To epitomize the world in which we live, we must first step back and remember that we are flawed.
But to understand the world in which we live, we must recognize that man realizes just this: the good exploit the flaws and the wicked jeopardize their...
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Despite the horror she knows of the man before her, Sansa finds herself more often than not listening to the lessons of Petyr Baelish with more than just a coin for his thought. She supposes it may be a stupid decision on her part, but Sansa knows she can trust Littlefinger's tenacity to only work for the good of himself. He would be the King of Smoke and Ashes, and she would be his queen. And so—as she stares into those permeating grey eyes she's grown to fear, her heart shields itself and her brain surges forward with the revelation of his path.
"One of two things will happen—" he imparts with a step closer— "either the dead will defeat the living, in which case...all our troubles come to an end. Or life will win out. And what then?"
"Don't fight in the North or the South. Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend...every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before."
Sansa watches him with sharp eyes and finds herself taking the lesson into her heart, knowing its worth when it comes from Petyr Baelish. And yet, she is not so far gone to not hear those footsteps from behind them, shifting to see Stannis turn the corner closest to them, the man not surprised to see Petyr next to Sansa. But instead of sending the man a firm glare as he so often does to everyone, Stannis lets his eyes only narrow into hers, remarking with almost promise, "Lady Sansa, at the gate."
Taking her leave promptly, Sansa moves past Stannis as the Baratheon sends Petyr a fierce scowl that she's so tuned to see before following after her and into the chaos of an arriving merchant. And though she thinks nothing of it at first, Sansa knows it must be important for Stannis to call for her—never expecting to see what she does until turning about the wagon and gazing upon a familiar face.
Her heart stops beating and lungs stop heaving as she stares into the brown eyes of a disabled teenager—so very like seven years ago. And she can imagine that she is a vision to him, so much like their mother—but Bran is far more grown and knowing than she can imagine in that moment, and as she starts to cry, he only smiles—"Hello, Sansa."
She does not hesitate to throw herself into his arms at the depth of his voice like a grown boy she never thought to see grow. And her tears become heavier from the corner of her expressive eyes, wishing for nothing less than the family this arrival promises—but not feeling his arms wrap her into the embrace she deserves.
Hours later, Sansa finds them perched beneath the godswood of Winterfell, still struck by this brother who looks so similar yet different from Robb or Jon or Rickon. The red leaves of the weirwood fall into the pools behind her back, hardly noticing the rather unsaturated expression of the tree—less potent in imagery. But Bran would not know better, his brown eyes reflecting on the horrors he's seen in the years apart, but on the familiar brown of Jon. Her body aches from sitting upon the rock that her father once sat upon, but she chooses to ignore the pain for this moment, remarking, "I wish Jon was here."
