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[sansa_stark]

It has been a very tough week. Certain people respond well to pressure.

Other people come into the bar with red, puffy eyes, curl up in a booth, and pick at their supper.

Sansa is the latter. Chicken salad has never been so unappetizing.

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[sansa_stark]

Sansa looks down at Tyrion blankly for a moment. If he's been here, he's heard of the clock. If he hasn't - well, she doesn't feel like explaining it. She doesn't even want to think about it.

A big, heavy sigh from Sansa. "I'm afflicted with a sad mood." After a moment she elaborates, "It-- the curse of women when the moon controls them." This euphemism for 'my period' is brought to you by the letter S, for Sansa!

[sansa_stark]

"I suppose I do need fluid," Sansa murmurs, taking a sip of the offered cup. She doesn't check it for poison. Isn't it great when relationships improve?

Well, Tyrion's here. And now it's time to put her plan into action. She looks idly across the bar, as if fishing for a topic of conversation. She hits on one, and tries (but fails) to suppress a happy grin.

"Have you seen my feet of late, my lord?" she asks sweetly.