Edited by the awesome LadyCyprus : thank you !
If Margaery Tyrell is one of your favorite characters in ASoIaF, you will probably not like this. Show!Margaery is one of the characters that exasperate me the most and she made me forget about Book!Margaery - who's rather different, in my opinion. Now, when Margaery appears in one of my fics, she's never shown in a favorable light.
That being said, if you like Ser Pounce, SanSan, prank calls and if you secretly mock the ridiculous fashion trends that emerge season after season, you'll probably enjoy the ride...
Silence. A deep, dreary silence filled her life since the night at the Tyrells'. Megga's birthday party had taken place only two days ago but her life before Boros Blount shoved her inside a dark SUV and drove her back to the Lannisters' mansion and to her room - her cell for now - seemed like a distant memory. Once stylish and filled with items she cherished, the bedroom had lost the laptop sitting on the desk and the old radio set; it had been emptied of its upright piano and of the comfy armchair she used to read in. Sansa sighed: as of now it almost looked spartan. Of course, the first thing Joffrey had taken away from her had been her cellphone: he had taken it the moment she had stepped out of the laundry room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she let her eyes move from the desk to the empty spot left by the piano and then to the shelf. Her books remained, but for how long?
A perfunctory knock at the door, the clicking sound of a key in the lock and Joffrey was in before she could invite him to come in - or to stay away from her, in this case. As he scanned the bedroom, the distinctive upward tug at the corner of his mouth confirmed he took a perverse pleasure in seeing the result of the belated spring-cleaning he had ordered.
"What's up, Sansa?" he finally said, turning to her, hands folded behind his back.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, struggling with the impression her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her. She shrugged at his question, then asked tentatively: "Are you going to give me my phone back?"
Joffrey's reaction, something between a head-shaking and an eyeroll, made her fingers curl into fists on the satiny fabric of the bedspread. "My laptop then?" she tried again, doing her best to remain calm.
This time the blond young man burst out laughing and something in her snapped.
"So what? I can't go on Instagram? I can't check out Margaery's vacation looks? She said this fancy cosmetics brand invited her to spend the week in Positano, it's a big deal!"
Joffrey's mouth dangled open. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Her pleading eyes were fooling him, she knew it and it gave her a deep sense of satisfaction. Despite the fear that never completely disappeared when Joff was around, she nearly suppressed a smile. Think, Joffrey. Of course I'm pulling your leg.
His eyes narrowed more and more until they became slits that hardly showed his green irises. "You're such a crazy bitch, sometimes."
Her heart beat faster as she racked her brains to find the proper answer to his insult, then she said: "A bitch, really? You've become such an expert in bitches lately… You mean more the manipulative type of bitch, like Marge or the thick-as-a-brick type, like Megga?"
The next second he was leaning over her, his face distorted by rage. She made a point of not recoiling and she stayed there, listening to his heavy breathing, boring into his eyes.
"I fired him, you know," he spat.
Needless to explain who he was talking about: the mere evocation of Sandor's firing incensed her. She nevertheless didn't move. "Joffrey dear, I know you did. It's hardly a surprise. You said you would fire him the moment you saw us together."
His face was still inches of hers, as if he was ready to bite, and if what she read in his eyes was true he was searching his mind, eager to find a way to hurt her. "He left, with his tail between his legs, poor Dog. He won't come back for you."
His words were met with defiance. We'll see about that, Joff. His silence about her ruined academic pursuits told her he had not followed through with his threats. Not yet anyway. Sansa imagined he would tell her she was persona non grata in the campus right after finishing his telephone call to the dean.
All of a sudden he turned around and walked to the door.
"Already leaving?" she teased.
Joffrey glared at her over his shoulder and slammed the door behind him.
Apart from Gina, the maid who brought Sansa's food on a tray but who had been told not to answer the girl's questions, Joffrey had been the only person to visit her until the afternoon of the third day.
Everything was so quiet in the house she could easily picture herself on a desert island, far from civilization when she closed her eyes. There she was, lying on her bed, her eyes closed and her open book resting on her tummy when someone knocked at the French doors. She instantly sat up. Had Joffrey forgotten he had personally locked the doors so that she couldn't escape by the patio? The second she glanced at the French doors, she saw him. The only person who could compete with Joff in terms of creepiness: Petyr Baelish.
At the beginning of her story with Joffrey, the man seemed to constantly run into her. In fact those encounters were a little too frequent to be fortuitous. The way he stared at Sansa, the things he said about her mother Catelyn and how close they used to be in their youth had heightened her unease when he was around: Baelish, with his inquisitive gray-green eyes, was #1 on her 'Creepy guys' list.
Sansa gingerly walked toward Baelish who unsuccessfully tried to open the French doors. The double glazing muffled his curse. With a sigh, he looked at her intently.
"I'm locked up," she mouthed. For a split second, she wondered if she would have opened that door to him anyway.
Baelish didn't give up though. Something on his left drew his attention and he gestured, pointing alternatively at Sansa and towards the left until she understood what he had in mind. The bathroom window. Of course.
The bathroom adjoining Sansa's bedroom had a rather small window Joffrey didn't need to lock. The windows overlooking the patio all had fancy wrought-iron grills. There was no way she could sneak out through them.
"Sansa?"
She had left the window ajar and now she could hear Baelish's voice calling from the outside. Sansa dragged her bare feet to the bathroom and plastered a timid smile on her face. "Hey."
"Oh Sansa, I came as soon as I heard the news. Joffrey didn't want me to find out, but I have my own sources. Are you OK?" His doleful tone would have made her laugh in different circumstances.
"I'm OK. Just locked up here and-"
"This is why I came here. Let me help you out!"
Baelish coming to her rescue? Her smile vanished. What does he want in exchange? Baelish doesn't help people out of kindness.
"Look… I appreciate your offer, really…"
"However?" he asked, sensing her hesitation.
She didn't trust him, but was it wise to reject his proposition? Maybe no one else would show up to take her out of the Lannister's house. What do you want? Rotting in this room or getting out of here, even with someone who gives you the creeps? Behind Baelish, Sansa saw the shimmering surface of the pool, the cacti on the side and the eavestrough of the other wing of the house, with its CCTV camera.
"However... as we are speaking, this security guy Joff hired already knows you're on the patio and he will be here in a minute." Baelish gaped. "Smile, you're on camera," she added.
Grabbing the wrought-iron bars, Baelish cursed. "But y- But you, Sansa, what are you going to do? You can't stay locked up here forever!"
She shrugged. "Joffrey must have a plan for me. He always has a plan. Go, now. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me."
Baelish swiveled his head to the left, startled. From where she was Sansa couldn't see whoever had come in his range of vision but she knew it had to be Boros Blount.
"What the hell are you doing here?" She recognized Blount's booming voice before seeing his short fat hand seizing Baelish's collar. "You're trespassing on a private property."
"Let go of me!" Baelish whined.
Soon enough, Blount's face appeared in the window frame. "And you!" he barked, pointing at Sansa. "What were you doing? You're the one who invited him here!"
"How could I invite anyone? Joffrey took my phone! Mr Baelish showed here uninvited."
Baelish's eyes narrowed. Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Cursing and ranting about intruders, Boros Blount dragged Baelish out of her sight.
"I'll be back, Sansa!" she heard Baelish say. For some reason she doubted he could keep his promise.
This incident gave her pause. Baelish had tried to help her and he had been caught easily. Sandor knew the Lannister's security system inside and out but Joff expected him to show up and it made a tremendous difference. And Sandor, unlike Petyr Baelish, would resist if Blount tried to catch him. This is how people get killed, she somberly told herself.
There was no perfunctory knock at the door this time, just the rattling of keys breaking the silence before a blond boy carefully closed the door behind him.
"Tommen!"
A red flush was creeping into the boy's round cheeks as he shushed her with a forefinger to his lips. He observed the now austere bedroom then, wiping his hands on his jeans. He closed the distance between them, sat on the edge of the bed and gave her an awkward hug.
"It's so good to see you," Sansa whispered against his shoulder. He smelled of brioche.
"I wanted to come and visit you earlier but there was always someone around… Joff would kill me if he knew I talked to you, but… I was worried."
She broke their embrace and gave him a long look. "Are you sure it's safe for you to-"
Tommen cut her off: "They're all out. I even sent the Gina to the mall, just to be sure." He paused, then placed his hands on Sansa's shoulders in a somewhat theatrical gesture. "We have a plan, Sans."
We? "You mean you and Sandor?"
The boy shook his head. "Well, I have been texting back and forth with Sandor but he won't play a part in all this. He's doing well, he's waiting for you somewhere on the coast. When I say 'we', I mean my uncle and myself."
Sansa's eyes opened widely. "Jaime?"
"Nope. Tyrion. Uncle Tyrion wants to help you."
Suddenly memories washed over her as her eyes fell to her lap: Tyrion being publicly humiliated by Cersei shortly after she had met the Lannisters, Tyrion's tart remarks about his sister and finally the last argument she had overheard between them a couple of weeks earlier. He had gone so far as to threaten Cersei. Sansa didn't think Tyrion Lannister was the kind of man who used idle threats. He meant every word when he said she'd be sorry.
She looked up at Tommen. "Do you know why he wants to help me?"
"Of course I do! Uncle Tyrion wants to play a dirty trick on Mom." Another pause. "I can't really blame him," he added under his breath.
This is dangerous, she couldn't help thinking. Tyrion is old enough to take care of himself but it could be dangerous for Tommen. And if they fail, I'm... what? Dead meat?
"Are you sure-" she began.
Tommen nodded vehemently. "We'll get you out of here. Do I need to pinky swear?"
As he uttered these words, the curious way he knitted his eyebrows reminded her of Jaime Lannister's facial expression when he was teasing someone and she cracked a smile.
"Okay, so what's the plan?"
"First, we need to make sure that Joffrey doesn't ruin your chances to get a degree. I'm already working on it. Then we'll do whatever it takes to get you out of here with your parents' money."
And how are you going to do this? He must have noticed the hint of skepticism in her eyes, for he added: "Trust Uncle Tyrion. And trust me too. We can do it."
"How?"
"You'll see." He smiled. "Now I'd like to know what you told Joffrey to piss him off last night. He wouldn't tell." He nudged her.
"I asked if I could have my phone back and said I needed it to see Margaery's pics on Instagram. I think that for a split second he believed me."
Tommen chuckled. "He's so gullible sometimes… But is it true? Do you want to take a look at her Instagram?"
"Maybe, if I can send a message to Sandor first."
He handed her his phone and she started typing frenetically. There were so many things she wanted to tell Sandor right now, but she knew her message had to be succinct. Sandor needed to know she was OK and that she loved him more than ever; the rest was superfluous. She finally hit the icon 'send' with a sigh and looked up at Tommen.
"Do you really want to see Margaery Tyrell's Instagram?" he asked, feigning seriousness. Maybe Tommen sensed what she needed right now, to keep faith in what he called their plan, was some light, futile occupation.
"Hell, yes!"
Now sitting on the edge of the bed to be closer, she saw him clicking on the Instagram icon, then typing Margaery's name in the search box.
"Her pseud is 'Rose of High Garden'," Sansa told him.
"Rooose of High Garden," Tommen repeated, typing. The way he emphasized the first part of Margaery's pseud elicited a giggle. "Here she is…"
A perfect example of the picture shared by a traveling fashion blogger, the first image showed Margaery striking a pose as if she was at the end of an invisible catwalk; behind her, the very photogenic city of Positano, with its colored houses clinging to the steep slopes of the Amalfi Coast, was barely visible. The author's comment below read: 'In love with Positano's breathtaking landscape'. A bunch of hearts and smileys followed.
"If it's so damn breathtaking, why don't you move aside?" Tommen asked, as if addressing the blogger herself.
Another picture, another pose, in some narrow street of the Italian town this time. A pouty Margaery wore a frilly off-the-shoulder top with some brown wide-legged pants and a wicker basket. 'Check my post Paperbag pants in Positano on my blog, link in bio,' Marge invited her followers.
His fingers hovering over said link, Tommen gave Sansa a wicked look. She nodded wordlessly.
"'Paperbag pants in Positano'. Try to repeat 'Paperbag pants in Positano' twenty times, as fast as you can," the boy challenged her.
"The alliteration is mandatory for a good title," she answered.
He snorted at her professorial tone but Margaery's outfit quickly drew his attention again. Cinched at the waist by a tie, her pants seemed to intrigue Tommen. "Are these pants supposed to be elegant? All this fabric poking out of the belt... They're not flattering. And why doesn't she smile? One could think she just paid her taxes or something. I always thought Marge was a smiley person."
"She is, in real life. But… this is not real life, Tommen. Instagram is full of sulky girls these days. And this damn wicker basket… Someone should create an Instagram drinking game with wicker baskets and furry slides."
Tommen looked at her. "What's the matter with wicker baskets? I've seen these everywhere. Are they even practical?"
She sighed. "Absolutely not. They're trendy, that's all."
"My sister Myrcella used to have a wicker basket. She was seven and she carried her doll's tea set inside."
The mere mention of his sister's name brought back happy memories of endless conversations with the blond-haired girl about their future. "How is Myrcella by the way? Did you hear from her lately?" she inquired.
"Hmm- mmh." The boy nodded.
Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly at his hesitation. On an impulse, she asked: "Is Myrcella taking part in your- your plan?"
"I can't tell you anything for now. The less you know, the better." Tommen had this solemn expression on his face again and she understood the moment was over. Like a soap bubble shattered by a touch.
The boy stood up, walked to the French doors and tried to open them.
"Do you think Joff is stupid enough not to close the doors leading to the patio, Tommen?"
Frustration washed over his face, then he said: "The bathroom window will have to do."
"Have you forgotten the wrought-iron bars? For your information, I skipped the contortion class."
Tommen smiled. "I'm not dumb. It's not for you, it's for Ser Pounce. He'll carry our messages. Maybe with some chocolate bars." He briefly glanced at his phone screen - to check what time it was, most likely - and before she could utter some response, he briefly squeezed her shoulder and left the bedroom.
Long after dusk the bathroom window remained open so that Ser Pounce could deliver any message from Tommen. The summer heat and the chirping of cicadas seeped in through the open window - the otherwise soothing noise unnerving her that night. Ser Pounce's reputation as a heavy sleeper and a glutton was established long ago but the black cat had never struck her as the heroic type. He was just a cat who gave humans a jaded look and who did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted.
It was almost 10 PM when the automated sensor lighting illuminated the patio; light rippled at the surface of the infinite pool and cast shadows on the white granite decking, warning Sansa someone was coming her way. She slapped her book shut, heard the muffled sound of footsteps - as if someone walked barefoot on the granite - then whispers and a distinctive yowling. Whatever was happening rubbed Ser Pounce the wrong way.
In her eagerness to welcome the reluctant messenger, she didn't turn on the light of the bathroom when she came in and she stood by the window, her hands open. Tommen seemed to be shoving the cat through the wrought-iron bars and inside the bathroom.
"Come on Ser Pounce," the boy cooed. "Be a good boy..."
"I've got him," Sansa answered, ignoring the cat's protestations as she took him in her arms. In the dark, she felt Ser Pounce's soft fur under her fingers and further, on his back, the roughness of synthetic fibers. There were several long things hanging from the faux fur, like tentacles. What did Tommen do to this poor cat?
Before she had a chance to ask him, Tommen left. Puzzled, she carried Ser Pounce out of the bathroom and suppressed a gasp when her eyes fell on the costume the cat was wearing: against his will most likely, Ser Pounce had slipped into his last Halloween costume, a cheap, black furry thing with long legs that made him look like a giant spider. A black costume on a green-eyed black cat always hits its mark.
The cat let Sansa undo the velcro straps of the costume and even nuzzled into her palm in gratitude. A brief squeeze at the oval shape that represented the spider's abdomen confirmed there was something hidden there, in the lining. It seemed that Tommen had partially unstitched the underside of the costume to put there a note and a chocolate bar - dark chocolate with candied lemon peel, Sansa's favorite.
Sansa unfolded the note and began to read, absentmindedly stroking Ser Pounce's head.
'Hi Sansa,
Sandor asked me to tell you he's doing well and thinks a lot about you. He also said something about a broom cupboard and the day he met you at the campus library but I don't understand what he was referring to…'
The last bit made her tsk-tsk. The broom cupboard. Of course Sandor had to bring this up. The memory of that day made her mind wander to places it probably shouldn't, given her situation.
'First things first: I overheard Joffrey's conversation with my mother earlier. He said he couldn't reach the dean so far because the man was on some trip. Anyway the dean will be back tomorrow and Joffrey will call him to kick you out of the campus. Things are getting serious tomorrow.
I've found a way to thwart Joffrey's plan concerning your studies but it means you'll need to go to another campus. Hope you won't curse me for sending you - and Sandor - far from here. Tyrion oversees the second part of the plan and you have a role to play in it.
We need you to help me create a diversion while Tyrion steals documents from my mother…'
More instructions ensued: Sansa read them carefully, then stared into space for a minute or two. Her pulse was racing as she glanced at her watch. 10:07. If Tommen was right, she could be free tomorrow night, at the same time. The news were both exhilarating and stressful. Because if we fail… All it takes is a minor glitch. Her eyes drifted back to Tommen's note.
'If you read this note and agree with our plan, please keep the note and the chocolate bar and put this hideous spider costume back on Ser Pounce before releasing him.'
She sighed, shove the note in her jeans back pocket and she got on her feet, carrying the spider costume to her bed where Ser Pounce was curled up.
"Sorry buddy, you need to put this on," Sansa said.
Her apologetic tone didn't move Ser Pounce who snobbishly turned his head.
She had to coax an indignant Ser Pounce back into the furry spider costume and to fix the straps under his belly. When it was all done, she took the cat back to the bathroom window. Ser Pounce needed to be persuaded - again - to go through the wrought-iron bars and outside but in the end, when the electric light splashed the pool and its surroundings, she saw a giant, fuzzy spider scampering across the patio.
Gina was always on time - a cardinal virtue for the Lannisters' employees - so as the hour hand moved closer to the 7 on the next evening, Sansa knew she needed to get ready.
In order to forget the knot in her stomach, she turned her thoughts to Sandor. Tommen had given her very little information about his whereabouts: he was safe, somewhere on the coast and Sansa guessed he was champing at the bit, wondering how Tyrion and Tommen intended to get her out of the Lannister's house and if they could succeed.
What did he do? In his job - his previous job, Sansa corrected herself - there were long hours waiting for Joffrey who attended some event and the time spent watching the CCTV footage was nothing but exciting. Would he tolerate forced inactivity though? Idleness combined with worry was an explosive mixture.
A knock at the door, followed by Gina's contralto voice. "Your dinner, Miss Sansa!" The keys rattled and the door hinges gave a faint squeak. Her eyes were closed so she didn't see Gina's petite frame in the doorway but she did hear the tray falling to the floor and the woman's scream. "Help! Something happened to Miss Sansa!"
Poor Gina. I'll have to apologize to you when all this is over. Following Tommen's recommandations, Sansa lied on the floor of her bedroom, eyes closed and if she was right, Gina was currently wondering whether the girl had lost consciousness or if she was dead. Sansa felt Gina's knees brushing her ribcage as the woman kneeled by her side, muttering something akin to a prayer. Gina cupped her face, called again for help and when she grabbed Sansa's hand to take her pulse, Sansa lightly squeezed her fingers. She's a good person: I don't want to scare the shit out of-
"What the hell…"
"What happened?"
"Is she dead?"
Three different voices coming from the hallway and as many witnesses stepping in. First, Tommen, then Tyrion panting behind him. The last question was Cersei's and was uttered with an eerie sense of detachment. Her eyes still closed, Sansa felt at least two more people leaning over her lying form.
"Did she take some pills? Tried to kill herself?" Cersei asked, as cold as ever.
"Is it what you wish for her, Mom?" Tommen snapped. "You'd like to see her desperate? What- What would you do if she was dead?"
Cersei let out a deep sigh. Someone was tapping gently at Sansa's cheeks.
"Don't worry, Tommen," Tyrion said. "Your mother is very well-organized. She started thinking of a spot to bury this poor girl the second she saw her lying on the floor."
"Hey, could you give us some space?" Tommen said. "Unlike you, I have my first aid certificate. Gina, can you bring me a glass of water? And could someone call Pycelle?"
"I'll do it," Tyrion answered.
Sansa felt people moving around her body, crossing the room, then walking away. Hurried footsteps in the hallway, then the uneven breathing of someone above her... She thought she was alone with Tommen until she heard Cersei's voice: "So, what do you think, Tommen?"
So she's still here. Her muscles tensed. Someone lifted her feet and propped them against a cushion.
"Could be anything," Tommen said. "Pycelle will tell us. Sansa? Can you hear me? Hey, Sansa?"
Should she open her eyes now? She'd rather not see Cersei's face. For some reason she thought it would be much harder to play her part under the blond woman's scrutiny.
"Mom! Could you please put down your glass of wine and help me?"
"You should have asked Gina to fetch a bucket of water. A bucket of water is all this girl needs."
"Frankly, Mom... It could be serious. Is Sansa prone to fainting fits?"
"As if I knew or was interested in her medical records! I don't think I ever saw her fainting."
"Does she eat her food? Maybe Gina noticed something…"
"What? Do you think Sansa could have started a hunger strike of sorts? She doesn't have the will. Even if she started a hunger strike… Put some lemon cake on her tray and she'll give in. It's not a hunger strike. Gina would have told me. I think."
Tommen cursed under his breath. Mere seconds later, Gina came back with a glass of water and instead of asking Cersei if she could do anything, she addressed Tommen. In other circumstances Sansa would have found the situation rather funny.
"Oh, and Mr. Tyrion told me Doctor Pycelle was on his way," Gina added.
"The old fogey! Great!" Cersei said.
Sansa imagined Cersei taking another sip of wine after her acerbic comment. Gina walked away and Tyrion didn't come back. Where is he now? Is he doing it?
"Where's my brother? Gina!" Cersei called. "Gina, did you see him?"
Her heels clicked on the hallway marble tiles and Sansa seized the opportunity to open her eyes. Kneeling beside her, Tommen smiled at her. "Don't worry, it runs like clockwork. We just need to keep my mother busy for a little while," he whispered.
"Should I keep pretending-"
"No, it's OK." He paused, swallowed hard and said, much louder: "Mom, she came around!"
The heels clicked again and Cersei appeared in the doorframe. Was she relieved to see Sansa conscious? It was hard to tell.
"Can you believe Tyrion left, just like that?" she said, sitting on Sansa's bed then crossing her legs. "Gina told me he called the old fart and just disappeared."
"Pycelle will be here soon. And you should stay here, Mom, because he will ask questions on Sansa's health and you're in the best position to answer."
"She can talk!" Cersei retorted, one of her feet bobbing up and down.
"I'm not feeling so well," Sansa said.
A couple of minutes later, Pycelle arrived, bringing with him a stale smell and carrying a crammed full doctor bag. He asked Cersei many questions, preventing her from leaving the room, and eliciting more and more annoyed answers as he did so. Does he have a part to play in Tommen's plan? Sansa mused. At some point he even addressed her what she thought was a knowing smile. Tyrion paid him. Now she was almost certain.
"This girl needs to undergo a medical examination," Pycelle informed Cersei.
"Yes, that's why we called you."
"I'm afraid you don't understand, dear. She needs to go to the ER and quickly. She doesn't remember how she fell! CAT Scanner is what she needs - at the very least."
"Impossible ! She'll have to wait until tomorrow!" Cersei said. "I have important phone calls to make tonight. Blount is in town with my father, Joffrey is God knows where..."
"Look Cersei, I can drop her there and tell them what happened, if you can't go to the hospital yourself." With that, Pycelle stroked his beard.
Sansa's heart skipped a bit. So what's the plan? I leave the house with Pycelle and he takes me to the place where Sandor is? Trembling, she tried to make eye contact with Tommen, who was too focused on his mother's impending response to pay attention.
Cersei shot the old doctor a suspicious look. "When did you become so obliging? Are you trying to stay alone with the girl to fondle her?"
Pycelle's eyes widened in protestation. He, taking advantage of Sansa's weakness to fondle her? Unlike Qyburn whom he suspected of the worst crimes, he didn't take the Hippocratic Oath lightly; he'd never lower himself by groping sick or unconscious girls and whatever Cersei implied about his relationship with his young secretary was a complete and utter fabrication. At the end of his tirade, Pycelle's chest heaved as if he had put on a sprint.
"If anything happens…" Cersei began, glaring at Pycelle, "... I'll get you back."
Sansa watched as Tommen and Gina stuffed a bag with toiletries and pajamas, then Pycelle offered her his arm. They left her room, shuffled down the hallway to the front door and before she knew it, Sansa trod upon the gravel; it's crunching sound was the most pleasant she had heard in a long time. Leaning against the doorcase, Tommen was staring at her as she got in Pycelle's sedan.
Will I see him again? What will happen to him when Cersei and Joffrey find out he helped me?
When Pycelle started up the engine and switched on the headlights, Tommen smiled at her - not like someone who expects a thank you for the help they provided but like someone who was genuinely happy for her. Her heart sank. I'll miss him.
The car slowly moved down the driveway, gravel scrunching beneath its tires. Pycelle squinted at his surroundings before turning left. The car seemed to crawl up the road and Sansa told herself she was lucky not to actually need a ride to the hospital: with a Sunday driver like Pycelle, she would be D.O.A.
Maybe one mile further, the old man slowed down and pulled in at the bottom of a billboard.
"I think it was here," he said. Sansa didn't know if he addressed her or if the old man was talking to himself. "Tyrion said-"
Someone flashed their lights at them and a silver car pulled in next to theirs. Much to Sansa's relief, Tyrion stepped out of it. Following Pycelle's example, Sansa got out of the car.
"I kept my promise," Pycelle said, pointing at Sansa. "It's time to keep yours. Where is the tape?" The old man quavered, even more than usual.
"You'll have the tape the second my niece picks Sansa and her beau at Sunspear airport. Myrcella insisted on this."
The tape? Shouldering her bag, Sansa looked at them alternatively, wondering what was at stake, apart from her safety. Tyrion's smug smile proved, if need be, that he had the upper hand. He motioned Sansa toward him then, with an incline of his head, he beckoned her to get in the silver car.
"But you promised-" Pycelle sputtered.
Tyrion shrugged, and without even looking at the doctor, he get back in his car and started up the engine.
The drive to the airport was short, yet Sansa's anxiety crept over her. What if Cersei or Joffrey called the hospital to make sure she was there? What if Pycelle betrayed them?
After a long silence she took a sharp intake of breath, then asked: "What was this all about, with Pycelle?"
Looking ahead on the road, Tyrion didn't answer immediately. "It was about a tape," he finally said. "Like in 'sextape'."
Sansa gasped.
"Can you believe the old man shot himself playing doctor with his secretary?" Tyrion went on. "Well, he tried to record the act but the angle is terrible so it's basically a four-minute video showing the legs of an examination table with Pycelle's huffing and puffing in the background. No big deal, but Pycelle freaked out when I got my hands on it. Trust me, he won't say a word until I hand the tape over to him."
She asked again: "Where's Sandor?"
"Your beloved is waiting for you at the airport. From there, you'll fly south and Myrcella will welcome you and take you to your new home in Sunspear."
"I don't know how to thank you for what you did, Tyrion."
"My pleasure. When it comes to pissing my sister, it's always a pleasure."
Never did she think that airport terminals, with their public address system and their mile-long rows of seats upholstered in faux leather, could be romantic places.
Since Megga's birthday party, Sansa had had more than enough time to imagine what her reunion with Sandor would be like. She had dreamed he was coming back for her, rescuing her from Joffrey; she had imagined herself escaping alone - but how? - then surprising him wherever he was waiting for her. She never envisioned they would simply meet in the terminal of the airport.
Yet there he was, standing taller than anyone in the crowd, and the second their eyes met he squeezed through the crowd and closed the distance between them. She dropped her bag and the next second she was in his arms, oblivious of the nerve-wracking past hours. His smell and the warmth emanating from his body were all that mattered now. Holding her tight he mumbled things that hardly made sense to her until Tyrion cleared his throat and reminded them they couldn't miss their flight.
Her hand in Sandor's she followed Tyrion's instructions, clutched to the plane ticket he gave her. He also handed out to her the passport Cersei had confiscated a while ago and finally gave her the heavy-looking satchel he had been carrying since the airport parking lot.
"Inside this bag you'll find all the documentation I was able to steal from my sister's office earlier tonight. Stuff about your parents' assets and how my father and sister got to control them. There's some cash in here, too. Enough to make a fresh start."
Words seemed to be stuck in her throat but she finally managed to ask: "How can I ever repay you?"
"I'm probably repeating myself here but the defeated look on my sister's face is the best reward one could think of." He paused, then looked down at his watch. "You should go now. Hug Myrcella for me."
That was it. Sandor insisted to take her bag and his carry-on, she slung the satchel over her shoulder and when she glanced back, Tyrion was staring at them. When she waved at him, he simply waved back and waddled away.
A two-hour flight was hardly long enough to tell Sandor all the things she wanted to tell him, like how badly she had missed him during their separation or what had happened since the party. If she did most of the talking, Sandor nevertheless told her he had been staying in a motel room on the coast for the last couple of days, worried sick, and pouncing on his cell phone whenever he received a message from Tommen or Tyrion.
"I did some yoga too, you know," he confessed, looking through the window.
She searched his eyes, but he stubbornly stared at the dark oval of the window, although there was nothing remarkable outside, in the dead of night.
"Did you?" she asked.
He nodded. "It helps when my mind is racing. Must be fucking silly but it felt like it was a way to be with you when I couldn't."
"It doesn't sound silly to me." She squeezed his hand.
"I felt bad. I still feel bad, little bird, because you were locked up and I couldn't do anything. I wanted to be the hero who rescued you and in the end I just waited until a dwarf, a high-school boy and a college girl saved you." He let out a deep sigh.
"You forgot Ser Pounce who brought me Tommen's messages and Pycelle who gave me a ride," she said cheerfully. "Tyrion blackmailed him, but I guess it still counts."
A ghost of a smile began to form on his lips, twisting the scars at the corner of his mouth.
Who believes in heroes, nowadays? Mordane had asked them the last time Sansa had been to the yoga studio. They were doing the hero pose and as she often did, their yoga teacher had digressed, talking about their responsibility for their own happiness in the practice.
"I was on the shelf. Not quite what I imagined," Sandor went on.
"You don't have to play the hero, Sandor. My feelings for you won't change because of what you did or didn't do. It's called love."
His gray eyes shone and for a heartbeat, she wondered if he wasn't tearing up. He drew her close and buried his nose in her hair.
"Myrcella will take us to some apartment or hotel room, I'll close the door and 15 seconds later you'll be naked on the bed. You know you will, little bird."
Sandor's words had been unequivocal during the descent to the airport. Then the plane had landed and he had taken advantage of the never-ending queue of passengers eager to get off the plane to stay behind her, his body flush against hers, one hand resting on her hip. He also claimed a kiss or two, ignoring the passengers' stare.
Fifteen minutes later, inside the building of the airport, they spotted a tall blonde girl who started gesticulating when she saw them. Myrcella's stay in the South turned out well for her, she mused. They made their way through the crowd; she beamed at them and hugged Sansa.
"It's been too long!" Myrcella exclaimed, then she reluctantly broke their embrace. "I was so relieved when Tommen said you had finally broken up with Joff… And look at you, Sandor!" She hugged him too. "Looks like my girl Sansa taught you how to smile."
Sansa didn't remember Myrcella was such a chatterbox before she moved. Holding Sandor's hand she followed the blond-haired girl to the parking lot where they piled their luggage in the trunk and got inside.
"So you and I are going to study in the same university," Myrcella told Sansa once they were on the highway. "No consequences on your GPA."
"Who should I thank for this miracle?" Sansa asked. She was in the passenger seat, while Sandor followed their exchange from the back of the car. In the periphery of her vision, she saw him leaning forward to hear Myrcella's answer.
"It's not a miracle," Myrcella said, keeping her eyes on the road but smiling all the same. "It sounds more like a prank call, to be honest."
"Who was the trickster, then?"
"I was. I made the phone call." A silence followed Myrcella's revelation. "Tommen kept me updated on a regular basis and he was wondering how he could convince the dean of your former university not to comply with Joffrey's demands. At some point, I told him the only way to save your GPA was not to prevent Joffrey from calling him but to convince the dean to undo what he had just done. My mother was the only person the dean would be eager to please even if it meant being on bad terms with Joff and as it turns out, I have almost the same voice as my mom."
Myrcella briefly turned to Sansa and suppressed a chuckle. "Quit gaping, Sansa, or else you'll swallow a fly… Anyway, I called the dean shortly after Joffrey told him to charge you with cheating, I gave him my best rendition of 'flirting Cersei Lannister', I said it was an awful misunderstanding and I invited him to have dinner at the mansion on Saturday night."
"Best prank call ever," Sandor commented. "You can be proud of yourself, kiddo."
Myrcella met his eyes in the reflection of the rear view mirror. "I knew you would like it! I wish I could be there when the dean rings at the door though. Tommen said he would tell me everything but it's not the same…"
Sansa pictured Cersei's face when she would see the dean with a bunch of red roses and she burst out laughing. She thanked Myrcella profusely and there was a lull in the conversation until Myrcella started talking about her new life in Sunspear. She was getting used to her new environment, she said; the food was amazing and the locals were friendly.
"... and have you ever heard of the Water Gardens? We have pool parties there. I met my friend Arianne there, and I also met Trystane."
Sansa noticed a change in the girl's voice when she mentioned the mysterious Trystane. In the dark passenger compartment it was hard to tell, but she wouldn't be surprised if Myrcella blushed the next time she'd broach the topic. There's something interesting going on…
"Here we are," Myrcella said as the car made a right and moved into a parking lot. "Don't expect anything fancy: it's just a regular furnished apartment so that you can lay down your hat until you find a place you really like."
"I'm sure it will be perfect," Sandor replied.
The condominium on their right seemed pretty low-key, under the streetlights. The long, eventful evening had taken its toll on them: they got off the car slowly, retrieved the luggage from the trunk and headed to the building.
"Since my brother took your phone, Sansa, here's a new one." Myrcella explained as they climbed the stairs. "I took the liberty of adding my phone number to your contacts. And… welcome to your new abode!" She gestured at a door. "Here are the keys. You two must be exhausted. I'll see you tomorrow to give you a tour of Sunspear. And of the campus, of course."
They hugged Myrcella, thanked her again and they watched her walk away, her curly blond hair bouncing as she raced down the stairs. The butterflies in her belly reminded Sansa a new chapter of her life was about to begin: she was with Sandor and she didn't need to pretend otherwise, she had escaped the Lannisters' mansion and was now safe, in a city she longed to explore. She'd miss Tommen: it was a given. There had been a shortage of true friends around her, since Jeyne Poole had left, but her reunion with Myrcella had given Sansa the impression things were as if they had never stopped seeing each other. Everything seemed easy with Myrcella.
"Little bird." Sandor's voice roused her from her thoughts. "Don't you want to see this apartment?" With that he planted a kiss on her temple and rested his hand on her hip.
The keys were in her hand. She nodded and opened, giving the door a push and feeling around to find the light switch. Here it is.
"Very well." Sandor's hand traveled up to brush the underside of her breast. "How much time do I need to have you naked on the bed, once the door is closed?"
Sansa swiveled her head, welcoming a trail of kisses down her neck. "You said 15 seconds." A smile pulled the corners of her lips. "I say 17 seconds."
She turned around to face him. In the dim light provided by the wall lamp, Sandor knitted his brows and his confused look made her chuckle.
"Why the hell 17?" he asked.
She bit her lower lip, cupped his face with one hand and traced the outline of his chin with the pad of her thumb. "Be nice, Sandor," she said, disguising her smile with a pout. "Fifteen seconds to find the bed and take off my clothes. But you can grant me two more seconds if I do a nice puppy pose."
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