:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::
Deepwood Motte is not the Eyrie.
It requires a different hand, but one no
less gentle. Firmer, mayhaps, but Sansa
has callouses on her palm when she was
riding towards the North, and the people
defer to her, for she is a Stark, and there
is great relief that comes with her mere
presence.
Days past, then weeks and yet–
She hears no tales, no ravens fly above
them, there is no plume of smoke to call
for the second burning of Winterfell. She
hopes, but hope is dangerous and full of
lies. Instead, Sansa leads. She teaches
them to love her, trust her, all while her
blue eyes searches the sky.
“There is a party coming from the North!”
She looks up, twisting her head to
pay attention to the breathless squire
that interrupted her visit with the cook.
Her heart pounds in her chest, words
seem to elude her but the squire is not
short of any it seems.
“They’re carrying the banner of the direwolves, m'lady.”
R e l i e f. She murmurs something
to the cook, words that she cannot even
remember as Sansa lifts her skirts and
rushes out to the gates. He’s done it, our
little bird thinks, exulting. Jon’s done it.