Little Bird
Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love."
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Sansa awoke at dawn. She looked up at the ceiling to find the first tendrils of sunlight creeping through her chamber. The room beyond her bed was still draped in shadow. Her breath formed a mist in the cool morning air as she exhaled to try and calm her nerves. For a moment she lay still, looking up at the cracks in the ceiling and listening to the distant voices in the halls. The events of the riot still plagued her mind. But she was awake and would face the day with some strength and resolve. She sat up with a long stretch, pushing the thick furs away that had kept her warm throughout the night. Her fingers brushed absently against the embroidered direwolves on her bedclothes as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The coolness of the stone floor beneath her stockinged feet almost sent a shiver up her spine.
Septa Mordane sat at table side near the larger window, with a wooden plate and a broad, flat knife breaking a honeycomb over the fresh, hot bread that had been brought up from the kitchens. Sansa's stomach growled a bit. Her appetite was returning. She had felt a great deal better in the last few days. She sat now silently watching the Septa eat her breakfast.
"Septa," she called out softly. The Septa looked up, taking her attention away from her simple breakfast.
"Yes, Lady Sansa," She said.
"Please fetch my maidservant. I wish to be dressed."
The elderly woman nodded dutifully. "Of course my lady, I shall send her at once."
The Septa departed with soft steps, disappearing out of the large wooden door. With her departure, Sansa turned her attention to the mirror. She met her gaze, looking into her own eyes as if she were seeing a stranger.
She pulled the heavy wooden chair closer to the mirror, and sat. Staring at her own reflection and gathering her strength for the day, she brushed out her auburn hair. She studied the small bruise at the corner of her temple remembering the man, remembering his face, and remembering the fury she felt when she stabbed him. The Septa came to stand behind her.
"Septa," she said, her voice rising in a question, "Has anyone asked after my health?" She hoped to hear that at least one person had. Though, she knew the person of whom she thought was very busy. As a newly crowned King, Joffrey was running amok. Her father had returned and he was occupied with doing everything within his power to get them out of the city as quickly as possible. She was glad that she had at least secured her way out of the marriage to Joffrey. Joffrey for his own part, had been helpful in at least one way. Tyrion was not to stay in the capitol. The boy King had asked his Grandfather to be Hand of the King. Even now, Sansa imagined, Tyrion had been demoted in the most disrespectful way possible and his belongings moved to a far flung part of the castle like a forgotten object. Everything was in complete disarray within the walls of King's Landing. Everything was in complete disarray outside of them as well. The riots had been intermittent for several weeks. When she closed her eyes, Sansa could still see the man dying in front of her in the dressmaker's shop. She could still smell the stink of him—the wine and decay that seemed to cling to his person. She closed her eyes shut as tight as she could, squeezing them as if it would banish the memories that haunted her. "We're all killers here girl," she heard Sandor Clegane's voice in her head.
Was she a killer? This place was nothing more than a pit of vipers, and in this life or another or the past one it would always be this way. The best thing that she could do to save herself and everyone that she loved was to try to at least leverage what little she knew of the future to influence this life that she had been gifted anew, and protect herself as best she could. She killed in defense of herself, she rationalized. It was the only thing she could do. Surely the Gods would not fault her—surely the Gods would not have sent her back here for her to die like that. Surely she was not doomed to watch her father's head rot on the walls again on a pike—to lose everyone that she had ever loved—and to never know a romantic love in her life. Surely she was not meant to die again wishing she were a maiden and bitterly biting back her own tears in a gout of dragon-fire. But had she deserved it? She shook her head at the thought. Lately, she had begun to think that she had deserved it. She could have been kinder to the young Queen. She could have tried to offer friendship and warmth. But by then all warmth had been snuffed out of her life like the last embers of a fire in a dying hearth. She was as cold on the inside as it had been outside. As she sat with these hard truths, a knock came at the door, almost imperceptible at first. The Septa stirred and went towards the heavy door to open it. Her father stood before her, grim faced.
"Sansa," he stepped in, his skin ashen. "We must leave this city at once. Gather your things."
"What has happened?" Septa Mordane asked.
"There is no time," he turned to the Septa.
"Collect Arya, and Syrio Forel. I have sent men ahead. We are to travel today." He barked at her. She hurried off to fulfill his requests.
Sansa meanwhile began to grab everything of importance to her.
"Littlefinger has made a move," her father leaned in to whisper in her ear.
Suddenly the haste made sense. They made their way through the castle. They were the only ones who seemed to be alarmed. Business seemed to be proceeding as usual within the walls of the Keep. When they reached the small carriage that would hold Sansa and her sister, her father helped her up. Arya sat there looking confused and sullen. Septa Mordane her face ashen and white said nothing. Sansa looked back at her father as he seemed to be walking ahead to a second carriage with someone who appeared to be Tyrion Lannister. But she had no time to ask him why—she had no time for anything. And so they were shut up in the carriage and the journey began, back to a place she did not think she would see for a long while—home to Winterfell.
The wagons thundered through the castle gates. Ned Stark could feel the sick feeling twisting within his guts. Across from him sat his best man, Jory Cassel, a loyal servant, and the man that his daughter had strangely put her trust in, and who he had taken into his service-Tyrion Lannister, The imp, as he had been commonly called. He seemed competent enough at court. He had behaved decently in his presence, but he was still a Lannister. Some enmities are hard to kill. He had been useful in helping to wrangle Sansa out of an unworthy betrothal, but now he was to be taken into his own family. Strange things. The little man was staring at him now.
"Lord Tyrion," he engaged.
"Our—departure was quite sudden." Tyrion regarded Ned with wariness. He knew that there was some worry regarding what would happen in the capitol now that Joffrey had ascended the throne. For his own part, he was glad that he was not to be Hand of the King to his brat of a nephew, and to put at least eight hundred miles of middling road between himself and his sister was not unwelcome.
"Yes." Was Ned's only reply and he turned to look at Jory somewhat conspiratorially. Only he and Sansa were privy to the why of their sudden departure.
Jory nodded back solemnly. He was loyal. He would go to the ends of the known world if Ned asked him to. He would leave the little man to wonder at their sudden departure until they reached a place far away from the walls of the Keep. Far away from the capitol altogether. The hint seemed to be taken immediately. They sat silently in the carriage from that point on.
As they traveled, Sansa busied herself with a small piece of embroidery and Arya moped. When the terrain seemed to be kinder, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as the putrid stench of the city was left behind and replaced with the smell of fresh greenery and dirt. She watched smallfolk in linen tunics tending their crops. They traveled from dawn to dusk past green fields and small villages, large market towns and meager holdfasts. When it reached dark, finally they were able to make camp.
In the morning, the wheelhouse lurched along seeming to find every rock in its path. The road was rocky and uneven and the air was thick with the sound of creaking wood, the sounds of the horses exhaustion and Arya's sighs of restlessness followed by the clucking of Septa Mordane's tongue.
Sansa sat in quiet thought, her hands resting on her lap, her fingers clenching her cloak. Outside the sun hung low in the sky and the trees looked skeletal against the blue sky, their gnarled leaves reaching up to the heavens. Sansa felt as if the trees were an omen—the ghosts of a dying summer.
Arya fidgeted incessantly kicking the base of her seat, sometimes loudly, drawing the ire of the Septa.
"Arya! A lady does not fidget like an unruly goat," Septa chided
Arya rolled her eyes, " I am not a Lady," she protested, turning to Sansa, "How are you not going mad?"
"We are going home," Sansa said simply.
"You don't look uncomfortable-" Arya continued
"I am not uncomfortable," Sansa said, lifting her head. She adjusted her skirt, straightening the embroidery along its hem, "Quiet can be nice at times you know?"
Arya looked unconvinced but she leaned back in her seat. She pulled a small knife from her things and began carving a small piece of wood that she had taken from the inn when they stopped for the night. Sansa shifted her gaze to the window, her fingers parting the heavy velvet curtain. Outside the world unfolded before her. Small farms and pastures gave way to untamed wilderness. As they continued North she began to recognize some of the woods that she had seen as a girl. These were the woods where Joffrey showed himself to her for the first time—his true self—the one that was cruel and petty. The memory was as sharp as Arya's blade. She had been a fool.
The past had been a cruel teacher and what had begun as dreams of love and honor and chivalry had ended in betrayal, pain and the dissolution of everything that she knew and loved. Betrayal was her oldest friend, she thought. Daenerys Targaryen came unbidden to her mind. She remembered the cold as she knelt before the Dragon Queen—she remembered the fire—the burning. The weight of it felt like a noose strangling her, a noose of—fate? As she thought of it now it felt like a window into a nightmare. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Our way is the old way, she repeated in her head. Is dragon fire more or less noble than a head man's ax, she mused silently.
As they traveled along the winding path of the King's road they passed olive green meadows, and orchards with the Blackwater shimmering in the light of day. Once the Red Keep was nothing but a crimson speck on the horizon, Sansa let her shoulders relax. The creak of the carriage and the steady clop of the horses was only interspersed by the occasional bird song or cawing of ravens overhead.
Sansa leaned back, watching her sister sulk, and she watched the light fade as the Southron sun filtered through the canopy of the wheelhouse. Around the wheelhouse the Northmen rode in tight formation, the Stark banners flapping against the wind. Ser Jory rode ahead during the day, his face set hard. North bound once more, she thought. The world felt unfamiliar and familiar all at once. Every tree and every stone seemed to hum with some unnatural energy. I have lived—and I have failed, she thought as she watched the passing trees and streams.
Am I bound to my mistakes, she wondered. The weight of the question lay atop her chest like a heavy stone, and no answer came to her, only an endless road and the dark of night.
"Mordane is asleep," Arya whispered, poking her in her side.
Sansa blinked out of her reverie turning to face her sister. Arya tilted her head towards the Septa as if to point. Septa Mordane sat rigid on the far corner of the bench, her head tilted all the way back, her mouth slightly agape and a soft snore coming from her mouth. Arya grinned mischievously.
"Whatever you are thinking—do not." Sansa said
Arya pulled a pouch of wood shavings from her pocket, her eyes still glinting with mischief.
"Arya—she can wake at any moment," Sansa said suppressing a smile.
"Well—it is boring—what is the worst she can do?" Arya said, grabbing a pinch of wood shavings. She held them in her fingers above the Septa's mouth.
"Arya no—," Sansa lurched forward to smack Arya's hand down.
"You have changed," Arya said looking at her, the words came out hesitant.
"Have I?" Sansa raised an eyebrow.
"You're different, quieter." Arya said as if she were coming to a realization.
Sansa could not argue with her. "Perhaps I am quieter," Sansa agreed. Arya knew her as a girl with songs in her head and a head filled with sweet dreams of handsome Princes and chivalrous knights. That girl was dead. Those dreams were as distant to her now as a legend.
"I suppose we are all different," she said finally. Arya did not press further but Sansa would notice her watching her when she didn't realize that she was looking. Sansa could see the look of determination in her sister's eyes and she knew that she would be watched from here on out. She would keep asking questions until she found out why.
Sansa turned to look out of the window again. She watched as the distant shapes became hills and castles. She watched as the blurs of green became frost laden pine trees that jutted out against the sky like jagged blades. They were closer to home now, and Sansa could feel it, as if her blood was singing. Her heart seemed to be pulling her forward, and she would follow it.