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She had been nibbling small pieces of her lemon cake when Shae - her handmaiden - had come bearing news. Sansa suddenly felt fear gnawing her insides as she mentally squirmed for freedom, begging the demons of fright to unchain her. The last time news had arrived, it was about the murder of her brother, Robb and mother, Catelyn by the wretched Walder Frey who claimed to be the Starks' ally.


"M'lady, Princess Margaery has very politely requested your company - shall I allow her a little chat with you on your behalf?" Shae's brunette tresses billowed with the wind as she fetched the plate which previously had lemon cakes on it. Sansa nodded, whisking a small smile on her lips as Shae disappeared with the cool breeze that followed her departure.

Sansa was well aware of the fact that appearances were defying - after meeting Joffrey she had realised all the misconceptions about beauty had been true. All her life, she'd been longing for a gallant knight in shining armour to rescue her from the cold boundaries of the hellish Winterfell to which she was confined.

And now, she looked at her happier past with remorse stinging her pupils like needles. Beauty had cost her half of her family. Father was long dead, beheaded with his head perched on the pointy end of the spear by her once beloved king, mother and brother killed by that vile animal, Frey and her other siblings? She hadn't heard of Jon or Arya or Bran or little Rickon in ages.

No one knew if they were alive or dead. Not even Varys, the spider.

"Lady Sansa!" Princess Margaery was always a sight for sore eyes. Her tawny waves cascaded neatly down her shoulder blades. Sansa had spoken barely a sentence with the princess but she was eager to renew her acquaintance with a soft, velvety soul like her.

"I hope my presence does not invade your privacy," Princess Margaery gathered her silky, blue gown into folds and held them upwards so that she prevented herself from stepping on the rich fabric.

"No, not at all. In fact, I would love your company." Sansa smiled, admiring Margaery's courtesy.

"I saw you praying to the cut down weirwood tree," At Margaery's observation, Sansa's dazzling smile fell. It didn't vanish like smoke dissipating from a candle, it just simply fell. "what were you praying for?"

Freedom. Sansa breathing hastened for a mere split second as she realised that it'd been high time since she had tasted freedom. She prayed for freedom. Home. She prayed for her home - her real home. Sometimes, she wanted to fly. Fly back to Winterfell where the wind was little too cold and left her knuckles and cheeks wine-coloured and blotchy, where she could see her brother, Robb fight like the gallant knight he was, watch Bran climb high towers, or watch little Rickon flash the most innocent and toothiest smiles at everyone. But most of all, she longed for Arya's presence.

Margaery claimed herself to be just like a sister to Sansa, but she could never take Arya's place in Sansa's heart. Sansa never showed but deep inside, Arya grew in her heart; like a small bud in a garden full of roses. She didn't even know if she was dead or alive, happy or distraught, missing her back or not.

"Oh, nothing that interests you or anyone, for that matter." Sansa tried not to sound too harsh on Margaery but she, anyway, felt bashed. After Septa Mordane's demise, she felt as if all the courtesies that she'd been taught as a child were long forgotten.

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