SHARP CLAWS, YAWNING MAWS | You will feel their teeth on your neck.
Cold. The cold is seeping through her clothes. She remembers jumping from the high walls of Winterfell, breaking her fall with the snow. She remembers Theon behind her, Theon hiding her in the biting cold as Ramsay's men caught up with them, and then— nothing.
Not nothing. An odd sound, like a piercing shriek of birds but unlike any that she'd ever heard before, and lights. Strange lights flutter in the sky like coloured silk, terrifying and beautiful that they make her breath catch in her lungs. She's still on the ground, covered by cold but enough to tell her she's been laid prone for some time. How long has she been lying in the snow? How far had she walked, how did she get away, why does she not remember?
Something soft nudges her palm, jolts her back into her body. Not a predator; if it were, it would have taken to her neck already. Animals can tell when you're awake. No, this one is—
"Lady?" Her direwolf, with the Hound's iron collar still on her neck. Killed a lifetime ago, it feels like. She must be dying, then, seeing things from the shock of exposure. Sansa reaches out to her wolf and she feels, for an eternal second, alive, Lady's breath wet against her cold hands. With a quiet sob, she reaches for her wolf, pulls her close and holds her. If this is death, then she dies with a friend to keep her company.
The quiet doesn't last long. Something bigger than Lady crunches the snow, and the wolf's fur prickles in alarm as the sound approaches. If it's a beast then she's in great trouble; all she has on her is her necklace; the blade needs sharpening and its chain is thin. Very slowly, Sansa turns in the direction of the noise, breath held as still as she can make it. Friend or foe — she'll know when she calls. She fears (she hopes) it's not a beast hunting for its food.
"I mean no harm," she calls out, her voice quailing at the last moment. Under her hands, Lady raises and arches her back. "Point me away from your land and I shall leave."
METHUSELAH'S FEAST | Thus spoke Methuselah.
There is an old man with a sadness to him, and he welcomes her and Lady through his cabin with an inscrutable expression and a bowl of something warm. It smells of salt and other spices, and some meat, and he asks if she needs any help. Sansa shakes her head; Methuselah, he said his name was. A strong-sounding name, a strong-seeming man. She has questions for him, but she is tired, and there are others in this cabin who seem to need his help more. Sansa politely shakes her head, assures him that she's comfortable now, any wounds she has she can clean and tend to herself.
Truthfully, she'd rather not be touched by anyone, save for Lady. A miracle that she's here; Sansa feeds her scraps from her bowl, marvelling at how she's still the same size she was when she last saw her. Large enough, but still lithesome compared to the others; she may still grow yet. If this is a dream, perhaps—
She notices eyes on her. No, not just her— Lady too, who is happy to lap at her fingers for salt. She catches the person's eyes and politely nods at them. "She's behaved, I swear to you. She means no harm."
sansa stark | hbo's game of thrones
Cold. The cold is seeping through her clothes. She remembers jumping from the high walls of Winterfell, breaking her fall with the snow. She remembers Theon behind her, Theon hiding her in the biting cold as Ramsay's men caught up with them, and then— nothing.
Not nothing. An odd sound, like a piercing shriek of birds but unlike any that she'd ever heard before, and lights. Strange lights flutter in the sky like coloured silk, terrifying and beautiful that they make her breath catch in her lungs. She's still on the ground, covered by cold but enough to tell her she's been laid prone for some time. How long has she been lying in the snow? How far had she walked, how did she get away, why does she not remember?
Something soft nudges her palm, jolts her back into her body. Not a predator; if it were, it would have taken to her neck already. Animals can tell when you're awake. No, this one is—
"Lady?" Her direwolf, with the Hound's iron collar still on her neck. Killed a lifetime ago, it feels like. She must be dying, then, seeing things from the shock of exposure. Sansa reaches out to her wolf and she feels, for an eternal second, alive, Lady's breath wet against her cold hands. With a quiet sob, she reaches for her wolf, pulls her close and holds her. If this is death, then she dies with a friend to keep her company.
The quiet doesn't last long. Something bigger than Lady crunches the snow, and the wolf's fur prickles in alarm as the sound approaches. If it's a beast then she's in great trouble; all she has on her is her necklace; the blade needs sharpening and its chain is thin. Very slowly, Sansa turns in the direction of the noise, breath held as still as she can make it. Friend or foe — she'll know when she calls. She fears (she hopes) it's not a beast hunting for its food.
"I mean no harm," she calls out, her voice quailing at the last moment. Under her hands, Lady raises and arches her back. "Point me away from your land and I shall leave."
METHUSELAH'S FEAST | Thus spoke Methuselah.
There is an old man with a sadness to him, and he welcomes her and Lady through his cabin with an inscrutable expression and a bowl of something warm. It smells of salt and other spices, and some meat, and he asks if she needs any help. Sansa shakes her head; Methuselah, he said his name was. A strong-sounding name, a strong-seeming man. She has questions for him, but she is tired, and there are others in this cabin who seem to need his help more. Sansa politely shakes her head, assures him that she's comfortable now, any wounds she has she can clean and tend to herself.
Truthfully, she'd rather not be touched by anyone, save for Lady. A miracle that she's here; Sansa feeds her scraps from her bowl, marvelling at how she's still the same size she was when she last saw her. Large enough, but still lithesome compared to the others; she may still grow yet. If this is a dream, perhaps—
She notices eyes on her. No, not just her— Lady too, who is happy to lap at her fingers for salt. She catches the person's eyes and politely nods at them. "She's behaved, I swear to you. She means no harm."