Sansa
As an unknown man carried her away, Sansa Stark decided there were things about spying she might have difficulties getting used to.
First there was the glamour of the evening in a real palace, the ball hosted by a real prince and the dancing, oh the dancing!
It all gave way to the clammy coldness of the night. And to the two men backhanding her when she got out of the lady's room the second time.
Her head hurt tremendously from the blows. She wondered where the kind man at the door was when she needed his help. An odd thing crossed her mind: she should have waited for Mr Clegane before going to the toilet again. His sullen presence would have most likely chased away the attackers. An icy cloth was being stuck in her mouth. She managed to close her lips just on time not to swallow what was in it, not appreciating the smell of it in the least. She was most unwilling to see if the taste matched the unsavoury odour.
"Good job, Brune," a deep voice, sharp like a whip, said to the man carrying her over his strong shoulder. Brune, for his part did not say a thing. "She did not have a chance to talk to our dear friend Nymeria..."
Sansa's sense of orientation was never the best and she had no idea where they took her except that it wasn't far. They closed her in a cramped space and talked more freely, as if she could not hear them.
"And we thought we'd have to wait for the party near Vicenza to get our hands on her..." the man whose name she didn't know continued talking. "Her father will pay well for her..."
The man called Brune was of a slightly different opinion. "I wouldn't think that the boss cares much whether her father lives... or dies."
"No?" the first man said in a somewhat slippery voice, losing the sharp edge it had before. Suddenly it sounded as if she had heard it before. Where? she wondered. "We'll see about that..." the man concluded brusquely, and the edge was back in his words.
Do they mean... my father? Why would anyone want my father to... die? Sansa didn't understand.
She was left alone with dark thoughts and more riddles. So it was Lady Nymeria, our contact, she pondered. Mr Clegane was right.
When a pair of strong arms grabbed her again, Sansa Stark was tremendously angry. It was not a feeling a well educated young woman should have, and her mother would be most displeased, but she could not help it at all.
Boldness took her and when she could see again, she counter-attacked.
And faced the sneer on Mr Clegane's face with utmost embarrassment. Maybe she was stupid after all.
The night continued in an emerald coloured haze. Mr Clegane was very rude as usual. She gave him a match and the street burned green. They had to leave the car and she was instructed to go to the canal with charming Mr Baratheon... Joffrey, she corrected herself.
Standing in water turned to be quite awful. Not romantic at all, as the waterways of Venice had always looked to her on pictures.
"Don't fret, my dear," Joffrey told her under the bridge, all self-assuredness and calm, as if their position were a most natural thing to suffer on a secret mission. "Mr Clegane will deal with this little problem for me, and then we will have the night all for ourselves."
Sansa was at loss for words. Could it mean that he wanted to...? He was very handsome, but Sansa wasn't that kind of girl. At least he should invite her for a date if he was interested in a relationship. In plain daylight for a start would be nice. Probably he was just making a joke out of her, as most of the good looking guys did. When they were not after her father's money, that is.
So she was relieved when Joffrey left her, walked in front of Mr Clegane, and took the lead of the action. As the most important agent should do, Sansa guessed. Her joy was short lasting.
Before she knew it, she was alone again, standing behind a fire. She almost started crying.
They left me, she thought. What will I tell Mr Varys? How will I tell Jon that I failed so miserably after his recommendation?
Then, Mr Clegane was back. She complained petulantly about missing the shoe, and couldn't quite believe when he took her in his arms. With eyes wide open, she could feel clearly how they were much larger than those of Brune, her kidnapper, and she wondered how she could have ever mistaken one for another...
He came back for me... she thought. Why has he come back for me?
Joffrey must have sent him, she deduced, and she didn't know why that thought made her sad.
Then, Mr Clegane did all he could to spare her the sight of the dead man in the van. Joffrey didn't even look at Sansa, struggling with the new steering wheel and driving console of a larger vehicle, as if she were not in existence. Confirming her expectations that he didn't like her at all. Sansa sighed. Joffrey must have dealt with this man, she realized then, and she shuddered. That's what the real secret agents do on a mission, you stupid, Arya's voice spoke in her head. They kill.
Perhaps it was not the best idea to accept Jon's call. A career at the university looked much more appearing than it ever did before. Except that it seemed too late to turn back in any face saving way.
Sansa could deal with the encrypted conversations, surreptitious whispers and double meanings, with conspiracies discussed and plotted over luxurious dinner tables. She could deal with an attempt to hack a network of an institution, and conduct an action to reject it, as a boring fly or a disease transmitting mosquito ready to sting. But she didn't think she could ever, ever kill a human being. In self-defence or not. Even if the person were truly evil.
I'll wake you up when we get somewhere, she remembered Mr Clegane's parting words and the warm timbre of his voice. Her father could speak like that, with care, but Mr Clegane was not related to her. She definitely liked his voice when he did not mock her. Almost, almost better than Joffrey's. She tried to imagine what he would look like if he were handsome or at least if he had both halves of his face intact. Her fantasy did not work. If he were good looking then he wouldn't be Mr Clegane, she concluded, unable to determine if that was a good or a bad thing.
I'll come for you when we get somewhere, she altered the meaning of his words in her memory to sound more appealing.
She wished he came for her to carry her over the fire of his own free will, not knowing why that would make any difference at all.
Somewhere was not very far away.
Somewhere was a half empty parking lot beside a busy highway, stretching in front and behind of a rather untidy restaurant and a small shop, all in one, proudly occupying a plot of hole plagued asphalt right after a gas station.
Sansa opened the large back door of the van herself as soon as they stopped. Her wrist hurt from the effort, but she was decided not to show female weakness again so soon. So she pulled the passenger door open as well, in a very unwomanly gesture. She could be strong. Her hand could not hurt more than it did already. Mr Clegane was trying to scramble up with difficulty. The place where he'd been seated was too small for his legs, and there seemed to be something wrong with one of them.
In a flash, lasting no more than a second of real time, her thoughts sailed rapidly back to what she did earlier that evening. When she had placed a chaste kiss to Mr Clegane's scarred cheek in front of Prince Doran, she told herself a real fiancee would do it with no hesitation. It still took her a minute then to gather her courage. She needed to imagine his scars were like chips and electronic circuits, inanimate objects of diversified surface, with no life of their own, and therefore safe, dry, not repulsive to touch. The relative dryness of it was the only part in which reality had corresponded to her imagination.
Mr Clegane had been positively shocked, and the dead skin had moved under Sansa's lips with a queer life of its own. Sansa had to try hard to forget the disturbing experience, until Prince Doran named Mr Clegane a murderer. Digesting that piece of news and maintaining the composure required by the occasion proved to be a daunting task, shadowing all other sensations.
"I spoke with lady-" he started informing her now, still half seated.
"-Yes, Lady Ermesande was most charming," Sansa saw danger, the kind she'd been taught to recognise. It was rude to interrupt, but it had to do be done. And there was only one way that occurred to her to prevent him from further talking. His good cheek was turned toward her so it was going to be easier than before.
Later on, she never knew if it was due to the movement of her head or of his own. By accident, her lips ended on his, and not on either of his cheeks. There was no dryness this time. There was hunger and welcoming warmth stemming from him, in stark contrast with the wet burden of the dress on the lower part of her body.
It took her much more than a minute to find the presence of the mind. She reached down with her right hand and unplugged the GPS. Her wrist throbbed. She was right. It had been connected all the time, even if Joffrey didn't use it to navigate to wherever somewhere was.
When she did that, Mr Clegane immediately ended their kiss. He gave her a cold stare, as if he weren't responding to it a moment earlier. Mr Baratheon whistled from the driver's seat. "Splendid, Miss Stark," he said. "I would never think of doing that as a distraction."
"I'm a moron," Mr Clegane stated, as if it were the god-given truth. "We should have thrown the damn thing through the window before we departed. However," he looked at Sansa with an open question in his dark grey eyes, "they know where we are now, but there's no way they could have heard what I was about to say, is there?"
"Normally, no," Sansa explained to the best of her knowledge. "But very very theoretically," she continued, "if the network is strong enough, and this... Tom Tom has been connected to it all the time, and if they can hack into the Tom Tom network, it's not entirely impossible that someone could have developed an application to hear us. Similar applications already exist for mobile phones, it's just that they are illegal." Abashed, she stopped talking. She could see on Joffrey's face that she was upsetting him by what she just said. It was the kind of talk that didn't fit a girl, she knew. It was driving men away.
Mr Clegane was still staring at her.
"Good job," he said in the end. "Let's move on. We have to find another transport out of here." He gave a good look to the few cars and trucks parked around them.
He doesn't mean stealing a car, does he? Sansa thought, thoroughly appalled at the idea that fighting on the side of the law implied breaking it.
"I don't know about the two of you lovebirds," Joffrey said, snickering, giving Sansa a look as if she were a slut, and a cheap one, at that. "But I'm kind of cold. Since the bad guys know where we are, I can just as well use my father's card and get myself a new T-shirt. They sell souvenirs at all gas stations around here."
Sansa considered her state of undress: a torn sleeve, the scarf... lost, back nearly naked, her bra out of place, the shape of her breasts and nipples clearly visible through the wrinkled damp blue fabric. A wet mass of folds pooled around her legs as a siren's tail and not a gown. They were lucky that the end of summer was rather warm, or she would be sick by now.
She dared a glance at her companions. Joffrey didn't fare any better: only his golden hair was still reasonably dry. Because the canal was shallow or because it dried when driving. It didn't matter. Mr Clegane's face betrayed no expression. His suit was dry and his tie was missing.
"Mr Baratheon," Sansa said with a frosty tone, "would you mind purchasing a T-shirt and maybe a pair of shorts for me, if they have something in my size over here? I would be happy to reimburse you later on..."
Her formal address worked miracles on Joffrey.
"Naturally, my dear," a friendly grin replaced an ugly one, and he offered her his arm.
He may still like me, Sansa hoped.
Several minutes later both Joffrey and Sansa wore extra large white tourist T-shirts, affirming they loved Venice, and a pair of navy blue shorts each. Sansa didn't look, but she surely felt much better. In her distress, she had completely forgotten about Mr Clegane.
They found him standing at the bar, in a company of two more men. The waiter was young and black-haired. The name tag on his striped shirt said "Luwin". He looked at Sansa's bare legs with unhidden admiration, immediately lowering his eyes when Mr Clegane gestured wildly at Sansa and Joffrey to join him. The second man standing was young, a bit older than Joffrey, and with the same golden curls on his head. He looked very serious.
The smell of coffee was in the air, announcing the arrival of the morning.
"I'm telling you," Luwin said, or rather continued saying what he already started. He waved his arms in a broad, friendly movement. "My grandfather was a famous barber. It was the same as doctor in the old times. It will cost you less than a capuccino your friend here is having. It will be faster than a doctor too. And more quiet if you know what I mean."
"You will keep quiet if you wish you live," Mr Clegane said with his characteristic lack of civility. "Speed is all I require for the moment."
"This way," Luwin asked Mr Clegane to follow him in the room behind the bar. with the sign "private" attached to the yellow wooden door.
"Wait here," Mr Clegane rattled a command at both of them. It almost sounded like a dog barking. Sansa had an uncanny feeling he'd been looking at her in an entirely different way than he did at Mr Baratheon. Unconsciously, she put both arms over her chest, and was relieved to grab a dry T-shirt instead of a damp ruined dress revealing more than it should. She wanted to apologise, but there was no reason to, so she stayed quiet.
"Cousin Lancel," Joffrey said stiffly to the man who looked like his older twin. "What brings you to Italy?"
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," the young man said with a sad knowledgeable smile.
There was a large excellent smelling coffee topped with milk foam in front of him, and he was adding some sugar to it when he spoke. Sansa was of a mind to order a capuccino as well if they had some time, and if Joffrey would be so kind to pay for it too. Her handbag and all her cash and cards were most likely still in a lady's room in Venice. Bringing her eyes from the coffee cup to cousin Lancel drinking it, she greeted him politely and introduced herself.
"My name is Sansa Stark. Please to meet you, Mr Lancel."
"Father Lancel Lannister," he corrected her.
Cousin Lancel wore a long black robe with a white collar of a catholic priest.
xx
A/N Thank you for rewiewing :-)) Comments feed the author :-)) Thank you for reading.
