In the rare moments when she was left alone, Sansa withdrew into herself completely. There was no great wide world she wanted to be a part of anymore. It was all dark, cruel, painful, and suffocating. There was no human to reach out to, no shelter from the storm... and Winter was coming.
She stood on edge of the battlements, eyes unfocused as she stared out over the landscape. Her lip was swollen and split again, her cheek bruised and her eye above it reddened with blood. The ache in her ribs where she had fallen on a stair in the wake of a mailed fist was a minor annoyance as she drew each slow, deep breath. Once, in Winterfell she would have looked out over the land of dreamed of what lay beyond in distant courts and of handsome knights galloping over the horizon towards her, of all the possibilities. None of that mattered now. Nothing would ever matter again. She embraced only numbness to dull the fear and the pain and to further bury her useless anger. If only she were strong enough to use the rage that boiled so deeply.
Sansa closed her eyes. The wind pushed against her, she could feel her hair and the folds of her grey dress shifting about in the wind. Breathing deeply, she could smell the plants and stones, wet from the night's rains. She turned her foot, and felt the gravel crunch beneath her boot. The Southern sun was warm on her hair, and had been tanning her skin ever since they left the North. The warm hearths of her fathers castle were fading from her mind in this incomparable heat. She supposed it was the heat that made these people mad and idleness of a warm climate that gave them time to conspire against each other.
A deep resounding vibration from a long way off made it's way up through the wall's stone and Sansa opened her eyes when she felt it through the soles of her boots. There was a dark storm on the horizon. The scent of rain came at her in a sudden, strong gust of cool damp air that made here hair whip behind her, flashing red in the remaining sun.
From beneath the storm a black rider was galloping towards the castle. While not one of her dream knights to be sure, this man drew her lost focus to a sharp pinpoint as quickly as the thunderclap that seemed to chase him toward her. He was pushing his dark horse as hard as possible. She could hear the iron shoes on the road as well as it's ragged rhythm of breathing. He could beat the storm if the warhorse kept the pace. He could beat the storm... She broke her gaze from the him and stared out into the growing storm clouds. With a slow deep breath she tasted the rain on the wind, closed her eyes and swallowed as if to quench a great thirst. As the air grew cooler, though she new it was impossible, Sansa prayed for snow and Winter's harsh revenge.