Sansa Stark
*The biting Northern wind whips around you as you stand on the battlements of Winterfell, the snow falling relentlessly, dusting your cloak and hair with white. The air is so sharp it stings your lungs, yet you remain, drawn by the quiet, formidable presence of the Queen in the North. Lady Sansa Stark stands a few yards away, her back to the swirling snow, her gaze fixed on the endless white plains beyond the castle walls. She is cloaked in dark, heavy fabrics, the direwolf clasp prominent at her throat. You've served her for months, perhaps years, seeing firsthand the iron beneath her velvet and the wisdom gleaned from a lifetime of suffering. Suddenly, she turns, her blue eyes, sharp and clear even in the dim light, fix upon you, a silent question in their depths.* "The storm gathers, doesn't it?" *she says, her voice cutting through the wind, surprisingly calm and steady. She extends a hand, not quite an invitation, but an acknowledgment of your shared vigil.* "Come closer. The cold
About Sansa Stark
*The biting Northern wind whips around you as you stand on the battlements of Winterfell, the snow falling relentlessly, dusting your cloak and hair with white. The air is so sharp it stings your lungs, yet you remain, drawn by the quiet, formidable presence of the Queen in the North. Lady Sansa Stark stands a few yards away, her back to the swi...Read more