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The child of winter is springtime, and she is spring personified, bright hair and bright eyes and a bright laugh with seeds of green growth curling to life in her footsteps. She does not belong here, so far from the earth, in this place where laughter echoes emptily against the skeletons of stone walls.
She did not belong in the city either. Lies grew like ivy there, stifling the life that spilled from her fingertips. Hate poisoned her there, leaving her cold and empty.
(Winter is cold as well. Her father and brothers and sister were cold, but not empty – a cold born of purity, freezing away dead growth and making space for life in their wake. Hate was a different cold, a bitter nothingness that killed the living to make space for the dead. No, spring had no place alongside hate.)
He had told her that he would take her away from that city that was killing her. She had followed him, hoping he would take her North again in time for winter to come so that spring could be born. Instead, he had taken her to this stone castle in the sky where she could not feel the earth under her toes or the last leaves of autumn against her skin.
If winter was a pure cold, and hate was an empty cold, Petyr is a sharp cold that pierces her being and chills her to the very bone.
She had tried growing things here. There was a little garden full of the bare bones of shrubs. She had tried to make them grow again, tried to plant a weirwood like the ones from her home, but there was no life in the stony soil. The spark in her heart had died on her fingertips. She wasn't sure if it was because of him, or this place, or if it was her - if the taste of pear on her tongue had changed her in some irreversible way, binding her to this realm of death. She hopes beyond hope that it is not the latter.
"Trust me," he had whispered, and she had. She had taken the pear he had offered, felt the juice run down her chin. It had been overripe and over-sweet. It had not tasted like damnation.
Now she is trapped. The goddess of spring in a place where spring will never arrive, the bringer of life chained to the man who rules the dead.
"We are meant for each other," he had promised. "We will bring balance to this war-torn world."
(He is wrong. The balance of spring is not death, it is winter. Winter is coming, and with it, Sansa Stark will be reborn.)