The dark blood remained caked beneath her nails, even as she poured the honeyed wine. She'd changed into a clean gown, washed her hair, scrubbed her pearly skin until it chafed and chapped...and yet the evidence persisted, black as coal, crusty and uncompromising.

She placed a goblet on the table before him, and he waited for her to drink of her own glass before partaking himself. Sweet as it was, the wine stung his throat, and he welcomed the pain, anything to distract from the numbness that threatened to engulf him completely. He'd experienced battle countless times, seen hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, watched men maimed and tortured and broken until he barely registered their suffering. But something about this day...perhaps it was the haphazard, savage nature of it all that troubled him so. Without the ceremony, the prescribed courtesy of war...just a ragtag band of vigilantes, hacking and slicing without skill, without style. Brienne knew better, Clegane knew better...I certainly knew better. And Sansa Stark, her hands coated in a viscous black liquid, standing over the twitching form of the creature who had once been her mother...

"The Maid of Tarth will live, the maester tells me." Her voice was a plateau, still and flat. He couldn't help but feel impressed, even as he pretended to ignore the fact that she'd emptied her glass in one gulp and was reaching once more for the carafe. "She bled out quite a bit, but she's very strong. Strong and brave...a credit to you, Ser Jaime."

"None of the credit belongs to me." He took a long drink of the wine, a lightness spreading through his chest at the news. Brienne would live to see her vow fulfilled, would live to see Sansa Stark safe and well...for the time being, anyway. He tilted his head slightly to one side, verdant eyes trained fully upon the girl. She bristled visibly, but refused to meet his gaze. In the simple kirtle and sash, her hair unbound and still slightly damp, she looked every bit the child that she was. And yet, those eyes...he recalled, absurdly, the minstrel songs that circulated around King's Landing shortly after Sansa's escape, all featuring the beautiful, sad-eyed Lady Lannister and her sudden flight. Cersei quickly discovered the identity of these balladeers, and the sight of the poor wretches staked at the castle wall, maggots breeding in their eye sockets, was enough to quell that particular source of inspiration. Sad-eyed Lady Lannister. He wondered what she would do if he called her "sister", then dismissed the thought.

The silence swelled between them, clinging to the walls, the table, the ground. He picked up his goblet with his golden hand, grateful for the sound of metal against metal. Sansa flinched, and he smiled involuntarily. With his left hand, he lifted the carafe and refilled her glass. "Keep drinking. It will help."

Those tragic, song-worthy blue eyes narrowed, but she took his suggestion all the same. He waited for her to finish her third glass before speaking: "You know why I am here, my lady."

"I know the reason you've given me." Her expression was hard and blank, but the effects of the wine were apparent in the flush upon her high cheekbones. She spoke no further, so he continued:

"My vow, and the Lady Brienne's vow, was to ensure your safety. In the interest of keeping that vow, I must insist that we depart from the Vale as soon as possible."

"I don't see why." She placed her palms upon the table and leaned forward, and he was startled to notice a steely glint in her expression that hadn't been there before. After years of Aerys and Tywin and Cersei, he'd grown wary of cold ambition, and to see it on a girl so young...

"As I see it, there's no safer place in the world for me. These men, Littlefinger's men...they know me as Alayne Stone, their lord's devoted daughter. Enough of these men witnessed...what happened..." -she paused to swallow, and he exhaled in slight relief- "...that I am safely perceived as a victim. They will wish to protect me, to protect the Vale, and once I get word to Ha-" Here she stopped, obviously fearing that she'd spoken too freely. And she had. Her plan wasn't the worst he'd heard, but teemed with assumptions and conditions that she clearly hadn't allowed herself to carefully consider. Littlefinger or no Littlefinger, she is a child after all.

He momentarily considered charming her, giving her his pretty face and roguish smile- but no sooner did the thought enter his head than he rejected it with disgust- as though THIS girl, his put-upon little good-sister, the last vestige of the Stark name, could ever again find beauty in a golden lion, much less a middle-aged, fading cripple. Perhaps appealing to her sentiment, speaking of his promise to her mother...but even he, Jaime Lannister, couldn't bear such cruelty. Instead, he recalled the striving gleam in her eyes and spoke through logic.

"Maybe so, my lady. But there are too many now who know who you are, and you are still..." Wanted for murder. The words hung heavily between them, and she quirked her eyebrow, as though daring him to speak them aloud. But he would not oblige. He rose from his chair and crossed to kneel beside her. He could smell the wine on her breath as he brought his face close to hers, his voice even and quiet. "Let me hide you, Sansa. Let me make you invisible, and you'll never fear again." Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor. He watched her facial muscles soften...her heavy head dipped very slightly, until her cheek barely grazed his matted curls. Green eyes met blue, and he noticed a different, a brighter glow...perhaps hope? He placed his left hand upon hers, and her littlest finger softly hooked over his as she surely imagined this life, anonymous and wholly secure...

And then she snapped upright, removing her hand from his and tightening her face once more. "I will not. I will not leave the Vale."

He rose to his feet in an impatient huff, his head swimming with spirits and frustration. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll make her see reason. "I bid you a good night, my lady. I must rise early to consult with the maesters and learn when the Lady Brienne and I can continue on our way."

As he pushed the door open, he heard her voice behind him, a resolute staccato:

"I am not leaving the Vale."

"As you say, my lady." He began to step down the corridor, until her next words halted him completely:

"And neither are you."