The Provenance || Jon Snow | Game of Thrones

4.05

"May the Warrior grant him courage and protect him in these perilous times.  May the Smith grant him strength that he might bear this heavy burden.  And may the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead," the High Septon calls to those ears of the Sept, placing a stag crown upon the golden head of the new king, Tommen, and praising his reign to the histories.  "In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Tommen of the House Baratheon First of His Name.  King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.  Long may he reign!"

And all the people echo, "Long may he reign!"

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Joffrey.
Cersei.
Walder Frey.
Meryn Trant.
Tywin Lannister.
The Red Woman.
Beric Dondarrion.
Thoros of Myr.
Ilyn Payne.
The Mountain.
The Hound.

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    Sansa has a hard time looking, nonetheless speaking, to the woman in front of her on the day following Lysa's 'wedding' to Petyr Baelish.  Indeed, if not for the rather insipid choice to have no windows in the Eyrie, Sansa might just have lived happily in ignorance.  But no, it was only with a pillow placed firmly over her ears that Sansa found sleep through Lysa's throes of passion found in Petyr Baelish.  Even now, it makes her cringe with a rather deep disgust for Littlefinger--remembering his previous partner--and even moreso for Lysa.

    Sansa had once held the small hope in her heart that Lysa Arryn was something like her mother, but like all hopes before, it had been quickly trodden upon and thrown out the Eyrie's moondoor.  Indeed, the woman before her is entirely unlike her mother: weak, reliant, and almost blind to Littlefinger's manipulations.  Sansa wants to scream at the woman to remember her place, but she's not idiotic enough to suppose Lysa would listen.  No, Littlefinger has her under his delusions with no source of escape except through him.

    But even now, maybe helped by her lack of sleep, Lysa's wearing tiredly upon her nerves as she presses Sansa for answers, "Why?  Why does he feel responsible for you?"

    "Well, I'm half Tully," Sansa replies with the unsteadiness that's getting easier to fake, and she stumbles purposefully, "He loved my--your family so much."

    "Loved your mother," Lysa corrects as she proves to be entirely what Sansa's expected: jealous and maybe slightly intelligent.

    "No."  Yes.

Lysa almost glares at Sansa, "That's what you wanted to say."

"He loves you, Aunt Lysa.  He's married to you," Sansa emphasizes with the innocence she's long lost, a plea for this 'family' to believe her--but taken upon by deaf ears.  Lysa looks enraged at Sansa's mistaken gall, and further proving the girl's manipulations are working wonders as she practices her skills.

"Your mother never loved him.  Never," Lysa practically growls, and Sansa begins to wonder how long her mother knew of Lysa's dislike for her, born only in jealousy at the treated hand of Petyr Baelish.  "Cat always went straight for the sweetest thing.  The most obvious thing.  Your Uncle Brandon.  Your handsome, arrogant, cruel Uncle Brandon.  He almost killed Petyr in a duel.  And your mother loved him anyway.  And now Petyr is risking his life to save you, the daughter of a woman who didn't love him no more than those whores in his brothels.  Just like he took in that whore as a daughter."

Sansa almost chokes on her lemon cake at the notion Lysa supposes, and she's left with scattered pieces as she tries to pick truth from lie.  Lysa seems to sense as much, alerting Sansa of her fallen mask, as she asks, "Has he told you about her?"