The Queen in the North

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Sansa Stark, Jan 12, 2015.

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    ESTEROS; A LAND OF WAR, DEATH AND DISEASE. NONE OF IT'S CITIZENS REMEMBER TIMES OF PEACE AND PROSPERITY, NOR DO THEY BELIEVE SUCH TIMES WILL COME AGAIN. WINTER IS COMING AND THOSE WHO DO NOT FREEZE WILL BE SLAIN BY THE SWORDS OF COUNTLESS, UNNAMEABLE ENEMIES. HOUSES STARK AND LANNISTER HAVE BEEN AT EACH OTHER'S THROATS FOR THE PAST YEAR, SENDING LANDS IN ALL DIRECTIONS INTO UTTER CHAOS AND TURMOIL. OUR STORY BEGINS ON THE MORNING THAT BORE WONDERFUL NEWS FOR KING JOFFREY, AND HIS EVER-CRUCIAL GRIP ON THE LADY SANSA OF HOUSE STARK, SISTER TO A REBEL KING AND JOFFREY'S FUTURE QUEEN. BUT THERE IS ONE WHO CANNOT STAY SILENT IN HER SUFFERING, AND MAY PROVE MORE USEFUL THAN A SERVANT TO A QUEEN. BAEORN OF HOUSE UMBER HAS BEEN IN THE SERVICE OF LORD BAELISH UNDER LADY CATELYN'S ORDERS, AND HE WILL SOON DISCOVER HOW DIFFICULT THE LAWS OF THE SOUTH CAN BE.


    A one on one with Sansa Stark and Munchkin.
     
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  2. Lord Baeorn of House Umber, red War is an indiscriminating pain. Those of all races, sex, age and class feel it’s wrath. War does not spare its hand for men, women, or children, not for kings, princes, princesses, noblemen, not for the just, or the unjust. All feel it’s wrath. War is an inevitable evil that has its seed planted in every man and woman. Even the holiest of hermits have this inclination to turmoil, though they spend their lives and efforts on denying their own, natural-born nature. Every man has greed in his heart. Greed for something he does not already have. Even the most blessed of men and women want something they do not or cannot obtain. Men have limitations, and he cannot control everything, but he will always have the desire to. One man, one family, one house will want to control the Seven Kingdoms. Every family fights for that right. Every house through some means or another has found a claim to the Iron Throne, and in the name of the smallest right, they will butcher children, rape women, and burn villages. This minuscule right of theirs gives them enough comfort to sleep at night after widowing women, and orphaning children. Winter, it seems, has already come for most.

    The location of the Iron Throne, in King’s Landing looked strangely at peace. The golden sun filtered through the clouds, illuminating the sand-colored rocks, bringing warmth to the castle and surrounding city. For now, the city of King’s Landing lay still and quiet. Very few outbreaks of violence or riots had happened since King Joffrey had ventured into the city. But thanks to his soon-to-be wife, Lady Margery Tyrell, she had somewhat pacified the masses with her beauty, kindness and tenderness. For now, that is. But ravens brought news of violence from across the Seven Lands. Since the head of Ned Stark left his shoulders, chaos began to spread. An honorable man, not afraid to speak the truth, not afraid to die. And many of the men who were loyal and true to him died that day and days after. The Stark’s sigil rang true through the hearts of Northerners. Winter is coming. And Winter had come to many of the Starks since that day, when the Lord of the Starks was beheaded in front of his own children, Arya and Sansa Stark. Arya had since gone missing, and Sansa was left alone without family or comfort. All reminders of home, all promises of safety, the warmth of the Winterfell walls, it was gone. And soon, it wouldn’t just be gone for Sansa, the very stone of Winterfell would be destroyed, burned to the ground.

    But there were signs, hints of a caring hand for Lady Sansa. The first sign of an anonymous protector came the day after her dire wolf Lady was slain. She would find, in her private chambers, a small envelope, inside was a a miniature silver wolf. It was small enough to be hidden away in a pocket. It was a simple trinket. On the envelope were the words, “Lady Stark” in black ink. Perhaps it was a play on words. Whoever it was, they had taken the time to learn and remember the name of Sansa’s slain companion. Stark became a name of betrayal around king’s landing. And the Lady Sansa was called by her first name, not her sirname. However, the anonymous protector would leave trinkets, gifts, poems, all addressed to Lady Stark. Soon after her father’s unjust execution, she received a silk hanker chief, with a simple, grey S embroidered in a corner of it, within an envelope entitled Lady Stark. And every so often, she received a plate of fresh lemon cakes—her favorite treat. She would always know it was from the same person, because whenever a gift was left, either in an envelope, or with a plate of lemon cakes, a small slip of parchment would read, in the same hand-writing, “Lady Stark.” Even when news of her red flower blooming, she was given a small bottle of wine. She seal was unbroken, and with a silk string tied to the neck of the bottle was the slip of parchment with her name on it. Once her marriage to Tyrion Lannister took place, the messages still came.

    The day of the news of the Red Wedding, there came no gift, no trinket, only a letter reading, “Umber remains loyal to you, Lady Stark, Queen of the North.”

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    The dawn was a beautiful orange and red one, and the thick beams danced golden against the sea, across the broken wreckage of Blackwater Bay, causing Baeorn Snow to wake from his not-so deep slumber. He knew that today was going to be dangerous, and more difficult for him than the days before. King Joffery and the Lady Margery were to be wedded today, and much planning had gone on the festivities. A most modest amount of gold had gone into this wedding, much to the amusement of Lord Baelish, who was, at one point, the treasurer of the realm. Now, he was gathering his things and getting ready to leave for the Vale, where he was to be wed to the Lady Lisa. Baeorn smirked to himself as he secured his leathers which fitted to his body beneath his armor. Once he was dressed and armed, his long, brown hair pulled back from his face, beard combed, he took his place outside the door of Peter Baelish's cabin. Here he would guard it until his master exited. For now, all that had to be done was waiting. Their ship blended in easily with the rest of the broken ships around them. Once they got to setting sail at night, no one would notice. All of the attention would be within the city walls.

    Baeorn sensed a stirring on the other side of the wooden door. He straightened his back as the door opened, and out walked Lord Peter Baelish in his fine silk clothing. Without a word he continued down the hall and up to the main deck, Baeorn following closely behind. Baelish climbed to the top, and spoke with the captain is his raspy, thin voice, "Everything is ready, I assume?"

    Baeorn turned his head and looked up at the golden city above them. He subconsciously pressed the palm of his hand to the hilt of his sword. He felt uneasy. It was going to be dangerous. He was used to being close to Sansa, having her in his sights. Lately, with Littlefinger's scheming, it had been easy for Baeorn to be near Sansa, since, after all Littlefinger ordered him to keep an eye on her, and give him news as to how she was doing. However, Littlefinger wasn't the only one concerned with Sansa's wellbeing. From time to time, he would catch a glimpse of Tyrion's bodyguard. Baeorn believed he had never been spotted, but he couldn't be absolutely sure. Baeorn noticed Sansa found solace in prayer. Many times he would find her knelt in a prayer garden. He would linger amongst the pillars, watching her, vacant face, tortured expression. He saw her wipe her tears with the embroidered silk he left her. He would disappear before she could look up.

    Now was the time for him to truly prove his loyalty to her and her family. He knew that having Sansa at the Vale was not much safer than having her at King's Landing. It kept her out of the reach of Ceresi, but leaved her vulnerable to Baelish. Baelish... Baeorn's stomach twisted sickeningly. He knew Littlefinger's desires. That twisted little worm. He saw the way he slithered to and fro, gaining the poor Lady Stark's trust. Becoming her friend, tightening the noose around her young, pretty little neck. Baeorn could only imagine what might happen once she was under his devilish wing at the Vale. What would happen when Lisa wasn't looking? Baeorn would be standing guard at Littlefinger's chambers, and what would happen within them? He feared he may not be able to protect the Lady Stark much longer without revealing himself. She had to be taken away from both King's Landing and Peter Baelish. Partly why she must come to the Vale with them. The Vale was far from King's Landing. While there would still be threats there, there wouldn't be as many as there were here, especially once the Purple Wedding ended. Baeorn prayed to the old gods and the new that perhaps Lisa would distract Peter enough for Baeorn to steal Sansa safely away before he could get his hands on her, but he couldn't be so sure. After spending a few days at the Vale, Baeorn would know more about how to execute his plan. But for now, getting Sansa from one danger and into another was top priority. And this time, Baeorn wouldn't be able to protect her. It was up to someone else, up to Littlefinger and his puppet. And it made Baeorn altogether uneasy.

    Baeorn had been in King's Landing for over a year, and this whole time, there was almost no visible fruit to show for his loyalty. But now, it was the time for harvest. He hoped that the small seeds he planted for Sansa would soon become a blossoming trust when he revealed himself to her. She may have already guessed who he was. He had, on several occasions addressed her as Lady Stark, even after her wedding. She was a smart girl, and Baeorn knew it. He had been sent to King's Landing by Lady Catelyn Stark to watch her family as well as keep a watchful eye on Littlefinger, hence his position at his side. Posing as a bastard Snow kept Beorn from the suspicions of Littlefinger. Arya had slipped between his fingers, and Lord Eddard had been beheaded right before his eyes. And his head was now displayed on a pike. Baeorn had managed to have Eddard buried, he pulled a few strings, made a few threats, left a few marks, but it was done. He had the body secretly shipped back to Winterfell, so he could join his ancestors in death. However, the head of the honorable Eddard was left for the dishonorable sport of the child king. Baeorn would pass the display of heads from time to time with Littlefinger. Each time he would lift his eyes up to Lord Eddard Stark, and each time he made a promise to himself. He would keep Sansa safe, if it meant he had to lose his own head. Winter was not coming. Winter had come.
     
    #2 Munchkin, Jan 13, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 15, 2015
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  3. Lady Sansa of House StarkAs the sun rose over the tips of the horizon, so did she, much to her great regret. With the climb of the sun, Sansa's eyes opened to draw her from the heaven of sleep and drag her into the waking world she so despised. Life was precious and cherishable, something her mother had taught her many years ago, but in the endless eons it had been since she arrived in King's Landing the young woman was beginning to question what life meant, what it was. She glanced over to her sleeping husband, the scar across his face illuminated by the sunrise, and turned her gaze out toward the glittering balcony once more. Sleep had not come easily to her but she cherished it all the same, and when each morning came with a rude awakening she was reminded of the hell that surrounded her.

    "Good morning, my lady," came the soft coo of a maid, arriving unannounced as they usually did. Lord Tywin and the Queen weren't taking any chances with Tyrion, and chambermaids often came and went of their own accord, no doubt to check for stained sheets or any sign of a marital consummation. There was none, for which Sansa was greatly thankful, but there were no doubt many punishments that the Imp would suffer because of his kindness. The smell of fresh eggs and bacon stopped those thoughts, however, and Sansa gently slipped from the warm sheets. "I brought you some breakfast, but not much, for the feast is going to be very grand."

    "Yes," she replied. "So I've heard."

    "Shall I change the sheets for you, Lady Lannister?" The handmaiden peered curiously over the Stark girl's shoulder, knowing what she was looking for. "I would be happy to take them--"

    "No," Sansa jutted in. "Please. My lord husband is very tired. Let him sleep."

    "...of course. Apologies." The queen's servant bowed and left the room, unable to obtain what she had been not-so-discreetly searching for, leaving Sansa alone with a sleeping man she despised. The girl padded gently across the room and took the tray out to a small balcony overlooking the city of sin, and she placed it atop a small glass table as she sat in one of two plush chairs. Sansa took a small sip of the juice made from Dornish oranges and pondered the day's events in private, though before long Tyrion stirred from his slumber and joined her in the opposite chair atop the ledge.

    "You didn't have to do that, you know." He poured himself some wine, as he did every morning after waking. "Shoo her away. I was awake."

    "I'm sorry, my lord."

    "Don't apologize." He gave a little chuckle. "I rather liked it. I'm sure I would have liked it much more if I'd seen Cersei's face when she finds out you so easily pushed away one of her spies."

    Even Sansa couldn't frown at that. "An angry face, I bet."

    "I hope so."

    Husband and wife broke their bread together on the balcony and consumed the food given to them, and throughout the silence each Lannister thought on what it meant to be alive.

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    "We have a new queen," Sansa said out of the corner of her mouth, frowning upon the vision of radiant Margaery and horrific Joffrey kissing beneath the statues of the Mother and Father.

    "Better her than you." Tyrion's statement was indeed true, and Sansa was temporarily relieved that Cersei would be thwarted from her poisoned throne, but it didn't soothe the ache in her heart that something was terribly wrong, the haunting sense that not all was as it should be. The instinct had been implanted in the root of her soul since Joffrey broke his promise along with so many others, and the broken bones and bruises in her past told many stories that justified her fear. Still, she applauded the new Queen and her cruel King as friend and enemy, hoping Margaery had the strength to do what she herself could not.

    Sansa was led by her husband through the courtyards after the ceremony had ended, through the throngs of highborns and gossipers, all of whom stopped to humiliate her in congratulations on her union to the Lannister House. "Your sons will be the lords of Casterly Rock and Winterfell alike," stated Prince Oberyn. "A most noble match," added Mace Tyrell. "I wish you much happiness," said another nobleman from a House she didn't care to recognize. Are all of them blind to my suffering? she thought with each passing face and statement. Do they have no sympathy? Or do they choose to remain neutral to keep their lives safe? The more Sansa considered it, the more the latter option became the reasonable possibility, and she supposed in any other situation she might have been the one to offer "comforting" comments in hopes they might soothe the afflicted.

    But nothing can soothe me anymore. King's Landing holds no joy for me. She placed her hand over her chest, where buried under violet fabrics rested a small silver wolf's head gifted from a stranger, made into a necklace by her late lord father.

    The handmaiden that had barged in earlier in the morning had told no lie--the feast was grand, seven-hundred and seventy-seven courses with countless entertainers to watch throughout the day. Jugglers, contortionists, musicians, dancers and all other manner of appropriate hospitality littered the grounds smothered in the unified banner of Tyrell, Baratheon and Lannister. Streams of thin gold, red and green paper flew from the top of trellises and stakes, hovering over tables and though the gardens. It would have been remarkable had the eyes of a thousand liars not stared at them from all angles. Tyrion was adamant on avoiding conversation with others in favor of taking his seat, and Sansa was quick to follow, grace and poise still in tact.

    The day passed without much affliction. Sansa engaged in a few amiable conversations with the bride and her grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, as well as Lord Varys, Loras Tyrell, her brother-in-law Jaime Lannister, and Brienne of Tarth among others whose names she could not remember. She was surprised by how friendly and pleasant some of the attendees seemed to be, no doubt drunk on whatever lie Queen Cersei had told them, and wished that she, too, could be infected with the plague of temporary joy that wafted through the party. However, she and her husband were too knowledgeable to fall for the swift trap. They sat in silence when all conversation was done and ate what they could, all while keeping track of the sun's movements, wondering when the appropriate time to leave would be.

    Then, the torment began.

    Sansa never saw the little dancers in their ridiculous costumes, parading around the center of the courtyard at Joffrey's cruel invitation, inacting a war he neither felt nor took part in. The sharp blade of the insult, however, was as real as the breeze on her face and she stared an empty stare to the distance in hope the moment would soon pass. To cry here is a death wish, she thought. I will not do it. Tyrion's hand was felt placed over hers. She did not move from the gesture.

    Sansa tried to keep Joffrey's daggers away from her ears, and though they were aimed at Tyrion she felt them as well. Poured wine, names, humiliation, all of them silenced the once-jovial audience that had gathered for the king, and suddenly there was no laughter to be found. She picked up the goblet when it was kicked beneath the table, saving Tyrion the embarrassment of crawling on his hands and knees but tried to understand nothing beyond that. She prayed fearlessly for Tyrion's safety, for Joffrey's demise, and even when the pie came rolling upon Margaery's command her anxiety burst in her throat like a bomb.

    A rough hand grabbed her shoulder. "If you want to live, follow me!" She recognized the voice and tried to put it to a face, but the king had fallen choking to the ground and everything had changed so quickly that memory failed and left her alone with instinct. Laughter faltered into screaming, Queen Cersei wailed and Margaery shrieked, and there was no stopping Sansa now.

    This is my chance.

    She took Ser Duncan's hand as he led her through secret passageways and abandoned alleys. In the distance, the bells began to toll.

    The king was dead.​
     
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  4. Lord Baeorn of House Umber, red Time, it seemed, could not pass swiftly enough for Baeorn. He spent the day at Lord Baelish's side, puffing uneasily at his pipe, which he kept in a pocket from time to time for whenever he needed it. Now was a good time for it. He didn't want his nerves to get out of hand, especially in front of Littlfinger, who had no idea of Baeorn's particular interest in the safety of Lady Sansa, apart from him ordering her to keep an eye out for her from time to time. He sat on a barrel on deck, scraping a sharpening stone along the edge of his blade, his long pipe hanging from between his lips. He sighed out great bellowing gusts of smoke from time to time, occasionally adjusting the pipe in his mouth. For now, he just wore his leathers and some light armor. Later on in their journey, he would wear his furs. He was looking forward to being in the North again. It had been quite a long time since he'd been back, not to mention a while before he had felt the bitter cold of home. Once his sword was sharpened to his liking, Baeorn sheathed it at his side.

    "You look uneasy, my friend," came the sly voice of his employer, "Take comfort that this plan has been thoroughly thought out. Sir Duncan, as we both know, will not fail me, and therefore, will not fail the Lady Sansa," he said, standing before his broad-shouldered body guard.

    "Forgive me, my lord," said Baeorn, rising to his feet before his master and bowing his head respectfully, "I do not doubt, not insult your judgement. I am merely readying myself for potential complications," he said, straightening his back. He was a good head taller than Littlefinger, but that didn't make the Lord Baelish any less dangerous, "My only wish is to keep you and The Lady safe. I would hate for your plan to be revealed, if anything goes wrong."

    With a chuckle, Peter Baelish nodded. He had money, and with that he believed he had bought the bastard's trust. While he did not reveal everything to Baeorn, there was a lot that Baeorn knew that many others did not. Not even the Eunuch's birds knew some of the things Baeorn did. Much do Baelish's pleasure. Not once had Baeorn let slip any information given to him. Baeorn wasn't here to pass along information, but to lend protection in the name of the Starks. Littlefinger believed that if Baelish were untrustworthy, information would have been sold long ago. Baeorn took note of Littlefinger's dealings, though his main concern was of course, the Stark family. Baeorn cared little of the little man's affairs, even in the death of the king. Although Baeorn did not care much for his current master, he could not help but believe that by killing the king, Lord Baelish was doing the realm a great service. But, knowing the plan, Baeorn could not help but feel the slightest tinge of remorse for the Imp they would be leaving behind, and the fact that Sansa would have the death of the king unjustly laid on her head. When the time was right for him to take her away, Sansa wouldn't be safe anywhere under her true name. There would be a fortune out for her capture. Baeorn gritted his teeth.

    Lunch went down uneasily, but Baeorn knew he would need the extra support for the long journey to the Vale. Thank the gods Baeorn had a strong stomach on a ship. As time dragged on, the sky began to darken, and slowly change from a bright blue, do a darkening golden orange. It truly is a beautiful day for a wedding.

    Lord Baelish did not have to shout commands, as every man knew his job. Just as dusk hit, the sailors began to ready the ship to leave. Sansa's bed was already waiting for her, her room furnished and stocked with enough food and comfort for the journey. Her room was just beside the Lord Baelish's, and Baeorn would spend the journey out in front of both doors, guarding both of them. Just then, the bells began to ring throughout the city. Raised voices of men shouting orders could be heard. Baeorn rose from his place, walking to the edge of the boat and peering out through the growing darkness. Baelish came close to the edge of the ship, where the Lady Stark would ascend, and be greeted with a familiar face. Silence fell over the ship as night did also. The warm oranges distending into deep, cool blues. A thick fog hung over the bay, making it impossible for Baeorn to see what was going on.

    Then, water sloshed against the side of the ship as the rowboat came near to it. The ladder was thrown over, and there were low, inaudible voices heard from the boat. And slowly the smooth velvet hood was seen as Sansa ascended onto the main deck. Before she could reach the top of the latter she was swept by the arms of Petyr Baelish and pulled up onto the deck, away from the edge, and to safety. His smooth, velvety voice was smoother now in the presence of the beautiful Sansa, "Are you hurt, my lady? Good, good.... rest, now, you've had quite the fright. The worst is now, over. You're safe here, with me," he kept his hands firmly against her shoulders, attempting to reassure her.

    Baeorn kept his distance for now. But he watched her, kept a firm eye on her. He watched as Baelish's arms were around here, the way he spoke to her in that soft, smooth, warm voice. It sent chills even down Baeorn's spine. His palm gripped the hilt of his sword, but did nothing more. The way Littlefinger looked at the Lady was like how a predator looks at a delicious meal. Taking it's time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

    Lord Baelish looked down over the edge once Sir Dontos called up. With a simple flick of his hand, one of the crew men walked up with a bow. He knocked the arrow, pulled back, aimed, and loosed. This all happened so quickly, that Sir Dontos didn't have time to react. He was dead in the row boat, laying back, an arrow sticking out of his chest. Not even a cry escaped his lips. The archer tucked the bow back behind him, and went about his business as though nothing had happened.
     
    #4 Munchkin, Jan 14, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 15, 2015
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  5. Lady Sansa of House StarkThe fog dug into her flesh like an icy bite as they crossed the forces of the black bay, Ser Dontos's drunken rowing leaving her less than confident she had made the right choice. Was he leading her to some dark oblivion, did he have cruel intentions that she had been to blind to see, or was he simply too intoxicated that he would lose his way and drown the both of them in freezing waters? None of those options were impossibilities and the more she gave them thought, the more she began to panic. Sansa clutched the navy cloak tighter around her shoulders as if it would protect her from fate.

    The great ship faded into view, shining through the thick fog like a beacon to Sansa's desperate eyes. She could feel the adrenaline again, the constant hope for freedom that was closer now than ever before, and when their small boat approached the side of the vessel she remained frozen in her seat, unable to think straight and take advantage of what was offered to her.

    "Go on, Jonquil," urged the drunken fool. "I'll follow behind. It's safe, I promise."

    Sansa only nodded. Rising and gaining balance, she ascended the rungs of the ladder and over the side of the ship, falling into the arms of a stranger, and for a moment she feared it might all have been a trap, but the familiar voice of Petyr Baelish came close to her ears in a slithery soothe. "Are you hurt, my lady?" he inquired, his arms still holding her in place. His eyes admired the purple silks on her womanly frame and the intricate braids of her auburn hair.

    "N-No," she stuttered, still in shock.

    "Good, good. Rest now, you've had quite the fright. The worst is now over. You're safe here with me."

    Am I? she wanted to ask, but Sansa was not about to bite the hand that led her to freedom. Petyr kept a hand at the small of her back as he peered over the edge of the boat to listen to Ser Dontos's pleas for payment, and for a moment Sansa allowed herself a breath of relief.

    Then the arrows flew. Dontos fell dead in his little boat and Sansa opened her mouth to scream.

    "Shhh," came Petyr's soothing voice as she struggled, pulling her away from the railing in hopes that would calm her. "He had to die, my lady. It was imperative to your safety."

    "But you were going to pay him--"

    "Money buys a man's silence for a time. Death buys it forever."

    His hands slithered around her neck and she shivered, feeling the necklace unclasp and moments later it was resting on the edge of the rail. With the edge of a dagger, a stone was shattered.

    "I had it made last week," Petyr stated with a sly grin. "This was all a part of my plan to help you escape. Wasn't that what you wanted?"

    "We're all liars here," Sansa replied, repeating the words that he'd spoken to her so many months ago.

    "Yes, beautiful girl. We're all liars here."
     
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  6. Lord Baeorn of House Umber, red Baeorn never let his eyes leave Sansa. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as Petyr ran his slimy little hands over her, attempting to reassure her, to gain her trust. Baeorn was not sure that Littlefinger had quite won over Lady Stark's trust, and that was a slight bonus for him. The less she trusted Littlefinger, the easier it would be to steal her away. Then Baelsih turned to him.

    "Baeorn Snow will show you to your sleeping quarters. We've prepared a comfortable place for you, my lady. Baeorn will guard your door whilst you sleep. He has pledged to protect us both," he said, ushering her towards Baeorn, who bowed his head in respect.

    "This way, my lady," he said, softly, turning and heading along the deck toward the nicer living quarters, which were below the ship, but separate from the crew's quarters. The wooden steps creaked underneath the weight of them both. Baeorn offered his hand to help her down, insuring that she wouldn't trip over her skirts. His hand was rough, the skin slightly calloused, but it was warm, and comforting. His touch was gentle, hesitant. He would not touch the lady if she did not allow it. His thumb brushed just slightly over the back of her hand. Once both of her feet were on the floor, he walked over to one of the two doors. He opened one, stepping aside to let her enter. "I hope this is comfortable for you, Lady Stark," he said, her formal title almost a hushed whisper when he spoke it. The room was small and modest, but the bed looked warm and comfortable. Her blankets were thick, her pillow plump. There was a small chest by the foot of the bed, "We packed some of your clothes for you as well. Ones suitable for the Northern air," he said, standing in her doorway. He walked inside hesitantly, and lit a lantern by her bed. He walked back to the entrance of her room and turned to face her, "Is there anything you need before retiring for the evening, my lady?"

    My lady. Most bastards were lowly commoners, who almost always addressed a noble as m'lord and m'lady--slurred, and indelicate. Baeorn Snow addressed Sansa Stark with smooth, articulated speech, and an air of respect the lowly were ignorant of. He had the decency to treat her as a lady. Any other commoner would have tried to take a grab at her, or at least cup a feel, but Baeorn Snow had the respect and the modesty of a lord. But then again, any street urchin could be taught to be polite.
     
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