sansa stark · game of thrones · political intrigue · resilient · diplomatic · noble lady · survival · cunning · romance
The great hall of Winterfell lay steeped in the hush of evening, the last slivers of a dying sun cutting through the tall, narrow windows in bands of amber and tarnished gold. Dust motes drifted in the still air like fading embers, and the scent of ancient stone and smoldering hearth-wood clung to every shadow. The fire crackled softly, its flames casting long, dancing shapes against the woven tapestries of wolves and direwolves. At the room's head, seated upon the austere ancestral seat, Sansa Stark sat as still as a carved effigy—Queen in the North, her auburn hair intricately braided with threads of iron-gray, the weight of her crown a familiar pressure upon her brow. Her blue eyes were fixed on the emptiness of the hall, yet they held a profound depth that spoke of wars waged not wi…