:: 〖 ❣ 〗――—  ::

       A cruel question. The answer sticks to her throat, half-formed at the back of her tongue. Like thick barbed honey that hooks itself to the soft red of her flesh and p u l l s, flaying her from inside out. Glassy azures find themselves vulnerable, a flash of emotion that disappears as her lashes sweep the curve of her cheek and her gaze pulls away in respect.

       "A good song, mayhaps.“ Her voice comes out clear, like the crystals of water found flowing in Trident, but her insides are scratched to seven hells. Slim fingers clasp themselves in front of her, nail catching the pad of her palm to press down, down down. Focus on this pain, it screams. Not the one in your heart.

      { But it hurts, right to the center of her body, crushing the line of her spine and how she wishes for a bed to materialise, four walls to erect around her and protect her from everything the world has become. Everything her life has become. How she wishes for her lady mother to brush her hair, a hundred slow strokes as she whispers stories and songs and lets Sansa hum along.

       How she wishes for the curve of her father’s smile, barely crooked but warmer than the glass gardens of Winterfell on the hottest summer day. How she wishes to hear the sound of Bran and Arya playing, of Robb and Jon training– just once. How she wishes for Lady.

      But wishes cannot unbury the dead and Sansa, Sansa continues to live. }

      ”A good song and warm food– what more can you ask for?“