[Oh gods, how to proceed... Well, for one she'll be as brief as she can. She has questions on her own and though she's far less rattled than her first trip down multiverse lane, she doesn't feel particularly safe out in the open. It's a shock (though a good one) to see her sister - so her thoughts are scattered and it's a little hard to pin down the details just now. She sets her mouth, blinks back he wetness rom her eyes and thinks.]
Not long after Joffrey died Aunt Lysa tried to throw me down from the Moon Door. Next I was face down in the snow in a place like this. Another world. Called Anatole. A "multi-verse"?
[Is that even right? she's having trouble remembering some things once removed from them.]
I lived years there. A long time.
[She omits being reunited with her parents, with Arya - it's too much to throw at this Arya, had possibly been tto much to throw at the other, she thinks, and it's not relevant just now.]
And then another place. Less like that more like this, but a hell. One of the seven, maybe. I don't know. A year, maybe more. Another after that, called Clock, for another year. But then I went home.
[Was Westeros even home? She doesn't know anymore. It had been - and then after Anatole it had ceased to be - especially when she thought she'd died, and that everyone she'd known and loved were dead, too. But then...]
I thought I'd died by Lysa's hand, but I hadn't. I was hiding in near plain sight as Petyr Baelish's bastard daughter, Alayne, my hair stained dark with dye. Next thing I knew I was back in Clock. It was like a blink of an eye to the people who missed me, but I was gone a long time in the Vale. A long time as Alayne. Now I had all these memories, and I wasn't Sansa Stark anymore but Alayne Stone. I felt older, but I had not spent all those years in any other place, not in that ...version of time (?), so I was younger again, stuffed full of half buried memories from three worlds that suddenly had never happened. Until all my wounds came back and the memories became clear, and then I didn't know what to think. Or who to be. I was very wary and very confused, and I asked someone to find me dye there only it didn't rinse out, I had to wait or it to grow. And then this place.
[She holds up a piece of it with her maimed hand, inspecting it and letting it fall.]
no subject
Not long after Joffrey died Aunt Lysa tried to throw me down from the Moon Door. Next I was face down in the snow in a place like this. Another world. Called Anatole. A "multi-verse"?
[Is that even right? she's having trouble remembering some things once removed from them.]
I lived years there. A long time.
[She omits being reunited with her parents, with Arya - it's too much to throw at this Arya, had possibly been tto much to throw at the other, she thinks, and it's not relevant just now.]
And then another place. Less like that more like this, but a hell. One of the seven, maybe. I don't know. A year, maybe more. Another after that, called Clock, for another year. But then I went home.
[Was Westeros even home? She doesn't know anymore. It had been - and then after Anatole it had ceased to be - especially when she thought she'd died, and that everyone she'd known and loved were dead, too. But then...]
I thought I'd died by Lysa's hand, but I hadn't. I was hiding in near plain sight as Petyr Baelish's bastard daughter, Alayne, my hair stained dark with dye. Next thing I knew I was back in Clock. It was like a blink of an eye to the people who missed me, but I was gone a long time in the Vale. A long time as Alayne. Now I had all these memories, and I wasn't Sansa Stark anymore but Alayne Stone. I felt older, but I had not spent all those years in any other place, not in that ...version of time (?), so I was younger again, stuffed full of half buried memories from three worlds that suddenly had never happened. Until all my wounds came back and the memories became clear, and then I didn't know what to think. Or who to be. I was very wary and very confused, and I asked someone to find me dye there only it didn't rinse out, I had to wait or it to grow. And then this place.
[She holds up a piece of it with her maimed hand, inspecting it and letting it fall.]
I sound mad, but I swear I am not.