The next chapter in my Sansa Stark story! Feel free to continue suggesting names along the Political Record (A Young Girls...) style. Currently no editor for this work so please feel free to comment on anything I might have missed in my own review!
Chapter 3
I was distracted with my newfound ability to enter into Visha when I slept. I was getting quite good at choosing what nights I slipped my skin and what nights I just rested. It was anyone’s guess as to if my body was truly at rest when I was in Visha’s skin, but I felt mildly more tired after a lengthy time. Not being truly asleep probably lessened the ability to properly recuperate from a day’s worth of activity. Perhaps not as pronounced, but similar to people who partake of too much alcohol and their brain does not get the best forms of rest.
The distraction of learning a new skill did not fully keep me away from my duties as a noble daughter. I attended the feasts, I kept up with the social expectations, and even found some time to read. I saw Tyrion twice more in the library and it pleased me that someone else was getting more use of it. I felt a renewed energy and passion for things now that I knew magic existed.
That changed after Bran fell.
Guilt was not something I felt often, but seeing Bran so still within his bed under the furs sparked something in me. I was not my brother’s keeper; my parents had that role. As did the castle guards and servants. Bran himself was likely to blame – climbing where he shouldn’t have been despite my mother asking him not to. But he was also a child and pinning the blame on him while he suffered in a coma seemed wrong.
I suspected what had happened. My brother most likely wished to climb where eyes would not see him and potentially report it. With Winterfell playing host to more people, he had attempted to climb in spots he normally did not. Bran had been skilled at climbing but overconfidence combined with attempting a specific section he normally didn’t, and this was the result.
I hope you wake up, Bran. I have so many things I want to show you. You will love being able to warg.
My mother was justifiably lost in her grief. She was not eating or drinking and I had enough of that sort of nonsense.
“Mother, I brought you something to eat.”
“I am not hungry,” she replied listlessly.
“And yet, you will eat. When Bran awakens, he will be confronted with the harsh reality that he will never walk again. His dreams of knighthood will be dust. You will need to be his rock, the steady, motherly support to ensure he weathers this trying time with his spirit intact. Do not stint in your duties as his mother by starving yourself in some vain effort to punish yourself for something that was not your fault.”
Her eyes blazed with familiar fire at my words and I could tell she was about to speak harshly, when she instead quieted.
“You are right, as ever, my strange Sansa. By rights, ‘tis I who should be looking after you, but instead you are the one with wisdom. I will eat. I promise, just leave it there.”
I eyed her. “See that you do. I had hoped he would awaken before I departed, but unless it happens soon, I fear I will have to say my goodbyes on the morrow.” I paused, and considered my words carefully. “Tell him, tell him that there is truth to the stories and that when we see each other again, I will show him something wondrous.”
My mother looked at me strangely for a moment but then nodded. I felt she needed it, so I approached her and gave her a hug. Catelyn Stark was not a large woman, but that grip around my body was held more fiercely and tightly was surprisingly powerful. I hoped for both Bran and her sake that my brother would regain consciousness.
With my newfound warg powers I considered whether it would be wise to share this with my siblings. My concern was if I showed it to them, what would happen if they failed to properly use them? This was truly nothing alike the magical circuits and mathematical formula-driven magic of my second life, but I had to believe that my experience there made me far more naturally inclined toward this form of magic. I wasn’t sure they even had it, but something, some sort of kinship and bond I felt through Visha and for the other wolves, gave me a premonition that they would have the ability too.
My concern was not in their potential lack, but what if they screwed it up somehow? Found themselves lost in an animal’s mind? Stories were stories, not proper manuals on how to operate being a skinchanger. There was little time to adequately tell, teach, and monitor my siblings who were not coming with me. It was probably wisest to begin with Arya, who I would be remaining in close contact with on the journey south and to King’s Landing. The problem there lay in the fact she wasn’t very mature.
She’s only nine.
I found the brisk air refreshing as I made my way to the steps of the library. I intended to take a few of my favorite books with me on the journey south. Tyrion was once again reading and greeted me with a nod. “Lady Sansa.”
“Lord Tyrion, what are you reading this time?”
“An old book on scholarship dilemmas from Archmaester Walgram. In different times, various peoples did not all have the same way of documenting the passage of time. It creates difficulties when determining a proper timeline of our past,” Tyrion replied.
I had read it. It was one of the rare tomes that did not propose an arrogant answer, but suggested different rubrics and assumptions that could be made. Still uncertain as to how I should handle Arya, I thought to pose the question, in a veiled fashion, to Tyrion.
“You are fond of your brother, Jaime, yes?”
Tyrion’s expression grew slightly pensive. “Of course, he has ever been my protector. He is my brother. Has something happened?”
I shook my head. “No, I am just framing a question properly. This is not specific to Jaime. I have a gift I may wish to give one of my own siblings, but the gift has a chance of causing harm. I have likened it to giving a prized warhorse to an up and coming squire. Yes, the destrier will most likely not throw and injure the lad, but it might. Should the horse be kept back until the squire has proven himself and become a knight? Yet that would mean holding back a gift that would bring great joy to the squire and mayhaps even protect him from harm. If you had the opportunity to give a gift to your brother Jaime, knowing that the gift will bring him joy, but it also bears the chance that it may harm him, would you?”
Tyrion took the question seriously.
“I will not ask for more details as you clearly desire to be circumspect, but to me your dilemma is all about trust. Would I give any squire a potentially dangerous warhorse? No. Would I give the right one, such a responsibility? Yes. So, the answer comes down to how confident you are in your squire. For me, I have always thought it best to have knowledge, gold, or anything, than not. I trust Jaime, so I would give the gift and explain the dangers.”
That is what it comes down to. Do I trust Arya? I find that the answer is yes.
“Thank you, my lord, I appreciate your advice.”
I went to the sections that held the books I wanted and carefully placed them in a satchel. That accomplished, I headed back into the cold. It was time to pack and then have a conversation with Arya.
***
“So, you did change your mind about pissing off the edge of the world,” Jaime said wryly.
Tyrion smiled at his older brother, a quip and a jape from him always righted his mood.
“I had intended to, but in truth, I am concerned about our nephew’s betrothal.”
Jaime looked at him with confusion. “The Stark girl? She’s pretty enough, polite too. Doesn’t look at me like I just stepped into shit. Cersei says they will make a regal pair.”
“Our sweet sister is hard to please, I wonder how Sansa accomplished getting on her good side,” Tyrion wondered.
Jaime shrugged. “Some womanly thing, no doubt. Sansa was complimentary of Cersei’s outfits and asked for her advice on what colors would match Joffrey the best. She’s an earnest girl, a bit simple and enchanted by our sister’s finery and grace, but also not empty-headed.”
Perhaps I worry over nothing, there is nothing simple about Sansa Stark, and yet she has both Cersei and Jaime utterly fooled.
But worry he did. Joffrey was a Maegor in the making. When his revolting nephew pushed too far, things would grow very ugly and with the Starks such close friends with Robert… he worried. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was an honorable man. Simple and no doubt easy to misguide, trick, or fool. His daughter was nothing like that, and though he never spoke it aloud to Jaime or Cersei, it was obvious the two were fucking each other and just as obvious Joffrey had nothing of Robert in him. How long would it take someone as keen as Sansa to discover it?
“Her mother taught her well then.”
Jaime, uninterested in the conversation, changed the subject.
“Do you believe the stories about Lord Stark? Do you really think he bested Arthur Dayne in single combat?”
Tyrion arched one of his blond eyebrows. “I’ve never heard Stark ever boast of such a deed. I always suspected they did the smart thing and riddled him full of crossbow bolts.”
Jaime scowled. “That wouldn’t be a proper fight. And a crossbow is only good for one shot, then it would be over.”
“Yes, that’s why you bring more than one soldier with a crossbow. My sweet brother, in case you have forgotten, there are few knights this far north. Eddard was barely a man and Ser Arthur the most renowned knight of the Kingsguard. With his older father and older brother dead, I doubt he would be so foolish as to challenge the greatest knight in the realm to a duel.”
Jaime scratched at his chin. “I suppose you are right. Arthur would have spilled his entrails easily enough. Did I ever tell you about the time…”
He had. Many times. But like always, Tyrion let himself listen to his brother’s old stories. Jaime always seemed happy recalling past battles and for the kindness his elder brother had shown him, he would always tolerate being a bit bored rehearing a tale.
Travel south instead of to the Wall had its own rewards. Much finer places to lay, ample guards around him, much wine and good food. Tyrion looked forward to getting back to civilization at long last. The Wall had been an errant thought, a desire that could be pursued at another time. Especially with how fascinating Sansa was. Anyone could be well-read, but to actually understand and apply what she had learned from books was a rarity. Even beyond that, challenging an ancient author’s perspective and being able to cross-reference by memory other scholars of that age.
The trek south would be slow, especially the poor quality of the roads until they made it south of Moat Cailin. From there things would go much quicker, save for the issue of Robert wishing to stop and feast at local holdfasts and keeps. After finishing the conversation with Jaime, he found his feet wandering to the Stark side of the camp.
“What business do you have here, Imp?”
Tyrion looked up at the guard.
“Just stretching my legs, I’ve hope that they will finally lengthen.”
The large set man frowned. “Have you business with Lord Stark?”
“Not as such, but if I wished to share a word with our new Hand, that would be my business, not yours.”
“If you wish to see Lord Stark, I will escort you, if not I suggest you go about your eve.”
Tyrion felt a flash of hate. The fat lowborn was insulting him, a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Dwarf or no, that sort of indignity was not going to be tolerated.
“Has Lord Stark explicitly, that means directly, told you to bar my passage? Has he told you that the queen’s brother is to be spoken down to and restricted among her husband’s camp? King Robert, perhaps you know the man, even larger than you, wields a large hammer. The good brother of the man you insulted.”
The guard’s eyes began to widen and grew a little paler.
“M’lord, I’ve been tasked by Lord Stark with ensuring the safety of the camp, I…” he trailed, mouth working as he realized he may have pushed too far, “I meant no offense, Lord Tyrion.”
“Yet offend me you did.” Tyrion let his glare soften. “But I am not here to give lessons in etiquette to the Lord Hand’s guards. I wish to speak with someone in the camp and unless you have some reason to fear me as dangerous, then stand aside and waste no more of my time.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Tyrion continued to the larger wagon, the one he knew the Stark family typically rested in once camp was set. Outside stood the captain of the household guards of Winterfell. Jory certainly looked a proper warrior. His blue-grey plate was unadorned, but had a hardy quality to it. His thin cloak had the wolf’s head sigil of the Starks on it, though it looked a recent thing, as he could not recall seeing it when they had first been greeted.
“Lord Tyrion,” he greeted with a bow. “Have you come to speak with Lord Stark?”
“No, I’ve come to ask Sansa a question about one of the books she let me borrow.”
Jory’s face flickered into a smile. “Wait here, please.”
He entered into the wheelhouse and then returned with Sansa in tow.
“I had not expected you, Lord Tyrion.”
“Please, just call me Tyrion. We aren’t at court. I am curious if you have the time to share your thoughts on some of the texts I’ve had a chance to read.”
“By the fire, within the wagon, or a walk around the camp?” Sansa asked.
“The fire would do nicely.”
What followed was an enjoyable time, even after the sun had set the camps still bustled, but as true night was following, Lord Stark made an appearance.
“Sansa, it is time to be abed.”
The girl wished him a goodnight and she and her wolf went back to the wagons. Tyrion turned to leave, but Stark halted him.
“What is… this? Are you trying to embroil my girl in some southern plotting while you are still within my domain?”
Tyrion sighed. “No, I merely enjoy her stimulating company.”
Eddard’s long face grew sterner.
“Such statements border on the inappropriate and obscene.”
Tyrion cursed his tongue. He had, for once, not been attempting to make some crude jape. He was stimulated by her company, on an intellectual level, not on something so… base.
Burn me, she’s a child. Is Lord Stark so set against my house that he thinks the worst of me?
“Forgive me, Lord Stark. I swear by the Seven I meant no offense. Your daughter is brilliant in ways that few appreciate. She’s shown me naught but kindness, and as a dwarf, I assure you that is a rarity. Worry not for your daughter’s safety, I believe Visha would have my throat the moment I tried to lay hand on her.”
Something in Stark’s stance shifted a bit. Tyrion heard a sigh.
“I would not accuse you, but guard your tongue, Lannister.”
The way Stark used the name of his house was like how other men used the term Imp or half-man. It was almost refreshing to be despised for the lion on his surcoat rather than the twisted legs beneath it.
“You have my word as a Lannister, Lord Hand.”
Tyrion took Lord Stark’s grunt as a dismissal and he wandered back to the Lannister side. He was somewhat surprised the man hadn’t forbidden him to go near his daughter. He paused.
Why hadn’t he?
Frowning, he considered the question more than once before sleep found him.
***
Arya was worried when Sansa of all people pulled her away from the main camp to speak privately. She looked worried. Sansa never looked worried. Or distraught. Or concerned.
Not true, she did look it for a time with Bran.
Thoughts of her brother Bran always made her sad, but this time they could not find the root, for her sister looked worried.
“Arya, have you had any strange dreams lately?”
Arya shook her head. Dreams? She was confused by the question.
“I am going to share with you a secret, something that you cannot tell anyone about, not even Father. Do you swear it by the old gods and the new?”
Arya was baffled, but nodded. “Yes, Sansa, what is it? What is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, Arya, but I’ve had dreams, wolf dreams, where I experience reality through Visha’s eyes.”
That brought to mind the tales Old Nan would share. Sansa had always said they might hold a kernel of truth but were clearly exaggerations to make better stories. Arya had not liked that; she thought the stories were better if all the details were true.
“No, I haven’t had anything like that,” Arya replied.
“Interesting, well, I believe you might experience something like that eventually. I do not wish to get your hopes up, but I’ve been doing some experimenting, and the stories of skinchangers and wargs turned out to be true.”
“What?” Arya exclaimed. “What do you mean? You can turn into a wolf?”
Sansa gave her a polite laugh. The laugh that sometimes drove Arya to distraction. There was no pause, as if she had delayed it, but Arya knew it was not a genuine reaction. It was the laugh that had been planted, put in place deliberately. She loved Sansa, but when she used feast-day mannerisms on her, it hurt.
“No, those stories were probably wrong. I become Visha, I pilot… well, I ‘ride’ her skin while my own body lies still. Come, let me show you.”
Sansa brushed an area around a nearby tree of some leaves and then lay down.
“Do not be alarmed, but do tell me what happens to my body while I’m gone. I will be in control of Visha and she will come up and press her nose against your leg thrice. You can ask her questions and I will nod yes or no with Visha’s head.”
Sansa closed her eyes and then went utterly still. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest gave away that she still lived. Meanwhile, Visha came up and pushed her nose to Arya’s leg.
Arya was amazed and more than a little shocked.
“Is that really you, Sansa?”
Visha nodded her head once.
“Is this a jape?”
Visha shook her head no.
Arya knew that Sansa was not for cruel tricks or larks at the expense of others, but she wished to test it. She remembered Sansa helping her learn her numbers, and thought of a good way to test if this was truly Sansa.
“If I have three fields of barley and each yields two bushels, nod your head for the number of bushels I have.”
Visha made a chuffing sound and then nodded six times.
Arya gave a squeal of delight. “Am I going to be able to do this too? Is that why you asked about dreams?”
Visha grew still and then Sansa gasped for air.
“I hope you will be able to. I have some ideas on how you might be able to learn how to do this. My belief is that there is something about the Stark bloodline that interacts with direwolves. This may be why we chose the direwolf as our sigil. Tracing back what is true, or not, or something completely forgotten over thousands of years is an impossible task. On our journey south I do want to see if you can learn too. Now, tell me what you saw about my body.”
Arya told her the details and then launched a hundred questions. How did she learn? What was it like? Can she talk as a wolf? Where does Visha go when Sansa is Visha? How did she stop being Visha? How far can she go as Visha?
Not all her questions had answers, and Sansa excitedly, a rarity from Sansa, ran through other experiments. It was both scary and fascinating how Sansa could not ‘wake up’ even when Arya shook her or pinched her. Sansa claimed that she had no awareness of what was happening with her body while she was within the wolf. Sansa cautioned that this could be dangerous, and began describing some tricks of the mind that might help her spark the ability.
Nothing sounds too difficult. I really just need to strongly think about Nymeria each night as I close my eyes for slumber. I hope this works!
***
We had passed Moat Cailin and were in the Neck. This was an area that held some danger and, despite my warnings, Arya seemed to take little heed of them. The kingsroad was narrow here and on either side was a bog filled with lizard-lions and venomous snakes. Even the flowers could be poisonous and if you veered too far from the road you could encounter sucking quicksand traps.
I made her promise not to wander alone. I had thought that meant taking a guard, but no, she had found one of the boys in the camp. A lad named Mycah, who was the son of the butcher who rendered the game the king and his company slew on the many hunts that Robert liked to take part in. I questioned him briefly and the boy was skittish and meek.
Good enough, the real danger is something happening when you are alone out there. Plus, she still has Nymeria.
I felt as if Arya was making decent progress. She had her first ‘wolf dream’ the prior night and that was a welcome relief, as she was beginning to grow forlorn at not being a warg herself. It was a daily occurrence now that I reiterated how important it was to not tell anyone about it. She was growing exasperated with my reminders, but it was important. It was not just superstition, which could lead to bad relations, there were also other considerations. The stories told of wargs as a form of skinchanger, but what if I had the ability to slip my skin into other animals? The potential for reconnaissance was immense. I had not tried it yet, but likely soon.
Feasting had my family dine with the royals in the pavilion, the times when there was room for it. The baggage train actually carried large tables in carts just so the king could sit at a proper feasting table. Rank has always had its privileges, but it seemed a bit much. Comfort was well and good, but perhaps if fewer amenities were being lugged about, there would be greater incentive to move faster than a snail’s pace.
Our king often drank, and I wished to ingratiate myself in my future good father. Before he was too far into his cups I asked if he might like to hear some unique poetry. I could tell by his expression he probably did not. The king glanced at my father and then generously nodded his head.
“Ruby streams churn red, war hammer strikes through gale, rubies scatter far, thunder shatters dragon pride, storm king reigns, eternal might.”
“Hah, that sounds good. Short and to the point!”
My father smiled. “Yes, my daughter believes directness is often best. She can talk circles if she desires, but unless a word is meaningful, it is best not to be said.”
That was accurate, to a point. Meaningless talk was useless. Why say something with more words than was necessary? But that was the rub, what was necessary? Following the norms to the extent that you endear a positive reception was not wasted words. Adding more descriptors or flattery to sway someone was also not wasted.
“Gods, maybe I ought to appoint her to the small council then! Pycelle could talk for days and still not get to the damnable point!”
“Then replace him,” Joffrey suggested. “If I were king and someone displeased me, I would be rid of them.”
Robert laughed. “Fool boy, it is the Citadel who selects the Grand Maester.”
My betrothed grew pink around the cheeks with embarrassment and I quickly moved to my next set.
“If I may, Your Grace, I have one for when you defeated Lord Greyjoy.”
Myrcella clapped her hands and looked on while the queen’s gaze was considering.
“Salt winds lash the decks, war horns drown the Ironborn cries, oars splinter in surf, storm king breaks the kraken’s hold, black sails burn beneath his wrath.”
Robert laughed and then took a large swallow of wine.
“Good, good! Now this is poetry. More!”
I had not expected such an enthusiastic response. I was much more effective at calculating formulas quickly than coming up with poetry on the fly, but I would get the syllable count right, at least.
“What subject would you wish for it to be on, Your Grace?”
Robert considered for a moment. “Ned’s sister. My Lyanna.”
Really? I can feel the queen’s displeasure as soon as you said the name of your former betrothed. My father dislikes this as well as he’s clearly uncomfortable.
“North wind through the pines, long hair streams like shadowed snow, eyes bright spirit fierce, vengeance spent her ghost may rest, stars keep watch where silence sleeps.”
Robert blinked a few times. “Aye, that will do, Sansa. Thank you.”
The way the king drank the rest of the night, as usual, made me wonder if he even recalled it later, but it was important to get face time with the CEO when you had the opportunity. Joffrey continued to be cordial and a bore. His attempt to feed me a choice morsel of food was not something I was keen on, but the gesture was benign. Courtship in Westeros seemed strange, not that I was an expert in it from my first or second life, but it was something I would have to put up with.