"𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓'𝑠 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑," their father always called it. Could make a man or woman wild in a sense, unpredictable, and powerful. And when a violet-eyed twin born to the Lord Eddard Stark, all knew that the boy would have it. And he did.
Beside his...
It had been the same dream she had been having for the past several days ever since Blackwater. She could still faintly hear the screams of agony from the Wildfire before being silenced by the green flames of death. She could hear the sound of a storm of swords clashing on the shores and on the walls, men fighting with everything they have to ensure they were the ones that got to go home and kiss their wife and hug their children, maybe even their father.
Sansa wishes she could hug her father one more time. One more time would be enough.
But the only things the Old Gods and New gave her were nightmares. She lived in one every single day. Usually, when one goes to sleep, it acts like an escape from the reality of which they were forced into, their every day struggle of life. But Sansa was cursed on both sides of that coin. Her dreams were always horrific, and her reality was nearly as bad.
The last few nights since the Battle of Blackwater Bay, Sansa had dreamed of the death of wolves. The death of fish and wolves both. Even if there were never any faces or actual people, she knew who the wolves and fish represented. There was a calm, rather quiet wolf that she knew represented her father. And its head was gone. There was another one, slightly brown with grey-silver streaks running through it like wind: Robb. There was a wolf of white with crimson eyes: Jon. And there was a wolf of night with violet eyes: Benget...
They were all dead.
The wolves, all of them. She saw her father's wolf with its head cut off, mounted on a spike. Robb was just the same but his headless wolf trotted around still with the sound of men roaring with cheer echoing around it. But Ben and Jon's wolves were quiet and alone. Sansa could remember their names, Ghost and Frost. And she could see them dead in the ice and snow of the far North.
Sansa just felt so alone, surrounded by lions and liars, often one in the same. She was the lone wolf, though Sansa could not think herself much of a wolf.
"Even backed into a corner, the wolf will fight to the bitter end to protect the family", Benget had told her once. Once a lifetime ago. Sansa knew Ben would always be there throughout her life. But as she gazed out from her balcony in the Red Keep, she knew Ben was not coming any time soon. After the word from the Battle of the Whistling Wood, there had been no word about Ben since. None that was spoken to her, at least. She could not often hear the gossip of the land considering she scarcely leaves her room without reason.
Not since the perfect Margaery Tyrell came in.
Margaery was a beautiful maiden, fair and pure, Sansa believed. A true rose. But Sansa lacked the sight to see the thorns underneath. It was a force of habit to try and see the good in people. A habit given to her by her mother, the Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. Though, Sansa could nearly tear up every time when she thinks about how it is Catelyn Tully now.
