faderift | the start of something new

Entry tags:

the start of something new

WHO: Sansa Stark
WHAT: Sansa learns about the changing of the years in Thedas; Sansa works on her sewing.
WHEN: 1 - 8 Wintermarch
WHERE: around Skyhold
NOTES: A general catch-all for Sansa to start out the new year.

i. the changing of the year.

Sansa has slowly been learning how life in Thedas works since arriving through the rift two moons prior and one of the things she's learned about this month, actually, is that they celebrate the change of the year in Thedas with a holiday called First Day. It's a simple thing to celebrate, really, and somewhat arbitrary but Sansa likes the idea of visiting others throughout Skyhold and drinking with them, breaking bread with them and generally making their acquaintance.

She's been terrible at making acquaintances since coming here, after all, and so First Day and the days after give her a chance to work in the kitchens and make simple little cakes to pass along to others. It's nothing taxing, certainly not for her since she isn't much of a cook, but it is a kindness that she wants to bestow upon those who have made her feel welcome since coming to Thedas and she wants to demonstrate she has an interest in learning how their world and celebrations do work.

ii. slip a stitch into something new.

In the afternoons, Sansa likes to work on needlework. It's become a way to make a bit of coin while she stays in Thedas and she's always loved her embroidery besides so making clothes and mending cloaks has become a way to earn money and pass the time. It reminds her of long, cold days at Winterfell when she'd sit by the fire with her mother and the septa, learning how to make her stitches small and neat, and oftentimes she dreamed of mending things for her lord husband someday. It's a mundane dream but, funnily enough, one afternoon it occurs to her that she's done that very thing and sometimes she smiles to herself or laughs just a bit.

Yes, the shirts are much smaller than she expected of a lord husband and often they are in shades of Lannister red and gold but she doesn't care about that. Here in Thedas nobody cares about Lions or Direwolves or Stags and when she draws her needle in and out of her mending, it's a soothing and calming activity that she doesn't have to worry about. No one cares about the subject of her embroidery now and she's free to do whatever she likes. The freedom is exhilarating.

iii. the frost falls upon the ground.

When the weather is clear enough, Sansa takes the chance to walk around outdoors. It's cold still, even to someone with Northern blood like hers, and the ice is still evident upon the grounds. Sometimes there's ruts from horses or wagons, crusted over with mud and ice and Sansa is careful to keep her skirts clear of them; she still doesn't like to be dirty even if she's much less squeamish about it than she was as a child in Westeros.

When a bit of ice falls from the edge of a roof, she dodges it carefully and when snow slides into the back of her cloak after shifting off the eaves of Skyhold proper, she squeals in surprise but it doesn't drive her indoors. The winter sunlight is weak and thin but she soaks up as much of it as she can and when snowflakes alight on her cheeks, she often pushes back her hood so that they can catch in the shimmering auburn of her hair.

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"Is it unsafe here, Tyrion?" Sansa hasn't felt unsafe here in Thedas at all but perhaps Tyrion knows more about the current shift in politics than she does. She keeps herself busy with sewing for the most part and intrigue in only the barest minimum.

"Would you prefer I simply asked before taking my leave? I don't mind."

"Unsafe? Oh, always. Between the beasts, the Venatori agents, and whoever this Corypheus fellow is... I cannot imagine any place is really 'safe'. If you wish to walk alone, I would ask that you simply bring a large stick with you." He answered wryly, as he hobbled closer.

After a moment of staring at her, he snorted, "Don't be ridiculous. You are my wife, not my prisoner. Just tell me where you are going, so I know where to send the search party." A faint, teasing smirk, as the snow started to get caught in his golden curls.

Sansa laughs a bit, the noise startling her somewhat in just how free and unbidden it is and she shakes her head.

"Oh, naturally. I'll find myself a very large stick to carry around in absence of company. But, for the moment, since I do have company, would you like to go for a walk?"

She laughs and it lights him up, like coming into a fire from a cold day, or a truly phenomenal glass of wine. He sighs softly, before he moves forward and offers his hand.

"I shall gladly take the place of a large stick."

"Well then, I shall be well protected," Sansa says. The laugh is there in her voice, lightening it, and she squeezes his hand lightly as she starts to walk around the grounds.

"It is miserably cold out here. It says I'm a true Stark that I love it, doesn't it?"

"I am not sure well protected fits - but protected well enough? Yes." He smiles, before he laughs, "Yes, it truly does. All I can think of is how my very bones ache in such cold, but you look like you are feeling blessed."

"There's nothing more beautiful than fresh snow, Tyrion. You just have thin Southron blood," Sansa teases. She squeezes his hand lightly and keeps her steps light and her strides small; she knows that it is hard on his joints to walk in the cold.

"I just had to get outside for a little while. As much as I love to sew, I have had my fill of mending your shirts and trousers. I wanted to do something other than needlework."

"Thin Southron blood that prefers green fields and warm days? Yes, I admit to my weakness. With glee." He gives her a grateful little smile, before he shakes his head, "Sansa, you do not need to do such things to begin with. Beyond that, we should find something more worthwhile to do with your time. Reading, learning, perhaps more walks or horseback riding, if we can find you a mount ..."

"I want to and I shall," Sansa says, setting her mouth in a firm line that brooks no argument.

"You are my husband and it's the duty of a wife to care for her husband. Let me do it in the way that I see fit, all right? Let me see after you and mend your things. Just occasionally come walk with me out of doors and we can call it even."

"... All right, darling wife, all right. We won't be doing any more complaining about you taking care of me." He looked up at her, his gaze brightening on her. "Have I mentioned that you are wonderful? In life and in the sunlight?"

Sansa colors a little and hopes she can blame her pinkening cheeks on the cold and not the compliment. Accepting praise from Tyrion is something new for her, truthfully, but she's trying her best to do it. When he says it, it means something and it's good; Tyrion doesn't mean to use her charms against her.

"Thank you, my lord. It means the world to me that you'd think so. You're wonderful too, you know. You've adapted wonderfully to Thedas so far."

He smiles at her warmly, before he looks back out to the winter weather so he doesn't feel a flush of pleasure to his ears. It is important to maintain a semblance of a cool attitude, after all.

"Well, I have had a lot to try and catch up on, I will be honest. I also did not want to allow you to be harmed, in any way. I hope I am at least slightly successful in that."

"You've done a good job. Nothing has happened to me since I came here." Nothing had happened to her under his care in King's Landing, either, and she thinks she should have stayed and not trusted Baelish. Still, that's in the past.

"If he comes here, you'll keep him away from me, won't you? He's dead, I think, but people can come from different times..."

"Then let us continue to make sure that you are." Tyrion glanced sharply at her, before he stated simply, "If Baelish comes here, I am going to cut his cock off and feed it to him. Do you think that will give him enough impetus to stay away?"

A younger Sansa might have blushed at the harsh language or admonished Tyrion to stop. She is no longer that young, innocent girl and she doesn't react to it except to look away for a moment, focusing her gaze on a dripping icicle above her head.

"I will watch while you do so. I think that's impetus enough, my lord."

He wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing tightly for a moment. He looks over at her, tilting his head up at her. He stopped, stopping them both on the snowy path.

"You are stronger now. He will not hurt you - not in your mind, not in your heart. Know that I will take care of his body for you ... but knowing you? You could destroy his soul with a single look, a single word."

"It's the body I fear," Sansa says. "I still think about it sometimes even though I know that I shouldn't. It comes to me unbidden. It's why I get up at night sometimes, why it takes me so long to sleep."

She sighs a little and meets his gaze. "I'm sorry for that."

He looks at her, before he takes both of her hands and kisses them gently. "I understand. I know you have been afraid, but I will help you."

"You help just being here," Sansa says, her eyes drifting shut when he kisses her hands. "I swear it, Tyrion, you help me just by being here."

It's easier to be brave when she has help and she squeezes his hands lightly. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome." He took her hand in his again, to warm it against the chill within and without, and nudges her to keep moving, so they will not freeze out here.

"... and thank you, for allowing me the honor."

Sansa starts walking again, careful to keep her steps small so that Tyrion is able to keep up with her easily.

"So, when I decide to pick up my needle again, I thought I might make myself a new gown. Is there a color you favor, my lord?"

"... For you? Always blue." It would bring out the pale beauty of her skin, the brightness of her eyes. "Red and gold is always a good mixture, but I would not force my family's colors on you."

"It's not forcing if I asked," Sansa reminds him gently. "Do you want to see me in your colors, Tyrion?"

It's important to make the distinction that he'd be seeing her in his colors, not his family's. She belongs to him, not House Lannister.

"True enough -- and I suppose it is time the Lannister colors mean something better than what they have." He gave her a long, thoughtful look, "Perhaps a deeper crimson. Just red will not ... do."

He crooked a grin at her, "And now I should ask if you want me in Stark colors, come to think of it."

"I think you might make a stately man in somber grey and a direwolf sigil across your chest," Sansa says. Unlike so many things she says to Tyrion of late, this is not teasing - she is quite serious.

"Would you like me to make you one?"

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