━ 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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It was a cold day in the small house of Dagny and Alva, colder in the fact that the house had no insulation of thick bricks, nor glass windows to block the brutal onslaught of the winds. Sansa sighed, biting back a shiver as the cold wind blew. It was colder, by the sea, than it was further inland. Fabric curtains acted as covers, nailed in as if to slow the force of the wind.
Summer was drawing to a close, so it seemed, for these Vikings. The lightest sprinkling of snows fell gently from time to time, discouraged by the heavy rains that left the ground a slush of mud and ice. However, the wind that seemed to be ripping through the town, -Kattegat, as Sansa had learned over the many mealtimes she had spent with Floki and Helga in the few weeks of her time within the town- the wind howled with the fury of a pack of wolves. It had forced many inside, Dagny and Sansa among them.
The golden haired woman had nodded approvingly at the first dress Sansa had painfully stitched, and had taken upon herself to enlist the red haired woman as a seamstress in her own stall. Hence, when Sansa was not sleeping, nor enjoying her free time with the growing friendship with Helga, Dagny had contracted her into sewing.
Honestly, sewing was something she had spent most of her life doing, the copper haired woman did not hate the needle and thread, in fact, Sansa rather enjoyed it. The careful stitches of embroidery, the straight, smooth lines she'd create in each seem and the sturdy stitches holding the hem. Although, the small pinpricks of her finger tips, the aching in each knuckle and the heaviness of her wrists were things Sansa did not enjoy about stitching.
The hearth in the centre of the room blazed, a small, yet soothing fire. It offered the slightest warmth, against the icy breeze. A pot of soup simmered above the flames, a delectably savoury smell that made Sansa's mouth watered. The loom in the corner clicked every few minutes, the stones holding the tension of the warp threads shifting against one another as Dagny wove.
The hearth crackled as it's low flames licked the wood. The sound of a needle puncturing fabric, drawing through a thick thread was faint, and yet too loud all at once. The loom clicked again, Sansa felt her nose twitch. The sound rung in her ears, echoing like a scream, a roar, a howl.
What was I thinking? Sansa wondered to herself, as she sat and stitched the fabric together. Red hair draped limply over her shoulder, dull in the low light. Pale hands quivered. Blue eyes stared intensely at the fabric before her. It was a cheap linen she had bought from another stall, barely above the quality of rags, although it was needed for the series of overskirts she had been commissioned for.
