Sam painstakingly rushes through the endless whiteness instilled by the blizzard, his ears pained by the sudden dash of cold and screaming winds of monsters. And yet, he can still hear himself panting, perhaps aided by the practical plug these winds pose on his ears, and his chest heaves up and down with ever a fright at the blank slate before him. It's almost worse than darkness, this blizzard, for certainly the pitch black promises danger, while this white almost gives him a sense of calm. He mustn't be misled by this concept, and keeps pushing forward in pursuit of his brothers.
But it's not them he comes across, but a White Walker leading an attack of wights, its voice a craggly screech of ice shattering and a cry of an infant. Sam's gloved hands raise to cover his ears, darting in the opposite direction before the monster can see him only to come across a collapsed bundle of black fur--a man.
"Brother?" Sam calls, stepping slowly forward and around the form, expecting to see perhaps death but not what he comes across: a man beheaded and holding his own head. Sam stumbles back in horror at the wight's blue eyes, only to whip around at the sound of crushed snow nearby, revealing a wight bearing down on him with an axe. Sam ducks down in reaction, preparing for the worst death he's seen possible only to hear a sharp snarl as Ghost attacks the beast and rips the wight's legs off.
The Tarly stares shocked at the legless corpse then proceeding to crawl towards him, only for it to go up in flames at the sudden lighting of a torch. And then there are legs...and a face as Jeor Mormont steps into rescue Sam, grabbing the boy's tunic and heaving him upward. Around them, the blizzard lessens in intensity, but Sam's heart quakes in fear.
"Did you send the ravens?" the man shouts his question over the howling and screaming winds of both nature and monster. Sam's eyes dart away in guilt only to be ripped back by the hand forcing his coat closer to Mormont's, "Tarly, look at me. Did you send the ravens?"
Sam reluctantly shakes his head and Jeor growls loudly, "That was your job. Your only job." He releases Sam for the boy to sigh in relief, the Lord Commander then turning to the drastically reduced troops of the Night's Watch, eyes sharp with a plan and desperate for an escape. "We need to get back to the Wall. It's a long march. We know what's out there, but we have to make it, have to warn them or before Winter's done, everyone you've ever known will be dead."
And so it was that the Westerosi man experienced the White Walkers for the first time in a thousand years.
//////////////////////////////////////
The wildling camp is not such a surprise to Jon Snow, with the housing being nothing more than tents of animal hide and people glaring fiercely as he passes, voices distinct in their hatred. Although he might have been able to hide with a different cloak, Jon unluckily still finds himself wearing black in a camp full of anything but, like a sore thumb to the remainder and a true reminder of his identity. And though he's trying to keep his eye out for danger, Jon Snow is startled to see a giant then walk in front of him, carrying a massive log as if it's a stick before shoving it into the ground with force. He expects that his wide eyes and open mouth appear comical in that moment--but then again, giants weren't supposed to exist.
Another point for Gabrielle Baelish.
"First time you've seen a giant, Jon Snow?" Ygritte asks and Jon's pulled back into the present, not turning his eyes towards the woman but watching the giant in wonder. "Well, don't stare too long. They're shy. When they stop being shy, they get angry. And when they're angry, I've seen them pound a man straight into the ground like a hammer on a nail."
Her words remind Jon of Gabrielle's stories almost a lifetime ago in the lonely halls of Winterfell, prompting him to ask Ygritte, "Can they squeeze a man to death between their toes?"
"Aye, I've seen it before. How'd you know?" the woman asks, her eyebrows prettily furrowed in confusion at this bit of knowledge a crow possesses. But Jon does not answer her--not wishing to explain the Mock Queen or remember his life at Winterfell--only tucking his head and continuing off in silence.
The shouting of 'crow' towards the black-adorned man grates on Jon's nerves as they travel further into the camp, Ygritte recalling, "You're wearing the wrong color."
"Mance was a ranger," Jon grunts, highly doubting that the man had avoided wearing black for fear of evoking this type of response from the people.
But Ygritte seems entirely and usually obliged to taunt the boy crow, "In your hearts, all you crows want to fly free."
And yet, Jon is getting better at this game of theirs, to taunt one another just for the excuse to keep their eyes locked, "When I'm free, will I be free to go?"
"Sure, you will," the woman jokes, sticking out her spear to trip a collection of children who seem inclined to throw rocks at Jon, something not appreciated by the man. But all the same, his heart seems to lighten as Ygritte continues to taunt him, "And I'll be free to kill you." Her eyes turn to the running lot of children, "Got no respect, this lot. Got no fathers to slap 'em when they're foul."
Jon's eyebrows furrow in confusion at her words, asking "What happened to their fathers?"
"Some of them were killed by crows like you." Jon winces at her response and his brown eyes darken in their direction downward, wishing to no longer partake in this task of his, and brooding all the same. She pokes him, "Don't look so grim, Jon Snow. If Mance Rayder likes you, you'll live another day. And if he don't..."
She leaves that to the fates as Ygritte sweeps open the tent flap with a grin on her pretty face, and Jon's forced to recognize he's now in the tent of Mance Rayder. And by no means is the tent nicer than any other--maybe roomier--as a hearth burns at the opposite end of the tent, lending light to the man in the middle of the room, a tall and wide figure with bright hair like Ygritte's. The man sits casually, eating what Jon assumed to be chicken, his head quirking at the sound of footsteps before bluntly responding, "I smell a Crow."
The man turns then and Jon comes to understand why the wildlings are greatly feared, this man of enormous size and confident with his combat skills. The Lord of Bones informs this wildling, "We killed his friends...thought you'd want to question this one."
"What do we want with a baby Crow?" the man asks with a derogatory tone.
"This baby killed Qhorin Halfhand," Ygritte almost proudly returns, and Tormund Giantsbane visibly pauses, looking at Jon with utter surprise. But Ygritte continues, "He wants to be one of us."
The man steps towards Jon, his eyes narrowed with analysis of this boy's actions, "That halfhanded cunt killed friends of mine—friends twice your size."
"My father taught me big men fall just as quick as little ones if you put a sword through their hearts," Jon stiffly responds, refusing to be afraid of such potent power in this man, though he blindly misses the interested expression Mance Rayder sends him from the other room.
The redhead laughs at Jon then, loudly and without fearing of scaring anyone, "Plenty of little men tried to put their swords through my heart. And there's plenty of little skeletons buried in the woods. What's your name, boy?"
"Jon Snow...Your Grace." The boy kneels then in the carpet, leaving the wildlings in a shocked silence that has Jon's heart beating, knowing he's done something wrong. And then, they all laugh heartily as Jon stares--glares--at them from his position on the floor.
"'Your Grace?' Do you hear that? From now on, you'd better kneel every time I fart," Tormund offers through his loud laughter, although Jon's eyes dart towards the man then appearing in the light of the fire, a humoured but kind smile on his middle-aged face.
"Stand, boy--we don't kneel for anyone beyond the Wall." Jon does as this man commands, this soldier obviously being the King-beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder. And the man analyzes Jon's shorter stature, seeing the father of this boy in his eyes and the strength of his convictions, "So—you're Ned Stark's bastard? Thank you for the gift, Lord of Bones—you can leave us." Said man leaves the tent, slowly followed by a lingering Ygritte as her worried eyes play on Jon, before disappearing behind the hide of the tent. Mance chuckles, "The girl likes you. You like her back, Snow? That why you want to join us?"
Jon shuffles warily at the man's question, eyes dropping to the floor to cover and gather his thoughts as he recognizes the plan he needs to put into place. In order to win this war, Jon must gain these people's trust and find a way to break them from the inside. But in order to do that, Jon realizes he will have to be subtle, have to lie--two things he is not good at.
But he knows who is. Jon's mind revolves back to Gabrielle Baelish like it's been tempted to for the past few days. She knows how to lie as honestly as giving the full truth, and how to subtly get men to follow her command with the ease of her seductive eyes. Jon takes account of all the things Gabrielle does in order to spin her tales, and finds himself straightening his posture with an ease of confidence she puts on--even when she's screaming internally.
"Don't panic, boy—this isn't the damp Night's Watch where we make you swear off girls," Tormund shushes Jon as the boy takes to the role he needs to play in order to win this wicked game of war.
Mance gestures to the redhead then, informing Jon, "This chicken-eater you thought was king is Tormund Giantsbane."
Jon can tell Tormund and Mance are close if not for the shared company then for their mannerisms about each other. The Giantsbane begins to circle him, as if analyzing the boy's many weaknesses he better learn how to hide, muttering, "Can't believe this...pup killed Halfhand.
"He was our enemy, and I'm glad he's dead..." Mance responds with an air of conclusion that has Tormund lapsing back into silence. Raising a hand in offering, Jon takes it with an ease he's not felt in his own shell since leaving for the Wall, even as the King-beyond-the-Wall continues, "But he was my Brother, once. Back when he had a whole hand. What were you doing with him?"
"The Lord Commander sent me to the Halfhand, for seasoning," the lie slips from his mouth with ease, and this previous brother does not seem to catch it.
But, the man is sharp enough to understand Jeor Mormont's significant action in Jon's words, asking, "Why?"
"He wants me to lead one day—"
"But here you are, a traitor, kneeling before the King-beyond-the-Wall," Mance interrupts, entirely and righteously questioning why this Jon Snow would leave the Night's Watch if he had such a promising future with them.
But Jon Snow is not so easily appeased, responding, "If I'm a traitor then you are, too."
At the rather harsh words directed at Mance, the man's bodyguard, Fellback, looks up angrily from polishing his weapon. But Mance pays that man no mind, instead looking deep into Jon's eyes as he pushes for the truth, "Why do you want to join us, Jon Snow?"
Jon grasps for the straws he has, only then realizing how little prepared and motivated he is for this task--why would be leave the Night's Watch? And in the momentary second in which he panics, Jon remembers the line of Ygritte earlier, reciting "I want to be free."
But Mance is not an idiot--and Jon feels like one--the man smiling coldly as he tries to work out this puzzle that is Jon Snow, "No—I don't think so. I think what you want, most of all, is to be a hero."
Almost cued in, Fellback and Tormund both step closer to Jon then, bearing their arms in their hands with sharp looks on their faces. Mance steps closer, threateningly, asking, "I'll ask you one last time—why do you want to join us?"
Gabrielle Baelish is an undetected liar because she paints context around her lies--she makes them into stories. But what does he have to recite that can convince these men to not kill him? Suddenly, Jon remembers Craster's Keep, and his mouth opens to spin his own tale of treachery, "We stopped at Craster's Keep on the way north. I saw..."
Jon stutters into silence then, his voice well played in this lie as actual fear presses on his heart. Mance's eyes narrow on him, asking, "You saw what?"
"I saw Craster take his own baby boy, and leave it in the woods. I saw what took it," Jon remembers, his deep eyes piercing the King-beyond-the-Wall with an honesty that cannot be conjured--this is true.
"You're telling me you saw...one of Them," the King-beyond-the-Wall figures and Jon nods solemnly, never unable to ignore this memory even as it lurks in his dreams. And yet, Mance is still not convinced, asking the question Jon's prepared his lies for, "But why would that make you desert your Brothers?"
"Because, when I told the Lord Commander...he already knew," Jon responds steadily, pausing to allow the man to think before continuing. "Thousands of years ago, the First Men battled the White Walkers and defeated them. I want to fight for the side that fights for the living. Did I come to the right place?"
It's logic that Mance Rayder cannot deny--and Jon knows that. A deep and daunting look erupts across this king's face then, although understanding of Jon's concerns do not go unanswered or forgotten. No, they'll both remember this.
"We'll need to find you a new cloak," the King-beyond-the-Wall states, and suddenly, Jon is sent into a whirlwind of adventure and lies.
//////////////////////////////////////////////
Tyrion stares passionately at his father, finding himself far less comfortable in the 'guest' chairs of the Hand's office than the Hand's chair itself. Tywin Lannister appears the same as he always does, a stiff-backed older man whose years provide people with fear, not a sign of aging in this still agile and quick thinking man. And Tyrion cannot blame people for fearing his father, for certainly Tywin is ruthless in his endeavors and especially when it regards the Lannister legacy. But Tyrion's in the rather fortunate position as his son--a hated son, of course--and such frightening things as assassination attempts will not come from Tywin Lannister himself. No, his life is not on the line, just his dignity.
Tywin continues to scrawl across a piece of parchment even as Tyrion stares soundly at him, at least expecting the honor of having a portion of his attention. But Tywin does not seem honed to give it, and Tyrion's forced to draw the attention to himself: "The badge looks good on you. Almost as good as it looked on me."
The man doesn't even flinch, so Tyrion tries again with an impatient tone, "Are you enjoying your new position?"
That seems to draw at least the ears of his father to Tyrion, the man roughly responding, "Am I enjoying it?"
"I was very happy as Hand of the King," Tyrion reasons, using the gall of honesty when it works for his better.
He shifts back in his seat, watching his father pour the seal onto his newest missive before stamping it and placing it off to the side. The man finally turns to him then, remarking hatefully, "Yes. I heard how happy you were. You brought a whore into my bed."
"It wasn't your bed at the time." Well, not really.
Tywin Lannister does not growl at his irritating offspring, instead, his voice acting like a jagged saw to bare spitefully against Tyrion's skin, "I sent you here to advise the king. I gave you real power and authority. You chose to spend your days as you always have: bedding harlots and drinking with thieves."
Tyrion shrugs, knowing his father will not take his truth for what it is, "Occasionally I drank with the harlots."
"Yes, Lady Baelish, I know," Tywin remarks with an air of stiff composure, and Tyrion's almost tempted to speak up in defense to her depiction. But he's not here to fight others' battles. His father asks directly, "What do you want, Tyrion?"
"Why does everyone assume I want something? Can't I simply visit with my beloved father?" Tyrion wonders aloud, his voice of a slightly bitter tone before darkening as his eyes bore into his father's. "My beloved father who somehow forgot to visit his wounded son after he fell on the battlefield."
"Maester Pycelle assured me your wounds were not fatal."
"Maester Pycelle did nothing but tape my face—it was Lady Baelish who gave me care," Tyrion grounds out with the verbal exemplification of his hatred for this maester, eyes raging with furious contempt for Tywin. "I organized the defense of this city while you held court in the ruins of Harrenhal. I led the foray when the enemies were at the gate while your grandson, the king, quivered in fear behind the walls. I bled in the mud for our family. And as my reward, I was trundled off to some dark little cell. But what do I want? A little bloody gratitude would be a start."
"Jugglers and singers require applause. You are a Lannister." Yes, how could Tyrion forget when every single conversation of theirs includes this very concept. "Do you think I demanded a garland of roses every time I suffered a wound on a battlefield? Hmm?" Tywin shakes his head as Tyrion just stares at him, revealing nothing, "Now, I have seven kingdoms to look after and three of them are in open rebellion. So, tell me what you want."
"I want what is mine by right. Jaime is your eldest son, heir to your lands and titles. But he is a Kingsguard, forbidden from marriage or inheritance. The day Jaime put on the white cloak, he gave up his claim to Casterly Rock. I am your son and lawful heir," Tyrion responds with an edge in his tone that begs for punishment from his ruthless father.
Tywin looks at him with mild surprise at his gall, "You want Casterly Rock?"
"It is mine by right," Tyrion nods with stubborn conviction, and his father just sighs.
"We'll find you accommodations more suited to your name and as a reward for your accomplishments during the battle of Blackwater Bay. And when the time is right, you will be given a position fit for your talents so that you can serve your family and protect our legacy. And if you serve faithfully, you will be rewarded with a suitable wife." Tywin Lannister pauses, and his eyes take a drastic turn with utter spite reveling in their greenness, spatting loudly, "And I would let myself be consumed by maggots before mocking the family name and making you heir to Casterly Rock."
Tyrion just stares at the man he's meant to call father, never having been so tempted to rage and cry since his youth, forgotten in his home. He hates this man, he hates him with his whole being. Why were the gods so unjust as to give Tywin as his father and take his mother? Tyrion wants to wallow in his self-pity, but he remembers his upbringing far better than most in the capital. At least his balls were not cut off. At least his father was not beheaded at his feet. At least his father did not instill cruelty upon him, and demand something no father should ever do. No, Tyrion Lannister should be grateful, but all the same, as he slips silently and vengefully from the room, he heads in the direction of Gabrielle's chambers, intent to voice his angers to someone who understands.
/////////////////////////////////////////
Near sunset and upon the lonely dock outlying the Red Keep, kept high on the mountainside as they stand below, Gabrielle and Sansa bask with Shae in the lingering light of day and the peace it brings. Their eyes do not regard the fortress behind them, but stare heartily towards the horizon and into the Bay, watching as the ships sail away with due fervor as night begins to set in. And though the lessons are near completed with Sansa's ease of learning, Gabrielle still has her practicing her stories in that lonely hour, intending to be whisked away from her hurtful feelings, but still stuck upon this chaotic earth.
"Dorne. It's going to Dorne," Sansa decides, the two girls eying a ship of rather untelling sails and colors, made perfect for these little lessons.
Gabrielle asks, "Why Dorne?"
"It's carrying silk and it's supposed to bring back wine in exchange," Sansa responds, her voice taking on a tone of both wanderlust and great bitter hatred. "But it's not coming back. The captain's tired of risking his life so King's Landing lords and ladies can get drunk on better wine than they deserve. He's going to stay in Dorne. Wait out the Winter where it's beautiful and warm."
Shae takes that moment to make herself heard, a continual thorn in Gabrielle's side, as she remarks, "I met some people in Dorne who weren't so beautiful and warm."
"Don't ruin my practice," Sansa rebukes, eyes turned irritatedly upon Shae.
But Gabrielle's in no mood to hear them bicker, pointing to another ship of grey sails as she asks, "What about that one there?"
"That one?" Sansa asks, indeed pointing to the same ship.
But Shae again ruins the slight fun of this activity, "It's going to Volantis."
"Why do you say that?" Gabrielle asks, her eyes furrowed at this woman who knows so much of the world, yet is so blinded by her inhibitions and perceptions that she surely does not understand.
Shae meets her eye challengingly, "Because when I got on a ship in Volantis, it looked like that one."
"That's not how this works," Sansa rebukes again, finding herself more fed up each day with Shae. "You've got to invent a story about where the ship is going and why."
"Why should I make up a story when I know the truth?"
"Because the truth is our present, and our present is undesirable. Stories are an escape for the weavers and the audience," Gabrielle responds bluntly, not looking to the other two even as they eye her with both confusion and understanding, all three having experienced too much in their short lives. Silence spans around them as Sansa and Shae forget the game, and copy Gabrielle's intentions in looking yonder, far away from reality.
"Lovely day for it. Watching the ships," that voice remarks, and Gabrielle turns with the other two woman to gaze upon the mousy figure of Petyr Baelish. Rage boils underneath her skin, so thoroughly encompassing of her that she allows no mask to cover it--glaring threateningly at the man even as he ignores her existence. Instead, Littlefinger stares at Sansa Stark with an affinity for her red hair and rosy cheeks, all nicely highlighted by the falling sun and returning night.
"Lord Baelish," Sansa curtsies in greeting, her face a lovely shade of innocence in his eyes alone.
But Petyr Baelish is focused elsewhere, turning to the other two woman--though his eyes refuse to lock with Gabrielle's--as he requests, "Might I speak with Lady Sansa alone for a moment?"
Shae is evidently uneasy about leaving Sansa alone with this man, knowing the man's reputation from far away and hearing it closely from Tyrion himself. And yet, as she realizes Gabrielle's not so inclined to leave, Shae understands her availability to do so, bowing her head as she concedes and walking back down the dock towards the woman accompanying Baelish--Ros.
Littlefinger's eyes span from the figure of his daughter to Sansa, waiting for the girl to order Gabrielle away though she looks disinclined to do so. Meeting his look with unwavering naivete, Sansa tells him off, "Anything you wish to say to me can be trusted by your daughter."
That, he disagrees with from personal experience, his jaw clenching in evident anger at the lull Gabrielle has over Sansa Stark. And yet, Littlefinger knows that if Gabrielle stands with Varys, then she does not stand for the crown, and any words of treachery will not be passed to the Queen Regent or Hand. And he also sees that Gabrielle cares for Sansa--that she will want the best for the Stark. He scoffs mentally, such weakness.
"Very well," the man pleasantly responds, taking up Sansa's other side as the three stare into the bay where the last of the ships lean into the horizon, cast away for a better reality. His voice is a hoarse whisper, "I saw your mother not long ago. She's very eager to see you. And your sister."
Sansa's eyes dart to his with wonder enticing them, "Arya's alive?"
"Arya hasn't been seen since she fled King's Landing," Gabrielle responds for the tricky man that is her father, not intending to mislead Sansa if she has any say.
Sansa's eyes widen with sadness at that, boring into Petyr Baelish's as his grey turn to her, power over the girl evident as she practically begs, "You said you'd take me home."
"You said King's Landing was your home," Littlefinger reminds her, watching casually as a look of regret flashes across her perfect face. "You are the property of the crown. Stealing you would be treason. If you were to tell just one person..."
Sansa shakes her head wildly at the prospect of doing such, especially since it would hurt her in the long run, "I won't tell anyone."
"How do I know?" Petyr Baelish tests the waters, eyebrows narrowed in analysis.
"Because I'm a terrible liar. You said so yourself." Littlefinger looks at her then and sees the same promise in Sansa Stark that Gabrielle saw in her years ago. Silence sets in as he considers her intelligent worth, and the lengths to which he can take her. She pleads again, "Please, Lord Baelish. Tell me what to do. Tell me when."
The man pauses before responding, "I'm waiting for word on an assignment that will take me far away from the capital. When I set sail, I might be able to take you with me. But you'll need to be ready to leave on a moment's notice."
"Of course, thank you, my Lord," Sansa responds with a great deal of gratefulness in her large smile, a picture of radiant innocence as he's cast back into the past when her mother did such a thing as this. He bows his head in response, turning on his heel and leaving their company, his voice lost as soon as he's disappeared from sight, Ros with him and Shae lingering at the edge of the dock, watching the two girls.
"You did well," Gabrielle softly and stiffly praises Sansa, not turning her eyes to this budding woman even as Sansa's bore into the side of her face, wishing to make eye contact.
"Do you think he'll fall for it?"
"He loves your mother, and you look just like her. He has no reason not to agree—he would have Lady Stark's heart for returning you to her, or your hand if the worst comes," Gabrielle responds with blunt honesty that Sansa cannot deny. And though she's grown so strong here in the capital, Sansa looks unsteady at the options Gabrielle has laid before her, and the Mock Queen cannot help reaching out, grabbing the girl's hand, and holding it to her chest. Their eyes meet and Gabrielle's kind strength comes through, "We take a great chance in this gamble, but I cannot get you to your brother...only he can."
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Nearly a week later, Sansa and Gabrielle take their daily stroll through the gardens, the optimal time for plotting when the men are practicing early in the morn. Like two beacons of light, the girls' attendance is often anticipated by the men in the tourney grounds below the garden, though no conversation is ever made and no eye contact is kept. Rather, Gabrielle and Sansa just take laps around the area within reach of the loud sounds below, arms laced together with comfort and in friendship, something that's growing to be a massive force each day.
Sansa watches Gabrielle from the corner of her eye, seeing the strangely lost look in her expression and dark circles beneath her eyes. Indeed, the Mock Queen is looking rather worn-dry on this day, though the expression has been mounting for the past week or so. It wonders Sansa greatly, as she knows Gabrielle is a very private person and slow to trust others...just like Sansa herself.
But the Stark does not want that to continue with the Lady Baelish, this woman acting as a true guardian angel and salvation for Sansa and providing comfort when there is none in the world. So, she inquires after the girl's health instead of the opposite happening, an olive branch of sorts: "Something weighs on your mind."
"I've not had a good sleep in days," Gabrielle shrugs, but seems to return to her senses at Sansa's initiation of conversation, her voice resounding with utter intelligence and a sweet cunning. "As nice as it is to be near your chambers, I fear treachery in the walls of the Keep."
Sansa looks at her then, wondering if this is another act, and testing with, "It must be better than the whorehouse."
Despite her exhaustion--and perhaps aided by it--Gabrielle laughs loudly in response to Sansa's words, not at their humorous attributes but how true they are. She smiles and responds, "Less screaming and less of my father, yes." Then, the girl's smile fades from Sansa's perspective, a glassy film developing over her green eyes as Gabrielle's overcome with thought, "You know, I don't really know where I was born..."
"What?" Sansa's voice resounds with shock, turning and stopping to look at Gabrielle who easily meets her eyes, "Was your name not Waters before you were legitimized?"
"Aye, and before that, I was 'Stone.' That's, of course, when my father was in the Vale, but it never was a constant," Gabrielle remarks, and Sansa is stuck on the rather horrid state this woman lived in as a child. To not know one's true identity, to not have a true 'home' because she did not know where she first gave breath.
Her red eyebrows furrow in confusion, wondering the obvious, "Why wouldn't he have told you?"
"He did not tell me much, and I learned not to ask. I don't know of my mother, I don't know where my home is, I don't know if I have family. Maybe I had half-siblings. But now I'll never know." Gabrielle's voice cracks in the first sign of weakness that Sansa's ever witnessed, before the girl's mouth parts with a bitter laugh, terrifying and worrying. "I don't want to go by 'Lady Baelish' any longer—but I don't know my bastard name. Gabrielle Stone. Gabrielle Waters." She laughs again then, looking delirious with exhaustion as her eyes play jokingly on Sansa's, "Maybe I'll just change it for each person I meet. Gabrielle Sand. Gabrielle Storm. Gabrielle Snow."
Sansa, before she can so much as think, lays a hand on Gabrielle's arm, asking softly, "Are you alright?"
Gabrielle's eyes are suddenly intense upon the Stark, her convictions deep in her tone as she reveals the true extent of her care for this other girl, once a pawn of hers and now almost like family. She remarks, "I don't want you to end up like me, Sansa—a girl without a home or a name. I want you to take pride in your name—Stark—and wear it like armor against those who dare to hurt you. But for that, we need to get you home to your brother. And the only way to do that is through Lord Baelish. I do not know what he plans to do with you, but I have trained you in all my ways."
Sansa does not know what else to do besides smile at Gabrielle, though the look provides little help in restoring the Mock Queen to her previous position of power. So she adds, "And I will succeed because of it." That seems to make Gabrielle slightly more present as she smiles softly in response, watching Sansa turn back towards their path as she commands them, "Let's walk."