How strange it was, to see an almost-stranger take the responsibility for her father's execution. In one first white hot moment, she wanted to be swept along with his blame. She wanted to blame him, too. Because blaming him would be easier than trying to find ways to blame herself. She had even written to Robb, begging that he bend the knee. But all along, even she had known: I will be his queen, and give him beautiful blonde-haired children; he will be a great king and a golden lion.

Joffrey was lion through and through, with not a drop of stag in him. Not like this creature across the table. Sansa tried to imagine what her father felt when he recognized his friend in Gendry's features. Was it anywhere near the double-edged hope that she felt?

She unknowingly played into the thoughts Gendry was already thinking: "They treat it like a game; Lord Stark became a piece, and you are not to blame for that."

Petyr had explained as much -- so tentatively that she managed to question how involved he'd been in the whole ordeal. But he was her one and only friend, so she could not afford to distrust him now.