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Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark were… Hmm, how could she put this? They were... 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 parents. 

Of course, the girl who was now known as Sansa Stark (but wasn't always), would one hundred percent  consider them some of the better parents in this world. Maybe even the best. But by the standards of her old world? They were somewhat neglectful emotionally. Which was irritating, considering she was stuck here at their mercy. The whole children are to be seen and not heard thing, was taken a little more seriously here. Which meant that she had very little chance of making her own important life choices for however long she was stuck here.

Ironically, Before she had preferred the character of Ned Stark and had dismissed Catelyn Tully as a woman who was protective of her family but too meddling and too stubborn. Throughout the series that Sansa had, admittedly, only briefly dabbled into, she seemed to have made somewhat irrational decisions and actions that cost the Starks.

Now, having gotten the unwilling and unwanted first-hand experience of knowing Ned and Catelyn, Sansa found both of her new parents to be  incredibly stubborn and judgmental. Both had a tendency to make a snap-judgment on he characters and actions of others and tended to keep said judgment forever. This wouldn't be too bad a trait to have if it weren't for the fact that she now lived in a feudal society. As in a society, in which Ned Stark was Warden of the North (practically a King in all but name and practice) and Catelyn his lady wife who also came from a family of Lord Paramounts. A society where their word was typically considered law. In other words, they were people who were used to getting their way.

Ned was an honorable man. However, that same honor made him rigid and stubborn, sometimes to the point of stupidity and willful blindness. Case in point, her possible gruesome future. The storylines of both the books and the show were vague and somewhat questionable in her memory, having been a long time since she'd read/watched either, but one thing she'd never understood was Ned Stark's decisions in the first season. If he had truly been suspicious, he should have done his level best to leave both the original Sansa and Arya in Winterfell and, if not Sansa (due to her betrothal), at least Arya. He should have never told Cersei of his knowledge of her children's parentage, should never even given her a single warning. Even if Cersei wasn't a crazy bitch, what mother would let her children or herself be threatened? Sansa could blame Cersei's character for a lot of things in the books/show but protecting her children (however ill-begotten) was not one of them.

Though, considering his past possible trauma with Elia, Aegon and Rhanys' deaths as well as Lyanna's, she could not blame him entirely. He still should have left the girls though. And he should have kept his suspicions to himself until he could get the girls and the Stark household to safety, at least. He trusted to much in the idea of others having the same honor.

Another example of this was how he treated Sansa herself. The man kept a gentle distance from her. This was something she’d only noticed after observing the playfully, rough manner he interacted with the boys and Arya. In contrast, with Sansa, Ned was gentle. He did not toss her into the air like he did with Arya and Bran. Instead he would ask her about her embroidery or ask if she wanted a new dress or sewing materia. Which she did, but that was besides the point! It was not as if he thought less of her, it was more like he thought that these were the only things that interested her. And Sansa would bet this entire second life, that he thought this only because she was the spitting image of her mother. In coloring at least. She may have had the red hair, blue eyes, and height from her Tully mother. However, if one looked closely (no one seemed to, except her those first few days when she arrived, both disturbed and sickeningly fascinated by her new appearance),her full lips with their pronounced cupid's bow was all Stark. Her eye shape was almond shaped and cat-like similar to Ned's grey eyes, rather than wide and round like Catelyn's. But he only saw Catelyn in her.

Catelyn, on the other hand, was very set in her Southron religion and ways. Despite marrying into what was essentially a different culture and people, she had made very little effort to accommodate her husband and his people. The Sept Ned had built for her was an incredibly romantic and sensible gesture, and should've been reciprocated in kind. However Catelyn only insisted that her children, especially the girls, were taught the Faith first and foremost before anything that had to do with those “foreign Old Gods” as she put it once when they had been alone. And while she did not voice her distaste for Winterfell's Godswood, if Sansa didn't want to be found by Catelyn it was where the girl would go. Catelyn found the bright blood-red leaves of the weirwood trees disturbing. She found the haunted faces carved in the trunks chilling.

All this led Sansa to the position she was in now. Stuck in a nonsensical religious circle with the septa droning on about womanly duties, working on her embroidering hoop in the pathetically dim lighting that the medieval torches provided to her. All at the behest of her mother, who insisted that Sansa and Arya learn the necessary duties a Lady must know.

Arya, of course, had run away earlier. Not that she would get in much trouble, Sansa thought sourly. She loved the girl, she did. They had a warmer relationship than in canon. But it was irritating that Arya would only get an exasperated lecture by Catelyn, who would then be interrupted by Ned, fondly claiming that “it’s her wolf-blood, Lady-wife. Mine sister was the same”.  Every time he said something along those lines, it took all of Sansa’s efforts not to sneer and snap.

Like, get real man. Where did Lyanna’s precious wolfs-blood get her and the Stark family? What did Brandon 'the Wild Wolf' get?

When Sansa skipped (and skip she did occasionally, there was only so much religious brainwashing she could take at a time), Ned conveniently left her punishment entirely to Catelyn without interfering as he did for Arya. Catelyn’s idea of punishment was to personally supervise her in even more mind-numbing septa lectures and take away Sansa’s sweets. Which was fucking crime by the way. Sweet treats were the only thing that helped her  survive the disgusting and bland food of this damn land. These people took the whole ‘white people don’t know how to season’ thing too far. And it wasn’t even because they were in a medieval society! It was because the North was too far and they considered most spices other than the basics to be frivolous spending. God.

“Sansa, dear. Why don’t you show us what you’ve accomplished thus far”, Septa Mordane called. “I’m sure, it will be delightful!”

Sansa looked up from the bent-over position her head had been in while embroidering and gave the septa and the girls surrounding her a beatific smile.

“Of course, though I am only as good a student as you are a teacher, Septa”, she said modestly. 

A pleased smile stretched across Septa Mordane’s face before it dropped in horror when Sansa lifted her embroidery hoop to showcase her work.

Sansa had depicted an incredibly realistic depiction of a great direwolf, large and towering and as dark as the night sky. Its mouth was open in vicious snarl and Sansa had used embroidery techniques learned in her first life as a student of Youtube university (sewing/knitting/embroidery) to provide depth perspective. She had embroidered the wolf to look like it was on the verge of leaping out of the hoop. 

It was def inspired by Hela’s bad-ass giant wolf, Fenris. Ah, if only she had such a wolf by her side. She could run to Essos and beyond without worrying about being trafficked and sold into slavery or about being assaulted. She could say fuck all y'all, to everyone on this damn continent who thought they had a say over her or thought they could put their desires and wants on her shoulders. She’d be free .

“Is something wrong, Septa?, she inquired innocently.  

“I--”, Septa Mordane sputtered. “I expected something a bit more… Lady-like”.

Sansa tilted her head in mock confusion. “What do you mean? What is more lady-like than embroidering one's house sigil? After-all, I am a Stark. The Direwolf is a sign of the Starks”.

She placed it onto her lap demurely. “I plan on giving it to my father.” As fucking if. “I think he will appreciate it greatly. 

Chapter Text

Here’s the kicker to this entire situation. She feels hunger, therefore she eats. She feels tired, therefore she sleeps. Time passes by slowly and regularly, almost tortuously without modern distractions. She pinches herself and stabs herself with her sewing needles enough time to know that she feels pain, therefore she is not particularly eager to cause any sort of grievous or irreversible harm in an effort to go home . 

She is not sure if this is a dream or not. It feels real, too real. And yet… What about this could even be conceivable?! One could joke about it, write about it, dream about it…But who would believe in reincarnation? Let alone reincarnation in a fictional world. In fact, that was the main issue there. She might have been convinced about reincarnation, how many different religions discussed such an option? But to be placed in a fictional world, as a fictional character? It was insane, it was mad.

What did it mean? She refused to believe the author to be some sort of deity. How could a story become reality? Furthermore, how could she be taken and why? What magical bullshit could move an entire conscience?! If this was real, what made her so special? She hadn't read the books or even seen the show except for little clips here and there, and what little knowledge she had was from fanfiction of all damn things. If someone, something, had brought her here… What was their purpose? What did they want from her?

This didn’t feel like a lucid dream. She'd had lucid dreams before. They were inconsistent and hazy and often didn’t entirely make sense despite her awareness. Time and setting was inconsistent and she didn’t particularly feel any pain or hunger as she did when awake. This was nothing like a lucid dream, as far as she was aware.

What was real and what was not?  She didn’t know and she didn't want to rock the boat and make irreversible waves on the off-chance that this life was real. That it was inescapable. If it was real… She had to be careful. She had to hold her knowledge close to her chest. She had to do her best to fit in and be Sansa. To an extent, of course. She did not want to lose herself. And, well, her tolerance for bullshit went so far. Unlike many of the women of this world, she was not made for enduring anything let alone the whims of lesser men.

-------------------------------------------------

Winterfell, Sansa found, was a rather impressive keep for something that was hand-built (though according to the weird old servant-lady who often told stories to her and her not-siblings, giants helped).  It was freaking huge, spanning several acres. She had yet to go beyond the walls. They kept her under lock and key and sadly she had no excuse as to why Lady Sansa would need to leave, however stepping foot in any of the various courtyards allowed her to see that the keep was surrounded by giant walls. An inside perimeter and a secondary outside wall, with an actual moat in between the two walls. 

The entire thing was also built around, of all things, a 10,000+ years old Godswood that the Starks had impeccably maintained much to the amazement of Sansa’s inner historian. The main inner castle was smack dab in the middle of the entire stronghold and was, blessedly, built over natural hot-springs, she had discovered. Sansa had been curious as to how a medieval castle could be so warm and well-insulated and upon further research in the Keep’s library,  it turned out that the natural heat of the hotsprings kept warm year-round. Outside the inner castle, were dozens of smaller courtyards and buildings that Sansa had yet to explore fully. All in all, she was rather taken by the castle. She might have even liked it, if she hadn’t been forcibly kidnapped to the damn place.

Currently, she was hiding from any and all responsibilities in Winterfell’s greenhouse. Or rather, it’s glass garden as was said here. It was located near the North Gate, opposite in direction of the Broken Tower that she was relatively sure little Bran would one day fall off of. The trapped heat from the sun and the hot springs kept the place warm and almost tropical like even in the middle of the current cold season. It was a soothing reminder of home, if a bit too humid. She bemoaned her luck. To go from the comfortable heat of equatorial Kenya to the freezing North of some pseudo-Europe land was honestly so sad. She thought her first time seeing snow outside of television would be visiting her cousins in America. Not this.

Her musings on the possibility of running away to positively delightful sounding, desert-y Dorne (because while Kenya was no desert, the sun-kissed land of Dorne sounded like an absolutely divine reminder of home) was interrupted by a tiny wild-haired little gremlin holding a wooden sword-thing.

“Sansa!” Arya crowed in surprise delight as she noticed her elder sister lying supine on one of the stone benches in the glass garden. “You’re avoiding Septa Mordane?” she asked in incredulous resignation. She was, by now, used to Sansa's changes but there was still times where her sister's actions took her by surprise.

“Arya,” Sansa said drily.  “I see you, too, have made a run for freedom from the Monotonous Mordane. What are you doing here instead of the sparring yard?”

Her not-quite sister laughed as she dropped onto the ground next to her seat, propping the practice sword on the bench. 

“I was in the sparring yard. AND I was beating Bran our spar when I heard Mother approaching. She was looking for you. Thankfully, she didn't notice me in the clothes I borrowed from Bran!" Arya huffed. "I kept my back to her and made a run for it!” 

More like stole from Bran.

Sansa kicked at her half-heartedly. “You probably led her right to me, you little brat. Should have stayed and faced your punishment like a woman.”

Arya pinched her ankle, hard. The little brat. “Don’t you mean like a man?”

“God  -s no”, Sansa snorted. “Listen closely, Arya. Men are weak pu- er, the weaker ones. They whine and complain about everything. Women are more capable of enduring and therefore are more durable. A man can fight, but so too can a woman. A woman can rip herself giving birth and then heal but a man cannot.  So, yes, like a woman.”

Arya wrinkled her nose. “Rip herself? What does that even mean?”

“Arya, you know how children are born. You’ve seen Rickon when he was a newborn. Imagine pushing something that big out of yourself. Did you think Mother was screaming for fun?”

“....I’m not having children,” the girl said after a moment of horrified silence. 

Sansa nodded wisely. “I support women’s rights, Arya. And more importantly, I support women's wrongs. There are ways to prevent children, I think. But we don't need to worry about all that right now. ...And maybe don't mention what I said to mother.”

Best not to rock any boats in this medieval land, she may not be drinking the koolaid that was this land's societal belief of the inherent weakness and inferiority of women but nor was she as self-sacrificing or brave as a suffragette, bless those strong souls. If she had to live in this world she'd rather get her way subtly. A la Olenna Tyrell and Margaery Tyrell. Make her way with honey not vinegar. And without the necessity of marriage hopefully.

Because societal standards be damned! She sure as fuck didn't want to give birth to any kids in an era where what passed as doctors believed in humors, bleeding, and had no sanitary requirements whatsoever. Honestly, it was truly a miracle, Catelyn Tully had so many healthy children and was healthy and fit herself.

“I thought you wanted a prince charming and as many beautiful children as you could provide him,” the littler Stark said with curious gray eyes.

“Depends on the man, really,” Sansa lied. “If I find a man up to my standards, then perhaps.” She'd been in this place for a while now and while she'd slyly changed some of the habits and personality the original had, little OG Sansa had been kinda delulu and obsessive about the idea of a Prince Charming and taking care of a household. Which, all respect, her mother of Before , her mama, was a housewife. But it was all about choice in their world! That's how she'd grown up! Her mama had chosen to be a housewife. And she encouraged her daughters to do whatever felt right to them. It just wasn’t quite what current Sansa envisioned for herself, not before and still not now. Especially not now that she was stuck in a place with non-existent women’s rights.

“---really think that, Sans?”

Sansa blinked and glanced at her sister, who was now sitting with her legs pulled up to her chin. 

“What did you say, Arya?”

“You said a woman can fight as well as a man. Do you really think that?” Arya’s voice was oddly quiet for the usually rambunctious child.

Sansa frowned. “What brought this on, Arya?”

Arya frowned. “I’m twice as good as Bran at archery and I can hold my own in sword practice. But no matter what, everyone thinks that its luck. Or that Bran is letting me win. Or that it’ll pass because Bran is a year younger but he’ll inevitably outpace me.”

“Mother hates it and father… just let’s me. He doesn't believe in me.”

Ah, the lovely A+ parenting of nagging Catelyn and the overly indulging, ghost-seeing Ned.  She was pretty sure Ned was worried about a Lyanna 2.0 situation but still felt nostalgic enough to encourage Arya. Catelyn was simply a Southron lady, through and through, and disapproved entirely. 

Sansa took a moment to reply. “I believe that with the right training, a woman can fight. We have two hands, and two legs, and minds. What else is needed to wield a weapon? If trained correctly, why not?”

Arya sat up and scrambled on to the bench next to Sansa. “What do you mean correct training? Is it different than what Rodrik teaches?”

“Rodrik teaches boys who will grow into men. Men tend to grow up differently, with only a few exceptions. Most men are going to be taller and stronger physically, so you wouldn’t be able to overpower them easily.”

Something Arya would eventually learn with waterdancing if everything went similar to the plot.

Seeing Arya’s frown, Sansa quickly continued. “That’s why there are different fighting styles. Swinging a heavy broadsword would tire you out if you don’t have the body build to wield it. However, being smaller means being faster and more agile. Using a smaller weapon doesn’t make it any less deadly and it won’t weigh you down. Like David and Goliath, remember? Or the Tortoise and the Hare.”

Arya tilted her head in thought. “Play smarter, not harder.” she said softly.

“Exactly.”

Her sister beamed up at her. “Thanks, Sansa!”

Then.

“Can you tell another story?” she wheedled. "You're stories are the best and they're always new unlike Old Nan's."

Sansa snorted. “First off, Old Nan's stories are northern classics. Secondly, think again, kid. You know how this works. You want something from me, you’ve got to give me a little something.”

“....” I can give you my lemon cake at dinner?”

“See, now, we’re talking to business!”

Chapter Text

Sansa’s Awakening, Two Years Prior (294 AC, age 8)

She felt at ease, in that lovely feeling of not-quite awakened. That gentle, dreamy, fugue state in which her mind toed the line between the conscious and unconsciousness realms. Part of her wanted to stay warm and comfortable, drifting in and out, but the more rational part of her mind pushed her towards wakefulness. 

She had an early start today, her internship was starting. Her career as an urban planner was just taking off and she needed to start with a perfect morning. In other words, early and with a hot shower to start with.

Wiggling her toes in the strangely heavy blankets (she lived in Nairobi and sure they had their winter chills that required a light sweater but it was summer!), she moved to sit up only to freeze at the cold air that hit her skin.

...Kenya was never this cold. Never. Not even in their version of winter. 

Her eyes opened and her mind seemingly short-circuited at what it was observing. What the shit?  This wasn't her room. It was nothing similar to her room. Not even a blind man could confuse this room with her room. Where the hell was this place? Why was she here?! What- what??!

Panic crept through her slowly, as she slowly took in her surroundings. 

Wooden beams that were certainly not present in her modern, city apartment, crisscrossed the ceiling above her. Much of the stone wall around her was covered by thick wool tapestries that did absolutely nothing for the already grim lighting. 

She, herself, sat in a medium sized canopy bed with heavy wool-like curtains. And, as she looked around, she noticed in continuously growing horror that the heaviness she felt earlier was fur, actual skinned animal fur! All over her and the bed! Soft fur, but fur nonetheless! 

Her mouth felt dry and her thoughts were frantic in her growing sense of unease and fear. Calm! I have to be calm! Just focus, work through this step by step. 

1. She was no longer in her room. Okay. Okay. Now, 2. She needed to find out where she was. Then 3. Figure out a way back from there. 

There, that was easy. Vastly oversimplified but easy. She still felt nauseous and uneasy but she was focusing a little better with even a vague plan. 

Her eyes darted around the room again. It was a very old-fashioned looking room. Very old-European-chic. Like those old castles people toured on vacation. And the round window high on one of the walls gave it a very prison-esque feeling that she did not like. 

At the foot of the bed, there was a lovely mahogany wooden chest. She moved towards it, lifting the surprisingly hard to move blankets. Perhaps it held a clue as to what was going on, perhaps it was a trick, a prank. Maybe this was all some elaborate prank her friends or family were playing on her. Though how they had moved her sleeping body without waking her was astounding. She wasn't a heavy sleeper at all.

Finally moving the fur blankets aside, she reached her right hand out in front of her to start crawling forward on the bed and immediately felt a nauseous roil of her stomach. She closed her eyes. Her heart felt uncomfortable in her own chest. It was beating too fast and she felt sickened. She opened her eyes. The sight that greeted her previously hadn't changed.

Her hand wasn’t her hand. Her hand wasn't her freaking hand! She had never before felt such a sense of unbalanced-ness. There was something distinctly horrifying about looking at something attached to you, that you knew wasn’t meant to be there. Wasn’t meant to look like that. 

The hand she was holding out in front of her, frozen, was tiny. Pudgy. Pale. Unnaturally pale, at least in comparison to the hand that should have been there. She woodenly moved it around and it was bizarre to see. It gave her sick sense of being disembodied. A strange feeling of disassociation. She felt unconnected to the hand she was clearly controlling. 

This was not her hand. This was not her hand. And yet... She moved it as if it were her own. Closing her eyes, it felt like a normal hand attached to her body. Looking at the hand? It made her feel ill. Her mind expected a slender, dark brown, adult hand to be moving around. The hand she was clenching and unclenching was decidedly not.

Shakily, she reached her other hand out and stared at both of the alien hands now attached to her. She carefully pushed the sleeves of the strange dress she was wearing (when had she changed? When had she changed?!). A pale expanse of pudgy arm revealed itself. She was aware that her breathing had become ragged but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Forcing her gaze away from her arms, she looked up towards the ceiling and tried to count her breaths. She needed to calm down. There was an explanation, there had to be an explanation. In the corner of the room, she noticed there was what seemed to be a tall basin of water.

Her body shook as she maneuvered herself off the bed. Everything, everything felt wrong. Her hands, her legs when she stood on them. The whole room seemed unbalanced and uneven. The walls and door seemed bigger than they should have been. 

She took a couple of wobbly steps. Even her balance was off. She was stepping wider than she needed to for some reason. 

She finally reached the basin and splashed the blessedly cool water on her face. It was refreshing. It was centering.  She took a deep breath and leaned in to inspect her reflection. A lovely face greeted her. The girl had gorgeous red hair tied into a loose braid. Her eyes were a lovely shade of blue and her pale skin was flushed red. Moreover, something was clearly wrong. Why did the girl look so greatly disturbed? Why did the girl look at her so intensely?

She reached a hand to touch her cheek and startled as the reflection did the same. She blinked. The girl blinked back. She waved one hand hesitantly. The girl waved back just as hesitant, with the exact same look of dawning realization and sickening horror.

She was distantly aware of a horrible, keening noise. It sounded oddly like someone screaming. How funny.

The cool floor next to the water basin felt like a welcome reprieve from all the madness. If only the person screaming would just stop! She couldn't concentrate, she couldn't think!

“Lady- “ Lady San-”

God, why wouldn’t it just be quiet!

“She won’t sto-”

She didn't want to deal with this. She wanted to go home! She wanted her mama and baba. She wanted her older sister. 

“Call Lord Ed--     Quickly!”

She couldn't---- she couldn’t BrEaThE!

Stereotypical SI Characters when they wake up:

SI Sansa:

Chapter Text

Sansa’s Awakening, Two Years Prior (294 AC, age 8) - PART 2

The morning had started well enough for Ned. He had woken rather early and thus had a little extra time to spend with his lovely wife. Gods, knew that the two of them were usually so busy, in between raising four children, managing Winterfell, and managing the North as a whole. 

Any time he could take with Catelyn he would do wholeheartedly. They may not have been a love-match but they had grown to love each other overtime. What else could he ask for when he knew full well that most nobility did not have such luck?

What he did not expect that morning, was the harsh bang on his bedroom door. Catelyn startled and threw herself off her position on his lap and Ned rolled out of bed in a hurry and, heedless of his state of undress, reached for his legendary greatsword, Ice. 

“Lord Stark! Lord Stark!”. The frantic voice of Winterfell’s steward, Vayon Poole, alarmed Ned almost immediately. Vayon would not disturb him in his own chambers unless there was danger or incredibly important news.

He and Catelyn exchanged worried looks as they rushed to get dressed. What on earth could have happened to make their steward come all the way to their private rooms in clear panic?

“My Lo-”, Ned swung his door open and was immediately met with the disturbed face of Vayon.

“What in the world happened for you to come all this way, Vayon?” he frowned. Catelyn came up to stand behind him, disturbed at the abrupt interruption of their morning

“My Lord, My lady. It-,” Vayon hesitated.

“Well, spit it out then! Has something happened?” Catelyn asked impatiently. 

“It is Lady Sansa. She- she seems to have fallen into some sort of fit. One  of the servants assigned to help Lady Sansa dress, came upon her screaming like a madwoman. She immediately called for help but Lady Sansa has not stop screaming, no matter what has been done to aid her!”

“What?!” Catelyn gasped in shock. What was wrong with her daughter, her baby ? Disregarding the fact that she had not put on any footwear under her voluminous skirts and that her hair was flowing down her back undone (a style in which, she had learned in her early years of living up North, only unmarried Northern maidens wore), Catelyn pushed past Ned and began running towards Sansa’s rooms.

Ned gestured for Vayon to come along as he rushed after his wife. What could have happened to his daughter? A sickening, bile-inducing fear he had not felt since he had first lost Lyanna when she had first been taken, then Brandon and his father in Kings Landing, and then Lyanna again (this time permanently), gripped his heart   

“Was she hurt?” he barked.  “Has Maester Luwin  been called?”

“I’m not sure, my Lord. As soon as I was alerted of the situation, I sent for Maester Luwin and went to find you.”  Vayon huffed as he tried to keep up. “He should be there by now.”

As they came closer to Sansa’s room, Ned could hear a piercing, disturbed wailing. His blood ran cold as he pushed himself to run faster, Catelyn miraculously keeping stride with him despite her shorter legs and long skirts.

Upon bursting into  the room, they found Sansa's small frame on the ground curled into a ball near a basin of water that the servants had clearly brought in preparation for a bath. 

Loud wails poured out of her, interspersed with chest-heaving sobs.

Catelyn dropped down next to her daughter, trying her best to soothe the girl. 

“Sansa! Sansa, sweetling. What’s wrong?” she stroked her daughter’s bright red head as the girl shook.

Worried, Ned looked to Maester Luwin who was on the ground next to Sansa, frowning as he gently grasped her arm to check her inner wrist.

The maester looked up and spoke loudly to be heard over Sansa’s sobs. “My Lord, I cannot find anything wrong with Lady Sansa physically. The maids have also reported that they didn't notice anything suspicious.”

He looked back down at the young girl. “We must wait for her fit to wear off to ask her what may have caused it.”

Ned felt his throat close up as he watched his young daughter sob and cry piteously in his wife’s arms.

He knelt down next to them and stroked her back to comfort her, as he had when she had been but a wee baby disturbing the servants in the night with her crying. He had not been there for Robb's first year, and so had been fascinated by Sansa when she had been born. Catelyn had joked that he may as well have carried her himself with his attachment to the babe. “Sansa, little wolf, what’s the matter?”

When Sansa didn’t answer, he and Cat exchanged stressed looks. 

It took hours to calm her down before she eventually fell asleep between their arms, their hands stroking her hair and back in comfort as they spoke gently to her. Her sobs eventually faltered into little hiccups as she fell into an exhausted sleep.

As silence finally fell, Ned looked down at her red, tear-swollen face. 

“Gods, Ned,” Catelyn whispered. Her bright blue eyes looked up at him, distressed.

What could have happened to their sweet child?

When they were told Sansa had woken up a little later, Ned couldn’t help but notice the way she flinched when she noticed him and Catelyn entering her room.

“Little wolf,” he said gently as sat on a seat close to her bed. “What happened this morning?”

Her wide eyes blinked rapidly as she looked between Catelyn and him. Oddly enough, she seemed to be looking at them in disbelief, as if she couldn’t believe they were there in the room with her. 

“A- a dream,” she eventually murmured hoarsely. “A bad one.” And then she spoke no more of the dream she had, no matter how much he and Catelyn pushed and cajoled. She only shook her head and then burst into tears again when questioned by Maester Luwin.

A little later, they stood by their daughter’s bed as she slept from the dreamwine Luwin had given her. 

She looked young, Ned thought, too young to look as distraught as she had. What could she have dreamed about to bring about such a despairing reaction?

Catelyn took to keeping a close eye on her eldest daughter after the.. Incident , so to speak. She and Ned had brushed it off to the servants and everyone as a mere nightmare but… she could not help but notice that her daughter was… different afterward.

Sansa was her summer child. Where Robb was bright and vivacious, and Arya was fierce and independent, Sansa was sweet and polite. She was a dreamer who dreamt of pretty things and loved stories. 

Now Sansa was withdrawn and quiet. She barely entertained Jeyne and Beth as she used to and she didn’t react to Arya’s barbs other than giving her sister a brief  look of annoyance, like one would give a mosquito or any other small annoyance. This reaction somehow angered Arya more than when they’d get into screaming matches.

She didn’t ask Catelyn to braid her long red hair in the intricate southron styles she so admired. Rather, now she kept it in a single braid or in a simple bun. 

In her lessons with Robb, Theon, Arya and unfortunately Jon Snow, due to her husband’s insistence, she had started to actually surpass her own work and was able to do the work the older boys did. While Sansa had always excelled in writing and reading, numbers were a weak point for her, to the point where Arya was beginning to catch up in that regard. 

Now, she had improved rapidly and while she hadn’t surpassed the boys quite yet, Catelyn had an odd feeling that she was… holding back. It was in the way she’d look bored in the lessons Catelyn spied on. Or in the way she sometimes helped Rob or Jon with the problems Luwin gave when she thought no one was looking.

However, she still was excellent at embroidery (in fact, Catelyn would say she improved ) and she still seemed to like dressing up. When Catelyn had presented a new styled dress, a familiar light entered her eyes and she seemed to be almost her old self. 

She and Ned had accepted her explanation for her reaction but she knew that Ned also watched her in slight worry. 

Whatever else, she simply hoped her daughter would bounce back from this. 

Sansa Stark. Sansa fooking Stark. That’s the delusion her mind was going with. Except it didn’t seem like a delusion. It felt too real.  And if it was real... She thought of the fates that awaited them all. 

Little redheaded, cheerful Robb, dead. Imposing Ned, dead. Strict Catelyn, dead. Baby Bran, paralyzed and possessed by a mutant bird. Arya, turned into a serial killer ninja. Jon, dead then alive. Funny Theon, brutally maimed and a traitor. And her… God, she didn’t even dare think about the fate of Sansa Stark if this delusion played out like the show.

The show she hadn’t finished versus the books she hadn't touched. She couldn’t help but fight back hysterical laughter. If this was real, she was doomed either way because all she had going for her was a vague outline of the plot from the show, a vague outline of the books from wikis, and various fanfiction knowledge which could be completely false. 

Suffice to say, Sansa was constantly fighting off the urge to yeet herself off the nearest tower, a la Bran Stark every day she woke up and realized she was still in Winterfell. The only thing stopping her was the fact that she could feel pain in this hallucination and she was absolutely a pain-wuss.  She didn’t want to deal with medieval politics. She didn’t want to be a woman in medieval times. She didn’t want to deal with freaking zombies or dragons (as cool as they were).

Furthermore, she thought, as she pulled a thread through her embroidery hoop, being a child was incredibly disorienting and disturbing. Body dysmorphia was real, she had never felt the privilege of being cis-gender more than she did now. If transgender people felt this type of wrongness, this feeling of misplacement… Her body felt off, and the change in skin tone was incredibly jarring whenever she noticed. Obviously, skin-tone didn’t matter in the long run, but there was something so strange about seeing pale, porcelain skin where she had once had smooth, sun-kissed dark brown skin. 

She could only thank God that mirrors were a rarity here, she didn’t need to give herself a jump scare everytime she passed on and saw someone else in place of her reflection. It was like a reverse vampire curse, instead of no reflection, it was a reflection alright. Of a completely different face then the one she’d stared at for 22 years. 

And who knew cosplay would come in handy when it came to being a medieval lady. Sansa had no idea how much she relied on mass produced clothing and items before she woke up in this hellhole. Everything was made by hand. Everything . The servants did the bulk of the work of course, but being a noble lady excused nothing. 

She squinted at her design in the shitty candle lighting they had going on in the musty room Septa Mordane’s sewing circle  was held in.

“Lady Arya, redo those disgraceful stitches at once,” Septa Mordane called out, interrupting Sansa’s internal monologue.

She looked up in time to see Arya flush red in humiliation as the other girls in the circle snickered quietly to one another. Frowning, she looked over at her fake-sister’s work. It wasn’t bad at all. Considering the girl was only five, Sansa was actually impressed she’d sat still so long.

“What can you expect from Lady Horseface,” a girl who Sansa thought was named Jeyne and who often followed her around, whispered. “She’d rather a sword in her hand than a needle, like a boy ”.

Arya’s tiny cherubic face fell before twisting in anger. However, before she could reply, in an unexpected twist Sansa did.

“It’s almost as if we are in the North,” she said drily, her clear voice loud amongst the whispering. The girls and Arya turned to stare at her in surprise.

“It’s almost as if female warriors are not uncommon in the North,” she continued in that same dry tone as she worked on her hoop. 

Arya  was blinking in surprise. Jeyne looked betrayed for some reason before her eyes flashed in hurt defiance.

“Did you not say that you’d rather die than touch a blade, Lady Sansa?” she accused smugly.

Sansa blinked blandly. “Yes, yes I absolutely would,” she agreed. Like effing hell she’d be fighting anyone in this world. Some basic self-defense obviously,  but she would not be engaging anybody in battle! OG Sansa had the right of it, who would be delusional enough to want to fight alongside of the sick men in this world. She felt a shiver run down her back at the thought of it. They even had a whole song about a girl named Danny Flint who tried to pull a Mulan except it ended horribly!

“It’s not a topic I  am personally interested in, Jeyne. That doesn’t mean that it's uncommon in the North. The  Noble house Mormont has plenty of female warriors ” Actually that was the only house she knew, and she hoped that shit was accurate because she got that from Lyanna “Giantsbane’ Mormont in the show. She distinctly remember watching a Youtube clip of the scene so she was pretty sure it wasn't just spotty fan fiction knowledge.

“And Septa Mordane, I'm sure you know that Arya is the youngest in the room.” She reached over and took Arya’s embroidery hoop from her loose hands. “This is very impressive for someone of her age, when compared to those two to three years older than her. I do hope you are giving her a fair parameter of comparison,” she said coolly.

She turned to Arya as the woman spluttered. “Arya, why don’t you finish up this last part and then show mother. I’m sure she’ll be proud to see the effort you’re putting in”.

The smaller girl gave her long searching look before nodding and Sansa couldn't help but notice the pleased uptick of her mouth before she bent her head over her hoop, rushing to finish. 

SI-Sansa when she accidentally sees her not-reflection:

SI-Sansa acts too mature, Arya: