"Lady Sansa," Theon says in a hush, broken teeth and an even more broken spirit making each word a trial. Sansa removes her glare from the books that the late Lord Bolton couldn't be bothered to keep, and tucks it away to grace Theon with her Lady's Face. "The Karstarks are here."
Sansa nods and rises, her guards and Theon falling in around her as she makes her way to the Great Hall. Unlike the Red Keep, Winterfell's stones are as gray as the Northern skies despite a shared history of bloodshed. Sansa does not know which occurred first - the poison or the blade? What she does know she tells none but the maester with her words wrapped in delicately formed questions.
She never saw the killer's face: the Bastard of Bolton enjoyed taking her like the wolf-bitch she was. It was the wet warmth that pooled on her back, and the frantic, weak spasms of her dying husband's nails on her skin that let her know they’d an audience. Relief muddled the fear that held her heart hostage, the last blood of Bolton slowly sliding off the bed, and Sansa had resolutely not moved until she heard the unlatching of the lock and the old hinges creak.
The houndmaster's daughter's face had been abandoned on the floor by the door.
A handful of days later Roslin Tully had arrived at Winterfell with Sansa’s tiny cousin in tow and a tale on her lips. Any other would believe the woman mad for even daring to think a Bolton free Winterfell would be welcoming to a scion of the Walder Frey. Any other would hear her words -Winter came for House Frey, but my Cat is a Tully- and think them nothing but a weak woman’s delusions.
But Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, and when the ravens arrive in the weeks after her uncle’s widow telling how Lord Frey poisoned his own family during a feast celebrating Riverrun’s inevitable capitulation under siege she knows.
As Sansa enters the Great Hall she can see that the Karstarks are all bluster, and anger, and she holds a keep with little more than aged servants and green boys. Her Lady’s face is as cold as snow as she takes her seat, Theon shuffling quickly to pull it out for her. Behind them is a peasant boy, face wane and bruised as he tries to make himself small, but the box he holds with a possessive fearfulness brings warmth to her cheeks. Sansa does not know what is inside, but raven arrived first, and she can guess.
“You’re late.” Sansa says, addressing Harald Karstark. “Raven’s were sent requesting oaths of fealty weeks ago.”
The man’s jaw clenches, and he covers it up with a disgusted sneer. “We already gave our pledge, Lady Bolton.”
“Bastards inherit nothing, my Lord.” Sansa says instead, and lowers her eyes as she remembers Margaery doing. Margaery, who now rules in King’s Landing as Queen with an enraged, focused Tommen at her side. “Not land. Not names. My husband was a Snow. I am a Stark. Swear to House Stark.”
He is tense and angry, and his own men shift and grumble at his side. Next to Sansa, Roslin hushes little Catlyn by offering a tit to the girl. Finally, Harald gathers his hate and spits it at her: “Whatever blood our Houses once shared, your own brother spilled, girl. I’ll not swear to you - fuck the rumors. There’s no ghost here but that reeking thing at your side.”
Sansa inclines her head to acknowledge the grievance and motions for the fearful peasant boy to approach. She does not need the Karstarks. The Umbers, Mormonts, Manderlys, and Reeds have all pledged, with promises of men to secure her hold. Thirty bears have been sent ahead of Lyanna Mormont’s party and they man her walls faithfully alongside merfolk.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
No One Is Listening (GoT) 1/2
Date: 2017-09-27 12:35 am (UTC)Sansa nods and rises, her guards and Theon falling in around her as she makes her way to the Great Hall. Unlike the Red Keep, Winterfell's stones are as gray as the Northern skies despite a shared history of bloodshed. Sansa does not know which occurred first - the poison or the blade? What she does know she tells none but the maester with her words wrapped in delicately formed questions.
She never saw the killer's face: the Bastard of Bolton enjoyed taking her like the wolf-bitch she was. It was the wet warmth that pooled on her back, and the frantic, weak spasms of her dying husband's nails on her skin that let her know they’d an audience. Relief muddled the fear that held her heart hostage, the last blood of Bolton slowly sliding off the bed, and Sansa had resolutely not moved until she heard the unlatching of the lock and the old hinges creak.
The houndmaster's daughter's face had been abandoned on the floor by the door.
A handful of days later Roslin Tully had arrived at Winterfell with Sansa’s tiny cousin in tow and a tale on her lips. Any other would believe the woman mad for even daring to think a Bolton free Winterfell would be welcoming to a scion of the Walder Frey. Any other would hear her words -Winter came for House Frey, but my Cat is a Tully- and think them nothing but a weak woman’s delusions.
But Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, and when the ravens arrive in the weeks after her uncle’s widow telling how Lord Frey poisoned his own family during a feast celebrating Riverrun’s inevitable capitulation under siege she knows.
As Sansa enters the Great Hall she can see that the Karstarks are all bluster, and anger, and she holds a keep with little more than aged servants and green boys. Her Lady’s face is as cold as snow as she takes her seat, Theon shuffling quickly to pull it out for her. Behind them is a peasant boy, face wane and bruised as he tries to make himself small, but the box he holds with a possessive fearfulness brings warmth to her cheeks. Sansa does not know what is inside, but raven arrived first, and she can guess.
“You’re late.” Sansa says, addressing Harald Karstark. “Raven’s were sent requesting oaths of fealty weeks ago.”
The man’s jaw clenches, and he covers it up with a disgusted sneer. “We already gave our pledge, Lady Bolton.”
“Bastards inherit nothing, my Lord.” Sansa says instead, and lowers her eyes as she remembers Margaery doing. Margaery, who now rules in King’s Landing as Queen with an enraged, focused Tommen at her side. “Not land. Not names. My husband was a Snow. I am a Stark. Swear to House Stark.”
He is tense and angry, and his own men shift and grumble at his side. Next to Sansa, Roslin hushes little Catlyn by offering a tit to the girl. Finally, Harald gathers his hate and spits it at her: “Whatever blood our Houses once shared, your own brother spilled, girl. I’ll not swear to you - fuck the rumors. There’s no ghost here but that reeking thing at your side.”
Sansa inclines her head to acknowledge the grievance and motions for the fearful peasant boy to approach. She does not need the Karstarks. The Umbers, Mormonts, Manderlys, and Reeds have all pledged, with promises of men to secure her hold. Thirty bears have been sent ahead of Lyanna Mormont’s party and they man her walls faithfully alongside merfolk.