Part II: The Mending
She wakes up; she is still alive, but in a different bed. She wonders how she got there. She supposes she was guided, but her memories are so splintered she doesn't know. She sits up, and feels a silky shift on her body as she wraps her arms around it. It's light, and doesn't hurt. That's all she cares about in the moment. She just doesn't want to feel hurt.
She blinks at the light, and stares at it for a long time. She wonders if she's able to breathe, or if she's stopped, and she's died somehow, and time stopped, and everything has become all light and glass. She gulps, and puts a trembling hand up to her face, feeling the cut the glass made. How bad is the scar? Is it terribly, awfully bad?
She turns half-way in the bed, and gasps and startles, seeing her face staring back at her part ways in a hand mirror. The cut across her cheek is an ugly red, and her hair is sheared off, like a boy's. She could cry over seeing herself that way. She turns and pulls the covers back over her face, whimpering softly. All the memories of the night before wash over her, and she feels unable to move.
After a little while, though, she begins to feel a growling sensation in her stomach, and her nose is tickled by the scent of something sweet and buttery. She peers out from under the covers, and sees a table a little away…and she knows there's food there. She is frightened, but also very hungry, in spite of herself. She might well have gone a whole day and a half since her last meal. It starts to lure her out of her hole like a little mouse, wary of a trap but desperate for crumbs.
She sits down before the table, and starts to nibble on a piece of rosemary bread with butter and jam. Then she starts to eat what tastes like some sort of pastry with soft cheese and powdered sugar. She finds herself forgetting all the terrible things that have happened for one blessed moment as the tastes delight her senses. She's about to reach for the golden apple in the bowl of fruit when she hears footsteps and jerks around, preparing to run.
"Oh, good, you're awake." It's the half man, observing her good-naturedly.
But she begins to panic, thinking she will be branded for eating palace food, now that is nothing but a piece of street trash, a prostitute. "Please…please don't tell him, please…" She wrings her sugar-stained hands. "I…I don't want him…come back…not so soon, please…"
"Lady Sansa, there's no need," he calms her kindly. "He's not coming back. And the food is for you to have. It's…for both of us. It's our breakfast." Carefully, he takes his seat across from her.
At first, she keeps her eyes turned down, but then she starts to watch him, eating and talking at the same time, in a way that might normally have turned her off. He is a messy eater; he licks his fingers, spills the wine as he drinks it, and is babbling on and on at a rapid, breathless pace. She watches it all, with wary eyes, feeling as if she is very, very far away, as if it is all a very distant dream.
Then she feels a desire to touch. Numbly, dumbly, she fumbles her hand over to his and clutches it. She has no particular plan behind it, no clear intent. It is for its own sake. She doesn't know why, but it feels good, and she keeps wanting to feel it. He looks at her quizzically, and her own propriety returns. She blushes bright, and pulls her hand back across the table, biting her lip.
But his own hand has quickly reached after hers, and is holding it in place. "It's alright, Sansa," he tells her gently. "You don't have to be afraid to touch."
"I…I didn't mean to…to be…"
"It doesn't always hurt," he cuts her off, and squeezes her hand tenderly. "It doesn't, see? You can touch me like this, and I can touch you back, and it doesn't hurt." She sensed in him a trembling, of guilt, of sorrow, of loneliness. "I won't ever let anyone touch you to hurt you again. You must…must believe me. I'm more powerful than I look. I'm smarter than the people who hurt you, and I can keep you safe. You'll never be hurt by a man's touch again."
She looks at their hands together, an odd pairing, no doubt. It's strange, but he's right, it doesn't hurt. He's her enemy, as his blonde Lannister hair makes abundantly clear, but she feels like he's the only one she can trust, almost like a helpless child automatically trusts a parent. It's silly, it's very silly, but she lets her logic fall by the wayside, and lets herself pretend she's sure of being safe.
"But Sansa…Sansa, dear…I must tell you…"
He hesitates, and her senses prick up. She swallows, ill at ease.
"I may convince them to let me keep you, keep you here and away from him, but only…" He paused.
Her eyebrows knit. "You would have me…in his place?" Oh, he was like all the others. This is what men always wanted. "You want me…for your whore?"
"I would tell them that, yes, and they may give you to me, to disgrace your family name," he conceded. "But…I will not touch you. I swear it."
She stares at him, disbelieving. "Why…would you not…touch?"
"Because…" His look is shamed. "I want us to be…friends."
"Friends…?"
"Yes, Sansa. You need friends. I can be a friend to you. I can be good…" Again, that look of severe guilt. "Would it not be better to pretend disgrace then live it, with Joffrey?"
She bites her lip. "I don't want to…to see him…ever again."
"Then it's settled. You'll be under my protection, and I won't let him near you again, understand?"
She doesn't completely, but she nods reluctantly. Even if he breaks his promise and wants her all for himself, she can't see him being nearly as cruel as his nephew about it. Otherwise, he surely would have made use of her the night before. But he just doesn't have that sort of evil in his eyes. Indeed, at the moment, she doesn't see any lust in them either, just a certain yearning to be given a chance to prove himself. And even if her judgments had been appalling in the past, she seemed to have no choice but to trust them now.
When the meal is done, he goes out about his business, but tells her to stay, and knows it's for her own safety's sake. So she stays, spending most of the day in bed, drifting between uneasy sleep and uneasy waking. But the sheets and mattress feel nice and safe, and she tries to dream.
Later that even, when it's dark, she hears the music from a party. Her mind drifts back to Winterfell, and she curls herself tight, bunched up like a ball in bed. She whimpers like a little wolf cub, left all alone in a cave, without father or mother to protect her or other cubs to comfort her.
Then she hears someone come in, and tightens more. But it's just him. She wonders why he's returned early from a party, and from the steadiness of his steps, not even drunk. She shifts and meets his eyes watching her.
"Sansa," he whispers her name. "It's alright; you can sleep. He's not coming back here."
"You're right, no one will come…come looking for me," she shudders. "Two years ago, at Winterfell, I…I had my coming out. Father was so proud…I was pure, I was a virgin…he said I was prettier than any princess. But I…I'm all used up now, and ugly…I'm so ugly, no one would touch me, oh, oh, I wish he'd torn my whole face off, and I'd have bled out and died…"
"You're not ugly," he says softly.
"You expect me to believe…you?" She catches herself only after the words are out, and turns red seeing the way it makes him blink, as if she had scratched his heart.
"They say ugly men can beauty best," he responds steadily.
She curls up again, burying her face in her knees. She's quiet for a long time, and then manages, "I…I didn't mean…to be rude."
"Sansa, it…it doesn't matter. Truly. I'm not delusional about myself."
"But…you're the only one here who hasn't…" She rubs her knee cap distractedly. "I should…be nice to you…"
"You don't owe me anything," he blurts. "Hell, child, you don't deserve anything that's happened to you. Common decency does not deserve reward."
She looks at him for a long time, somewhat puzzled, somewhat suspicious, still curled up, and starts shivering. She doesn't know what to do with herself, or with him.
"Would you like me to leave?" he asks gently.
"And go where?" she rasps. "This…this is your room…your bed."
"Can always buy myself a bed," he chortles, and she knows what he means. He's surely had more than enough experience at how brothels work. But…for some reason, she doesn't want him to go there. Not tonight.
She closes her eyes. "I'm afraid to sleep…all by myself…"
His look softens. "Would you like…me to climb in?"
She doesn't answer, but moves over to make room for him all the same. She doesn't know way, but she needs someone else in the bed, and she imagines it's partly because the aloneness with drive her mad and partly because as long as he's there, Joffrey won't be. But she still worries nevertheless.
"Will the king…try to take me back…just because…just to…to hurt me?" she queries.
"Not with this dwarf in your bed," he assures, half tongue in cheek, half deathly earnest. "He knows better than to try me too far for all his vile cravings."
She quiets, and without half thinking about it, finds herself nuzzling her face into his chest, resting it there. She doesn't know him, doesn't know this little man, and all she's heard of him from her side has been ill. But she needs him, and for some reason…she trusts him. She's beginning to think he couldn't bring himself to harm her, even if he tried.
"Why are you kind to me?" she murmurs.
He's running his fingers through her hair as he talks. "Broken things," he whispers. "I'm one of them. And I can't…turn away from them. I do what I can, when I can, to help them mend…"
