She recognises firm insistence in the man's voice. Her father used it often, and Robb had started on it too when their younger siblings learned how to talk back. Much later it was from monsters masquerading as men; bitterly she thinks that, at the absolute least, Ramsay did not pretend to be anything else other than a monster.
He's the reason she's treating with this man, in part.
Sansa takes a nearby seat, keeps the tray in perfect balance on her lap and knees while there's not much space elsewhere to set the tray down. She'll have one of the bread rolls, she decides; the smell of it is oddly sweet, sweeter than she remembers bread should be, and it seems baked within the day. Mostly fresh, but she realises she's not picky. Better than scraps; much better than nothing.
The men here seem to like their hats, Sansa thinks, as she separates exactly one roll of bread from the rest. Constable Fraser wears one similar, and Marshal Givens too, to say nothing of the strange young man who wears a strange cowl to match his haughty temper. Flat brim, a dip in the crown. Sansa only ever saw the southerners wear them, the Tyrells most especially. The North preferred their capes and cowls; what use was warm covering if a simple wind could make you lose it?
She supposes they could be pinned to one's hair. A lot of work, though; she wouldn't want to.
"That I did," she answers plain, but quietly. "Along with my wolf. I didn't expect to see her here, but I'm grateful for her company."
Lady has taken to sitting by the windows, tall enough that she could peer out of the panes and look longingly at the snow. A wolf, contemplating; or maybe she just wants to be out in the cold. Perhaps later when it's quieter, so Sansa can watch her and not worry about people coming up behind her.
"You're used to strangers coming to town." It's been repeated to her enough times, that the lights signal the coming of new faces. "Have you always been here?"
no subject
He's the reason she's treating with this man, in part.
Sansa takes a nearby seat, keeps the tray in perfect balance on her lap and knees while there's not much space elsewhere to set the tray down. She'll have one of the bread rolls, she decides; the smell of it is oddly sweet, sweeter than she remembers bread should be, and it seems baked within the day. Mostly fresh, but she realises she's not picky. Better than scraps; much better than nothing.
The men here seem to like their hats, Sansa thinks, as she separates exactly one roll of bread from the rest. Constable Fraser wears one similar, and Marshal Givens too, to say nothing of the strange young man who wears a strange cowl to match his haughty temper. Flat brim, a dip in the crown. Sansa only ever saw the southerners wear them, the Tyrells most especially. The North preferred their capes and cowls; what use was warm covering if a simple wind could make you lose it?
She supposes they could be pinned to one's hair. A lot of work, though; she wouldn't want to.
"That I did," she answers plain, but quietly. "Along with my wolf. I didn't expect to see her here, but I'm grateful for her company."
Lady has taken to sitting by the windows, tall enough that she could peer out of the panes and look longingly at the snow. A wolf, contemplating; or maybe she just wants to be out in the cold. Perhaps later when it's quieter, so Sansa can watch her and not worry about people coming up behind her.
"You're used to strangers coming to town." It's been repeated to her enough times, that the lights signal the coming of new faces. "Have you always been here?"