Despite the way she was born, Sansa was not a silver-bellied trout, flopping by the riverbank. She was a Tully in her coloring only. Despite the words others said, she was not likened to be a "little bird" or "little dove" either. Despite the blackened hair she wears now, she is not the mockingbird bastard daughter, Alayne. She had sewn feathers into her gown, but despite that, it did not mean Sansa was a bird to fly off onto her wings.
As she stood but a few inches away from Littlefinger, him grasping her shoulders, she wondered who she was at this moment as well. Sansa was dressed in the same coat as Littlefinger; the dark fur trim, too elegant to be something of Northern design, running along the outside all the way up to her collar, closing around her throat. Was she him? He shook her body to emphasize a point, trying to draw her into him. Was she still someone's pawn?
"Stop being a bystander. Do you hear me?" His hand came to her cheek. Sansa tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. She looked at him. Her eyes trained on his mouth, watching it move to shape words; her gaze flinting up towards his eyes, despite the heaviness in her own to do so, seemingly weighted down by the puffy bags that had grown under them. The gray-green of his eyes boring into the vivid blue ones of hers. Sansa tried to calm her breathing, to bring attention away from the thumb moving across her cheek and focus on not letting the tears come that threatened to escape. When Sansa thought she had succeeded, when she returned focus on his words, Littlefinger left her with a fatherly kiss to the forehead and returned to the Eyrie's men standing by on their horses.
Moat Cailin was an absolute and utter eyesore. As she took a few more calming breaths, Sansa stared at it with contempt, gaze hardened, focused more then it had been before. She hated it. It was ugly, it was dreary and so she directed her feelings onto it instead of those who led her by the chain or onto herself for allowing others to do so. Steeling herself, Sansa let Moat Cailin hold her only a moment longer before she turned towards where everyone else was gathered. The young girl who had never been fond of horse-riding before, unlike her younger sister, unlike Arya Horseface, gracefully seated herself atop the silver mare, ignoring the knight steadying her horse and the crinkling edges by Littlefinger's eyes. Sansa would only look forward as she drove the heels of her boot into the flank of the horse.
To be married. Again. To be married again and this time to the traitorous family who murdered her own brother at a wedding. To the naturalized bastard son of the traitor who killed her brother, who as good as slit her mother's throat. Margaery did not have nearly a hard a game to play. She scorned the girl who had somehow gotten off easy. Although, Margaery was perhaps just a girl of summer. That much could be true, never having to brace herself against the true, harsh winds of winter. It was fine to be a soft girl down south, down in the Reach, down in the Capital. To sing sweetly like a lovely little bird, to play coy games and speak in simpering voices. Margaery surely has never had any hardships. I doubt even she would know what to do in a position as such.
"Avenge them." Petyr Baelish had said. He hadn't offered her any way to do so. Just two words, a thought, planting the seed within her mind. Was she good enough a player to win this game? Cunning enough by her own right to follow through on the directive given to her? For once, there would not be someone beside her this time, whispering words in her ear to move by or growling support from behind. This was entirely Sansa's game. Her move.
"Open gate!"
Not a second after it had been shouted, did the heavy, wooden doors of the East Gate move inward and welcome the Eyrie party. The horses stamped in, past the hooks hanging from below the entryway, to where Bolton men stood in waiting to receive Littlefinger and Sansa's horses. Just like the day the Starks had stood to accept the royal family, so did the Boltons. Everyone who seemingly lived within the walls of Winterfell waited for their arrival. It's ugly. Dreary were these walls, the usual life that played in the courtyard shadowed. As much as Sansa wanted to take everything in, to see all of her home, with a passing glance she covered it all. There wasn't much left to see. The Boltons had built some of it back up, but not to it's former glory. It didn't look much like her home anymore.
As hard as she was trying to spy everything she could of Winterfell, Sansa equally tried to avoid looking towards the three waiting to greet her. Littlefinger was quick to get off his horse, but Sansa stilled for as long a moment as it would be allowed to her. She moved aside her coat thoughtfully, stepped down with additional caution, meticulously removed her gloves, hands greeting the chill of home and moving against each other to rub heat back into them and distract her attention. When she could no longer delay, Littlefinger guided her towards the man that had moved forward to greet her. Always one to play the first move.
"Lady Sansa, welcome." Such a quiet voice. Colder then the winter winds that chilled her fingertips, softer then a first snow. A quiet voice commanded silence to an effect that whatever little noise there had been in the courtyard had now abruptly stopped. Roose Bolton was Moat Cailin. Terrible, traitorous, troublesome, taunting Roose Bolton. Roose Bolton with those pale eyes, just darker then milk, staring, staring at her. Calculating, cunning, colorless as they were. The eyes that were Tully blue matched his own, staring him down. Avengethemavengethemavengethem.
She went up against Moat Cailin, armored in her courtesies. As her mother had taught her, as Septa Mordane, as Cersei, as Margaery, Sansa gave the soft response equal to Roose's own voice, the one expected of her, of a highborn lady; the smile, the curtsey. Her dark eyes and stoney face dropped in an instant and was quickly replaced with the simple smile that made her so endearing, so comely. Two well-versed players could step around each other, having rehearsed this dance many times before.
"May I introduce my son," he said, only now turning away from her for the first time, "Ramsay Bolton." It was easy to maintain the mask on her face once she had already laid it in place. Smile when needed, recite the pretty, little words that had been taught to her. He smiles at her and looks down as he takes off his gloves. She smiles at him with something she hopes Margaery would look upon Joffrey with. However unrefined, however awkward his dance may be, Ramsay reaches out to take her hand, his so much warmer then hers, despite only being uncovered for just a few moments, and pulls it toward him. In an act that might have seemed thoughtful, Sansa criticized the entirety of it. You should come down to my hand. He had a boyish smile though, nervous and unsure like he didn't do it often. His voice was soft as well, though not in the same regards as his father's. Roose Bolton spoke volumes, demanding to be heard without ever being raised louder then necessary. Ramsay had spoken quietly to her, as if they were the only two in the whole courtyard.
"It's an honor to meet you, my lady." The bastard son of the traitorous man who killed her brother.
The bastard prince who gave the order to kill her father.
Had the gods chosen to punish her with bastards? Was this because of her ill-treatment to her own half-brother?
Ramsay held onto her hand for a moment longer, until she felt the heat from him leave her and Sansa quick as she may, moved to return her gloves to their rightful place. She didn't know how long she was expected to treat and play with them in the courtyard, but she upheld her courtesies long enough to turn her attention to the heavyset Lady Bolton behind both men. Walda Bolton flushed, flustered to have the attention turned onto her and gave a clumsy curtsey in return. Refraining from rolling her eyes, Sansa turned away from their hosts, hosts to her own home, and returned to surveying the damage brought onto Winterfell after been taken over by the Ironborn and burnt down. A pity, it's so ugly and awful now and I bet they haven't even prepared for winter. We'll all starve and die. Just the same, she had threatened to do just that upon learning about her marriage and maybe she would get what she wanted this time.
"Shall we make our way inside, away from this cold?" Petyr finally spoke up. Roose, who had moved to stand beside him after the introductions, turned his pale gaze onto the other male now. For a split second, Sansa thought Roose to spite Littlefinger and continue the greetings in the courtyard, but with little then a tilt of the head, Roose Bolton nodded.
"I'll have someone show Lady Sansa to her quarters."
The horses were pulled away, already being shown the the stables, the knights of the Vale shepherded in another direction, away from the main party. An elderly woman was brought to Sansa's attention to take her away to her room.
How stupid. Like I don't know where my own room is. Though it was safe to say, maybe her old chamber did not exist anymore. She may be headed to Robb's room or Arya's. These people did not know which amongst the many rooms housed within Winterfell was hers. And yet, all the same, Sansa followed after the old woman, set with a brisk pace. Weaving and turning throughout the halls that lie within the castle walls, she moved in a dream. These were the halls of her youth: where Arya and Bran dodged each other and all those around them, where she learned to sew and sing, where baby Rickon's chubby little legs tried to keep pace with them all, where Robb and Jon and Theon Greyjoy (turncloak, traitor) contested with each other, where Mother and Father lived and breathed, her halls, her Winterfell. Not the dark and sullen place the Boltons had made it, not the burnt remains the Ironborn had made it. Sansa wondered how deeply buried beneath all the remnants would she have to go to find the place it used to be.
She was lead into a room, her room, her old bedroom, like they knew all along it belonged to her. The one she had slept in since she was old enough to sleep by herself, the one her mother had brushed her hair in at night, the one she tied ribbons around Lady and the one she had shared lemon cakes in with Jeyne Poole. She had turned the corner without even realizing the woman had lead her here. It looked unlived in. Had no one truly stepped into her old room since she had left it? No, it would be foolish to think that were true, but Sansa couldn't help but look around and see the dust that rose up from the furs and the furniture arranged in the same way. From a distance, she heard herself give a soft "thank you" in response to the women who offered to get her hot water, but Sansa stayed focused on the sight before her. If nothing had changed, could this really, truly be her home still? Sansa was in a daze that she had not noticed the quick women's movements as the older lady had already moved to the entryway of the door until she spoke again.
"Welcome home, Lady Stark. The North remembers." Sansa had spun on her heel when she heard these words, only then turning her attention sincerely onto the woman. Stark. The North. What meaning did words like that have within Winterfell now? Sansa dropped her gloves on the nearest surface and shed her coat. Crawling beneath the furs clung with dust bunnies, she curled into herself.
It didn't feel like her bed.