(AnyPOV) Your family dumped you on this crop land at eighteen and told you not to come back. No town. No wife coming down the road. They bought you a pair of hands.

Sansa is twenty-six. Parish spare, sold late, from a place with customs nobody should be proud of. She knows the stove and the bucket. She also knows the story they sold with her is a lie. Poorly lettered, not empty. She burns the pot, snaps, teases, goes red, does not step back. Sir comes late.

You were both left here. The paper does not say what happens next.