Fic: Enthralled
Title: Enthralled
Rating: PG
Pairings: Sansa/Sandor, Sansa/Harry
Word Count: 2,674
Summary: After leaving the Quiet Isle, Sandor becomes a sellsword and lands in the employ of Harry the Heir. Then he meets Harry's betrothed.
Note: Written for dramedista for her help_chile donation, and based on her story idea.
The lordling's men had been looking his way all night and one of them was finally drunk enough to do more than look. Sandor braced himself as the man swaggered towards him. He enjoyed a good fight, but there was always the danger that they would all jump him. He was good, but no man was good enough to take on a dozen men and survive.
"You're Joffrey's dog that ran away from battle and took up savaging innocent folk."
He'd run from the fire, not the battle, but he was a coward all the same so Sandor didn't bother defending himself from that accusation. "Saltpans was not my doing," he said.
The man stared at him blearily. "That's what you'd say."
Sandor stood up and glared down at the shorter man. "If I do something, I'll admit to it. I don't lie."
The man's friends were cheering him on, adding to the false courage the wine had given him. "I say you're a liar."
"And I say you're a stupid son of a whore," Sandor retorted. The man swung at him, as he'd expected. He dodged the blow and answered back with one of his own. The man went down, but hastily scrambled back up and drew his sword.
Figured it'd be a fool not even man enough for a honest brawl. Sandor unsheathed his sword. He could kill the idiot, and quick, but killing a lord's guardsman would likely bring a heap of trouble down on his head. They exchanged a few cuts, steel on steel, before Sandor seized the first opportunity that presented itself. He struck his opponent's sword arm. The man dropped his sword and clutched his arm, howling in pain.
"Well done, ser."
Sandor glanced at the boy who'd spoken, careful to keep his attention on the fallen man's friends. It was the young lord. "You're congratulating me for beating one of your men?"
"You have skill and mercy. You could have taken off his arm but you didn't."
Sandor almost laughed. No one had ever accused him of being merciful before. It was prudence, not mercy, that had made him turn his sword and strike with the flat of the blade.
"He's not just one of my men," the lordling continued. "Perwyn is the captain of my guard."
"You should invest in a higher quality of fighters."
The lordling chuckled. "So I should, and who better to start with than you? There's a spot in my service for you if you want it."
The Vale had not been ravaged by war like the rest of the realm, but it was winter and times were brutal. Sandor didn't regret leaving the Quiet Isle; a life of prayer was not for him. But after having regular shelter and food for a year, wandering penniless, taking whatever work he could find, was hard. He could use the good life of lordling's man, at least until spring. "I'll swear you no oaths," he warned. "But my sword is yours as long as I'm paid."
"Done, ser."
"I'm not a knight."
The lordling looked curious at that, but he didn't ask questions. He signaled the barkeeper. "Wine for my new friend Sandor."
Sandor was at the disadvantage of not knowing his new employer's identity. "Who are you?" he asked bluntly.
"My name is Harold Hardyng," the lordling answered, with a smile that tried - and failed - to seem modest. "Some call me Harry the Heir."
This was the future overlord of the Vale then, the cousin who would inherit everything when weak little Robert Arryn died. Sandor could not have done better for himself if he'd strived for this outcome. He raised his freshly refilled wine cup. "To your health, my lord."
~
"Why did you agree to marry his daughter then?" Sandor asked. His employer had started grousing about Littlefinger as soon as the Eyrie had come into distant sight.
"He promised my foster mother a very large sum of gold, and Bronze Yohn told me the girl was really..." There was some secret Harry was bursting to tell, but he managed to hold it in. Instead he started talking about his betrothed. "I have no complaints about Alayne. She's a lovely thing and quite sweet." He grinned at Sandor. "Beautiful teats and I suspect beautiful legs, though I've yet to see them in full."
He continued to describe the physical virtues of his future bride as they rode. Sandor scarcely listened, though he grunted appreciatively from time to time to appease Harry. Harry liked him; he treated Sandor like his new best friend. But Sandor didn't deceive himself. Harry was gregarious but fickle; he liked new things and today's favorite would be forgotten tomorrow. Best not to care now so he would not care later.
As they approached the Gates of the Moon, Harry began to fume about Littlefinger again. "The nerve of him. Giving away my castle. The little prick ought to be fed his own entrails." As Sandor understood it, the famed Eyrie was useless once it snowed and the Arryns had to descend the mountain and live in the lower castle during winter. And Littlefinger had, apparently, given ownership of that castle to its steward, Nestor Royce.
"So you'll take it back when you're lord."
"Damn right I will," Harry said. "But it's still galling."
Littlefinger was not there in the yard to greet Harry when they arrived, but his daughter was waiting to offer his apologies. Harry laughingly assured her that it mattered not, though Sandor knew he would complain about it later. It was only after they'd finished kissing and Harry had released the girl that Sandor got a good look at her.
Sansa Stark. He'd know her anywhere, even with her auburn hair dyed a plain brown. Littlefinger must have been the one to help her poison Joffrey and get free of the Imp. And he had her posing as his daughter so the Lannisters would be none the wiser to his duplicity. It was almost admirable in its total mastery of deceit.
"This is Sandor Clegane," Harry was saying to his betrothed, his arm protectively draped around her shoulders. "Don't be afraid. He's my man now."
The girl looked at him with no sign of recognition and curtsied. "I'm pleased to meet you, my lord."
Sandor's mouth twitched. She did remember; that "my lord" proved it. Most people made the mistake of addressing him as "ser" but she hadn't since the night he'd roared at her not to and told her why he hated knights. "You're pretty as he said," he told her.
She blushed prettily. "You're kind to say so."
He'd been stingy, not kind. "Pretty" was an understatement. She'd always been a beautiful girl, but she was more a woman now and she had all the attributes Harry had bragged about. Sandor turned away and busied himself unsaddling Stranger so he wouldn't stare at her.
~
She came to him the night before Harry, and Sandor with him, was to leave. He had his own room, a tiny cell with a bed and a brazier. It was a honor one didn't usually give a sellsword - Harry had done it to assert his power, insisting Lord Nestor's steward find a room for his man as a reminder to Royce who the true power was. Sandor was glad for the privacy now.
"Sansa," he rasped.
"Alayne," she corrected. She stood there just inside the door, wringing her hands nervously.
"What does Alayne want with me?"
She stopped wringing her hands. She shut the door and ventured a little closer to him. "I wanted to see you."
She'd seen him around the castle every day for a fortnight. That should have been enough of his ugly face for her. "What for?" he asked cynically.
She frowned, looking confused and hurt. "I haven't forgotten," she said. "I would have come earlier, but it's hard to get away from my father and Harry and Randa..."
Now he was confused. She hadn't forgotten what? That he'd put a knife to her throat and made her sing him a song? If she wanted him punished for that, she'd tell Littlefinger, not come into his bedroom in the middle of the night. Sandor tried to remember what else she could be talking about. Before the knife and the song, he'd offered to take her away from the Lannisters. Was that what she wanted now, to be taken away from Littlefinger? There was nowhere to take her to, though, and she should know that.
She moved even nearer, so close now he could touch her if he wanted. Sandor touched her hair, to see how she'd react. She didn't flinch or try to back away. He wondered how far she'd go. He kissed her, and, to his fury, she kissed him back without hesitation. She even threw her arms around his neck. He shoved her away and she landed on the narrow bed.
"You don't need me," he said harshly. "Tell Harry and he'll gladly run Littlefinger through for you."
"What are you talking about?"
He needed wine. "What are you talking about, girl?"
"You're not making any sense," she complained.
Sandor laughed. She was still on his bed, looking befuddled and extremely tempting. "Whatever you want from me, I can't give you."
She seemed crushed. "It's not true what they say about me," she said. He could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "I didn't do those things, I'm not bad."
He didn't ask her what in the seven hells she was talking about again. A more specific question might get a proper answer. "Why would I think you're bad? Killing Joffrey? You did the whole bloody realm a favor."
"But I didn't," she insisted. "I didn't know the poison was in my hairnet. It was the Queen of Thorns who poisoned Joffrey. Her and Littlefinger planned it." There was a pause, then she said, "If you don't think badly of me for that, then what? Why don't you want me anymore?"
"It wouldn't be fair to fuck you," Sandor said, admitting to himself that fairness mattered to him where she was concerned at least. "I can't give you what you want. Your kin are all dead; there's no safe place for me to take you to."
She gave him a radiant smile. "Oh, I know. I don't expect you to do anything. It's not so bad. Robert will die soon and Harry will wed me and I'll be safe."
If she didn't expect anything in return, that meant she wanted him simply for himself. Sandor really needed a cup of wine. He sat beside her and she rested her head on his shoulder. Sandor put his arm around her. It was more likely she'd become a master liar, he decided, and she wasn't going to reveal what she needed from him just yet.
"Harry promised me he'll come back next month," she said. "I'll try to see you more often then. We should designate a place to meet in secret so it'll be easier."
"The sept," he said. Eventually she'd let him know what she wanted and he could have her without guilt.
"That's good," she said. "I pray a lot. I'll visit the sept every evening after dinner when you come back and you can come to me there."
A secret love affair. Sandor had to laugh. He entertained the notion that she was simply doing this for the romance of it, but if that was all she wanted, she had her pick of men and surely wouldn't choose him.
She looked up at him without flinching from the sight of his burn scars. "What amuses you?"
"You," he said.
"I hope you don't mean that unkindly." She burrowed deeper into his embrace. "I'll sing you 'Florian and Jonquil' now if you'd like."
Sandor pushed her onto her back and began to kiss her. He owed Harry nothing but his sword, certainly not the respect of not defiling his fiancée. He'd take as much as Sansa would give him. He might be a coward and a hired sword, but he wasn't a fool.
~
He missed her. Sandor had never missed anyone in his whole adult life. Until her. He had thought of her after he'd fled King's Landing and he'd even thought of her during his time at the Quiet Isle, but this was different. It was stronger and it didn't make him feel guilty and ashamed and angry at himself - but that same lack made him angry. It was stupid to feel what he felt. It was a lie, and one of the most dangerous ones, but telling himself that didn't kill it.
Harry had noticed his bad mood. His solution was to throw women at him. Tonight he pushed a buxom blonde whore at Sandor. "Take Bess upstairs. Let her put a smile on your face."
"I don't want her."
A look of disbelief, then scorn crossed the whore's face. Sandor imagined that she longed to tell him she didn't want him and only coin would have made her touch him. He gave her an unpleasant smile. He had a whore far prettier and far more skilled at lying, one with a very exclusive clientele. One who'd yet to tell him what coin she wanted.
Harry shrugged and pulled Bess into his lap. "More for me then." The dark-haired whore sitting beside him giggled like he'd made some great jest. "You'd better have a woman soon though. You're likely to go mad and attack us all if you keep having these foul moods."
Sandor favored him with the same nasty smile he'd given Bess. He would have a woman when they reached the Gates of the Moon tomorrow; the only one Harry wouldn't offer him. Harry frowned at him. Sandor let his dislike and contempt fade from his face. He picked up his wine cup and drained it. "I almost became a holy brother," he said, because he needed to soothe Harry's fear, needed him to keep him in his employ.
Harry laughed. "You?"
"I stayed almost a year at the septry."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Too much praying."
"The things you learn about a man."
Sandor stared into his wine while Harry and the other men enjoyed their whores. He needed wine so badly after a few days without it that he'd often thought he'd kill for it one day. He needed Sansa with that same kind of uncontrollable desperation and he hated her a little for it.
~
She slipped into the shadowy sept just as he'd convinced himself that she'd finished whatever game she'd been playing and she wanted nothing more to do with him. She quickly crossed to the Warrior's altar where he stood and wrapped her arms around his middle. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. Robert had one of his fits when I tried to leave and I had to stay with him until he fell asleep."
Sandor lifted her up onto the altar and pulled up her skirts.
"We shouldn't," she protested, though she parted her thighs readily enough.
"I missed you," he confessed, when he was inside her, though he hadn't meant to tell her.
"I missed you too," she said, with a sweet smile that almost - almost - made him believe it.
She was quiet afterward. She held on tighter when he tried to pull away. Harry was probably looking for one of them by now. But Sandor didn't have the strength to leave her. He wondered if she would finally ask for what she wanted from him. Whatever it was, he'd do it.
But she only said, "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
At this rate he might spend the rest of his life like this; with her and waiting on her. He was completely enthralled. And he didn't even mind anymore. Other men destroyed themselves for airy ideals like honor or justice, or for cold things like gold and power. Sansa Stark wasn't a bad bargain.
Rating: PG
Pairings: Sansa/Sandor, Sansa/Harry
Word Count: 2,674
Summary: After leaving the Quiet Isle, Sandor becomes a sellsword and lands in the employ of Harry the Heir. Then he meets Harry's betrothed.
Note: Written for dramedista for her help_chile donation, and based on her story idea.
The lordling's men had been looking his way all night and one of them was finally drunk enough to do more than look. Sandor braced himself as the man swaggered towards him. He enjoyed a good fight, but there was always the danger that they would all jump him. He was good, but no man was good enough to take on a dozen men and survive.
"You're Joffrey's dog that ran away from battle and took up savaging innocent folk."
He'd run from the fire, not the battle, but he was a coward all the same so Sandor didn't bother defending himself from that accusation. "Saltpans was not my doing," he said.
The man stared at him blearily. "That's what you'd say."
Sandor stood up and glared down at the shorter man. "If I do something, I'll admit to it. I don't lie."
The man's friends were cheering him on, adding to the false courage the wine had given him. "I say you're a liar."
"And I say you're a stupid son of a whore," Sandor retorted. The man swung at him, as he'd expected. He dodged the blow and answered back with one of his own. The man went down, but hastily scrambled back up and drew his sword.
Figured it'd be a fool not even man enough for a honest brawl. Sandor unsheathed his sword. He could kill the idiot, and quick, but killing a lord's guardsman would likely bring a heap of trouble down on his head. They exchanged a few cuts, steel on steel, before Sandor seized the first opportunity that presented itself. He struck his opponent's sword arm. The man dropped his sword and clutched his arm, howling in pain.
"Well done, ser."
Sandor glanced at the boy who'd spoken, careful to keep his attention on the fallen man's friends. It was the young lord. "You're congratulating me for beating one of your men?"
"You have skill and mercy. You could have taken off his arm but you didn't."
Sandor almost laughed. No one had ever accused him of being merciful before. It was prudence, not mercy, that had made him turn his sword and strike with the flat of the blade.
"He's not just one of my men," the lordling continued. "Perwyn is the captain of my guard."
"You should invest in a higher quality of fighters."
The lordling chuckled. "So I should, and who better to start with than you? There's a spot in my service for you if you want it."
The Vale had not been ravaged by war like the rest of the realm, but it was winter and times were brutal. Sandor didn't regret leaving the Quiet Isle; a life of prayer was not for him. But after having regular shelter and food for a year, wandering penniless, taking whatever work he could find, was hard. He could use the good life of lordling's man, at least until spring. "I'll swear you no oaths," he warned. "But my sword is yours as long as I'm paid."
"Done, ser."
"I'm not a knight."
The lordling looked curious at that, but he didn't ask questions. He signaled the barkeeper. "Wine for my new friend Sandor."
Sandor was at the disadvantage of not knowing his new employer's identity. "Who are you?" he asked bluntly.
"My name is Harold Hardyng," the lordling answered, with a smile that tried - and failed - to seem modest. "Some call me Harry the Heir."
This was the future overlord of the Vale then, the cousin who would inherit everything when weak little Robert Arryn died. Sandor could not have done better for himself if he'd strived for this outcome. He raised his freshly refilled wine cup. "To your health, my lord."
~
"Why did you agree to marry his daughter then?" Sandor asked. His employer had started grousing about Littlefinger as soon as the Eyrie had come into distant sight.
"He promised my foster mother a very large sum of gold, and Bronze Yohn told me the girl was really..." There was some secret Harry was bursting to tell, but he managed to hold it in. Instead he started talking about his betrothed. "I have no complaints about Alayne. She's a lovely thing and quite sweet." He grinned at Sandor. "Beautiful teats and I suspect beautiful legs, though I've yet to see them in full."
He continued to describe the physical virtues of his future bride as they rode. Sandor scarcely listened, though he grunted appreciatively from time to time to appease Harry. Harry liked him; he treated Sandor like his new best friend. But Sandor didn't deceive himself. Harry was gregarious but fickle; he liked new things and today's favorite would be forgotten tomorrow. Best not to care now so he would not care later.
As they approached the Gates of the Moon, Harry began to fume about Littlefinger again. "The nerve of him. Giving away my castle. The little prick ought to be fed his own entrails." As Sandor understood it, the famed Eyrie was useless once it snowed and the Arryns had to descend the mountain and live in the lower castle during winter. And Littlefinger had, apparently, given ownership of that castle to its steward, Nestor Royce.
"So you'll take it back when you're lord."
"Damn right I will," Harry said. "But it's still galling."
Littlefinger was not there in the yard to greet Harry when they arrived, but his daughter was waiting to offer his apologies. Harry laughingly assured her that it mattered not, though Sandor knew he would complain about it later. It was only after they'd finished kissing and Harry had released the girl that Sandor got a good look at her.
Sansa Stark. He'd know her anywhere, even with her auburn hair dyed a plain brown. Littlefinger must have been the one to help her poison Joffrey and get free of the Imp. And he had her posing as his daughter so the Lannisters would be none the wiser to his duplicity. It was almost admirable in its total mastery of deceit.
"This is Sandor Clegane," Harry was saying to his betrothed, his arm protectively draped around her shoulders. "Don't be afraid. He's my man now."
The girl looked at him with no sign of recognition and curtsied. "I'm pleased to meet you, my lord."
Sandor's mouth twitched. She did remember; that "my lord" proved it. Most people made the mistake of addressing him as "ser" but she hadn't since the night he'd roared at her not to and told her why he hated knights. "You're pretty as he said," he told her.
She blushed prettily. "You're kind to say so."
He'd been stingy, not kind. "Pretty" was an understatement. She'd always been a beautiful girl, but she was more a woman now and she had all the attributes Harry had bragged about. Sandor turned away and busied himself unsaddling Stranger so he wouldn't stare at her.
~
She came to him the night before Harry, and Sandor with him, was to leave. He had his own room, a tiny cell with a bed and a brazier. It was a honor one didn't usually give a sellsword - Harry had done it to assert his power, insisting Lord Nestor's steward find a room for his man as a reminder to Royce who the true power was. Sandor was glad for the privacy now.
"Sansa," he rasped.
"Alayne," she corrected. She stood there just inside the door, wringing her hands nervously.
"What does Alayne want with me?"
She stopped wringing her hands. She shut the door and ventured a little closer to him. "I wanted to see you."
She'd seen him around the castle every day for a fortnight. That should have been enough of his ugly face for her. "What for?" he asked cynically.
She frowned, looking confused and hurt. "I haven't forgotten," she said. "I would have come earlier, but it's hard to get away from my father and Harry and Randa..."
Now he was confused. She hadn't forgotten what? That he'd put a knife to her throat and made her sing him a song? If she wanted him punished for that, she'd tell Littlefinger, not come into his bedroom in the middle of the night. Sandor tried to remember what else she could be talking about. Before the knife and the song, he'd offered to take her away from the Lannisters. Was that what she wanted now, to be taken away from Littlefinger? There was nowhere to take her to, though, and she should know that.
She moved even nearer, so close now he could touch her if he wanted. Sandor touched her hair, to see how she'd react. She didn't flinch or try to back away. He wondered how far she'd go. He kissed her, and, to his fury, she kissed him back without hesitation. She even threw her arms around his neck. He shoved her away and she landed on the narrow bed.
"You don't need me," he said harshly. "Tell Harry and he'll gladly run Littlefinger through for you."
"What are you talking about?"
He needed wine. "What are you talking about, girl?"
"You're not making any sense," she complained.
Sandor laughed. She was still on his bed, looking befuddled and extremely tempting. "Whatever you want from me, I can't give you."
She seemed crushed. "It's not true what they say about me," she said. He could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "I didn't do those things, I'm not bad."
He didn't ask her what in the seven hells she was talking about again. A more specific question might get a proper answer. "Why would I think you're bad? Killing Joffrey? You did the whole bloody realm a favor."
"But I didn't," she insisted. "I didn't know the poison was in my hairnet. It was the Queen of Thorns who poisoned Joffrey. Her and Littlefinger planned it." There was a pause, then she said, "If you don't think badly of me for that, then what? Why don't you want me anymore?"
"It wouldn't be fair to fuck you," Sandor said, admitting to himself that fairness mattered to him where she was concerned at least. "I can't give you what you want. Your kin are all dead; there's no safe place for me to take you to."
She gave him a radiant smile. "Oh, I know. I don't expect you to do anything. It's not so bad. Robert will die soon and Harry will wed me and I'll be safe."
If she didn't expect anything in return, that meant she wanted him simply for himself. Sandor really needed a cup of wine. He sat beside her and she rested her head on his shoulder. Sandor put his arm around her. It was more likely she'd become a master liar, he decided, and she wasn't going to reveal what she needed from him just yet.
"Harry promised me he'll come back next month," she said. "I'll try to see you more often then. We should designate a place to meet in secret so it'll be easier."
"The sept," he said. Eventually she'd let him know what she wanted and he could have her without guilt.
"That's good," she said. "I pray a lot. I'll visit the sept every evening after dinner when you come back and you can come to me there."
A secret love affair. Sandor had to laugh. He entertained the notion that she was simply doing this for the romance of it, but if that was all she wanted, she had her pick of men and surely wouldn't choose him.
She looked up at him without flinching from the sight of his burn scars. "What amuses you?"
"You," he said.
"I hope you don't mean that unkindly." She burrowed deeper into his embrace. "I'll sing you 'Florian and Jonquil' now if you'd like."
Sandor pushed her onto her back and began to kiss her. He owed Harry nothing but his sword, certainly not the respect of not defiling his fiancée. He'd take as much as Sansa would give him. He might be a coward and a hired sword, but he wasn't a fool.
~
He missed her. Sandor had never missed anyone in his whole adult life. Until her. He had thought of her after he'd fled King's Landing and he'd even thought of her during his time at the Quiet Isle, but this was different. It was stronger and it didn't make him feel guilty and ashamed and angry at himself - but that same lack made him angry. It was stupid to feel what he felt. It was a lie, and one of the most dangerous ones, but telling himself that didn't kill it.
Harry had noticed his bad mood. His solution was to throw women at him. Tonight he pushed a buxom blonde whore at Sandor. "Take Bess upstairs. Let her put a smile on your face."
"I don't want her."
A look of disbelief, then scorn crossed the whore's face. Sandor imagined that she longed to tell him she didn't want him and only coin would have made her touch him. He gave her an unpleasant smile. He had a whore far prettier and far more skilled at lying, one with a very exclusive clientele. One who'd yet to tell him what coin she wanted.
Harry shrugged and pulled Bess into his lap. "More for me then." The dark-haired whore sitting beside him giggled like he'd made some great jest. "You'd better have a woman soon though. You're likely to go mad and attack us all if you keep having these foul moods."
Sandor favored him with the same nasty smile he'd given Bess. He would have a woman when they reached the Gates of the Moon tomorrow; the only one Harry wouldn't offer him. Harry frowned at him. Sandor let his dislike and contempt fade from his face. He picked up his wine cup and drained it. "I almost became a holy brother," he said, because he needed to soothe Harry's fear, needed him to keep him in his employ.
Harry laughed. "You?"
"I stayed almost a year at the septry."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Too much praying."
"The things you learn about a man."
Sandor stared into his wine while Harry and the other men enjoyed their whores. He needed wine so badly after a few days without it that he'd often thought he'd kill for it one day. He needed Sansa with that same kind of uncontrollable desperation and he hated her a little for it.
~
She slipped into the shadowy sept just as he'd convinced himself that she'd finished whatever game she'd been playing and she wanted nothing more to do with him. She quickly crossed to the Warrior's altar where he stood and wrapped her arms around his middle. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. Robert had one of his fits when I tried to leave and I had to stay with him until he fell asleep."
Sandor lifted her up onto the altar and pulled up her skirts.
"We shouldn't," she protested, though she parted her thighs readily enough.
"I missed you," he confessed, when he was inside her, though he hadn't meant to tell her.
"I missed you too," she said, with a sweet smile that almost - almost - made him believe it.
She was quiet afterward. She held on tighter when he tried to pull away. Harry was probably looking for one of them by now. But Sandor didn't have the strength to leave her. He wondered if she would finally ask for what she wanted from him. Whatever it was, he'd do it.
But she only said, "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
At this rate he might spend the rest of his life like this; with her and waiting on her. He was completely enthralled. And he didn't even mind anymore. Other men destroyed themselves for airy ideals like honor or justice, or for cold things like gold and power. Sansa Stark wasn't a bad bargain.