The fire-caressed beauty of the North was regretting her words to Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery. I have traitor’s blood, my mother and father were traitors and so was Robb. My sister is traitorous, my brothers too. I, by default, am a traitor-I have traitor’s blood, I would be much more useful dead than alive. This time, it would be off with her head, well and truly.
Yet she knew that wasn’t true. Her father would have never betrayed the king.
She had been allowed to sneak away for a short time. Just a short one. She was still a prisoner, and trust was a luxury.
Lady Olenna might have told the queen. Or Lady Margaery. She was to be married to Joffrey, surely she would want to be well-regarded and favored by Joffrey and Cersei.
Sansa ran to the forest, which was well on the other side from Drekistone of the realm. She breathed in the cool air, so crisp and calm. This could be Sansa’s last time to be free, her last day alive.
If she had to run. . . . Could she? Or would she never have a chance? The Kingslayer, Jaime, was gone. So were Sansa’s siblings, Nymeria, Summer and Rickon. She hoped they were safe. And Ghost . . .
She felt bad for never treating him well. He was only Ned’s b a s t a r d, he was still her brother, and she ought to have at least been civil to him. But she was a little girl. Her mother did the same thing.
Sansa’s senses picked up a presence, or maybe just something wrong. It stood her hair on end, and she called, “Hello?” When nothing answered, she said in a hard voice, “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Is anyone there?”
Needless to say, the glory of the forest snared Sansa too, and she fell into a deep sleep.

“The worst ones always come back.”