SANSA X

"The godswood was silent, as she sat praying for the soul of her friend. Only a couple of robins and magpies skittered around in the branchwork of the canopies far above.

She could hear the wolves from the hage close by to the west. Lady never howled, but she had howled when Bran fell from the tower at Winterfell, and she howled now.

It was a strange, forlorn sound, like that of a dying bird stuck underground, or a pane of glass being stretched out, and wavering on the wind of an autumn fast approaching, or like a mermaid's siren song, Sansa thought.

Please, old gods, grant her safe passage into the trees of the underworld, if that is what she wants. Let her rest with you, and with her mothers and fathers before her.

It felt strange to say, Sansa realized. She was praying for her friend to go and join her mothers and forefathers, but Wynafryda's father, Lord Wylis, still lived, albeit as a dead man walking. His gaze was dark, blacker than pitch in the night on most days, as he fed on grief and devastation, only taking heed to Father, to his king, and noone else, not even to Wylla, his younger, who still lived.

No parent should have to bury their children, Sansa thought. Mother had said the same once, speaking about Lord Porkeyn and Lady Falinda Dustin.

Perhaps that was where she had gotten the notion from. Whatever the case, she shared Lord Wylis's grief and confusion. Wynafryda was certainly older than her, at nineteen, and unruly at times, but she had not deserved to die. And certainly not to die so openly and in front of her parents, and hundreds of people, only moments before they themselves began clawing at their throats from the red of the posioned wine. Oh, it was so horrible, she had to stop herself from thinking of it, or she would be sick and spew over herself all over again, she was certain.

She had gone to the castle sept as well, and to the Great Sept of Baelor, to pray for her to the Seven. They were her mother's gods, and those of Wynafryda and her house. But she was also from the North, and so Sansa had prayed to the old gods and the new, hoping innerly that it would help. She did not want her friend punished to one of the Seven Hells for her sins, even if they were many.

Pride was the first of the seven major sins. Wynafryd had certainly held pride, if nothing else, but that was a sin Sansa herself thought she might be guilty of at times. And so she considered it not altogether too unreasonable for the likes of princesses and ladies. Pride in its wrong form would be more like that of Joffrey, she thought, he who was only a bastard by the name of Hill until his lord father had had him legitimized to bear the full name and coat of arms of Lannister, and now he behaved as if he owned all of the west already.

Sansa hoped that it would be a long time before Father's new Hand, yes, before the great Lord Tywin would come to die and join his forefathers in the graves of the old kings of the Rock. For the sooner that happened, the sooner Joff would come to gain such a power as he already thought he had. She did not look forward to the day when she or Robb would have to hire him on as hand.

Gluttony, Sansa thought..., yes. Wynafryda had most certainly been guilty of that sin, often taking great delight in her lord father's lamprey pies, large servings of pork and roast bacon, honeyed quails, buttered beets and blackberry tarts... But then again... so did Sansa commit to her friend's sin every time she took a glimpse of a lemoncake and felt the stirring inside her tummy, the licking of her lips.

She had become more hungry from the company of her wolf friend, she was sure. Grand Maester Pycelle said that it was normal for girls in her age to crave lots of food, for they were beginning to grow lengthwise, and she would soon come to flower, perhaps in another year or two, but Sansa was certain that there had to be something else to it as well. Whenever she could taste the scent of a lemoncake these days, Lady could taste it – could smell it – too. And even though her wolf side did not necessarily enjoy the lemon part of the cake as much as she did, it was all the same. It was the hunger itself, of the growing animal, her longer legs, her thicker fur and taller stance, that felt it.

Fornication was the sin that she knew most of all that Wynafryda was guilty of. She had lost her maidenhead several years past, and layn with more than one man, without being wed. She had even boasted of it once or twice, Sansa thought. This, surely, more than anything, might be why the gods had chosen to take her. But also her sneaking around the castle, her flirting with the kitchen boys, and trying to steal wine in secrecy before the banquet. Yes, Sansa thought. That had been why.

Greed she could well believe her to be guilty of as well. She was a proud Manderly, and as such always wore the finest clothes and jewelry, as well as having wanted to marry Sansa's cousin Willam up at Winterfell, so that she may one day rule over the Starks' ancient keep and become the Lady of Winterfell. Most highborn ladies were surely guilty of similar ambition, though, Sansa thought, and forgave her friend also for this particular sin. It was not altogether as bad as the others, she thought. For who would surely not want to be the lady of a great keep, if one was not already a princess like she herself was, and to find oneself a fine husband of wealth and standing, and to have many children together with him...? Yes, she thought she could see her friend clearly in front of her, in her mind's eye, standing in a wolf's pelt dress, Stark grey and Manderly green, next to Uncle Benjen's oldest son Willam, clad in a lord's doublet and cloak like his lord father and holding his sword, with lots of young brown-haired Stark and Manderly children tumbling around them on the ground and playing happily amongst themselves. But that would never happen now, she thought. Her cousin would have to find himself another bride...

Kinslaying or kinfeindship she knew that her friend was not guilty of. She seldom ever squabbled or fought with Wylla the way Sansa did with Arya. In contrast, the Manderly sisters were as two peas in a pod, although different in age, slight temperament, and hair colour, of course.

Slavery was neither an issue, apart from the times she had smacked her servant mildly on her hands for getting her the wrong thing she asked for, or forgetting to wake her at certain hours, Sansa thought.

Treachery she was not guilty of, Sansa was certain. The Manderlys had always been staunch allies and friends of House Stark, ever since they were given leave to build their castle at White Harbor hundreds of years ago, after fleeing from The Reach. She did not believe Wynafryda would ever have sided with their enemies, not even if she were to marry someone else, some westerman, foreigner or other, and besides, she had seldom shown interest in anyone such, regardless of riches or standing. And so, she decided, her friend was exonerated from those judgements at least.

She sat for another long while, thinking and praying underneath the great oaken heart tree, as she heard Lady's sad howling in the hage close beside. She joined her after a while, and went into the pen to pet her and stroke her soft warm fur. Grey Wind howled at times as well, out of his sorrow, but elsewise he was strangely calm. She did not fear him today, as she sometimes did. Neither did he come up to slaver her with his great sticky tongue, but held his distance respectfully.

"Thankyou, Grey Wind", she told him.

He looked at her, and she thought he could understand, just like Robb when they would look at eachother and blink words forth in their secret language.

She sat holding Lady for another long while, almost close to an hour, she was certain, until she began to feel numb in her legs and stood up again. She closed the fencing to the hage, and nodded to the guards standing some further away.

"Princess", they nodded back, saluting her quietly.

Sansa walked on, back to the castle, as she saw Marla and Jeyne arise from one of the stone benches in the garden. They had been waiting for her.

"Are you all right, Sansa?" Jeyne asked her.

"I am fine", she said. "Where is Arya?"

"She is only over there"; Jeyne said, pointing. Marla said little and less, only following after, as she was wont to do, in her shyness and demureness.

She saw her sister soon, sitting on another bench further north, it was true enough. By the northern tower she sat, overlooking the walls and just now playing with a ladybug in her hand, making it crawl back and forth between each of her hands before changing the direction.

"What are you doing?" Sansa asked, as she stopped up to watch her little sister.

"Playing. Did you know that a ladybug always has the same number of spots on each side of its wings?"

"Wings?" Jeyne asked.

"Well... The part of the shell that covers up its wings. Its shell."

"That is fascinating", Sansa said. "May I sit?"

Arya looked up at her, sulking and deciding what to make of the question.

"You, or everyone?"

"Me, or all of us. Or noone. You decide."

Arya looked up at her, suspicious yet consiering her request.

"Are you going to say something stupid? Or talk about how I'm getting mud all over my dress?"

It was true, Sansa saw. Arya had gotten all black dirt over her lower skirts as she'd digged through the soil of the flowerbeds to find her ladybug, and half a dozen other small things as well. Stones, twigs, blackberries and mulderberries, as well as a strangely shaped piece of glass.

"I will do my best not to", Sansa promised.

"Very well. You may sit."

She took a sweeping over her dress, to try and not crinkle it, as she sunk down next to her sister. Jeyne and Marla soon sat down as well, to Arya's visible annoyance, as she tried to look away.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to play harp with me", she said. "I'm going to Lady Pellegrara right now."

Arya faded her face over, not looking particularly convinced.

"What song? Is it something stupid, about flowery knights?"

"It is not about knights", Sansa assured her sister. "I thought we could sing, and play something to honour Wynafryda."

Arya looked even more queasy at the suggestion, though perhaps it was sadness as well.

"I don't want to."

"Very well. What song would you like to play? The Dornish one?"

"I don't know." Arya balanced a long stick between both of her feet, leaning back on her hips to make a strange figure of particularly unladylike essence. "Maybe."

"Well... If you are interested, you may come and accompany us at the usual spot later. Or whenever you would like. I will go and summon Lady Pellegrara now."

Arya looked

"Will all of your hens be accompanying us as well? So that Jeyne can call me Arya Horseface?"

"Arya, Princess... I have tried to apologize for it", Jeyne said. "It was wrong of me, and unworthy. I will never ever call you such things again. I promise."

Arya looked down at her feet, holding the stick between her toes for another small while, upholding it, wriggling it up and down, but then finally letting go and watching as the stick landed on the dry of the stone [ ] beneath.

"All right. We'll go."

...

They told Martyn to go and fetch Lady Pellegrara for them, and she arrived not soon after, to the usual place overlooked underneath Sansa's balcony. They soon struck the chords, and her sister's fingers moved nimbly across the strings, although not as nimbly as her own, of course. Still, Sansa made a point to acknowledge her younger sister's sudden talent for the play.

"I think it's because of my lessons with Syrio", Arya said.

Of course she would say that, everything is about Syrio, Sansa thought to herself, but said nothing.

"Wouldn't you think that swordplay would make your fingers harder, and thicker, not more delicate?" She tried.

"Not swordplay like this. It's waterdancing. I've told you. Syrio doesn't have big fingers. Well, maybe a little, but not as much as Father, or Ser Barristan, or Jory, or... " She stopped herself.

"I am sure that Syrio is quite talented", Lady Pellegrara was quick to interject with a matronly yet swivelling, elegant tone. "He has been first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, after all".

"That is true", Sansa had to admit. "Perhaps the lessons will be good for you, Arya."

"They already have been", Arya went on. "I can take down anyone my own age. Any girl or boy. And soon I will be ready to face enemies older than myself. Maybe I could even joust with Robb one day."

Sansa had to laugh, but she tried her best to not be condescending.

"I would much like to see that", she forced herself to say.

"I'm sure you would bet on Robb", Arya said. "But I don't care."

"I would not", Sansa was quick to say. "It would be most unchivalrous for a young knight in training to beat at a girl, armed with only a stick."

"It's not just a stick, it's a sword", Arya said, surprisingly even in her tone, even though she could feel her stubborn old anger slowly bearing itself up from beneath her furrowed brow, as she concentrated deeply to get all of the tones right meanwhile as they played.

"Besides, it isn't about chivalry. Most girls don't become bravos across the Narrow Sea either, but a waterdancer will always do his best to beat his opponent. Even if it's a girl. Robb will have to as well. It would be unchivalrous to not give it his best try."

Sansa did her best to not reply to that, instead silently praying to herself that Robb would never accept such a challenge, or that Father would stop it far before it could ever come to that.

Sansa might be cross with her at times, and Arya herself seemed to think she was suddenly invincible after Uncle Benjen had given her the little sword Needle up at Winterfell, even now without Nymeria at her side, but nonetheless, she would not let anything ever happen to her little sister. She swore it to herself, seven times and one, crossing her chest with the promise silently, secretly, inside her mind and heart.

She could never let anything happen to her. Not after what had happened to Wynafryda. No. Not even to stupid little Arya, least of all her, Sansa thought to herself, as she prayed to the Mother for protection, and for their own Mother to come home. But until Mother did, Sansa would have to watch over them both, just like she would have done.

For whatever faults she may have, she was her sister. And she loved her, always, deeply, somewhere, somehow, in a bond even stronger than she hated her at times. And so she thought, and so she prayed, as the chords of the old song about the Dornish prince echoed on in the hall."