annoyed that this future Lord was so… Unlikeable. So rude. So uncourteous to her. She understands the innuendo of his words, the laughter in his eyes at what he no doubt believes is a clever quip.
She watches, out of the corner of her eye, as Brienne goes stock still, her back stiff as she straightens out. Her sworn shield turns a fire in her eyes, her hand going to the sword on her hip.
Sansa knew she had to defuse the situation and gives Theon the prettiest, soft smile she can hope to give despite her own disgust at his words.
"How kind of you, Theon, if I ever have a need for an instructor, you will be the first I call. I heard you were a fine archer even from horseback, so you must be an excellent rider to be so steady. Thank you for the offer."
That gets a smile from him, a true one, softer, easing his usual smirk.
"Alright. Anytime you need it, Sansa."
A finely gloved hand goes to hesitantly cup her cheek, in an awkward but startlingly affectionate gesture.
He turns away from her quickly and lifts a small saddle, worn, at the very back of the small area of racks. She sees that the back of his neck is flushed with his pleasure, or perhaps embarrassment at the compliment, or even his forwardness with physical affection, or his own boldness of words against someone he sees as someone being so young. So many insecurities. She turns to Brienne, sees how tightly she holds her jaw and her sword before she gives the slightest shake of her head. Brienne frowns before she gives Sansa a sharp if dissatisfied nod in acceptance. No doubt, if pushed too far her sworn shield would stop holding her tongue even if Sansa commanded her to cease. It had been a frustrating constant, of trying to ease Brienne's well-meaning if unneassary defense of any insult directed her way.
The saddle that Theon picks is old, made of soft, supple and worn leather. It is stitched with thrones and pale faded five-pointed leaves that must have been bright red at one point, the leaves of the heart-tree. Snarling direwolves line the head of the saddle. It was a strange mixture of masculine practicality and delicate female beauty in the stitching.
"This should fit," says Theon, measuring against the other saddle. It was a bit bigger, obviously meant for a woman instead of a young girl, but adjustable enough in the stirrups to match her height, so it would be serviceable.
"Thank you, Theon, for arranging this."
"... It was Robb's idea," he dismisses, but his chest is slightly thrown out nonetheless.
"Thank you nonetheless."
Robb, Jon, and Bran arrive, two large saddlebags in hand each, just after they have finished preparing all of their horses. They are grinning, ear to ear as they attach the large saddlebags to their horses. They surprise her by clapping Theon on the back, Jon lifts Arya into a circle, before passing her off to Robb, and they both plant a loud kiss on Sansa's cheeks. Bran simply watches on with a large grin, his eyes blue and alive. It eases her heart every single time, to see the humanity in her younger brother.
"You're cheery," she says, softly, as she clumsily remounts.
Both Robb and Jon swing up gracefully, easily.
"Father's given us the entire morning off. Some of the older Lords are going off for a quick morning hunt- the usual deer herd was spotted too nearby to pass off," says Robb, cheerfully, "They should be back by early afternoon with some venison."
"... We thought it would be nice, for a break away from so many strangers," said Jon, with a much too casual shrug, "So father approved for the long ride with just the family. Or well, some of us, anyway."
Sansa hesitates.
"Will mother and father need me-"
"No. Our instructions are clear. We are to ride to a specific glen that father says is lovely this time of year," Robb says, stern.
Sansa nearly protests, but Brienne's hand on her arm is a soft, but perhaps needed reminder. She gives her sworn shield a look. Brienne gives her a soft if knowing smile. Sansa forced a breath. Enjoy things you did not before… Spend time with those you missed. Winter is Coming, but I know when. She returns her nod and a small amount of her smile.
"If it's just family, why is she joining us?" says Bran, curiously, looking at Brienne, who looked out of place amongst them with her lovely armor.
Brienne flushes as she mounts, and shifts uneasily in her full plate on her tall mare, easily the largest horse amongst them. "I need to strengthen myself- I tire much too easily in a full set." Her sworn-shield is the epitome of someone who struggles with social graces. Once, it had made Sansa somewhat frustrated to encounter someone so innocent of the nuances of social interaction, or so blindingly determined to ignore them. Later, Sansa had grown to find the awkwardness charming, and refreshing in the wake of having spent the majority of her adulthood with schemers and snakes. The more she had come to know Brienne, in the last two years of their lives… The more she had come to rely upon, even care for this woman.
She had become family.
That had been precious in the Second Long Night… Now, she could never deny Brienne as being so important for her, especially since she had come to Sansa once again. Sansa knew how little the rest of her family knew of Brienne. Jon and Robb knew her through a second-hand account, and trusted her for the esteem she showed the older woman. But her younger siblings and Theon knew nothing of her beyond the fact that she had been seen following Sansa, she was a strange Stormlander, and she could swing her sword.
"She is my very dear friend, like family," replies Sansa, smiling.
Arya grins brightly, eagerly nodding. Her younger sister had come to care for her already, and Sansa suspects it has something to do with the fact that Brienne had taken to staying with Arya through her morning sword practice.
"Odd for you to find such a friend," comments Theon, leering at the physically younger woman, "Where'd you find this one, eh, Sansa?"
Brienne visibly grits her teeth. Theon was exactly the wrong type of person to interact with her serious sworn-shield. He, in some ways, was like Ser Jaime- an arrogant handsome male that has been built from birth to understand their importance in life. But in the end, he was just an insecure boy playing at being a man, a hurt boy used as a pawn in the grand Game that was Westeroian politics. But such plays would annoy her honorable friend, especially since she was not as forgiving of Theon's role in the future possible events as Sansa was.
The fact that he took nearly nothing seriously for the sake of his persona would make it worse.
"I'm just saying- If anyone should be here it should be Jeyne. She's been hanging around me asking about you, Sansa. She cries so much."
Sansa blinks and just shakes her head. She had mixed feelings over her childhood friend. Innocent Jeyne, who had been so excited like her, to go to King's Landing. Poor Jeyne, caught just as Sansa was, but in a more precarious situation. She had not the thin protection of being engaged to the new King, however much he had disliked her, she had not the thin protection of being the eldest daughter to a Great House. She had been sold off as if she was Arya to Ramsey, the fake she-wolf. Sansa mourned the girl she had loved so dearly in girlhood when she had been brought to Winterfell at last.
Jeyne's body, flayed, hanging over the open gates had greeted her home, a sign hanging around her neck, warning of any more fake wolf cunts to enter the domain of Lord Bolton, Warden of the North.
But the girl, the young child that greeted her here in the past?
"Jeyne is needed by her father this morning, I had already invited her," she returns stiffly.
Jeyne had been displeased with her when she had invited her, and part of it had to do with Brienne hovering behind her. The sheer dislike that the young girl had thrown at Brienne had been very visible, and the jealousy even more so. Her face had been red and pinched, tears hovering in her warm eyes. Sansa had no idea how comfort the child that Jeyne was in a way that would please her. Sansa's memories of her time with the girl were vague at best. Poor Jeyne had faded just as her father had, the only stark memory of them had been what was left of them, mutilated but horribly recognizable.
With her current duties, and who she had become in the course of her life… Jeyne was just no longer someone that Sansa could seriously interact with. Her family, young as they were, were what had she had wanted for so long. Jeyne the girlhood friend was something so removed from her, such a far away memory she had not clung to. Sansa's only goal was to try and give her family a better fighting chance of the coming turmoil. She made concessions, made the effort to understand her family as she hadn't before. And both those priorities made relationships that had been so valuable to her in childhood fall away.
"Let's go," calls Arya, impatiently.
Theon rolled his eyes, a flash of uncertainty on his face, but made no other comment. With a couple of guards along with them, the younger part of the House Stark save baby Rickon, made their way out of Winterfell. It was a lovely day, the Summer evident in the small dusting of snow that littered the ground, no doubt set to melt by mid-afternoon. The temperature was evenly cool, not enough for furs and warm enough to get away with light cloaks to keep away the wet that any snowfall would bring. They kept an even, steady pace, easy conversation flowing between them all as they rode towards their destination. Sansa, as horrid as she was at ridding, found herself at the back of the small party, watching as Brienne conversed with Arya with large, delightful gestures on the part of Arya and quiet amusement on the part of their sworn shield. Jon and Robb surrounded Theon and she saw their choice and eagerness to try and sway the man from becoming a turn-cloak.
"Sansa," said Bran, quietly, startling her. Expertly, he slows the pace of the horse, and she admired the young boy of five namesdays being such an easy rider. She must look like an oaf in comparison.
She turned to her younger brother, giving him a polite smile. His eyes were bright, alive and her heart felt light because of it. He was so human that Sansa's heart ached in joy.
"You… You seem different lately," he said, but his face was not concerned nor alarmed, merely curious.
"I know I must seem so," she replies.
Bran, unlike Arya, was not so confrontational of the changes that had happened to Sansa. He left the comment sit in the air for a moment as if he was weighing it.
"Are you alright?"
The question was innocent, from a brother who only saw a drastic change and no reason.
"Yes," Sansa could not lie, not to her family if she could help it. Bran would understand, when he was older, he was the second heir, until Robb had children of his own. Sansa hoped to tell them all, even Rickon, what had occurred to her and Brienne. Who she really was, what had happened to all of them...
But not yet.
She would leave them to their Summer filled dreams yet. They were too young. Not old enough to keep their tongues, not old enough to understand the horror that could befall them all. She, Father and Mother had agreed. They would learn of the truth of what House Stark truly was working for, survival against the South, against the Others, against Winter, once they had turned three and ten, the same age as Jon and Robb had learned of the truth. It would give them time to be children and the fewer people who knew of the future and of Jon's true parentage, the better in Sansa's opinion. As much as she wished to tell her younger siblings, she could not.
"I'm glad Sansa. You seem… Not happy. But… Focused," said Bran, as he struggled to phrase his view of her.
"I am both," she replied, honestly and she gave him a kind smile.
Those blue eyes, light and still human, sparkled.
"You and Arya do not fight. Mother and Father look to you. Robb and Jon don't play as much," his tone was questioning, but not accusing.
Are all us Starks that observant?
"Winter is Coming, Bran. We have to be ready for it. Mother and Father need me for that."
Bran was quiet for a moment, eyes drifting somewhere beyond the horizon, the grip on the reins of his pony tightened slightly.
"Everyone is going to fight over this Winter, aren't they? Every time we go into the Great Hall everyone is so… Angry. And bored of talking. But not you Sansa… You are focused."
Sansa feels… Something. Not quite heavy, but tangible in the air. And it comes from her brother. Her heart speeds and Sansa reaches to touch Bran on the arm. The feeling persists. And Bran reaches to grip her hand. His hold is impossibly delicate against her small hand. His eyes are far away and seem darker, grey instead of blue. Sansa dares not breathe as those eyes turn to her.
Bran smiles.
Its wolvish, savage sort of thing.
Then he blinks. And the air is clear and light. His eyes are innocent and bright blue that matches her mother's, and his savage smile turns into a quizzical one. He looks to their gripped hands, brows furrowed in confusion. Sansa controls her breathing and gives his arm a squeeze. Bran returns the squeeze as she withdrawals, her mouth dry.
"Sorry, did you want something Sansa?"
"No, Bran. I think you were falling asleep in your saddle. I reached out to steady you."
Bran gives an embarrassed grin, his flush emphasizing the scattering of freckles across his face.
"Thank you, Sansa. I'm going to ride a little faster to keep myself awake."
"Do not ride too ahead of our brothers."
He gave her a grin, again, and rode ahead without a word. Sansa stared after him, heart still galloping in her chest. I knew this to be a possibility. What did Arya say, once? Sometimes it was as if she was Nymeria herself in her dreams, and she would know things because of it… Feel things that escaped me. The same thing with Jon with his aunt's dragon and Ghost. It must be magic I lost because of Lady's death. Is magic within the blood of the First Men and the Andals? Will I lose my younger brother to that magic once again? And worst of all… Is there nothing within my power to at least keep some of the boy that wished to be a gallant knight? Sansa shook her head, once and squared her shoulders. All thoughts to bring to her parents, her brothers and Brienne. I am not alone. She allowed whatever worry that had come to her aside. She would assess this with others later. At the moment, it was all for enjoying the Summer morning with most of her siblings.
Sansa stayed at the back of the party for their short ride, silent and enjoying the feel of the sunshine on her skin. It allowed her to observe her family openly and enjoy the sight of them healthy, whole and happy. Brienne would send her looks, but Sansa would wave towards Arya. That was a friendship that had never fully bloomed, and with a less jaded Arya, Sansa knew Brienne would find true kinship. They were so strikingly similar and Sansa was glad for both of them to bond. Arya's true innocence would do Brienne good to recover from the horrors of the Future, and Brienne would make a fine role model for Arya, as honorable as she was.
The boys, she was also pleased to note, were bounding as boys only could, heckling and boasting, and Theon's face looked the most relaxed she had seen in a long time. By the time they had made it to the clearing, the dew of the morning had gone, but it was early yet. It was a small break in the woods, away from the direction that the herd of deer had been traveling to, and was full of fragrant flowers that sparked color. A distant stream gave off a musical babel and Sansa's heartfelt content as she watched her family dismount with such open, relaxed faces. She could not remember if this had ever happened before, or if she had thought it tedious and unimportant before...
They took great pains of laying out the treated canvas for the ground, before placing out softer wool blankets on top, forgoing the furs as the morning was turning out to be a warm one. The standing guards gave out platters and the boys unloaded their saddle bags. Arya and Bran chose that moment to be unhelpful and run around as Sansa and Brienne organized their meal to the best of their ability. The meal was simple, but filing amount of cool porridge, sliced ham and toasted bread, fresh and dried fruit and bread slathered in various jams.
Robb revealed a wineskin, winked at their amused guards who turned a blind eye, and the Reach Gold was passed around to those who could stomach it. Sansa politely declined, as wine was never something she had found particularly appealing, especially in the wake of how much the Lannisters had enjoyed it. Besides, I like my wits about me. Arya dared a sip and spat it out straight into an unsuspecting Theon's face, which caused the older boy to chase the girl around amid their laughter.
He caught Arya by the collar of her riding habit, who was howling in laughter even as Theon threw her over his shoulder, spanking the giggling girl in his displeasure. Brienne tensed, automatically going for her steel sword, but at the shake, if Sansa's head she stood down. The guards, people Sansa did not really remember, shifted uneasily. Their faces were stern, their grips were tight on their spears. One of the guards stepped forward, with a scowl on his face. At the jerk of her head, Robb waved them off, brows furrowed. Theon unaware, or perhaps long used to such behavior, dumped Arya, who was still laughing despite the spanking, unceremoniously on top a laughing Jon.
"That's enough of that," scolded out the elder boy, wagging his finger at her, "You ruined my doublet and wasted good wine, Underfoot."
Arya, red from her giggles, stuck out her tongue. Then she scrambled off of Jon.
"That stuff is foul," she said with all the wisdom and certainty of the child she was.
"You're not old enough to understand," replied Theon, flushing.
"It just makes you stupid."
Theon, realizing he was arguing with a child, rolled his eyes, and picked up the discarded wineskin, which had been kicked by Arya and Theon alike, the white wine spilled onto the grass.
"What a waste," he said, mournfully, but it was clearly meant as a jest.
He checked the skin, but it was all but empty. He sighed and tossed his head back to drink the rest in a deep swig.
"Is that all you brought Robb?" Theon asked as he tossed the empty skin aside.
Robb shrugged.
"It should have been enough for just the morning, Theon."
Theon gave out another sigh, dropping heavily to the ground in slight disgust. A silence fell across them, but it was comfortable as a fire in a hearth. Sansa felt the most relaxed that she had in a very long time, all looming thoughts of Winter and what Bran had done pushed away for the moment.
Winter is Coming… But not yet. Not soon. I can enjoy this.
Or she would if Theon had not opened his fat mouth.
"More people coming to Winterfell, Robb. These Tyrells, from the South, where is you Father putting them all?"
Sansa frowned at the reminder, shifting slightly. Robb shot her a look. At her silence, he answered Theon with his own words. Sansa could see a reliance from her elder brother starting to form, and she was trying to curb it. Much as she liked her opinion and direction being valued, Robb could make solid decisions. He had won every battle he had ever fought in the future- she was only there to make sure he lived to win whatever war would come their way.
"There's is a small party, apparently, as a courtesy to our full castle. Winterfell is large enough. I mean, my grandfather is coming as well."
"We'll never have a moment's peace," grouched Theon, "Northern lords. Southern Lords. What's next, the bleeding King?"
"Father is supposed to be his friend," called Bran, importantly, "Maybe we will see him soon."
"Know anything about the Tyrells?"
"Their words are Grow Strong!"
"Growing Strong, Bran," corrected Sansa, gently, "Their words are 'Growing Strong', their sigel is a golden rose upon a greenfield. They are High Lords of the Reach, field the seven kingdom's greatest army as the most populous Kingdom, a fleet to rival that of King's Landing by their bannerman and have one of the most fertile lands of the Seven Kingdoms. They are a rich house, second only by the Lannisters of the Westerlands."
Bran stared at her blinking, Arya, Theon, doing much the same.
"How'd you know all that?" asked Theon, loudly, brows furrowed.
Sansa gave a delicate sniff.
"Well, I pay attention to my lessons."
Theon stared at her before rolled his eyes.
"I suppose you dream of finding their heir handsome, and a knight? Fancy yourself the future Lady of High Garden, do you, Sansa?"
"I wouldn't expect Lady Sansa to find Lord Wilas appealing," snarled Brienne, tersely. She was not pleased of the coming of the Tyrells, and was only so calm about it because she knew that Loras had recently been sent to squire with Lord Renly, "He is more than ten years her senior… And could never be a knight."
"Why not?" asked Bran, curiously.
"I heard he was a cripple," whispered Arya, "I heard the guards talking."
"Wait. That's right, the heir of High Garden is that idiot that got himself injured his first Tourney," said Theon, a chuckle in his voice.
"It was a horrible accident," corrected Brienne with a snap to her voice, and Sansa realized that her sworn shield had been present. She continued, much to everyone's surprise, "I was a girl when it happened, just your age Lady Arya. The opposite rider, Prince Oberyn Martel knocked him clean off his horse- but his foot caught the stirrup as he fell and his horse fell atop of him. He was just a boy, barely old enough to hold the damn lance… Pardon me, Lady Sansa."
Sansa waved her hand, having heard worse from her brothers and Theon all morning.
"So you've been to a Tourney?" asked Bran, excitedly.
"More than one."
"So you've seen knights?! Met them?"
"My fair share of them, yes, Lord Bran."
At that, both Arya and Bran turned their attention to Brienne. Eyes sparkling, as she told of the knights she knew and how they were. Sansa let their enjoyment flow and settled back to be silent and observe her family once again.
"You can't marry a cripple, Sansa," said Theon, eyes sparkling with humor.
Jon shot her a look. She couldn't quite read it, but she could see his unease and the way he was searching her face for something.
"She can marry who she likes," interrupted Robb, sternly, before he gave her a crooked grin, "As long as he's a Northerner."
She pressed her lips together. She had married twice in her life, both marriages done without her true consent. When all this mess with their bannermen and the Southern lords was settled, she would need to broach the subject with her parents. Father once promised me a good man, a man who was kind, gentle and strong. With all that has happened to me, I know he will grant me an even greater requirement... My own choice in the matter. I will never marry any man that I do not choose for myself.
"I'll marry no one, just to spite you all," she joked, deadpan.
That caused both Theon and Robb to let out a sharp bark of laughter.
"Ha! That I doubt. Sansa Stark not marrying anyone- That is a poor jest, Sansa, did you not say your nameday celebration last that you wished for your parents to betroth you to someone?"
"I was young and foolish."
"You are still ten namedays, Sansa."
She gave a soft, smile.
"I suppose I am."
And isn't that a wonderful thing? To be so young again, my whole life ahead of me?
OKAY. Let's address the Elephant in the room.
Game of Thrones ending, and what that means for The Sweetly Sung Queen-
Nothing.
It means nothing for the fanfiction. I've already stated that anything beyond a certain season is subject to be non-canon for the fic. That was the plan even if the last season wasn't so... Controversial. I always expected to maybe pull some elements for it, but never really follow it to any serious degree. The Sweetly Sung Queen is a blend of both the show and the books, and I am picking and choosing what I want to incorporate. After the end of the show... Well. Let's just say I will be kindly ignoring most of it.
If anyone cares, my opinion was thus:
Why did the showrunners rush this? Like, I don't hate where everyone ended up, except for Dany being... Well, spoiler alert if you somehow have managed to avoid the way the internet has blown up over this: dead via Jon stabbing. Like, I really didn't hate most of it. My girl Sansa, Queen in the North? Good. Brienne is alive? Sweet. Tyrion isn't dead? Coolio. Arya did something important instead of just becoming a cool but superfluous death ninja and killed the Night King? Good for fucking her, 'bout time the girl does something that actually affects other characters. Petyr and Cersei are dead? Awesome. I hope someone dances on their graves. Bran is King of the Six Kingdoms? Erm okay, I guess I can see that if you make it work(I really don't think they made it work). Jon is alive and runs off North of where the Wall used to be? Super. He didn't want to be King anyway, even if he would have been a good one. DANY SON OF A BIT-
But I honestly really didn't hate everything that happened. With the way they were setting up Dany, I saw her death coming, even if I think they handled it with the grace of a monkey banging out Othello on a typewriter. Dany going mad was an ending I didn't like but would have accepted if they had handled it with a little more time. I think I just feel that the journey of season seven through eight that got to those conclusions were where I had the biggest problems. It was clunky and rushed and it should have been a little longer to flesh out certain bits. Winter lasted like two episodes and the Night King did not fucking matter. Like. It was... Anti-climatic. That was the best way I could describe how I felt after the ending. I didn't hate the End, just the way and what it took to get how it Ended if that makes any sense.
Also. Jaime should have killed Cersei. Just. Saying. Not them both getting crushed by things outside their control. Like, Jaime should have fallen trying to get away from the ruble, Cersei should have almost gotten away before Jaime grabbed her ankle and tripped her. Or maybe as Dany is going all Mad Queen on everyone outside, Jaime talks to Cersei who is indifferent to the whole thing, or says something that triggers Jaime and causing the whole strangling bit of her Prophecy before he gets crushed. Poetic justice that was just not there...
Anywho. Yup. That's my two cents of the matter.
Beyond that, I just want to reassure everyone that the Season Eight is not going to show up much if at all in The Sweetly Sung Queen and that the next chapter should be out soonish. Its... 73 % done or so. More or less, I really just have to finish the conclusion and edit it a bit. It is called Flowers, introduces The Tyrells in the North(If anyone is curious, its Ser Garlen, Lord Wilas, Lady Olenna and Lady Margery) and Hoster Tully, who will play a slightly larger part until his death. And its Sansa POV.