September, 299 AC
As the river wound through the trees, the roaring of the falls grew faint. With gentle hands the current pulled the direwolf toward a fork in the river. Most of the river continued through the woods, yet a small part slipped away, swirling towards a pockmarked mound of rock. The hands tugged, and Sansa followed the smaller fork, whimpering as the rock drew near. She would be smashed against it for certain, she was too bruised and broken to fight the current- then a mouth yawned in the bottom of the mound, and the tunnel swallowed her.
For hours she floated in the darkness, her ears twitching at every splash as she waited for the end. A sharp pain throbbed in her chest where the sword had cut; her legs and ribs ached from going over the falls. The direwolf knew she could not survive another plunge. Any moment the river would dive deep into the earth, and she would be dashed against the rocks below.
When at last she caught a glimpse of light, it was almost a relief. The Crone was coming with her lantern to light her path to the Stranger. She looked into the lantern- and her eyes burned as she blinked back spots. The echoes of the tunnel were gone. Leaves rustled above her head in an early morning breeze.
Yet even as the river pulled the direwolf towards the sun, the light began to dim. Cool mist crept over the world, a soft grey wave that rolled over everything in its path. First the trees disappeared, then the riverbank, then her own paws in the slackening current.
All was quiet, but for the soft murmurs of the rabbits in their burrows and the birds in their nests. She barely heard the ripples of the boat until it was upon her, and small hands with sharp claws pulled her from the water.
Eyes, so many eyes were watching. Gold cat's eyes set in nut-brown faces; bloody eyes in bone-white bark. She was bare before their gaze, from the soles of her feet to the terrible gash that ran from her navel to between her breasts.
Sansa wanted to vomit, to cover herself, but she could not move. She was caught in a net of song, the voices strange yet familiar as their music wound over her limbs. Slowly, ever so slowly, the gaping red wound began to close, the profaned flesh sewn together without thread or needle until all that remained was a puckered scar, shining silver against her pale skin. Still she could not move, nor speak, only cry out in fear within her mind.
Feathers fluttered through the air. Little claws pricked her, soft wings tickled her, and her nakedness was covered in a gown of songbirds. The birds began to sing, the sweet notes twining around the voices of the singers. There was nothing Sansa could do but listen, and her eyes fluttered shut as she let the music sweep her away.
From above she saw a great lake, waters shimmering in the sun. A cluster of little boats rode the waves, their sailors no bigger than children. As one the children raised their voices. Slowly an island rose from the waters, and the children landed on its shores.
Three ways they went, the singers. Some crept into the hills and caves, their voices rumbling like the deep places of the earth. Some walked through the forest, their voices rustling like leaves. And some remained by the shore, swimming in the waters, their voices rippling like streams. Yet all the voices wove together, without discord or strife between them, and their beauty was that of the world itself, in all its joy and sorrow.
Sorrow, oh, sorrow she knew too well, and Sansa wept, and the eyes of the weirwoods wept with her. Wept for her father's death, for her mother's loss, for her brothers far away. Wept for the little sister forced to grow too fast, for their orphaned friend, for the milkmaid with her stolen innocence, for the blacksmith's boy with the blood of a king. Wept for the smallfolk and their villages turned to ash; wept for the levies raised to burn them.
And yet, when Sansa thought her sorrow so deep she might drown, her heart burned with rage. Where was the justice for those she mourned? Had she not kept her word, planting weirwoods wherever she went? Where were the gods, old or new, who should right these wrongs? You cannot change it , the weirwoods whispered. And she looked into their eyes, and she fell.
The world spun, and Sansa saw herself on the floor of her chambers, blood trickling from her ear. Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants, the Hound rasped, yanking her to her feet. She blinked, and the sun shone down on silk pavilions and green grass. The Mountain's a brute, but a loyal one, Joffrey laughed, lances shattering in the distance, he slew the last Targaryen scum for my grandfather .
Faster and faster the world spun as Sansa struggled against the music that bound her. She glimpsed Tywin Lannister, pale green eyes glinting as he presented his bloody gift to the new king, three corpses in crimson cloaks. She glimpsed Princess Elia driving a dagger into the Mountain's side before he slammed her to the floor beside her murdered babe. She glimpsed a toddler with golden brown skin hiding under a bed as a gauntleted hand reached for her. She glimpsed a boy with golden hair and a white cloak, his eyes terrified as he drew his sword.
So much death, the voices murmured, who are you to strive with fate, little girl? Visions flashed past Sansa's eyes, a city filled with screams, two armies fighting astride a river, an immense ruined castle surrounded by pavilions and knights, a princess with a swollen belly beneath a weirwood whose eyes were filled with hate.
You could not save your father; you cannot save her, you cannot save them, the voices taunted. Those greater than you have tried and failed, greenseers with power you cannot dream of.
She was no greenseer, no child of the forest. What power did she have? She could slip her skin and see strange things in her dreams, but to what end? Perhaps she was as useless as she often felt, good for naught but needlework.
The visions ceased, and all was darkness. Life is not a song, sweetling, Baelish mocked, the words echoing in the void as the voices repeated his words. Not a song, not a song, not a song.
She'd written her own songs, Sansa thought dimly. Silly little things for the babies, but the song for her father was serious as the grave. It spreads quickly through the realm, m'lady, Tom o'Sevens had told her. He'd written a song too, a song about the red wolf, about the beautiful maiden who slew a false king.
Not a song, not a song, the voices repeated. Yet beneath them she heard another echo. Who are you to strive with fate? Sansa frowned. She was the maiden, she was the red wolf. She had slain Joffrey, she was the blood of Winterfell.
Life is not a song-
Then I will make it a song! Sansa screamed, defiant.
The net shattered, the music suddenly gone. The birds fled as her nakedness vanished beneath long red fur, her fury deep and cold as winter, her hope blazing like a star as the direwolf howled a promise to the skies.
And the singers saw, and the singers smiled.