Surely the gods must hear us, she thought.
Sansa knew most of the hymns, and followed along on those she did not know as best she could.
She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives,
with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers.
She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city.
She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb,
for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall.
She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully,
for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin,
for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today,
and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end,
she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound.
He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother.
Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.
But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet.
The aisles were jammed with people.
She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey’s sword and shield,
the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need.
Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors,
let his courage fail him and every man desert him.
A few guards paced along on the gatehouse battlements, but otherwise the castle seemed empty.
Sansa stopped and listened.
Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle.