The Old Way || Sansa Stark & Prisk

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Welcome to another broken world.

When magic fails the world of Westeros, history becomes legend.
More focused on the advancement of science and technology, the
Seven Kingdoms remain ruled by House Lannister and Tyrell, ever
fighting for control of the land. The east and west are silent. Dorne
falls quiet. And in the North, blood soaks the soil where the Boltons
have taken power. The last surviving Stark is locked in a tower,
used only for heirs and the most horrifying Bolton pleasure.

That is, until a daring escape is made.

Into the woods flees the heroine of House Stark, the rightful
Wardeness and Queen in the North. With what remains of Theon
Greyjoy at her side, she runs to the calling of an unknown force,
a prophecy that will turn her broken shell into steel and power.

The old way will return.

​

 

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CHAPTER ONE
The Woods Witch

 

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[fieldbox=Sansa of House Stark; Queen in the North, gray, solid, 0, sitka banner]

Sansa Stark

"My skin has turned from porcelain, to ivory, to steel."
​

The wailing of winter winds blew through Tully hair, sending chills down a fragile spine. The speed at which she ran seemed improbable given her wounds, but her life depended on adrenaline blocking the pain. Captivity was not an option. Sansa kept Reek's scarred hand clutched in hers as they bolted onward toward the forest bordering Winterfell; the godswood, an ancient place. There was no cover for miles except for this, the forestry which provided shelter for direwolves and other creatures of the night. It seemed Sansa would be one with them, now. She could only hope they would sense her as one of their kin and spare her a gruesome, grisly death.

"We can't survive in there," warned Reek between battered breaths. The moonlight played off the tears in his eyes. "The wolves. They'll kill us for sure, or he'll send his hounds to follow us."

"There's nowhere else to go but here. We have to try." Sansa cast a nervous glance over her shoulder to the remnants of the battle behind them. Stannis had broken once again upon the walls she'd waited in. It seemed she was the token of ill luck for the lawful King of Westeros. "Come on. We should be deep enough into the godswood before they think to look for us."

"It won't bode well," moaned the shell of Theon Greyjoy. Sansa led him through the threshold of trees, into the ancient magical protection of the godswood, or so the stories said. "This place is dark, m'lady. He'll find us. He always finds us."

"I won't let that happen, Theon. Please, you have to trust me." She squeezed his hand in attempt to be reassuring. "Don't think about him. We're free now. Think of Winterfell before this, of Father, of Bran and Rickon and how they're still alive. Think of Robb. I do, whenever I need to be brave."

"Robb," Reek replied sorrowfully. "Oh, Robb..."

Sansa felt his pain. In truth, she could not guarantee the promises she'd made, ones of redemption and freedom. Ramsay would follow them when he learned of their escape. That much was inescapably evident. But with pity in her heart for Theon and the unbroken will to survive, Sansa allowed herself to believe they had a fighting chance, no matter how misguided. There was said to be power in the woods after all. Perhaps the Old Gods would spare her a sliver of their foretold mercy, and lead two broken souls to the promised land.

Gunfire faded to twittering birds as Sansa and Theon made passage through the forest. Dawn peaked beyond the treeline and shed light upon their path, making Sansa's lantern useless in the best way. She doused the flame but continued to carry the object as the pair of refugees slowed from a quick jog to a regular walking pace. Morning had come. The Boltons would take their victory and flay the remaining Baratheon forces; Sansa had hours left before her husband would notice her absence when he came calling for post-battle pleasure. She shuddered at the thought, clutching tighter to Theon's hand. The more ground they covered, the more hope remained.

"Smoke..." said Reek after hours of panting and silence.

"What?"

"Smoke," he said again. "Look." His trembling hand pointed to the horizon, where a small trail of chimney smoke floated up to the cloud-covered heavens. "Somebody lives here."

That cannot be, Sansa thought. How many tales had she heard of the dangers of this place? An ancient power lurked here, one that even champions of science could not explain. But Sansa was not about to kick a gift horse in the mouth. She turned to Theon, eyes alight with hesitant hope. "We should follow it," she told him eagerly. "It could mean safety."

"Could mean danger," he replied.

"It's better to try than to wait for Ramsay's hounds." She turned toward the sight of smoke again, of life and promise and potential. "I won't be taken again."

Whether or not Theon would follow became irrelevant. Sansa lifted her skirts and trudged through the brush with her doused lantern and cloak, praying that within the hour she would find a soul to harbor her. She heard Reek's footsteps follow close behind. Not for the last time, her fate was placed at the feet of a stranger in the distance. Only patience would tell what kind of greeting she would receive.​

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[Prisk]

[fieldbox=Lelani of House Stark; The Woods Witch, gray, solid, 0, font]Of gust and frore her perceptions beheld, soaring wide above the height of men. The world below of specks and worms carried on their flounder. Yet, an eerie absence had engulfed the tangled roots and depths of hidden moss. A faint light guided strangers through the awry of direction, lost by numbing senses and trembling fear. Her vision returned, the sanctuary of warmth and tisane seeped through awareness. She had lingered in the otherworld for the duration of a seeming eternity.

Lelani retained her meditative attire, though reaching out of the rocking chair nearby kindled wood. A cauldron sat brewing curative balms of herbal secrets, spewing through the chimney a peculiar scent. Day and night it lingered within the humble domain. The woman herself carried a delightful aroma of sooty lavender. Her verdant and gloomy hair flowed with the movements of Rise akin to the garments of shadow and mantle upon her back. Soft skin grasped for a vertical barrel of timber and steel, mechanisms of destruction and powder of void.

Her mind wandered through absence, her vision protected from worldly influences. Rifle steady in hand, awaiting invading souls. The woods of the faceless Gods beheld not kindly upon the uninitiated, yet Lelani felt a foreign sense of relief. Voices crept along the paths carved by ancients, their authority distinctly opposite. One posed attributes of determination, poise, fury, and compassion. The other trembled in doubt, fear, oppression, and spite. The woman allowed them passage beyond her point, but not further. Lelani emerged from behind a tree where her presence had been sheltered. The blackened end of the barrel pointed strictly at the rear of the trespassers.

"That is far enough," Lelani's voice sounded firmly. The metallic of the flintlock resonated with the chilly breeze, her vision resolutely aligned with the sights. "I wish not to shoot you, but you must leave this place at once."

Whom her senses then beheld seemed oddly familiar. Many years had passed since the time of admittance to the highest of men. Weary travelers were equally cryptic as the faceless Gods themselves. Her mind did not think, her body did not feel. Yet, the other woman before her dug the depths of memories, festered the crevices of dreams. The barrel of the flintlock hesitated, slowly succumbing to gravity.

"Lest my senses deceive me, do I behold a mirage? I know your face, young girl. These lands share your blood. But where have you been, why have your home fallen to cinder and ash? Please, forgive me. My decorum escapes me in solitude. You are Sansa of House Stark, are you not? I am Lelani Wylde. Winterfell is my home, just as it is yours. Yet none of us are there. It is a shame, and unfortunate that such is so."

The tranquil woman lowered the guard of her firepower. The presence of the man behind the young Stark had eluded Lelani completely. She was rightfully mesmerized by the one who had been her idol as a child. Never could she have thought to be in her presence, let alone exchange words. Whatever their troubles or fortunes, the woods witch would see to their safety in her humble abode.

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[fieldbox=Sansa of House Stark; Queen in the North, gray, solid, 0, sitka banner]

Sansa Stark

"My skin has turned from porcelain, to ivory, to steel."
​

The woman before them was threatening, beautiful and mysterious, though she had the look of the north as she claimed. Sansa had never heard of a human living in the godswood, much less a person that seemed well-fed and healthy and thriving. Her attire was fair and she appeared clean and content, aside from the hand cannon pointed directly at the intruders. Sansa and Theon clung to each other for safety as the woman spoke in an old way, and old manner with old words. How could someone's speech feel so ancient? Sansa was frightened, but if this Lelani Wylde claimed Winterfell was home, perhaps she was not to be feared. Strange help was better than none at all.

"How do you know me?" asked Sansa with a small frown. "I have never seen you before, and I don't remember you from back then..."

"She's the woods witch," Reek stuttered fearfully. "Lord Ramsay spoke of 'er. She lives in these woods and has for 'undreds of years. Her powers are ancient. Even he doesn't want to tangle with 'er. We shouldn't trust anything she says."

"I'm sorry, Theon, but forgive me if I don't trust you." Sansa had not forgotten his countless betrayals on Stark behalf, against Robb and Bran and Rickon, against her. She was certain his intentions were pure and good-hearted, but if this woman was someone Ramsay feared to tamper with, perhaps they were safest in her company. Sansa gathered her courage and addressed her.

"Lady Wylde," she said with a trembling voice. "Please, as the last living Stark, you must help me. The Boltons have my home. Ramsay, he..." Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. "He is chasing me. They all are. We barely escaped with our lives. I beg you to help us, if you ever called yourself a woman of the north. In the name of my father, please..."

She kept Theon's hand tight in hers, pleading to the Old Gods for sanctuary.​

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