[Gods, it was good to hear him laugh. Good enough that Sansa allowed herself a soft laugh of her own - not at anything in particular, but, perhaps, just out of relief that she could. Now it felt safe to do, now that any lingering ice between them seemed, at least for now, to be melted.]
[His question, though, gave her pause, and the smile faded again. What did you make of it? It had not been a long time, and it had passed in something of a blur. Also, of course, it had not been total by any means. Lord Baelish knew who she was from the start. Aunt Lysa had seen through her immediately. She had never really been anything but a Stark.]
[Outside of that...]
[She swallows, one hand coming up to wind in her hair - red again, not brown. Her own Tully hair, her own Stark self. Tully or Stark or Stone, though, it has seemed to make little difference. She is still herself, whatever name she has, and it seems that whoever she is, the same fears and losses beset her. Does it really matter whether it is a king or an imp or a singer who threatens to climb into her bed? Whether she is a traitor, a lady, or nothing at all?]
[She can't say any of that to Jon. Not now, and perhaps not ever. She would be too ashamed, and he doesn't need to know. Still, her silence lingers a little too long, her fingers twisting nervously through strands of auburn.]
...I don't think people were so unkind to me as they were to you.
no subject
[His question, though, gave her pause, and the smile faded again. What did you make of it? It had not been a long time, and it had passed in something of a blur. Also, of course, it had not been total by any means. Lord Baelish knew who she was from the start. Aunt Lysa had seen through her immediately. She had never really been anything but a Stark.]
[Outside of that...]
[She swallows, one hand coming up to wind in her hair - red again, not brown. Her own Tully hair, her own Stark self. Tully or Stark or Stone, though, it has seemed to make little difference. She is still herself, whatever name she has, and it seems that whoever she is, the same fears and losses beset her. Does it really matter whether it is a king or an imp or a singer who threatens to climb into her bed? Whether she is a traitor, a lady, or nothing at all?]
[She can't say any of that to Jon. Not now, and perhaps not ever. She would be too ashamed, and he doesn't need to know. Still, her silence lingers a little too long, her fingers twisting nervously through strands of auburn.]
...I don't think people were so unkind to me as they were to you.