━ 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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There was a heavy wind whipping through the air of the late afternoon. The whole morning of their arrival in the homeland of her companions had been hectic, as many came and went, heading to their families, leading others and socialising in the bustle around the docks, so that by the time the treasures had all been assembled within the large, lofty halls of the keep, if it could even be called that. A long, wooden house, large and extravagant, with many decorations and tapestries and trophies, as many smaller doors and rooms leading from them, yet the main room held a throne and tables pushed to outer walls. Did it serve as a dining hall in feasts as well?
Sansa stared at the rugged nature of the place, it reminded her oddly of some of the smaller keeps in the North, of smaller houses sworn to her and her main vassals. The hood of her cloak pooled around her shoulders like a pool of dark water. At the centre of the room, upon wooden thrones, similar to her own throne, sat Ragnar, and the blonde woman, his wife, whilst their two children sat beside them, on the floor.
Others in the room trudged forward to pay their respects, the treasures they had compiled, all the gold and silver formed a pile at the centre of the room. Sansa smiled politely as she curtsied to Ragnar's wife, making sure to keep her gaze low and face calm and polite. It was crucial there was no sense of competition between them, as well as offering the Lady of Kattegat the respect she deserved. Her hands were clasped together in front of her stomach, to stop herself from fidgeting with them. It was a play of her own choosing too, her face had both reaped it's rewards and brought her to strife, but false naivety bred other's compliance, so perhaps her looking innocent would probably be for the best. "I am Sansa, my lady. It is a pleasure to meet you."
Winter seemed to bite into her hip. It hurt her pride that she had to act as if she was not of equal standing. The blood of the Kings of Winter, a line unbroken for eight thousand years, perhaps even longer, ran through her veins, resilience with it. Sansa would not let it show. She could not. The blonde woman smiled at her, rising from her throne. "I am Lagertha."
The woman, Lagertha, took a step down from her dais and smiled at her. Her voice was silvery, comforting in her tone. She sounded kind, Sansa noted. Fingers grasped her shoulders, firm and gentle and raised her from her curtsy. Sansa flinched at the hands, waves of red hair shaking with the motion. Remorse shot through Lagertha's clear blue gaze and she released the other woman. "I welcome you to Kattegat, Sansa. This is my son, Bjorn and my daughter, Gyda."
Sansa smiled at the children, the little girl offered an easy grin, sweet and saccharine. She seemed friendly and kind, soft spoken too, like Myrcella had been. The boy however nodded in response. He did not seem cruel, merely disinterested, like how she remembered Robb to be in her talks of princes and knights and songs. Both were blonde, like their parents, the shiny golds of their hair reminded her almost of the youngest golden lions, their cruel lioness mother and their tragic fates. The red wolf of Winterfell prayed they wouldn't grow to the same fates, nor share the cruelty of Joffrey and Cersei.
