It took time to tidy her affairs of the city off her desk's wide stone surface. Although the legs were wood, the top was a fine-veined marble. And every evening she (alone; herself) folded each letter and closed each ledger and locked them up where they ought to be locked. It was not because she understood them perfectly -- often, she didn't. And often her day comprised of bringing people in who could explain the minutia to her. But she felt an overwhelming sense of care and duty, so much so that she was compelled to take stewardship over every piece of paper that crossed her desk. And tonight she had to file them all away and make room for another sort of care. Another sort of duty.

Out came her slim leatherbound book of legends and myths. Out, too, came the scrap-parchment that could scribbled upon and used up as desired. Out came a bowl of chalk and a framed slate. Out, too, came a utilitarian tea pot and two deep mugs. For lessons, she'd since abandoned the delicate china. All that lacked was her student, and so in anticipation of him Sansa left the solar door stood open. If she had to hear another knock upon it today, she would surely begin to ache behind her temples.