HIATUS.
Subdued pitter-patter coming from the car’s motor is the only sound
audible between the cool gaze belonging to Jaqen H’ghar and a little girl’s
subtle pout. For miles this tenseness is mightily present, even with the dis-
traction of traffic. To say something, to scold, is pointless in the end;
stubbornness is intaglioed into the child’s mind and she claims that her
violent outburst was ‘fine’ in the scheme of things. The man will refrain
from forming a solid opinion until hearing both sides of the story.
Without challenge the father and daughter reach the principal’s office
( kin is far from stranger to the no longer intimidating room ) and respective
places of standing are taken.
“ Sansa.” The man greets his acquaintance with a polite nod, letting
go of his child’s hand to shake the woman’s. A glance to the authoritative
figure ensues. “Ms. Mordane.” Another nod. “A man apologises for Lyanna’s
behaviour—” he turns to face the Stark’s son. “She will confront Eddard and
apologise.”
His eyes are cast towards the girl of about seven that stands beside him,
then, an unspoken sharpness lingering behind his stolid arrangement features.
“—Won’t she?”
