Thank you for reading this fic! Next chapter will be the final one.
Writing confession: I find inspiration everywhere, even in fashion blogs - because yes, I sometimes scroll down fashion blogs... As a matter of fact, a trend I spotted repeatedly on fashion blogs inspired one of the scenes of this update.
The very first yoga instructor I had inspired the character of the chatty yoga teacher in the inaugural scene. She's one of my headcanons for Septa Mordane.
"... and as your slowly unravel the posture, observe your breath."
As one man, twenty men and women brought their hands in prayer and listened to their breath, eyes closed. From under her lashes, Sansa peeked at the people next to her and she couldn't help smiling. Despite a sensation of discomfort in her neck - thank you, plough pose - she was grateful for this moment away from the Lannisters', in the coziness of the yoga studio.
Sitting cross-legged on her favorite fuschia yoga mat, the teacher, a lady in her fifties named Mordane, cleared her throat before going on: "Good. You can sit on your heels, now."
At her command, twenty men and women lowered themselves to their mats, and came to their knees.
"Let's challenge ourselves with a little virasana variation. Who can tell me what virasana means?"
Mordane often used the sanskrit names of the poses. She sometimes digressed and talked about the Indian culture or mentioned one of her stays in Varanasi to perfect her yoga practice. Her erudition was one of the things Sansa enjoyed most about her. Many people Sansa knew saw yoga as a kind of physical training just like running or swimming, others said that yoga was good to cope with a stressful life; some even confessed they had joined the yoga studio because it was trendy and all their friends did yoga. Mordane didn't deny the physical benefits of yoga and she even insisted on them, but to her yoga was much more than a nice way to stay fit or to fight off stress: it was a way of thinking and beyond that, a rich culture ready to be discovered if one was curious enough.
"Virasana, anyone?" Mordane repeated, tilting her turbaned head to the side, scanning the audience.
Sansa raised her hand.
"Yes, dear?"
"Isn't virasana what we call the hero pose?"
"Very good!" Mordane then turned to a man on the first rank and told him: "Virasana isn't a good idea for people with knee injuries so you know you can't do it with us, I'm afraid."
The man lifted his hands in acquiescence and sat with his legs extended in front of him. Whether it was the man's expression or the anticipation of the hero pose that triggered this reaction, Mordane cracked a smile. It made her face look even bonier.
"So where were we? Actually I'm going to do it with you because this pose is such a relief for tired legs like mine…" She shifted, sent her legs to one side, sat on her heels to mirror her students' pose and clapped her hands just once. "So… First you lift your buttocks from your heels and you touch your inner knees together. Then you slide your feet apart. The distance between your feet should be slightly wider than your hips. Like so... Now that you're all set, you can move aside the fleshy part of your calves and sit down carefully. Carefully, people. If your buttocks don't come to the floor, who cares? Fold your blanket and use it as a prop."
Ouch. For some reason, Sansa always felt a minor discomfort in her left knee when doing this kind of pose. She glanced around. Some looked comfortable enough, others gritted their teeth, wondering when their ordeal would be over.
"We are going to stay there for several long breaths," Mordane announced, nodding almost apologetically. "This pose doesn't serve you unless you stay still for a moment. So try to relax, breathe deep and listen to old Mordane's ramblings."
Some laughed and a lady on the third row tsk-tsked with amusement.
"The hero pose," Mordane went on. "When I discovered yoga, I heard a yogi talking at length about the benefits of the hero pose and I told myself 'Why is it called the hero pose? What's so heroic about it?' Then I tried it and I had the same reaction as you, Lollys," she said, looking at a plump young woman who made a point of honor at doing every posture, no matter the difficulty. "I suffered. I suffered because we Westerners aren't very flexible. And the yogi kept talking to me about the boldness of the hero who keeps his spine very straight and who seems to wait for the king to reward his feat of arms... 'Nonsense,' I thought. By the way, those of you who are not comfortable can come back in cross-legged position… And those who want to go further can slowly lean back on their elbows and finally lie down flat on their backs. This is supta virasana or the reclined hero pose"
Like half a dozen women, Sansa carefully leaned back until her spine was flush with the mat. I didn't know I could do it, she mused, rather proud of herself.
After a look at her audience, Morgane added: "To this date, I am not sure about the origins of virasana. But have you ever observed a child sitting on the floor? Some of them do sit in virasana while they're drawing or playing and it looks so easy for them. So unfair for us, adults. It took me years - I'm not kidding you - to regain the flexibility I had lost when growing up and to master this pose." She let out a sigh. "The hero pose is child's play and is difficult at the same time. It requires persistence."
Mordane's words struck a chord with Sansa, although she couldn't quite put her finger on what she found so accurate about her statement.
"This persistence… Maybe that's why they called it the hero pose, after all. This asana is not about some mythical hero who could inspire us. Who believes in heroes, nowadays? It is, however, about us taking responsibility for our own happiness in the practice and about us becoming our own hero. Sitting up straight when in virasana or letting yourself go in supta virasana, returning to this asana until it becomes comfortable."
Her sharp eyes wandered on the group and a smile graced her lips. "Enough for today. Come out of the pose, slowly, mindfully... and prepare yourselves for relaxation."
During the relaxation, as she lied on her mat with her palms facing the ceiling, Sansa's mind kept returning to Mordane's words. 'Becoming our own hero' she had said. Can I become my own hero? This notion seemed ludicrous at first… At first only.
Soon enough, Mordane turned on the lights and it was time to sit up and to say namaste to the teacher and to the others.
Sansa was rolling her mat when Mordane planted herself in front of her, handing her a leaflet.
"Are you interested in a retreat, darling? Falyse and Lollys just told me they were in. Yoga in the mountains, local food, meditation… So, what do you say?"
The proposition caught her unawares and Sansa gaped before stammering: "It- it sounds great, really, but I can't. Maybe next time."
There will be no 'next time', she thought. 'Next time' I will be far from the Lannisters and therefore far from the yoga studio. The prospect of losing a yoga teacher like Mordane didn't please Sansa and she had trouble holding the woman's gaze. Her chest constricted.
"That's too bad," Mordane sighed, still holding her leaflets in her hand. "This retreat would have been better with you."
Sansa's phone buzzed in her duffle bag. Crap.
"I'll see you soon," Mordane said with a smile.
"Thank you so much," Sansa answered. "Thank you for everything." The words tumbled out of her mouth as if she feared not to be strong enough to finish her sentence.
Mordane's eyes widened with concern. "Well… you're most welcome, dear."
Once the woman walked away, Sansa retrieved her phone from her bag and touched the screen. Joffrey had sent her a text.
Have you forgotten about Megga's birthday party? You'd better come back and be ready in 45 minutes.
Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose. This is gonna be a long night.
As the blare-riff went on, Margaery struck a pose for the hundredth time, bringing one hand on her hip and shrugging her denim jacket so that the sleeves wrinkled down her forearms, in the most impractical way possible. Mesmerized, Joffrey took a pic with Margaery's phone and burst out laughing for no particular reason. Then the pretty brown-haired girl swiveled on her heels to glance back at her ad-libbed photographer over her shoulder, her denim jacket still shrugged. She looked like she was struggling to look cool with the sleeves hindering her movements. You've done it already, Marge, Sansa mused, sipping her margarita. Can't you be a little more creative? Stifling a yawn, she observed Margaery and Joff in their courtship ritual: she, puckering and undulating; him, rocking back and forth on his heels and grinning stupidly. Something in Margaery's eyes indicated the courtship ritual would go on for a while because in the end, she had at least one thing in common with Joff: she didn't want to let go of her plaything.
Maybe Joff knew that he wouldn't make any more progress that night because he came back to Sansa before the next song began and he slumped down on the couch next to her. An external observer could have missed the way she briefly closed her eyelids the second Joffrey's ass hit the couch - as if she composed herself - but she was screaming internally.
"Honestly, these pics are so good…" Joffrey started, speaking louder to be heard over the fancy electro music. He was still holding Margaery's phone, watching with unconcealed pleasure her photo gallery, unaware of the fact Sansa took no interest in it. "Look, did you see this one?" He brandished the phone so that Sansa couldn't miss an umptenth portrait of Marge, pouting and carrying a designer's bag which was worth the budget of a developing country health clinic. And always that same habit of shrugging her velvet blazer.
Joffrey kept cooing about Margaery's outfits and after several non-committal 'Hmh', Sansa felt compelled to say it was amazing. She paid languid attention to the pictures until Joffrey nudged at her.
"There's just one thing I don't get. Why is she always doing that thing, you know, shrugging her coat or her jacket as if she was too hot?"
Brow knitted, he gazed at her and for the first time in weeks or maybe months, he sincerely looked like he valued her opinion and expected her to enlighten him. But about this? It made her sick to imagine that the only thing he wanting to talk about with her, after months and months of relationship, concerned Margaery's views on fashion.
"She shrugs her coat on every other picture. Why?" he insisted.
"Because…" Sansa began with the forbearing tone she took to answer Rickon's questions in a past life, "she probably saw this on a fashion blog. This is, supposedly, the modern way to wear a jacket these days. They call it 'fall-off jacket'."
Marge had recently created her own blog. If Elinor didn't lie, she had invested in two different cameras and a ton of pricey clothes to outwit the successful fashionistas of Bloglovin'. Sansa wondered if the mixed reception Margaery's blog had received so far might have something to do with her tendency to blow hot and cold when it came to her relationship with Joffrey.
As the boy's mouth dangled open, Sansa added, barely above a whisper: "It's just a gimmick, really."
Joffrey's gaze drifted back to Margaery's cell phone and he puckered up, looking puzzled. "When you think about it… It's different from wearing your jacket or your coat the ordinary way, you know, covering your shoulders and all."
"Yeah, she shrugged her coat," Sansa commented. "Groundbreaking."
He glared at her. "Come on, Sansa. Are you jealous?"
A chuckle escaped her lips. "Honestly? No. I just wish she'd stop playing with your nerves. I wish she'd make up her mind about it and date you. At long last."
All of a sudden his expression changed and he leaned toward her, threatening. "Shut up, will you? If someone hears you, I-"
Sansa didn't bat an eyelid and she instantly read in Joffrey's gaze a mix of surprise and disappointment, because she didn't look afraid of him anymore. If she was honest, she still feared his reactions sometimes but at that very moment, surrounded by a bunch of Tyrells who attended Megga's birthday, she doubted he would harm her.
She exhaled unhurriedly, never breaking eye contact with him to let him know she was bored, more than anything.
"Sansa, don't-" he spat.
"Don't what? Can't I wish you to be happy? You'd make a lovely couple."
His eyes rolled skyward. "I'm with you, now," he said, lower.
"You're not with me, you're using me. It makes a hell of a difference." With that, she stood up at once, smoothing the skirt of her tan suede minidress. Searching for an explanation on her face, Joffrey craned his neck; she reluctantly looked down at him when he took hold of her wrist then she snatched her hand away.
"Putting on a show, huh?"
"Says the guy who manipulated his girlfriend to stay with him so that he could make another girl jealous. You're the one who's pretending here." Her knees wobbled. Beyond the extreme satisfaction of giving Joffrey a piece of her mind, Sansa was walking a tightrope and she knew it. In the periphery of her vision, Megga's guests were already looking at them, wondering what was going on, maybe gossiping. Margaery herself peered at them over her glass, then she giggled and whispered something in her cousin Elinor's ear.
All of a sudden, memories came rushing back to Sansa and she saw herself a few days ago at the Lannisters', as Sandor faced Joffrey's accusations about the CCTV camera. Her sassy attitude bordered on recklessness, endangering both her and the man she loved.
"Sit. Down," Joffrey muttered.
And she sat down, her cheeks aflame.
"Good girl. You know better than to anger me, don't you?"
Staring into space, she didn't answer. Megga's birthday party would go on, Sansa would play the part Joffrey had ascribed her and in a couple of hours when she'd crawled in between the sheets she'd cling to the idea it would be over soon. It had to. Earlier, Sandor had told her in passing he might have found a place to rent that he was going to visit it tomorrow. If only… If only I could just leave Joffrey now.
Right in the center of the large room, Marge danced a mock version of tango with the birthday-girl, pretending to showcase Megga's dancing skills but making sure all eyes were on her, as she bent back at the end of their impromptu duo. Sansa slowly exhaled her frustration. These last weeks had been all about biding her time and making sure she would come out of this unscathed, yet her patience was wearing thin. Next to her, Joffrey cheered the girls. Margaery sashayed toward them to take back her phone then walked back to the little group surrounding Megga. After making eye contact with the brown-haired girl, Joffrey deliberately draped his arm over Sansa's shoulders, drawing her close. This is so pathetic. Does it sometimes cross his mind that he's doing it all wrong? That making Margaery jealous is as stupid as it is counterproductive? Her cheek pressed against his own, damp with sweat, she gritted her teeth.
She had a pretty clear idea of what awaited her.
Joffrey being as predictable as he was stubborn when it came to Margaery, the snuggle would soon turn to a so-called passionate kiss. Her stomach churned - in such a case, you'd think alcohol helped... it didn't, and Sansa rued the margarita she had had earlier. As expected, after crushing her ribcage against his, Joffrey broke their embrace to give her a smug smile then he started cupping her face. There wasn't much to do to escape his wormy lips, unless she decided to punch him in the face and take her chances. The only sensible option was to pretend it wasn't her in Joffrey's arms and that she wasn't there at all.
Sickened, she held onto the idea it would soon be over and he'd get tired of kissing someone who wasn't kissing him back. The second he stopped and rested his head against her shoulder, out of breath, she suppressed a sigh of relief.
He whispered in her ear: "We could, you know, find some quiet place and-"
Sansa recoiled at once. "No." Joffrey could crush her hopes but she was done letting him humiliate her.
"No?" He sounded sincerely surprised, as if he couldn't fathom a negative answer to his advances. "Sansa, come on. It's been a while. I'm sure you'd-"
"Didn't you hear me? I said no."
"I can make you do it," he went on, brushing her bare thigh in a way that made her skin crawl. As he sat up to look at her in the eye, he sported his signature smile, the one filled with confidence and threat he had inherited his mother.
She held his gaze. "You need me in the pictures and on your arm so that Marge becomes jealous," she said under her breath. "Do you really think having sex with me will have a bigger impact on her than kisses and such?"
Joffrey puckered his lips, pondering what she said.
"You know Joff, you can have any girl you want. I don't care. But don't push your luck with me."
With an eyeroll he crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back on the couch. Surrounded by a bunch of girls, Margaery was watching them from afar. Have you read 'How to Decipher Body Language', Marge? Because Joffrey is giving you his best rendition of 'My girlfriend is a pain in the ass and I'm open to any propositions'.
Whether she understood what was going on in Joffrey's head or not, Margaery chose not to make any move and stayed talking with her girlfriends. The music kept blaring from the speakers and Sansa told herself she'd be lucky if she didn't wake up the next day with a headache. She was seriously considering feigning sickness to get a lift back to the Lannisters' when she saw Sandor's tall frame in the doorway.
After Meryn Trant got fired, Sandor had had to train the man Cersei had hired as a replacement. The new guy, named Boros Blount, wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, or so it seemed; there were things Joffrey didn't trust him with yet. As a result, Sandor had been extremely busy and Sansa had barely seen him. She cast a glance at Joffrey who was biting his nails while observing Margaery from a distance. Sitting next to Joff made her ill-at-ease when Sandor was around.
The clutch she kept against her hip vibrated and she opened it to retrieve her phone. The message was from Sandor and it read: "You look sad"
It's because I wish I was with you
I'm not that far
I miss your arms and your kisses
Soon, little bird. Very soon. I'm visiting the apartment tomorrow
At that very moment, Joffrey's hand landed on her lap again and she almost jumped.
"Hey," he said. "Who are you texting to?"
"A friend from the yoga studio." After all, it's not a complete lie. Sandor and I have been doing yoga together.
Joffrey frowned. "You never mentioned this friend."
His remark was met with a shrug. "You never asked." And once more, she didn't feel like she was lying.
He slowly shook his head, smiled at her with something akin to indulgence and took the phone from her hands to put it away. Holding her hands in his, he seemed ready for another public display of affection. Sansa braced herself.
"Come here, Sansa."
And although complying was the last thing she wanted, she did come and she let him wrap his arms around her as if she was his. There was a kiss, then another she didn't dare refuse; and while she endured it like one endures physical pain, she knew Sandor observed them and she even imagined how he felt, his smoldering gray eyes fixed on her, his fingers curling into fists. How do I stop this?
Even though he could be tenacious when he wanted to draw Margaery's attention on him, Joffrey soon grew tired of Sansa's lack of response and he let go of her after a short while, giving her a smile that looked like a wince. They sat back against the cushions of the couch in an awkward silence. Around them, people were having fun in the lavish first floor of the Tyrells' mansion; a brief glance at Joffrey's bothered features confirmed he was as disappointed and bored as she was. When are we supposed to share Megga's birthday cake, again?
Everything seemed fake, from the laughters of the Tyrell girls - which sounded more and more like canned laughter with every passing moment - to the loud waves of electro-pop.
After one last glimpse at Joffrey, Sansa extended her arm to grab her phone and she mindlessly touched the screen before her eyes drifted back to Sandor who was somewhere on her right, with his back against the wall. As he stood in the shadows, his features remained unreadable but she suspected he was brooding. With his dark suit and his hands clasped in front of him, he perfectly played the part of the faithful head of security. His long hair covered his burns, as if the sight of his scars could be an offense to Megga's guests. All of a sudden he seemed to realize she was staring at him and he returned her gaze. I need to leave this place and talk to him, she thought, her eyes dropping to her lap. Joffrey's presence next to her was the only thing that prevented her from getting to her feet and go talk to him. Just when she racked her brains to find an excuse, her phone buzzed.
How was that kiss, little bird?
The text felt like a stab and her first reaction was to stare at him in shock, even though she knew it could arouse suspicion; then she collected herself and looked down at the screen of her phone. Of course, he was jealous: in his position, he had every reason to be.
Is it a kiss when someone forces you to play the part of the dutiful girlfriend?
As he didn't text back, she added:
Joffrey's kisses sicken me. You know it's you I want to be with, don't you?
Closing her eyes, she waited for his reaction. Please, please… Don't be mad at me, Sandor. Her phone buzzed again.
I want you so bad right now, was his answer.
She exhaled deeply. Next to her, Joffrey looked deep in thought, his feigned casualness - elbow resting on the back of the couch and one ankle crossed over his knee - not deceiving anyone, if Megga and Elinor's sideways looks were any indication. Sansa barely swiveled her head to look at Sandor, whose fingers hovered over the screen of his phone.
I'm going to tell the little shit I need to check the gardens. Meet me in the garage in 5.
Before she could type her answer, Sandor crossed the room and leaned forward to speak in Joffrey's ear. Over the loud music, she didn't hear anything but she saw Joffrey nodding gravely as Sandor stood up straight, dwarfing his employer who still sat slouched on the couch. Then the head of security walked away.
As soon as he left, Sansa gave a look at the screen of her phone. 11:42. I need to find an excuse to leave before 11:47. Her heart beat faster as she watched small groups drinking, laughing or arguing over the next song they wanted to listen to...
She paused to take a deep breath as she took one last glance at the screen of her phone to check the time. She retrieved her powder compact from her clutch and ostentatiously pouted while looking at her reflection; then, with a sigh, she turned to Joffrey and announced: "I'm going to the bathroom."
Surprised, the blond boy frowned. "You're not trying to run away, are you?"
"Someone messed with my makeup," she countered, "and if any more pictures are to be taken tonight you want me to look good, don't you?"
Joffrey shrugged and she took it as a yes. Keeping her clutch under her arm, she walked to the door, not without smiling at Margaery and Elinor who were talking to a woman in her forties Sansa identified as one of the Tyrells' employees. I'd better come back before they serve Megga's birthday cake… Or maybe it will give Sandor and I more time.
She hesitated once in the hallway, trying to remember where the garage was. A brief glance over her shoulder confirmed no one followed her and she tiptoed on her high heels - for no reason, really, because the music drowned every other noise. I feel guilty, she mused. No, not guilty, just afraid of getting-
One of the Tyrells' employees, a woman with dirty blond hair, appeared on her left, coming out of the kitchen.
"Are you looking for something, Miss?"
"Actually, yes, I was looking for the bathroom."
"There's one over there, on your left." She smiled at Sansa then hurried to the reception room.
Sansa let out a sigh of relief then resumed her walk. A large hand grabbed her wrist and she lost her balance, almost falling in Sandor's arms. He had been hiding in a nook in the wall and looked very happy with himself after scaring the hell out of her.
"Are you lost, little bird?" he asked, disguising his amusement with a scowl.
"You said we'd meet in the garage!"
He chuckled at that and raised his shoulders. "Couldn't wait. I found a place where we shouldn't be disturbed. Come."
"Did the woman see you?"
"No chance."
Her hand in his, he hurried down the hallway, opened a door on their left and pushed Sansa inside before closing the door behind him. The room was dark and smelled of detergent.
Moments later, a harsh light coming from a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling revealed what looked like a laundry room: a brand-new washing machine and a dryer, three laundry baskets and shelves with various bottles of liquid detergent and clothes pins.
"After the broom closet, the utility room," she observed, scanning the place. "I can see a theme, here."
Instead of answering, Sandor drew her close and started kissing her. His lips were a little chapped - she had noticed that they often were - but she didn't really care. His longing for her was so obvious she soon forget the faint smell of detergent and the fading sounds coming from the party. Kisses taste like this. Nothing to do with those Joff imposed on me. His embrace made her feel stronger, bolder: opening her mouth for him, she wrapped her arms around his neck. It was difficult to ignore Sandor's aroused state when being so close and she soon started to wonder how far she was ready to go in a house filled with people who were either Joffrey's or Margaery's friends. There was no point in denying she wanted Sandor as much as she wanted him, yet the worst that could have happened to them when they had sex in the library was to be caught by the staff of the University who had no idea who they were. Here the stakes were higher.
"Did they see you leaving the party?" Sandor rasped, after breaking their kiss.
"I told Joffrey I needed to touch up my make-up. He thinks I'm in one of the bathrooms."
He sighed, let go of her and made her swivel on her heels so that he was standing behind her. "That doesn't give us much time, does it?" he whispered in her ear. She shivered. Goosebumps covered her skin the second his hands grabbed her hips. His body flush against hers, he went on: "You know why I hate your dress? No?" His hand left her hip to trace the lace up front of her minidress. "If feels like I can almost touch your breasts but these… things-" he tugged slightly at the lace, "get in my way. And it's bloody short. You know I have a dirty mind-"
Footsteps in the hallway silenced him. They listened, holding their breath, but nothing happened. Sansa scanned the shelves, looking for something to keep the door shut if someone ever tried to open from the outside; in the end she placed one of the laundry baskets against the door. Not as efficient as a chair stucked under a doorknob, but it's better than nothing, she reassured herself.
"I should take care of your needs," Sandor whispered, placing himself behind her again. The way he talked to her sent shivers down her spine and the shivers only increased when his hands returned to her hips, causing the hem of her dress to lift ever so slightly.
"Maybe I should take care of yours," she retorted, knowing her suggestion would drive him mad.
As expected, a low, reverberating groan rumbled from his throat. "Later... maybe some other time… you need to get back to the party soon."
Without ever trying to take off her dress, he slid his hands beneath the suede fabric and quickly pulled her panties down. Sansa was already feeling dizzy and only realized she had been leaning against Sandor's frame when he asked her if she was okay. As his fingers unhurriedly traced her slit she bit her lower lip in anticipation.
"What do you want?" he taunted her.
I want more. I need more, she told herself. He wants me to say it aloud and to ask for things. "I want more than that. I want you to take care of my needs." She hardly recognized her own voice as she acknowledged her longing and her physical desire. If her cheeks burnt, she didn't make the slightest effort to stop her head from lolling back the second Sandor inserted a finger inside her.
"Yes," she said softly. Just like this. Keep moving and for God's sake don't ever stop. Her body was moving of its own accord now, her hips rocking back and forth against Sandor's hand until she came. While her palm muffled her moaning, Sandor ducked his head to kiss her temple with the utmost tenderness.
He held her for what seemed a long time in the drowsy, blissful aftermath of her release, then, remembering where she was and what was going on down the hallway, she disentangled herself from his arms and staggered to the washing machine.
"You need to leave, little bird," she heard him say behind her. As if I didn't know it. After putting her panties on, she turned around, taking in Sandor's tall frame. He stood there with his shoulders slightly rounded and a noticeable bulge in his pants.
"But you-" Sansa gestured awkwardly.
"I'm supposed to check the backyard of this fucking place. You left ten minutes ago, saying you needed the bathroom. Don't push your luck, girl. Go back to him."
Defeated, she let her arm fall back down to her side. The muscles around his mouth twitched somehow and he took a step forward, extending his arm to cup her chin. "Let me check the hallway and make sure nobody sees you."
On an impulse she placed her hand on his and closed the distance between them to kiss his burned cheek. A smile pulled the corners of his lips and she noticed how his gray eyes shone at that very moment. Sandor's hand was already on the doorknob; realizing the laundry basket was still there, he put it back in place, then carefully turned the doorknob to peek through the door. Her hand on his shoulder, Sansa relished the last moment with him. She would go back to the party, smile on cue and pretend Megga's birthday cake was the best she ever had. She would play the part of the perfect girlfriend and leave the party on Joffrey's arm…
"How interesting."
She froze. The man who had just spoken wasn't Sandor. Joff? Overcome by panic, she didn't resist when Sandor's arm - the one remaining behind the door and out of Joffrey's sight - pushed her behind so that she could hide herself.
"What are you doing here, Dog? Why won't you open the door?"
Where to hide? The laundry room had no window, no other door and the furniture didn't offer any hiding place. It's too late, she told herself, too late. Joffrey already knows what he's going to find behind the door. He's finally connected the dots.
"Oh my God!" She recognized Margaery's voice. "Aren't these-" The girl stammered to show how the whole situation shocked her. "Aren't those Sansa's boots? I swear I saw her boots behind that man."
That man? The way the Tyrell girl had uttered these words, full of disdain for someone who didn't belong to her world, was more than Sansa could take. She walked to the door and forced Sandor to open it wide.
"Sansa, don't-" Sandor hissed.
Joffrey and Marge weren't alone in the hallway; in fact, it seemed to her that half the guests were here, witnessing what looked more and more like her and Sandor's fall. Elinor was even recording the scene on her phone. Seeing so many people here looking accusingly at her would have terrified her former self. It did frighten her and her painted nails dug deep in her palm as she said: "Yes, it's me, Sansa. And I'm with Sandor Clegane."
In the commotion that ensued, Marge shook her head in disbelief, then glanced at the others as if she wanted them to bear witness. The murmuring went on until Joffrey silenced everyone by raising his hand; he stepped forward.
"Clegane, you're fired. As for you," he pointed a finger at Sansa, "you're going to regret this."