Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To sew an entirely new gown that adequately displayed her skills in a matter of four days was a task that Sansa might normally have balked at.

And yet, somehow, she had done just that.

She contributed her success to how vigorously she’d thrown herself into her work. When Sandor had informed her days ago that they were required to attend the ball, she’d seen the wariness in his features, the fear in his eyes. And she’d seen twin expressions of discomfort on Brienne and Podrick’s faces. For a time, it was all she’d been able to think about. A flurry of what if’s had stormed her mind, driving her nearly mad. What if they were recognized at the ball? What if they had to flee Lys? What if something happened to Sandor while he attempted to defend her?

In a fit of frustration, she’d pulled rolls of linens and lines of thread from one of her trunks, and she’d began to sew. It was the rhythmic moving of her fingers that had soothed her; when she was sewing, she was so focused on perfect stitching and complementary cuts and colors that it had been difficult to think of anything else. When she was sewing, she did not think about the fears that normally dominated her mind.

She spent hours upon hours bent over the gown, piecing it together, sometimes by the light of candle at night while Sandor slumbered. When she was not sewing, which was seldom, she occupied herself in other ways, such as cooking and looking after Ser Jaime. He’d improved drastically, and though he was still pale and drawn, he emerged from his chambers with more and more frequency. His appetite had returned as well, though fleetingly at first.

And so it was that she had finished the gown just in time; she considers it now as she soaks in the wooden tub tucked in the corner of she and Sandor’s chambers, the water scented lightly with lilac oil she’d purchased with her funds. She can feel the distinct throbbing in her fingertips from where she’d gripped the needle for hours on end, and instinctively she flexes her hands, though it does not help.

After a moment longer she rises from the tub, rivulets of water snaking down her forearms as she reaches for a linen to dry herself with. Once she’s sufficiently dry, she tugs on her smallclothes and pokes her head out of the chamber door, calling for Brienne.

When they’re alone in the room, Sansa lifts the gown and tugs it up over her body, holding the front to her chest as she turns for Brienne to lace the back. The woman’s fingers are clumsy and far from deft, but Sansa doesn’t mind; she waits patiently until Brienne has finished, and then she turns, the skirts swishing around her legs.

“What do you think?” Sansa asks, and Brienne beams as she appraises the gown.

“Oh - it’s lovely, truly. I don’t know how you do it. You should have seen my stitching when I was a girl; it would have made you cry, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Sansa says, laughing as she moves to lower herself before her shabby wooden vanity, reaching for her comb. “It could never be as bad as Arya’s was, anyway.”

She catches Brienne’s smile in the reflection of the mirror, but it fades a moment later as the large woman lowers herself in one of the vacant chairs. She is chewing on her lip as if she wishes to speak, but Sansa will not push her. They are both silent as Sansa works at her hair, twisting two locks into braids that she weaves a thin champagne ribbon through and ties at the back of her skull. The rest of her hair she allows to fall loose around her shoulders.

What little jewelry she has is cheap, certainly not the finery she’d once donned, but she finds she does not mind. She has no use for jewels to be carted around and protected whenever they moved from city to city. Humming gently, she slides in two faux-emerald beaded earrings that Sandor had gotten her days ago at the market.

“I hope that all my worrying is for naught,” Brienne blurts finally, making Sansa pause. “I have a feeling, in my gut. If anything goes wrong, you’ll have Clegane with you. Podrick and I won’t be far, either; there’s a tavern within sights of the palace that we’ll linger outside of. Jaime wished to come, too, but I thought he’d be better here, watching the flat. He’s not quite himself yet.”

“Brienne,” Sansa says gently, turning in her chair to meet the woman’s wide blue gaze. “Relax. I’m sure everything will be fine. And if it isn’t, we’ll do as we always have. Adapt.”

Brienne exhales heavily and nods. Sansa wishes that there was more she could say to ease her friend’s worry, but she knows it’s not possible – not until the ball is over and they are all safe.

“I suppose I’d best get this over with,” she says, standing and turning to give herself one final look in the mirror.

Her gown is a deep green in coloration, the wispy skirt trailing behind her when she moves. The sleeves are open in the front, but sweeping and long in the back, with a layer of gold at her shoulders. The front of the bodice is trimmed with thin threads of gold around the neckline that dips to show a hint of her bosom, and in the back, the laces are the same hue as the trim, a gold just a bit more vivid than that of the sleeves.

It was not made of the finest material – she could not waste her nicer silks on a dress for herself made for a single ball – but the craftsmanship distracts from that. Overall, she’s satisfied, and Sansa finds herself hoping that Sandor will be pleased, as well.

There is only one final touch, she recalls, and she goes to her trunk and kneels, rooting around in the gowns there until she finds it. She straightens then, searching for the subtle slit she’d sewn into the dress, hidden by the skirts. Slipping her hand inside, she belts the dagger Sandor had given her moons ago around her thigh, the weight of it unfamiliar but comforting.

Finished, she turns back to Brienne and strides forward to pull the woman into a hug. Brienne is surprised but only hesitates a moment before returning it, and when they separate, her smile comes a fraction easier.

“Thank you for worrying over me, though I wish you did not have to,” Sansa says sincerely. “And thank you for being a friend. Come; let’s see if I can render Sandor speechless.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Brienne replies with a chuckle, walking with Sansa to the door. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t faint on the spot; that’s a big man to try to catch.”

Sansa is grinning when she opens the door and steps out into the solar where the others are seated and waiting. Jaime is the first to notice her, with Sandor too busy lecturing a frowning Podrick regarding something about weapons. The lion’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he appraises her, before he dips his head in a subtle nod. A moment later his gaze is sliding past her to Brienne; Sansa silently vows to have a much-needed conversation with her friend after the ball.

Podrick glances over then, at last catching sight of her, and his lips quirk into a smile as he turns back to offer Sandor a pointed stare. Sandor scowls, but looks to her – and then freezes almost comically.

Sansa feels her skin heat as his gaze drags across her slowly, so slowly, from the top of her head down to her toes and back up again. It snags on her hips right where the skirts flare, on her chest, and then on her face, his dark eyes boring into hers. She sucks in a dizzying breath and forces herself to break the contact to study him, as well. He’s dressed in dark tunic and trousers, with his sword belted at his hip. She knows there are likely daggers hidden along his frame, tucked into his black boots and various other places.

The sound of a throat clearing makes Sansa’s gaze snap up, her cheeks reddening as Jaime smirks at the pair of them. She forces her slippered feet towards Sandor, still feeling his gaze on her, hot and heavy. It’s still new and wondrous to her, the way that he makes her feel. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to it, if her heart will ever stop pounding when he looks at her, when he touches her…

“Don’t forget that the pair of you still have to make it to the ball, preferably with Sansa’s gown intact,” Jaime offers.

That gets a reaction out of Sandor, his head turning and eyes narrowing as Sansa reaches his side. “I liked you a lot fucking better when you were sick and silent.”

“Missed me, did you?”

Before Sandor can snap a response that will inevitably unravel into an argument, Sansa places her palm on his arm, and he looks to her again as she smiles.

“We should be going, so that we’re not dreadfully late. I can’t imagine Ormollen would enjoy us crashing his ball.”

“Bugger him,” Sandor growls, but it’s with a bit less hostility than usual when he looks to Jaime again. “We’ll make as short of an appearance as we can manage. Keep alert. Brienne, Podrick?”

“Ready,” Podrick offers cheerily, patting the pommel of his sword as Brienne nods her head. As much as Sansa wishes she could remain there in their cozy little flat, where they are all safe and sound, she steels herself and follows Sandor out of the door, with Brienne and Podrick trailing them to the stables.

Podrick has saddled the horses already, and Sansa tilts her head back to gaze up at Sandor as he looms over her, his hands going to her hips to lift her into Stranger’s saddle. There’s a moment where she’s airborne with only his large, strong hands grounding her, and she inhales the comforting scent of him as if she could hold it in her lungs forever. And when he swings up behind her, she fits herself against his body, nuzzled between his arms and thighs. She feels safe there, with the formidable form of him wrapped around her.

The sun is just beginning to set as they ride through the streets of Lys, the daytime crowd of merchants and busy citizens having thinned considerably. There are still a fair amount of people lounging against buildings, spilling into taverns, murmuring and laughing and calling, their voices and footsteps a low hum of life. The scent of something thick and hearty wafts out of a building as they pass, but as heavenly as it smells, Sansa’s stomach only turns. Her nerves have roared to life, and only intensify as the palace comes into sight.

Brienne exchanges a nod with Sandor and a smile with Sansa before she and Podrick veer off, steering their horses towards a stable belonging to a well-lit tavern. It is only she and Sandor now, and as they approach the gates of the palace, she straightens and sucks in a breath. The feeling that washes over her at the sight of the gates, guarded by a considerable amount of men, is familiar from her days in King’s Landing. Every time she’d left her chambers, or been summoned before one of the Lannisters, she’d forced herself to imagine that her girdle was armor, that her rigid spine and stony visage was enough to instill fear. She did not have the steel and might of the Kingsguard – but she’d had steel and might of her own, tucked away beneath her ribcage. It had not extinguished her fear, but it had helped.

She draws upon those memories now as Sandor speaks to one of the guards, and the gates slide open. Into the courtyard they go, Stranger’s hooves crunching against the gravel as Sandor steers the stallion to the stables. He dismounts first and then helps Sansa down, before passing the horse’s reins to a boy who seems to know well enough to be wary.

Once the boy is gone, Sandor looks at her, his hands going to her waist. “All right, little bird?” He asks softly, his voice displaying a tenderness that matches his gaze. Despite the pounding of her heart, she nods, her wide eyes searching his face. “Breathe. Stay close to me – never venture from my sight, do you understand?”

“Yes,” she breathes, and then there’s no more stalling to be done. She takes his arm as he leads her towards the doors of the palace, which are thrown open wide, emitting a burst of light from within. She can hear light music, tinkling laughter, and a low murmur of many voices as they step inside. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, but when they do, her gaze drinks in the foyer that they find themselves in. If the palace was impressive from the outside, it is downright stunning inside – and she has not even seen beyond the initial solar. There are guards posted before another set of doors, elaborate gold ones that are closed, and it is from within the room beyond that the sound of merriment is sourced.

They step up to the doors, and the guards pull them open to allow them passage inside. Sandor pauses on the threshold as the doors close again behind them, perhaps allowing her a moment to take it all in.

The room is sprawling, with white marbled floors and pale champagne walls. There are massive windows all along the far wall, the maroon curtains pulled aside to allow a glimpse of a balcony and garden beyond. There is a twinkling chandelier above them, and along another wall is a long narrow table filled to the brim with refreshments and food, the crowning piece a plate holding four dressed and stuffed swans, partially feathered still with their necks intertwined. Just behind the table is a trio of musicians playing an elegant and unfamiliar song.

And the room…the room is full of people, men and women alike. The men don fine tunics and sweeping robes, and the women are dressed in gowns of every color imaginable, with many of them cut in the Lyseni fashion that revealed a generous amount of skin. But each of them had something in common, something that made she and Sandor stand out sharply: they were masked.

“I didn’t know that it was a masquerade,” she murmurs to Sandor, who looks uneasy.

“Nor did I,” he replies.

Before she can say anything else, more than a few heads turn in their direction, voices dipping to low murmurs. Sansa lifts her chin as Sandor leads her forward, not letting her gaze linger too long on any one face.

“Jast!” A booming voice breaks out to their left, and Sandor stills abruptly as a man cuts through the crowd. He’s scarcely taller than she is, with white-blonde hair slicked away from his face and narrow eyes a bright shade of lilac. He is dressed in sweeping robes of crimson, with a ring upon every finger, glinting in the light from the chandelier. And just as the others, he is masked, though it covers only the portion of his face above and beneath his eyes.

He grins as he looks from Sandor to her, and Sansa immediately dislikes the gleam in his eyes as his gaze lingers a fraction too long on her chest.

“And this must be Sofina,” he says, holding out his hand for hers. She places her fingers in his palm, trying not to cringe when he kisses her knuckles. She pulls her hand away from his as soon as it’s appropriate, placing it again on Sandor’s arm. “Jast, you dog, you didn’t tell me how lovely she was.”

“Suppose I didn’t,” Sandor grinds out; Sansa can feel his arm tense. “I like to keep her beauty to myself.”

“Well, rightfully so. I am Tregar Ormollen, my lady.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Sansa replies, her voice high and clear; to her credit, it does not tremble. “Your home is beautiful.”

“You think so?” Ormollen asks, his grin never faltering as his gaze remains stubbornly on her. “I’m glad to hear it. And I daresay you fit in very well; the gown is of your making, I’m sure? It’s delightful.”

“Yes, thank you. But I’m afraid I don’t fit in quite as well as you say. I was unaware I was to be masked.”

“I didn’t tell you?” Ormollen exclaims as he looks to Sandor, who grunts and shakes his head. “Ah, but I would swear that I did. I apologize; Lynesse is the one who organizes these things. I simply go along with what she decrees. Come, let’s find her. I’m sure she has an abundance of masks for you to choose between.”

He starts off through the crowd, and Sandor exchanges a withering glance with her before they follow, her eyes skipping from face to face as they go. The masks do not leave much to the imagination; in fact, many of them seem to cover very little of the face indeed, something that she notes aloud.

“In Westeros, the masked balls are of a different affair,” she says. “The masks cover much of the face, so that no one knows who it is they speak to or dance with. There is a grand unmasking at the end.”

“Quite different indeed,” Ormollen says, offering her a smile over his shoulder. “Some here play coy and pretend not to know who it is they’re courting or flirting with. But the masks aren’t truly meant to hide the identity - unless, of course, you’re one of them.”

He gestures to a man moving in their direction who has donned a full fox mask, with only his eyes visible. Sansa blinks at him, before noting that there are several others near him who also wear full animal masks.

“They’re mummers, though. A good sign that we’ll have quite the show later.” Ormollen at last comes to a halt near a seating area that consisted of massive silken pillows, upon which a group of women were lounging. Immediately she recognizes one, and the woman’s eyes light up when they fall upon Sansa.

“Sofina!” Elaera exclaims, drawing the attention of the women around her. “Oh, I’m thrilled that you decided to come. And look at your gown -“

“Sofina,” Ormollen interrupts, much to Elaera’s displeasure. He seems not to notice as he gestures to a women seated highest upon the pillows and says, “This is Lynesse, my chief concubine.”

The older woman is stunning, with golden hair spilling down her back and skin the color of cream. Her light eyes study Sansa silently for a long moment, before flickering to Sandor at her side and back again. Slowly, the smallest smile touches her lips. “A pleasure to meet you, Sofina. Tregar is quite fond of your husband, and the concubines have been raving over your wares. I fear I could not resist the opportunity to see them myself. However – are you not fond of the masks?”

“I fear that’s my mistake,” Ormollen says, before Sansa can utter a word. “I neglected to mention the nature of the ball when I extended my invitation.”

Lynesse clicks her tongue at that and stands; she’s a tall woman, taller even than Sansa, and is dressed a bit more conservatively than the concubines who surround her. She steps past them without a glance and holds her arm out to Sansa. “Come, then. Let’s see what I can find for you. Your husband may partake in the refreshments while we’re away.”

Sansa feels panic stab through her as she remembers Sandor’s warning from earlier – they cannot be separated. Luckily, Sandor concludes the same.

“Actually,” he says, his growling baritone ringing out and stilling Lynesse. “I find that I’m in need of one, as well. Don’t want to be the only one who stands out.”

Lynesse tilts her head at him but shrugs. “Mine will be far too…delicate for your tastes. Perhaps Tregar has one you may borrow.”

Ormollen shrugs at this, seemingly bored of the conversation. “You know where they are,” he says to Lynesse as he begins to edge back through the crowd. “Just don’t disturb Jelaesa.”

As they follow Lynesse through the crowd, Sansa raises a brow at Sandor, who leans down to murmur in her ear, “His wife. Not a fan of the festivities, I presume. Or maybe just the concubines.”

Sansa smiles, but it seems as if he had not spoken quietly enough, for the moment that they clear the crowd and step through the entrance doors, Lynesse casts a slanted glance over her shoulder. “Jelaesa does not mislike the concubines particularly. At least, not as much as she mislikes me. I suppose I cannot blame her; I was the first concubine, and I imagine she thinks that I opened the door to Tregar’s tastes.”

“He meant no offense,” Sansa says into the following silence, shooting Sandor a cutting glance when he rolls his eyes. Luckily, Lynesse is not looking at them as she leads them up an elaborate set of stairs. Sansa does not miss how Sandor glances over his shoulder suddenly, and she looks to see that one of the guards has peeled away to trail them. Her hand tightens on his arm.

“And I took none,” Lynesse says simply when they reach the top of the stairs. She leads them away down a corridor to a door at the end, which opens to reveal a room that rivals even the one she’d had when she had been betrothed to Joffrey. The scent of incense is thick in the air as she and Sandor pause in the solar while Lynesse disappears into another room.

“It’s…” Sansa murmurs, trailing off as her eyes bounce from the ornate furniture to the gauzy curtains.

“Absolutely fucking ridiculous?” Sandor suggests under his breath, and it is difficult for her not to laugh.

“A bit, yes,” she says. She wants to tell him that once upon a time, this was what she was used to, what she desired. She’d been a foolish child who wanted finery and a palace, a princely husband like what one heard in songs. She wants to tell him that now, after spending months in a homey little flat with a ragtag family and a dog, sewing and hawking her wares in the heat of a Lyseni market, that she’s never been happier. But she can’t, not when they are not alone – not when they are Sofina and Dallin Jast.

He’s staring down at her still, so near to her that she can feel his breath ghosting across her forehead. Even though she knows Lynesse will return soon and there is a guard just outside the door, Sansa lifts up on her tiptoes to brush a quick kiss to his lips.

“Careful, little bird,” he murmurs, lips quirking upwards. “Might have to sneak you off to the gardens and see if you look as lovely out of that dress as you do in it.”

Before she can respond, Lynesse sweeps back into the room, regarding them with raised brows. Sandor’s smile immediately fades, but Sansa cannot force hers to go so quickly.

“Ah, to be newlywed,” Lynesse says. “Or, at least I assume you are. That or your marriage is very happy indeed.”

“Yes,” Sansa can’t help but agree, and thankfully Lynesse does not press further as she offers Sansa a thin golden mask.

“This should go with your gown,” Lynesse informs her, watching as Sansa fits the mask to her face and ties the ribbons behind her head. “Which, we’ll need to discuss later. It seems as if the girls did not exaggerate; you’re quite talented. I’d like to place several orders. But alas, tonight is for celebration. Come, let’s find Jast a mask.”

Ormollen’s chambers are on the opposite end of the sprawling hallway, in an entirely different quarter. Sansa supposes it makes sense, especially if his wife does not care for Lynesse. She herself can not imagine living in a household with Sandor, loving him and desiring him, and having to face multiple other woman that he dallied with under the same roof. She knows in Westeros that it happens within some households – not concubines, per-say, but lords who took their fill of other women who were not their wives, and sometimes raised their bastards. She reflects on it as she and Sandor wait in the hall for Lynesse.

Was that why her lady mother had been so very cruel to Jon? Sansa had not thought much of it at the time, but she recalls how Catelyn Stark seemed incensed by his very presence. She can remember a few instances, though there is a niggling feeling in her brain that there were more even than she recalls, more that her memory had discarded after her injury. Still, she remembers the fury. How it must have rankled her proud mother, to be reminded every day by the face of a child that her beloved husband had sought out another.

And yet…

Sansa had never stood up for Jon, had never defended him nor clung to him like Arya had. But how awful it must have seemed to him, to know that he was not responsible for the circumstances of his birth and yet still was hated for it. She wonders where he is now; she wonders if she will ever get the opportunity to apologize to him.

She’s broken out of her thoughts by Lynesse returning. And even Sansa cannot stop herself from grinning when Sandor disgruntledly fits an ebony mask to his face that covers one side more than the other – the burned side, notably. Her smile fades as she wonders if the choice had been intentional; oddly, she feels herself missing the presence of his scars.

Attire now appropriate, the trio returns to the festivities, which seem to be in full swing. The music is livelier, with couples twirling around the middle of the floor while others keep to the sides, laughing and eating. Lynesse slips away to greet more guests but promises to speak with Sansa again later, and finally it is just she and Sandor.

She releases a long breath as he gently leads her over to the table laden with food. Before she can protest, he’s filling a plate with succulent meats and fruits, which he presses into her hands insistently.

“Eat,” he tells her. “Even if only a little. You need something in your belly.”

She forces herself to nibble at bits of the swan, the skin roasted and crackling, the juices washing across her tongue. It sparks her appetite and she finds herself finishing the majority of the plate with Sandor watching, an amused smile on his lips.

“If I have to eat, then you have to dance with me,” she says when she’s finished. He frowns at that, beginning to shake his head.

“Not much of a dancer, you know that.”

“But you know how.”

“Mayhaps, a bit. I’d just trod on your toes, more like than not.”

“I’ll lead you,” she tells him sweetly, batting her lashes at him. “Subtly, I swear.”

“Sansa…”

“Please. We might not be here by choice, but we can at least make a happy memory, or two. And besides, you need practice for when we dance at our wedding.”

He blinks at that but does not protest. Instead, he offers her his hand with a resigned sigh, and she delightedly takes it, letting him lead her out onto the floor before she takes charge. She is subtle, as promised, guiding him into the steps. And despite his protests, he is not as bad as he claimed; by the second song, he’s learned the steps and she no longer needs to lead him. Instead, she simply melts into his arms, relishing the feeling of his large hand splayed low on her back, of her head tucked against his chest and his cheek resting against her hair. It feels so natural to be with him like this, her skirts swirling around his legs, the scent of him strong in her nostrils.

She almost wishes that they never have to part. But they do, and the song ends, breaking the spell of the moment as he leads her off the floor again.

They’d had their moment of respite, and now it is clear to her that it is over. Ormollen’s booming voice as he ropes them into conversation again proves that.

Sansa is pleasantly drowsy from her previous meal as she sits primly at Sandor's side, her eyes wandering to the crowd that still seems as lively as the moment they walked in.

Sandor has been dragged into another conversation with Ormollen and several other men, much to his obvious distaste. He'd been happier earlier when he'd been able to sit in silence while Lynesse had pulled Sansa aside again to boast of her skills to a group of curious noblewoman. They'd exclaimed over everything from her gown to her vivid auburn hair, going so far as to run their fingers through it before she'd become visibly uncomfortable and Sandor had pulled her away. It had not been long after that the mummers Ormollen had pointed out earlier began a show, which Sansa had only paid half-attention to; something about a hare going to ridiculous and tremendous lengths with the aid of it's woodland allies to avoid capture by predators, involving a wolf, a lion, a fox, and several other creatures. It had been mildly amusing but clumsy and awkward at times; she'd seen finer mummery in Westeros.

She knows that soon they'll be leaving; she can tell by the restless bouncing of Sandor's leg, which she subtly rests her hand upon to still. As wary as she'd been about the ball, it has not been terrible; stressful to be sure, but there had been no one to notice them, to threaten them. It has lightened the burden of her heart some.

"...matters in Westeros are becoming dire, I hear."

That snaps her awake. She turns her head slowly so as not to seem too eager to listen, though it does not matter, for Ormollen glances to she and Sandor all the same.

"Jast and his wife here are Westerosi," Ormollen informs the others. "Perhaps it's something they'd like to hear - if, that is, you are not already informed?"

Sandor shrugs. "We left Westeros long ago. Don't keep up much with it anymore."

"A good thing you left when you did, it seems," the man, a dark portly fellow, says. "There's discourse. Something about the Queen Regent holding on too tightly to her position, and it seems as if the commonfolk aren't pleased. Some think that now is the perfect time for the Dragon Queen to leave her seat in Meereen and sail across the seas to take the throne."

The Dragon Queen - Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa knew of her, of course. Even when she'd been a girl in King's Landing, talk of a Targaryen being alive and newly wed had reached the court. And when it had been revealed that she had dragons, well, that had been the talk on everyone's lips. She'd heard snatches of conversation in taverns while they traveled to Lys, though she'd never paid much attention. Daenerys had never been in the same city as she and her group, and thankfully they'd never seen hide nor scale of dragon. But to hear of her moving upon Westeros soon, to take the throne from Cersei Lannister's grasping hands...

She does not deserve to have it, Sansa thinks of the lioness, quite bitterly. Anyone would be better than she.

"Good, let the bitch be gone from Essos," another man spits, his ire making her flinch. Sandor notices and tugs her closer. "Better that she never comes to Lys and tries to free the slaves here. Can you imagine?"

"Gentlemen, please," Ormollen says lightly, glancing towards Sansa as if she were too daft to notice. "We are in the company of a lady. Such talk isn't appropriate."

"Actually, it's best if we take our leave now," Sandor grinds out, and though a part of Sansa wishes to stay and learn more of dealings in Westeros, she is pleased.

Ormollen, however, soundly protests. "Ah, but the festivities have scarcely started! Surely you can stay a while longer."

"'fraid not," Sandor declines, standing and tugging Sansa to her feet. "If we stay, my wife is likely to fall asleep."

Before Ormollen can say anything else, Sansa smiles and offers a sweet, "It was so good of you to invite us. I look forward to receiving Lynesse's orders in the future."

"Oh, she's quite taken with you. I'm sure it won't be long," Ormollen says with a wink, standing to clap Sandor on the shoulder - a comical move, considering their height difference. "It was so good to meet your wife at last. Such a lovely girl. I wish the both of you immense happiness."

He is so very strange, Sansa thinks, but her smile does not falter as they return their masks, say the rest of their goodbyes, and retreat from the room. The moment that they have stepped outside into the breezy night, Sandor looses a breath so long that Sansa wonders how long he'd been holding it. His pace is brisk as he leads her to the stables, where he orders the boy positioned there to saddle his horse quickly. The moment Stranger is ready, Sandor jerks the reins from the boys grasp and helps Sansa into the saddle, before swinging up behind her.

It seems as if he cannot escape the confines of the gate fast enough, and Sansa does not blame him. The instant they are on the streets of Lys, she feels a tremendous weight lift from her shoulders. And the moment that she spots Brienne and Podrick lounging outside of the tavern, as promised, she cannot contain her smile. The both of them seem notably relieved, and once their horses have been saddled, the four of them set off for home.

"You haven't the slightest clue how glad I am to see the both of you in one piece," Brienne says over the cantering of their horses.

"It's true. I thought that she was going to storm through the gates herself at one point," Podrick says, making both Brienne and Sansa laugh. "How was it?"

"Not quite as horrible as I'd thought," Sansa admits, "but I'm happy to be gone. I forgot how very exhausting balls and dances can be, particularly ones so...extravagant."

The moon hangs high above them, a crescent that is partially concealed by the clouds. There are few people on the streets, with the most of them loitering near the taverns still. As they break away from the livelier section of Lys, there is nothing but the sound of the horses and her companions surrounding her.

"You should have seen the amount of food they had, though!" She continues, drowsy and happy as she reclines back against Sandor. "There were these swans - "

"Hush now, Sansa."

Sandor's voice is low and tense, and something about his tone makes the hairs at the nape of Sansa's neck rise. She sits up straighter, craning her head back to look at him. His face is hard, and to the sides of them, Brienne and Podrick have gone silent as well. She wants to ask him what it is, but before she can, she hears it herself: the clattering of hooves, a large amount, approaching quickly.

They veer off course suddenly, detouring away from the path towards their flat. Sansa's wide eyes strain in the darkness, which is more pressing now that there are fewer lit torches among the dwellings. They've moved into a more open area where the buildings do not press so close together, and suddenly Sandor wheels Stranger around, the horse snorting with agitation. Brienne and Podrick press their own horses close, all of them halting just as a large band of riders breaks from the darkness and begin to fan out around them. There are ten that Sansa can count, and she feels her heart lodge in her throat when she sees them.

They are the mummers from the ball, all of them masked still, and all of them armed. One of them nudges a bay mare forward before stopping, and she finds herself staring into the tawny eyes of the fox.

"How did you enjoy the show?" The fox calls, and Sansa's blood runs cold at the voice, a barrage of memories assaulting her so suddenly that her head throbs where Gregor's fists had collided with her skull. She remembers how that voice sounded when it was taunting her, torturing her, and bile rises in her throat as the man lifts his mask away to reveal long auburn hair, an angular face, and an insufferable smirk.

"Hello, little pup," Brenn says, the mocking moniker like acid on his tongue. "I commend your efforts at evading the Crown's justice. You were a hard one to find."

Around him, the others are stripping off their masks, revealing the faces of men that are vaguely familiar from her time at court. And when the wolf removes his mask, Sansa nearly sobs to see that it is Meryn Trant.

Far as they'd ran, it had never been far enough.