Pat-pat, pat-pat...the sound of bare feet upon the parapets, echoing through the cavern between her ears. She blinked her eyes, blood-shot with dryness and exhaustion- she may have managed an hour of sleep, probably less. She generally preferred to dress herself, but the effort required to style her hair and affix the necessary veil proved as much as she could bear. Whispering a "thank-you" to her dressing maid, she took a perfunctory look in the glass and scowled at the dark circles beneath her eyes. The sight of her face, twisted in disgust, put her in mind of Arya, so she did it again. A harsh pricking at her tear ducts, and she waited for the tears, hoping they'd be over quickly. But her dessicated eyes refused to yield any moisture, and she turned away from the glass, adjusting the veil until it rested flat upon the crown of her head. The auburn at her roots was growing more and more prominent, spreading almost to her ears- until she could have the color re-applied, she must take care to cover up, always. Before leaving her room, she crossed to the barely-perceivable door near the window, thoroughly camouflaged by stone and tapestry. This passage, taken in combination with the acoustics of the chamber, permitted sound to pass clearly between Sansa's bedroom and the one on the other side of the wall. A clever architectural trick, and one that had robbed her of many a night's sleep. Littlefinger liked to pace, too. Pat-pat, pat-pat...
When she'd instructed the servants to prepare Jaime Lannister's chambers directly beside her own, she'd been met with hesitation. "Your father's body is barely cold...putting his killer in his bedchamber, it would be considered unseemly..." the steward had stuttered, and Sansa had been unable to control her sharpness of tone: "He didn't kill my father. Speak not of what you do not know. And do as I say." The septa had voiced a different concern, explaining in no uncertain terms that for a maiden to take chambers so close to a man not her husband breached every rule of propriety. Sansa merely lifted an eyebrow and laughed, refusing to dignify the suggestion with any further reply. She misliked the idea of guards placed close to her own bedchamber, but she ensured the security of each exit, even those unknown to the guards. I haven't been here long, and already I know the castle far better than they. Jaime Lannister isn't going anywhere.
She crossed the castle, arriving in the wing belonging to the young Lord Arryn. Uncertain of how to explain to her cousin the events of the previous day, she blurted the news of Littlefinger's death rather more bluntly than she'd intended. However, she needn't have worried; the lordling merely shrugged off the information and climbed upon her lap. "Finish the story, Alayne...the one you began last week." Sansa took several moments to recall the absurd fairy story she'd fashioned on the spot, but she stumbled over the conclusion as her cousin pressed his gaunt cheek against her bosom and wrapped his arms about her waist. Her hand ghosted over his dark hair, and she felt a sudden pang of tenderness for the boy. Robert Arryn, little Lord of the Vale. She'd always known, without being told, that Littlefinger's ultimate plan would call for the child's death. In that quiet room in the castle, Sweetrobin held firmly against her heart, she swore to herself that the boy's blood would never stain her hands. The gods may take him if they choose, but I will not wield the knife.
When the septas took the little lord away for his lessons, Sansa proceeded to the maesters' wing. The expected voices wafted down the corridor, and she followed them to the room farthest from the antechamber. Stepping into the doorway, she beheld Ser Jaime in a wooden chair beside a plush bed, summarizing the events of day before to a stricken-looking Lady Brienne. The Maid of Tarth had lost nearly all color in her face- somehow, the paleness made her freckles even more prominent. Her lovely eyes- by far her best feature- grew dark as Ser Jaime spoke: "Ser Hyle...Brienne. I'm sorry." The young woman closed her eyes briefly, her head nodding forward. "And what of Pod?"
"The boy is alive, but very weak. He's in the room at the end of the corridor- I'll take you to him when you can walk again." Jaime Lannister leaned slightly toward the bed, and Sansa watched his left hand twitch, as though he'd considered reaching for Brienne, but thought better of it.
"And Lady Catelyn." Brienne's voice lowered to a barely-discernable whisper, and Sansa felt a familiar nausea seize her stomach. "She's..."
"Not Lady Catelyn, Brienne. Do not think of her that way." Ser Jaime's golden head shook back and forth, and his emerald eyes fixed upon the Maid of Tarth with a surprising urgency. "It will drive you mad."
"Who else was with us, Jaime? I cannot remember...is that terrible?" Ser Jaime uttered a hoarse sound akin to a laugh, and Brienne continued, "Sandor Clegane. Is he alive?"
Sandor! Sansa found herself suddenly unable to sustain her silence: "He lives." The fair-haired knights both turned their heads sharply, and she was surprised at the incredible warmth within Brienne's sapphire-blue eyes. "Lady Sansa." Her voice trembled, and Sansa restrained the urge to embrace the prone woman. I like her, I cannot help it. And I think I can trust her... She smiled, the first true smile she'd experienced in what seemed like years, only to be sharply interrupted by Jaime Lannister's dry comment:
"Yes, he lives. And he's gone, surely far from the Vale by now." He kept his gaze focused upon Sansa and raised his eyebrows. She found herself thinking of how satisfying it would be to dig her nails into his face and scratch until those chiseled cheeks ran red. He continued, a bitter edge seeping into his tone: "Would you care to explain why, Lady Sansa?"
Explain? How could she explain? Her trust in Sandor Clegane was uncompromising, absolute...he saved me, risked his life, would never harm me, not ever...When the battle ended, when he asked her leave to depart, what else could she say but yes? He did not wish to stay. The thought pained her more than she cared to admit, but she lifted her chin, fixing Jaime Lannister with the hardest stare she could muster.
"I do not need to explain anything to you, Ser Jaime."
His face spread into an unpleasant sneer, and he glanced at Brienne before speaking again. "I suppose it isn't her fault. She has little experience holding hostages, after all. One must forgive certain...errors."
"Jaime," Brienne murmured, touching his arm in warning. For her part, Sansa felt an embarrassed, frustrated blush engulf her face. Hostages. Gods, what an ugly word. As though she was holding them out of cruelty, as though her actions could be compared to what Cersei Lannister had done to her... Her nails dug into her palms as she steadied her breathing. Jaime Lannister is an arrogant fool. You have the power, you have the soldiers, he is at your mercy. Let the lion mewl. She straightened her posture, attempting to summon some of her mother's poise:
"When I want your advice, Ser Jaime, I'll be sure to ask for it. Otherwise, your opinions will only force me to reconsider my hospitality." She turned to regard Brienne, the smile returning to her face as she nodded. "Lady Brienne, I am glad to see you looking so well. I shall return soon to check on your progress." Pivoting on her heel, she swept down the hallway. Although she could not discern the words, she heard Brienne's even voice quelling Ser Jaime's grumblings. He does have a point. I'm not Littlefinger, I have no plan beyond this...The realization was so terrifying that she struggled to breathe, bracing herself against a nearby wall. If only my father was here...either father... Her cheek pressed against the cold stone, and she felt the tears come at last.