Sansa stared at herself in the mirror of the washroom, mentally correcting every blemish, every minute run in her stockings, every slight smear of her lip stain, trying desperately to concentrate on anything but the fact that she was at her father’s memorial service. She had already covered her tear streaks with another coat of foundation. She should be proud of herself; the service hadn’t even begun and she had only broken down in tears three times that day. She ran her fingers through her hair once more, freshly polished nails catching on her curls. Inhaling sharply, Sansa tried to calm her pulse as she walked out of the washroom and into the hallway where she had to greet far too many people and accept far too many feigned condolences. Despite this, she managed a slight pull of her lips, a whisper of a smile at the person across from her, as she took her place by her family.Â
