Chapter Text
SANSA
White Harbor was not as big as King’s Landing but neither did it smell as bad, and for that Sansa was grateful. It smelled more like the sea and fish than anything, even deep in the markets far away from the docks, where the Starks congregated the following day.
Each child was given a small allowance of coin and allowed to spend it on what they wished. Brandon immediately ran off with Ned in tow, but Lyarra held onto her youngest daughter tightly despite Lyanna’s desire to chase after them. Sansa hung back behind the two, looking at the wares, searching for what she needed and not finding it anywhere. Stall after stall, filled with wares from all seven kingdoms and beyond, but nothing fit her need.
“Please, Mama!” Lyanna pleaded up ahead.
They had paused at a stall selling decorated weapons; bejeweled daggers, intricately carved hilts on gleaming short swords, and glittering knives. Just like Arya , Sansa thought, though Arya would never have gone for anything so ostentatious as the sword Lyanna was eyeing. It had blue sapphires set into its hilt and shined noticeably.
“No, Lyanna. Your father has already told you.” Lyarra dragged her off as she pouted and whined, and Sansa felt a surge of pity for the girl. Could she be as good a swordswoman as Arya had been, at the end, if they just allowed her the training?
She reminded herself again that the two girls were not the same. It didn’t stop the thoughts forming in her mind, however.
Lyanna was finally convinced to buy a beaded headband that would look wonderful against her dark hair, the pale, ice-blue band stitched with beads and small seed pearls in the pattern of snowflakes. She was happy with her purchase, in the end, leaving only Sansa left to buy what she needed. She asked the woman minding the market stall and he directed her a few aisles away, where there was a rickety table under the shade of a deep purple awning.
“Seals?” Lyanna questioned after Sansa spoke with the craftsman.
“I want something special for when I send letters,” she said, and ended it at that.
She negotiated a bit more with the man to make sure the seal she wanted, custom-made as it needed to be, would be completed before they left White Harbor. She took out a slip of paper from her pocket and made sure that he was the only one who would see the design, getting a promise from him that he’d burn it and show no one the result of the seal. She finalized the sale with half of the payment upfront and the rest upon delivery, and told him he could ask for Lady Sansa at New Castle when it was ready.
Brandon and Ned met them at a fountain decorated with mermaids spitting water with their purchases at midday, and their mother treated them all to fresh market stall food. Greasy-fingered and sated, Brandon showed off his purchase, a small boot knife that had a snarling wolf set into the handle, which started an argument between him, Lyanna, and their mother before anyone else got to show off what they’d bought. Seated next to Ned, Sansa quietly asked what he’d bought.
“Oh,” he said, and dug out a small wooden case. Inside was a set of dip pens, finely crafted, and a small well of ink.
“Those are beautiful, Ned.” Sansa smiled. “And practical, too. I imagine you’ll have lots of letters to send to us when you’re away in the Vale.”
His brow furrowed for a moment as he stared at the set then closed it. He tucked it away and when he looked up at her, his eyes were concerned.
“I will write to you,” he said, “every day, Sansa.”
She knew from her faint memories that she had been Ned’s closest sibling. He was close enough in age to Brandon and they got along well enough, but the older, brasher, louder boy often teased his younger brother and found a less somber companion in Lyanna once she was old enough to display a love of the same skills Brandon did.
Ned did not love swordplay; he was good at it, but he did not lust for battles nor did he dream of earning his first blood, and he was more afraid of talking to girls than he was of Old Nan’s worst stories. Sansa, gentle and mannered and quiet herself, had bonded with him, and she felt bad that there had been so much discord between them lately. It wasn’t his fault that he was hard to look at, and she was slowly coming to terms with it. The journey to White Harbor had started repairing the break in their relationship and she hoped that they would continue more before he set off to his fostering.
She gave him a genuine smile.
“Not everyday, perhaps, but once a week would be nice. And I’ll write back just as often,” she promised, “and you might even be too busy for that, with training and new friends.”
Ned frowned again.
“Will you tell me about him? Um… Baratheon?” He asked tentatively. She smiled wider as Brandon and Lyanna squabbled around them, Mother trying to mitigate the argument, and nodded.
“A bit. He has black hair and bright blue eyes, and he prefers using a war hammer. He’s loud and quite strong and has a voice built for command on the battlefield. He is brave in battle and will be a great friend to you.”
There; none of those words were lies. Still, Ned wrinkled his nose.
“He sounds like Brandon,” he whispered, unwilling to draw the attention of their older brother.
Knowing what she did of Robert Baratheon as a grown adult, and what she did of Brandon as a boy, Sansa couldn’t deny the similarities.
“Aye, he is, and he will become as much of a brother to you as your own blood. But remember Ned, you are a Stark.” Ned glowered at the admonishment.
“You keep saying that,” he muttered mulishly, “I won’t forget.”
“No. You won’t,” Sansa said pointedly.
She waffled back and forth for a moment before deciding to go all in.
“What made you change your mind? About my dreams,” she asked. She didn’t know yet if he truly had. Ned looked at her pensively with a look she was familiar with; it was a Rickard look, a Jon look, a very Ned look.
“I asked Old Nan to tell me a story about the greenseers and the children of the forest,” he said and she prodded him on, “she told me all the tales she knew about them. That they were children of the forest who had powers of sight and warging abilities. Some say that their blood lives on in the Stark line. Do you really think you’re a greenseer, Sansa?”
From what she knew of greenseers, she didn’t think she was one. She knew from the Three-Eyed Raven that all the Stark children had the ability to warg, even her, though she’d lost Lady so young and hadn’t developed her ability because of the lack of connection with her direwolf. He’d told her that in ancient time greenseers were not just powerful wargs but they could see through the faces carved into the weirwood trees, and could see into the future.
She was almost certain that she wouldn’t be able to predict the future of this life beyond what her first life told her. And that when they reached a certain point, her knowledge would become useless and outdated. Perhaps she might be able to develop some warging abilities later on, but she didn’t know the first thing about them. She’d never had a wolf dream like Jon and Arya, or her other siblings had. All she knew was that it took practice for true control.
“No,” she answered after great thought. “I don’t think I’m a greenseer, but I do think I might have a little bit of greensight, perhaps granted to me by the Old Gods. I don’t know why, but they did. I know it wasn’t just a dream, Ned. I know it in my heart.”
Ned nodded and opened his mouth to continue. But the argument between their two other siblings ended and Lyarra, exasperated, stood and announced they were all going back to New Castle, right away. With the Stark guards that had accompanied them throughout the morning, they walked back to the castle and were sent off to their rooms to get ready for a tour before dinner.
Lord Manderly took great pride in his home and it was obvious in every nook and cranny and every word as he showed it off to them. He dragged his son Wendel along, a surly youth of eighteen with thick blonde brows and a bushy mustache already growing into a beard. He was built large but not fat, but Sansa knew that he could get that way eventually. If Lord Wyman intended to show off his son to their mother for a potential match between one of the Stark daughters, Lord Wendel did little to impress. He grumbled and answered monosyllabically and looked disinterested in the whole affair, even rolling his eyes at times during his father’s long-winded speeches.
They continued on to supper and then retired to their chambers to sleep as they had the night before.
The following six days continued much the same way, with the day being spent exploring the city and seeing some of the sights then heading back to New Castle in the afternoon to change and get ready for supper. On their last evening the day before they were due to leave for Winterfell, they returned from a tour of the parts of the Wolf’s Den that were suitable to viewing early so that they could prepare especially well, as there was a grander feast to be held in their honor and they wanted to present themselves finely.
“Here.” Lyanna shoved something into Sansa’s hands after the maids had left. “Will you do my hair?”
It was the blue headband with the beaded snowflakes. Sansa smiled. Lyanna was not just good at riding and interested in weapons and ghastly tales; she liked pretty things and dancing and love songs, too, and Sansa thought they could bond over that. She nodded and gestured for the girl to sit on the stool before the vanity table and picked up a brush.
“Can you do the little braids I like best?” Lyanna requested.
“Which ones?” Sansa had to ask, not remembering any specific hairstyle.
“The ones down the back,” she said, and Sansa figured it would be easiest to just try out a few smaller braids spread throughout the back of her hair instead of questioning her more. She secured the headband under a lock of hair from each side of Lyanna’s face and pulled those strands to the back, then braided it down the middle. She added a smaller twist on each side of the center braid. The headband she secured in place further with pins.
Lyanna grinned when she showed it to her with a hand mirror, and placed a sloppy kiss on Sansa’s cheek. She ran off and Sansa sighed, knowing she had to do her own hair now. But within a moment the girl was back and thrusting something in her hands.
It was another headband, this one decorated with tiny embroidery hand-sewn in the pattern of blue winter roses on top of white.
“I used the rest of my coin when you weren’t looking,” Lyanna said. “Happy early nameday, Sansa!”
Both girls beamed. It was a thoughtful, beautiful gift, and now they would both match for the feast. Sansa brushed out her hair and quickly tied the headband into place, weaving it with strands of her hair into a braid that hung down her back as she went. She left the rest of her hair loose. The both of them wore fine grey dresses that Sansa and their mother had made — a love of sewing and embroidery was not one of the things the two girls had in common — with a thin white undergown made of fine linen, and an outer dress of grey wool that was light enough for the season. It was chased through with thread-of-silver and small beads, and the undergown peeked through the decorative laces at the chest and just below the shoulders. They were made in the style of the Crownlands, which borrowed heavily from the style of the Westerlands, she knew. The waistline sat just under their still nonexistent busts and flowed out from there.
Lyanna twirled in her dress, giggling as she made the skirt flare out.
They were escorted to the feast by Lord Manderly and his sons. The Mermaid’s Court was already a decorous hall but tonight it had been done up even further, for it was not often that so many Starks were seen outside of Winterfell. New Castle was not as big as their home but it was splendid in its richness and Lord Manderly made sure to show them that tonight.
The vassals and bannermen were already gathered in the hall and as the guests of honor, Lyarra and the children sat at the high table with Lord Wyman, his sons, and his wife. Lady Manderly was kind and quiet, blue-eyed and often ill of health. Sansa had not seen her all that week.
“Greetings, my lords and ladies! Gentlefolk!” Lord Manderly shouted across the din, his voice grabbing the attention of everyone as they took their seats at the benches along the long trestle tables.
“Tonight we host five special guests: Lady Stark and her four eldest children!” The ensuing racket was enough to bring a flush to their mother’s cheeks. Sansa herself could not bring herself to summon a blush, giving only a small smile and ducking her head modestly. She glanced up through her lashes as Lord Wyman continued his long-winded speech, paying no attention to the words as she scanned the closest tables.
House Locke sat nearby, both a vassal and a relation to the Starks. Sansa’s paternal grandmother was a Locke, and their father had cousins at the table she vaguely recognized from her fainter memories.
The Hornwoods had come, as had House Flint of Widow’s Watch, as had House Woolfield with Wylis’ betrothed Leona Woolfield and at least three dozen other petty lords and landed knights and their families. It was a larger feast than she expected, but she supposed that in the North the Starks always attracted a lot of attention, wherever they went, and the Manderlys were known to give great feasts.
Lord Manderly finished his speech to a smattering of applause and the first course was served. The meal was even more spectacular than anything they’d eaten that week; creamy crab soup with pearl onions, buttery rolls and oysters that no one but the hosts seemed to know how to eat. They were served several more courses of the finest seafood White Harbor had to offer, most of which Sansa neither desired nor disliked, but which the same could not be said for her siblings. Brandon and even Ned could be seen making faces at the strong-smelling oysters, and Lyanna slurped one down only to choke it back up into a napkin surreptitiously, drawing a sharp bark of laughter from Sansa. It surprised her and Lyanna, but they shared a grin and checked to see that no one else had seen.
Their mother was engaging Lady Manderly in conversation while Ned was dutifully listening to Lord Manderly’s own tale of fostering, and Brandon recounted sparring sessions with the Lord’s sons. There were no other eyes on them.
“Do you see that man there in the corner?” Sansa nudged Lyanna to look at the far back of the room. A man with hair to his shoulders was eating separately from the rest, his food just as good but clearly not a part of the party.
Lyanna lit up when she saw what sat at his side.
“A harp! Is he a singer? Oh, I hope he’s a singer!” She cheered. Sansa nodded.
“Lord Manderly mentioned him coming yesterday. This is why it pays to pay attention,” she teased. More seriously she added, “I want you to do something for me, Lyanna.”
The girl nodded furiously, still lost in her excitement over the entertainment planned for the evening.
“I want you to pay close attention to the singer and everyone around him tonight; listen to what songs he plays and everyone’s reactions, and how he talks to people, the servants. Later we’ll talk about it.”
Lyanna frowned.
“Why, though?” The girl asked.
“Think of it as a quest. I noticed something about him and I want to see if it comes true, so I need you to watch him. And this way you’ll get to spend the night listening to him sing, too.” Sansa replied.
“Alright,” Lyanna agreed but still seemed a bit suspicious.
She was happy enough though to listen to the music all night as her only real options for dancing were Brandon and Ned or a few lads younger than her who didn’t know the moves. There were plenty of teens for Sansa to dance with though, and she nearly grimaced; her toes would be bruised for a week after this. But boys on the verge of manhood didn’t want to dance with girls all of seven years to their name, and Lyanna was small for her age. Only Sansa had inherited the Stark height of the pair of them.
After the food had been eaten, Lord Wendel asked her to dance first and then Lord Wylis, and she forced both her brothers to dance multiple rounds with her. Brandon was more accommodating than Ned; he was a more jovial boy and eagerly engaged in activities like dancing and evening singing or clapping along to the beat like some of the men more in their cups, while Ned was more restrained. She did draw a smile and a laugh out of him by surprising him with a spin, twirling them both on the floor and nearly knocking them into another couple.
She kept her eye on the musician the whole night, though.
Lyanna lurked on her periphery, near the singer but not so close as to be in his direct sightline. She would sit on the bench behind the crowd of people around him, peering between them and trying to decipher what it was Sansa had seen that she wanted her so desperately to see as well. Sometimes she would dance, when Brandon or Ned or one of the more sure-footed boys asked her, but always hung close to the edge of the floor where the singer stood.
Even Lord Manderly made it out onto the floor for a dance with Sansa. His hulking form dwarfed hers but he was more agile on his feet than one would expect for his girth and usual manner. He entertained her through a fast song first and then another slower one with stories of the people who had joined them for the feast today. It reminded her that she had wanted to speak to her relations, and some of the others.
“Excuse me, Lord Manderly,” she bowed at the end of the second song, “I fear I need to refresh myself with a drink.”
“Lord Locke!” She greeted when she stepped up to a respectable distance from him.
“Lady Sansa! It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you. It’s wonderful to see you up and dancing,” he said. Timotty Locke was her father’s uncle, the brother of Rickard’s late mother, Marna. Her twin sister, Marla, was in attendance as well and Sansa recognized some of the features she saw regularly on her own father’s stern face.
“Lady Marla,” she curtseyed. Marla curtseyed back to her and gripped her upper arms with a warm smile. She was a childless widow of a landed knight but had chosen to return to her brother’s holdings and rule the household alongside his wife, who had long since passed.
“Little Lady Sansa, it’s so good to see you well.” She refused to be called anything but Auntie Marla by the youngest Stark children and Aunt Marla by Rickard. She was a frequent guest at Winterfell though Sansa hadn’t seen her there in the weeks since she had woken from her fever since it was a long trip, especially for an older woman who was approaching her fifties if she had not reached them already.
Sansa had never met her grandmother Marna, both her father’s parents having passed long before even Brandon had been born. Rickard had taken up the mantle of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North at the young age of eight-and-ten. He had married his Stark cousin Lyarra but it had taken them years to initially conceive and once they did, they didn’t seem to stop for the next three years, and produced a gaggle of five healthy children after only a span of nine years.
Auntie Marla was said to be the spitting image of her twin sister though, her long black locks straight and shot through with thick strands of pure grey. She saw now that her nose was the same as the one on Sansa’s own face, dainty and perfectly straight, and though Marla’s eyes were as dark as her hair they were the same shape. Large and upturned at the outer corners, their bottom lashes even fell in the same spiky pattern over the thin skin beneath their eyes, though Marla’s were black and her own were a dark shade of red. Sansa had always figured she’d inherited most of her physical features from her first life’s mother’s side, the Tully side, but seeing the relations alive as she did now, it was clear that some things had passed on through to the next generation — Ned’s children — that she had not realized.
“I am doing well,” Sansa assured them. They had surely heard of her fever from Father.
“I can see! From all the dancing you’ve been doing, it seems like you were never ill at all!” Auntie Marla laughed and Lord Timotty chuckled along. Sansa smiled shyly.
“It’s been a nice respite from Winterfell, and the Manderlys were kind enough to host us. I wish we weren’t leaving the day after tomorrow, the city has been so amazing to explore!” Sansa regaled them with tales of their trips into the markets and to the tourist sites around White Harbor. They listened intently though they must have been more familiar with all of it, Oldcastle being much closer to the port city than Winterfell.
“Will you be visiting us soon in Winterfell?” Sansa asked once she was done extolling the virtues of the city and the castle and the family that hosted them. Though she didn’t see any Manderly ears nearby and she didn’t have any particular motivations, she wanted to instill thoughts of a budding love of travel early on with her kin.
“For the year’s turn,” Lord Timotty said. It would take them nearly three weeks to reach Winterfell from Oldcastle, once they returned from White Harbor, and the journey was not easy on old bones like Lord Timotty’s who was almost ten years Auntie Marla’s senior, even in summer.
“Father will be so happy to see you!” She smiled and said, “will you be bringing any of my younger cousins, too?”
Her two elder relations laughed again.
Her mother drifted over to join the conversation, politely greeting the two and running a hand through Sansa’s mostly loose hair. Her charcoal grey dress was in the traditional Northern style that most women from the older generations and more ancient houses preferred. It was made of thin velvet and had tight sleeves to the elbow where chiffon of a slightly lighter shade flared out and cascaded to the floor. The waistline was low and the skirts used the natural flare of the hips instead of any petticoat or underdress to add volume, and they were often accentuated by a belt. Mother’s had a black belt slung around her hips with silver ribbon that matched the silver ribbon above her elbows as the only decoration on the dress.
The style of dresses had mostly fallen out of favor by the time Sansa was a girl and young adult in her first life, though she had seen them still on a few older ladies of highborn houses that traced their lineage far back. Most styles favored south of the Neck had higher waistlines and more voluminous skirts and featured much more detailing and embroidery.
In this life however, she saw they were quite popular with many matriarchs. Her mother wore them consistently and many ladies of vassal houses mirrored her. Maybe they had become less popular when Ned Stark had married the southerner Catelyn Tully and she had begun to integrate some of the styles of the Riverlands and other kingdoms into the North, and other ladies attempted to mirror her to curry favor.
“What are you three giggling about?” Mother smiled and glanced between them, her hand coming to rest on Sansa’s back as she pulled her close. Sansa relished the easy affection.
“Little Lady Sansa was just wondering if there’d be any Locke cousins her age to play with this time when we visit for the new year celebration,” Auntie Marla explained, “apparently we two are far too old and doddering to entertain her anymore!”
“That’s not true!” Sansa cried with a bright grin.
“Why else would you need them?”
“Auntie Marla,” Sansa groaned, “you know you’ll both be busy with Father and Mother, and who will play us when you’re constantly locked in his solar?” Marla and Timotty chucked.
“That’s true enough, little one,” Lord Timotty said, “we were just teasing.”
“There’s plenty of young Locke’s eager to come, and I think I have just the right ones in mind!” Auntie Marla added, pecking Sansa and her mother on their cheeks delicately before she and her brother left to go converse with others.
Sansa stood with her mother watching her siblings for a while. Brandon was swinging wildly around the dance floor with a girl his age while Ned and Lyanna danced together more sedately. She leaned in further to her mother’s warm side and brought up a question she’d been wondering for a while.
“Mother? Why don’t I have any ladies yet?” She asked. Her mother chuckled as if knowing what brought this on.
Auntie Marla, while she resided at Oldcastle now with her brother and his children, and their children, now that his wife had passed, had once been her mother’s lady for the early years of Sansa’s life. She had been there as long as her sister was alive and even after she passed, helping the new, young lord of Winterfell and his wife find their footing. There were a few others that served still as her mother’s ladies but Sansa didn’t have any of her own, in this life or her first one.
“Well, you’re still young, Sansa. Your father has yet to make a betrothal for you, and we’ll need to be careful in selecting your ladies. You don’t even have your own chamber yet, or a handmaiden,” her mother explained to her.
“I’m almost one-and-ten, and I’m sure to flower soon! Wouldn’t it be better if I got to know my ladies young and grew with them?” Sansa ignored the mention of a betrothal.
“Perhaps. Do you have anyone in mind?”
If she were Lady of Winterfell in her first life, she would have a small selection; those that had survived the War of Five Kings and the Bolton’s rule of the north. She had thought about it though, in the dark days before the battle, almost like a daydream she used to get through the long and cold nights, alone, when memories came back to nip at her heels. She had many more young women to choose from now and had been thinking of it since their first few days in White Harbor.
“A few,” Sansa replied indifferently. She wanted to see how certain things turned out before she made any final decisions yet.
“Alright, we’ll talk to your father when we get home. Maybe after your nameday, though by then we’ll have started preparing for the year’s turn celebrations. It might have to wait until after that.” Sansa nodded and let her mother lead her over to a group of others. The older woman started a conversation with Lord and Lady Hornwood, while Sansa turned to a few closer in age to herself.
Lord Wylis stood smiling at his young betrothed, Leona Woolfield, as the girl expounded the virtues of Ramsgate fleece and wool over that which was imported to White Harbor from neighboring kingdoms. It was the most Sansa had ever heard the girl talk and as excited as Lyanna was about swords. She seemed to know a lot about imports and exports of things even beyond fleece, and she thought that one day Leona would make a good lady for the House Manderly and the city of White Harbor.
Leona was of an age with Sansa, just a year or two older and nearly as tall though far more developed. She had likely flowered, though their wedding was to take place after Leona turned eight-and-ten. Wylis was six or so years older than his betrothed but he had a look of besotted satisfaction on his face every time he spoke to her, and a soft smile for her whenever she turned to him. She was plump and had dark blonde hair and was quite pretty to Sansa’s eyes though many probably easily overlooked her because of her quiet and still nature. Unless she was speaking passionately about a subject she held herself in reserve and was never the one to break a silence or speak first in conversation.
“You know a lot about wool imports and exports!” Sansa said after they exchanged greetings, smiling kindly to let the other girl know she was not poking fun at her expense.
“Well, of course!” Leona said brightly if softly, “I am a Woolfield of Ramsgate, after all.”
“I wish you had been there when we were in the markets this week, Lady Leona. You would have been a great help in haggling prices down to what they were truly worth!” Sansa replied. The girl smiled radiantly. She was rather beautiful when she wasn’t hiding underneath her hair, and it was clear where Wynafryd and Wylla had gotten their looks from.
“I would have liked that,” Leona said and Sansa got the sudden feeling that she didn’t have many friends.
Sansa had four siblings in each life, five counting Jon, and while she’d made some friends in her first life she didn’t seem to have any in this one. She was determined to fix that.
“The winter town does not have as large a market or such skilled trades or imports as White Harbor, but they do have plenty of things still. Will you be coming to our year’s turn celebration at Winterfell? Perhaps we can go together and you can help me then!” Sansa said.
Leona looked a little unsure at the invitation but still brightened at the mention.
“I would very much be agreeable to that, Lady Sansa,” she said, her manners immaculate. She reminded her a bit of Myrcella.
Throughout their short conversation, Lord Wylis had watched between them. He seemed protective over his young betrothed and careful for any slights to the shy girl and her quiet nature. He smiled profusely at Sansa after they agreed that should Leona come to Winterfell, they would spend time together in the markets, and then spoke of their shared love of embroidery. It would not take long for Leona to grow as devoted to Wylis as he was to her already.
“I’m certain that if your family is not attending, you can ride with us in the Manderly party, my lady,” he said. Leona shined under his attention.
The crowd was getting rowdier around them as it grew later and later and more ale was poured. Their mother decided it was time to dismiss the Starks for bed.
“But Mama!” Lyanna whined, and Brandon tried pleading with her.
“No buts about it, time for bed,” she said firmly, shooing the troupe of them along the halls towards the fine guest wing where they held the best rooms in honor of their station.
By the time they were all tucked in and only a faint glow of the hearth beyond a metal screen, Lyanna was already breathing heavily next to her in their bed. Sansa would get her opinions on the singer on the morrow. She doubted the girl understood what she had seen, but Sansa would teach her. She would teach them all.