━ in which; Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, receives a raven from across the sea, speaking of how her dear sister had come into contact with another race of people from the mysterious, rumoured magic of the sea on Arya's desire to answer the age o...
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tw: mentions of graphic violence + sexual assault (graphic violence is a given its got + vikings so i probably wont tw it, but i try to only really hint at ramsay and the sa in places cause it makes me v uncomfy)
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"Sansa!" Her ears strained themselves to hear the faint reply of her sister. A sad smile painted itself upon her pale features. At least her precious little sister was alive. The baby she had promised to raise as a high and noble and honourable as the Eyrie. The baby she had already failed so much. A sob wrecked her throat and she curled in on herself. Her chest felt warm, yet she was so incredibly cold.
~
Tears soon begun to pour fourth from her eyes. The monkier she had gained, the red wolf seemed half drowned, and she likely looked much more half-drowned rat than wolf. Another sob tore from her lungs, shivering and wailing like a new born babe. The strangers on the longboat behind her were still in good spirits, one such almost dancing upon the prow, clutching to the carved head of a great wooden serpent. The others, however, cheered along, though their attention seemed to be focused on the strange, crying woman on their boat.
Her back was to them, the waterlogged cloak covered most of her form, all but her hair, as red as blood, a curtain of liquid fire. Many eyebrows rose in confusion, watching the woman sob in the rain. She brought her hands to her face, slipping to press her back to the side of the ship, shrinking away from Floki's dancing feet. Ragnar kept his eyes fixed upon her face, he had seen the raven fly overhead, then the red of her hair in the sea, sinking below into the blue depths.
The woman glanced up, wiping her eyes, and upon noticing his eyes, she shrunk back further. She took a steady breath, moving her hands in a slow breath. Suddenly, right before his eyes, Ragnar observed the face full of emotion and fear smooth out into something like stone. Clay being fired into pottery.
Crimson eyebrows raised slowly, focusing intently on man with a wild, curios look in his eyes. He squatted near a larger, out of breath man. The man with the lightest eyes, clear like the sky on a summer day, unfocused like Bran's own unearthly stare, he tapped the other man on the shoulder, a goading whack, as if to assess his wellbeing. He was large, with long dark hair dripping water and a scar upon his cheek. There was a wall of eyes fixated upon her, though the three men stood out amongst the others. The thin, wiry young man who stood across from her, almost dancing across the deck and upon the ledges. He often turned to the others, as well as to her, and couldn't seem to stop giggling for an unknown reason.
