Through the Veil (GOT)

Sansa Stark leaned against the cold stone archway, her eyes fixed on the courtyard below. The rhythmic clang of steel on steel filled the air as three young men sparred in the afternoon sun. Her brothers, Jon and Robb, moved with the fluid grace of seasoned warriors, their swords extensions of their arms. But it was the third figure that held her attention.

Ronald Weasley, the mysterious stranger from lands unknown, her father's new ward, stood awkwardly between her brothers. His stance was off-balance, his grip on the sword unsure. Yet there was a determination in his eyes that Sansa couldn't help but admire.

"Keep your guard up, Ron!" Jon called out, bringing his blade down in a swift arc.

Ron stumbled backward, barely deflecting the blow. "Blimey, you lot don't mess about, do you?"

Despite his clumsiness, Sansa noticed how quickly Ron adapted. With each exchange, his movements became more precise, his reactions faster. It was as if he were learning at an inhuman pace.

Sansa's brow furrowed as she watched. More than a fortnight had passed since Ron's sudden appearance at Winterfell, and still, he remained an enigma. Where did he come from? Why was he here? And how did he manage to look so... clean?

Her gaze drifted to Robb and Jon, their tunics dark with sweat, faces streaked with dirt. Yet Ron stood among them, his skin sweaty but unmarred, his strange clothing pristine. Even now, as he ducked and weaved, not a hair on his head seemed out of place.

"It's not natural," Sansa murmured to herself. No one stays that tidy after training. Not even her, and she's not the one swinging a sword about.

She thought back to the times she'd seen Ron emerge from the stables or return from a hunt with her brothers. While others reeked of horse and leather, he smelled of fresh linen and... something else. Something she couldn't quite place.

"Well done, Ron!" Robb's voice broke through her reverie. "You're improving faster than I'd have thought possible."

Ron grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Thanks, mate. Though I reckon I've still got a long way to go before I'm any match for you two."

Sansa watched as the three of them laughed together, struck by how easily Ron had integrated himself into their group. It was as if he'd always been there, filling a space they hadn't known was empty.

And yet, there was something about him that set him apart. Something in the way he spoke, the things he found strange or surprising. It was as if he came from a world entirely different from their own.

But that's impossible.

Sansa shook her head and sighed, her curiosity warring with her sense of propriety. She wanted to know more about Ron Weasley, to unravel the mystery surrounding him. But how could she do so without seeming forward or improper?

As she turned to leave, she caught Ron's eye. Ron tilted his head and then smiled, a warm, genuine expression that sent an unexpected flutter through Sansa's chest.

She hurried away, her cheeks burning. Whatever secrets Ron Weasley held, Sansa was determined to uncover them. One way or another.

…

Once again, Sansa found herself lingering by the stone archway, her eyes drawn back to the trio in the courtyard. The clash of steel had given way to laughter, the sound echoing off the ancient walls of Winterfell.

"Bloody hell, mate!" Ron exclaimed, his face flushed from exertion. "That last move nearly took my head off!"

Jon clapped Ron on the shoulder, grinning. "You ducked just in time. Not bad for a southerner."

"Oi, who're you calling a southerner?" Ron retorted, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. "I'll have you know I'm as northern as they come... where I'm from, anyway."

Robb chuckled, sheathing his sword. "And where exactly is that again, Ron? You've never quite said."

A shadow passed over Ron's face, quick as a summer cloud. "Ah, you know... just a little place. Nothing as grand as all this."

Sansa could tell her brothers didn't believe him but didn't say anything.

She leaned closer, straining to hear. What tales had Ron spun to win her brothers' friendship so completely? She found herself envying their easy friendship, wishing she could be part of it.

As the men continued their banter, Sansa's gaze drifted over Ron's form. He was tall – taller than both Jon and Robb – with a lean, wiry build that spoke of strength without bulk. There was an awkward grace to his movements, as if he hadn't quite grown into his limbs.

But it was his hair that truly caught her attention. Vivid red, like burnished copper in the afternoon sun. It reminded her of her own Tully locks and of her mother. Could it be a sign of some shared ancestry? Some link between Ron's mysterious homeland and the Riverlands?

Sansa shook her head, chiding herself for such fanciful thoughts. And yet... she couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something odd about Ronald Weasley.

Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of Old Nan, her wizened face creased with a warm smile. "Lord Ronald," the elderly servant called out, her voice quivering with age, "Lady Catelyn requests your presence in the Great Hall before supper."

Ron's face flushed, his freckles standing out stark against his reddening skin. "Just Ron, please," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "No need for all that 'lord' business."

Old Nan blinked in surprise, but her smile only grew wider. "As you wish, young Ron."

Sansa watched, fascinated, as Ron helped the old woman navigate a particularly treacherous muddy path. His hand was gentle on her elbow, his steps slow and patient. "Careful there," he said, grinning. "Wouldn't want you taking a tumble. Merlin knows I've had enough of those myself."

"Merlin?" Old Nan chuckled. "Is that one of your southern gods, boy?"

Ron's eyes widened for a moment before he laughed, a touch too loudly. "Something like that, yeah."

As Old Nan tottered away, Sansa found herself mulling over Ron's behavior. His discomfort with titles, his easy manner with the servants – it was so unlike the nobles she knew. Was this how things were done in his homeland? Or was it simply his nature?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Ron's voice, curiosity evident in his tone as he turned to Jon. "So, this Wall you lot keep talking about – it's really made of ice? And it keeps out... what exactly?"

Jon's brow furrowed. "The wildlings, mainly. Though Old Nan would have us believe it's to keep out giants and... other things."

"Other things?" Ron leaned in, eyes wide. "Like dragons?"

Robb let out a bark of laughter. "Dragons? Gods, no. They've been gone for centuries. You truly don't know these tales?"

Ron's ears turned pink. "We, uh, don't hear much about Wes- about the North where I'm from."

Sansa's interest piqued. Where could he possibly be from that the Wall was just a tale, and dragons roaming about?

"And the Night's Watch?" Ron pressed on. "They're the ones who guard it, yeah? Sounds a bit like Au- like guards we have back home."

Jon's face darkened. "Aye, they guard it. It's considered an honor to serve, though many see it as a punishment. It's where I plan to go, actually."

Ron's expression shifted from curiosity to something akin to outrage. "Because you're a... a bastard?" He spat the word as if it tasted foul. "That's mental, that is. Where I'm from, it doesn't matter who your parents are. You're just... you."

Sansa frowned. A place where bastards weren't shunned? Where birth didn't dictate one's path? It seemed impossible, yet Ron spoke with such conviction.

As she watched Ron continue to pepper her brothers with questions about Westeros, each more outlandish than the last, Sansa found herself both baffled and intrigued. It was as if he came from a nonexistent land, one where the most fundamental truths of her life were mere stories or barbaric customs.

And for the first time, Sansa Stark found herself wondering if perhaps her world wasn't as large as she'd always believed.

…

Sansa's fingers fidgeted with the embroidery in her lap, her eyes darting between her needlework and the red-haired stranger across the courtyard, through her window. Ron Weasley. Even his name sounded foreign on her tongue. She longed to approach him, to unravel the mystery that surrounded him like a cloak.

But propriety held her back, a familiar weight on her shoulders. As septa Mordane always says; A lady didn't simply accost strange men with questions, no matter how intriguing they might be. 

Still, her curiosity gnawed at her like a persistent pup. Not like her Lady. Never her. Lady had manners afterall.

As she wrestled with her internal thoughts, voices drifted up from below. Sansa's ears perked up, recognizing Robb's steady tone and Ron's distinctive accent.

"...so it's like chess, really," Ron was saying, his voice animated. "You've got to think ahead, see the whole board."

Sansa leaned forward, straining to hear better.

"Chess?" Robb asked, sounding puzzled.

"Oh, right," Ron chuckled. "It's a strategy game from... where I'm from. But the principle's the same for battle. Your knights - er, cavalry - they're like the knights in chess. Powerful, but you've got to use them at the right moment."

"Go on," Robb encouraged, clearly intrigued.

Sansa found herself drawn in as Ron continued, comparing different military units to chess pieces, explaining flanking maneuvers and the importance of controlling key positions. It was unlike any battle strategy she'd ever heard, yet it made a strange sort of sense.

"Blimey," Ron said suddenly. "I sound like Hermione. Next thing you know, I'll be spouting 'Hogwarts: A History' at you."

"I don't know what that means," Robb laughed, "but I like the way you think, Ron. You've got a good head for strategy."

Sansa sat back, her embroidery forgotten. 

"Perhaps," she thought, a small smile playing at her lips, "there's more to learn from our strange visitor than I'd realized."

Initially, Sansa had reservations about her father bringing in Ronald as his second ward. After all, he was a complete stranger - a suspicious one at that - found wandering alone in Wolfswood with nothing but strange clothes on his back. And to top it off, he was not from Westeros. She couldn't grasp her father's reasoning behind the decision. However, she is gradually beginning to understand it now.

Slowly, yes. But surely.

As Sansa watched, Ron and Robb moved to the archery range. Her brother nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring taut.

"Alright, Ron," Robb called. "Let's see if your aim is as good as your strategy."

Ron grinned, accepting the challenge. He took up a bow, his stance awkward but determined. Sansa leaned forward, curious to see how he'd fare.

Ron loosed his arrow. It flew wide, missing the target entirely. He grimaced, reaching for another. But as he nocked it, Sansa noticed something odd. She saw Ron's lips moved, whispering words she couldn't hear. His eyes flickered briefly, a strange intensity in their blue depths.

He released the arrow. This time, it sailed true, hitting the bullseye with uncanny precision.

Sansa gasped softly, her eyes widening.

"Seven hells!" Robb exclaimed. "Where'd that come from?"

Ron shrugged, his ears reddening. "Beginner's luck, I suppose."

Sansa's heart raced.

Ron's arrow quivered in the bullseye, a perfect shot that seemed to defy all logic. Sansa's mind whirled, trying to make sense of what she'd just witnessed. One moment, Ron had been fumbling with the bow like a novice. The next, he'd made a shot that would make even the most seasoned archer proud.

"Beginner's luck, my arse," Robb laughed, clapping Ron on the back. "You've been holding out on us, haven't you?"

Ron's face flushed deeper, his freckles standing out like constellations against his reddened skin. "Nah, mate. Just a fluke, I reckon."

But Sansa wasn't convinced. She'd seen his lips move, heard the faintest whisper of... something. A prayer? A… spell?

She found herself studying Ron with new eyes, fascination warring within her.

Surely Jon and Robb noticed something? Should she ask them about it?

But even as the idea formed, she dismissed it. No, this was her mystery to unravel.

"It's mere suspicion," she told herself firmly, ignoring the beating in her chest. "Nothing more."

…

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and frost as Sansa gazed out her window. Her eyes were drawn to a lone figure in the courtyard below, his shock of red hair unmistakable even in the dim starlight. Ron stood motionless, head tilted back, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse of the night sky.

Sansa found herself leaning closer, captivated by the intensity of his expression. What thoughts swirled behind those blue eyes? What memories or dreams held him so transfixed?

"He looks... lost," she mused, a sudden ache blooming in her chest. There was a vulnerability in his stance, a longing she didn't understand but wanted to.

As if sensing her scrutiny, Ron's eyes flicked towards her window. Sansa ducked back, her cheeks flushing. When she dared to peek again, he had returned to his stargazing.

"I wonder if the stars look different where he's from," she whispered to herself.

The urge to go down, to speak with him, was nearly overwhelming.

She sighed, her thoughts drifting. "The royal party arrives in a week. Perhaps during the celebrations..."

A small smile curved her lips as she imagined meeting the prince. Yet, unbidden, her eyes strayed once more to the solitary figure below, still lost in his celestial contemplation.