Flowers
"The fairest thing in nature, a flower, still has its roots in earth and manure," D. H. Lawrence.
Sansa fights the grandest urge to fidget as another wheelhouse of the South comes into the courtyard of Winterfell once again.
The entourage of armored men upon horseback, both the parties of the Tyrell and Tully flood past the gate, glidded and glittering figures after the beautiful structure pulled by a dozen or so white horses. Golden roses in a field of green and leaping trouts upon a blue river and a bank of red mud, jumping on rich banners, flowing in the wind along with the lightest of summer snow. The parties, she guesses, must have joined midway on the road to Winterfell. Stumbled across each other, no doubt, on the King's road. The parties seem to move apart, eying each other warily, blues, reds, and golds, greens go through the gates of Winterfell in a clear divide. They split in almost synchronization, riders and carts of supplies pulling away from each other as fast as they can in the large outer courtyard. In their haste, their somewhat stately beauty is lost, the perfection they try to impart is left lesser.
They have no quarrel, yet there is always such a tension in the Houses of the South.
The flashes of armored men lead the front of all the parties, gilded, shining armor that would have had her ecstatic at this age before, a stark contrast to the men of the North that had come before them, with leathers and mail covered in fur and taciturn wool. Dark to garish color. Practicality at war against frivolity. Scaled armor of the Riverlands plays another contrast to the inlaid, decorated plates of the Reach, and cloaks of velvet of silk are draped across or behind elegant parties of the South. Tully mud-red, Tully river blue. Tyrell thorn green, Tyrell pale gold. They all look… Beautiful. As if they had leaped from the songs and stories that had so held her admiration and attention as a girl. But appearances are only one thing. Anything can be outwardly beautiful, much as she pained her to think, Queen Cersei Lannister had only ever been surpassed in beauty by Queen Daenerys. Even King Joffrey had been beautiful.
It just leaves a sour taste on her tongue, to see something that would have had her besotted come to Winterfell, with her cynical mind to kill all enjoyment of it. These knights, these strange men in armor, the words of the Hound come to her mind; All men are killers. Even if she knew the men lined in drapped in mud-red and river-blue would die for her as a slightly removed daughter of the House. And that the Roses had no need to harm her to further their goals quite yet-
They still make her uneasy.
For this is a change. And nearly all of them are strangers or years removed from when she had known them. But what is Sansa to do? She knew changes of the North would affect the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. They are not independent yet. And this is the price. The South crawling their way past the North of the Neck.
Be steady. Be sure. It is the only course we can take. Winter is Coming.
The great Lord of Highgarden Mace has not come, a slight some would say, to send only his crippled heir, his second son, a daughter, and elderly mother, but Sansa acknowledges that it is the very opposite. And is glad if wary for it. Lady Olenna had no doubt had no wish for her foolish son to muck up an important trade agreement. Her eyes flicker from face to face, most unfamiliar, and lock onto one of the few she knows. She has come as well, the girl who wanted to claim her as a sister. Lady Margaery is the only face that is truly familiar… She is a beautiful thing, even as young as two and ten name days, a lively looking thing that shifts uneasily in her saddle. She could almost be bouncing in it, if it not for her own restraint, as it was Margaery is shifting restlessly. Her curls, Sansa notes with some petty satisfaction, are not quite as tame as they would be in a few years' time, pretty enough, but wild by both the Northern wind and that of someone who has yet to find the perfect way to manage one's hair.
Her face is clear and pale with rosy undertones. Her riding attire is expensive and completely impractical silk lined with what seems to be only a little fur of some sort of brown animal, green and vividly decorated with golden roses of her sigil, hand-stitched no doubt by her own steady hand. Her cloak, thick but unlined, is all but useless in wake of the snowfall that had started but a few hours ago, more than likely not treated to be waterproof. The icy crystals line it and the girl looked half-frozen. But even as two and ten, she appears as lively as she always is, that shy and sweet smile on her face as she looks around with polite interest.
"She… Died. I believe," Ser Jaime Lannister is quiet. He is always quiet when he speaks to her.
He looks at her, he always does, straight in the eye. Had she been a weaker person, even just a little, the sight of that horribly familiar green would make her look away. For they are Cersei's eyes. Joffrey's eyes. But she does not. Had he been a more craven man, even just a little, he could not bear to look at her either. For she is his salivation, his restoration in himself… And he came much too late to save her completely. He had come for the innocent girl that had been smuggled out of King's Landing… And come instead to find a hardened woman. She thinks that eats at him, even as he serves so faithfully with Brienne as her guard.
"How?" her voice is not soft, nor does it tremble. It is placid and normal volume as if she were inquiring over something mundane, instead of the death of someone she had once called her friend.
"Cersei. She always hated the girl. Jealous, I'd expect, of how beautiful she was. Of her ease… At everything. The smallfolk, manners. She always raged about her… And I believe she began to suspect about Joffrey's death, or perhaps she was using that as an excuse to justify her need to crush the Tyrells."
The memory of his death is not a happy one. Sansa had been too numb to really rejoice in it. The fact that she had been used as a pawn for it made her furious in retrospect. But now she can rejoice in the lack of feeling that Jaime Lannister has in his voice over the death of his natural son. Love is poison indeed if one cannot even bring to feel anything over the death of a child that is a product of that love. She knows not why, but Sansa feels it as a victory over Cersei Lannister to see Jaime Lannister so indifferent over their son's death.
"One cannot be 'growing strong' if one does not have roots. Margaery was their seed to the throne," she said simply, quietly, "Beloved beyond that. It would be war at her death. Cersei digs herself quite a grave… And the rest of the Tyrells at court?"
Jaime sighs heavily, shifting uncomfortably.
"I know not. With Tommen's death, I hear Cersei grew more unstable. My leave before that more than likely did her no favors in that department. If any survived, it was because they fled."
Sansa's heart beats fast. She knew not Margaery's real fate, beyond vagueness from Jaime Lannister, something she found dubious at best, even how he had changed and even on how he had wanted salvation and restored honor in the face of the Second Long Night. But there is something heartening in seeing the girl alive. Margaery had tried to help her, in her own way, even it would have benefited her family above helping Sansa. The fact that she had thrown Sansa to the lions just moments later- She does not think that it had been done with personal malice. But practicality, and though Sansa knew not how deeply Margery had been involved in the King's poisoning, she knew it had not been a plot hatched personally by the girl. I can thank that to Petyr and Lady Olenna. How much you confessed to me, in the end, Petyr. How much you thought me yours. Behind her, Brienne shifts uneasily, walking forward, pressing her full lips to Sansa's ear.
"My queen," it is barely a whisper, but it is an encouragement. Sansa would never be Queen again, but it was a title that reminded of what she once was, and she cannot begrudge Brienne's use of it.
For Sansa takes strength in that, releasing a breath she hadn't known she held in a soft huff. She gives her sworn shield but a glance, nodding slightly in thanks. Her hands, hidden in her cloak reach out to touch against her friend's hand. Brienne has never been a creature of great slyness nor gyle- she beams in response before she steps back at the further approach of the two parties. Their fingertips part after one last squeeze.
Her eyes flicker away from the Maid of Tarth, to the man she remembers in the barest of recollections. She had met him once, or twice, perhaps, before her turn in King's Landing. Vague memories of him come to her mind, of praise for her delicate nature, for her sweet smile and her appearance so like her mother at that age. Hoster Tully is not quite old, as she would think at fifty, but he seems… Weathered. It is the best way she can really think to describe him.
He is a weathered and tired man, wrinkles, while not deep, line his mouth, his eyes, his thick, calloused hands. He shares her mother's eyes, her rosy complexion, and that shock of red hair, but they seem to be wane, dull and flat in comparison. Lesser by stress and what is possibly the early stages of his coming and fatal illness. He still stands tall, broad, and slightly fat, the young man he once was implied in the way he easily gets off his tall horse. The current Lord of the Riverlands is yet not bedridden, as he would in a few years' time, being so ready to meet his goodson on trade negotiations, not rendered weak quite yet. But his countenance is not one of vitality or long life. It is no wonder that this man would die in the wake of his illness and leave the Riverlands to her untested Uncle.
She is distracted from her grandfather when she notices one of the armored clad Tyrells, helm with a brilliant green plume but otherwise indistinguishable from the standard armor of the party, go to aid one of the men at the head of Tyrell's party, just ahead of Lady Margery. She blinks as the young man, roughly her mental age, comes down from the saddle, leaning heavily against the horse. One leg is bent, slightly, and the young man makes a point of not placing any weight upon it until his unbent leg is firmly on the ground. It is ringed with a strange brace of metal, bronze, and gold. The knight hands him a cane, a gorgeous thing of fine golden wood, tipped with actual gold and intricately carved with small roses, lined with gold leaf.
Willas Tyrell. The heir of Highgarden, she thinks her lips twitching away from her polite smile into a frown, My would-be husband. I had many of those. He is not as beautiful as Margaery nor Loras, is the first thing she notes. The second is that he is a tall, slender man, with brown hair that matches his siblings, though his curls are shorn close to his head, and the eyes that go to their party are more gold than doey brown, sharp and somewhat narrowed. He has no beard on his finely sculpted face but is slightly tanned. He is handsome, despite not being as fair as his siblings, she notes, somewhat amused. She would not have been opposed to the marriage to this man if she had ever seen him.
But, I wonder, who are you like, in true character? Are you monstrous like Joffrey and Ramsey, or falsely sweet like Harry, or cool and calculating as Petyr? Or perhaps even more rare a creature, and have some gentleness as did Tyrion and the Hound?
The door of the wheelhouse of the Tyrell is tossed open, almost violently, and she feels her back tense as the Queen of Thorns is aided down from the steps by Lady Margaery, who almost inelegantly dashed for the door. They move together as one, arm and arm, some selective ladies of Highgarden leaving behind the old woman, like colorful birds of Essos fleeing their cages. Lord Willas falls into step next to his sister and his grandmother. The knight falls into step on the other side of Lady Olenna. Ser Garlan, then, spouse to Lady Leonette Fossoway… How different from Loras, with so little decoration on his armor! His armor is almost plain, save for the imprint of two Tyrell golden roses on his breastplate, and the brilliant plume of green on his helm. His cloak is a practical dark green, and unlike most, seems to have done well against the summer snow.
The ladies and the few knights fall in line behind the main branch of the Tyrells. Cousins, no doubt, or perhaps prominent bannerman's children who were fostering at Lady Olenna's feet. For the Tyrell's the party was indeed small, as Robb had told Theon, only three ladies of noble birth and three knights beyond Ser Garlan. It was subdued, a party of ten. Their soldiers were a single platoon, and Sansa believed that many of those men were to be directed to sleep outside in tents, as the keep barely had enough room for Lords and Ladies, let alone their men.
The roses moved in sync towards them, as a cohesive unit, a strong contrast to the lone figure that her grandfather creates as he makes his way towards the assembled House of Stark.
Roses do indeed grow strong. They are together, ready, and they come plotting. How tedious.
"Welcome," it is her father that speaks, and Sansa felt uneasy as these guests look at them all with undisguised interest. "To Winterfell, House Tully, House Tyrell."
"Let's get the salt and the bread over with," is Lady Olenna's helpful grouch, voice sharp if pleasant, "This cold could kill me and there's too much to be done."
As always Sansa feels a sense of both respect and hesitation in her at the character of the wise, shrewd old woman. Her inclination to a lack of prosperity always unsettled her. And that seemed not to have changed.
"My lady, we are to partake it inside. It is our wish to simply greet you within the courtyard."
"Queer to want to freeze yourselves for our sake. For Hoster, I understand, but for us, we know each other not, boy."
"It's not that cold," and Sansa almost wishes to groan as Arya speaks up, brows furrowed.
Love her sister as she might, she finds it most confronting that despite everything, Arya had the infuriating knack for Sansa to want to throttle her at her social gaffes.
Lady Olenna's keen gaze moves straight to her sister. Something in Sansa wants to step in front of her, but she reframes. Olenna Tyrell is not harmless. She is not benign. But neither is she needlessly cruel. Arya is safe. For now. It is with that in mind that she gives a slight shake of her head, rolling her eyes for her effect at Brienne, who looked as if she wished to step forward. Her sworn shield gives a slight nod as well, an uneasy, but true smile appearing on her lips at her silent command.
"Oh?"
"It's only summer snow. That's not cold. Winter is Coming- but it isn't here."
Amusement flickers across the wizened face of the Queen of Thorns. Enough that the old woman actually smiles at Arya.
"Hmph. So the Starks can bear this? Wonders how this horrible land can become so cold in what you call summer. No wonder you Northerners want to undermine trade negotiations that have been in place since before your birth girl if this is only summer."
A cold sweat starts at the back of Sansa's back.
You come to see to the affairs of the Reach- that has never been in question- but what else do you seek to find in Winterfell's walls? Southerners are a paranoid lot. Do you think insurrection? Do you think the ever-loyal friend of Robert Baratheon has thought himself better suited to be King? What do you expect to find here in Winterfell? Or perhaps even more horrible, one of you remembers the Future that could occur.
"Please, grandmother-" starts Lord Willas in a pleasantly deep voice, but of course, the Lady Olenna is not deterred by anyone.
"Well. Let's introduce ourselves inside, and then we can settle in as your most unwanted guests. We can get settled and adorn in your Solar on the morrow, Lord Stark, or perhaps somewhere larger if all the other Lords of the North are determined to be here. We have not come all the way from the Reach to only exchange niceties."
Sansa bites back an annoyed sigh as they move into the warmer walls of the inside of Winterfell. The Southerners, both her grandfather and those of the Reach immediately begin to remove their cloaks, letting out surprised exclamations of the warmth that Winterfell provides. Her father greets her grandfather quietly, before extending a hand to them all. Lady Margaery, she notes, is eying both Robb and Jon who stand next to each other, switching between her handsome brothers with curious, eager eyes. And then her eyes land on her.
Another sweet smile blooms, her cheeks, red from the lingering effects of the cold, emphasize her eager and sweet expression.
Sansa returns the smile. It is not completely warm, but she tries her best as she tries to ignore the memories that this young girl was a part of.
We could have been sisters. Would have been if her schemes had just been swifter. Would you have used me then, had I been the wife of your brother? Or would I have been safe, in High Garden, until I sprouted roses from between my legs for both an heir and for Winterfell?
"My wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, Lord Willas, Lady Olenna."
"You've aged well, Catelyn Stark. Five children have yet to ruin you, I see. What good news for your daughters' prospects."
Her mother blinks, expression tight at the comment. Her father, forewarned of Lady Olenna, continues the interactions with a fraction of a pause. The only indication that the comment irked him was the way his jaw clenched minutely.
"My son and heir, Robb."
"I would think you only Tully boy, were it not for that pale skin and that long nose. Handsome are you not? It will serve well to enchant the ladies I have brought with me. What fun for you and them."
Robb flushes as the ladies behind the Tyrells titter in amusement. Vividly, ducking his head at Lady Olenna's comment.
"My son, Jon."
"Ah. Another handsome fellow. Pity you are only a natural son. But be pleasant to my ladies as well, by all means."
Jon, as Robb, flushes, but Sansa sees the clench in his jaw at the comment of 'natural' son.
"My eldest daughter, Sansa."
Sansa smiles again, dipping into a perfect curtsy, Lady Olenna's eyes, oh her eyes narrow in slight calculation. A smile appears on her face at the same moment. Sweat, cool and unrelenting drip down Sansa's back.
"What a pretty thing. How old are you girl?"
Sansa just stops herself from licking her lips. She keeps her perfect curtsy, polite, and somewhat deep.
"I am ten namedays, my Lady."
"Oh, what a sweet voice you have. Just a little younger than. You will do nicely for a playmate for my granddaughter."
She looks away from her, towards her father. In a second, she has settled a roll for Sansa and dismissed her. Sansa can see the way she looks at her that, can see that the Queen of Thorns has plans for her.
A friend for Margaery, so much easier to spy upon us Starks through the view of a child. A possible spouse for Willas- I am one of the few unmarried daughters of the Wardens if the only one beside Arya. A candidate to eliminate as I have a claim of betrothal to the Crown. Father and King Robert are long-time friends, and Joffrey is only a year older than myself. A stronger connection then the Reach who fought for the Mad King. I wonder if you were behind the plot to have Cersei and her brood eliminated and Margaery as a pretty offering in her stead... Or was that just foolish thought of Renly and Sir Loras, as Petyr implied?
"I would be delighted. Poor host I would be if I would deny your request, my Lady," she speaks quietly, but firmly, voice a sweet as chirp as could be. She lifts herself in the same moment, chin parallel to the ground, "But I am afraid that I have so many duties in the wake of so many guests within the Keep. I will, of course, endeavor to do my best to accompany her around those duties."
The Queen of Thorns, ready to dismiss her, after her statement, stops and looks away from her father. Sansa smiles, prettily, the mask that had been wavering in the wake of emotion, forms perfectly. The sweat on her back stops, as does her unease. I am what I am. And no sudden change of my flesh can ever take that from me. Sansa was giving herself a reason to ignore Lady Margaery if she asked a question or inquired over a subject that could expose something best-kept secret. Eyes, firm and direct look at her, and the confidence of what she appears to be settles on Sansa's shoulders. She gives Lady Olenna the innocent young girl that is besotted with her parents, that is duty-bound to do what is asked of her, and that has little time to cater to the needs of every guest with the castle so full.
"Oh, well," the Queen of Thrones is never unsettled, and she leaned against her cane with a sweet smile that is all teeth, "To be left with responsibilities at such a young age. You must be quite dutiful to your parents."
Sansa keeps her smile and dips her head.
"It is an honor to be of use to my parents in as little as I can aide them."
Lady Olenna Tyrell keeps her smile but shifts a brow so high.
"And is this how things are in the North," she all but barks, turning to her father once again, "Children related to duties that take all their time? Is no enjoyment allowed to them?"
"My children understand the need to do what is needed for the sake of the House. Their words are Winter is Coming, but they also know Family, Duty, and Honor."
Roses may have their thorns. But wolves have teeth and claws.
Lady Olenna looks somewhat surprised, but she does not lose her smile.
"How good of them. Well, my bones are old and tired, and I see my grandchildren are in no better state, despite all their youth. Finish your introductions, we shall do ours, and we will adjourn to whatever chambers you have left for us, Eddard Stark. Near the Ravens, I wager, with all its smell and pomp! We will take it, we cannot be choosy with such important matters to discuss."
Arya is frowning but gives an acceptable curtsy when their Father gestures to her.
"My second daughter, Arya."
"Yes, yes. The one that knows the difference between Summer and Winter. Did you forget the difference between trousers and a skirt, girl?" Lady Olenna is looking at Arya's thin legs clad indeed in one of her finer breeches.
Arya gives the Lady a stronger frown.
"Of course not-" Sansa gives her sister a careful nudge with her shoulder, "My Lady. I like them best, is all. Skirts get in the way of my sword lessons."
Sansa suppresses a sigh as Lady Olenna's brows lifted high on her wrinkled face.
"So it is true of Northern woman- you hold the swords as surely as your men! And you lady of so many responsibilities, do you play with swords as well?" She turned her gaze to Sansa again.
Sansa debates for a moment before she gave a careful nod.
"Yes Milady, but unlike Arya, I have little grace with it. It is a serviceable exercise if anything."
Let the world know. I could hide my use of the sword, but it will serve no real purpose. Enough people, even if they knew I could wield the sword, would assume I could only do so to the extent of holding the thing upright. Many people underestimate Brienne, no matter how obvious a warrior she is. What will they think of I, the pretty thing with such thin limbs?
"Even the one like a lady uses the sword!"
"It is a queer practice," said Lady Margery, voice soft and pretty. She sent Sansa a wide smile, "But it sounds as if it will be enjoyable, Grandmother."
Lady Olenna gave a laugh.
"Will you beg your father for a sword, little rose? He will think he has four sons, instead of three!"
"If she wishes for lessons," came the voice of Ser Garlan, as he removed his helm, "Perhaps you should squire for me, sweet sister! I am in need of a good one."
He was handsome, as Sansa had long suspected. But he was different from the sweet slender look of Ser Loras. He was broad and heavily tanned, and his nose was crooked, as if it had been broken. But his smile, wide, was as soft and shy as his sister's underneath his neat beard. He shared the amber eyes of his elder brother, and Ser Loras's beautiful full curls. She envied how even spending hours within the helm, his chestnut curls were in reasonable order.
"You only wish to order me about."
"Perhaps you will learn than to be silent in formal introductions! Pardon my excitable grandchildren, Lord Stark," remarked Lady Olenna with amusement.
Her father took that as his que and waved his hand.
"I have six children, Lady Olenna. I am as surprised as much as you that they have been so well behaved. My third son, Brandon, and my fourth son is Rickon."
At that Lady Olenna gave Bran and Rickon a wrinkled smile. It was the closest to sweetness Sansa had ever seen in her face.
"And what sweet lads they are."
"I have my Ward, Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, and the Lady Brienne Tarth of the Sapphire Isle with us as well."
Lady Olenna and the Tyrells looked at the additional members of the Household and raised her fine brow once again.
"A yes, the prize of the Greyjoy Rebellion. You look well boy, for a hostage!"
Theon grimaced and stumbled his way through his bow. His face went pinched for a fraction of a second before he forced a careless smile. It was Robb's turn to speak out of turn. He turned red in the face and placed a hand on Theon's arm in reassurance.
"He is not a hostage to us," he said fiercely, "But another brother."
Theon blinked and looked at Robb before he glanced at the hand on his arm. Lady Olenna hummed.
"Indeed. And what of you Lady Brienne, what brings a Stormlander so far north, in such fine armor for a woman, have you adapted to Northern customs so quickly?"
Brienne flushed.
"I am a friend of the household by chance, my Lady. And I wish to be of service to Lord Stark's daughters… As their protector."
A knowing look crossed Lady Olenna's face. She turned sharply towards Sansa's father. For a fraction of a second, she could see sympathy in those sharp eyes. Without words, Sansa knew Lady Olenna had come to the conclusion many would over the sword lessons and Brienne acting as a sworn-shield.
That Aunt Lyanna's fate is the reason for the oddity. An overprotective father would explain Brienne's continued place with me, with us and perhaps will give Arya a better chance to behave as she likes. In this lifetime, I will give my sister the means to be herself without censure.
"A prosperous house indeed. I suppose that means it is our turn- Go on Willas. Tell these strangers who have come to bother them, I am sure they are bursting with curiosity, instead of wishing they could greet their grandfather with affection."
The heir to High Garden gave his grandmother a fond if slightly exasperated smile.
"Forgive my grandmother, Lady Olenna's honesty, House Stark. She is known as the Queen of Thorns, and only because she is so ready to provide her opinion, as rude or unwanted or inappropriate it can be. I am indeed her grandson, Lord Willas Tyrell, heir to High Garden."
He gave a rather elegant bow, for all that his leg bothered him. He rose with the same elegance, and gave a smile that was much sharper than his siblings'. He extended a hand to Ser Garlan.
"My younger brother, Ser Garlan."
Ser Garlan gave an exaggerated flourish with the arm that did not hold his helm and bent as far as he could muster in his full armor. He sent Bran, who looked at him with a wide-eyed admiring look, a wink. Lord Wilas rolled his eyes.
"And the beautiful girl to the fool's left is my most beloved sister, the Lady Margery."
Lady Margery gave a wide, sweet smile again, and bounced in an eager if too energetic curtsy. Sansa gave her a smile in return and waited patiently for the rest of the Ladies and Knights to be introduced. All cousins, Sansa realized, four lesser Tyrells and two Redwynes. Sansa realized that they were not part of the party to come to King's Landing, all those years ago. The only change is Lord Willas and Ser Garlen- their friends, or confidences? Sansa had expected Lady Leonette, at the least, as the future wife of Ser Garlan, but she suspected the engagement had either prevented her coming, or she had yet to be added to the fold of the Tyrells.
"That's enough of that. I am old and tired and will retire until tomorrow. We will talk then, Lord Stark, about what is it exactly you and the North want for Winter. Come along children, aid an old woman and rest yourselves- pretending all that sailing and riding has not exhausted you to your bones. Foolishness will not impress our hosts."
The entire Tyrell party bid polite, if overly familiar goodbyes, and once again, Sansa felt something ease as they left their presence, guided by servants to the overcrowded guest chambers.
"Cat," said a warm, deep voice.
Sansa turned to see her mother rush into her father's embrace. She held tightly, and in that moment Sansa knew that her mother wished to tell her father everything- About Sansa, about Aunt Lysa and Petyr. But beyond lingering in her father's comforting embrace, her mother said nothing. She'll keep her promise, father made her swear on the grave of her mother over keeping my affairs to only those who held the blood of Stark. She pulled back, holding his hands in her's.
"It is good to see you father," she muttered, warmly, and Sansa heard the emotional exhaustion in her mother's voice.
"My Cat, you have no idea what good it does me to see you," wane blue eyes searched her mother's face, "But you look tired. Have you been working her too hard, Lord Stark, with Winter coming?" her grandfather turned to address her Father, his great scraggly red brow furrowed.
"No more then I worked myself, Lord Hoster."
Her grandfather indeed took in her father's exhausted appearance and made an irritating hum in the back of his throat.
"You look as old as me. This Winter has you Northerners scared witless, I see."
Her father gave a grim nod, ignoring the jest, to be honest.
"More than you can know, Lord Hoster. More than you can know."
Her grandfather searched her father's face for a moment before he gave a careful nod.
"We will do our best to sort this out, Ned. If you say Winter will be bad, it will be bad. You are not known for theatrics nor duplicity. The Riverlands supports you- within reason of course."
"Of course, Lord Hoster."
"Now. I have learned all you names good and proper because of your lengthy introductions, now I want my grandchildren to come properly greet their grandfather."
Jon stepped back, standing with Brienne and Theon as they stepped forward to embrace and greet their grandfather properly. Sansa herself gave him a careful kiss on the cheek, wondering at the type of man willing to trick his own daughter into drinking moon tea for the sake of personal honor. She also wonders if he had let her Aunt Lysa marry Petyr the moment she had become with child, how the world would have changed in response… Sansa knew for certain that Petyr would have crawled his way up anyway, though perhaps Aunt Lysa's life would have ended at a much sooner point.
I must do something about Petyr. His ambition will never end, and with his obsession with Mother, he will always try to drag the North into the South. But who can I trust to kill him? Brienne would never leave me and it would pain her to play assassin...
"You look much like your Mother did, at your age, little Sansa," said Hoster, warmly, as she pulled back from his grandfatherly embrace.
Sansa gave a careful smile. Such comments had long since held little appeal to her. Too much pain had been brought on her for her resemblance to her mother.
"Then I have much to look forward to, Grandfather if I look anything like Mother does."
He gave a warm smile in return.
"That you do. She looks much more like a trout, then a wolf," he called to her mother with obvious approval, "Though her playing with swords- She and her sister are true ladies, Cat, you should cease to indulge them on such a whim. They'll never get married with a sword on their belts!"
Arya snorted.
"I am not a Lady. Besides, water-dancing is fun, right Sansa?" protested her sister, before turning to her.
Her eyes were warm but pleaded acceptance. Sansa sought to return it with a large smile and by placing a hand on her sister's arm.
"It would be more fun if I could get to be half as good as you, Arya."
Arya beamed, almost glowed at the compliment.
"It is perfectly normal for a lady to have a sword," said Robb with a sniff, "I ask you to tell Lady Mormont to leave her sword down, and see what reaction you get."
Her grandfather sighed.
"I am telling you, a Lady of the South does not play with swords."
"Well, Sansa and Arya are of the North," countered her father, with a strain in his voice, "And I was the one that chose for the girls to learn."
Her grandfather stared at her father.
"I see. Well, you will invite interesting good-sons, then. Those who don't care for their Lady's bad habits."
"Well, I am never getting married," declared Arya with a stomp of her foot, "Boys are stupid."
At that, Sansa could only laugh as her Mother gave a slight indignant noise in the back of her throat.
"May we not talk of marriage for my children? Sansa and Arya are barely six and ten together, and it is much too soon for either of them."
Her grandfather gave a sympathetic hum.
"Cat was barely three and ten namedays when I promised her to Brandon. I understand your reluctance Ned, but such things come eventually. Children grow. Children leave home. Especially the daughters."
Sansa had begun to learn her father's expressions in the passing moons. Before, her father had always seemed so mysterious to her. So far removed from what she could understand. But with the perspective of grief, and the way she had learned to observe people in the Royal Court, and even coming to be so attuned to Jon who was so much like Father- well. Sansa saw something of a firece pain and raw determination cross her father's features.
"Not my children. Not soon."
Before, as a Summer child, such words have filled Sansa with dread and resentment of being trapped in the North. As the woman who died in Winter-
Sansa felt such a lightness.
Father will let me choose… Let me stay if I so chose it.
And Sansa had never loved her Father more.
AN:
EDIT: 06 March 2022
Welp. I told you I was almost done with this chapter. I would have posted this yesterday, but my internet has been really wonky lately and I don't have access to the Doc Manager on the mobile version of fanfiction, which is where I do most of my editing(thank you Grammarly). The Tyrells... The Tyrells I have mixed feelings for. I don't think their bad people, but they are very ready to throw anyone underneath the bus the second it seems to get ugly. Personally, I like their characters but in real life, I would try to avoid them. They are really back stabby, and they do so with smiles on their faces. They don't have evil or ill intentions, but their plans are made with 'at all cost mentality'. And as a lovely reader pointed out, their plans rarely actually are fulfilled.
Sansa I think is much more forgiving than she tries to portray herself, and would forgive their future actions as stuff that wasn't made as a personal act on the Tyrells part(Petyr on the other hand, wooh, totally personal) but rather just opportunistic. She doesn't hold a grudge against them(she saving that for the Lannisters and Petyr) but that doesn't mean she trusts them to any degree. She is cautious right now, and just trying to get a feel for what they want with the North, and how she can make them drop or divert those plans if they are too harmful and how to have the North use the Reach to their best advantage. They are the largest produce producer in Westeros, so that's a must for stockpiling, and she rather has the Reach on their side than not, even if she wants generally nothing to do with the South if she can help it. It's just a necessary evil for her.
The next chapter, Flying, is nearly done too (79%), but not nearly as long as this chapter. Expect that sometime next week as well, before the chapter after that will be more or less be posted in my usual time frame, which is infrequent.