They had an old blanket, sun-washed with dirt ground into every fiber, that he swore was once that color. She didn’t understand why the army claimed it; all the soldiers Sansa had ever seen wore black. Sometimes his eyes would lose their flinty edge in the moments just after sunset, when the darkness seemed absolute and unending, their fire a pinprick of light rather than a persistent glow. She saw threads of it in them as well, colorful wisps caught in eternal swirl around widened pupils. But its true and final gasp had come a lifetime ago, when her mother still tended flowerbeds and window boxes. Until the meadow, where a riotous carpet of grass, dotted a thousand times over with petals of yellow and white and purple, clawed itself out of the dry and dusty ground. Sansa gasped, relishing the burn of pollen in her throat.
"It’s all so…green.” Petyr sniffed, though he gave the flowers a wide berth. “And dead in a day, maybe two. C’mon, while there’s enough light to look around.”
Just once, Sansa prayed, I hope this meadow proves you wrong.
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