Her figure was tall and slender, carrying the innate grace of a noble maiden. Yet at this moment, that grace was laced with unease.
When her gaze fell upon the tall, imposing figure standing at the doorway, her sapphire eyes widened in shock.
Lo Quen's appearance was unlike that of any man from Westeros or the Nine Free Cities. She recognized him instantly—the famed Eastern Conqueror whose name was known across the Seven Kingdoms.
During her days as a hostage in Duskendale, Sansa had already learned that her brother Robb, in seeking the aid of this formidable ally, had promised her to him as Queen. She had imagined countless times what this mysterious Eastern king might look like.
Rumors in Westeros described him as a hideous, monstrous demon—immensely strong, devouring human flesh alive, wielding dark sorcery to command the dead, cruel and uncanny in the manner of the East.
But the man standing before her possessed a striking handsomeness that could steal the breath of any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms. His sharply defined features looked as though carved by the finest stonemason. His obsidian eyes were deep and penetrating, carrying an intensity that seemed to pierce into one's very soul. His posture was upright and composed, radiating both the quiet authority of power and the enigmatic charm of the distant East.
In an instant, every fearful image of a demon evaporated. In its place came a haze of disbelief—and the involuntary flutter of a young woman's heart before a handsome stranger.
A faint blush bloomed rapidly across her pale cheeks.
"Your Grace, good day."
Sansa hastily curtsied, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling slightly. She lowered her gaze, unable to meet those dark eyes that seemed to draw her in. Her long lashes quivered in nervous unrest.
Lo Quen read every flicker of emotion on the young girl's face and smiled faintly.
"Lady Sansa, my future Queen, good day."
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them by a few paces—close enough to command presence, yet not enough to intimidate.
"I trust the hospitality at Conquest Keep has not made you uncomfortable. Have you grown used to the winds off the Narrow Sea?"
"No, Your Grace, everything is quite well. Thank you for your kindness."
Sansa replied quickly, her voice still soft and taut with tension. Summoning a brief spark of courage, she glanced up at Lo Quen, only to look away again, her blush deepening. The anticipation and excitement of an unknown future stirred within her, momentarily dimming the sorrow of exile.
Lo Quen observed her bashful yet well-mannered demeanor, recalling what he knew of her.
This girl, without question, had her flaws.
In King's Landing, to please that little monster Joffrey, she had foolishly perjured herself—accusing her own sister Arya and her direwolf, which led to the tragic death of "Lady." She was vain, enchanted by the songs of knights and princes, easily deceived by appearances.
Yet deep down, she was not ambitious or calculating—merely an overprotected noble girl lost in her own fantasies. Love-struck, defenseless before handsome and powerful men, and painfully ignorant of the brutal truths of power.
In a way, she reminded him of a more refined version of Lynesse Hightower.
As he watched the young maiden's tender expression, the warmth on Lo Quen's face gradually faded, replaced by a heavy solemnity.
He fell silent for a few moments, as though weighing his words, and the air in the room seemed to thicken with tension.
Sansa, sensing a shift, lifted her head and looked at him nervously.
His voice was low and measured.
"Lady Sansa, I must tell you some news from Westeros. News concerning your family. Very unfortunate news."
Sansa's body went rigid, her sapphire eyes brimming with dread.
"Is... is it Robb? Or Mother? What happened to them?"
Her voice quivered on the edge of tears.
Lo Quen spoke calmly. "At The Twins, during the wedding of your uncle Edmure and Lady Roslin Frey, your brother—Robb Stark, King in the North—and your mother, Lady Catelyn, were betrayed and murdered."
"What?!"
Sansa felt as though an invisible hammer had struck her. Her face went deathly pale.
"No... impossible... Robb... he... he's the King... Mother... House Frey... they were allies... the wedding..."
Broken words tumbled from her trembling lips, her thoughts in total disarray.
Lo Quen continued, recounting the grim sequence of events to her in full.
When he finished, Sansa let out a piercing, heart-wrenching scream that dissolved into uncontrollable sobs. Tears burst forth like a breached dam, streaming down her delicate face and soaking the velvet over her chest.
Her cries grew hoarse and incoherent. The young maiden who had once dreamed of princes and songs was utterly shattered in that moment.
She had lost her father. She had lost her direwolf, Lady. She had lost Winterfell, the home she thought unshakable. And now, her last pillars of hope—her brother and mother—had been slain in the vilest of betrayals.
Lo Quen stood silently before her, watching as she wept and trembled, her tears falling like rain.
He stepped forward and extended his strong arm, gently drawing the sobbing girl—nearly choking on her own cries—into his embrace.
Sansa did not resist. She buried her face deep against his chest, clutching tightly at the front of his robes. Hot tears soaked through the fabric, their warmth mingling with her faint, sweet scent that reached Lo Quen's senses.
Her body shook violently in his arms, muffled sobs escaping between shallow, ragged breaths.
Lo Quen said nothing. One arm wrapped softly around her slender back, while his other hand patted her trembling shoulder in a slow, steady rhythm.
Time passed in silence. Slowly, Sansa's cries faded from wrenching wails to uneven, hiccupping sobs.
She remained nestled against him.
When Lo Quen sensed that her emotions had eased, he spoke gently near her ear. "Sansa, to live on is the best way to honor them. You are safe here."
She nodded faintly against his chest. Her body relaxed, though she still leaned into him for comfort.
After a while, her breathing steadied and the sound of her sobs dwindled to nothing.
"Rest well, Lady Sansa. The maids in the castle will see to everything you need. Tell them if there's anything you require."
With that, Lo Quen turned and quietly left the room.
The heavy oak door closed softly behind him.
Sansa Stark was left alone, her face streaked with drying tears. The hollow ache in her chest mingled with the lingering warmth of that embrace, leaving her dazed and uncertain, suspended between grief and something she could not name.
...
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