Sansa I
The Delusion Begins

There are times that it feels like a dream. That memory, both so visceral and so distant… There are times I forget that I don't belong here.

"Fine work as always. Well done!" Septa Mordane knelt before me to admire the needlework in my hands, temporarily distracting me. She traced a wrinkled finger over the stitching of vines with a smile. "I love the detail that you've managed to get with these flowers," she said.

I smiled back and tried, as best I could, to look modest. "Thank you. But I fear that the colors are off. I ran out of the thread I was using before and the one I'm using now doesn't quite match up."

She shook her head causing the ends of her white headdress to rustle. "No, no. I can barely notice it," she assured me. The old crone smiled again before she stood and retook her seat next to my younger sister, Arya. My Septa was a kind, simple-minded old woman, strict when need be, but ultimately loyal to my family and house Stark. That's what I was called now. Stark. Sansa Stark of Winterfell to be precise.

After meeting Terry and the subsequent events that followed, I found myself reborn into a Tolkienesque fantasy world set in the middle ages. I was born during the long summer in the Northern territory of a country called Westeros at the castle of Winterfell. I was the eldest daughter of Catelyn Tully of house Stark and Eddard Stark Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I had three brothers—Well, four if you counted Jon Snow, albeit no one ever counted a bastard— Robb, Brandon, and Rickon as well as my little sister, Arya.

And yet, I wasn't convinced this was my new life. Or even a new life at all. What if this was just some near-death hallucination like I said before? What if everything that happened after the split second I was shoved in front that train was just simply the neurons in my brain firing one last time? I must say it seemed a far more reasonable explanation than the alternative. I had trouble believing that if the latter were real, there would be no way Terry would put me in a family with such a high social class. I should've been an orphan born in the gutters, living on the streets, and eating pigeons to survive. He said he would put me in dire straights...and yet I have every modern comfort this world would allow.

Alternately, if this world is imaginary, if I am to believe that I am the only real thing that exists here, then all these people, every single one, is nothing more than a projection of my own subconscious. They are shadows. Shadows have no feelings, no emotions. It was the basic idea of how a narcissist views the world. But am I a narcissist? I wasn't convinced I was. And yet…

Arya sat quietly in her chair, frowning over her needlework. Wisps of brown hair fell on her face as she worked. I knew she would rather be anywhere else. Arya detested needlework and any activity that was befitting a daughter of a Lord. Perhaps that's why the little beast and I didn't get along. I excelled in everything she didn't: reading, writing, singing, dancing, and, of course, needlework. There was also the small fact that Arya and I were constantly compared to one another in regard to our looks. Arya was the ugly one, the plain one, the one who took the most after our father, and, according to the insufferable Jeyne Poole, she had a horse face. Contrariwise, I took after our mother. I heard constantly about how I had the infamous Tully coloring—auburn hair and piercing blue eyes—as well as our mother's high cheekbones. People told me I would grow up to be a beautiful Northern Lady. They never said such things to Arya as far as I knew.

I wonder. Is she a shadow? Does she think as I do? Does she feel as I do? If I stabbed her with this needle would she bleed as I do? I do wonder...

Then there is a third theory that I scarcely want to consider. I am speaking in the case of a Chinese philosopher known as Zhuang Zhou. One day, Zhuang Zhou dreamt he was a butterfly. For hours he fluttered to and fro until he forgot he was Zhuang Zhou. When he awoke he was Zhuang Zhou again, but in that moment he wasn't sure. Was he Zhuang Zhou who dreamt he was a butterfly or, perhaps more frightening still, a butterfly who was dreaming about being Zhuang Zhou? Am I dreaming I'm Sansa Stark? Am I Sansa Stark who dreamt I was someone else?

A delusion starts like any other idea, as an egg. Identical on the outside, perfectly formed. From the shell, you'd never guess anything was amiss and you wouldn't know for sure until the egg was cracked open. It's what's inside the egg that matters. Let's go on a little thought experiment here— One day, Joshua P. was taking a leisurely stroll through a park. As he is walking, he trips over a patch of uneven sidewalk. Logically, he should've assumed he tripped because of the sidewalk and yet, for the briefest moment, he considers that his left leg didn't belong to him.

This is how it beings. The leg was clearly Joshua's. It was attached to his body, and when he pricked it, he felt pain. Yet despite that, the idea grew. Such is the power of an idea. With every day that passed, Joshua became more and more certain that this was not his leg. So logically, he decided he didn't want it anymore and went to the hardware store to buy a saw.

You see, an idea alone isn't enough. People have ideas all the time, random thoughts, and theories. Most of them die before they can grow into anything more. For a delusion to thrive, other, more rational ideas have to thus be rejected. Only then can the delusion blossom.

I felt like I was Sansa Stark. This body moved when I wanted it to. I felt pain when I injured it. And yet, much in the case of Joshua P., there was this idea that this was not my body. I am not Sansa Stark, right? Or am I really Sansa Stark? Was I ever anyone else? Is China even a real place? Was Zhuang Zhou a figment of my imagination? Is this world the real one or the fake one? Is Arya the shadow or am I?

These questions were beginning to churn my stomach. I brought my finger up to my mouth and licked it. It tastes like blood. But is it, though?

"Sansa! You're bleeding," Jeyne yelled out stupidly. Obviously, you daft girl.

I popped my finger out of my mouth and smiled at her. "It's only a little prick," I said. "I'm fine." I then showed her my finger that had already stopped its bleeding.

"You should still have that cleaned and bandaged, Lady Sansa," Septa Mordane urged. She probably right. Knowing me, there's a chance that I'd contract some flesh-eating virus and that would be it. Terry wins two to zero.

I put my needlework aside for now. "You're right Septa. Please excuse me, Jeyne, Sister." Arya rolled her eyes when she was addressed.

"You want me to come with you," Jeyne offered.

Please don't. I can't take any more of your incessant prattle. I shook my head, "No, it's alright. You stay here Jeyne," I said.

"Just go already," Arya glared. Mother could stand to discipline her more. Such blatant insolence was bound to get her in trouble one of these days. It's not like she'd take any lessons from me. Shame.

I turned and left the room without another word. As I walked, my thoughts soon returned back to my previous ponderings. Since I am unable to truly determine what is real and what isn't, I'm left with a bit of a dilemma. I don't want to believe that what happened with Terry happened, but to assume otherwise would put me in a state of cognitive dissonance and dissociation. That being said, to remain in such a state would slowly but surely drive me mad. There's a chance that I already could be mad in my thirteen years in this world. Therefore, in order for me to keep my sanity, or whatever remains of it, I have to accept that there was a malevolent higher being that is pulling all the strings.

It wasn't God. Oh, no. Terry wasn't Jesus. He was something else. Someone far more sinister sent to fuck with me. Well, I welcome him to try. You hear me, Terry. Give it your best shot! At the end of this only one of us will be standing. I don't care if I have to burn down the whole world to get to you, I will. I promise you that.