Sansa fingered her few dresses that had not gotten smoke damaged. She had panicked at the sight of the blood, worried her body should betray her every time she gave herself to the Hound. Once she saw just how much there was, though, she knew it was her flowering. That had been another kind of betrayal. She knew now trying to burn the bedding had been foolish. Instead, she was left with new bedding, fewer clothes, a room that still smelled a bit like smoke, a cloth between her legs, and the Lannisters knowing it all. If only there was something she could do.

Most of her shoes had not been ruined, but only one pair was suitable for the dresses she had left. She began to remove the laces from a pair of boots, preparing them to be cleaned and conditioned. She did not know when someone would come for them but it did not matter now. With all the waiting for the war, for her wedding, for anything, even one small activity was better than no occupation. Perhaps keeping her hands busy might even help her think. The boots were soon lined up and waiting for… anyone, anything.

Twisting the laces in her fingers, Sansa made her way to the window. Outside she could see the river and the forest beyond. Tendrils of smoke still wafted through the air. Mindlessly, she began to twist and bend and wrap the leather cords. The motion reminded her of the wreaths her mother had taught her to make. On clear, warm days, when the world was at peace, her father would take all the Starks to a meadow in the Wolfswood for a picnic. Sansa knew her mother hated that Jon and Theon got to come along, but usually they went to play with Robb. While the boys and Arya were off swinging sticks at one another, her mother had shown her how to twist grass and flower stems and young sapling branches into circles. Smaller ones would be made into bracelets while larger ones were placed on heads as crowns. By the time they went home, every last Stark, including Jon and Theon, were all crowned in wild flowers and leaves. She missed those days.

Now it was the laces of her boots being made into these circles. She wished she had something to decorate the brown leather. A bead or jewel would add a bit of sparkle and shine. A flower was simple and would soon wilt, but the color would be lovely. When she finished, however, she decided the leather on its own was sufficient. The bracelet it made was much too large for her little wrist. She gave herself a small smile, knowing just who deserved such a gift. Her corner of the tower was often ignored so she was easily able to place the circlet where it could be found. She doubted he would want something heavily ornamented as a reminder of her anyways.

At supper that night, Joffery boasted as frequently as he could. He meant to do everything from slaying his uncle Stannis in hand-to-hand combat, to taking his uncle captive and beheading him in front of the city, to commanding from the walls. The few remaining members of his guard stood by and listened passively. Except for one.

Just to the king's right, Sansa noticed Sandor frowning slightly and appearing to struggle to not react to some of the more ridiculous ideas. The idea that he might hate Joff as much as she did warmed her.

"You smile, my lady," he broke into her thoughts and her smile immediately fell. "Did something I said please you?"

She couldn't remember what new battle idea he had been talking about. "It's just that you're so brave and just, Your Grace," she lied. "Every subject should be pleased to have a king as brave and just as you."

"Of course they should be, if they know what's good for them," he sneered. "Only idiots like your brother and my uncle would be treasonous enough to not be pleased."

"You certainly have the right of it, Your Grace." She hated the lies as they came to her. Septa Mordane had always taught her not to lie. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am weary. May I please be excused?"

With a wave she was dismissed, the Hound sent to escort her to her rooms. In the corridor, Sandor held out his arm for her to take. There, at the end of his wrist, was the circle of leather, dwarfed by his large hand. Sansa clutched his arm tightly and smiled again. Only outside her chambers did she speak.

"I'm glad you like the gift, my lord." She tried to keep her voice low, should there be ears about.

"Who said I liked it?" he growled in return. "A fighter could always use a spare bit of leather. It comes in handy for quickly repairing armor during a war." She noticed he was unable to look her in the eyes when he said it, and that he was more sober than when he was normally alone with her.

"Then I'm glad you will get some use out of it." She held his arm as he opened her door with the other. She knew what she had to do, but the thought still saddened her. "I pray the gods keep you safe during the coming battle."

"Save me your prayers," he snapped. "I told you before, we're all killers. Killing's the sweetest thing there is."

Sansa watched him, waited until he turned to her. "I shall pray for you anyways." She slipped inside and quietly closed the door, a tear forming in her eye.