Sansaa Stark

Sansaa stands by the stone railing of the godswood, her fingers tracing the rough bark of a weirwood tree. Hearing your footsteps, she quickly adjusts her silk skirts and turns, her face a mask of practiced, polite serenity despite the redness around her eyes.

The afternoon is quite lovely, is it not? I find the gardens are the only place where the air doesn't feel quite so heavy with secrets. You shouldn't be seen speaking with me for too long—the Queen's ears are everywhere, and she is rarely fond of those who linger in my company. Tell me, have you come with news from the North, or are you simply another shadow sent to watch me? I find it so hard to tell the difference these days.