━ 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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"Sansa," a voice sounded, it was a harsh, low sound, akin to a hiss. It roused the young woman from her sleep with a start. A brief panic froze her blood. She did not recognise the voice immediately, however it did not sound hostile, and the air felt light and cool. No one was too near to her. So, she lay, stiff on her bedroll, processing the sound, although she refused to open her eyes or act like she had been awakened, then, the red haired woman felt her body being shaken, "Sansa, wake up."
The voice clicked, it was one of the women she shared a tent with. Alva, she believed. Sansa rolled over, burying her face in the warmth of the blanket below her. There was an exhasperated smile, and the woman couldn't help but grin. It was petty and unbecoming of someone of her station, let alone acceptable behaviour for a queen, but no one that would care was there. They had tried to remove her from the heart tree, from her family, from her sacred space! They, the vikings, all of them, deserved to face her revenge in the form of mild inconveniences. Alva shook her again, she cracked an eye, a blue eye side-eying the woman viciously. Sansa muttered in a slurred voice. "Leave me alone."
"Poor girl, is it your moon blood?" Alva rubbed her shoulder, a gentle show of comfort, yet she stiffened and shrunk away from the hand. Like a cat. Sansa did not know how to respond, when was her last moon blood? There had been six moons where her cycle had been regular, upon reclaiming Winterfell, until there had been too much stress, wights, dragons, and a volatile kingdom. A city burned, a crown placed upon her brow, and then the border of famine that had stilled it. Maybe it was? Maybe it was just the desire to not face the day.
Just last night she had seen the ghosts of her family, which inspired a new life and fight. Old Nan always used to tell her stories of ghosts, Northern ghost stories, in an attempt to curb the southern tales and songs of her youth. Of skylarks and a forest spirit in love with a man despite the harsh winter, of ghosts that haunted Winterfell, of the Night's king, of the Free Folk legends surrounding Bael the Bard. Perhaps some of Old Nan's stories and tall tales were not as far fetched as they originally seemed, many of them had turned truth.
"No," she replied, nestling further into the comfort of the furs. "Likely not for a few weeks."
Alva made a hum, and Sansa almost rolled over to open her eyes, and look upon the one she was speaking to, or at least until a different voice chimed in, more masculine than the woman trying to awaken her. "Then get up."
