[ Not long ago, Sansa was a frightened, furtive thing, shuffled from monster to monster. Now, all who would have threatened or tormented her are worlds away: Cersei Lannister sits the Iron Throne, but that is no concern of Sansa's. Joffrey fell to poison, Ramsay to his hounds. There is only one human threat now that remains to her, and Lord Baelish is not here, that she has seen.

She only wishes that Lady Brienne might have accompanied her. Her sworn sword might have made her feel safe, in a queer world that leaves Sansa with more questions than answers. All the same, she knows that she is tall. She knows that she is imposing, and her skin has turned to steel. She will not allow herself to be cowed by flying monsters, and so she walks when she must, skirting close to the walls. Her umbrella is held aloft when the screeches come, fearsome and alien and hungry. A pale hand shoots out from behind her umbrella, and it seizes onto the elbow of the nearest person before her, her breath caught into her throat. They are armed, at least, though she cannot see their face. ]

Pray forgive me, [ she murmurs, her heart fluttering (with a "my lady" or "my lord" offered if the person seems well-dressed enough), ] but I carry no sword.

[ It is a risk; perhaps the stranger will prove a cruel one, and cast her away to save him or herself. But the lone wolf dies, whilst the pack survives. If they should stand together, perhaps the beasts will be deterred. ]