"One day, I'll be fierce. One day, I'll be brave. One day, I'll be the wolf. And on that day, they will fear what they've created." She whispered, her sapphire orbs fixed firmly on the tattered stuffed animal who'd been her only true companion for quite some time. Her father was still alive and well, but her mother had been buried beneath a willow in a field north of the Godswood because she was a woman of low birth whom her lord-father had been infatuated by for a brief moment. In fact, if it hadn't been for her brother Cregan, the legitamete of their father's loins, she might not have seen a single soul pass through her chamber, as the nursemaids in charge of her care and well-being were often neglectful, cruel, and unfeeling, which she couldn't understand as a child.

What had she done to deserve such ill treatment? It couldn't be simply because she existed as a baster in a noble home, could it? She wondered, looking at the redness of her skin—a result of a bath drawn with scolding water she'd been forced to take. Her brother and father had been unaware of Sara's poor care, mainly because she feared what speaking up might do. Her hand pulled out the ties that held her braids in place, as they, too, were a sad reminder of the abuse she had suffered, and she winced slightly at the thought of her nurse ripping the brush through her hair.

Her room was cold—likely the coldest in Winterfell, which houses those with noble blood, another indication of the lowly status she held in her father's house. Moving closer, she took hold of the book her brother had left behind during his previous visit. She had a hard time recalling it though, as it had been a while, but that was to be expected given the responsibilities he held as their father's successor. She flipped through the pages that held illustrations of princes who slew horrible giants and rescued beautiful damsels, longing to know that feeling one day.