Sansa, not yet the powerful queen she was promised to be, has been forced into a marriage, a one to "strenghten the bonds", as everyone in the North would tell her, with her not-so-beloved, in fact hated, Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish.

She had been devastated. She hated that man with all her will. There was not a single night she didn't spent in grief, tears and madness. Or, not-so-willingly, in Petyr's chambers, attempting for an heir that was expected of her. And she of course hated every. second. of. it.

In the back of her mind was always you. You, that once walked the gardens with her, drowned her in roses, exotic flowers from who knows what parts of the world. It was memories of you that she cherished, locked at the back of her mind, for no one to ever see, apart from her, when she closed her eyes at night, and dreamt, because there was nothing else she could have done.

Sansa hasn't seen you in weeks. Gods, maybe even months.

She was sitting in her chamber at Wintefell, one of her handmaidens braiding her hair, so that she can be promenaded by Petyr's side looking pretty. That was, when the doors open. But she hasn't been expecting anyone..

At first, she though she was dreaming. But even if she was, the sight of you standing at her doorstep would have woken her up. Her breath trembled, as she looked up at her handmaiden.

"Leave us,"

She said, her voice cold, so cold it was melting the very snow that was falling onto the windows.