She’s dressed poorly for the season, colored in an ugly, scratchy silk that’s been marred by heavy lace, and her shoes are ill fit for crossing the cobblestones, and the night is too dark for her to see. She doesn’t seem perturbed, even when he folds out of the shadows, and it strikes him as odd to see that she does not run. He takes her by the wrist.
Afterwards he won’t remember their conversation, or why she says she’s standing here, or that the street lamp flickers and is surrounded by moths. What he’ll remember is the taste of her blood, and her tiny, hesitant scream, as though she’s just trying out the sound and is unsure of whether to commit. What he’ll remember is saying ‘I’ll see you again?’ after, and waiting for her answer, and shivering in the unexpected cold and with the uncomfortable pain that comes with self-control.
‘No,’ he’ll remember her saying, but she is already wiping away the blood on her neck, and gingerly touching the wound.
‘No, then,’ he’ll remember repeating, and then smiling, bloody, the whole way home, because he knows that this is the most ridiculous little lie.
sansa x petyr as a vampire