Chapter 38: A Day to Cherish, Part IV. Dance with Me

Dance with me, dance with me:

There is peace in this night;

Dance with me, dance with me:

In darkness, madness and terror fight.

Dance with me, but do not speak

Sweet words that havoc wreck

In my soul; in that dark place,

Enough demons frantically race.

Do not add to their number,

Or they will tear me asunder;

They are cruel, they are thirsty

For the blood of my desire

Their jaws know no amnesty,

Their teeth despair inspire:

Sharp, venomous, full of doom

Into my soul they sink like gloom.

Dance with me, even as you grow cold

And a mask your face conceals;

I may not see through this façade of cool,

But, perhaps, my heart in my eyes reveals

To you the secrets of my soul,

Which I did not mean to share;

And, perhaps, it tells you all

That I know I'll never dare.

Dance with me, whatever us might befall:

On the tide of this waltz, its soft waves,

Let's pretend that we've forgotten all

That our past and future enslaves.

Sansa had once heard Ygritte say — her brother's girlfriend had then been speaking to someone else — that one should never drink to feel better, only to feel even better. Although Sansa hardly ever drank, and certainly never dreamed of solving her problems with alcohol — after all, she was the daughter of Catelyn Tully Stark — she retained her fellow-redhead's words and translated them onto things she craved when feeling blue: sweets, for instance. With rare exceptions, Sansa allowed herself lapses in diet only on festive occasions, never to cure woes; and she considered a day with Jaime nothing short of a festive occasion. Consequently, she surprised him by demanding they stop to get some ice cream, when she spotted an irresistible gelateria while they were walking along the quay. Armed thus with her favorite desert, they continued in their aimless wandering around the city, no less pleasant for its lack of purpose. Sansa had not suggested they should part ways, partly because she did not want Jaime to be alone; partly, because she would not cut short her time with him. To her surprise, he had not proposed that they turn back, either.

Ever since the inception of her friendship with the Tyrells and the Sands, Sansa had learned there was much pleasure to be had in walking around King's Landing, occasionally sitting down to enjoy a cup of tea or some other refreshment. It was a lovely enough past-time with her girlfriends, but, with Jaime, she felt she could wander the city for days and never get tired. Their walk was particularly pleasant because, departing from the quay, they found themselves in the very center of the city, where from grand avenues of a few centuries ago, like capillaries from arteries, spread winding little streets that had seen the medieval times come and pass. They were walking down one of these avenues, discussing a ballet the Targaryen Theater had once put on, long before it had gone under, and with which Sansa had only been acquainted through photographs and old video recordings of poor quality. She found out that day, however, that Jaime had actually seen the ballet and subjected him to a merciless catechism, at which he laughed — even as he supplied her with answers to all her questions. Her curiosity a little satisfied, they had passed to a discussion of that composition and were in the midst of an argument concerning the similarity of one of the pas in that ballet to one in The Fountain of Tears, when a male voice called:

"Jaime!"

Her companion turned around to locate the source of that voice in the crowd of the avenue. Following his gaze, Sansa discovered a tall, strong man, who looked to be in his fifties, coming toward them. Seeing that the intruder had not provoked displeasure in Jaime, Sansa was predisposed to like him. Indeed, the man had a pleasant, open face, and she was ready to grant that he was handsome — even if, in her opinion, he had nothing on Jaime Lannister.

"Arthur!" Jaime exclaimed, his voice welcoming.

The man, whom Jaime had called Arthur, approached them. He was dressed casually, and, in his hands, he carried a handless green shopping bag with a yellow rose — the recognizable symbol of the Tyrell organic foods empire. The men shook hands.

"Good to see you, Arthur," Jaime said in greeting.

"It's been a while," Arthur returned. "Why are you wet?"

Wet they were, indeed: both still looked nothing like respectable people ought to look when they go for a stroll in the city.

"Because," Jaime answered, and she knew he would take his revenge, "Miss Adventure here decided to jump off the Red Keep tower, and my mother did not raise me to leave a damsel in distress."

She rolled her eyes at his pun.

"Oh, please!.. I was doing perfectly fine…"

It was then that Arthur noticed Sansa standing next to Jaime and realized that she was not a passerby and that, moreover, she and his friend were well-acquainted and had been getting into trouble together before this chance meeting. Arthur's enlightenment was easily traceable on his features: his eyes began to round, and he looked from his friend to his companion with consternation, which would soon turn to utter astonishment.

"Arthur, this is Sansa Stark," Jaime introduced them, and she smiled at his friend, "Sansa, this is Arthur Dayne — "

Jaime was about to say something else, she thought, but Arthur did not give him the chance:

"Stark? Sansa Stark? Did you mean to say 'Karstark,' maybe?"

Sansa decided this was a good moment to intervene:

"I assure you, Arthur, Jaime has pronounced my last name correctly. I'm Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark."

Her pronouncement certainly produced a powerful effect: Arthur's shopping bag began to slip through his hands slowly as he stared at Jaime, helpless in his utter confusion; he caught it just in time before dropping it.

"Ned's daughter? Ben's niece?" he asked, then mumbled something along the lines of "from frying pan into fire" and "death wish," and laughed darkly. "I hope you remember how to use that sword, Lannister, because you might have need of it soon!"

Sansa looked at Jaime in a questioning way, but he only rolled his eyes and tried changing topics.

"Arthur is one of the greatest sword fighters of our time; he used to train me — "

"I sure trained you well," the man interrupted again, and Sansa noticed pride in his eyes, "I hear you are poised to win the championship once again this year? Shouldn't you give someone else a try, huh?" he winked, then turned serious once more: "But seriously, my man, what are you doing here with Ned's daughter?"

"She has a name," Jaime said, almost, it seemed, in warning.

"Oh…" Arthur made a long sound of surprise at Jaime's last statement, "she does, doesn't she?.." He continued, undaunted, however: "And a pretty one it is, too…" he chuckled. "I'll say: never did I think the day would come when I'd see you standing next to a Stark without looking thirsty for blood — "

"That's enough," Jaime interrupted, his voice assertive but not cutting or offensive, clearly in deference to his former teacher. Arthur looked back to Sansa:

"Please, little Lady Stark, tell me at least that you aren't running away — gods know, there's bad precedent for that in your family…"

Having no notion of what Jaime's friend meant, Sansa laughed.

"I don't know what you're referring to, but, I assure you, I'm not running away from anything or anyone: I work at the Lannister Ballet Company…" seeing him open his mouth, she added, "…with the full knowledge of my parents."

"Ah," was all Arthur Dayne had to say on that account. Then, his expression grew humorous: "And have you had the chance to meet other Lannisters as well, Sansa?"

"Of course. I know Tyrion quite well."

"Ah," came again from Arthur, "anyone else?"

"What are you up to, Arthur?" Jaime asked in a tired manner that poorly concealed his irritation.

The sparkle in Arthur Dayne's eyes grew positively malicious.

"Oh, I'm just wondering if Sansa has met your other relatives… Lord Tywin, perhaps?.."

Sansa decided to indulge him.

"I have met, I think, most of the Lannister family: I've had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Jaime's father and sister as well as his niece and nephew."

She thought that the way she had referred to Jaime's lover and children without so much as blinking could have been commended by the sliest liar in the Seven Kingdoms. Something shifted in Arthur Dayne's eyes, as if, his momentary shock now passed, he remembered himself:

"Very good, very good. Well, I must get back," he added hastily, as if in a hurry to efface himself, "I only ran out to get some groceries… Good running into you, Jaime," he said as they shook hands, "let's make sure you and I get a drink some time soon!" Then, he turned to Sansa: "It's lovely meeting you, Sansa Stark," he said, taking her proffered hand, but instead of shaking it, he gallantly pressed a kiss to her knuckles before winking at Jaime and walking away. Arthur Dayne made his way home with the pleasant image of Jaime Lannister's tense jaw muscles and the happy reflection that the era of Cersei Lannister had come to an end.

The pair that had inspired these pleasant reflections of Arthur's was meanwhile continuing down the avenue.

"I didn't know you won sword-fighting championships — or even that you participated in them," Sansa observed.

"Didn't think a ballet dancer would be tough enough for that?" Jaime taunted, but she detected a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"I never said that!" she protested, surprised by his train of thought. "I knew you were really good — I've seen you fight Bronn, and he's a professional bodyguard… I was just saying I didn't know you participated in championships — "
"…Or that I won them," he reminded her of her words.

She laughed.
"I'm sure the mighty Jaime Lannister would win every championship!.. My gods, Jaime! What vanity! "

The thin line briefly formed by his lips informed her that he was not amused by her taunts. Then, came revenge.

"Pride is one of the fundamental Lannister characteristics," he declared, "in the same way that foolhardiness and self-righteousness are passed on in the Stark family line — "

"I'd say the Starks are better off than the Lannisters!" defended she her house.

"And I'd say it's a wonder there are still any of you left with those kinds of tendencies," he countered.

"Must be doing something right!"
"Or maybe it's the luck of living in the North — only in such an honorable environment could you be expected to survive…"

Sansa laughed, because his words reminded her of the way uncle Ben had always cursed the South before he had returned to the North. She grew conscious — having noticed it a sufficient number of times over the past weeks — that Jaime could never quite resist smiling when she laughed, and this time was no exception.

"In spite of my terrible callousness," she said in a light tone, "I'm not actually surprised you win in these contests…"

I wish I could see you fight one of these days… she thought.

"Why's that?" he queried.

She shrugged her shoulders and ventured to say:

"I bet Tyrion's never missed a single championship of yours — "

That much was true, but he would not be so easily distracted.
"In order to counterbalance your callousness, as you so aptly described it," he said, "the least you can do is answer the question."

"Fine… You are one of these people who always seem to win, you know? Your father has that, too," she added.

He laughed with little mirth.

"Can you really say that, knowing what I've been up to recently?" he asked.

She blushed in some exasperation.

"I was merely making the observation that this is the way you appear to people."

Father and I certainly share more than the appearance of victory… Jaime suddenly reflected, and the faces of his mother and Cersei rose before him. When it comes to love, we both can speak to little but defeat.

Sansa noticed a change in his countenance. It had been some time now since last his eyes had grown empty in this way she had come to hate. She slipped her hand into his and returned to the conversation that Arthur Dayne's appearance had interrupted. With satisfaction, she soon noticed the blankness leave his face. She hoped that she would never see it again — but feared that she would, and for a long time.

They strolled awhile more in the city, their conversation dominated by animated discussions of ballet, but also taunts and laughter. In the evening, they settled in a small, but highly prized, Reach restaurant — Sansa's choice, on Jaime's insistence, since he had selected the place where they had lunched. She loved that restaurant — Little Delights, it was called — for the jovial but peaceful atmosphere, the half-light of its garden terrace where was cultivated an abundance of flowers and plants. Being a Reach restaurant, Little Delights certainly pleased with its food as well.

As they dined, the sun set, and the purple sky permeated the air, painting everything in the violet colors of itself, but its dye did not last, giving way to blackness, little by little. The waiters had lighted more candles, which glowed mysteriously in the semi-darkness of the city night. The Southern wind, softer than a child's kiss, twirled on the terrace, gently bended the small trees, caressing the wind chimes into singing magical chants. The night seemed to be a thing of volume, its air so warm, it rested faintly on one's shoulders, like a weightless fur-coat; and from somewhere in a short distance, came the heartbroken moans of melancholy violins. Sooner or later — neither one of them could have said — they became again aware of time, as, alas, one must. It was, perhaps, the emptiness of the terrace that had alerted them of the late hour; but the violins still played, as if their judgement of time was the more accurate one.

They were walking slowly down another avenue, not far from Little Delights, and thoughts of time's finite nature, the day's ending, and parting were not far from either of their minds. But still, they wandered — silent, as if, should they break the silence, obligations of mundaneness would encroach on them. They strolled onto Baelor Square, the largest piazza in the city. A sept had once stood there, but now, it was an open space in the historic center of King's Landing, paved with large, immaculately worked stone slabs: a favorite gathering place of street artists, musicians, other entertainers, tourists, and city-dwellers — all looking for the cheer of night life in the capital. It was from thence that the sound of violins had reached them when they had been seated at the restaurant. A group of violinists, accompanied by a cellist, were playing at the far end of the piazza, and some dancing couples had taken advantage of their music-making. As soon as Sansa had noticed the dancers, she was overwhelmed by a desire to join them. In this peaceful darkness, where laughter, cheers, and music compounded into a symphony of city-streets and where men and women danced in a casual enjoyment of their life-filled limbs and each other's embraces, she thought that she could pretend that Jaime was hers, if only for the few dances they would share — a dangerous but irresistible self-deception. She hesitated, all the same. Catelyn Stark had always been very clear, her gentle voice notwithstanding: women did not invite men to dance — they waited to be chosen. Arya, who had been present when Catelyn had been reminding her elder sister about such critical points of comportment on the eve of Sansa's débutante ball, had laughed outright: she would never have been able to carry a hunting knife, let alone her gun, she had said, if women always waited to be chosen by men to do things. Both Sansa and Catelyn had rolled their eyes at Arya's remark, but now, restrained from asking Jaime to dance by her mother's teachings, Sansa began to wonder if her sister had not been right — at least, as far as invitations to dances were concerned. Jaime's voice interrupted her musings:

"It seems we're doing a tour of my favorite places in the city today," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice before she turned to see it. She faced him.

"How so?"

"The dancers and the music players over there," he pointed, "the ones you've just been looking at… They are often here on warm nights like this. Never fail to enchant, do they?"

"I've never seen them here before," she said.

But then again, I'm rarely out this late…

"Well," Jaime announced, "since you're clearly too ill-mannered to invite me to dance, I guess I'll have to ask you," he winked at her.

She laughed, loving him more than ever in that moment. He offered her his hand; she took it. She thought they would come closer to the other dancers and the musicians, but Jaime's arm wrapped around her waist, bringing her to him, accelerating her heart beat; she placed her hand on his shoulder, and they began to waltz.

It's just like Jaime Lannister to assume that the whole square is his ballroom… she thought, smiling in spite of herself. She could lie; but she loved this about him — his presumption, befitting someone on whose sigil a lion roared his dominance. The bystanders made way for them, but there was hardly need for it: her partner's skill in maneuvering while dancing in a crowded space bespoke years of attending his father's galas.

"What makes you grin in this provocative way?" he asked, making her blush.

"I was thinking back to our discussion of Lannister… sense of self-importance," she responded.

"Were you now?"

The crowd had given up space for them; they had waltzed closer to the musicians, but remained far enough to move with great freedom. The observers and by-standers, who had found themselves between them and the other dancers, ceded their positions. The Lannister conquest of additional dancing space was complete. One couple now commanded half the piazza. She giggled.

"Yes, indeed, I was!.."

"And what brought on these reflections?" he inquired, smirking, his eyes agleam with humor.

"You know this expression, 'the world is your oyster?' "

"Of course, I do — what of it?"

"You think that every piazza is your private studio."

He laughed loudly, throwing his head back in his great mirth, yet never missing a step.

"I may think that it's true," he said, "but, in your case, I believe it ought to be true."

She thanked the uncertain illumination of streetlights for partially hiding her red cheeks from his observant eyes. Though they did ballet together five days a week, they had not danced like this — moving together without breaking from each other's embrace — since Tywin's gala. Sansa basked in the uninterrupted feeling of his shoulder under her palm, the touch of their joined hands, his arm wrapped around her, his hand on her waist. She loved being surrounded by his embrace, feeling small and protected yet drawing daring power from his strong body.

If I could ever make a wish that would come true, she thought, I'd wish to spend my life in his arms.

The waltz ended; they separated to applaud with the rest of the dancers and bystanders. There was a great deal of serenity, she reflected, in being among these nameless dancers, these nameless musicians, these nameless bystanders. Without names, could she fool herself into imagining that she had come here on her own and a dashing stranger, separating himself from the crowd, had invited her to dance? That nothing stood between them — neither past nor present? The musicians had rested for the few minutes they needed and started playing again. She looked to Jaime, who extended his hand to her once more; once more, she took it without hesitation, smiling her pleasure. They danced to the ebbing and flowing sounds of another waltz.

"Never would have thought you'd like dancing in the streets," Jaime remarked, smiling in that kind way that made her heart glow like one of the candles on the terrace of Little Delights.

I like dancing in the streets with you.

"Well, I do. I find the notion enchanting. No one said that dance belongs to the professionals: it's always been a folk entertainment."

He chuckled.

"In some of its cruder forms," he said, noticing her embarrassed look with satisfaction, "and, in this case, by 'crude' I mean 'unsophisticated.' "

She rolled her eyes and swatted him lightly on the shoulder, where her hand had been lying.

"You're the walking stereotype of what people imagine a Lannister to be like," she chided with laughter in her words.

"I'm not sure if I should be offended or pleased by the statement: on the one hand, you're from the North, and I doubt my family is held in high regard there; on the other, you've lived in the South long enough to know better."

You've known me long enough to know better, he meant to convey, it seemed.

"Well?" he inquired, taunting, smirking down at her, his eyes gentle, however, "which Lannister stereotype do I fit? The Northern or the Southern?"

Too late had she realized she should have held her tongue, but then again, she had never learned to quiet the devils that rose to spring from her lips whenever they spoke. She tried to be vague.

"The stereotype's the same; it's the attitude to it that's different."

But, of course, he would not let her get away so easily.

"Do tell."

His infernal grin provoked her.

"Oh, please, like you don't know!"

"Refresh my memory," he said, unapologetic in the satisfaction he visibly took from metaphorically backing her into a corner.
"The stereotype…" she hesitated, unwilling to expose herself to the merciless teasing that could follow; then, she grew curious to know exactly how cruel he would be, and her curiosity was not idle: not being a fool, she realized that her feelings could hardly go unnoticed forever — sooner or later, someone, perhaps Jaime himself, would discover them; already, Ellaria and Margery seemed to know, indeed, they seemed to have known before her — and she wondered just how much he would hold her feelings over her head. He did not strike her as cruel, much in contrast to his sister; still, she wished to know. She took another plunge that day, even though she was not brave enough to face him as she spoke: "The stereotype is that the Lannisters are these handsome, arrogant, impudent, unapologetic lions who succeed at everything without seemingly trying. The difference in the way it's perceived is that the Northerners think it makes you insufferable, and the Southerners seem to admire you for it."

"Let me be clear: you just said I fit all of these characteristics?"

She looked beyond his shoulder, seeing nothing at all.

"I did," she answered in the most careless tone she could assume.

"I see," Jaime said. Had she but kept her eyes on his, she would have remarked the keen interest he could not hide when, again, he posed the same question: "And to which of the perceptions — Northern or Southern — do you subscribe?"

Her sly plan to consider his possible reaction to her admiration suddenly no longer seemed that sly at all. She faced him, surprised that no teasing had followed her remark. Not yet, at least, she thought.

"Let's just say I find merits in both views."

He laughed.

"I hope you never break the law, minx," he said, out of the blue, she thought.

"Why?"

"I do not envy the officers of the City Watch who would be questioning you."

She shook her head in a way that was meant to convey she thought his latest joke silly.

"So," he began in a tone of someone who goes down a laundry list, "handsome, successful, arrogant, impudent, unapologetic, not particularly hardworking," he summarized; he sounded pleased enough with the first two, but in the measure that he progressed down the list, the satisfaction left his voice, as if the agglomeration of these features was not flattering. He sounded a little cold: "Makes one sound superficial, I must say…"

She groaned inwardly, noticing how he had tried to distance himself from the set of attributes. She had only meant to make a teasing remark, never expecting it to evolve into an entire discussion by the end of which he would be offended. Besides, she found it more difficult to trade barbs with him when she was in his arms: in these moments, she only wanted to close her eyes and lean her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, giving herself up to the pleasure of holding her body so close to his. She felt far gone on the waves of the tender waltz that made her mind drift a little into a state in which feeling — rather than thought — dominated. She sighed. Jaime had had a long twenty-four hours, and she had not been, frankly, always considerate of his feelings during the day they had spent together. She meant to be brave for her own purposes; she should also have meant to appease him. His sister had bruised him enough — she, Sansa, had no business poking at the injuries he had sustained. She smiled in an indulgent way, and, suddenly, her fear was gone.

"I said that you fit the Lannister stereotype perfectly — you do, at first glance. I was referring more to the way passersby could have thought of you as you designated the square for your own. I never said that I think there's nothing more to Jaime Lannister than the family stereotype."

She smiled at him, noticing that he looked surprised — and a little suspicious, as if he expected her words to be an introduction to yet another jibe; she hoped this was more out of habit to be despised than because he expected hurtful words from her, but, all the same, she felt sudden anger at the world that had dubbed him 'Kingslayer,' forgetting for a moment that her father and uncle had led this effort. It was this anger that prompted her to say more — certainly more than she had intended.

"When I first met you," she smiled gently into his unusually serious face, "I thought you an arrogant monster… Now, don't glare at me, you know very well you make a fine impression of it!" She laughed. "Even then, though, I had no illusions about your work ethics — you make it look easy, the perfection with which you dance, but I know (as any professional dancer does) that it's simply not possible to achieve this only by virtue of talent, and that merciless practice is how you got to where you are. So, I said: 'seemingly without trying.' Over time, I also learned that you're kind, that you love your brother and your children, that you treat your colleagues with consideration, and that compassion and generosity are a part of who you are. And I'll not forget that you were the one who encouraged me, believed in me — who was nothing to you and whom you could have treated harshly without consequences — and how you made me believe in myself when my own family doubted my abilities…" she smiled fondly: "You're kind of like Tommy and Cella, now that I think of it: if someone is only revealed your story… Well, people might not be kind… But then, when one meets them — or you — suddenly, the story doesn't really matter that much…"

Perhaps, it was as well that the music had stopped then, for she might have said more; and, anyway, it seemed that her words had not produced the desired effect: halfway through her brief speech, she had noticed something flash in his eyes and thought she would see… something; instead, an unreadable mask had descended on his face; his eyes had not been empty: worse, almost, they had been the eyes of a bewildered stranger, who had seemed to see her as if for the first time, then his whole face had seemed to have become stone, not a single muscle permitted to move under the power of the emotionless mask. She had only had a glimpse of it before the music had stopped. Abruptly, he released her, as if she had burned him. He turned toward the musicians to clap — turned away from her — and she could no longer see his face. She watched his tense shoulders, wondering why her complimentary words had wrought so formidable a change. She did not glimpse the chaos revealed when the mask had shattered; the chaos produced by the earning, the anger, the desire, and the arrogance that were warring behind green eyes.

Jaime had never believed himself to be easily affected — particularly not by words. With a father and, later, a reputation like his, it would have been madness to care for words at all. He should not be affected by the words of a slip of a girl… No. He should not be affected by Sansa's words. Perhaps, he should not have been — but he was. She was speaking, her voice pouring into his ears like sweet, purifying honey — poison for a man like him. Where, in which one of the Seven Hells, had she found the power to speak, as it seemed to him, past his ears, directly into his soul? Where along his drunken road to his company's building — or, perhaps even, his road from Essos to see her for the first time — had he lost his ability to shrug off words, laughing only at the most scorching ones? What deviltry had placed before him this strange creature with huge blue eyes that were as beguiling as they were blameless; whose innocence, it seemed, made it a damnation to take advantage of that guilelessness even as it enticed and seduced? When had kindness become a disarming weapon? Since when had it stopped being a liability, a means of easily stealing victory from the gullible? Since when had she acquired the power to move him so with words that ought to have meant nothing, nothing at all? Had he not suffered enough that after throwing his heart like a tennis ball to a lustful whore, fate had decided to let it roll to the feet of an oblivious girl he dared not look at too long for fear his gaze might sully her? And why, in moments when he hated her for her angelic tyranny, he could not help but love her?
Love her.

He did not. He would not.

The music had stopped, as had the blood interrupted its flow through his frozen veins. It was an illusion, an optical illusion induced by her blue eyes. He only had to turn away from her, and the spell would be broken. He did turn away, something like madness breaking through the surface of green irises. But the spell she had cast retained its power even after her face was no longer in front of him, even after he briefly closed his eyes, cursing fate, an evil bitch with sadism for a sense of humor. As if his rage at the goddess of fortune had frightened the deity and she had sought to appease him, a certain quiet resignation descended softly on him, like a panther landing gently on his shoulders. He almost laughed — at himself, at the world, and at the power of the goddess he had offended twice in one day. Of course, he was destined to suffer from the love of extremes.

The musicians were set on taking a longer break, it appeared, from the way they drank wine, fumbled with their instruments, and talked to each other and the bystanders. Sansa took a hesitant step forward, coming shoulder to shoulder with Jaime, glancing at his face, afraid of what she would see. Not finding either emptiness or anger in his eyes, she smiled, a little sheepishly, still uncertain how the words that came from her heart — and, she thought, contained nothing to rouse anger or give offense — had affected him so strangely. She looked more closely at his expression: it had something of the derisive mirth she had seen in his face before.

"I meant every word I said," she ventured, "you are a good person."

The derision began to leave his face, but she thought it was replaced by melancholy. He smiled a smile broken by that wistfulness and said, in a quieter voice than usual:

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?"

"It's not about my thinking anything! You might have grown used to people wrongly considering you dishonorable and unkind, but I haven't. And I — "

He took her hand, his fingers closing around hers with more strength than she had expected, but without violence, causing her no pain.

"Minx," he said, his voice tense, "you ought to stop — " he paused, the derisive half-smiled zipped across his lips once more, and his tone grew humorous, although it did not lose its strain, "or your praise might go to my head." He let go of her hand.

"All right, all right — I'll say no more…" she acquiesced.

"I'm mostly concerned for your reputation," he added, humor overtaking the strain, "imagine if any of the good Northerners ever heard you go on like this about the Kingslayer…"

She smiled a crooked smile, and came a little closer. He pulled back — just a little, just as much as his pride would ever permit him, even where self-preservation was concerned.

"I'd tell them to go to the Seventh Hell if they objected," she said with quiet determination.

He laughed, trying to shake off the unwittingly seductive power of her quiet voice. The musicians had begun playing a foxtrot, and her face reflected her awareness of the music that had announced her favorite ballroom dance. Her expression was not lost on him.

"Come, minx, it seems these musicians still have wind in them for another tune…"

She took his proffered hand, he wrapped his arm around her waist, and they began to dance again. He should have avoided holding her body close to his again; he should have… Ah, he should have done anything he could to put much needed distance between them… But he saw her eyes and the eagerness to dance that was in them. If the Crone had interrogated him, he would have said he only wished to please the minx — and the goddess may have rightfully sent him to the deepest of the Seven Hells for insulting her wisdom by so blatantly covering the whole truth with half-truths. The whole truth consisted in that — notwithstanding the turmoil in his soul, which certain brutal revelations had occasioned, and disregarding that in distance lay a semblance of refuge — he wanted, without justification, like one desires the cessation of pain, to hold her in his arms when his mind and soul had shatter.

The musicians had wind in them for several more tunes, and they danced to all of them, but he had grown silent, and she, unnerved by the effect of her last monologue, did not try engaging him in conversation. When the music had died and the instruments had been laid to rest in their cases, they walked back across Baelor Square. In silent agreement, they re-traced their steps slowly down the avenues, along the quay. It was in the emptiness of dark streets that she had fully grasped the lateness of the hour. As if she could hear the striking of a clock, she felt the pulsing of time pull her back from the day that had twirled her into a strange place where clocks did not exist at all… Now, mundaneness, like an evil force freed by the clock-face, pulled at her. It was late, very late — too late for her to be out alone with a man, especially one for whom she felt so strongly with so little encouragement. The hour had struck — she had to submit to it and go. She shared the latter conclusion with her companion in a small voice. He nodded.

She wondered at his taciturnity while they made their way to his apartment building. A sleepy valet brought them his car and bade them goodnight.

Jaime moved to sit behind the wheel, and then she broke the silence:

"Please say you won't drive very fast," she pleaded.

He smirked, but it was half-hearted.

"Or you'll commandeer my car keys again?"

"What?!" she exclaimed in unbound indignation, "You gave them to me! I did not ask for them!"

And my heart? he could have retorted, you did not ask for it either, I suppose. You'd say I gave it freely… But you've appropriated it with an uncharacteristic remorselessness.

He was considerate of her fear, however, and did not drive very fast — for him, that is, since, still, he drove faster than anyone else she had ever had the misfortune of riding with. The car braked softly next to her apartment building. He made to get out, but she placed her hand on his arm to stop him.

"I'd rather you didn't walk me to the door," she said.

His eyebrows rose.

"Why's that?" he asked in suspicious perplexity.

She smiled.
"Allow me one caprice I don't have to explain," she bargained.

He settled back into the seat.

"As you wish."

She smiled.

"Will you be all right?" she inquired, a little timidly.

It was his turn to smile.

"Yes, minx, between your Northern herbs and amusing companionship, I'll be just fine," he said in a lighter tone.

But if I were frank, I'd say I've passed from the sixth to the seventh hell in twenty-four hours. At least, the way lay through paradise.

She gave him one last reassuring smile and left the car, closing the door softly behind her. She had not wanted him to walk her to the door — the memories of the last time he had done so were none too pleasant; she wanted new ones: a memory of turning back to see his sports car speed off into the night, for instance, like dreams rush out into morning sky when we wake. But when she turned to look behind her before crossing the threshold, the car and he were still there.

She was at her front door, when she had become aware of her faulty memory: she had left her keys and her phone in the glove compartment of his car when she had sat behind the wheel in the morning. Thinking that he had probably already left, she tried ringing the doorbell, but Tyene, unsurprisingly, was not at home. Sansa cursed silently, then rushed down the stairs, hoping that, perhaps, by some strange luck, she might catch him. To her surprise, when she exited the apartment building, she discovered the black sports car where she had left it. She approached it, noticing that Jaime looked lost in thought. She knocked lightly on the window, slightly startling him. Immediately, the window rolled down, the door was unlocked.

She opened it, giving him an embarrassed smile.

"I've forgotten my keys and phone," she explained, as she sat down into the seat and reached into the glove compartment, extracting her belongings. "Why are you still here?" she asked by the way.

"Waiting for your to come back for your phone and keys, minx," he said, but his tired voice did not convince her of the genuineness of his jape. She smiled, all the same.

"Good night, Jaime," she said softly.

Something in his tired, defeated voice made her bold in her hopeless wish to chase away the clouds from the sky of his mind; she would later explain to herself that she had been sleep deprived; that, having spent a night with him asleep, she had grown too bold, too familiar; that she had been too overcome by the feelings that had jumped and jumped in her heart that whole day; that, really, she could not help it…

He was looking straight ahead, his profile to her; she leaned toward him and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. She dashed from the car and walked away without turning back, her heart fluttering.

However did I dare?

This time, when she had crossed the threshold of the building's entrance door, she heard the purring of the engine and the screech of tires as the car tore off. She ascended the stairs the second time, entering her flat in a quotidian way that did not reflect her extraordinary day. As soon as she had crossed the threshold, however, mundaneness drowned her, and she was pierced with a terrifying thought:

I haven't called mother all day!

In a rush, she looked at her phone. Twenty-five missed calls from mother alone, nineteen from father; twenty-three texts from Jon, eleven from Robb; more texts and calls fairly equally distributed between the rest of her family (even a few from Arya), her brothers' girlfriends, and her King's Landing friends.

Oh, no!..

It was almost three in the morning. She couldn't exactly call her parents this late…

She settled for sending a group text to her mother, father, siblings, Ygritte, and Talisa. The rest of the world could wait. Jon, it seemed, however, would not: no sooner had the group text been sent than her phone exploded with ringing. Sighing, she picked up, feeling remorseful that Jon had stayed up waiting for her call when he was so busy at med-school and needed sleep.

"Sansa? Are you all right? Are you hurt? Has something happened?"

Jon was quiet by nature, and his voice rarely sounded much above the gruff, quiet tone she was used to; but now he was frantic, and his voice, less gruff than ordinarily, was filled with more sound than usual.

"Jon, Jon!" she called, frightened almost by his panic. "I'm all right! All right, do you hear me?"

She could hear his release of breath, and when next he spoke, he sounded almost normal.

"What's with your phone?.. What happened?"

She could not imagine a more difficult question to answer.

"It's… a friend of mine," she began uncertainly, "he… something happened, and he needed support; I've spent the day with him, but I had forgotten my phone…"

There was a pause; she prayed Jon would not ask more questions. Her prayers went unanswered.

"He?" Jon pounced on the main point of interest like a hawk, his tone a little teasing but still very much concerned. "I don't remember you ever having many he-friends…"

"I don't have many, but I do have some…" she said evasively.

"Who's this he? And how were you supporting him at three in the morning?"

Mother, Maiden, and Crone!

"Oh my gods, Jon! We just had dinner and danced in a square! Nothing happened!"

"Who's this he?" Jon repeated, somewhat assuaged by her answer.

"You don't know him," she lied, praying that her brother, unused to hearing anything but the truth from her would buy into her deceit; and it was not a complete lie — Jon had only seen Jaime once; he didn't really know him; not knowing him, Jon would never understand why she had spent the entire day — and half the night — with him. And, if she told the whole truth, nothing — nothing! — would prevent Jon from coming down to "check on her," possibly with Robb in tow, with the intent of telling Jaime Lannister to stay away from their little sister.

"Does 'he' have a name?" her brother kept probing.

Jaime did not need angry Stark brothers coming down on him just now. She sighed.

"His name's Jay," she answered, using with a smile Tyrion's nickname for his elder brother.

"Hmmm…" came from Jon, but he was satisfied, for now; she heard him sigh. "You know mother and father are in a frenzy? I don't know if they were even able to sleep tonight — the whole family's worried sick, you know that, San? I only got all of them to go to bed by promising I'd keep trying to get in touch with you and that I'd fly out immediately if anything was wrong or I didn't hear from you by morning…"

She sighed guiltily.

"I'm sorry…"

She heard him smile.

"Well, get ready for tomorrow: you've lots of explaining to do to lots of worried people."

The benefits of a big family…

"I know."

"All right, then. Sleep well, sis."

"Good night, Jon. Love you."

Gods only know how will I ever fall asleep tonight.