A bird will die if it gets caught in a trap: the spring straightens and breaks its throat, stopping its melodious singing. But Sansa, too, is no longer a dove: a wolf, strengthened by the onslaught of male atrocities.

Everywhere in the world they hurt little girls—was the only phrase Sansa agreed with.

Men are dangerous, cruel in their speech and actions, crumbling girls' dreams and hopes. Someone else's by halves, with pride—as if there is a victory in the wrecking of a lonely ship. Sansa doesn't crumble, only cracks, and then diligently pulls herself back together, looking grown beyond her years.

"I don't want your company, leave" she is harsh in her words, frowning, the wind fluttering her hair and her fingers gripping the reins almost to the point of bone crunching. "Now."

But you're not a man either; your wrists are thin, your face smooth curves and your eyes soft. A paradox? No, just gluing a vase together so the pieces fit evenly won't work. Some piece will shatter too much.

She sighs quietly, her eyes fixed on the horizon, wondering if her long-awaited happiness lies there. Your intentions may be as pure as meadow rivers far from people, but her faith in crystal waters is lost: she has been stained too many times. Loyalty, trust is a toy in the hands of men. And yet, she tries again.

"Okay," the sigh sounds like a prayerful confusion, but the eyes never stop watching your actions: definitely a wolf. "I suppose you can stay."

Joy blossoms on your lips and Sansa has to look away, adjusting her grip on the reins in an almost desperate gesture. It's cruel to deny you such a small thing as a horse ride: you do try so hard, don't you? Oh, she knows. That you think you can change the events that broke her legs, to try to put the bones back together again. Maybe she'll have to break again to heal properly.

In the end, it's all about your smile. It's too sunny. Unsuitable for her wary thoughts. What could a maid do to her? Nothing. Only if left her cheeks sun-kissed. That will hurt.