Light the Way

CHAPTER 6. silver shadows

ALINA

Alina sat in the solar at Winterfell, sunlight streaming in through the tall, narrow windows. The soft clinking of needles and the murmur of voices surrounded her, a sound that had become as familiar as the cold northern winds. She glanced down at her lap, the soft wool of the cloak she was embroidering draped over her knees. Her stitches were careful and precise, the pale green thread forming the outline of a branch of leaves, a pattern meant to remind her of home.

The Stark girls were seated nearby, their own embroidery frames before them. Sansa, with her auburn hair shining in the light, worked with delicate grace, her needle flashing as she stitched a direwolf onto her piece of fabric. She was already skilled at the task, her concentration fierce but elegant, as though she were born to it. Jeyne Poole sat beside her, giggling softly as she whispered something in Sansa's ear.

On the other side of the room, Arya sat with her brow furrowed in frustration. Her sewing was clumsy, her fingers awkwardly pushing the needle through the fabric. Every few moments, she would tug too hard, making the stitches uneven, or pull the needle in the wrong direction, creating a knot.

"That's not how you do it, Arya," Sansa said, her tone sharp with impatience as she glanced over. "You're ruining the fabric."

Arya scowled, her dark hair falling into her face. "I don't care about this stupid sewing," she muttered, tugging her needle through the cloth with a little too much force. "I'd rather be learning how to fight, like Jon and Robb."

Sansa and Jeyne exchanged amused glances. "You'll never be a proper lady if you can't even sew a simple stitch," Sansa said, her voice light but carrying an edge of mockery. "No lord will ever want to marry you."

Arya's face flushed with anger, and for a moment, it looked as though she might throw her embroidery aside and storm out. Alina watched the exchange in silence, her own needle paused mid-air. She couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Arya. The girl clearly didn't belong in this room, surrounded by delicate tasks she had no interest in.

It reminded Alina of her younger sister, Samira. Sweet, shy Samira, who had always been so quiet, so gentle. Alina would never make fun of her, never belittle her for something as simple as a mistake. In fact, she would sit with Samira in the evenings, teaching her how to sew properly, how to make neat stitches and delicate patterns. And when Samira would struggle, Alina had always been patient, offering kind words and encouragement.

The thought of her sister made her chest tighten with homesickness. Samira was still back in Oldtown, with their mother and father, probably hiding behind their mother's skirts at some feast or keeping to herself in the Hightower's garden. Samira had never liked being around strangers, always too nervous to speak, even to the servants who had cared for them since birth. Alina had always been her protector, the one who spoke for her when she was too afraid.

She missed her. Missed the soft sound of her voice, the way she would cling to Alina when she was scared or overwhelmed. And here, in Winterfell, so far away from everything she had ever known, Alina couldn't help but feel the ache of that absence more deeply.

"Alina, are you all right?" Sansa's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

Alina blinked, realising she had been staring down at her embroidery without seeing it. She forced a small smile. "Yes, I'm fine," she said softly, though her heart wasn't in the words.

"You've been staring at that branch for ages," Jeyne teased lightly, her voice warm but curious. "Are you thinking of home?"

Alina nodded, her fingers resuming their work. "A little," she admitted. "I miss my family."