He wouldn’t send Sir Loras," Sansa told Jeyne Poole that night as they shared a cold supper by lamplight. "I think it was because of his leg."
Lord Eddard had taken his supper in his bedchamber with Alyn, Harwin, and Vayon Poole, the better to rest his broken leg, and Septa Mordane had complained of sore feet after standing in the gallery all day. Arya was supposed to join them, but she was late coming back from her dancing lesson.
His leg? Jeyne said uncertainly. She was a pretty, dark-haired girl of Sansa’s own age. "Did Sir Loras hurthis leg?"
Not his leg, Sansa said, nibbling delicately at a chicken leg. "Father’s leg, silly. It hurts him ever so much, it makes him cross. Otherwise I’m certain he would have sent Sir Loras."
Her father’s decision still bewildered her. When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she’d been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan’s stories come to life. Sir Gregor was the monster and Sir Loras the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so slim and beautiful, with golden roses around his slender waist and his rich brown hair tumbling down into his eyes. And then Father had refused him! It had upsether more than she could tell. She had said as much to Septa Mordane as they descended the stairs from the gallery, but the septa had only told her it was not her place to question her lord father’s decisions.