milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sansa comes downstairs, in a long dress of black lambswool. A cloak is slung over one arm - someone's planning to go for a walk after breakfast.

She sits at Bar, orders some porridge and milk, and begins eating. As she eats, she watches the crowd. It's such habit that she doesn't notice anything new until her porridge is almost gone.

Sansa sees the Door.

A startled motion tips her glass of milk, which thunks against the bartop and spills its contents onto the floor.

"Oh." If she can speak, this means this isn't a dream. You can't speak the words you want to in dreams. "Oh."

The Door.

For a time, Sansa sits on her stool, motionless. Then she begins wiping away small, stray tears.

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"The trick, Miss Sansa, is to make them believe you're a piece when you're really a player. And I can do better than that for you."

Sam grins, and produces another with a flick of the wrist, which he offers. "Real ones are much more useful, aren't they?"

Sansa instinctively knows that, but it's good to hear someone say it. She desperately needs to sort out her thoughts.

Sansa blinks and gives a light gasp at the display. "I'll miss the magic here," she says wistfully as she takes it.

A demure smile. "Not as much as I will miss those who have it." She pretends to examine the handkerchief, glancing up at him through lowered eyelids, shy and coy at once.

Sam shakes his head at her. "And who's to say you won't be back?"

"...Whoever controls these things," Sansa says uncertainly. "And things might be greatly changed when I return."

She glances at Bar. She should start writing notes. But not before saying good bye.

Sansa doesn't hug men. But she does smile and give him a curtsey. "I have some affairs that need to be set right, sir Sam. Thank you for everything."

"They might be," Sam agrees, "But it's just as likely that they won't be."

He smiles back. "You're welcome, Miss Sansa." And bows in return.

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