Nota bene: I apologize for the delay between chapters, real life took over and gave me a bit of a shake. As always, I only really own Pippa, ASoIaF and anything associated belongs to GRR Martin and HBO. Any reviews are welcome, I love getting to read your insight.
Sansa glanced over at her silent companion and sighed. When she didn't get a response she sighed again, louder, and stared straight at Pippa. The girl was hunched over a tangled mess of threads. She had no talent for embroidery and had been left to untangle the coloured strands from an old sampler. Her eyes flickered up and met Sansa's before she lowered them again. "Everything all right, Lady Sansa?"
The lady reached out and offered her fingers to her direwolf. Lady was the best behaved of the wolves and she obviously adored her mistress. She was growing so quickly that she could easily have torn the delicate beauty to pieces, had she the mind for it. Still, there was something different about Lady. She did not inspire fear, like the other direwolves. It was if she alone had given up her wildness to tend to Sansa's nature, or at least she hid the dangerous spark behind perfectly groomed fur and a curious, charming way. Sansa directed the wolf towards Pippa and the creature padded over and placed its head in Pippa's lap. "You were going to tell me tale about the Griffin King and the Swan Queen."
Sansa was positively glowing, evidently her possible betrothal to Prince Joffery had elevated her sometimes dour mood and despite her sour companion, she was giddy and effervescent, the best of herself. It was when others were sad that Sansa was the most lovable, she seemed to fill any shadows with her light and charm and she used it all to try and coax Pippa into some semblance of brightness.
Pippa was grateful for the girl's chatter and for her self-involvement this time around. There had been no room for Pippa's frustration and doubt in the conversation, not that it would have fit anyway. For all her brightness and a surprisingly keen mind, Sansa was flowers and stories and happy endings. She avoided things that hurt and brushed them under her beautiful tapestries and behind the ornate statues.
Pippa sighed, sounding much too much the way Sansa had before and shrugged, before putting aside the threads and putting her hands in her lap before anxiously taking the sampler again and redoubling her efforts. "I don't much feel like it right now, My Lady. I will if you ask it of me and that is well and good, but if we could talk of other things, I would be grateful."
Sansa cocked her head to the side like a little bird and her eyes narrowed slightly, "I won't force you, Pippa. I don't like stories that have to be dragged out of mouths. It's makes them slow and dull and I haven't any use for that. But you could tell me a story you'd like to tell. Or you could tell me why you're in such a dour mood today."
Pippa tugged so hard at the sampler that she broke the thread and the thing went flying, clattering to the ground at Sansa's feet with a hollow echo. "I'll tell you an old story, My Lady. One... I remember from my childhood. I'm not sure where it came from, but it might suite you for now."
Where the gold-gilted fairytale had not suited her, this story was one that seemed to sit in her very bones. She recalled a face-less father, with a voice she could recall sometimes, but mostly just the rasp of it. The catch of it's pitch on the winds. That was all. It wasn't a happy tale, but she liked it. She beckoned the lady to her and brushed her fingers through her long fine hair. This story was best in the night, around a fire after one had been washed and felt clean and the top of one's head was dry but all the water had flown to the tips of the hair and it dripped and dripped on the blankets... But this would do.
There was once a wildling girl, far beyond the wall. She was a warg and a witch... and she was very beautiful. Her people were in awe of her, for her eyes were two different colours and her hair was dark as the night and she was wild. Even the wildlings thought so. It was thought she might have been part of the forest folk... that her father's father's father had mistaken a child of the forest for his wife and bedded her instead and she left the child for him in the snow, but the forest children where quick and wise and no one really believe the story. Not really.
This witch was feared and loved by her people, and as she grew up and grew strong, they made her their leader and for many years, her clan was the terror of the white lands, for there was little she did not know and less that she could not do. Then the witch fell ill and none could find the cause, it seemed to go against everything that flowed in the world that a woman as strong and young as her could fall so ill as to be near death.
One night, when the moon had left the sky, her favourite hawk swallowed a star and told her in her dreams that she suffered from a broken heart. From never knowing love. And the woman cried and raged, for she was strong and brave and true and it did not seem fair that love should kill her.
The next night, as the moon crept back to her place, the woman's strongest direwolf swallowed two stars and came to her in a dream and told her to gather her things and leave her people behind, for she would soon find her heart upon the snow, under where the moon now rested when she grew full again. And the woman raged, for she was strong and wise, and true and the moon did not rest in one place, this she knew, and it did not seem right that her heart should kill her.
On the third night the woman herself swallowed three stars, and she dreamed of child who giggled like the snow and cried like the rain, and smiled like the sun, and the woman laughed, and found the strength to gather her things and walk, for now she saw that her heart and her love were as strong and wild and true as she.
The witch walked until the moon grew full again and that night she made camp, but found she could not sleep. She rose and and began to walk and walk... until she found a crow from the wall, burrowed in the snow. The man was half dead from the cold, and he had more wounds than she could count. She raised her knife to slit his throat... and found she could not, for he turned his face to see her and her chest ached too much to move. She lifted him in her arms and walked him back to her camp and for days, they lived there and she healed him and he healed her and they fell in love.
When a year had passed the witch gave birth to a daughter who was loud and wanton in her cries. She was a pretty child, liable to grow red with screaming and she had her father's hair and her father's eyes, but she was her mother's child. And they were happy. For four years they were happy.
One day her mother's people found them, and they felt betrayed by their leader and they chased her and her family almost to the Wall. At the Wall, the Crows found them, and they felt betrayed by their brother and they hunted them. The Witch could see they were surrounded and she kissed her daughter, and she kissed her love-husband, and she opened the Wall to them and told them to run. But she was of magic and of the North, the true North, and she could not pass.
The Father and the child mourned the witch, for days and nights, until their hair turned long and matted, and their skin grew blistered and red, and their tears dried up. And then they lived, for she had died so they could live.
Sansa turned and frowned at Pippa, shaking her head slightly. "That is not how stories are supposed to end. That isn't really an ending at all. What happened to the witch? Did she really die? And the Father and the Daughter? Did they live out their days?"
Pippa heard a chuckle from the back of the room, and she only shrugged, turning to see Robb, his arms crossed over his chest. She made a face at him and turned back to Sansa, "I do not know, milady, that is the story as it was told to me. There is no more."
Robb stepped forward and offered his arm to Sansa, "Sister, we must go to dinner with the Lions now." Sansa flushed red, a happy glow returning to her. Robb nodded to Pippa, and turned to go.
Sansa turned back, just for the second, giving Pippa a smile as Lady trotted over, "It is not a bad story, Pippa. Really, it isn't... But it doesn't have an ending. I like stories that end."
The servant curtsied slightly, "Next time, Lady Sansa. I promise, you'll get the story you want." It was almost a relief, really, to know that the story of the Witch and the Crow and the Child was hers, and hers alone. She had very little that belonged only to her, it was almost nice to know this might be part of it.