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Chapter Text

Sansa

“Gods! Sansa, if you don’t stop that awful singing, I swear I’ll break that stupid harp in two!” Arya screamed.

Sansa was not surprised by her sister’s outburst, if anything, she was surprised it had not come sooner. She very much doubted Arya would follow through with her threat, but rather than picking a fight, Sansa placed the musical instrument at her feet and picked up her canvas, needle and thread and began to work on stitching simple designs Old Nan had taught her. She was only beginning to learn but already, both her mother and Old Nan had admired her skills and pieces.

Once she was comfortable with the feel of the needle between her fingers and the motion and weight of each movement and stroke, Sansa pulled out the soft light blue square of material that she had been slowly working on for nearly a fortnight. She pushed and pulled at the cloth with her needle and thread until the fins of a fish came to life at her fingertips. She smiled to herself as her efforts took shape. She had already mostly finished embroidering the Tully’s house sigil onto the handkerchief. It was by far the most detailed work she had ever done and she felt almost bittersweet at the prospect of gifting the cloth to her grandfather upon arrival to Riverrun.

They had passed the trident yesterday, or was it the day before? She wasn’t sure but she did know that they were no longer on the King’s Road. Her mother had told her they would reach Riverrun very soon, but what those words really meant was uncertain to Sansa. ‘Soon’ could mean another hour or another week. And although Sansa would not outwardly complain about the time it took to travel either way, Arya was sure to grumble the whole way there.

They had been traveling the King’s Road for such a long time that even Sansa had become restless seated in a carriage day after day. She showed her irritation far more subtly than her sister whose idle fingers pulled at the pillows and blankets that cushioned the uncomfortable wooden vessel. Sansa had yelled at her sister to stop her destruction after Arya had torn a pillow’s seem apart, but truthfully Sansa had enjoyed repairing the pillow enough that she hadn’t scolded her sister when Arya had ripped at the blanket. It was almost a game between the girls, a fight between chaos and order. A game that Sansa was sure to lose, but the winner did not matter as much to her as just her sister enjoying her company.

Sansa knew that Arya would have much rather rode with Robb or Bran, both of whom took the trip on horseback. Bran was just old enough that Sansa’s mother had allowed him to ride alongside Robb instead of in a carriage. Arya would have been a better rider than Bran, but Catelyn had forbidden Arya from riding anywhere else than with Sansa in the carriage. Catelyn had taken Rickon, who was barely bigger than a babe but still had the lungs to cry like one, into the other carriage. While Arya proved to be rather poor company, Sansa was relieved she did not have to ride horseback or with her lady mother and her screaming brother on the journey.

A loud sigh broke Sansa from her thoughts.

“What is it? Is my sewing annoying you now too?”

“Well, sewing is boring and stupid.” Arya huffed.

“You only say that because you can’t do it. I guess reading is also boring and stupid then, right?” Sansa smirked. She only made the jab because she knew it would get under her sister’s skin. By Arya’s age Sansa and Robb had both discovered a love for books. They could recite poems and verses from a number of books in Maester Luwin’s collections. Arya, on the other hand, had been slow to learn, if she had learned much at all. She had tried but would lose interest almost as soon as she started.

“It is boring and stupid. I could learn if I wanted to but why should I? You’ll never catch me with a book about Florian and Jonqil, or any of the other stupid stories that you like so much.” Arya exclaimed.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad. Those stories are also filled with duels and battles, with dragons and knights…You’d like those ones.” Sansa said softer.

“It’s a trick. You think a story is about battles and knights and dragons but it never is. They’re always about the pretty little helpless maiden. The stupid girl just sits there and is taken by the bad guy, and the knights always rescue her because she is beautiful. You ever read a story about a fat ugly milkmaid that is rescued by a knight? No, because all the stories are about pretty little princesses that do nothing, and the stupid men that save them.”

“You know an awful lot about these stories for saying you’d never read them.” Sansa flashed her sister a dirty look. “And what is the lady supposed to do, when taken by a dragon?”

“Fight back! Kill the dragon herself if she has to!” Arya was almost yelling at Sansa now.

“Gods, Arya. You’re the one who sounds stupid, fight a dragon?” Sansa’s voice had risen without her consent.

Arya turned to face the open window, arms crossed in front of her chest. Sansa tried to return to her handkerchief, but her mood had changed and she could no longer focus on the project. A moment passed, then Arya spoke again.

“I bet if you were the stupid kidnapped princess, you wouldn’t fight back. You’d just let it happen, wait for your prince, and pray you wouldn’t die.”

For some reason that remark struck a chord in Sansa. She had always pictured herself as the unlucky damsel in distress, taken by some cruel beast to be soon rescued by the handsome and gallant knight who would ask for her hand. She hadn’t ever thought that the princess in the stories could fight her way to freedom.

She thought long and hard about what Arya had said.

Only once Sansa had again tried to return to her sewing and failed, did she speak to Arya.

“You say you hate these stories, but have you heard the tales of the warrior-princess Nymeria?”
Arya turned her head ever so slightly in her sister’s direction. Sansa was sure the word warrior had grabbed her attention.

If they were going to be spending any more days in the cramped carriage, Sansa wasn’t going to spend the entire time bickering. She set her needlework aside and began her story, stretching out the parts Arya was sure to find exciting.

Chapter Text

“Tell it to me again.” Arya’s voice was full of sleep, her eyes fluttered in an attempt to keep them open.

It wasn’t night, but the midday lull brought with it as much drowsiness as the moon. Could she remember a time when they weren’t in this wooden carriage? Sansa wasn’t sure. In her half-dazed state, she couldn’t recall any particular memory that grounded her to a place or time. All that was there was the carriage. Riding in the carriage, sleeping in the carriage, waking in the carriage. The only thing that came to mind was journeying, mile after mile, town after town, day after day. When they left Winterfell, it had been cold. She clung to that thought, a memory that wasn’t tainted by wooden walls.

She was being stupid, of course she remembered life before the journey. She recalled her lessons with Septa Mordane, gossiping about boys and knights with Jeyne while she stuffed her mouth with lemon cakes, and walking in the godswood with her mother and father. Sansa knew she had done all these things but the more she thought about a particular memory, the more it seemed to fade. She could remember fawning over the gallantry of Ser Jaime Lannister, giggling with Jeyne about his notorious beauty, but she couldn’t recall the pitch of Jeyne’s laugh or whether the girl was likely to snort from excitement. She remembered the weirwood tree her family would pray near, but couldn’t recall the shape of its leaves. What troubled her the most was the memories of her father. He had brown hair she knew, but the shade alluded her. Was it the same brown as Arya? Was it muddy or rich in color or dull? If she were to describe his looks to a painter, Sansa couldn’t be sure the result would resemble her father much.

She had not seen her father in weeks. He had stayed home in Winterfell while the family had made the trip south. Sansa had begged her father to travel with them, but he had just chuckled and said he had duties at home. At the time, the idea of traveling south had excited her. Sansa longed for the southern courts, fashions, and tourneys. She still did, even though the trip had slightly diminished her enthusiasm. She had never been south of the Neck before. She wasn’t aware of what had suddenly brought the trip on, but Sansa was sure it wasn’t as simple as the ‘family visit’ excuse her mother had given her each time Sansa had asked. Either way, Sansa was glad she would get to meet her grandfather again, the last time she had been barely older than a babe herself, while Bran and Rickon had yet to take their first breaths.

A knock at the door stirred her from her thoughts.

“Good morning sleepyheads, you better have finished your beauty sleep, we’re almost there.” It was Robb. His head peaked in through the carriage’s window, smile spread wide across his face. His eyes were bright and showed no sign of the weariness the girls displayed. “Mother asked if you could tame that mane, and put that little devil in a dress!” Robb laughed and threw Arya a wink before riding ahead.

Arya grumbled while setting about exchanging her pants for a dress, but her eyes showed how relieved she was to finally be arriving— a sentiment Sansa greatly understood. The earlier exhaustion was quickly replaced with excitement by both girls. Sansa’s fingers tangled in her hair, plucking and pulling strands until the tendrils were neat and a plait ran down her back. Arya’s hair was much simpler. The brown locks were swept from her eyes and a gray ribbon tied the hair back. Arya would fuss if Sansa went too intricate when styling the younger girls hair.

Sansa scrambled to make herself presentable. Every wrinkle showed like mountains and valleys in the fabric of her dress. A loose strand of hair broke free from its confinement and taunted her as it laid across her face. Ungraceful fingers, pulled at the braid and she started again. Before she could even think about changing gowns, the carriage bounced as it began to trek across wood. The drawbridge. They had arrived, after so long but much too soon. Sansa panicked as her hands once again flew to press the creases from her dress. Arya’s teasing wasn’t enough to draw Sansa from her panicked thoughts. This wasn’t the first impression she wanted to make.

It was too late. The doors swung open and Sansa found her body exiting the carriage as if by its own accord (and a helpful shove by Arya). Her mother was quick to place an arm around her shoulders, turning to face a man she could only assume was her grandfather.

“Cat, I must admit, I was not expecting your arrival for another two days.” The lord’s voice was rough but kind.

“We made good time.” Catelyn Stark answered simply.

“No matter, it’s good to see you again. It has been much too long.” Hoster Tully smiled at his daughter, and Sansa could recognize his expression. She had seen it in her own father’s eyes. It was love and pride.
“And why look at this young lady, you’re the image of your mother, child. I’m sure you’ll be quite the beauty.” His fingers pushed strands of hair from Sansa’s face. She blushed only slightly under his gaze, before his eyes moved onto another. In a heartbeat, the moment she had been worried for was over and she knew her earlier stress had been for nothing. She tuned out her grandfather’s other greetings. Sansa allowed herself to glance about the courtyard. It was emptier than she had been expecting. Not that she had hoped for a large reception but she had hoped for a glimpse at the southern attires and hospitality.

As soon as all the courtesies were out of the way, Robb and Bran took off, presumably to explore the castle. Arya made to give chase when Catelyn’s hand grabbed at the girl’s arm.

“Not so fast. There will be plenty of time for games later.”

Arya’s pout was prominent. She opened her mouth, about to protest when her mother continued. “Arya, listen to me, stay with your sister today. Now girls, why don’t you two go find your room and unpack. Sansa, watch over her.” Without sparing another glance, Catelyn, with Rickon in her arms, walked out of the courtyard accompanied by her father.

The girls followed one of her father’s men who carried their things to a small bedchamber. They would have to share the bed, but any bed at all was an improvement to the last few weeks. Arya grumbled with every outfit she put away already changed into trousers, disappointed to be in that room at all.

In her things, Sansa found the handkerchief she had planned to gift to her grandfather. Sansa had forgotten in the moment all about the present. Before she could think much more about it, a hand snatched the cloth from her grip.

“Hey! Arya, be gentle, give it back!”

“Only if we go find Robb.” Arya’s stance was defensive, as if she expected Sansa to take the cloth back by force.

“You heard mother, you have to stay in the rooms.”

“No. She said I have to stay with you. We can go anywhere we like.”

“I’d like to stay in the rooms, I’ve grown tired.”

“Well, I’m not tired, and you have to do as I say. Or else… I’ll rip it!” Arya’s hand waved the handkerchief back and forth for emphasis.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Sansa stood tall, hoping there was any chance of intimidating the younger girl.

“…watch me.” Arya sang as she ran out of the room, handkerchief in tow.

Sansa gave pursuit, chasing after her sister without a second thought. Her legs were long, but Arya was quicker and Sansa had no chance of catching her.

Arya took her through corridors and courtyards, stables, and training grounds. It was there Arya stopped, having found what she was looking for. Robb and Bran were holding wooden swords and dueling playfully, though it wasn’t each other they fought. Surrounding her brothers were three boys, swinging wooden swords with far more skill. Robb was matching blow for blow, but she could tell Bran was having more fun laughing at the battle than participating in it.

Arya picked up a practice sword of her own and crept toward the action. Step after silent step, she closed the distance. Arya had raised her arm to swing when Sansa called to her. “Arya, mother wouldn’t--” but that’s all she got out before the boys turned and began to immediately include Arya in their little game.

Sansa stood and watched the action. The strangers all moved with such grace, every cut and thrust was more like a dance than a duel, whereas Robb and Bran’s style could best be described as ‘hacking.’ The longer she watched, the less angry she became with Arya, who was so clearly enjoying herself now.

She wasn’t jealous, not completely. Though, she did feel like she was missing out on a moment of joy. Sansa shook these thoughts away.

Robb was covered in pads of cloth and boiled leather. Bran looked as if he had two pillows strapped to his chest and back, a simple helmet engulfing his head. The strangers were better suited. The tallest boy had pieces of a lightweight metal armor covering him head to toe, the chest plate enveloped in metal roses. He was the only one who’s armor looked like it had been made for him. Another of the strangers was similar in height to Robb, and was fitted with a similar boiled leather, only he also dawned a leather helmet. The third boy was the smallest of the strangers, but not the slowest. He wore an armor that was clearly ill fitted but that did its job well enough. A full helm obscured his face.

“I’m the young dragon!” Robb cried before striking the metal armor of the tallest boy.

“I’m Barristan the Bold!” Cried Bran.

“The Dragonknight!” Yelled the tall boy. “The Sword of the Morning!” “Kingslayer!” Cried the other two.

“Nymeria of the Rhoynar!” Screamed Arya.

A smiled crept across Sansa’s lips at that.

In all the action Sansa saw as her handkerchief fell from where Arya had stuffed it and onto the dirt below. Her stomach dropped as she watched in horror, the fighters unknowingly dancing around the delicate fabric. Her voice left her in the moment and Sansa felt tears threaten to pour from her eyes at her hard work being ruined. She turned her face from the scene to desperately wipe her eyes. The more she tried to keep from crying, the harder it was to do.

A voice cleared itself behind her.

Pulling her emotions together, Sansa slowly turned to face her company.

“My lady, please accept this gift.” The smallest stranger stood before her, though up close he was the same height as Sansa. In the stranger’s outstretched hand was the handkerchief, slightly dusty but intact. Sansa glanced through the slit in his helmet, searching for the eyes of her kind knight.

“How-how did you know?” Sansa stuttered.

“I don’t know what you mean, my lady. I simply saw beauty in the world and needed to spread it.” The young knight’s voice was charming and warm.

Sansa blushed.

“Shouldn’t I be the one lending you a favor?” She cringed slightly at the herself as the stranger removed the concealing helm and smiled at her. The uncovered face was caked in sweat and dirt, but Sansa thought it would be quite pleasant if it were not obscured.

“You can if you’d like, my lady.” The stranger smirked revealing crinkled, light eyes.

Sansa’s cheeks felt hot. She glanced at her feet to collect her thoughts when she noticed the handkerchief, still being offered by an outstretched hand. She went to take the cloth back when her hand slowed and her fingers hovered an inch above the stranger’s. For a second, she contemplated gifting her work to the kind stranger instead of her grandfather, but that wouldn’t do. The object was too personalized for the boy knight to want to keep and she had worked tirelessly on it for her grandfather. Sansa plucked the cloth delicately from the stranger’s hand.

I may not have a favor, but I could gift you with a kiss, Sansa thought. Her chest felt light at the idea. She could be bold. She could be brave, as brave as any knight. They were standing close enough that all she would have to do was lean in and let her lips press into the cheek of the stranger. But as quickly as that idea came to her, her stomach became twisted and all she could do was blush harder. By now, her cheeks must match her hair in color.

In the knight’s kindness, he did not draw attention to Sansa’s embarrassment. Instead he switched topics to something that prompted less humiliation. Relaxing his stance, the stranger lifted his wooden sword, pushing the blunt blade between his belt and pants, letting the hilt catch on the leather.

Sansa waited for the stranger to grow bored of her company and return to the battles but to her surprise and to her pleasure, the false knight made no attempt to leave. They talked for a time that felt like hours but also only moments. The knight laughed and joked about the other foreign boys who Sansa learned were older brothers. Sansa shared quips and stories of her siblings with the boy. With each minute that passed, Sansa felt more comfortable the boy, yet she was still shy. She told her companion next to nothing about herself, careful she would not say something she would later regret. To her relief, the knight must have felt a similar embarrassment for he did not share personally about himself either.

“Florian the Fool, come aid your brothers in battle,” the armored boy called out, drawing the stranger’s attention from Sansa. The pretend knight, turned from Sansa and smiled at the boy warmly but made no move to leave, helmet tucked under one arm. A moment of silence passed between them. Sansa searched her mind for something to say, something charming or clever that would make the strange knight smile. After another long pause, just as the stranger began to speak, long arms wrapped around Sansa’s waist and her body lifted from the ground, startling her.

“If you won’t fight for your brothers, maybe you’ll fight for the honor of a pretty maiden?” The boy in leather spoke from beside Sansa’s ear.

“Brother, you’re making a poor first impression of us. Let her go.”

“Ah, so you won’t protect the innocent. Some gallant knight you are,” he chuckled.

Arya’s earlier comment came to her mind then, and suddenly Sansa had the urge to break free from her captor’s grasp. She wouldn’t be the distressed damsel. She struggled and turned, trying to find leverage, but she had little strength to overpower him.

Seeing her resistance, the kind stranger raised their sword. Like a flash, her defender cut through the air and clashed swords with the other boy. Robb was soon drawing his own sword against the boy as well, claiming to want to save his dear, poor sister. Arya was all too ready to jump into the mix, yet her sword swung against Robb’s.

“Willas, brother, which sibling would you choose to aid, I wonder?” The leather clad boy asked, easily blocking the attacks of the other two competitors.

“I bet you can guess.” The tall boy, Willas, joined in then, another defender of Sansa’s honor. Bran laughed and swung his own sword about wildly, hitting both friend and foe.

They battled and laughed and Sansa’s urge to leave left her completely. She was content to sit in mock struggle, cheering for her protectors and taunting her enemies. Her cheers were especially vocal when a certain kind stranger would land a hit, and her throat caught when a hard blow sent the pretend knight to the ground.

After a while the game would switch and the teams would change, Sansa playing the part of a kidnapped princess or noble lady or even a poor farm girl. Once, Sansa became a dragon and when she yelled, everyone pretended to catch fire and fall to the ground. Sansa laughed at the theatrics of it all.

The light began to dim and stomachs rumbled from hunger. As if on cue, one of her father’s men appeared from nowhere, cleared his voice and called out to the Stark children. Dinner would be soon, and they were all expected to clean and change.

Calling out their goodbyes and removing their armor, the Starks made their way to their respective bedchambers each with smiles on their faces. The thought of the kind stranger danced in her mind while Sansa changed and combed her hair. She longed for them to meet again. Would she see him at dinner? Perhaps, but perhaps they would never meet again.
She knew so little about the pretending knight.

Before too long, Robb and Bran knocked on the girls’ door to accompany them to the dinner. On the way, they laughed and joked of their earlier battles. Robb rubbed affectionately at Bran and Arya’s heads and pretended to cower from Sansa the Dragon. This moment was the closest Sansa had ever felt to her siblings. Her heart grew big with love for them.

When they entered the great hall, Sansa’s earlier disappointment at an empty reception was quelled. The room was filled with people, houses she recognized and houses she didn’t. Taking her seat, her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face. It wasn’t until nearly an hour later that she found one. The boy in boiled leather was now wearing a fine light green tunic, his darker hair slicked back. Seated next to him was a dark blond boy whose face was unfamiliar. She could only assume he was the tall armor-clad boy, Willis, that had earlier come to her aid. Sansa’s eyes scanned the other guests at the table and she saw that facing away from her were the only other children present. All she could see of them were light brown curls and the back of a girl’s gown and a boy’s tunic. As if sensing her stare, the boy turned and met her gaze.

His face was instantly familiar to her. He must be the kind stranger from earlier only bathed and clean. His eyes only lingered for a moment and continued their scan of the room. The boy was beautiful. How she wished to ask his name. He soon turned back around.

Sansa now noticed that many of the dinner guests had already left. Even Robb had stood from the table without her knowledge. She rose as well and followed her family out of the hall, sparing one last look at the strangers.

“Robb, did you know those boys? From earlier,” Sansa questioned.

“Not before the tall one challenged me to a duel. They were Tyrells though, I know now.”

“Tyrells…” Sansa repeated. “What are their names—the Tyrell boys.”

“The boys? Hmm, I believe eldest there’s Willas, Garlan, and the youngest must be Loras. And then there’s the girl, Margaery.”

Loras. It was a good name for a gentle knight. Loras is my kind stranger, Sansa thought. Now she had a name.

Chapter Text

Sansa

The Tyrells were leaving Riverrun the following day. Sansa could scream at her septa, she was so angry. For the last three days, Sansa and Arya had been stuck inside with their lessons. A journey from home is no reason for a dull mind, the septa had told them. Today was a holy day and even though her family practiced the old faith, that meant no lessons today. Normally, Sansa loved her lessons, she found enjoyment in learning far more than Arya ever had. This time however, Sansa’s mind was far too preoccupied to memorize ancient lords and ladies.

It was filled with thoughts of her kind and gallant Loras. In her mind, they would ride horseback across the countryside, she would cheer for his victory in tournaments, and he would dismiss all other company, if only for another moment alone with her. He was kind, gallant, noble, and handsome. Ladies loathed her for being the subject of his attentions and men grew jealous their lives were not his. He took her for walks every night, letting their fingers entwine. When they would part, he would loathe the sun for rising and causing an end to their night together. He told her she was beautiful, he told her he loved her, and they would kiss. It was the sweetest of kisses. He was gentle and she could tell he was just as nervous as she was.

The only things that kept Sansa sane were her fantasies. Those, and her new sewing project. She had managed to find the opportunity to present her grandfather with her handkerchief the morning after their arrival. He had been lovely when he received it, admiring the stitch-work and applauding her for her efforts. He said a gift so fine would be better suited for the walls of his chamber than his pocket. His response had humbled Sansa and she immediately began work on another. This one for her Loras. For fabric, Sansa had repurposed an older chemise of her own, the color of cream. Along the edge, she had stitched a sequence of simple flowers, stems, and leaves. The largest pattern, positioned off-center of the handkerchief, was of a winter rose. The design may have been a little on the nose, but it was one Loras would not likely have received or ever be bestowed again.

After hours of work over the last few days, Sansa had finished the present. It may not have been as elaborate as her grandfather’s but the piece was beautiful nonetheless. The detailing was intricate and the stitches were clean. Pride and apprehension filled Sansa at the thought of giving it to her white knight.

She dressed with the knowledge she would find and speak to Loras today. She put on a light summery dress her mother had bought her the day before. It was horribly hot today. Sansa was unfamiliar with the southern summer heat and found a part of her longing for the cool days of Winterfell. She broke her fast at a small table in the great hall with her mother, sister, and Rickon. Throughout the meal she could hardly eat, she was so nervous. Her fingers brushed against the strap of her bag, reminding herself of the handkerchief’s presence. At the earliest her mother excused her from the table, Sansa was in a rush to find the object of her affections.

She found Loras Tyrell strolling the gardens likely avoiding the sun’s strength walking the shaded paths, although even in the shade the heat radiated off the ground like an open oven. He was with two other boys, both of whom Sansa was unfamiliar, and his sister, a girl Sansa had yet to properly meet. As Sansa approached the group, the conversation hushed and all eyes were on her.

“Good morning, my lady. Your presence gives us great pleasure. To what do we owe the honor?” It was the girl, Margaery, that had addressed her. All three boys simply smiled and nodded their agreement with the greeting.

“My lady, you humble me. In truth, my heart saddens at the news of your soon departure, with so little time spent in your family’s company.” Sansa addressed Margaery but her eyes were for Loras. He was tall and beautiful, with loose curls pushed back from his eyes. She knew those eyes, they were the ones she had dreamed of for three nights.

“Ahh, how courteous and eloquent you are, my dear. Loras, don’t you find her simply charming?” Margaery’s hand squeezed her brother’s arm for response.

“Hmm? Oh…uh yes, quite.”

“Well certainly more articulate than you, dear brother.” Margaery chuckled.

“My lady, forgive me, I fear we are not all as sharp of tongue as my sister, though I suppose that is a mercy for the rest of us.” Loras smiled at Margaery and Sansa both. Margaery let out a faux gasp and bumped her brother’s side with her hip.

Sansa summoned her courage and addressed Loras directly. “I had hoped for the opportunity to speak with you before you left.” Her eyes portrayed her desire to talk privately, away from the prying eyes of his sister and companions.

Loras looked surprised and slightly confused. “You are speaking to me currently are you not?”

The other boys chuckled and nudged his back, whispering mocking coos under their breaths. He shrugged off their jokes and smiled sympathetically at Sansa. “Forgive me, but I haven’t a clue what this is about.”

Sansa reached into her bag to retrieve the handkerchief. She pulled out the cloth and offered it to Loras. “This is for you.” She smiled shyly at the boy. Loras nodded and took the cloth from her. “I just wanted to spread beauty—” Her voice caught in her throat. Loras had clenched the handkerchief into a wad and dabbed it across his forehead and neck. Sansa was flummoxed.

Color drained from her face and she felt a deep embarrassment overcome her.

After a moment of silence, Loras sensed the awkwardness, thanked her and returned the cloth to her. The smile he flashed her would have been in any other circumstance considerably charming. Sansa felt moisture filling the corners of her eyes. He mustn’t see me cry. She tilted her head upwards to quell the potential flow of tears. In the process, she caught a glimpse of Loras’ face and could tell he was uncomfortable and eager for her to leave.

She offered him a quick goodbye, not one to forget her courtesies, and left the gardens. She could hear a voice call out but was too desperate for solitude to acknowledge the sound.