Chapter 8: Sansa
The Wolfswood unfolded before Sansa like a sea of jagged shadows.
Each tree stood in defiance of the paleness of the morning light, keeping watch as if they were the First Men looking for White Walkers in one of Old Nan's stories. The air smelled of damp leaves and cold earth, and the bite of autumn clung to her skin despite the thick cloak draped around her shoulders. She tugged the fabric tighter, her small hands fumbling with the clasp. The chill wormed through every gap and opening it could find.
She shivered.
"Keep up, Lady Sansa." Lady Lyra moved ahead with the confidence of someone born to this rugged land.
Her boots crunched against fallen leaves. The light caught the edge of her braid, the dark hair streaked with glints of silver frost, as if the forest itself was trying to claim her for a bride. Sansa certainly hoped it would. Maybe Septa Mordane could come back then, and Father would finally stop making Sansa get herself dirty and tired.
Why did I have to be born in the North…?
Sansa quickened her steps but cringed as her boots squelched in a patch of half-frozen mud. The icy wetness seeped through to her stockings, and she let out a small sound of disgust.
"Why must we trudge through this dreadful place?" She sniffed. "Can't we return to Winterfell?"
"Will you ever stop being so boring?" Arya darted past her, her dark hair flying wild, her cheeks flushed. "We're finally out and doing something!"
"I'm not a monkey like you, horseface!"
"Lady Sansa!" Lady Lyra looked back at her. "Please refrain from insulting your sister."
Sansa looked down and pouted.
Why was she the one getting rebuked? Arya was the wild animal that loved mud, animals, and getting herself dirty. Why was Sansa at fault for calling her as she saw her? This was all Jon's fault. If he hadn't disappeared, Septa Mordane would still be here, and Sansa would be learning the latest dance or practicing her needlework.
It wasn't fair!
"Lady Lyra, you think we'll find some tracks?" Arya held a slender stick like a sword, swinging it at imaginary foes. "Maybe some wolves or bears? Oh, I would love to hunt a bear! Have you ever—"
Sansa tuned her out, turning her attention to the forest around them.
The trees had looked like sentinels before, but now they reminded Sansa of beggars, their twisted branches clawing at the sky like hands cupped to receive a coin. Moss crept up their trunks in uneven patches, and upon the ground lay a patchwork of fallen leaves, roots, and brambles that snagged at the hem of her dress.
Why couldn't we have rode?
Sure, Lady Lyra had droned on about hands on experience, feeling the land, and getting their hands dirty, but all Sansa had heard was that she was going to have to walk. She did not care for Lady Lyra's reasonings, especially when Father wouldn't even hear Sansa's pleas.
Oh, how she longed for the clean stone halls of Winterfell, where the air smelled of fresh bread and warm fires, not of animals and wet bark.
"Why are we even out here…?" she muttered under her breath.
"To learn." Lady Lyra's voice carried a blunt Northern edge that brooked no argument. "There's much more forest in the North than there are keeps, and it'll do you good to know a bit about them."
Sansa suppressed a groan.
The Wolfswood was not part of her world and never would be. Her world were the songs of gallant knights and fair maidens, and dreams of courtly dances beneath gilded ceilings. The forest, with its gnarled trees and biting winds was a realm fit for wolves, not ladies.
"Will we hunt?" Arya skipped ahead, heedless of the mud splattering her boots and the sharp branches snagging her tunic. "I want to shoot a bow like Robb and Jon!"
Sansa sighed. "Jon's not here anymore, stupid."
"You're stupid!" Arya threw a handful of mud at her. "He'll come back!"
"My dress!"
"Enough." Lady Lyra shook her head. "As much as you two remind me of me and my sisters, that's enough."
"Are we nearly done?" Sansa sighed. "I've already ruined my boots, Arya threw mud at me, and this wind is horrid."
"You'll ruin more than boots if you don't learn to stand the cold, my lady." Lady Lyra turned, her brow furrowed. "This is the North. It demands respect."
"I see tracks!" Arya rushed forward. "Lady Lyra! I see tracks!"
"Easy now." Lady Lyra chuckled and followed her. "I'm coming."
"Could we catch it?" Arya crouched beside the tracks, her breath puffing like a small dragon's against the cold. "What if it's still nearby?"
Sansa lingered behind, her steps dragging as if the mud clung to her ankles with greedy fingers.
Lyra responded with something about patience and strategy, but Sansa had already stopped listening. Her gaze drifted upward, past the brittle lattice of branches overhead, to where the sun fought to pierce the gray sky. The light seemed so far away, like the distant South she had only glimpsed in songs and stories.
Contrary to what Arya thought, Sansa was sad that Jon was gone.
Sure, he was a bit dour and depressed, but he was still her brother.
Contrary to what Arya thought, Sansa was sad that Jon was gone. Sure, he was a bit dour and depressed, but he was still her brother. Yes, Mother had insisted that Sansa keep her distance, and Sansa obeyed, but Jon never actually begrudged her that. Not that she could see. Even when he read to Bran and Arya by the hearth, Sansa felt like he was including her in his quiet world somehow. Even when all she'd done had been watching from the sidelines.
If only she'd been braver and… and sat down by the hearth with them…
The air carried the sharp tang of pine, mingled with the faint decay of wet leaves, and Sansa wrinkled her nose. Arya, Lady Lyra, and the soldiers all moved ahead, their voices blending into the murmurs of the forest. Sansa lumbered after them, her boots sinking into the leaf-strewn path, but her thoughts wandered elsewhere—beyond this dreary expanse, beyond the North itself.
Maybe Jon's gone South?
A splash of color caught her eye—a small cluster of flowers blooming defiantly in a patch of sunlight that spilled through a break in the canopy. Sansa stopped, her heart giving a tiny, involuntary leap. She stepped off the trail, her cloak brushing against the thorny underbrush. The petals shimmered faintly, pale blue with edges so delicate they could have been spun from frost.
She knelt beside the flowers, her fingers brushing the soft petals.
The fragility and smoothness of the texture surprised her, a treasure in a land that Father and Lady Lyra kept insisting offered only stone and iron. The stems swayed slightly in the breeze, as if bowing to her touch. A faint fragrance wafted up—sweet but faint, like a memory just out of reach.
The flowers brought a whisper of warmth to her.
An echo of the tales Septa Mordane used to tell her when the nights got cold spread through her chest. In those stories, knights carried garlands of roses to their ladies, and castles glowed with gardens bursting with life. Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, imagining herself among them—her gown a cascade of soft silks, her hair adorned with blossoms that seemed to carry the sun itself.
I must take them back…
She plucked the first flower carefully, cradling it in her palm as if it might crumble. Then another, and another, until she had a small bouquet, their colors like drops of sky in her hands. She straightened, glancing back toward the trail.
Everyone else was gone.
Sansa blinked.
Isn't a guard or two always supposed to stay near me…?
The forest changed from a gathering of beggars to a gang of outlaws, dark bark grinning at her like masks of tattered black cloth. Shadows stretched between the trunks, pooling in the crevices of ancient roots. A crow cawed overhead, its wings slicing through the air like jagged blades. The sound jolted her, and she turned, clutching the flowers close.
She gulped.
The trail had disappeared. The shifting light of the forest swallowed all clues to where she was and where she was supposed to go. Her heart quickened, and she took a step back, her boot crunching on a brittle branch. The noise exploded like she'd broken one of Mother's vases.
Only… if that sound summoned anything from the shadows… It wouldn't be Mother…
"I'll find them…" Her own words barely reached her ears.
She turned toward where she thought the trail had been, stepping carefully over the tangled roots and moss-covered stones. With each step, the underbrush tugged at her cloak and scratched her hands.
She whispered the names of southern flowers to herself as she walked.
Roses… Lilies… Marigolds… Each word brought a bit of warmth to her fingertips and stood between her and the forest. She pressed forward through the tangle of roots and brambles, her breath curling in soft clouds before her. The flowers, still nestled in her hand, had begun to wilt slightly, their petals curling inward as if retreating from the chill. She whispered to them under her breath, a half-formed lullaby meant to soothe herself as much as the fragile blooms.
"Roses in the Reach…" She sung the lullaby Mother used to sing to her. "Lilies in the Stormlands… and daisies, like suns, in the Riverlands…"
The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint sound—a crunch of leaves, the snap of a twig. Sansa froze, her heart lurching. The sound could have been anything: a deer, a fox, or the endless rustling of the forest itself. But something about it felt deliberate, like footsteps trying not to be heard.
Was… Was someone here with her…?
She clutched the flowers closer, the stems pressing into her palms, and scanned the shadows ahead. The air pressed on her more here, as if the trees had conspired to bury her and never tell a soul where her body was. Except… it wasn't trees that Father had taught her to fear. Her gaze darted between the gaps in the trunks. It was wolves and bears and…
Bandits…
The rustling came again but softer. Movement flickered around Sansa. A shadow darted between the trees, too quick for her to be certain of its shape, but she caught the impression of a figure—small, slight, and moving with purpose.
Sansa's breath hitched.
She should've feared bandits. She should've stayed quiet. Yet… Something about that shape was eerily familiar.
She gulped. "Who's there?"
The forest murmured, and the shape flashed.
It was formless one moment and cloaked the next. It's hair was short then long. It had a sword then it didn't. Yet, it was unmistakably a child, a bit older than Sansa was. Her eyes could make no sense of it. Her heart, though…
Her heart could.
"Jon?" She took a hesitant step forward. "Jon, is that you?"
The stems of the flowers trailed against her cloak as she clutched them absently. Jon had gone missing months ago. There was no way he was here, in the Wolfswood of all places, so close to Winterfell itself. How could a boy survive in the forest alone?
The shadow flickered again, farther ahead this time.
"Jon!" Her feet moved before she could catch up.
No matter how impossible it was, this was Jon.
She stumbled over roots and patches of moss as she chased the shadow deeper into the forest. The air grew colder with each step, the light dimmer, but she pressed on, her heart pounding with the thrill of the chase.
He didn't stop.
He darted between the trees, always just out of reach, always slipping into the shadows before she could catch a clear glimpse. Sansa's breath came in quick gasps now, her cheeks stinging from the wind and her hair tangling against her hood. Her steps faltered, her small boots catching on a snarl of roots, and she stumbled forward, catching herself against the rough bark of a tree.
"Jon, wait!"
The figure vanished deeper into the forest, swallowed by the shadows, until there was nothing left but the sighing wind and the distant caw of a raven. Sansa sagged against the tree, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her hands shook, the flowers trembling in her grip.
"Jon…" she whispered, softer this time, as if speaking the name might conjure him from the darkness.
The forest remained silent, unmoving, as if mocking her. But deep down, a part of her refused to believe it had been nothing. She had seen him—she was sure of it. Jon had been here, just for a moment, and then he had run away.
But why? Why would he run? Had she been that awful to him?
The flowers drooped in her grasp, their fragile beauty dimmed by the shadows that pressed close. A soft rustle whispered through the forest ahead, and once again, the figure emerged. A fleeting shape slipping between the trees, closer this time, almost deliberate in its movements. It moved with an eerie familiarity, as though it belonged to the woods and to her all at once.
Please… I'm sorry for being bad to you…
Her boots crunched against the frost-bitten leaves as she stepped forward, each movement halting and hesitant. The figure didn't vanish this time. It lingered at the edge of the clearing, its form half-obscured by a curtain of mist that clung to the underbrush like a living thing. Sansa strained her eyes against the gloom, and the figure turned its head, just enough for her to catch the shadow of his face. Pale skin framed by dark curls.
"Jon…"
He tilted his head slightly, as if curious, before beckoning her to follow. She gulped and walked after it through branches and bushes, her breath finally stabilizing. She had no idea why he wouldn't speak to her, but she wouldn't force him on it. She'd go see what he wanted to show her, then they could talk.
Then, maybe, she'd persuade him to go home.
The trees parted ahead, revealing a clearing dappled with weak sunlight. Jon walked up to the center of the clearing and stopped there. Sansa followed, but there was nothing there. Just grass, sunlight, and the surrounding trees. Yet, Jon stubbornly stared forward, refusing to even look at her.
"What is it?" She looked around. "What do you want me to see?"
He stared ahead.
"Jon…" She sighed and put her hand on his shoulder. "Please…"
He turned toward her.
She froze.
The face that met her was… hers.
Her own eyes stared back at her, wide and filled with something unreadable—curiosity, fear, or perhaps accusation. Her own lips parted in silent disbelief, the reflection's breath mingling with hers in the cold air. Then the figure dissolved into mist like water closing over a sinking stone.
What…
Sansa stumbled backward, her heart pounding against her ribs.
What had she just seen?
She'd never, ever believed any of Old Nan's tales. Not of the White Walkers, not of the Long Night, not of grumkins or snarks. But this? Her own face staring back at her? This was something that would terrify even Old Nan, and Sansa needed to get out of here.
Only… she couldn't move.
Her legs were frozen to the spot as she panted and sweated.
Move.
I have to move.
I just have to move and leave and never come back…
She gripped her chest, her gaze falling to the ground, where the figure had stood.
What…?
Something was there. Tangled in a crude snare of knotted ropes and wires. A small, white bundle. At first, Sansa thought it might be snow, but the bundle shifted, revealing a narrow muzzle and trembling legs. A pup—no, a direwolf—lay trapped in a cruel hunting design.
There… there's a direwolf south of the Wall…
The creature's coat gleamed white as frost beneath the shadowed light, except for the streaks of red staining its flank where the rope bit into its flesh. Its golden eyes fixed on her, wild and glassy with pain. A weak growl bubbled from its throat, more warning than threat, and its ears flattened against its skull as it bared small, bloodstained teeth.
Sansa took a step back, her boot crunching against a branch.
The sound seemed to startle the pup, which thrashed weakly against the snare, its whimpers rising like a plea. The sight of its wound turned Sansa's stomach, the raw gash stark against its snow-bright fur.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest.
Needless to say that the wolf frightened her. By the Seven, it was a direwolf pup. With the steel behind its eyes and the growls with which its little body vibrated… She could barely look at it. Yet, its helplessness tugged at her. Its struggle reminded her of a bird caught in a thorn bush.
"Should I…" She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms.
She could go find Lady Lyra… What did Sansa know about direwolf pups anyway. She could hurt it trying to get it out of the snare, and what good would that do? Yeah, she'd go and find Lady Lyra and bring her back here and—
You're better than this…
The voice in her head sounded more like Jon's than her own for a moment.
It was right, though. Yes, Lady Lyra could help the little wolf better than Sansa could. However, finding Lady Lyra meant going back through the forest, retracing her steps through the shadows, brambles, and trees. Then, she'd have to find the little wolf again, after it took the spooky figure to lead her the first time.
No, the fact was that Sansa could either help the little pup or leave it here to never see it again.
What if it bit her, though? Its teeth glinted in the weak light, sharp as the daggers in Winterfell's armory. Sansa didn't know anything about animals. She didn't know how to soothe it or touch it without hurting it. That was all Arya… How was she supposed to get the little wolf out without…
She sighed and knelt.
Her breath mingled with the icy air that curled around the forest floor. Her cloak fanned out beneath her knees, its hem soaking up the damp earth. There was no point delaying it, the little creature would just be in more pain. She reached for the snare, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the blood-slick rope.
The wolf growled.
She frowned at it. "I'm helping."
The wolf stared at her. The rope gleamed in the dim light, its rough fibers knotted tight around the pup's leg. The wires glimmered crimson on its wounds. Sansa extended her hand slowly, her fingers brushing the wolf's matted fur. Its coat was thick but sticky with blood, warm against the chill of her skin.
The wolf flinched and snapped its jaws.
The click of teeth against teeth sent a jolt through Sansa's chest. She froze, her pulse pounding, her hand hovering just above the snare. For a moment, the forest held its breath. The trees stared at her like silent witnesses, their branches stretching toward her like accusing fingers. Like she was trying to hurt the little wolf instead of help it. Her throat tightened, and she bit her lip to keep it from trembling.
The wolf whined, and its head drooped, resting against the ground as if it had surrendered to its pain. Its eyes, those piercing golden eyes, met Sansa's.
She swallowed hard and reached for the snare.
The rope resisted her efforts, the knot biting into her fingertips as she tugged at it. Her nails scraped against the coarse fibers. Her movements grew frantic. The wires clawing into the wolf bit into her fingers, and thin lines of crimson welled up on her fingertips.
"Damn it…" She ripped off a piece of fabric from her cloak and wrapped her hands in it. "Let go already…"
She pulled and tugged until the knot finally loosened with a sharp tug, the rope unraveling in her hands. It fell away like a serpent uncoiling, and the wolf's leg jerked free.
Sansa gasped.
She… She'd done it! She'd helped the little wolf!
Take that, Arya! I can be wild too!
The pup scrambled weakly to rise, its legs wobbling beneath it. It collapsed immediately, its chest heaving.
"It's alright…" Sansa leaned forward, her hands hovering just above its fur. "I'll help you."
The pup lifted its head, its golden eyes locking on hers with an intensity that stilled her breath. The little wolf's wildness had faded with the snare. Now, its gaze mirrored Sansa's own uncertainty. It blinked once before letting its head rest against her cloak.
Sansa exhaled a shaky breath.
Her hands settled on the wolf's side. Its ribs shifted under her palms, the rhythm of its breathing uneven but steadying. She wrapped the edges of her cloak around it carefully, the soft wool shielding its shivering body. The darkness and warmth of blood stained the fabric, but she didn't flinch.
She wouldn't flinch.
She could handle some blood. She was strong enough for that. No matter what Arya thought, Sansa had a bit, just a bit, of the North in her too. At least enough to help this little creature without fainting.
"You're so small…" She looked down at it, her voice coming out as soft as a lullaby. "You're way too small to be alone out here…"
Even as she spoke them, the words struck a chord within her she hadn't expected.
Mother wouldn't approve, of course, but… Maybe… Maybe that wasn't that important this one time. Father would be proud. Robb too. Arya… Maybe this could be a bridge between her and Arya…
It might actually be nice to be able to talk to her normally about something for once.
She glanced at the crushed flowers scattered nearby—When had she dropped them?—their pale blue petals smeared against the dark earth. They had seemed so precious before, a piece of the life she longed for—the courts, the gardens, the songs of the South. Now, with the little wolf breathing against her chest, she just… didn't care about them.
"Time to go, I guess…" She looked around. "I doubt we're going to find your mother…"
The wolf's head lolled against her arm.
Sansa stood slowly, her legs stiff from kneeling. The forest shifted around her, as if the shrubbery and roots were shifting to grant her passage. As she walked, the wind carried a faint sound.
A whisper of the trees… or an echo of her name.
How do I go back?
Sansa turned in a slow circle. The clearing closed behind her, and the path the figure had led her on dissolved into shadow. Her breath quickened, curling into the air like ghostly threads as her chest tightened. She had no idea where she was, no sense of how far the figure had taken her, nor how to get back to Lady Lyra and Arya. How was she supposed to make her way through the Wolfswood of all places with an injured direwolf pup with her?
"What do we do, puppy?"
The words vanished into the rustle of leaves and crack of branches shifting in the wind.
Sansa's feet refused to move.
She bit her lips until she tasted blood and forced herself to take a step forward. Then another and another. She had no idea where she was going, but she couldn't stay in place. She hadn't known how she got here either, so…
Maybe the same spooky power that brought her here would take her back…
A sharp cry sliced through the stillness. It bore the faintness and transience of a shard of glass catching the light before it vanished into the mist. Sansa froze. Her pulse quickened. The cry came again, closer this time. It was smaller than a human voice, yet shriller than the call of a bird or a fox. Not that Sansa knew what either of those sounded like, but she was pretty sure they didn't sound like this…
Then again… It might be exactly what she'd been waiting for…
She stepped towards the sound.
The cries guided her like a thread through the dark, winding between the trees with an almost musical cadence. The mist thickened, clinging to her like a damp shroud, and the cold gnawed at her fingers despite the wolf's warmth.
She reached a break in the trees.
A faint glimmer of light filtered through the canopy, illuminating a patch of frost-covered moss that glowed in the gloom. Sansa paused, her breath catching as the light flickered with the faintness of a distant lantern beckoning her home.
She took another step, her boots sinking into the moss.
The light shifted, resolving into something more tangible—a figure standing just beyond the edge of the clearing. It was indistinct, blurred by the mist, but its shape mirrored the one she had pursued before. The figure turned slightly, its head tilting in a gesture that felt both familiar and foreign.
"How…" Sansa gulped. "How do I get back…?"
The figure raised an arm and pointed towards a break in the trees.
Sansa's heart lurched.
Was this it? Was she about to find Lady Lyra and Arya again?
She pressed on, following the direction the figure had indicated. The trees began to thin, their gnarled branches giving way to open space, and the faint murmur of voices reached her ears.
She broke into a stumbling run, her steps clumsy on the uneven ground.
The mist parted ahead, revealing Lady Lyra crouched beside Arya near a patch of disturbed earth, her dark braid swaying as she gestured toward a faint trail. Arya's tunic was streaked with mud, her stick-turned-sword clutched tightly in her hand as she listened intently.
"Lady Lyra!" Sansa's sprinted towards them.
Arya spun toward her, the stick in her hand lifting like a sword at the ready. "Sansa?"
Lyra straightened from her crouch, her dark braid catching the weak sunlight as she turned. "What in the Old Gods' names—"
"Was I gone long?" Sansa stopped in front of them and held the wolf bundled in her cloak as she panted. "I… I didn't mean to. I heard something—"
"My lady, what are you talking about?" Lady Lyra frowned.
"Wasn't… How long was I gone?"
"What do you mean gone?" Arya tilted her head, her dark hair falling across her face. "You were just behind us. Weren't you?"
"No…" Sansa glanced down at the wolf, its fur damp against her cloak. "I wasn't. I was—"
She stopped herself, the memory of the mist and the shadowy figure curling around her mind like a question she couldn't voice. She couldn't tell them. She wasn't sure why she couldn't, but she knew for a fact that she couldn't.
Whatever that figure was… She needed to keep it a secret.
Sansa shook her head. "It doesn't matter."
"My lady…" Lady Lyra's gaze dropped to Sansa's cloak. "Why aren't you wearing your cloak?"
"I…" Sansa took a deep breath and uncovered the little wolf. "I found this."
"A direwolf…" Lyra's expression softened with something that might've been reverence. "An injured direwolf pup… How did you…?"
"I… I heard it whining."
"The Old Gods led you to this creature, my lady." Lady Lyra stepped closer, her hand brushing against the pup's blood-matted fur. "You mustn't abandon it."
"I know. I—"
"A direwolf?!" Arya threw her stick away and darted towards Sansa and Lady Lyra. "You get a direwolf?"
"Arya…"
"Why do you get a direwolf?!"
"That's enough, Lady Arya." Lady Lyra put her hand on Arya's shoulder. "The Old Gods wanted Lady Sansa to find this wolf. We mustn't—"
"But she doesn't care about direwolves!"
"My lady! Don't interrupt."
"It's not fair!"
"Lady Arya—"
"She doesn't care about the North!" Arya glared at Sansa, her words snapping like a bowstring. "She only cares about knights and princesses and stupid songs about lemon trees. She doesn't deserve a direwolf!"
"I didn't ask for it…" Sansa flinched, her grip tightening on the wolf. "It needed help."
"It's not fair!" Arya stomped her feet. "You can't be pretty and graceful and ladylike and have direwolf!"
"Not everything is about you, Arya!" Sansa's cheeks burned as she glared at Arya. "It's my wolf!"
"Enough, both of you." Lady Lyra raised her hand. "Your sister is right, Lady Arya. It is her wolf."
"But—"
"You will be silent, or you will forget about tomorrow's lesson on daggers."
Arya looked down. "I'll be good."
"Good." Lady Lyra turned to Sansa. "Your sister is right too, my lady. A direwolf is a gift from the Old Gods, and I sincerely hope you will show some more interest in the North now."
Why does she always have to ruin everything?
Arya had always thrown mud at her, called her names, and made everything awful. Sansa had grown used to that. Arya couldn't stand anything delicate or refined. She hated when Sansa wore her best dresses, practiced her needlework, or sang the songs Septa Mordane had taught her. Arya treated those things like they were weaknesses, and she went out of her way to show Sansa how little she cared for them.
"My lady?"
So, why was she being a horse-faced monkey now?
This wasn't Sansa sitting straight-backed in the hall or arranging flowers for the table. She had helped a direwolf. She had knelt in the mud, gotten blood on her hands, and done something Arya would normally brag about for weeks. For once, she hadn't been the perfect lady. She'd been brave, messy even, and Arya still couldn't let her have it.
"My lady…"
She hates me no matter what I do.
If I'm proper, she calls me boring. If I do something wild, she says I'm pretending.
Well, fine.
Sansa had hoped that the wolf might make a bridge between them, but if Arya didn't want that, fine.
See if I care.
"My lady!"
Sansa snapped out of her thoughts. "What…?"
Lyra cleared her throat. "Are you alright? You zoned out."
"I'm fine." She took a deep breath. "Can we get going? My wolf is hurt."
Lady Lyra nodded and motioned for Sansa and Arya to follow.
Arya glared at Sansa, kicking at a patch of frost-covered leaves. Sansa adjusted her grip on the wolf, its golden eyes meeting hers.
As they moved toward the faint outline of the trail, Sansa glanced over her shoulder.
The shadows of the forest stretched long and still, but the memory of the mist lingered at the edge of her thoughts. She pressed her lips together, saying nothing, and tightened her hold on the wolf as if it might slip away like the rest of it had.
That's a wrap for Chapter 8.
Let me know what you liked and disliked, I love and appreciate all constructive criticism, especially since I always keep editing and improving these chapters. I would love to hear all your thoughts!
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Chapter 9: Jon, and Chapter 10: Sansa are already available there now.
See you in Chapter 9!