━ in which; Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, receives a raven from across the sea, speaking of how her dear sister had come into contact with another race of people from the mysterious, rumoured magic of the sea on Arya's desire to answer the age o...
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She had killed someone. There was blood upon her, warm and sticky and dripping and oh gods, she had just smeared it through her hair. She let out a shaky breath, Winter held in a relaxed fist behind her.
Gods, she felt sick, stomach aching and queasy, blood sprung from the body before her, eyes cold and dead and still moist with blood and tears. Crimson contaminated the man's lips. Seeping from his nose and throat and mouth. It was disgusting. It was brutal, it was cold.
Sansa Stark steeled herself. She had killed someone, and that was okay, she had seen death before, stared the partially rotted bodies of ice and eyes of glowing blue, like the Northern lights. She had longed for it, even, death to her captors. Death for those who had harmed her and her family, many a time wish the Stranger would come to claim her too. Yet, standing before a man she had taken the life of, by her own hand, felt different. Different to almost throwing Joffrey from the ramparts, than the cold satisfaction and relief of feeding Ramsey to his dogs. It felt cold, cold and anxious and unsteady, like sitting on an antsy horse that was ready to bolt and buck. She didn't like it.
I will be fine, she thought to herself. I need to live, I need to, I have to, I want to. She needed to live so that she could ensure her nation, her family, her pack survived the winter. That the winter harvest went according to plan, that spring would come and the North could rebuild truly. The wind blew a mild, howling breeze, and if Sansa ignored the smell, she could pretend it was the howl of the wind and not the screams of a skirmish.
Another man approached her, and angry crow coming from his throat. He raised his blade and ran for her. She scrambled back, darting like a fox, away from the blade. He turned to her, charging across the short distance once more. There was a clang, a cacophony of noise harsh and metallic. Winter seemed to sing as her arm trembled. Sansa shrunk in on herself. She was going to die. He raised his blade to her once more, it was hoisted high above his head, to bring down upon her with the wrath of death.
No! No! Not today! She pleaded, the Red wolf may of lacked the Wolfsblood so prevalent in most of her siblings, but she was still the daughter of the Quiet Wolf, same as her sister, same as her brother. She moved closer to him, her hands moved without thinking and Winter struck true once more, burying itself to the hilt in the soldier's eye. The sword struck empty air and fell limply, whilst the man toppled forward, down and took her with him.
There was a gurgle, and more blood leaked from his eye and even his mouth. Sansa struggled to breathe under the weight of him, and his armour. The pommel of Winter dug near painfully into the edge of her shoulder. The red haired woman's arms were pinned, sandwiched between her and the dead man. His eyes, erm, eye was a pale blue, but for some reason. To her, it seemed to almost glow.
