When last had Sansa taken her ease? Certainly not since Winterfell, whose days once felt so full, bursting with promise and prosperity, now withered upon the vine. Though life as lion’s captive provided little in the manner of entertainments still she found hours consumed with worry, with caution, with rage. How it drained her, that ceaseless blaze like rumored dragon’s fire ‘neath a Northern home’s walls. It was not supposed to be this way. Life was not meant to have taken such a turn.
╳┊—————— ❝
—
An’ if you choose then, t’ bleed ‘im dry, is ‘e still a future king ? Does ‘e e’en still stand amongst your gods ? The wolf should t e a r open ‘is craven throat an’ let the bastard’s ichor BATHE the earth ‘pon which you tread. ‘Twould b’ a mos’ generous RESPITE for all the atrocities ‘e ‘as committed against you, Lady Sansa. An’ your family. ❞
“To even speak of such things condemns one as a traitor, the sentence for slaying a king far greater than any punishment for killing a mere man. His Grace has acted only in defense of his crown, wrongfully threatened and maligned; I assure you, all wrongs my house has suffered fell ‘pon it only after my father’s vile lies made such retribution earned.”
❝ “People, particularly big men carrying big rifles, don’t expect lip from a scrawny thing like me. They always look a bit dazed when they get it.”
“Until such time as one does not find himself quite so befuddled by sharp words. You must exercise caution, Ofelia; when brutality and dull wits meet within a single man, terrible things might occur.”
❝ Quite so, but I am without doubt that the people of Highgarden will grow to love your winter enhancements — as they will with you, surely. ❞ The Stark girl; a silver-toned maiden, born of glacial winds and the snow-clouds of septentrional ice… such a sweet girl, intrinsic of warm smiles and vehement enthusiasm. A purely pious girl. Severed from her homelands ( Winterfell, ancestral seat of Northern winds ) as if a babe from her mother’s breast, Highgarden’s blooms shall resolve to foster such an estranged wolf pup, nurturing her one of their own. ❝ Soon, my sweet girl, soon. Fealty to my King most surely will root me in the capital, be that as it may, but I would not miss the joining of our houses for all the Seven Kingdoms. ❞
Sansa could hardly dream of a court which offered her its love; none had cared when Northern wagons passed through the King’s Gate, bearing their future queen. Any such adulation fell readily upon the thornless rose, she who offered grain and peace rather than treachery and war. And how kindly had southron lands treated other wolves? Aunt and uncle, father and grandfather all met with cruel fate — could Highgarden’s vine-choked walls protect her? “I shall trust in you then, my lady, for surely you know best how to win the hearts of those in the Reach.” And one lord in particular. Oh, how she wished they might marry soon! Yet perhaps a little time was best, for in those intervening weeks she might learn of Willas’ passions and dislikes, how she might please him, impress him, convince him he had wed a girl worthy of his affection and protection. “Until such time, however, I must humbly beg your aid. I know so little of your brother, and I do so dearly wish to make him happy…You will tell me how, will you not?”
How comforting, how familiar to learn that the same woodland grounds were a reminder of something nurturing – of somewhere safe. The girl’s grasp was warm and gentle, and Ofelia squeezed her hand to silently thank her. “Is it wrong to say what you think?” Was this another realm where honesty was punished instead of being rewarded? Was it considered an offense to speak one’s mind? Her gaze veered down to their feet then up, all the way to her companion’s face upon which no emotion transpired, a pristine mask forbidding any interpretation without quite discouraging any attempt at a conversation.
“What’s a septa?” If Ofelia’s presence carried some sort of oddity, the young lady was graceful enough to speak not of it. “Do you have one?” It was then that the first question she ought have asked was finally voiced, perhaps too eagerly, betraying a curiosity growing ever deeper with every step taken further within the woods. “What’s your name?” She came to an abrupt halt, spun around and craned back her neck to gaze at the older girl. “I’m Ofelia.”
Yes, dear child, you must only ever sing the songs already written; this court cares nothing for stories it has not already told. But could she issue such a warning? Tell a girl not yet flowered that tongue and heart and mind were not truly her own? Sansa knew words of caution would have slipped over her, dew rolling from waxen petals, had another offered them in that brief spring of hope and pride. No harm could befall her so long as Joff’s love held true; yet that had been a false love, one wrought from necessity, discarded as soon as the little wolf turned more cumbersome than valuable. This could only be the girl’s first visit to court, surely, else she should already know how wise it stood to hold one’s tongue.
“Amongst true friends, mayhaps not. But I am a stranger,” she chided, “and you must always speak carefully around those whom you do not know, lest you risk offending them.” ’Twas not Sansa who found displeasure in royal comparison, but between such walls that simple, child-like flattery might incur a queen’s wrath, silence served best. Brows furrowed, a confused glance turned towards her young companion as they rounded a bend in the narrow path. From Essos, perhaps? “I am now too old for one,” she murmured, “though I did once.” Before… Taken aback, she recovered quickly from the girl’s sprightly movements — like Arya. “Ofelia.” Skirts lifted just above the ground, Sansa returned her introduction with a graceful, shallow curtsy. “I am Lady Sansa, of Winterfell.”
Features arranged themselves into what she once remembered as sympathy; not so long ago ‘twas Sansa swooning over her prince, lightheaded with the dream of their life together. Now another sought such bliss, or else was pushed into it as so many girls were. She could not begrudge her — Willas, Willas…I can make you happy, Willas — though infatuation seemed more an effort, than a dizzying fall.
“You mustn’t fear, he shall come to love you even before the day has finished.”
Eyes of deepest sapphire stared wondrously at the stranger, admiration leading her to abandon nearly all decorum. Such beauty lay only in songs, cruel, misleading verses meant to placate the simple-minded. It could not possibly manifest in bones and flesh, least of all amongst such squalor as the royal city held. In disbelief Sansa watched, willing traitorous eyes to betray some flaw, yet none revealed itself.
“You must have traveled many leagues to come here, my lady, for I have never seen your like before.”
❝ If there’s no happiness at the end of our suffering, why bother living? I would rather have h o p e than faith.❞
“ —— Mayhaps for some there lies little difference between the two. In this city I have seen both lead men to blindness, to death. There comes a time when one must accept the world in which they live.”
Her lips sealed close, a tight and white line mirroring the one above slightly squinted eyes into which distrust combined with curiosity. A combat Ofelia didn’t bother concealing from her face, each sentiment fighting for the upper hand until the latter won. When hadn’t it? “You do look like a princess,” she asserted, certain of herself and as if the girl’s words held no veracity. After all, hadn’t she once been oblivious to her true status?
“But you like them. You like these woods.” Another affirmation. “I do, too.” Under her feet leaves rustled as she drew closer to the auburn-haired girl and she had to crane back her neck to keep gazing at her with nothing short of awe now that the details of her gown could be admired; and oh, how she longed to touch the delicate fabric, to feel the patterns embroidered in the delicate material. “Could you show me?” And with the same familiarity seeping from the very souls of the trees, a hand was extended.
Though before her stood a child, one whose tongue was yet learning to heed warnings of the mind before following whims of the heart, Sansa could not entirely quash the fear which spread in crimson bloom through her chest. “You really mustn’t say such things aloud,” she warned. “No matter how flattering they may seem.” Ears and eyes remained turned towards the captive wolf, ever searching for an excuse to accuse her of greater treason than mere blood. Even a girl’s misguided admiration might beg the queen’s attention, once so desired, now shuned at every opportunity.
“They remind me of my home.” Of my father, but to think of Lord Eddard fondly was also a treason, though to remember Winterfell and its ancient gods could draw no censure. ‘Twas strange that any other might find them comforting, for even her lady mother, long a resident of Northern lands, appeared unsettled when confronted with weeping carmine faces. Taken aback, slim fingers nonetheless encircled her palm, leading the girl away from rusty leaves and ivory bark. “Will your mother not miss you? Your septa?” Surely no household would allow a noble daughter to wander such dangerous paths alone.
She wasn’t thinking properly – she had not even anticipated the talk of religion, though with the mention of the godswood, any idiot would have predicted that. But not a queen who had not a single honest thought that was not simply related to what she would like to eat, or what color she would like to wear. But at least she had enough tact ( sparse though it was ) to not merely reply that she was not certain what her religion was. Her mother preached the Faith, but her husband’s mother had believed in the Old Gods, and she and Kit often visited the neglected godswood in her name. This seemed safe enough to divulge, in place of speaking of her own impious uncertainty, but alas, her thinking had run her quite out of time once again; Anastasia settled for a smile, lips twitching to curve. The quiet queen, she was thought as.
Unsure whether it was an offer or gesture, Anastasia took Sansa’s arm, speaking quickly in case she had thought wrong. ❝Thank you, Lady Sansa. You’ve been so kind to me today,❞ she uttered, following the young girl’s lead in both step and gracious manners. At least she could deliver these general proprieties without speaking of Old Gods and New, so used to parroting such phrases now. ❝You must visit Perrault some day, so that I may repay your hospitality.❞ Her husband’s kingdom was nothing very grand, his marriage to her instead of Chelina of Zaragosa depriving the realm of the divisions she would have brought. But at least the thoughts of war were not constantly hanging above the heads of its people.
She remembered how Margaery once reached out to her, sisterly, warm and welcoming despite having only just arrived in the capital, whilst Sansa had resided there for months. In many ways the girl sought to emulate her, through speech and dress and manner, all as carefully calculated as those sugar’d answers given to curious lions. Mayhaps she wished to play the older, more experienced guide, though this guest surely appeared to exceed Sansa on both counts. Married so well, dressed so finely! While familiar pangs of jealous threatened to rise up, she instead found the impulses anemic, weakened by her time amongst southron captors. Sansa felt only a vague pity, sympathy for a girl perhaps used by an ambitious family for their own gain — did she love her husband? did her gowns and jewels and titles adequately compensate?
Free hand reached over to settle lightly atop her new companion’s — just as Margaery once did. “I remember all too well how overwhelming this keep seemed when I first arrived,” she assured her, and indeed it had. A thousand different passageways, half of them winding into darkened halls used little and less by those who followed the dragon kings, all possible traps in which a young lady might lose herself. The gardens were no less forgiving in their complexity, though Sansa had been gifted the saving grace of Princess Myrcella’s company for many of her explorations there. “Oh, but I should very much enjoy such an opportunity, should my duties at court come to an end. I have seen so little of this world, ‘twould seem a shame to never explore it.”
Noises from the city below still filtered through the spartan branches, slithering through musty carmine leaves to press gently against her ears and yet — yes, the world did seem quieter here, amongst her father’s gods. Sansa had never thought to relish such silence until now, ever worried over what Lannister guards might spy during her sojourns there.
“A peaceful place indeed, my lady. I am quite unaccustomed to the company of another here; most others see fit to worship only in the sept, before seven altars rather than a single tree.”
Dark hair, Northern hair, flashed between the branched of an overgrown shrub. Rarely did anyone other than the Starkling visit the keep’s anemic godswood, most often when winding paths mislead those seeking brighter environs. Another corner turned and ebon revealed itself as belonging to a child, startling enough for Sansa to draw back with a concerned gasp. “And where is your mother, sweetling? Are you lost?”
Perhaps selfishly, Yuliya wondered if the lack of war would give warmth to her parents’ embrace. Perhaps it was truly the ever present chaos and wrath fueling lives of the citizens, that made the lord and lady Kapuletov distant. But, Yuliya realized, she was lucky to have both parents alive.
❝ Truly. Yet it is not rare that even with the presence of those figures, a child would grow up unknowing of the word love, ❞ then the blonde lady paused, puckering her lips as a small frown creased her forehead. Something in her head clicked. ❝ But I would hate to speak of such grave subject any more. I’m curious my lady! What gods you speak of? There is only ONE God. ❞ Or at least this was what the Bible said, and what everyone believed could there be something hidden from her curious mind?
Always had parents stood synonymous with love in Sansa’s thoughts; even among lions, loathsome creatures that they were, could she see plain the devotion between a mother and her cubs. To believe one’s family served as the source of great injustice seemed nigh unthinkable to one so sheltered, so pampered as the little wolfling.
“A tragic turn of fate,” she murmured, gaze turned silvery with curious intent. And did your mother and father withhold such affection? Is that the cause for your coming here, so clearly far from home? For only a rare few in Westeros worshiped R’hllor, a fiery god brought over from across the Narrow Sea, one whom seduced the false king Stannis by way of a red woman. No matter whether one subscribed to the old faith or the new, ever had there been many gods in service of their children. “The gods, my lady. Father Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger.” Silent Sansa remained on those others, staring out with re eyes upon men like her father. “Have you never read the Seven-Pointed Star?”
Of Sansa Stark, Anastasia had scarce of an opinion, her mind too flighty and fearful to settle on one perspective. She only knew her husband felt deeply for the Starks, and that her mother did not, believing that association with direwolves in a time of lions was certain death. In truth, she and Sansa had some sentiment in common, for Anastasia understood a bit of what it was like to be captive – but it was her own spinning that landed her in this web. Buried in her deepest heart, the tiny queen longed for nothing more than a companion who knew all her sins and who could love her still, but she was not foolish enough to hope. She poured those selfish desires into her Havenese Amie instead, who had not the tongue to criticize her.
❝ That’s very well . You must be kept quite entertained. ❞ By this point, it seemed clear that neither girl was saying anything they truly meant, both declaiming pleasantries and little more – though Sansa was much more skilled at it. But talk of entertainment and bandits … neither meant a whit to Anastasia, and she had trouble hiding it; her life was consumed with herself and her survival only in the fragile world she sculpted. She simply gave an awkward, twitch of a smile in response, stepping on. ❝ … I wonder if I might see the godswood, Lady Sansa? ❞ Anastasia spoke then, and what possessed her to say the next, she would never know even in the years to come. ❝ – I’ve suddenly the greatest yearning to lose myself. ❞ It was too telling a confession; she realized this, and laughed to hide it.
Once the auburn-haired captive had a companion of her own to confide in, stolen away too soon by the capricious whims of one lioness. Nights still passed in which Sansa felt reassuring warmth against her side, the tickle of fur against her nose, lying still as cold wind whipped across squinting eyes in dreams that lingered long after waking. Yet when consciousness returned, alone the girl remained, robbed of spirit but not of conviction; though dwindling, brothers and sister roamed freely, felt along the edges of a roving mind. Lady, alongside a mother’s remembered spirit, stood her sole comfort, imagined though it was. Notions of camaraderie, of friendship, no longer occurred to Sansa, least of all with one so clearly favored by those who now sought to destroy a father’s house.
“Indeed,” she offered with wan smile. If threats of hurt and death entertain one as readily as they do our king. Platitudes kept the little wolf alive, kept her safe and well away from accusations of the self-same treachery that so condemned Lord Stark; all the better if Cersei believed her ward in possession of a simple mind, incapable of any betrayal. “The — ?” Such a request surprised the girl, enough for coppery brows to twitch upwards before decorum smoothed away all such emotion. “I did not know there were those beyond the North who kept the Old Gods, my lady.” Ah, but she only meant to jape! Swallowing the acrid taste of humiliation, Sansa offered a half-hearted chuckle of her own. “But of course, the grounds about it provide a great many hidden groves, perfect for private contemplation. Please,” she implored, one arm gracefully extended, “allow me to show you.”
“ I do not my dear. The Red God does exist but I worship the triple Goddess. Maiden Mother and Crone. Why is it you ask? ” The raven haired woman took a step forward towards the red head.
“Every septa I have known wears her hair covered, with a gown of simple cloth’ only this red woman seems to dare indulge more flamboyant tastes. Many changes have overwhelmed these seven kingdoms, my lady — ‘tis wiser to continue expecting their revelation, than believe them entirely passed.”
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
