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the face of death
Beyond the wall of Winterfell was a world unknown. Where free folk, or Wildlings, lived free from the cultural norms of Westerosi politics, along side creatures of pure darkness whose very existence teetered on the edge of life and death itself. It was a place where no sane man, woman, or child dared venture, and yet it's exactly where Sara and Lady Isabella had found themselves. The last memory in her mind was of a cloth coated in the familiar scent of white poppy that was placed across her mouth and nose and rendered the winter wolf unconscious.
It was a smell. Sara was accustomed to it as her caretakers often used it to terrorize the little girl they viewed with such disdain. As she woke to the unfamiliar surroundings, she scanned the dimly lit tent. Her sapphire hues made notes of the silhouettes around the room, each in a similar state. Beside her, Lady Isabella sat with her arms around her legs and her knees pulled into her chest as if to calm the nerves in her body that threatened to shake her very core. As the once dark space brightened with the opening of the tent flap momentarily. The sound of metal clanking from the hilt of a sword filled the air as the silhouette of an ominous figure made its way towards them.
In his hand he carried a torch; his broad, mountainous frame was illuminated by what little light there was. On his face was the look of death, and while she hadn't trembled before its shadowy gaze since she was a little girl, she knew many others who had. Her sapphire eyes fixed on the man, who had since forced their gaze as he fell to his knees in front of her, the impurities in his thoughts painting his features. His fingertips held her chin firmly between them, tilting her head slowly as if to admire his new prize. Her gaze shifting towards the tent opening once more as a slow stream of light slipped in once more.
Who had entered, she wondered? Her eyes seemed to follow the man. The piercing scream of a mother's greatest horror as he ripped the child she held from her warm and loving arms that cut like a sword in the heat of battle filled the air that once felt still. It paralyzed her with fear and put a new question in her mind. "Where are they going with him?" She whispered while watching the man remove the infant from sight. "Where he's going is no concern to you." The man spoke harshly, her eyes widening as she suddenly realized the question she'd thought had been asked in her head was met with a response.
What was going to become of them, she wondered? Her gaze darted towards her cousin, the Lady Karstark, whose life was worth far more than hers if ransom were the goal. Placing her hand gently on Isabella's knee in reassurance, she spoke. "We're going to survive this, right?" As if she needed to somehow make sure she'd known they would not go quietly.
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