That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily¹. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so...  She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments² would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.  Her lord husband was not beside her, but she was used to that. Tyrion was a bad sleeper³ and often rose before the dawn. Usually she found him in the solar, hunched⁴ beside a candle, lost in some old scroll⁵ or leatherbound book. Sometimes the smell of the morning bread from the ovens took him to the kitchens, and sometimes he would climb up to the roof garden or wander all alone down Traitor⁶’s Walk.  She threw back the shutters⁷ and shivered as gooseprickles rose along her arms. There were clouds massing in the eastern sky, pierced by shafts⁸ of sunlight. They look like two huge castles afloat in the morning sky. Sansa could see their walls of tumbled stone, their mighty⁹ keeps and barbicans. Wispy¹⁰ banners swirled¹¹ from atop their towers and reached for the fast-fading stars. The sun was coming up behind them, and she watched them go from black to grey to a thousand shades of rose and gold and

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