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When people think of sirens, they think of bloodthirsty hags, luring poor sailors to their deaths, and although there is truth to the legends, it is not always true.
Sirens weren’t originally so evil. They were once beautiful winged creatures, companions to the most noble of women; their lives revolved around feasts and songs and their voices were renowned throughout the land. People would seek them out to simply hear them sing.
They lived among gods and mortals alike, but when Persephone was abducted, they were blamed. They were cursed out, exiled, thrown into the sea and left to rot and die. The pain of it drove most mad; their anger filled every part of their soul and they took their revenge on anyone who dared to pass by their island. Where once their song brought joy, it now brought death and misery as payment for their banishment.
But not every siren allowed the darkness to take them. There were a few, a small handful, who left the sea and turned inland. They walked for days, weeks, months. They walked until their feet bled; until their wings broke and tore apart. These sirens mourned the loss of their sisters, the loss of the lives they once had. It was that grief that eventually dulled all the edges of their grace, losing the magic that had once made them so brilliant, even amongst the gods, but they could never be mortal and have the pleasure of death. They were still creatures of a time long past, their immortality forcing them to live on and watch as the world forgot about sirens altogether.
Sansa Stark is a siren, though she is young and was merely a child during the pilgrimage. She could not remember it any more than she could remember the exile itself. But she could still feel it. Thousands of years, those memories long hidden, and yet Sansa could still feel the pain and anguish of loss all these years later. It’s the curse of sirens; they are prisoners to their emotions.
Though the glamour of their beauty and allure has faded with time, all sirens intrigue mortals if one were to glance long enough. There is something special about them, something impossible for mortals to even comprehend but they simply know there’s something not quite human about a siren’s beauty. It is simultaneously awe-inspiring and frightening.
For this reason, Sansa has always been wary of mortals. Many of her sisters have their fun and move on, but she retained a part of that youthful innocence that made her more romantic than the others.
It was 1825 when she first met him. He was young, beautiful at first sight with full lips, a mess of dark curls and deep grey eyes. Sansa had met many handsome men in her lifetime but something about him drew her in without warning. She wanted to speak to him, to get to know him and touch him. The desire was so strong it terrified her. She stepped backwards, knowing if she moved any closer she would give in, but as she did so, Sansa had inadvertently stepped back onto the road. A horse-drawn carriage came careening towards her. She knew it would not kill her but it would hurt and Sansa braced herself for the collision. Only it never came. Instead she found a pair of strong arms circled around her waist, pulling her back to the pavement. Blue eyes met grey, and Sansa gasped audibly at his proximity.
“Miss, are you hurt?” His voice was a low timbre, thrumming through her skin.
Sansa inhaled slowly. He smelled of petrol and smoke and yet it did not repulse her as it should have.
“Miss?”
“I am fine,” she told him after recollecting her senses. Sansa placed a hand on his forearm and the man immediately drew back, a bashful smile appearing on his face.
“I - I apologise. I didn’t mean to --”
“You are quite alright, sir,” Sansa said. He was still close, much too close but she couldn’t step back any more than she could bid him farewell. “Thank you.”
He blushed. “It was no trouble, miss. I only did what any man should.”
“My name is Sansa,” she said. “Sansa Stark.”
He took off his cap and bowed his head. “Jon Snow, Miss Stark.”
“No,” she said, placing her hand over his forearm again. “Just Sansa, please.”
His eyes widened but he nodded. “Okay… Sansa.”
Jon worked in the coal mine, as most did during this time, and they would go long periods without seeing one another, but when they did, it was as if no time at all had passed. He would take her on walks, show her parts of the city she would never have ventured on her own, and in turn, Sansa would teach him to read and write so that he could send her letters when he was away.
It was Spring when he finally kissed her under one of the newly installed gas street lights, the glow basking them in yellow hues. His lips were soft, warm, a little chapped from the dry weather, but every part of her lit on fire as he pressed into her, his hand on the small of her waist. Sansa yearned for more, urging him with her insistence, but Jon Snow was a gentleman. He walked her home instead and bid her good night. The next morning, Jon left for the mines once more. This time, he would be gone for three whole months, but Sansa would wait and she would write him every day till he returned.
It was mid-June when news of the mining collapse reached London. Without having to ask, Sansa knew. She knew it in her core, knew it in the way her soul screamed and cried out -- Jon was gone.
When a Siren fell in love, she was committed for life. She would always remember the emotions, feel them every day as if it was the first time, and it was her curse that Sansa would continue to live on loving Jon forever.
In 1992, Sansa moved to Scotland. She had had enough of London and she was tired of the city. As she was hauling her suitcase up to her one-bedroom flat, Sansa called out for the man ahead to hold the door.
“Thank you.”
“Are you just moving in?” he asked but the words felt far away, distorted, as if they were speaking underwater. Sansa continued to stare, her chest aching from the memories she had tried to bury, and her fingers itched at her sides.
“Are you okay?”
“What?” Sansa needed to control herself. This was a dream; this had to be a dream. There was no way he could be here right now, no way that he was here in this lifetime.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. “You seem a little dazed.”
“I - I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m a little tired.” Her hand shook as she offered it to him. “My name’s Sansa. I’m moving in upstairs.”
“Ah,” he nodded, smiling. “Jon Snow. It’s nice to meet you. Are you new to the neighbourhood?”
She wasn’t, but he showed her around anyways. Jon took her to the castle, to the museums, to Arthur’s Seat, and it was like falling in love all over again. In a way, it was because this Jon Snow was different. He was a carpenter but he also played guitar in a local band on the weekends with his friends. He had a younger sister named Rhaenys, while her other Jon had been an orphan. This Jon was more daring too; he’d kiss her in dimly lit corners of the streets, pushing her up against walls and dipping his fingers under her dress. He’d wake up beside her, his hand curled protectively around her waist and kiss her shoulder three times before telling her good morning.
But this Jon was also kind, caring, and strong. He loved her as fiercely as the other had done so many years before and he looked at her as if she was the only thing that ever mattered.
Sansa knew he was going to propose to her. She had found the ring by accident one day when she was cleaning and had smiled to herself, thinking about how he’d be fretting over how to do it. For the first time, Sansa allowed herself to think about the future, and for the first time, it didn’t fill her with dread.
However, the Fates were cruel sisters and it was an Autumn morning when the police came knocking at her door. Jon had been in a car accident on the M8 motorway. They were deeply sorry for her loss; they wanted to know if she wouldn’t mind coming down to confirm the body with the coroner. They said she didn’t have to come right now. They told her a lot of things and none of it made sense.
How could life take him away from her again? How could they do this to her? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Was it her curse as a woman or was it the Siren’s curse as creatures that should have died eons ago?
Sansa had sworn herself from love then. After his funeral, she decided she would no longer live in cities at all. She moved herself to Kirkcudbright, a small Scottish village with a population of just over 3,000 people, so that if Jon were to reincarnate again, there would be very little chance of the two meeting. She could not lose him again. The pain was too unbearable.
It is 2019 now and her life here is simple. It’s quiet. On occasion, during cold windy nights, Sansa longs for the city lights and a familiar face but she had resigned herself to this fate and she would live out the rest of her immortality here. Some of her sisters visit from time to time; they would ask why she is confining herself to this boring little town but Sansa had never told them about Jon and she refuses to start now, so she merely says she likes the silence. She does like her little cottage with the blue roof and the vegetable garden in the back. It reminds her of life after the exile with her sisters. They would roll their eyes, stay one or two nights, and then return to the cities.
Most of the villagers don’t bother her either and she likes it that way. She suspects they gossip about her from time to time. A young-looking woman moving to live on the outskirts of town by herself is certainly cause for talk but Sansa is friendly and polite when she visits town, and after a few months, they don’t question her anymore. It’s good in the end; no one bothers her on her hillside and Sansa is left in peace to read to her heart’s content.
By month three, she even adopts a dog from the local shelter. She hadn’t meant to but as she walked past that fateful day, the sorrowful howling drew her to the shelter despite her best judgement. The dog was a pitiful, skinny white husky with red eyes. The shelter had told her they found it abandoned on the side of the road and that it was likely an albino considering its eyes. When Sansa had walked up to the fence, it came bounding over her and stared up into her eyes as if it just knew her. She took him home that very night and named him, Ghost.
Ghost, as it turns out, is also a good deterrent. People seem to be quite scared of him and believe he’s more wolf than husky. After a few weeks of solid meals, Ghost turned out to be much bigger than she had originally thought too, so Sansa thinks there’s some truth to that rumour at least. Still, he is far from dangerous. He cuddles her late at night and sits beside her as she works on the garden out back. He is her best friend and she would believe him more loyal to her than anything else in this world.
That is until one night, Sansa wakes up to Ghost howling into the night. It’s the same sorrowful howl she first heard when she found him at the shelter. Walking barefoot on the cold wooden floor, Sansa finds Ghost staring at the backdoor to her cottage. Wondering if he merely needs to go to the bathroom, Sansa unlatches the bolt and pushes the door open. Immediately, Ghost bounds out into the night and her heart jumps to her throat, quickly running after him before he can disappear.
“Ghost!” she shouts, the wind biting at her throat. “Ghost, come back here!”
The white dog continues to sprint towards the enclosure of woods and Sansa sighs. If she was mortal, she would be frightened of following, but Sansa simply continues onwards. It’s cold tonight. Winter is fast approaching now and the air is frigid with its imminent arrival. At least tonight the moon is full and high in the sky, casting silver light all across the ground.
As she enters the woods, however, Sansa no longer sees her dog. It’s quiet, eerily so, and thousands of years of life has taught her that a quiet forest is a dangerous forest. She steps with caution, eyes darting from one patch of shadows to the next. She is beginning to lose hope when there is another howl further ahead. It’s deeper, more menacing and Sansa feels fear prick at her consciousness. Irrational yet very much present. “Ghost,” she whispers, following the sound regardless of the feeling to run. “Ghost, is that you?” She knows it’s not; she doesn’t know why she’s asking. Frankly, she doesn’t know what she’s doing here at all. “Ghost, you get your furry butt back here!”
A twig snaps to her left and Sansa’s body goes cold. It is then that she realises the truth of her situation. Sirens do not fear mortals but they do fear the supernatural, creatures like themselves but bigger, stronger and oftentimes more cruel than they are. Her fingers twitch and she can feel the protective claws elongating. Pathetic in reality, as even when they had their full grace, Sirens had never been creatures of war. They have sharp nails to protect themselves, a seductive voice to create illusions as they escape, but now, a lifetime later, Sansa has nothing to truly protect herself except for some slightly sharp nails.
The growling comes first, and then through the shadows comes the figure of a large, menacing wolf, eyes blood-red in a way that brings fear to her heart. It is not Ghost, she can see that, and she wonders if this is how she dies after all this time, by a Werewolf in the forest in Kirkcudbrightshire.
Even in the days of gods, Werewolves were rare. They were abominations. A cross between mortals and Apollo’s wolves but they were afforded something Sirens weren’t. They were allowed to live; simply put, Apollo would wage revenge on any who would harm his precious wolves, even the cross-breeds. Sansa had been jealous of them, wishing she had the protection of gods too, but looking at it now, she feels more pity than she would have imagined.
It stalks towards her. Sansa stays her ground. If she dies, she dies. She had learnt long ago not to fight the Fates. But instead of sinking its impressive fangs into her neck, it drops down to all fours and walks towards her, eyes unwavering from her face.
For minutes, it does not do more than that. Sansa begins to feel apprehensive and she doesn’t know how long they stand there, until Ghost comes bounding back from the darkness. He sniffs the Werewolf and nuzzles his neck against it. Sansa is baffled. How is the Werewolf not attacking her dog? Is its human form someone Ghost knows?
Sansa doesn’t have to wait long for her answer. Soon, the moon begins to dip back behind the horizon and the first rays of sunlight filter in through the woods. The Werewolf howls, screeching as if it is in excruciating pain, and Sansa looks away, unable to watch an animal, no matter how supernatural, writhe like that. Ghost, however, stays beside it, occasionally licking its paws, hind legs, anywhere he can reach to comfort the Werewolf.
When she turns back to look, a flash of sunlight catches her eyes and Sansa has to blink away the assault before she can focus. Lying there on the forest ground, covered in twigs and dirt, is a man. His skin is pale, painted with silver lines from long-faded wounds, and his hair falls just past his shoulders, dark and curly. His face is pressed down against the floor and Sansa can’t see him.
“Are - are you hurt?” she calls out, her voice sounding odd and jarring in the quiet of the woods.
A groan answers her and Sansa stills. She waits for him to gain his bearings. It takes a few minutes but soon, the man begins to stir and then he is pushing himself up onto his feet. It does not escape her notice that he is stark naked but nudity is nothing to creatures such as herself. He arches his back, displaying the rippling of muscles and the broadness of his shoulders. When he turns to look at her, Sansa’s breath catches in her throat and she stumbles backwards, a different kind of fear clutching at her lungs.
He steps forward, a hand outstretched for her. “You,” his voice cracks. He clears his throats and tries again. “You’re here.”
Sansa blinks. “What?”
“You’re here,” he repeats, tears springing to his grey eyes. He takes another step towards her. “I didn’t think -- I had no idea it would take me this long to find you. I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m so sorry.”
She backs away more quickly. “How do you know name? What are you talking about!”
“It’s me,” he says gently. “It’s me, Sans. You know me.”
“I - I don’t understand.” It isn’t until now that she realises she’s crying.
He reaches for her hand and tugs her towards him. “I know,” he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I know. I’m sorry.” He kisses the top of her head and holds her tightly.
The confusion and terror is too great for her to appreciate what this is and Sansa shoves him back. If this is all a trick - if this is the gods’ way of cursing the Sirens then so help her, she would ride to Mount Olympus herself and hunt them down.
“The first time,” he speaks slowly, hands raised as if she’s some frightened doe. “I was simply another soul swimming in the river but somehow, I was plucked back out and I was born again. Except I couldn’t remember you or remember anything about my past. Finding you then was a miracle but the Fates discovered that I didn’t belong and shouldn’t have been there in the first place so they took me away again.”
He reaches for her hand and Sansa allows it, reveling in the coarse feel.
“Back in the Underworld, I had my memories restored and it made me realise that someone intentionally brought me to you a second time, so I tried to found out who could do that. It took awhile. Not many people are willing to talk to souls down there but --” Jon smiles ruefully. “I found her in the end. She wanted to make amends for what happened to the Sirens but those that are still alive were already too tainted by the darkness for her to intervene. Except you, Sansa. She said you were still pure of heart and if she could do right by you, she could atone for what happened.”
“I don’t understand. Do you mean -- are you talking about Persephone?”
“Yes!” Jon exclaims happily. “She wanted to help you, wanted to help us, but the Fates were smart and thwarted us every time. We realised then that the Fates only had power over mortal lives. If I weren’t mortal, they could do nothing to stop me from coming back to you.”
“But how? Jon, a Werewolf isn’t something you can just be. You have to be blessed by --”
“Apollo, yes.” Jon looks shifty and he sighs. “In exchange, I have pledged my loyalty to him for all eternity.”
“So if there was another war between the gods, you would have to fight?”
“Yes,” he says but then his grip on her tightens. “It’s worth it though because now I can be with you. That’s what you want too, right?” He sounds so unsure all of a sudden that it makes her heart ache.
“Jon,” she laughs softly, stepping closer into his space. “I have loved you for hundreds of years and I will love you for a thousand more to come, but I never wanted you to sacrifice your freedom for me. To become a Werewolf, it’s a cursed life, Jon.”
“As is a Siren’s,” he answers just as fervently. He kisses the edges of her lips. “Sansa, it doesn’t matter. Every breath, every hour of my life, all of my lives, has led me to here. I won’t let anything take you away from me again. Cursed or not, I chose you. I chose this.”
Tears slip down her cheeks as she shakes her head. “I love you, Jon Snow.”
“I know,” he smiles, tilting her chin so he could kiss her, long and deep and full of promise. “I love you too, Sansa Stark. Always.”