Southron Dialogues
Ninth Day of the First Month 294 AC
Runestone, Vale of Arryn
Sansa would often found herself wandering in the wee hours of the evening when she was sure no one was watching for her, when there came a time that the elements seemed to dash themselves upon the drum of the great central keep of Runestone, so very much unlike Winterfell in some respects, though perhaps that could be accounted for by its positioning upon the peninsula it had been built, stout and tall it was, set by the sea, a strong castle built for a strong line. In other respects, it was so hauntingly familiar as to make her heart sick with thoughts of home, the lines and crenelations and the construction so very much like home in many ways.
She thought of her Mother and Father and Robb, Jon who had been kind, even Arya who hadn't really seem wholly a person in her mind, not until she had left home, just the wild girl who had put the Lady of Winterfell beside herself trying to raise another dutiful daughter who would keep to the Seven and act ladylike.
Not that Sansa really could bring herself to blame Arya or think ill of her, she wasn't that old at all, so how was she to know what proper really was just yet? And while Sansa knew that wouldn't hold up as an excuse for very much longer and tracking mud through the halls of Winterfell and chasing around the dogs would be less endearing, here she was learning magic behind her Mother and Father's backs, unable to contend with simple fright of a storm trying to shake the stones down around her ears, not that Runestone seemed to care an ounce.
Winds lashed, and the stones seemed to shrug them off with nary'a'care. Rain came pouring down upon it and the edifices would sluice them off in many clever and carefully formed channels and drains, some of them adding to internal resevoirs as she had been taught by Lord Yohn. Nothing would shake the castle, not at the foundations and not at the towers, not in the open halls and not even in the rooms closest to the outer yards and battlements. A storm could scream down upon it and it would stand strong as it had for thousands of years, also much as Lord Yohn had taught her.
'Bronze' Yohn was very kind to her, but he was given to strange company at times... like...
"Back again, little bird?" The woman who was not a knight but stood with a warrior's bearing that would have Ser Rodrik nodding his approval tilted her head to one side, standing at ease and basking in the last rays of a dying sun upon the edge of a wide veranda... a quite precarious drop over the cliffs greeted her, but the fierce--and Sansa secretly thought,
beautiful, though never had the courage to voice aloud--woman cared naught. In fact, she seemed to exult only in this small pleasure and was uncannily expressionless otherwise. It was odd, but that one detail had stuck out enough to Sansa, as it was only occasionally that the woman would dally here, the first indications that the face this guest that Lord Royce hosted was merely a shared mask.
"I should really be in bed," Sansa said aloud, more thought than will toward any greater purpose, and she gave no indications of leaving soon, but the unspoken truth was apparent for the world to see. She disliked to admit it, but she wasn't
quite as much the dutiful daughter that she hoped to be. Life hadn't turned out as she had planned it, either, but she hoped to make up for it
somehow, to her family and to herself.
"Yet here you are," the woman relented after an awkward pause. Something like a thread of amusement trickled into their tone. It only emboldened Sansa further.
"Yes, I... ah. You never did give me your name, my lady?" She fell back on a simple courtesy, hoping it wouldn't offend any more than the lack of recognition had. In fact, Sansa suspected settling on something to call her at last had won over more approval than disdain, given the quirk of the woman's brow but no frown upon her face, at least Sansa had not been to afraid to say anything at all this time.
"You may address me as Uriah."
A foreign name, perhaps? Sansa thought. There was a pause, and the woman turned to face her, the next word a command, more stern: "Presently!" She snipped, causing Sansa to straighten and offer a curtsy and her own name in reply.
"Lady Sansa Stark, a pleasure to meet you, Iady..."
Her head shot back up when she heard something suspiciously like a stifled laugh, but for all the world Sansa would swear up and down the warrior woman was having her on, they looked as stoic as ever. Uriah seemed to wave the unspoken question in her eyes away. "Run along now, little bird, before it grows dark." Black eyes locked onto the Stark's own, and a chill ran up their spine at the next words: "If a cold wind blows in summer, it won't find anyone in this of all Keeps with kindly intent."
Sansa was barely able to parse the thought before she continued, some unknowable presence looming or superimposed before her in this woman garbed in silvered armor. She did not know if it was the purest madness that invoked her response, or true bravery, but they came unbidden: "When might we speak again, my Lady?"
They tilted their head, black eyes closing as the last ray of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. "When duty permits."
Sansa gathered her skirts respectfully and with poise again, then tried not to look like she was fleeing at a dead sprint when she turned tail and went in the opposite direction.
"Now I have to file a second report," was the last that Sansa heard, the words almost a sigh.
***
Tenth Day of the First Month 294 AC
Sansa liked the little township at the base of the castle more than she thought possible... there was less to fear there, fewer expectations. It seemed wealthier now, more trade from Gulltown but also across the Narrow Sea. She noticed that the docks had begun another expansion, as much as space would allow, but the quay was always filled with trader cogs and more from across the Narrow Sea. But never a Crowned Stag... the entire time she was here in the South, a part of Sansa had believed that if she was not being sent off to Court and to take part in the tourneys and grand balls, they would simply upend everything and come to her instead, a silly frivolous thought that disappeared into the harbor waters, along with everything else little girls dreamed of when sailing far away from hearth and home.
She sat with her legs hanging over the edge by the sea, what might have seemed a scandal some months ago, now something she did without any further thought, neither her Mother to give words of reproach to the danger or of appearances, or waiting recrimination from her Septa... actually, Winterfell's Septa was very diplomatic about decorum and bearing these days, much less how a lady of the North specifically might conduct herself. That might be accounted for due to the fact the new Septa was sent by way of White Harbor, and thus had lived in the North rather than the South upon arrival. Specifically, Sansa had learned that she was far freer in some ways than ladies of the South were than she ever thought possible. Lady Royce was very kind to her, if a bit stiff and at times sad, perhaps seeing in her a missing piece in her own home, a daughter lost. But she had made it clear she was not looking to mother her. Sansa was personally working her way up to 'friend' and would be content with it, and she liked to think she was managing that much.
She read a bundle of letters, fine creased from opening and reopening it as she had done many times already despite having received it less than a week ago, one of the few things that could bring a smile to her face, there was one from Robb who was mindful to mention more than his sword practices with Jon, but also his own lessons and the doings of the Keep, ones her Mother and Father would not be minded to mention though apparently had not forbidden him from sharing.
Another from her Mother, also inquiring of her own lessons and even, she thought tentatively, news from the South as it could be gleaned from Runestone, which she dutifully espoused upon at every opportunity given. It was very many questions about Uncle Brynden and her Grandfather newly arrived in King's Landing, rumored to be petitioning the King about bandits in the Riverlands. She was glad she had been sent South by ship.
Father was... different now, as she was in the South and his words always seemed so careful, like one handling delicate glass, but that did not mean he had nothing of substance to say. In fact it seemed for all that he said fewer words in his writings to her, they were even more important. He told her to be strong. She hoped she would not disappoint him.
A ship sailed into the harbor on a stiff wind, bearing a Silver Serpent upon its banner. It had taken some time for her to understand how truly brazen a sight that was, she had not for instance known what to make of silver-furred monkeys which chattered like men or the lone great bullman was ever so frightening looming upon the forecastle the first time she glimpsed such a sight, but neither had actually disembarked the ship, likely because the locals, more used to the sight, still did not count it as less than
rare and were equally discomforted by it. But they also did not run screaming... which might have been enough to keep the Dragon's traders coming into harbor.
There were whispers in White Harbor, of course... Sansa couldn't
not pay attention to everything she heard, her Lady Mother made her promise to pay attention to both gossip and rumor, not to spread it, which she had halfheartedly forbidden, but because a Lady might go unseen and better arm herself by other means unavailable to men, one thing she should quickly learn.
They said that Lord Royce was a Dragonman in truth, not a man loyal to King Robert. In the South, the more apt title would, she had thought, been 'traitor', but White Harbor apparently didn't truck much with that sort of talk, even though part of Sansa thought they should have... after all, wasn't dealing with dragons treasonous? The thought had been a weak one at the time, and did not seem to be growing stronger, backed by a poor understanding of the where and how, she knew nothing of wars long since fought and wars not yet begun, but she was desperate to learn whatever she could, even including magic itself, to be... to be
prepared no matter what came next.
She thumbed through her letters again, a fraction more frantically even as her gaze was reluctant to leave the ship as it waited to be cleared to dock.
Jon had written her... she thought it passing strange that she smiled the most at his letters because he had always snuck in some answers to arcane or obscure questions using code that Ser Halys had taught him. She suspected that he had not changed it enough for her family not to recognize that the two were conversing privately with each other, but whatever came of that discussion--if it had indeed come up--apparently her Father wasn't against it, or had never even thought to intrude on Jon's privacy in the first place, much less allow anyone else to do so in turn.
That would be much like him, Sansa decided, with mixed feelings of longing.
Jon was... very sad. He seemed almost... as haunted as the crypts of Winterfell that had always so frightened her, even though she knew it was terrible for her to think that, what with all he had tried to do for her. But she could never completely be at ease with Jon, either it was a feeling of shame... guilt, weighing at her, or the same unease she associated with some of Old Nan's ghost stories. An oppressive sense of melancholy hung around her bastard brother which did not seem to persist upon his writings. Those were much easier to bear and even cherish, for they were another reminder of family that helped stave off some loneliness of the day.
"Up for a treat, my lady?" Offered a voice from her left and behind. She very deliberately did not leap ten feet into the air at the surprise. She craned her neck up before smoothing her skirt and standing as quickly as she could, cheeks aflame. "No Ser Andar, err, I mean, that is to say... that would be ever so lovely and..." She stammered a response before letting it be strangled to death in a high-pitched laugh of embarrassment.
"I see, yes," the Heir of Runestone replied intelligently, a handsome smile on his face as he offered her the treat... the scent of baked pastries and lemons hit her like a stone spraying the sea into a great foam. She tried not to seem hasty in her eagerness to bite into one, ignoring the laugh from the Lord's elder son.
His eyes seemed to be glued onto the parcel of letters in her other hand, and a sad smile cut off the sound. "I know what it's like to miss family," he said quietly, offering his hand to help her down from her perch upon a stack of crates.
"You miss..." She lowered her voice, getting the feeling that he was not referring to his... departed sister. "...your brother? That is to say... I am sure he is safe." The other rumors made it more than clear he was more than safe, he was probably slaying demons and rescuing maidens from tall towers. And while shooting lightning bolts out of his magic sword, while bearing bronze armor which had more in common with that worn by a knight in the south than it did with the armor that Lord Yohn sometimes bore around.
Sansa was not certain she really believed everything that she
heard about 'Ser' Waymar... though, who was she trying to fool, truly? If even half of it was true and given that Prince Viserys Targaryen himself lorded over nearly as many people as King Robert did, maybe Ser Waymar was more of a knight than half of those who had been anointed in the South? Certainly nine tenths had not slain demons or rescued maidens, even if she thought that would have been lovely to hear about.
While Ser Andar and Ser Robar were also lovely and noble and brave and true... they also made it very clear to her that they were also
men in the truest sense of the word, when they thought she was out of sight and out of mind. Very court and kind when minded to be, but perhaps a tad crude when given to other, less delicate company. She sniffed.
"Why wouldn't I?" Ser Andar replied, perhaps a tad sharply, before giving her a brittle smile. "He was always thinking of others, just like you tend to."
"Is it true that... he left Runestone because he was afraid angry mobs would form?" She spoke even more softly, "Because of his magic, I mean."
"Magic has been part of these lands since the first stones of our ancestral home were lain down," Ser Andar said by way of reply. "I don't think a soul who lives here has not had some magic touch part of their lives since it seems to have sprouted up like a forgotten spring, begun to flood outward and upward again. He could have stayed and we would have loved him just the same."
"Do you ever... talk to him?" Sansa wondered what he would say. Ser Waymar Royce was the
Knight of Thunder. A Companion. He sat at the right hand of Viserys Targaryen, it was said, who had many names himself, Dread Sorcerer, but also King, some say the rightful one by reckoning of his blood and three centuries of Targaryens sitting upon the Iron Throne. What else could anyone who swore fealty to King Robert Baratheon, a man who had slain his brother, say that bespeaks of, if not treason?
"Don't you have lessons," Ser Andar replied, voice sounding a tad strained. At her unamused glance, he sighed. "I know that he's safe and happy. What any brother could hope for their family."
"Yes... that's good to hear," Sansa replied, finding she meant it. Ser Andar was kind after all, she liked him, and King Robert's court was so very far away. She tried very hard to care in the other direction and found she could not. "Might you perhaps tell me more about him?"
"I... well, maybe later... back at the Keep." Ser Andar finally relented with an awkward smile, back to acting as her escort. "Come on now, we still have a few errands to run."
Sansa eagerly followed.
