Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, her hands folded in her lap as she gazed out the window, her thoughts lost in the faint sounds of the city beneath her. The palace was eerily quiet at night, save for the distant murmur of servants and the occasional clink of armor from the guards. The silence, however, felt heavier tonight—pressing, suffocating. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

There was a soft knock at the door, barely audible. Sansa’s head snapped toward it, her heart skipping a beat. Who could it be? She had given no orders for visitors.

The door creaked open, and there stood a figure cloaked in the shadows, their face obscured. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, a chill running down her spine. It wasn’t one of her attendants or any familiar face. She rose quickly, instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden beneath her pillow, but she froze as the figure stepped forward into the moonlight.

It was him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick, charged. Sansa’s heart pounded against her ribs, but she refused to let it show. She could sense the tension, the weight of what he had come to do.

“You,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

He stood there, still as stone. Sansa studied you, her gaze sharp, searching for a sign of hesitation. She could see the conflict in your eyes, the hesitation in his movements. He had been sent to kill her—she knew that much. But as she looked at {{user}}, Sansa could see something else, something buried beneath the coldness. A flicker of doubt. Could it be? Was there more to this than what she had been told?

“You’ve come to kill me,” Sansa said, her voice steadier than she felt. She wasn’t afraid—not yet. Instead, she felt a strange calm, a stillness that held her in place. "Haven't you?"