White ill fits him, but he wears cloak and armor like he does his scars, forbidding and unapologetic.

That he can be kind surely is even more of a secret than the origin of the burns; Sansa holds on to a memory of fingers felt through cloth and the taste of tears and blood in her mouth like it is something rare, and precious.

She misses home; thinks, once, of Jon's wolf—the white one, who was always so quiet. Behind her silver catches the light, and she wonders, fleetingly, what it would be to have Joffrey's Hound as her own.