faderift | the start of something new

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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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Everyone’s of service in Skyhold, one way or the other, and the faces rotating through its kitchens are many.

Even so, it’s hard not to notice someone when they’ve been in, out, and in everyone’s hair all afternoon. Alan finally takes a break from — well, whatever it is he’s been doing with the flour — to prop himself against the table directly by Sansa, expression full of benign curiousity.

“Do you have a moment free?"

He's going to need another pair of hands for this to work, and the dishwasher on duty's already turned him down.

"I have a moment," Sansa assures him. She never thought she'd end up working in kitchens and doing mending and fetching things as much as she does in Skyhold but the name Stark doesn't mean here what it means in Westeros. Besides, she likes to help and make herself useful.

"What do you need?"

"Thank you." He glances down to the cakes, considering, and at once seems to come to a decision: "We can take these too."

And at that, he's off, lingering by the door and beckoning. There's still a floursack tucked beneath his arm, and a narrow staircase ahead.

It leads them up past the Rookery, and towards a little room full of rows of cots. Just before the entrance, Alan draws to the side, presses a finger to his mouth for quiet.

"I need to get up on the rafters," He whispers. "You can distract Ewan,"

There's a muffled sound from the room, the quiet wheeze and murmur of a child's voice.

"He likes stories."

"I think I can manage a few stories," Sansa says. It's not that unusual a request, all told, and she'd gotten plenty of practice with that when she'd been at the Eyrie with Sweetrobin.

"Is there a particular sort he favors?"

"I don't know," Alan hesitates, then admits. "Mostly I've just been doing dragons."

And as long as he doesn't repeat any of it to the Chantry sisters, Alan's in the clear.

"Winter might work. Yes, I think — winter. He's sick, and," Alan gestures to the flourbag. "He shouldn't miss it. The first snow."

If his tone stays level as ever, it's still rather more feeling than he typically shows, particularly to a stranger. It might be more moving if he remembered to blink, instead of staring straight into Sansa's eyes like a statue.

"I know a great many stories about winter. Where I come from, at Winterfell, it snows all the time," Sansa admits. "There's often snow on the ground even in the summer at Winterfell."

She notices that he doesn't blink. It's a bit unnerving but Sansa doesn't want to be rude so she goes on as if she hasn't noticed. "In Westeros, it's the North that's cold, not the South. It's the opposite."

"Huh."

A beat. He hadn't taken her for a Rifter, and though it matters little enough, it takes a moment to adjust. She blends in well. What he wants to say is you must miss it terribly, but he knows why he wants to say it, and that's a little too much for a recent stranger.

Instead: "Do they draw North at the bottom of the map, then?"

Since it's the opposite, and all.

"He'll be excited to hear of it, I think. Another world. We need a signal word, something that when you say it, I'll know to go."

Sansa laughs softly. "No, it's still drawn at the top. It's just cold there instead of warm. It's just...different from this place."

At the second, she frowns a bit in confusion. "Why should you have to go?"

"Ah — no, just to." He shakes the bag a little. "So it's at the right time."

It'd be a little ridiculous to make fake snow at the beginning of a good story. After a moment, he remembers to offer a small smile. That's what you do, when you're trying to be reassuring.

A small voice calls from within.

"Alan?"

"I'm not here," He whispers, and starts up the stack of crates.

Ewan sits up from his blankets, brow furrowed in suspicion — but then he spies Sansa, and whatever investigation he's been planning vanishes as quickly as it came. There's a sickly cast to his skin, the bags beneath his eyes heavier than any child should carry. It doesn't do a thing to dim the grin he suddenly sports.

"I've never met you before." It's half excited, half accusatory.

"My name is Sansa," she says, keeping her voice soft even though her tone is bright and friendly. She can tell the child is sick and he reminds her of her cousin; she hopes he isn't an unpleasant person like Robin had been.

"I was hoping I might be able to cheer you up, tell you a story. Would you like that?"

Ewan considers protesting that he's being perfectly cheerful already, but Sansa's clearly no Chantry sister, about to rat him out for that moral failing.

"...Yes." He agrees, after a moment's deliberation. Then: "Please."

As if imparting a great secret, he looks both ways over his shoulders, before whispering.

"My name's Ewan. But you can call me Protagonist."

It's clear from his pronunciation that he's heard the word elsewhere, and perhaps isn't entirely clear what it means. His skinny chest puffs out, only to end abruptly in a rattling cough.

Edited 2017-01-18 05:27 (UTC)

"Protagonist? That's quite a name for someone to carry around. I'm sure you can live up to it, though," Sansa says gently.

"So, would you like to hear about where I come from? Where I hail from, in Westeros, the North is bitterly cold and the South is incredibly warm. Isn't that strange?"

"Is that in Orlais?" His head tips curiously. "You must think it's strange here."

"Much further than Orlais," Sansa admits. "I come here from a place beyond the rifts," she explains.

"I come from Winterfell, a place where snow falls through every season of the year. It is bitterly cold but amazingly beautiful - the most beautiful place in all the world."

"Can you see it when you look through them? No one will let me get close enough to tell." A furtive glance to the little window, wrapped in its thick hangings. "It sounds lovely."

"It's beautiful there," Sansa agrees. "Even though it is a place of great sadness now. I am the last Stark of Winterfell and I'm here, you see, so there are no Starks left. The whole of Wintefell has been overrun by flayed men instead of wolves."

She gives him a sad little smile. "Do the houses here have sigils?"

Beauty's nice and fine, but Ewan is a young boy, and talk of wolves and skinned men is quick to hold his interest.

"Well," He considers, counting on his fingers for some obscure reason (the number of dead men it might take to hold off a pack of wolves). "Orlais is a lion. The whole country. D'you know why? They had to fight a dragon over it."

"My husband's house bears the lion device. Do you think he'd fit in with the Orlesians, then, if they like lions?"

Sansa is trying to imagine Tyrion pretending to be Orlesian and the thought of it makes her giggle a bit; she hides it with her hand like the lady she is.

"It'd depend what kind of lion I think. They fight themselves over it too, not just dragons."

A young boy, but relatively politically astute.

"You're married?" Don't mind, Sansa, if he sounds a touch broken-hearted.

"I am. My husband, Tyrion, is here in Thedas as well. He's a dwarf." Dwarves seemed to be looked upon in a different light here in Thedas than in Westeros and Sansa hopes that means that Tyrion isn't slighted the way he is at home.

"He's the most clever man I know."

"But you can't be married to a dwarf. That's,"

Actually. He doesn't know if that's illegal. He's never really met a dwarf before, only watched them out the windows when he can. The idea of marrying Scout Harding might just get him over his heartbreak with Sansa.

"How did you marry a dwarf? They all live underground."

I mean, clearly not, but logic isn't really at play here.

"Well, in Westeros, they do not and so I was able to marry him quite easily. He's the lord of a great house," Sansa explains.

"And I care for him. He keeps me safe. That's more important than anything else, you know, feeling safe."

Feeling safe. Something in that seems to strike a nerve. Ewan's face falls, and this time it's not with the quick, flickering dash of youth. It falls, and it hangs there, quiet. Still.

He picks at the blankets, unhappily, as though uncertain of what to say. He won't meet Sansa's eyes any more.

"Is something wrong?" Sansa asks. She can tell that Ewan's face is sad now and she hardly wished to invoke that particular reaction. She draws up a bit closer and reaches out to touch him, fingertips staying just shy of his skin.

"I'm sorry if I said something I shouldn't have."

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the start of something new

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