She felt the fissure -- the canyon -- that stood between his belief and hers. Sansa sought out security and certainty. What, she, wondered, did Ser Gendry want? She watched him for a heartbeat or two. He was a puzzle, certainly, but it was no longer a simple question of who shared his blood and whose face his face brought to mind. Now there was the distinct impression that she puzzled over him. But only momentarily, and always before a curt shake of her head once she decided to give in, submit, and let the moment pass.

"Well," she began, and smudged her fingers across the too-thick eight. It was so drawn on again and again that it did not come free of the slate. The seven, however, was easily erased. And once it was gone she put the slate aside. "Our stories will have endings. Our seven rats. We'll have to reach them eventually."

And she now so fervently hoped the ending would be a happy one. Indeed, she lifted a few pages aside and seemed to be peeking ahead to read the last few lines.