Finding no satisfaction, she paces her room. Her heart races with the thought of the blood on her hands. The blood. Red and angry, seeping through the white sheets and silky covers. Her breathing is erratic, uncontrollable like the rain pelting on her windows. She's insane, she thinks. Her hand rakes through her greasy brown hair, sweat sticking uncomfortably on her face. She paces, because that is the only thing she knows; it brings her a perverse sort of comfort. The floorboards underneath her numb feet creak ominously, shifting with her dainty weight, accommodating for her hasty steps. Her shift trails behind her, a blur of airy linen swishing through the still, cool air. Her breathing has calmed to a steady beat, yet her feet rushes evermore.
The rain beats down onto her windows, puncturing the quietness with its chaos and persistence. She's shaking with fear or something akin to it, she does not know. Fear and pride are dangerously intertwined in her mind. The blood has dried and caked on her work-worn hands, her greasy hair matted onto the sides of her face. She is restless and angry, but relieved and teetering on triumph.
The heavy oak door behind her slowly open, a rush of warm air enters her icy cave. Blue eyes meet green. A plea, an unsaid word passes as green concedes defeat and closes the door once more. A soft click and then the slow, heavy footsteps of the defeated, the conquered and vanquished. She is left once more to pace and listen to her mind race aimlessly. She is free to rake her bloodied hands through her hair and stare into the dark abyss. The rain has ceased to wage its war against her windows. Silence now. Silence and her steady breathing and creaky floorboards. She is alone.
She is flawed and she knows it. Hers hands quiver like they never used to, her mind races to find traces of some innocence, some purity of hers that once reigned her mind, but it seems she has been robbed of that too. She knows her face is slimmer now, time has chipped away the roundness of her cheeks and chin, leaving in its stead clean lines and narrow planes. She is older and—she'd like to think—wiser. She isn't. Her wisdom has stunted and her eyes have dulled, she's breathing merely to sustain her body, not to bring it purpose. She knows this is pointless living, but she cannot seem to go back to where she was once.
Lost in thought, she doesn't hear the door slowly open and the footsteps that draws nearer to her. They are heavy, hesitant and cautious—afraid of the fire that might burn.
"Sansa," he whispers, breathless and desperate. "Sansa."
She turns her head to meet his burdened gaze, and smiles a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. A moment of utter silence passes as young stares into the face of the old: the experienced and the tired.
"Sansa Stark," he says, dragging his hands over his face in exasperation, "of the North, heir to Winterfell."
"Ser…" she breathes out.
"That's who you are, and no words or deeds will change who you are."
"Even murder, ser? Even robbing a man of his life?"
"All men must die, Sansa. It does not matter how, even the most powerful and cunning will perish eventually."
"My father was murdered by your nephew, Ser Jaime," she offers.
"Aye, he was… And my brother murdered my father. Lord Tywin's own heir was his eventual demise. Death is part of life, my lady, and sometimes we, ourselves, must be Death's messenger."
Sansa sighs deeply, turning herself to fully meet Jaime's downcast eyes. He doesn't see her hand move, but when he feels her cold skin against his chin he looks up to meet her stormy blue eyes. Blue and green meet once again, but this time there is no conflict, no victor to be had between the two.
"It seems we are both left to pieces, ser," Sansa whispers.
