Ser Allar Oakheart was ordered to escort Sansa, in her blue dress, back to her bedroom in Maegors Holdfast, a noble and pitiful captive.
Although Sansa was only twelve, she was a beautiful young girl. She had the delicate cheekbones, clear blue eyes, and thick auburn hair of House Tully, unlike a Stark. When she grew up, her figure would be tall, graceful, and very feminine.
"I'm sorry, Miss Sansa," Ser Allar whispered when no one was around. "I know this is not the way of a knight, but we serve the King, not judge him."
"I thank you," Sansa immediately replied, knowing that if it were any other Kingsguard, she would have been beaten much harder and more severely. A Kingsguard should forsake love, but Sansa found Ser Allar to be more gossipy and gentler.
Sansa thought of those fallen Kingsguard, knights who swore to help the weak, protect women, and fight for justice, yet these men had done none of it.
"I'm afraid your days ahead will be even harder," Ser Allar whispered. "stormbreaker has already won three victories, and Lord Tywin seems slow to act, not moving an inch in Harrenhal. The Queen Dowager is furious. Your brother serving the storm is an act of desperation, but if this continues, Joffrey will only..."
"stormbreaker," Sansa noted the name. The storm was now famous. What would he be like? "The servants say the blacksmith is a rude, strong man, seven or eight feet tall, as bloodthirsty as The Mountain, eating half a cow and drinking a barrel of wine in one meal."
"Him? They say he's even more violent than King Robert." Ser Allar shook his head and led the girl downstairs. "The storm is a tough character, definitely a cold-blooded killer. But you must never mention his name, it will bring disaster."
Sansa nodded, listening carefully, understanding her situation. She was a prisoner of the Queen Dowager and the King. She missed my father, and her other family members. Everyone thought my father was dead, and Sansa had to pretend as well. The Queen Dowager's gentleness was just a facade, and Joffrey was even more of a devil.
"Will the storm come? Or will the Wolf Pack from the North come first?" Sansa asked herself in her heart, wondering who could take her away from King's Landing. Just like the legendary knight.
The maids came forward to offer Sansa some comforting words, then helped her wash clean. After a while, a Maester would come to check on her injuries.
In her leisure, Sansa again saw the red, blood-stained longsword sweeping across the sky above King's Landing. This was the prosperity she loved, but upon touching it, she found it was full of thorns, piercing her palms, and blood was dripping.
"I am a girl of House Stark. King's Landing is not my home, and Joffrey is not the prince from the songs," Sansa admonished herself. Wolves are resilient creatures; even in the cold, she had to strive to survive, waiting to reunite with the Wolf Pack.
The red comet swept across King's Landing, and everyone saw the blood-stained longsword, The Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand, and so on.
"You saw it with your own eyes?" In a third-floor room of a certain brothel owned by Littlefinger, Littlefinger asked his guard, Lothor.布伦.
Littlefinger was dressed in Rose and plum-colored clothes, his cloak embroidered with mockingbirds. Beside him, Lothor wore patched brown breeches, leather boots, and a weathered leather vest. Lothor was a square-faced strong man with a flat nose, grayish hair, rarely spoke, but was extremely strong.
Lothor nodded: "Yes, my lord. Everyone saw it. Thorys was late for our sparring match. Ser Thorys was naked except for his breastplate and feathered helmet. That fool Thorys almost died. The King is always angry, and it was Miss Sansa Stark who pleaded for him."
"This girl is quite brave. I know the King often orders her beaten." Littlefinger stroked his beard, a bright glint in his eyes.
"Yes." Lothor nodded. The knights of King's Landing were also hypocritical knights.
"Even so, there are still good people in our Red Keep. A woman's face is her first weapon, and she does have Catelyn's charm after all." Littlefinger smiled.
Lothor looked at this strange man, Petyr, the master of coin, silent as iron.
"Lothor, get ready to look at information about ships heading to the Vale. Our mission is also very difficult," Littlefinger commanded.
"Yes, my lord." To the North, to Gulltown, Littlefinger ordered Lothor to be prepared.
"Do you wonder why I've always been choosing a retreat?" Littlefinger asked Lothor.
Lothor hesitated, then nodded.
"King's Landing does not welcome us. A minister who counts coppers, seemingly high and mighty. But how much loyalty do the smiles I buy hold? Soon, my old friend Janos will not be able to hold his position, and I have no army." Littlefinger poured a glass of fine wine and handed it to Lothor.
Lothor took the wine: "I see the new Hand wants to make a big splash."
"Indeed. The Imp has finally found his stage, like a vigorous bull before him." Littlefinger nodded, "A little lion is still a lion. Lord Tywin has put him in charge of King's Landing. Although he doesn't trust us, what does it matter? For now, he can't do without us. Even so, the bird needs to think about its own path. Get busy, Lothor."
"At your command." Lothor drank the wine, then turned and left.
After Lothor left, only Littlefinger remained in Littlefinger's study.
"The Imp, Ser Allar, The Hound, the fool Thorys. These four men, in front of a beautiful young girl, always have a strange emotion. Even a beast like The Hound would be moved?" Littlefinger pondered. He had gold, so he naturally had his own leads. But Ser Allar and The Hound were too dangerous; only Thorys would be a good pawn to contact Sansa.
"And Old Wolf, but it's too late." Littlefinger murmured to himself. Varys would not let go of this fat meat. It would be very dangerous for him to pick up a Sansa.
What he needed now was to wait, to lie low, and let The Imp jump around. And Varys, the eunuch master of whisperers whom both sides guarded against.
Thinking of this, Littlefinger couldn't help but think of Lysa's foolish and comical fat face. Playing a role with Lysa was always better than dealing with too many players in King's Landing. The Vale was his home, and if things didn't go well in King's Landing, he would have to think about a retreat.
"But how should I go back?" Littlefinger murmured to himself, rubbing his forehead. "I need a status that matches the fool Lysa."
... In the small hall of the Tower of the Hand, The Imp hosted Varys for a feast. Varys had once disguised himself and shown goodwill to him in an inn, so he couldn't fall behind.
The Imp ensured it was a wonderful meal: lamb and carrot soup; summer vegetables mixed with walnuts, grapes, star anise, and crumbled cheese; hot trout, spiced pumpkin, and creamed quail, each dish paired with a suitable wine. He had always enjoyed life, so after moving into the Tower of the Hand, the first thing he did was to find the best chef in the city and take her under his wing.
"Welcome, my good friend," The Imp said to Varys. The eunuch's head was like a boiled egg, and he wore a pale purple robe, emitting the scent of lavender.
"That's very kind of you, a gift from the great Hand. I can feast well. Lord Eddard in the past was never so kind," Varys chuckled.
"That's why my head is still on my neck," The Imp said with a grin. "You must ensure Old Wolf's head remains, a move we will use against the storm in the future."
"Don't worry," Varys assured him. "I need to keep my own head."
"How many others know about this?"
"Me, Littlefinger, your sister, and the bearded Old Maester. Joffrey and Janos are not aware," Varys enumerated.
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