And suddenly there's Sansa fucking Stark, teasing him. Who'd have ever banked on that happening? Certainly not him, certainly not considering the last time he saw her, she was a frightened girl clutching a doll. He'd looked a mess from the battle, bloody and drunk, and he'd had to bark at her to get her eyes up to his.

Now, she arches her brow at him. Now, her words are amused and playful. What the fuck's going on here? He levels her with a glare, though she'll know good and well it isn't the full heat he's capable of. Just a mild, annoyed sort of burn, while the better part of his brain is busy trying to wrap itself around this exchange.

"He'd be a terrible person regardless. Don't you go encouraging him, that's the last fucking thing I need." But he's got bigger, more important questions now than whatever that nance at the bar inspires. "Since when have you got the cheek to wag your tongue at me anyway, Little Bird? Last I recall, you could hardly stand to look at me."