⊰ oftarth ⊱

         “     not often,     ”     comes the answer, quick && unchecked in the woman’s throat that she finds herself swallowing back what other words she had been about to give voice. there is no solace in her words. the events they had both surpassed seem to trump every other thought in her mind. even through dreams do they return to her now, a flicker of light ‘cross a vast expanse of darkness. that flicker of light: jaime lannister. his scream had been because of her. it echoes in her mind. wave ‘pon wave of that shrill cry, layer 'pon layer of volume till she believe her ears may bleed. && she shakes her head to clear those thoughts for her mind. mayhaps it is no matter to her, yet it overcomes all others. again, her mind’s eye forces her senses to relive the tugs: knuckles in her stomach: blood at the edge of her lip, corner torn by keen, unkempt nails, just like the rest of the cloth: shells discarded somewhere unknown —- by the river they may still lay.

         this warrior —- no lady by any means, though neither a man: perhaps a sow in silk —- knows all sacrifices. has only recently learned to have a one for herself, && it pains her.     “     our travels afforded no time to speak of family.     ”     the lannister family. of his father she had heard the one-handed threaten, but it had not come through since fever overtook his body && turned his skin hot. is tyrion like his older brother? does he know of sacrifice? does he know of pain? she would like to know.     “     i would like to hear of him. he has graced you well?     ”

          Discomforted swallow met such terse dismissal, the girl’s eyes briefly averting with silent apology. Throughout her time in Joffrey’s court she quickly learned how best to tell when offense was offered and, most importantly, how best to make amends. So long spent in close company with Lannister kingslayer surely tried this woman-knight greatly, a stress no doubt compounded by the wrongness of his freedom. What madness had entered her brother’s mind?! None should ever know, alas, that Frey treachery stealing from Robb any chance to explain, to change, to win. His last lingering act in this world an unchained captive, delivered unconventionally, death removing all inclination or need for reciprocation. 

             “Of course. Your weeks upon the road must have proved quite trying, my lady; I cannot imagine what difficulties and horrors you surely encountered along the way.” Demons that remove hands. For certainly when Ser Jaime Lannister came calling upon Winterfell all those moons ago, it was with two hands that he arrived and left. Auburn brows furrowed. Had Lord Tyrion graced her well? Did it recommend a man, to not fall into what sadistic cruelty so delighted former betrothed? Ought she not expect gentleness from any lord or lady of good breeding? “He has respected my mourning nobly,” she admitted. “And takes no undue pleasure in what horrors these battles and conflicts have birthed.” But oh, how I wish to return home! “He says we are to visit Casterly Rock when this wedding has passed; though ‘tis far larger than my father’s keep, I do wish Lord Tyrion might allow me to see it once again…someday…”

⊰ @bloodthirstyviper ⊱

        Introduction stood utterly superfluous, reputation well preceding the storied warrior-prince who had arrived to witness Joffrey’s nuptials. In another year — another life — Sansa might have delighted in his visit, endearing curiosity compelling her to gush over songs of his valor and entreaty him for a first-hand tale. Yet grief had stilled her tongue and numbed her heart, the girl now only waiting, fingers bloodied and sore from clinging to a final hope. Even the company of one with as much cause to detest lions as she could not, would not, draw her from mournful reverie. 

             “Prince Oberyn, I do hope you are enjoying yourself. How different the castle must seem from when last you came to call.”

⊰ ofoath ⊱

          in the least expected of moments. as though not every moment, for this warrior woman, is unexpected, for she had not seen herself ‘pon the harder levels of the landing. her father had sent her to renly, to serve ‘neath renly, not to watch him fall, but to protect him. ( && she had failed him, had seen with her very eyes the perfection of the world collapse in blood && darkness, had shed many a bitter tear for her fallen king, for the only man who ever had sense to be kind to her —- but perhaps it had been his lack of sense after all. ) failure, stupid, beautiful.

          her expression hardens, a gestures so small that a hair’s breadth’s movement is all that might be noticed to the most well-trained eye. dispelled are those thoughts, replaced with the auburn-haired girl’s fair words.     “     i’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him, my lady,     ”     she says, && the lace of true regret lies in her voice. no foul words has she believed of him thus far —- perhaps only due to the savior brother, who had spared her of loses far worse than her life.     “     though i would surely like to make his acquaintance during my stay.     ”

          Ah, but one trained for battle would never expect the spinning warmth of a traditional courtship, no? For as this warrior woman of Tarth spent an entire girlhood rejecting the wiles which often served to advance and endear ladies of gentle birth, Sansa instead pursued them with noted zeal. Chivalry and romance, fine clothes and candlelit banquets, no facet of noble life could possibly expect to surprise a young lady who had been raised to expect such compfort. It was all that existed beyond her song-filled lie which served to provide shock, hurt, change. An opponent’s blade might fall with more surety to deep blue eyes than any suitor’s overtures. 

             Sansa noticed not how placid assurance ossified her companion. Since untimely marriage she offered platitudes blindly, every word she spoke devoid of meaning yet ever relevant. For some her mere residence behind carmine walls signified an insult to their rightful king, the traitor’s daughter lingering long after his misdeeds had come to light. Only the Imp seemed to value her presence at all, a dubious honor at best that passed utterly unacknowledged. “Oh, he is very…clever.” Most lords at court preferred conniving, though such a sentiment did not merit sharing. “No doubt Ser Jaime spoke of him often in your travels together?”

⊰ ofoath ⊱

        “     i’m afraid that is a thing that may never be granted to one such as myself, my       lady.     ”     for it is with the soothing touch in her voice that the warrior woman delivers the line. for so long she has been through hell, been through the smaller brawls && the larger battles, followed as much in mind as it had been delivered in body that her spirit now carries a wild stone of its own, that it might wield it as armor ‘gainst the cold terrors of the world. no longer does the sun shine ‘cross the land, nor does its warmth penetrate the deepest crevasses: only darkness lurks, only evil lingers.

         heavy ‘pon the warrior’s shoulders does it weigh, subtle meaning the drive which wipes the slate of her countenance clean of her fleeting thoughts. syllables uttered at the quick: surely from them is borne an explanation.     “     my life is better with a sword at my side. there is no man for my eye but a hilted blade, && i believe it will always be that way.     ”     there is no brevity of tone, no mark at the end to hint at a veiled untruth: only the tilted steel of speech which knows no other, the lack of pliancy.     “     but you’ve an ideal marriage,     ”     if such a word can be used,     “     && i am glad to see your face not downcast by it. to be married is a wondrous occasion, i should think.     ”

          Younger sister once believed herself beyond the reach of wedded match as well; though this blonde warrior possessed an even greater plainness, there remained matters of land, titles, inheritance to settle. Tarth stood an enviable dowry, one which might compel any traditionally inclined suitor to overlook his armored bride’s eccentricity. Mayhaps he would even come to care for her; had their father not looked on Arya’s boyish pursuits with affection, some measure of approval? That this woman would marry Sansa had no doubt — she only prayed that it would be to one who valued the rarity he had been given. 

              “Oh, but you mustn’t despair, my lady,” she murmured, though tone carried no trace of grief. “Some find love far longer after those about them. It might fall upon you in the least expected of moments.” Willas once seemed such a blessing, a late Winter bloom bursting from frost-bitten ground; yet the promise of him vanished as readily as it appeared, more cruel jape than divine gift. Assurance of another’s happiness then came from that final blind faith in stories come true, though all songs had died for her. “Her Grace showed me a great kindness. Have you met Lord Tyrion, my lady?”

⊰ ofoath ⊱

          as a heart shaped more closely to that of steel than of wine, the warrior woman can dare say she hardly cares whether or not an invitation to festivities is granted her, but certainly she will never disclose such a thing. so long as good fortune lends a place in the better will of those ‘round her, so she will keep to that fortune, pick && choose her words carefully, regard what she will with respect && charity: anything that she needs to get by.

          “     as you say,     ”     comes her reply, soft through the depths of her waves. agreement comes not naturally to her, && yet comes more naturally than many other things; settled anger courts her mind in judgment to all in the field. to those outside those boundaries, kindness finds the edges frayed enough to crawl into the spaces. it hides there, in the softness of her eyes offered to the young woman before her. a great innocence indeed, mirrored between the both of them, though there is too the cloud of difference.     “     but what of your good grace? this city finds happiness despite these wars; i hope you have.     ”

          Softness one saw rarely in Joffrey’s court, forgotten or else hidden away by all those wise enough to know of its diminished aid. Noble intrigue gave no quarter, allowed for no quarter given amongst competitors both wily and ruthless; daggers lurked behind warm smiles, all innocence an act intended to lure in any so foolish as to believe it. Yet this woman lacked the veneer common to other southron highborns, polished until they seemed more statue than human; though motive’s details Sansa could not always reconnoiter, still she sensed their utter lack within knightly demeanor. 

             “I have recently known the honor of a wedded match,” she murmured, proud at how little bitterness seeped into lilting tones. “To marry the king’s uncle stands a greater privilege than one of my…history might dare aspire to.” Oh, but the wolf would not be made a mockery of. Cersei and her pride of avaricious lions thought to land a great coup in their hurried union between dwarf and girl, yet soon she would fly free — free! — with no child to grant him claim, and no tracks which he might follow in woeful pursuit. Only such hope, and a delicate net of purple stones wrapped tightly at the bottom of her trunk, maintained her resolve through unending grief. “No doubt you too shall know such joy one day.”

⊰ madeofwildfire ⊱

silkssongsandchivalry:

---

                                                     ⊱♕ 𝓠𝓾𝒆𝒆𝓷  𝑦𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 ♕⊰

---

         Cersei Lannister then smiled, a ghost of a smirk tickling at the corners
         of her mouth to bring them upwards like a mad man would.  She can
         almost feel the girl stiffen underneath her cold touch–   and she revels
         in each moment of it.  She  can nearly feel the willpower leaking out of
         every pore,  sinking the girl further into a sea of sadness.  Taking each
         strand and carefully securing it under another one,  her slender fingers
         bind together a braid she had learned in her younger days. She would
         never forget the way mother’s hands guided hers, the way the warmth
         radiated throughout her. She had not known it would not last for much
         longer, how could a naive girl have known that? That was when she’d
         vowed she would  never  be unprepared.  She would not rest on the
         unknown, she would regain each fragile fragment of truth and piece it
         together to form one truth.

              ❝ You would tell me however,  would you not?  You’d SING
                     your beautiful tales to me were he treating you with anything,
                     but the utmost of respect? He knows you are a wolf.  Knows
                     you cannot be trusted before blood has been purified, before
                     enough time has passed to heal the wounds of your heart. ❞

      She speaks as if her words would actually help,  as if they’d bring consolation
      to the girl.  With each sentence another piece of hair gets TUGGED AT,  more
      and more forcibly when pressure is added on words. And with each tight knot
      she forms,  she seals their fates together.  Daughter had long since gone & all
      she’d been left with was  a little dove  with a wounded wing she had no desire
      to help heal.  She wished to break it,  captivate it and  COMMAND  it to carry
      messages.  She would train it to be a CROW, one she could rely on,  one she
      knew would always return to her. Perhaps Sansa Stark could yet become her
      most prized asset. — Or perhaps not. She’d not yet made up her mind.

          Queenly braiding felt as though a dozen ice spiders, smaller than the monsters that once captivated Bran, skittered down her neck, crawling beneath her gown to nestle at spine’s base. Cersei corrupted even this, a daughter’s pleasure in the quiet moments shared with her mother, now cut away ‘neath a murderous blade. She sat still as a doe in hunter’s woods, muscles rigid, awaiting the tang of bow which signaled her doom. For many months now Sansa favored hairstyles less ornate, impressions of a traitor’s daughter less imperative than those of a future queen; each sweep of hands pulled along her scalp, forcing the girl to wonder if even in this Her Grace preferred pain and fear to love. Yet how alike lioness and wolfing otherwise stood, enough so that camaraderie might serve them better than strife, lives hurtling down paths parallel and intersected by self-same tragedy. Youthful idolatry had not lost its sting, betrayal a sickly sweet taste upon her tongue, fruit left to ripen into bulbous decay. 

             “I would not wish to disparage Your Grace’s brother; surely all husbands and wives encounter some manner of…difficulty during their union. ‘Tis not my place to criticize or chastise what must amount to a great effort on his part. To wed one of traitor’s blood presents a great burden, one mightier than perhaps the heir to Casterly Rock ever dared think to bear. But I am heartened, my queen, to know you think of me with such concern. A daughter— a daughter ought not enter into marriage without her mother’s guidance.” 

             No, I shan’t tell you. A Lannister nonetheless, Lord Tyrion had treated her most kindly of them all; no matter the insult, the abomination of their union, she could not betray him to one sho cared so little for the happiness of others. Did Cersei suspect a plot? Her brother had few kindnesses to speak of the queen, always presented as some way to endear himself through mutual suffering, yet ever fearing a trap she held her tongue. If the dwarf meant to harm his sister, however, then what accusations fell upon him would surely cling to Sansa as well. “Ought I feel concerned, Your Grace?”

⊰ ofoath ⊱

          quite far from home, && with every heavy word that falls from the lips of those ‘round her who might not have a pleasant thing to say ( perhaps they none of them carry a pleasant thought at all ), the farther she feels from it. && yet she does enjoy the change of atmosphere. had those tribulations not happened to cause her fear to flare, her sorrow to leap from the cage of her mind, her feet to flee, perhaps she would be by his side still. but she is here now. nothing will change that.

          “     i fear there are far too many people who are far from home now.     ”     for how many have been displaced by these wars? how many wars have broken throughout the land, come so quickly && felled so many, so quickly?     “     i can’t say i ever imagined myself here.     ”

          Knowing nothing of the woman’s chivalrous assistance to a Lannister — her mother’s instruction notwithstanding — lessened were what qualms Sansa felt in addressing those members of a leonine court. Newly arrived, mayhaps she had shared not in japes directed towards an unfortunate marriage, the carnage at riverside castles doggedly avoided in speech and thought; while hardly kindred in spirit, this unknown face at least reaped such good fortune as to not be remembered for what hurts it had inflicted.

             “Alas, war might tear asunder even those most distant to its battles; gods be good, His Grace has shown such kindness to those seeking refuge within his city’s walls.” All fodder for his arrows, no doubt, should rabbits find themselves in short supply. “Yet you ought count yourself among the fortunate, my lady! No doubt your father’s good name shall merit you an invitation to the upcoming festivities.”

⊰ ofoath ⊱

                           “     a thing to be expected. i’m afraid i’ve not much of a name here,
                                                  though i don’t suppose i need one.     ”

     the maiden of tarth knows too many names to count, && to all but the truest, her grasped brienne, she is deaf, hard of hearing, prefers to brush aside that which she had heard && known for the greater part of her life. child’s play of words on which she does not waste her time. nor does she want a name; her desire is to fight, to die if need be. to even lurk is a hell not so far from the surface.

                                    “     my apologies, my lady. i am brienne of tarth.     ”

          Would her days pass more easily — or less — were Sansa to have no name of consequence within the southron court? Surely, no lord or knight would bother pursuing a girl who boasted a claim to no lands, no titles, with only her beauty as commendation. Yet key to the North she remained, as a drunken fool so chivalrously explained, consigning Sansa at last unto a farcical marriage, joined in the sight of gods and men to a twisted creature. All for Winterfell alone. 

             “The Sapphire Isle, so named for its picturesque waves” she recited, a girlish tug pulling at both corners of her mouth. “You are quite far from home, my lady.” Though not so far as me.

⊰ ofoath ⊱

» ║ silkssongsandchivalry ( starter call. )

          she lifts her chin && draws her breath. with gathered air does she step forward, no tint in her eye but for that of good will. scoured from that haggard journey, she finds herself now in the better graces of her company, though she sets nothing high, still desires for what she had once known. but her greeting is, at any rate, kind.

                                               “     good day, lady sansa.     ”

          Never before had she seen so daunting a woman; even amongst the ladies of her father’s lands, some more inclined to masculine pursuits of sword and saddle than their southron counterparts, none towered quite so impressively, nor dared abandon womanly grace so absolutely. Most astonishing of all, that Sansa had not yet heard even a whisper of her name, though grief’s seclusion had dulled her to all but the most imperative communications.

             “My— my lady. Pray forgive me, but I cannot recall having made your acquaintance.”

⊰ madeofwildfire ⊱

  She lies, Cersei Lannister thinks to herself. In all her  years  surrounded by
  the filth of the city always humming with life she had learned everyone did.
  An honest soul was a child raised far from the DEADLY GRIP of King’s
  Landing.  Sansa Stark  had learned it the  hardest of ways  when  Ser  Ilyn
  Payne brought her father’s own sword to meet with his NECK. She almost
  smiles at the ghost of a  memory  now seems a lifetime away.  Rising from
  her seat she strides towards the girl, carrying herself with a predetermined
  authority that flowed within her veins.

   “ You spin lovely tales, little dove. Who taught you to sing so
        beautifully?  Was it my dear brother?  You know you can tell
        me about the other women, you know there are some–  you
        know he needs an experienced woman between his sheets.
        Have you any experience, or do you find him gentle when he
        presses his lips to your THROAT? Tell me sweetest, does he
        treat you with the kindness you deserve— A PRINCESS—
        would deserve? ”

            Stilling once she has circled behind her, her hands softly graze over
            the loose hair, a few locks stranded over her shoulder. Fingers thread
            to separate a  piece  from  piece , slowly bringing them to a formation
            where she may begin a braid. She’d make it  TIGHT  enough so she
            may never forget the hold she could have on the dirty little direwolf
            from the North. Words are barely above a whisper, she knows the girl
            would never trust her again,  the glimmering hope  for trust had been
            broken that day on the steps of the Great Sept.

                               “ I will never tell a soul. ”

          ‘Twas not fear of a husband better renowned for whores and drink than knightly valor which stayed her tongue; though Tyrion might simply chuckle at sister’s crass inquiry, should his royal sister determine any cause to declare their union unfit, unconsummated, another husband might be found, holy precedent be damned. King Joffrey’s wedding swift approached, and with it her deliverance. No matter what grievous insult Sansa took from her marriage it rendered the Northern girl all but invisible to otherwise curious eyes, removed of value now that Winterfell lay claimed and beyond ambitious reach. Not even Margaery had come to call since hastily spoken vows, no doubt consumed by preparations for her own joyous union. Such rejection stung, a drunken fool’s warning echoing through faded memory, yet soon this farce would blessedly meet its end.

             "He never speaks of them, Your Grace.“ A vague admission, even as the girl fought not to twist and squirm in her seat, instinct demanding that one’s foe remain ever in sight. "Mayhaps it is an expression of this kindness to which you speak: no wife wishes to hear of her husband’s indiscretions, no matter how…necessary he might believe them." Ice water trickled down her spine, combing fingers reminiscent of a mother’s touch, how Lady Catelyn had brushed and braided auburn hair before that feast of welcome in Winterfell’s great hall. Had she truly been happy then? How had she not known what was to come? It seemed impossible now that such monstrous acts could stand unseen by one whom they would touch so intimately. 

             "Please, Your Grace, I — I would not know. Your brother keeps his own council, and that of his hired sword.” Bronn frightened her, though not with Ser Ilyn’s chilling antipathy; any man who lent out his sword for gold instead of valor deserved no more trust than a rat, scurrying from one place to the next, glutting itself before abandoning a well run dry. "He shares little of his opinions save those regarding rain or sun, and tells me naught of his days beyond what tales he thinks might amuse. Lord Tyrion has not forgotten my traitor’s blood any more readily than any other at court; perhaps he thinks it great wisdom to confide in me only the most trivial matters.“

⊰ clawsofwit ⊱

               True enough that, more often than not, Tyrion donned the colors of his own house, but he did so to a purpose. He had little but the guise of his house and the wealth that came along with it, and so he chose, generally, to flaunt that whenever possible. As an otherwise weak man, with the exception of his intellect, Tyrion knew he had to rely on what assets he had, including his family name. The Lannisters were, after all, associated with tremendous wealth and he had a habit of reminding others of this fact at every possible opportunity without shame. However, that did not mean he always dressed a Lannister — or, perhaps, that he could not change his clothing choices occasionally for the sake of his wife. After all, he had very little else to offer her.

               The thought sent a familiar twinge through him, one that once again reminded him exactly how unwanted he remained in his own marriage. At times, Tyrion told himself that, perhaps, were things not as they were between their families, things may have been different between he and his wife — although, at the end of the day, the marriage would never have happened at all under those circumstances. But even so, he knew it was not true. Even if they were remotely similar in age, even if she were not forced to wed him simply upon his father’s cold command, he remained an utterly undesirable prospect, especially for a woman with her head once so full of stories.

               That, too, he could understand; he recalled her in Winterfell, once so innocent and starry-eyed and eager for a song. To pretend he once had not been similar would be a lie, but he learned his lesson a much different way; Tyrion Lannister physically embodied a living, breathing depiction of the monsters of such stories, a repulsive, hunched creature only vaguely tolerated by those forced to serve him — not to mention the majority of his family. The truth of it made his skin crawl. No doubt Sansa Stark could realistically see him as no more than a monster. And monster he surely was …

                         ❝ Cost is no object, ❞  he told her with a wave of his hand; and he meant it. His family’s money — and, he supposed, his father’s political savvy in part — led them nearly to rule Westeros in their own right. If Sansa wished for anything money could buy, Tyrion could at least deliver that much.  ❝ If anything, it is a benefit to be seen wearing it. ❞

               Not that anybody doubted the wealth of the Lannisters, but he rather enjoyed flaunting it and cloth of silver would do just that.

               As the conversation turned back to his sister, his hunching brow wrinkled in consideration; honestly he was nearly tempted to laugh. Had Sansa not yet internalized the extent of Cersei’s cruelty, her deviousness? Practically all in King’s Landing knew of the queen’s particular ire for him. For his part, Tyrion could not remember a time during which Cersei treated him like anything less than a threat or irritation; it stopped saddening him long ago.

                         ❝ Unfortunate as it may be, my lady, my sister had no such affirmations. My father had larger concerns than his children’s relationships with each other — or, for that matter, his relationships with his children. In Cersei’s mind, it is she against the rest of the world, most especially myself. I am her enemy, in her mind, and I do not believe she thinks me capable of harmless games. ❞  He gave a thin smile.  ❝ The unwitting crime of killing my mother keeps me suspect in her eyes, even a lifetime later. ❞

          Would the caged wolf prefer a cell of rusted iron, rather than the delicate golden bars which now encircled her? Surely such mean conditions would allow for greater weeping, circumstances reduced far beyond the simple eradication of her pack. Captors allowed her little comfort save what pride she ferreted away, hidden deep within the frigid encasement of broken and battered heart. All warmth had flowed instead towards a simmering, bubbling hatred: of the Queen, of Joffrey, of every lord and lady who looked upon a prancing golden lion with satisfied smile. They deemed Lord Stark a traitor, yet ‘twas their lot who loosed arrows and bared steel within a wedding feast, before the gods, violating every law of heaven and of men only to — what? 

             In the North men still cursed Lannister rule; those milling about a red-bricked keep spoke of Bolton as a savior, a loyal servant well-placed to restore Winterfell unto its previous, loyal glory. Sansa knew none of them had ever laid eyes on the pallid lord, those disquieting rings of pale moonlight making up his stare, stark white against garish pink and red banners of skinless men. More traitor than ever her father dared become, of that she stood most assured. Yet there he sat, at Eddard Stark’s table, in Eddard Stark’s hall, rebuilding Eddard Stark’s home, a murderer blessed by royal decree. 

             It seemed the sort of thing her husband would not approve, save how such conduct purchased his kin restful nights rather than another year of costly war. How his shout rang out! That day before a throne of swords, knights sworn to protect innocence raising their fists against its delicate porcelain jaw. Lord Tyrion found no honor in that; would he find it in her uncle’s wedding as well, brutality yet unknown to ears long turned deaf by jeers and taunts? 

             As it benefited me to ride alongside your nephew through the city? Sansa might still awaken at night, jolted from fretful sleep by imagined tears of silk or bitter cries, what last she heard before the Hound pulled her free from the mob, horse and saddle left amidst roiling chaos. “I would not dishonor my lord by hearing him admonished for having wed a beggar,” she murmured, Tully gaze remaining fixed upon middle distance between girl and dwarf. “If such would please you, then I shall order garments from the seamstress forthwith.” 

             Above nearly all else, Lady Lannister believed in her good-family’s devotion to blood; no matter their faults and follies, however many terrible missteps a lion made it remained a beast to fear. Though stunted, more hideous now than before some knight or squire’s sword hacked off a bulbous nose, Tyrion would ever find shelter within the embrace of his kin. Cersei cared for few and none amongst her prattling court; that a misshapen brother warranted her sneers as well ought hardly distinguish him from all the other buzzing gnats at which she saw fit to swat. 

             “Your mother?” Baffled, for the first time in that lonely meal, Sansa turned sapphire eyes fully ‘pon the lord sitting opposite. While well before her birth, still she knew how the gods saw fit to take the Lady Joanna after a labor long and difficult, delivering her third child. Tyrion. How possibly could the queen bear such malice in her heart as to blame an infant for such tragedy? “But — you had naught to do with it,” she insisted, as though a witness to alleged crime. No more than I bid Robb to take on a wolf’s form and glut on the slain’s flesh, or whatever other lies they saw fit to spread. “You were just a babe.”