Sansa Stark (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
facethetruth) wrote2019-06-10 03:12 am
facethetruth) wrote2019-06-10 03:12 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Sansa hasn't prayed in a long time. Years ago, when she was still a little girl held hostage slowly but steadily losing her whole family, with no idea what life held in store for her, she came to find it pointless. No old or new or one true god would ever help her. She would have to get through it all on her own. Still, she found comfort in some aspects of it. In King's Landing, pretending to be at prayer gave her an excuse to be alone, even if she would have known better than to trust that solitude. Here at home, it isn't an escape she needs, but a few moments to herself, a little peace.
Or perhaps peace is the wrong word for it. For the first time since she was a child, they have that now. No one is marching off to war or trying to take her home from her; there's no threat to her existence. It's been a difficult thing to remind herself of these past few months, but a welcome one, too. Of course, it isn't as simple as saying a word and magically repairing all that damage done, both physical and mental. There's rebuilding to be done. Her people are tired, and so is she. She won't take this fragile recovery for granted, either, some part of her wanting to be prepared for the worst. With any luck, it will never come, and she truly believes both that things will be better now, and that if they aren't, she'll be able to weather that storm for the North. She would never have accepted the crown otherwise. She doesn't think they would have given it to her if they didn't think so, either, which quietly warms her a little. As a child, betrothed to a king and thinking that was where her future lay, she remembers thinking that, if she ever became queen, she would want her people to love her, not fear her.
At the time, she couldn't have known that she would be ruling an independent North on her own, but however much she has changed since then, grown harder and more cynical, that is still what she wants. She's seen where ruling by trying to inspire fear leads a person, and that path is one she has no intention of walking. They've all had more than enough of that already, and her people put their faith in her. She won't let them down.
She will take just a little longer to herself, though, sitting beneath the weirwood tree and breathing in the crisp air. A part of her thinks she ought to hate it out here, but she won't let herself. So much was taken from her, things she can never get back. But Winterfell is her home, and just as she won't allow what once happened to her within the walls of the castle to make her uncomfortable there, the same goes for this place. Just because she doesn't come here to pray doesn't make it mean any less.
The sun has only just dipped below the horizon when she gets to her feet, the snow glowing almost blue in the pale light. As she leans forward to dust the snow off her skirt, futile an exercise as she knows it will be, a gust of wind blows. She can't quite suppress a shiver, her eyes closing for just an instant. That's when things become strange. The tree in front of her is no longer the familiar, carved white she's seen countless times, its branches bare rather than bearing red leaves. When she turns, no castle comes into view. She would swear it's colder, too. She's a Northern girl, built to withstand the cold, but they've made it through the worst of winter already, and yet this feels as cold as those nights.
This time, when a chill runs through her, her spine stiffening and shoulders drawing back, it isn't from the temperature. Something is very wrong here.
She'd heard no footsteps through the snow, and she feels no sign of injury now. It's the only possibility she can think of, though, short of having fallen asleep, which she knows she hasn't, pinching her arm under her sleeve just to be sure. No, she's awake, and she's somewhere that most certainly is not her home, similarly blanketed in snow but nowhere she's ever seen before. It's all the more reason to be cautious, to swallow her fear and try to stay calm. Whatever she does with all of this, she can't risk it being the wrong move.
Sansa doesn't call out for help, knowing that anyone who answered might not do so with good intentions. She waits, cold and frightened and resolved, reminding herself that she's faced far worse than this, until she hears a rustle of movement nearby. Slowly, carefully, she makes her way down the path and towards it, cloak drawn tightly around her.
As she nears what looks to be a lake, she sees its source — a woman, grotesque and green-skinned, emerges from under the water's surface. "Come closer, won't you?" the woman coos, if such a rough, cackling voice could be considered doing so. "I've been waiting for a snack." Sansa has dealt with monsters before, had similar threats levied at her where Ramsay's dogs were concerned, but she isn't going to wait around now to find out what happens next or try to reason with whatever this woman is. Her title will have no meaning to a being such as this, and she's alone.
Taking a few steps backwards, she gathers up her skirt with one hand and briefly makes sure her crown is secure on her head with the other. Then she turns and runs.
Or perhaps peace is the wrong word for it. For the first time since she was a child, they have that now. No one is marching off to war or trying to take her home from her; there's no threat to her existence. It's been a difficult thing to remind herself of these past few months, but a welcome one, too. Of course, it isn't as simple as saying a word and magically repairing all that damage done, both physical and mental. There's rebuilding to be done. Her people are tired, and so is she. She won't take this fragile recovery for granted, either, some part of her wanting to be prepared for the worst. With any luck, it will never come, and she truly believes both that things will be better now, and that if they aren't, she'll be able to weather that storm for the North. She would never have accepted the crown otherwise. She doesn't think they would have given it to her if they didn't think so, either, which quietly warms her a little. As a child, betrothed to a king and thinking that was where her future lay, she remembers thinking that, if she ever became queen, she would want her people to love her, not fear her.
At the time, she couldn't have known that she would be ruling an independent North on her own, but however much she has changed since then, grown harder and more cynical, that is still what she wants. She's seen where ruling by trying to inspire fear leads a person, and that path is one she has no intention of walking. They've all had more than enough of that already, and her people put their faith in her. She won't let them down.
She will take just a little longer to herself, though, sitting beneath the weirwood tree and breathing in the crisp air. A part of her thinks she ought to hate it out here, but she won't let herself. So much was taken from her, things she can never get back. But Winterfell is her home, and just as she won't allow what once happened to her within the walls of the castle to make her uncomfortable there, the same goes for this place. Just because she doesn't come here to pray doesn't make it mean any less.
The sun has only just dipped below the horizon when she gets to her feet, the snow glowing almost blue in the pale light. As she leans forward to dust the snow off her skirt, futile an exercise as she knows it will be, a gust of wind blows. She can't quite suppress a shiver, her eyes closing for just an instant. That's when things become strange. The tree in front of her is no longer the familiar, carved white she's seen countless times, its branches bare rather than bearing red leaves. When she turns, no castle comes into view. She would swear it's colder, too. She's a Northern girl, built to withstand the cold, but they've made it through the worst of winter already, and yet this feels as cold as those nights.
This time, when a chill runs through her, her spine stiffening and shoulders drawing back, it isn't from the temperature. Something is very wrong here.
She'd heard no footsteps through the snow, and she feels no sign of injury now. It's the only possibility she can think of, though, short of having fallen asleep, which she knows she hasn't, pinching her arm under her sleeve just to be sure. No, she's awake, and she's somewhere that most certainly is not her home, similarly blanketed in snow but nowhere she's ever seen before. It's all the more reason to be cautious, to swallow her fear and try to stay calm. Whatever she does with all of this, she can't risk it being the wrong move.
Sansa doesn't call out for help, knowing that anyone who answered might not do so with good intentions. She waits, cold and frightened and resolved, reminding herself that she's faced far worse than this, until she hears a rustle of movement nearby. Slowly, carefully, she makes her way down the path and towards it, cloak drawn tightly around her.
As she nears what looks to be a lake, she sees its source — a woman, grotesque and green-skinned, emerges from under the water's surface. "Come closer, won't you?" the woman coos, if such a rough, cackling voice could be considered doing so. "I've been waiting for a snack." Sansa has dealt with monsters before, had similar threats levied at her where Ramsay's dogs were concerned, but she isn't going to wait around now to find out what happens next or try to reason with whatever this woman is. Her title will have no meaning to a being such as this, and she's alone.
Taking a few steps backwards, she gathers up her skirt with one hand and briefly makes sure her crown is secure on her head with the other. Then she turns and runs.