Another inn, another meal of tepid stew and sour wine. A slender girl already, Sansa’s frame only diminished since their journey’s beginning. No amount of jovial cajoling from her husband could make her appetite any greater, nor could it ease the vague unsubtle worries which gnawed upon her thoughts, kept her wakeful until the dawn. Harrenhal. A cursed keep for a cursed lady — what else could she be? Father murdered, siblings and mother scattered to the winds, an ancient family name garnering the eldest daughter a whoremonger for her mate. Now this peddler of flesh carried Sansa northward, though not far enough, to dwell amongst ghosts.
