“Robb,” she says after a moment. “Will you help me?” “Help you?” he asks, bewildered, unsure of her meaning. She lifts her head and looks at him with pleading eyes and suddenly the meaning of her question hits him like a fist. His hand falls away from her shoulder to hover uncertainly in the air. “Sansa-” “Will you? Please, Robb.” She’s giving him that look – that can-I-have-your-last-lemoncake look, that will-you-take-me-riding look, that Robb-you’re-my-favorite-brother look. The one he has no defense against.
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