[ oh! he knows her name. and she is surprised to find her heard lags by a beat or two when he says it. sansa's jaw tightens. she is caught between two warring instincts: the first, to efface herself. to promise him that she was indeed very defunct in her wits and that he should call her things that she is not. but the other instinct is to seize upon the bone-handle of a wicked conversational knife. shame on them, he'd said! shame on them. those men who had hurt her and treated her like a playing piece and... ]
They are not all monsters. Our men. [ but in the end she falls tiredly upon the old pageantry -- playing sycophant to the boys and men of westeros, because she fears the punishments that might come if she doesn't support them. ]
no subject
They are not all monsters. Our men. [ but in the end she falls tiredly upon the old pageantry -- playing sycophant to the boys and men of westeros, because she fears the punishments that might come if she doesn't support them. ]