Sansa did not know what to do with herself. It was a problem that she hadn't anticipated, because she had not expected her reaction when she'd been talking to Steve. Too many emotions, when he'd told her that Tyrion was either gone or close to it; and then she had started crying without even meaning to, and Sansa was not so much of a weeping woman. Not any longer. Not since Robb had been killed.

She did not wish to go back to her rooms, to the reminder that she was by and large alone here; she did not wish to see anyone, to have Klaus ask after Star, to have to put on a front for anyone, to be anyone. To be Alayne or Sansa - not her own self, but the polite, gathered woman who was both quiet and carried with her a certain gravitas. No, she just wanted to be Sansa, but she did not know if she knew who Sansa was, any long. How to be herself.

She was sitting in one of the fourth floor meeting areas, and she was largely staring at nothing - just trying to sort through her own thoughts and emotions, her eyes red-rimmed from where she'd randomly burst into tears. Her hands were knit in her lap, rubbing her hands in an entirely nervous gesture-- the skin reddened, and she was thankful that she was alone until she heard footsteps, pushing herself abruptly to her feet, reaching up to smooth her hair before Peeta rounded the corner into the alcove.

When she realised it was him, she exhaled slowly, and smiled, and she looked normal, because even when she was lost (especially, perhaps) she could pull up how she should be, and act very, very well.