Distance
"Distance not only gives nostalgia, but perspective, and maybe objectivity," Robert Morgan.
Sansa Stark knew she should feel more tense, sitting in a sewing circle composed of mostly Southern ladies. In the wake of returning to the past, the horror of her life was affecting her more harshly than ever before. Her issues with live steel had made that evident to her, as her reaction to anyone approaching her too suddenly or without her notice. Perhaps it's my safety being assured that makes me stumble. Now that I am with my family once again, the small fears that I could not show for fear of being seen as weak, or fragile come to the surface… Or perhaps it is my younger body, so unused to being tempered that affects me so. Whatever the cause, sitting amongst the ladies of the Reach, reminded her keenly of her days South of the Neck. The memory of feeling utterly trapped, as she had often felt back then in her horror-filled days South, in the stinking heat of the Red Keep came to her keenly. She could feel the memories of such moments lingering in her mind, threatening to overwhelm her and consume her.
But it is not then, I am not a caged bird, I am a wolf amongst her pack, I have both my sharp teeth and my claws. These people are in my den and I have no reason to fear them.
But Sansa knew that is not entirely true. Much as she had grown, she knew that there was an echo of her when she had been that little bird. Plumage hangs about her, in the form of the pretty, soft silk of her dress she dons. It is the most delicate and childish thing that she has worn since she had awoken in the past, one of the few remnants of the Summer child's life she had taken over. My clipped wings of artful design, her hair is brushed to a shine in careful braids that were Southern in design that she had often donned at Cersei's feet, if less complex, and her high voice is her very practiced birdsong. She can feel herself fall to old, hard beaten in habits. She becomes the dove, partly, with the women and girls in front of her eagerly listening to her mummer's farce. They think me sweet, they think me pliable, without a thought if I can possibly be molding them instead.
These beautifully dressed ladies in their southern silks and pretty, empty smiles, hiding gleaming eyes and mocking pity in their words were curiously a comfort. They were not powerful in truth, and their attempts at swaying her would do little to the woman she was beneath her child's face. She was not stupid enough to dismiss them completely as it was exactly that folly that had lead to the downfall of so many people who thought themselves fit to rule. She did, however, quickly take in their measure and what she assumed they wanted. They are third cousins to Margaery, nearly too old to be unwed nearing their twenties, Daughters of Lady Bethany and Lord Mathis Rowan, not Redwyns in name, but instead of House Rowan, Beth and Jolen, the oldest daughters of the Goldengrove. They must be trying to tie themselves to the formidable Lady Oleana with their dresses, or show how interconnected the Reach is. Evidently part of Willas's inner circle as these women never traveled to King's Landing… Or is it because there was that scandal with their youngest sister? I cannot think of it at the moment, as Lady Margaery mentioned it only in passing...
The Queen of Thorns herself was presiding over these giggling girls with a firm hand as Sansa knew her capable of. The air of a dotting grandmother and elder she had perfected long ago, but the charm of a matronly lady was still as blunt as a cleaver. Sansa watched with a careful eye. The true power of Highgarden seemed almost subdued, to what Sansa remembered. But perhaps it was because she was not undermining Cersei, and instead contending with Sansa's Lady Mother instead. She seemed to hold actual respect for her Mother, which Sansa knew the same could not be said for Lady Olenna's opinion for the current Queen. There had always been genuine bite to her words in what Sansa remembers. Now, Lady Olenna did not simper to her Mother, but spoke with a pleasant tilt. Approval, or respect shone in her sharp eyes. And her barbs were more for her lack of concern with unwarranted social niceties than anything else.
Under Lady Margaery's ever-watching eyes, Sansa could not quite feel comfortable. They were frightfully warm lingering on her, unabashedly staring. And it was in that unpracticed, open way that Margaery looked at her that left her unsettled. I expect the woman I knew as a friend, the Lady with soft brown eyes that were far more calculating than most saw. The girl is too free with herself, her steps hurried, her mirth has to be more genuine, and her flattery is clumsier. Margaery as I knew her has yet to emerge.
It was the flash of their golden roses against green dresses, the azure of the Redwynes, and their rich grape that made her fall to the mask of the little bird. Her claws and fangs hidden behind her soft words and smiles. It was strange to don this armor she had thought abandoned. But a Lady's armor is her courtesy, and I can never completely discard it when it comes to people of the South. Sansa hoped to appear a fraction of the child she had been, if less vocal, and it seemed to have worked on the strangers and familiar faces alike. Lady Margaery chatted away without a care, leading the conversation with vibrancy, the few girls of the North that were not of House Stark that occupied the sewing circle watched the pretty girl of twelve namedays with interest, and delight. The older girls paid more mind to Sansa's mother, and Lady Olenna kept her words to her as well...
Sansa watched them all carefully, nonetheless. But especially Margaery. Sansa can not tell, not yet, if this younger Margaery truly wanted to know her. Her elder counterpart had always been kind to her, as kind as she could be, even when her plans to spirit her away to High Garden had failed… But Sansa knew as long as she held no rose sigil, that this girl would always have the interest of others above her, no matter how strong a friendship was claimed.
"He's a monster."
"Pity."
Even after all this time, Sansa knew not what she felt in retrospect, having been the catalyst in Joffrey's death, in both her words spoken to Tyrells nor holding the jewels within her hair that had caused his suffocation… In the end, Joffery being dead had meant nothing, as everything fell to pieces anyway. All the safety she thought would come with his death, with escaping the capital... She left King's Landing for another prison, another jailer, and Joffrey and Cersei were replaced with Petyr and her Aunt Lysa. Joffrey dying meant nothing, at least to her, even if she had inadvertently swayed the Tyrells to go through with Petyr's scheme.
Oh, she had no doubt Petyr had always planned it, had to plan it in order to sit in that hideous chair that everyone wanted, but it had been her words that had swayed the Tyrells, at least concretely. If she had played the sweet, stupid dove a little longer and trusted no one as she should have, perhaps she would not have ended up in Petyr's careful talons. She had been all too eager to entangle herself in the thorns of House Tyrell, lured in by pretty words and pretty faces, at the chance of escape… But she also knew Joffrey alive for more time would have been a much worse fate to the world at large. And Petyr would have stopped at nothing to spirit her away at that time. She had been a fragile, broken dove, not a disguised She-Wolf, and he coveted her so much as a reflection of the woman he claimed to love.
Would bes and perhaps had no place here, in the past- the present where redemption and living were available to Sansa. And she was able to push down any negativity she felt for these people, who were blameless for crimes yet to be committed.
Crimes she knew were never meant to punish her personally. She was simply a useful pawn, a girl who was the key to the North through succession, through marriage. A girl who knew intimately of the workings of King's Landing from the perspective of an outsider, a victim, a hostage. At the moment, her role had been set back once again. Sansa was a little girl to spill secrets of the possibly scheming North. A possible bride, once again, for Lord Willas. She was no longer a direct, moldable heir to the North, thank the gods, but her marriage was a link to the North nonetheless. One that would give the Reach a stronger bloodline, a link to the prestige of old that the former stewards had yet to achieve. And though the age difference meant more than it had during her time in King's Landing, as she had been technically a woman flowered, she could see that being pushed aside easily enough. It would not be odd for her to be engaged at such a young age, possibly spend time with her future goodfamily as a ward.
Jeyne's glare with her eyes red-rimmed as she clumsily and harshly pulling through her piece of embroidery, a botched piece of what looked like an attempt of a complex rose, reminded her of the hateful glares that would be sent to the broken dove's way. Traitor's blood. Bitch. Girl whose brother was slaughtering the men we loved, brother, father, uncle. Another parallel to her life before her return to Winterfell… She frowned, slightly at the girl who had once been her dearest friend, sitting next to little Beth, another girlhood friend, one she had barely remembered beyond the faintest recollection of being Arya's age and would sweetly toddle after her and Jeyne. The little girl had last been seen at the Dreadfort as far as Sansa could piece together from Theon's wild mumblings. After the death of the Boltons, the following raid at the Keep had yielded little survivors, and Sansa had not even been able to find Beth's body amongst the dead so unrecognizable they had been.
At this point, she was not quite Sansa or Jeyne's friend, having just started her lessons with Septa Mordane as per her father, Ser Rodrik Cassel's instruction. It seemed now that Jeyne had attached herself to her, and Sansa was glad of it. She had made one more attempt to mend the bridge the other day, but Jeyne was severely content on being crossed with her. And while it certainly pained Sansa for both the childhood friend she had lost and the young woman she had been forced to watch rot on the walls of her home, she could not say that she was entirely sure it wasn't for the better. If they were ever forced South again, perhaps Jeyne would stay behind, instead of journeying with her father and be left away from the serpent's pit that was the Capital. To be forced into a whore house in Petyr's schemes, to endure wearing Arya's name, and wed and die at Ramsey's hand before Sansa...
With Arya's leg pressed against her, and as she boredly pulled her plain white thread through her grey fabric, her small hoop in hand, Sansa knew that she had made her choice. My pack. My family must be what I have in my heart and mind first. Winter is Coming. Family, Duty, Honor. Childhood has long passed for me, as had the Summer of my innocence. These children cannot interfere with what must be done. I am sorry, old friends, I can only hope longer lives are acceptable in the wake of my lost friendship. Sansa had long mourned her friends, had long mourned the ease of their friendships. And she cannot deny that there was part of her that missed that still. But she had made her decision.
Brienne, next to her, pressed her trouser covered leg against her own. Just slightly, pressing against the silk of her gown in a movement that seemed unintentional, as she reached over to carefully hold her tea cup. It was small in her large hands, and a childhood of breaking things made her extra wary, Sansa knew from a conversation in the past. Brienne gave a deep sip, sending a look towards Sansa. A silent question, a silent reminder for Sansa not to be lost in her mind. Sansa gave the slightest smile, absently leaning forward herself to sample a lemon tart.
Brienne left her leg pressed against Sansa, as she set down her cup in a clumsily little move, and she returned to the acceptable attempt at her House's sigil, a talent that few knew Brienne possessed. Brienne was acceptable at many of the female pursuits, she was simply better at using the sword on her hip, and had little to no patience for such a thing. She sent another look Sansa's way, and Sansa could not help a soft smile of understanding toward her suffering sworn shield's part. She knew Brienne would rather be in full plate, hovering over her shoulder instead of seated next to her, but at Arya's large, begging wolf eyes, Brienne had accepted the invitation to sit for tea with their Southern guests.
Sansa herself felt calmer from Brienne's familiar reassurance, and with the familiar pull of thread. The meditative ease of repetitive motions Sansa felt herself settle again.
Wherever she found herself, sewing had long been a way to pass the time, to calm her shaking hands, to build herself armor in dresses and favors for whoever she had to sway to her favor for the sake of surviving. Arya-the-woman had laughed at Sansa when she had told her how adorning herself in the clothing of a Southern Lady, of a bastard had been her means of protection. It had not been one of mocking, nor of scorn, but instead of fierce understanding within her laugh. A certain bitterness in her sister's laugh. Once, her grown sister, near the end had mentioned, "If we had been in each other's places, we would have died within days." And Sansa had agreed with a beatific, flat smile, and as she sewed more clothing for the men and women guarding the remains of Winterfell.
"What a lovely, steady hand you have, Lady Sansa," said Margaery, smiling in that sweet way of her's, she inched forward, her own hoop displaying her intricate golden rose, in a way that made it visible to all in the room. For her age, it was beautiful and Sansa would have been incredibly set on learning the pattern, if it had not been one she had already learned from the lady before, "I have never seen such delicate stitches!"
Sansa's own work was an image of Lady, or what Sansa had always imagined Lady to be if she had ever grown to adulthood, a slender, delicate form with soft eyes. She gave the mentally younger girl a smile, sweet and empty, that pleased her nonetheless. A flush of pleasure highlighted the softness of her pretty face, at her smile. Sansa, keenly, pitied the girl in front of her. It was strange for Sansa to acknowledge, but she knew that the girl's ambition would lead her to King's Landing once again. Whether to usurp Cersei as Robert's Queen as Petyr told her had been the intent, or for Joffrey or Tommen or even Lord Renly, Margaery would go to the Capital eventually. Whether or not she would live through it, Sansa knew not.
"Thank you, Lady Margaery, I adore your pattern, I have never seen such full roses," she responded, and she ignored how Arya pulled impatiently on the white thread she was using, a huff escaping her lips even as she rolled her eyes.
It was simple and rough work, Sansa could admit, as Arya wordlessly shoved the hoop towards her, a furrowed brow of confusion and a frown on her face. Sansa simply pointed calmly to how Arya was supposed to make her white wolf, pulling back incorrect stitches easily, and though Septa Mordane was sending her a frown of both confusion and surprise, Sansa was focused on how Arya's face lit up in appreciation and understanding. The grey square cloth was meant as a handkerchief, and it was a gift for Jon, Sansa had no doubt. She had taken to incorporating Ghost in all of his wardrobe that she could get her hands on, declaring all the world to see that he was a part of their family. And it seemed that Arya, as observant as she was, was following suit. She also knew that Jon would be the one who would be the gentlest in receiving Arya's needlework.
"Yes, yes, my roses are nice enough, but the way you are making your wolf- it is as if he will leap off of your silk!" continued Margaery, beaming.
"Sansa has always been artistic and accomplished," mentioned her mother, softly, her hands quick and economical in her knitting.
"So learning a man's art has not lessened her skills as a woman!" Lady Olenna said, a twist of satisfaction to the pull of her mouth. Her sharp eyes were gleaming, and they had turned to look at Sansa in a pleased way.
Sansa remembers, quite vividly, how such a look of approval had pleased her. How such a look of warmth had given her hope. She had wanted to be family with this woman, she had wanted to wear the golden rose and be spirited away to Highgarden and be safe. But she also remembers how easily the woman had tossed her to the lions the second she had been of no use to her.
Her Lady Mother paused in her work, her fair red brows furrowing for a moment. She had been more than displeased at Arya starting her water dancing lessons. She had held her tongue when her husband had warned her beforehand, and refused to compromise, seemingly dismissing it as a lost cause. But when Sansa had taken up her lessons… Her mother had begged for Sansa to cease. Had begged for that one last part of the young Sansa Stark to remain… Or perhaps in her mind, to return her daughter from the stranger she had become.
"Please Sansa-"
"No. I am sorry Mother, but I have to be able to defend myself-"
"This is not like you-"
Frustration was a fair reaction, at this point for Sansa. It was strange, in a reversal from childhood, as it was more often then not that Sansa found herself more at ease with her Father then her Lady Mother. Perhaps it was because her Mother was so set in some ways. So eager to be the one who's council was heard above anyone else's.
"I am not the child who would never dare to lift the sword. I cannot stand aside if a conflict arises. I did so once. I paid the price of watching people I had known all my life die. I could never physically defend myself. I was at the mercy of each of my captors one way or another," Sansa said, firmly, eyes staring directly into her Mother's, "I do not want to do that again. This way I have some means of defense. I will never be excellent, but by no means will I be defenseless as I was before."
A muscle worked in her Mother's jaw.
"Your family will defend you-"
"I have the memories of a time when my own Lord Father could not do so," Sansa did not raise her voice. Did not snarl this. But part of her wished too.
And her Mother flinched back nonetheless.
"Lady Brienne-"
"Cannot be with me all hours of the day. And she has a vow to Arya much as she has to me, and she has no doubt wish to defend all of your children, now that they live again. If I can ease the strain… then I will be happy with myself."
"A man will be reluctant to wed you, Sansa. I only worry for your future."
What good is a man to me!? What future is mine that will cause me to be away from Winterfell!?
Sansa felt her frustration turn, to strife and rage at the course of her Mother's thoughts. She knew her duty as a Lady. She had known it since she had first learned to walk, knew that one day she would be away from her childhood home and marry. I know it all too well now, twice wed, once savaged. Perhaps I will be granted a good, kind, and gentle man. Perhaps I will be able to choose him, as I hope I will. But that is not the future I find myself to have so soon.
But in this plea for this type of future to be the only in her mind, Sansa saw the hints of denial that had plagued Lady Stark through the changes brought to both the household and her children. Especially Sansa. Sansa's own heart ached for her Mother. She had never asked for a daughter from the future. She had no reassurance if any of Sansa's words of the future were true beyond a few things that should have been impossible for Sansa to know, and Brienne's appearance.
But Sansa would not play a part for her family. She was a wolf, she was Sansa Stark, and she knew what lay on the horizon.
"I do not need your approval, Mother, Father has already granted permission. This is yet another thing you must learn to live with. And if a man will not want me for wielding a sword, then he is no man at all. It is the same with Arya."
"Indeed not," said her mother, primly, her lips pressing her lips into a firm, thin line. Her next movement in her needles was rough, and the blanket for baby Rickon would perhaps not be quite as even as a result.
"This must be very strange to you, Lady Stark," continued Lady Olenna, sipping at her rose tea, in a delicate cup of fine porcelain, an import from Yi. And a gift to her Lady Mother, a set that was painted beautifully with delicate Tully trouts, silver and leaping above a red ring as the clay of their sigil and a soft blue river. Some of the pale river's swirls looked suspiciously like roses. Sansa was sure it was a purposeful thing as the set had probably been repainted to appeal to her Mother, "To have your female children be trained in such a brutish skill. Certainly a queer Northern practice! Poor Margery was attempting to have time with Lady Sansa, and the child was otherwise occupied with that Bravossi fellow."
Her Lady Mother's lips thinned, and she disguised the movement poorly by reaching for her own cup and taking a delicate sip of her fragrant tea. Another gift from the Reach. For coming with quite a haste, and seemingly with such a small party, the Tyrells had prepared a lot of gifts for House Stark. Some of them lined the large table in front of them. Fine tarts, made of exotic fruit and prepared by the few servants brought with them, were laid out on the small table between them all. Usually, it would be occupied by spare fabric, thread, and perhaps sometimes cakes and hot cider. Today their Southern guests had gifted their table with delicacies and Southern tastes. If she had been what she had indeed ten, this would have delighted Sansa. The array was impressive, considering the fact that they had limited space and time within the Winterfell's kitchen.
It seemed to Sansa that their sly Southern guest seemed to be attempting to make mid-morning tea a habit for them, perhaps to make tea another thing they imported through the Reach.
"It is a pastime meant for girlhood, Lady Olenna. I am sure Sansa will endeavor to spend more time with our guests," said her Mother in return, sending a pointed look her way.
Sansa's mind flitted, unbidden, to Petyr's most crucial lesson. 'Sometimes when I try to understand a person's motives I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do?'. She frowned, her needle pausing in the malicious thought. She knew her mother was not cruel, nor foolish to misunderstand their swordsmanship lessons. The argument of the other day, once again, was brought to Sansa's mind at the words. She can be impulsive when she is emotional. Did she not take Tyrion hostage with only circumstantial evidence? Release Ser Jaime in desperation for both Arya and I? Sell the King in the North for a bridge? A shiver ran down Sansa's spine. Is this your purpose?
She knew her mother's perspective of her claims were dubious. She followed their father's lead, as a dutiful wife would. And she performed her tasks well, but Sansa knew she was grasping for normalcy. Do you wish for marriage for me, mother? Her mother was not very adept at playing any sort of game, and her forays into Southern ways were unpolished, or perhaps rusty from disuse. Sorrow and anger wared in Sansa at the estimation of her Mother's purpose. Marriage to Lord Willas, perhaps sending me away to sit at the feet of Lady Olenna. Is it to secure my future, strengthen the North through the Realm's most fertile and tilled land, or some desperate plea for something of the girl I was to come back?
"Ah, so your girls will give up this pastime when they are wed?"
"That is not true. I will never give up my sword," said Arya, hotly, hands clenched tightly around her hoop. She said this with the wisdom of a child, and the certainty of one, "I'd rather not get married at all!"
"Arya," her Mother said sharply.
Arya flinched, and Sansa felt her press closer to her, automatically, at the sharp tone. Sansa soothed her sister quietly, pressing her cool fingertips on her delicate wrist. Arya did not sag into her. But she did press closer.
"What Arya meant to say is that not all girls give up the sword upon marriage or reaching adulthood, though some do. It is not a childhood pastime," she responded, cooly, "She meant no offense, Lady Mother, she was simply correcting you. I understand the custom is truly Northern and thus strange to you."
Tully blue eyes looked at her, wide with disbelief. It was never Sansa's habit to disagree with her parents, especially in public, even now. But this was something Sansa would not falter on. Swordsmanship was not something she liked, but it was necessary. Arya would be, arguably once she was trained, one of the best if not the best in Westeros, second to Brienne and Ser Jaime before the loss of his hand. So, Sansa only returned her mother's wide-eyed look with a steady gaze.
"I certainly do not plan on leaving my sword behind," Sansa said deliberately, smiling softly in a disarming way to the Reach Ladies, who hung on her every word, eyes glittering in delight with the tension in the room, "And Lady Margery, you have yet to admire the surrounding hills, would you be opposed with a ride on the morrow? I hear that some of the men are to hunt again, and I wager it will be the best time for a small party to enjoy themselves."
Her mother's lips pursed, her hands tight on her knitting needles.
"I would be delighted, Lady Sansa, and I must insist you call me simply Margery. We will be friends, I am sure-"
"Sansa," her mother said, sharply.
Sansa turned to her, hands still moving, and gave her a serene, poised smile. Her mother blanched. If you wish for a Summer child, you will receive a mockery of one.
"Lady Mother?"
Lips tightened, wobbled slightly on her Mother's fair face. Unbidden, Sansa's mind went to the face of Lady Stoneheart, whose expression had been constantly set in that very same tight line of anger. Sansa felt a chill go down her spine, and for a moment, she saw the remnants of her Mother again, brought back too late. Wrong. As Jon hadn't been. She saw the angry set of her face. The rotted, bloated mess of her once beautiful skin, the jagged cut on her throat, the putrid gape that exposed palid bone and muscle turned black, the angry whistle of her uneven breaths.
The look in her eyes was the same. The same anger, startling potency of it.
She breathed deeply, tightening her hands on her hope for a fraction of a second, before forcing them to relax.
"Invite your brothers for the ride," was what her Mother said, voice sharper still.
Do you wish Robb to be similarly pleased by our Southern guests? He should not demure in the hunt this time, he must bond with his bannermen… And marriage to the Reach is not our best option. The Lords of the North dismissed you, and still do, near two decades since you have married into these lands. We need strong Northern matches for most of us if marriage must happen soon… To connect south of the Neck had been Robb's folly before. Making Margaery the Lady of the North- improbable. Not with her Queenly ambitions nor the lands between the North and the Reach. She could claim herself Queen of the Vale, the Riverlands, the North, and the Reach at best. But why settle for such a gamble? What would she gain from siding with the 'rebels', when she could have the whole of the Seven Kingdoms? It would be a temporary alliance at best like with Renly, more so if the North is forced into Rebellion. What does the Reach care for us, so far away? No. It would be the same path of Renly, Joffrey, and Tommen. Margery will be a Queen of Stags and Lions and Roses until the Dragon Queen crosses the sea once again, or Cersei's madness manifests itself to strike her down.
Sansa inclined her head nonetheless.
"I will invite my own brothers," enthused Margaery, clapping her hands, eyes brightening, "Though I think Garlan will be more inclined to join the men in their hunt. Willas is very fond of leisurely rides, however!"
Sansa felt a sigh in her chest, but she did not express it. Do you wish for me as your goodsister? Is this sweet child the woman I once knew, murdered in the Sept by Cersei? Or is it Lady Olenna's behest that pushes a real child to discover our secrets? Her eyes flickered to Lady Olenna who was drinking her tea with a steady hand, eyes flickering to Lady Stark with a measured glance. Their eyes met and her Lady Mother gave a small smile of approval, which Lady Olenna returned.
Sansa quietly resolved to speak to her Father after the tea.
"I hope you have the right type of cloak," said Arya, sharp eyes lingering on the pretty and much too airy silk gown that Mageary wore with a wrinkled nose, "Summer snows are frequent and silks get ruined much too quickly."
Sansa suppressed a laugh at the poor way Margaery attempted to hide her distaste and upfront at the small slight.
"If not, Lady Margaery is welcome to borrow one of mine. We are of the same height," Sansa said simply.
Lady Margery perked up, a gleam in her eyes.
"I would love to measure the fashion of the Reach with the North. Will it be so much trouble to compare our wardrobe?"
"How unfortunate we cannot compare the fashion of the Stormlands as well," said Lady Jolen, said with sarcastic mirth," Lady Brienne has adapted to the fashion too quickly."
Jeyne laughed loudly, and little Beth giggled timidly. Brienne blinked and flushed. Sansa felt a flash of irritation. Brienne was not truly hurt, too much had happened to her for such a thing to bother her. But a lifetime of being ridiculed did not completely erase her natural reaction to the little embarrassment she did suffer.
"I was never considered fashionable in the Stormlands, my Lady," was Brienne's reply, her voice ever courteous.
"That I can see very clearly," said little Jeyne, loudly, eyes narrowed.
Arya scowled, and it was only Sansa placing a hand on her wrist that kept her seated at the slight against their friend. Brienne was perhaps Arya's first female friend in this life or one that would not be held back by the formality of serving her. It wouldn't do for her little sister to launch herself across the room and start swinging on Jeyne, even in defense of a friend. It would not do for her to lose her temper completely in front of these strangers.
Sansa felt warm if a little odd for the way Arya followed her lead so well. And the exasperated look her young sister sent her. Their relationship was not perfect as much as it pained Sansa still. Arya still expected her to fall back into chastising her harshly. Or to poke and prod at her perceived imperfections as she often had at this age to feel superior over being the strangest of the Starks, of being too Tully. Arya was also too quick to belittle Sansa, too eager to make fun of her actions. It was the beginning, however, of repairing their strained relationship at this early stage. They looked to each other now, and Sansa allowed her sister to be as wild as she liked, within reason.
The fragment of trust between them was growing and starting to flourish.
Though sometimes Sansa was ashamed to find that she would sometimes expect the older Arya. And found herself faltering how to treat the child she remembered, and clung in her darkest days. It was so odd, for Arya to be so… Uncontrolled. She was unruly and quick to anger. Quick to be ready to fight. But it was an innocent unruliness that came from being an excitable child. And Sansa did prefer it to the quiet cool control of her sister in her later memories. The Arya that would only show emotion to Jon, to some extent Sansa, and to the smith, Gendry. I must find him as well, he was loyal, and he was something to Arya. Friend, lover, it matters not to me. He was important, more so than Master Syrio, for he was alive till the end.
"Lady Brienne has adapted to the fashion of Bear island quite well, Jeyne," she said, simply, smiling wide, squeezing Arya's wrist in a quiet plea for patience, "It was a pity Lady Mormont and her daughters were not inclined to join us. After all, I am sure they would be pleased with someone else adopting their House's fashion."
The younger girl flinched and flushed from her forehead into the collar of her dress. Sansa kept her smile soft and innocent. Jeyne had, after all, insulted a noble family of import in the North, or at least that was what Sansa was implying. Lady Jolen kept her composure a fraction better than a child, but she did have the grace to flush slightly, blinking rapidly.
"Oh, well, I am sure you have enough range of fashion for the North, Sansa," said Margaery, brightly, trying to move away from the slight her cousins had made.
Sansa smiled slightly.
"I would hope so. I have made it a recent project to rearrange my wardrobe, taking inspiration from the different regions of the North. I even have trousers in the fashion of Bear island, like Brienne and Arya."
Jeyne scowled further, on the brink of tears, her face red as an apple.
"Would it be too terrible for us to perhaps switch during supper today? I have a dress that's color was not quite right for me- It would look lovely against your hair, Sansa."
And covered in golden roses, no doubt.
"I would be delighted to try it, perhaps I can see you just before supper? I have an appointment with my father, I am afraid."
"Sansa?" said her Lady Mother, surprised, "When did you make such an appointment?"
Sansa did not like to lie, especially to those she loved. But she was good at it. It was a skill she had used far too often not to be.
"Father asked for me just before the tea, Mother, I have delayed to be here with our lovely guests."
Margaery flushed in pleasure, her smile going wider in triumph at the implication that Sansa had sought to be with her above duty. Her Lady Mother's brow furrowed.
"He made no mention of it to me."
"Is that so?"
"Sansa, I will accompany-"
"Nonsense Mother, I know you have wished to speak more with Lady Olenna. Brienne, would it trouble you to accompany me? It is about time I take my leave."
"Of course, Lady Sansa," said Brienne readily, a frown on her face. Her gaze was on her needlework, but Sansa knew her feelings on the matter of any marriage coming either of the Stark's girls's way.
She knows of my own opinions of marrying after suffering through two unwanted ones.
She could feel the tension in Brienne. And Sansa wondered as she looked at her friend how far she would interfere with her Lady Mother. Brienne loved her, Sansa was sure, but she had known Catelyn Stark very little in truth. Only a handful of moons, at best, and she had been at Sansa's side for nearly three years. Seeing her Mother's attempts to manipulate Sansa's and Arya's life to such a detriment must be painful for her dearest friend. She had clung to the memory of Catelyn Stark, and in her darkest moments, Sansa wondered if that esteem had meant more to Brienne than her own feelings for Sansa.
"Can I go with you?" Begged Arya. No doubt, she did not wish to be stuck with their guests for too much longer.
Honestly, Sansa was impressed with her restraint at this point. Their mother stilled, her lips pinching, opened as if about to speak.
"If you wish, Arya," said Sansa first, smoothly with a smile.
"Sansa!"
Sansa kept the placid smile on her face.
"Yes, Lady Mother do you acquire something before we take our leave?"
A wordless expression of anger. Fury and sorrow crossed her mother's face. And Sansa knew it to be her own doing.
And she did not care. Do not think you can make my choices for me.
"If not, farewell, dear guests. It was a pleasure to sit with you."
With a deep curtsy and a flourish of a mocking smile, Sansa left the room, Arya and Brienne at her heels.
She walked evenly, calmly, even as rage was making her heartbeat furiously pound. She kept her expression pleasant, she kept everything inside her even as her mind whirled through all the possibilities of what her Mother would want for her and the rest of her siblings- and if, as she had done with Robb, she would risk undermining her Lord. Would she be capable of doing so? Was it her grief that turned her from thinking? Or has my Lady Mother always been this short-sided-
"Sansa," a small voice, and it was still odd for Sansa to hear Arya sound so young.
"Yes, Arya?" she kept her voice placid, even as she fought her old habit of rubbing her thumb against her palm.
"Why are you so angry?"
Her lips pinched together. And she nearly laughed. If Arya could realize her true emotions, then she was being a poor player right now. What would Lady Olenna have thought of me? Perhaps that I am not ripe for a seed to sow for her precious grandson?
"... Because Mother wishes to marry us off," she said, and she just refrained from snarling this. Arya was not to blame.
Arya blinked, and her brown brows furrowed.
"But… But you've always wanted to get married."
"Not like this," Sansa whispered, "I've always wanted to marry for love. And Mother- Mother wishes for something else."
"Sansa," said Brienne started, her voice cracking, "You cannot really mean this. Your mother-"
"My Mother, Brienne, is acting without the knowledge of her family, nor her Lord Husband, and it is an overstepping in framing me as the perfect bride to Lord Tyrell, and that leaves me furious."
"He's so old!" cried out Arya, suddenly furious for her, "You can't marry him!"
"It isn't just that, Arya. Mother is doing this without our consent- without father's consent. And if she makes a promise we cannot keep it could be dangerous. If she offends a Lord for a match that will not truly be made, it could cut off our trade or something worse."
"Will she make me marry someone too?"
"You are safe for now. It is Robb, Jon, and I, however, that are at the age where a betrothal would be acceptable."
Arya surprised her by crying.
She knew, logically, her sister was only six namedays. But she doesn't think she had seen her sister cry since the day Lady died on the Kingsroad. Sansa stopped in her stride and looked at her face. Grey eyes, their father's eyes, red-rimmed and bright. Her face was long and flushed, and Sansa saw the beautiful hints of the woman she would be in the soft nature of her trembling lips, in the flush of her cheekbones.
"It's not fair. You've just started to like me, you can't just go all the way to the Reach because Mother said so."
Sansa smiled, softly, at her sister's childish logic. She reached forward and pressed her lips against Arya's forehead.
"That's why we must speak to Father. He will, hopefully, be able to rein Mother in. If not- well. I can always run away."
I wouldn't. But perhaps this will calm my sister down.
"I would go with you!" snarled Arya.
"We could go to Tarth, Lady Arya," said Brienne, catching on with Sansa's intent, "I am an expert at dodging unwanted proposals."
Arya's eyes sparkled.
"We should go to Essos instead. I want to see the Titan of Braavos!"
Sansa smiled, even if she shivered at the mention of Braavos, the very place that had molded her sister into a vicious weapon- and one that had never known peace. She knows that Arya had still been fending off other faceless men until Essos had cut off all contact from Westeros.
"Maybe, Arya," she said softly, "Let's go talk to father."
This has been a conversation I have long put off.
Her father was in his solar, not alone, with Jon and Robb at his side. It was the recess of two days from the meeting of the Northern Lords, today and tomorrow, that had allowed the sewing circle to take place. And for her Lord Father to have time to consolidate the affairs agreed upon in the meeting. Sansa had held off this conversation. There were more important affairs than the marriage of relatively young children in the wake of the Second Long Night… But her mother had pushed her hand.
"Father! Mother wishes to marry Sansa into the Reach!" called out Arya, furious, and her tears still lingering on her pale cheeks, "And she means to marry off Robb and Jon too!"
Her father visibly jumped, eyes wide.
Sansa did not suppress her sigh and gave her startled father a grim nod.
"What?" hissed Robb, voice going hard.
He knew of course, of the Red Wedding and the ill promise broken to the Freys. And of her own disastrous marriages in broad strokes. He knew what this meant. He knew what this could bring them. Arguably, this was a sound alliance that one of them could make, but it wasn't something Sansa would advise to do. The Reach was too internally volatile and too eager to change their allegiance with the shifting of the wind. And it was evident that Robb, brilliant young mind that he was, saw the same.
"Sansa, explain," her father said, and his voice was hard and as brittle as ice affected steel.
"It is as Arya said, Father… Mother is making plans for my marriage, as well as Robb's, possibly. Apparently, the Reach is prime for an alliance made in the Sept."
Sansa had been thinking something cruder, but she was, one a lady, and two, Arya need not hear such language and be encouraged. Her father's face went from pale and wane to a furious red.
"What gives your Mother the impression that is anything close to acceptable?"
"... I believe she thinks it will be the best possible marriage for me, given the circumstances."
Ned Stark was many things, Sansa had found, in returning to the past and truly coming to see him as not just her Lord Father, but as a man. He was patient and fair, taciturn and withdrawn, serious and dutiful. And above all, devoted to the people he loved. Above honor. Above duty.
Above practicality.
"That is not for your Mother to decide without my consent. How long has she been pushing you to Lord Willas?"
"I was truly made aware of it today. However, it seems she might have hinted to Lady Olenna how inclined the North could be for this marriage to take place. And that Robb would need a Lady of Winterfell, possibly."
Sansa watched with something of fascination as her father's jaw clenched. It had been long since she had been reminded of King Jon through her father's actions, but in that moment he was just the same.
"Jon, escort Arya to her rooms. Robb, kindly escort your Mother to me."
Quietly, Jon gripped Arya's arm, despite her protests, and left the solar, Robb at his heels. That left Sansa alone with her father and Brienne. She strode forward and sat primly into the chairs in front of his desk. Brienne, as she did, took her place over Sansa's shoulder. Her father fell back into the seat of the Lord of Winterfell and gave a heavy sigh.
"You once told me," Sansa began, quietly, "That you would find a man to marry me, someone brave and gentle and strong. I have yet to meet any man who is not related to me, to be such someone who embodies all of those traits."
The look of sheer devastation on her father's face was hard to see.
"I know little of Lord Tyrell. I know him to be perhaps a fair enough prospect for the North's sake if ill-advised for the Reach's royal ambitions. The fact that Petyr called him boring gives me hope for him to be perhaps the best man of my rank to become my Lord Husband. I know that marriage is my duty as your eldest daughter, and I will not shirk it."
"Sansa-"
"All I ask, father, is that I will be included in the conversation… Included in the choice of my husband. I was not given such a choice before. Give me candidates, give me possibilities, and I will choose amongst them."
"Sansa… That will not be your fate. You are an adult woman in mind. I will not give you a list of men to choose amongst. You will choose your husband, someone brave and gentle and strong, and I will be glad of whoever you chose. Once, my sister was forced to make a choice. She chose illy because she thought perhaps it was her only recourse. I will not force your choice, nor Arya's. My daughters, my children, will have a choice. I will advise you all, but I cannot, will not take the choice away."
Sansa suppressed tears and drew strength when Brienne quietly pressed her hand on Sansa's shoulder.
"Father. I would advise that your children find profitable-"
"The North is not for sale. Its children are not for sale, Sansa. You are not for sale."
Sansa had nearly forgotten what it was like to be protected in such a manner. And she herself had forgotten that indeed, she was not an object for sale. Petyr's lessons had told her that everyone was for sale, in one form or another.
But she knew from looking at her father's face that it was the words of a cruel, pitiful man that only used people.
And that her father was better than that.
She was better than that.
"The North is not for sale," and as she said this, a smile, unbidden and the truest thing that had crossed her face in so many moons turn, formed on her face.
Her father beamed at her in return.
And Sansa's heart was at ease.
AN:
All previous chapters have been edited, my lovelies. I decided to simply binge through all of The Sweetly Sung Queen before I posted this chapter. So. That's done. Feel free to go through the previous chapters if you so wish. But really did not change much beyond some grammatical fixes, doubling back to correct inconsistencies and possibly some additional dialogue and descriptions added throughout. The content of each chapter is more or less the same, so you won't really lose much if you decide not to read the chapters again. I know some people expressed concern over me changing too much going back, but I stated in the author's note posted that I was just editing, not rewriting.
Ah, Catelyn Stark. A well-meaning person who honestly thinks she knows what's best. Sometimes she's right. And sometimes she does really horrifically stupid shit that fucks up a lot of things. And worse, she never acknowledges it when she fucks up.
So. Yeah.
I like the character to some extent. But I am also of the opinion that the saying 'fuck you Catlyn Stark' exists for a reason. And Sansa is having NONE of her nonsense.
And neither is Ned.