milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sansa comes downstairs, in a long dress of black lambswool. A cloak is slung over one arm - someone's planning to go for a walk after breakfast.

She sits at Bar, orders some porridge and milk, and begins eating. As she eats, she watches the crowd. It's such habit that she doesn't notice anything new until her porridge is almost gone.

Sansa sees the Door.

A startled motion tips her glass of milk, which thunks against the bartop and spills its contents onto the floor.

"Oh." If she can speak, this means this isn't a dream. You can't speak the words you want to in dreams. "Oh."

The Door.

For a time, Sansa sits on her stool, motionless. Then she begins wiping away small, stray tears.

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The girl blinks. "How...fortunate," she manages, though there's a slight interrogative raise of her voice. Is it really fortunate?

Sansa takes a deep breath. "Thank you. I'm sorry for all this. I assure you, this isn't normally how I like to meet people." A bit of a smile, there.

Gwen almost smiles at the implied question. "More fortunate, I think, to have never lived then." Then she adds, with a dismissive shrug, "I did not live long, after all."

"But do not fret, my dear. We can't all be strong always."

Wait, what? She frowns at Gwen, but then gets it and gives a faint, uneasy smile. "Ah, yes, I've heard the dead walk as the living do here." She just hasn't met many.

"I try not to fret. It-- I suppose strength either comes or it does not. I hope when mine is called on, it will rise to meet the challenge."

She looks back at the Door, contemplating it. Maybe that's why she's been here for so long?

Gwen chuckles. "I walk with the living back on Earth as well, which is unheard of," Gwen answers. "And so this place is not the cause."

Gwen pushes her plate away and asks for a soda, then nods. "You'll do well. You're clever."

...Wait, what?

Sansa tries to keep her surprise to a minimum. "Oh." It's easy enough to do over one syllable.

She can't help but smile at the praise. "You're too kind, la-- Gwen," she murmurs. "I was told to pretend to be stupid for so long that at times I feared I was."

"It's a long story, one I'd rather not get into." Honest and blunt.

"But sometimes clever is knowing when not to be, or what not to say?" Gwen suggests.

"I can understand that," Sansa replies readily and doesn't pry.

"That's right, of course. But I'm not half as clever as I need to be, if I am to play the game of thrones."

She reflects a moment. "Ah, I'm sounding like Petyr. A good start. He's Alayne's father, you see, so I should learn - re-learn - to sound like him."

Nodding, Gwen says, "Well, work on that then, and if you ever need anything, just ask. I don't know much about thrones or politics, but I have a few other abilities that might serve well, should it come to it."

"Oh, no, I couldn't ask any favours of you," Sansa says hastily. With a sad smile, "Some things I must learn on my own."

She looks at the Door, worry clouding her face. "And learn quickly," she adds, sotto voce.

"Thank you so much for your words, Gwendolyn. If I may ever return the favour," and if I ever come back here again, "you have but to ask and I will aid you in any way I can."

Gwen smiles, silently wishing her luck again, and takes her leave. She's got some reading to do,

and all of this has made her think. She needs to go back and face things in her world one of these days.

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