[ The servants hate it, the cold that has come to King's Landing, and they spare no opportunity to gossip and prattle about it — out of the king's earshot, of course. The spider's birds catch every whisper nevertheless and later sing them back to him in foreign tongues that only he can understand. And, on occasion, these songs are passed on, are moulded into something either pleasing or displeasing, to tease reactions out of the Young Wolf (who is no longer young, who is no longer the Boy King, but simply the King).
Sometimes she catches wind of these whispers herself, having grown accustomed to sitting behind the latticework of the windows and straining to hear the voices that carry down stone hallways and resound against vaulted archways. It is not safe for her here, there are spies among the rabble, and those Lannisters that escaped the capital in the wake of Robb's onslaught look to find a means to wound the newly seated king and bring him down upon the pikes he so brashly displayed. Even a fool could readily speak the answer, for there is no greater chink in Robb's armor than his sister, his one remaining sibling, the last of his kin save the bastard in the north: dear Sansa, the little bird, (Tyrion Lannister's wife). There'd been plans, dozens upon dozens, but in the end the simplest was to kill her in the fray and smear her blood on already bloodied Lannister hands.
And so Sansa Stark fell and the king hid his grief behind a mask of duty and in her place another girl rose. Black of hair (the color of pitch) and pale of skin and lovely of face. She names herself Shyra and there's no one left to remember how the Starks had a guardsman with two twin girls, one of which was named Bandy and the other Shyra. What Shrya does in the service of the king, no one knows (not even Shyra herself). Her days are filled with needlepoint and songs, but they are modest luxuries that she shares with only the wind, having been stripped of any possible company save the king when he is willing and able.
She is busy stitching a golden crown over the wolf's head on one of Robb's doublets when the knock comes at the door. Nervously, she stands and affixes her hair even though Sansa knows it is only Robb and there is no need for such affectations. With a held breath she waits for the second knock (when they were children they had codes, a series of knocks they'd use to speak through the walls, a pattern of whistles to find one another in the wolfswood as they hid from their parents). It is not until the second knock comes that she moves to open the door and when she does, it is only a silver.
A single blue eye, wide and the color of Riverrun sky. A long tendril of curled black hair and a loose hung braid, frayed at the edges and untidy. She does not look like a lady at all. She does not look like Sansa (and that is the point). ]
Your Grace, [ she whispers and then steps aside to let him in, her body positioned just so, keeping the door always between her and anyone who may look to see her. ]
no subject
Sometimes she catches wind of these whispers herself, having grown accustomed to sitting behind the latticework of the windows and straining to hear the voices that carry down stone hallways and resound against vaulted archways. It is not safe for her here, there are spies among the rabble, and those Lannisters that escaped the capital in the wake of Robb's onslaught look to find a means to wound the newly seated king and bring him down upon the pikes he so brashly displayed. Even a fool could readily speak the answer, for there is no greater chink in Robb's armor than his sister, his one remaining sibling, the last of his kin save the bastard in the north: dear Sansa, the little bird, (Tyrion Lannister's wife). There'd been plans, dozens upon dozens, but in the end the simplest was to kill her in the fray and smear her blood on already bloodied Lannister hands.
And so Sansa Stark fell and the king hid his grief behind a mask of duty and in her place another girl rose. Black of hair (the color of pitch) and pale of skin and lovely of face. She names herself Shyra and there's no one left to remember how the Starks had a guardsman with two twin girls, one of which was named Bandy and the other Shyra. What Shrya does in the service of the king, no one knows (not even Shyra herself). Her days are filled with needlepoint and songs, but they are modest luxuries that she shares with only the wind, having been stripped of any possible company save the king when he is willing and able.
She is busy stitching a golden crown over the wolf's head on one of Robb's doublets when the knock comes at the door. Nervously, she stands and affixes her hair even though Sansa knows it is only Robb and there is no need for such affectations. With a held breath she waits for the second knock (when they were children they had codes, a series of knocks they'd use to speak through the walls, a pattern of whistles to find one another in the wolfswood as they hid from their parents). It is not until the second knock comes that she moves to open the door and when she does, it is only a silver.
A single blue eye, wide and the color of Riverrun sky. A long tendril of curled black hair and a loose hung braid, frayed at the edges and untidy. She does not look like a lady at all. She does not look like Sansa (and that is the point). ]
Your Grace, [ she whispers and then steps aside to let him in, her body positioned just so, keeping the door always between her and anyone who may look to see her. ]