[Once, it would have made her smile to be called a pretty woman, if not laugh; not so long ago, that would have seemed like all there was to want. But things have changed. She has changed. And, as she has become more pretty and more womanly, those things have changed their meaning, started to carry a shadow with them that won't be shaken.]
[Sometimes, she wishes she wasn't a pretty woman. Sometimes, she has wished to be almost anything else. There are burdens to being a pretty woman that Septa Mordane never told her, that she never dreamed of in those happy days in Winterfell. Bruises on pale skin, and the terror of blood blossoming on the sheets, and men who watch with hungry eyes, making her feel less like a wolf than a deer.]
[Sansa smiles at her brother, but it's a small and ladylike smile now, born out of a desire to please rather than out of genuine feeling, and the shadow still clouds her eyes.] You have a lot more than that, Jon.
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[Sometimes, she wishes she wasn't a pretty woman. Sometimes, she has wished to be almost anything else. There are burdens to being a pretty woman that Septa Mordane never told her, that she never dreamed of in those happy days in Winterfell. Bruises on pale skin, and the terror of blood blossoming on the sheets, and men who watch with hungry eyes, making her feel less like a wolf than a deer.]
[Sansa smiles at her brother, but it's a small and ladylike smile now, born out of a desire to please rather than out of genuine feeling, and the shadow still clouds her eyes.] You have a lot more than that, Jon.
It's different for women, I think.