Chapter Text
Petyr
Nervous. The girl looks nervous, already nibbling delicately at bread and honey. She is lovely though, in a dress of sky blue with a silver sash, that thick auburn hair piled atop her head in a complicated whorl of braids.
Cat had never worn her hair in such elaborate styles, he muses, but he likes it. Not for the first time he wonders what it would be like to shake loose the braids and watch that hair cascade down her bare back.
He shakes his head to clear it. It would not do well to break his fast with Lady Sansa and Cersei with those thoughts in his head. Why the Queen had insisted on this meeting he could not say– he wondered idly if the Queen had decided to marry the girl to the Tyrell heir after all– only insisting they be wed in the capitol. It would be a wise move to have the Tyrell boy here as another valuable hostage.
Cersei has not yet arrived and so he walks in more surely, and makes a bow at the girl.
“Good day, Lady Sansa. You look lovely this morning. That color quite suits you.”
Sansa
She slept poorly the night before, a hot wind off the bay blowing through her window, like the hot breath of a dog on her skin - or something worse, even. Desert breezes, her maid had said, and brought her a cool, damp cloth to place on the back of her neck to soothe her.
It had not seemed to help much. This morning, Sansa feels drawn and pale, not at all a fresh and lovely thing. She can feel the heaviness in her eyes and it reduces her appetite, so that she declines most of the breakfast offered her by servants on glittering trays: the scent of thick bacon makes her stomach churn, a plum seems too tart, so that all she’ll accept is hot bread drizzled with honey. What was it Old Nan would feed them when the Stark children were ill? Milk, she remembers, but that feels too much like a child’s drink. Sansa satisfies herself with tea and tries not to make a face at its bitterness.
So occupied in her mild misery is she, the lady fails to hear the quick tread of the small lord’s boots upon the stone floor. She startles at his greeting and nearly drops her meager meal. “Lord Baelish - good morning.” She blinks blue eyes and looks down at her lap, half-forgetting what she’s been dressed in today. “Oh, thank you. It was a gift from the Queen Regent. She said I am getting too tall for the dresses I brought from ho-” She stops herself with a quick bite to the side of her tongue. “From Winterfell.” Eager to draw attention away from the slip, she presses on: “Her Grace is so extremely thoughtful, wouldn’t you agree? I cannot imagine what could be keeping her…”
Sansa takes another long sip of tea and hopes the Master of Coin will accept the change in subject…
Petyr
“Running a household is hard work, running a kingdom and castle is doubly so, I’d imagine,” he tells the girl smoothly, allowing her the small fantasy that he had not heard the slip of her tongue.
It is good to hear that the girl still dreams of home. That piece of information will be dear to Cersei, and to Olenna , and he can already see the gleam in both pairs of eyes when he tells them.
Absently, he wonders if she is upset that she would not be running a kingdom or castle. He had seen the relief on her face when Joffrey had set her aside, but still– being wed to Joffrey and being a Queen were two different desires.
He studies her face, trying to suss out her wants, when the doors open and Cersei Lannister walks in flanked by two white cloaks. Boros and Trant. He loathes them both. One simple, the other mindlessly cruel.
“Your Grace,” he says, and makes bows at her. “A delight as always, and an honor to be joining you.”
Cersei gives him a smug smile. “Lord Baelish, silver tongued as always, the honor is mine this morning. I have blessed news for you both.”
Sansa
“Hard work“ indeed, Sansa could almost scoff. What work does the Queen Regent indulge? She drinks and makes cutting remarks and is dismissed by both her father and her son. Stewards and servants run the castle, Cersei is no Lady of the Red Keep. Her lady mother, she knew how to run Winterfell, and Sansa will do just as well when she goes to Highgarden: she’ll see the household well-run, the larders kept full, the hearths clean and burning…She smiles at the dream of it. Lady Margaery promised her Willas Tyrell, and while he is no strapping young knight, she is certain happiness will again be hers among the roses of the Reach. It’s just a matter of time, Margaery said so.
The dream is over when the Queen Regent enters, and Sansa works quickly to make her face, if not sweet, at least sweetly neutral. It would not do to have Cersei smell her traitorous thoughts, like perfume in the air. She is always careful to look over Ser Trant’s shoulder and never at him; it keeps the bile down.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she murmurs in time with Lord Baelish, giving a delicate curtsey with eyes down. She only glances up again as she retakes her seat and hears the Queen mention “blessed news.” Her mind flies to the battlefield, to Robb, and her heartbeat speeds up. “I-Is it about Lord Tywin’s army, Your Grace?”
Sansa resettles her napkin on her lap and bites into her bread to keep from biting her tongue, to keep from letting any fear, any hope show in her face.
Petyr
He almost laughs at the glare that comes to Cersei’s face at the mention of her father’s army. Sansa’s look is meek enough, but he wonders if she knows how much that needles their dear Queen Regent.
“No,” Cersei sniffs coldly, fixing Sansa with a bitter look. “There has not been word from the Hand yet.”
Cersei straightens her spine and gives Sansa a look that is purely chilling.
“Have no worries, little dove. Lord Tywin will deal with your traitor brother sooner or later.”
He does not see Sansa’s reaction– he is too busy marveling at Cersei’s cruelty. Briefly he wonders what Sansa has done to incur the Queen Regent’s wrath in such a manner. She’d been positively in love with the girl when Sansa had come running to her to spill all of Ned Stark’s plans.
Cersei turns her gaze to him then and gives him a smile that is no less chilling, though it does not phase him. There is nothing Cersei Lannister can do to him.
“Let us discuss happier things,” Cersei says, motioning for him to sit and he does.
“Lady Sansa, though I know you are heartbroken yet that Joffrey has decided to wed Margaery, the Small Council feels it would be most cruel not to replace the betrothal with another.”
He almost smiles then. Cersei is nothing if not predictable. He contents himself with imagining Olenna Tyrell’s face purpling with rage when she is told her precious grandson, her precious heir, will be brought to the keep, a hostage same as Sansa.
He is so caught up in his imaginings that he almost misses it when Cersei says, “The Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident… now there’s a good match for the daughter of a traitor, wouldn’t you say, sweetling?”
Petyr
Was that wrong? No, perhaps not, for she has a witness. Lord Petyr can say, if anyone doubts her loyalty, “Why, the precious child asked most anxiously after the Lannister soldiers - how could her loyalty be in doubt?” Innocent, that is what he called her once. Sansa does not feel terribly innocent any longer, has not for some time, but hopes she still looks the part.
She keeps her gaze on her breakfast and tries to ignore the waves of ice that come over her, from the Queen’s green eyes. Like venom . “I pray for the soldiers every day,” she murmurs; it’s no lie so long as she does not say which.
Sansa blinks a little at the mention of her broken betrothal, and just stops herself from smiling. She does not even have to say, “I am unworthy of His Grace, I understand,” for the Queen continues - a promise of another betrothal?
Margaery has done it . She allows the smile to grow just a little, a twinge of hope such as she has not felt since the Battle of the Blackwater. To leave this place, to be free of Cersei and Joffrey and all their machinations; free of the Kingsguard, the endless routine of being watched - she could sing like the dove the Queen calls her.
Sansa Tyrell, Lady of Highgarden, it doesn’t sound badly; the Red Rose - that’s sweet, how Mother will like that. And when Margaery weds Joffrey, she’ll bear him a son she will raise to be good, nothing like the Lannisters, and I shall have a daughter, and they shall be betrothed, and it will all be like it was supposed to be, like Father said in Winterfell, like-
“The Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident… now there’s a good match for the daughter of a traitor, wouldn’t you say, sweetling?“
The world stops, she cannot move. Sansa hears the sound of her blood rushing in her ears, and it sounds like screaming. Without thought, the words come from her lips and she does not hear them: “A traitor’s get deserves none of the kindness you have given me,” and then, with only half a breath of pause, “Is there not some….mistake, Your Grace?”
Sansa’s hands disappear into her lap, beneath the white, linen napkin, and her nails dig half-moon cuts into her palms to keep herself from shrieking.
Petyr
Her courtesies are so polished, so refined, that were he not the owner of several brothels he might have believed the words that come spilling out of her mouth, half a whisper, but he can hear the scream beneath them.
He can see the scream struggling to let loose when Cersei assures her it is no mistake.
“You will be the Lady of Harrenhal. Isn’t that lovely?” Cersei turns that dazzling smile to him, eyes triumphant. He wants to slap her. Part of him wants to kiss her.
He had offered to wed Sansa, of course. He had offered, but he had never dreamt it would be accepted. It hadn’t even hurt when Cersei said it was impossible, that he was much too low of birth. No, even those words had not hurt him. Petyr Baelish had heard them before, from Cat’s own sweet lips.
But this…
His pulse quickens. He knows he must tread carefully now, so carefully lest Cersei suspect.
“You honor me, Your Grace,” he says, aware his voice is hoarse. He takes a sip of wine, as though pondering the offer. As though he might refuse.
“I fear I am too low of birth for the Lady Sansa. I might have risen to be Lord of Harrenhal, but–” here, he shrugs. “I am not fit to wed a Lady of such noble birth as Lady Sansa.”
He’d repeated the words to himself a hundred times after Cat. They are no easier to say now.
Sansa
He sounds just as surprised as she is - not his doing, then? In a way, that’s a comfort. And why should he scheme to marry a traitor’s get, a man with his star on the rise, a man who loves my Lady Mother.
Not me.
Now is hardly the time to be offended, though.
Her shoulders sag with relief in spite of herself, and Sansa tries not to smile, nervously or genuinely. “I should not be a suitable wife to Lord Baelish, then - I could not bear to disappoint anyone His Grace thought so well of. The Small Council might, then….reconsider?”
Cersei’s lips purse, her brow draws in. “One would think I was offering to send you to a leper colony. Lord Petyr, you astonish me. And here Lady Lysa would regale me of an evening your unending love for a maiden of copper locks.” She takes a deep sip of her own morning cup of wine, an early start to the day. “Varys said you would refuse our Little Bird, though. Perhaps no one can blame you.”
Sansa would perhaps blush to be spoken of so, but she’s too pale to have any color on her cheeks.
Petyr
Varys . Damn the eunuch to all seven hells. Petyr Baelish knows a threat when he hears one, especially with the subtle mention of Lysa’s name. He knows not what tales she is telling now– of their grand love affair, no doubt– and he barely stops himself from snorting.
Sansa sounds so… relieved when she hears his refusal that he almost hates her for it. The tone sounds the same as Cat’s Please, he he just a boy , and underneath the table his hand clenches into a fist.
No , he tells himself. Not the same .
He studies the girl’s face and thinks she means that he should not share her punishment– for surely Cersei Lannister is only punishing her.
And she will give her worse if I do not accept , he realizes. Lancel or Tyrion, or some other Lannister. Worse some minor house, some fat widower lord. Gregor Clegane. If he does not marry her, her fragile reputation is shattered.
“I simply meant that the Lady Sansa is of a most noble birth,” he says, giving Sansa the most genuine smile he can. “I am…unworthy of her hand. But if her grace wishes to honor me so, how can I say no to such a treasure.”
He turns to Cersei, and says the words he knows she longs to hear.
“I am, as always, at the mercy of her grace’s pleasure.”
Sansa
He is being so kind . Sansa smiles like she is taught, smiles with tight skin like lips stretched over a death’s-head. Yet all she wants to do is cry. He is good, and he might be good to me , out of affection for her lady mother.
But to be the wife of a mere small lord…and the Lady of a haunted manse…And worse than that: exactly as he said, at the mercy of Her Grace’s pleasure, a man in Cersei’s pocket. How many nights has she watched the Queen go deep into her cups and call, “Lord Petyr, do entertain us with your sterling wit, for we shall all die of boredom before we die in this war!” And hear her silver laugh as she declares him a wicked creature, and watch the man smile to be so favored, the only one liked half as well as Ser Jaime…
That’s the real nightmare, isn’t it? Marry Lord Baelish, and she is stuck among the Lannisters forever; she will never be free.
Before she can stop herself, Sansa has risen to her feet. “Might Your Grace excuse me? I….just have so many people I must tell, of my good news. So many plans that must be made.”
“Nonsense, my dear.” Cersei rises with her cup. “No doubt you wish to speak to your…” she smiles brilliantly at Petyr, “dashing bridegroom. I will leave you two be, you needn’t make such excuses with me.” She kisses the girl on the cheek and Sansa wonders if the wine will leave a red mark there. “You know I would always see my Little Dove well-nested, now don’t you?”
Petyr
Cersei barely gives him a glance as she glides out of the room, Blount and Trant in her wake. She’s gotten what she wanted. She thinks he is hers.
Across from him, Sansa Stark sits with her eyes wide, and a wine-red lip print on her cheek.
She is a girl, the spitting image of her mother, and Petyr feels something in his chest constrict. How many mornings had he sat across from Cat, just like this? The two of them had been the earliest risers, and more often than not, it would just be him and Cat breaking their fast, smiling at each other, playfully kicking each other under the table, feeding each other bits off their forks.
He pushes the memory down.
Instead, he focuses his gaze on the girl in front of him. She could be Cat’s twin, save for the lightness of her hair and the pallor of her skin. Cat had never allowed her skin to be so pale, so sallow. But their eyes are precisely the same, and it comforts him.
I will do for her what I wanted to do for her mother .
He wonders, just for a moment, what Cat will think when news reaches her that he has wed her darling daughter. The thought brings a smile to her face.
“Well, my lady, it seems you have bested me in experience here. I have never been betrothed before. You’ll have to tell me what to do.”
Sansa
Lady Baelish. Lady Baelish. It repeats in her head like a death knell. So loud, at first she doesn’t hear the door close behind the trio, doesn’t notice the Master of Coin staring at her. Lady of Harrenhal, Lady of the Fingers-
Sansa swallows at last and the tears threaten to overflow. She hears Lord Baelish’s remark, and it does not amuse her. The only reason she doesn’t cry is she’s been so accustomed to holding them back. Her eyes will be bloodshot later, she’ll bolt all doors and press her face into her pillow and scream -
“To do-?” He is smiling across from her, and she briefly ponders how many mornings of her life she will sit across from him and watch him smile at her… “My Lord Baelish, you are teasing me.” Sansa’s head dips down.
“I-I’m sure Her Grace will wish to plan most of the particulars, but a bride requires her trousseau…her maiden cloak…if the Queen has not already decided, there is the matter of invitations, feasting, what to serve-” All to be meager, she knows, at least enough to be sure nothing outshines the main event that is coming…Sansa could just choke. “Or perhaps you mean how a-a…a lord and a lady act before they go to the sept?” The songs will not serve Sansa here, she thinks, not at all….
Petyr
She is distressed.
That much is clear to him. She is stuttering on her words in a way he has not heard her done before. Those sea blue eyes are shining oddly– he knows, with unshed tears.
When she says that he is teasing her, with those downcast eyes, the scar that runs down his chest aches painfully. He could never bear to see Cat sad, and to see this ghost of her in front of him near tears pains him in ways he could not imagine.
Sansa blathers on about invitations and the fineries of a wedding, and he’s sure she is thinking of Joffrey and the pretty picture they would have made in the Sept. Ned Stark was a fool for ever agreeing to the match, a fool for ever trusting Robert. His own sister had met her death rather than marry the oaf. What on earth had Stark thought to gain by marrying his daughter to his vile heir. And anyone with eyes should have seen that the boy was not Robert’s son.
Nevertheless, he had been highborn and wealthy and handsome and that had been all that ever mattered to the high lords and ladies of Westeros, with the heads filled with song.
She will not have songs sung about her when she weds me , Petyr thinks bitterly, but gives the girl as much of a smile as he can muster.
“You misunderstand me, sweetling. I have seen my share of brides and weddings and ceremonies. I meant the smaller things. It is customary for a man to give his betrothed a gift, yes? It is the least I can do. Tell me, sweetling, what would you have of me?
Sansa
Normally she would hate to be pitied, but to at least not be teased is such a blessed relief it makes Sansa look up again, breathe just a little more easily. “A gift, y-yes.” She rubs Cersei’s kiss from her cheek and smiles ever so slightly.
But what can she possibly ask of Lord Littlefinger? Oh gods, such a horrible name…Her stomach churns at the though. The things she wants, he cannot - or would not - give her, and so she wets her lower lip with the tip of her tongue in thought. It must be remembered he is a rich man, that is a blessing… “Most men give jewels, I should suppose. Something for a lady to display her new status and her new House.” Oh, but that she could well do without… “My Lord Petyr, if I am to be sure I do not embarrass you at the sept, I should like to be sure I have appropriate things…The Stark maidencloak is…lost to me.” Sansa’s eyes tighten; the cloak her father wrapped around her mother’s shoulders in Riverrun, the cloak she was to wear on her own wedding day… “I can make another - with grey pearls for the sigil, and all in pure, white silk - that is, if you would not think me too ostentatious…or in poor taste to remind the court what treacherous blood I come from….”
Suddenly, she adds, “Oh! But a bride gives her new husband a gift as well. And I…” I know nothing about you . “I should wish to know how to….please you.”
Yes, that is a skill she will need very much if she is to survive this; whatever this may be called.
Petyr
I should wish to know how to please you.
Under the table, Petyr Baelish balls his hand into a fist and wills away the wave of arousal that washed over him at Sansa’s words. It would not do at all to lose his head now. He must present the picture of utmost courteousness, must appear to be as reluctant as she. Must not show, even the slightest bit, that he wants this.
Because, oh, Petyr Baelish does want this. He wants Catelyn Tully’s maiden daughter to bear his name and his children– though he’s ever particularly wanted children– and he wants her to know it. He wants Ned Stark’s maiden daughter wet and willing in his bed, accepting his cock in her mouth, her cunt, her arse, the way her mother might once might have.
And here it is, delivered up on a platter by Cersei Lannister, and he must pretend he does not want it, if he is to keep it.
“You shall have whatever materials you need, Sansa,” he says, casually, shrugging genially. “Write it down. The fabrics, the colors, the jewels. I will have them sent for post haste. Any materials for a gown too. If you are to be my lady wife, I shall have you wanting to nothing.”
He wonders if she will like that– being able to have any material thing she wants at her finger tips. He wonder what she will ask for, if she will know to ask for the most extravagant things. Briefly, he wonders if she might think him too ostentatious. No doubt the North had been barren and cold, devoid of the finer things in life that Cat had so enjoyed at Riverrun. Absurdly, he finds himself determined that her daughter, his wife , he reminds himself, will have them all.
“As to a gift for me, I require nothing.” Boldly he reaches across the table, bridging the divide between them and taking her hand.
“But I would have you be honest with me always, Sansa. Can you give me that?”
Sansa
Oh, how Sansa had begged her father for such things! “Silk, Father, just one bolt?” “I practiced my bead work with the shells as you asked - might we send for real stones now, please?” “The style in White Harbor now is for feathers, Father. Lady Manderly has two peacock feathers for her hair. I would be happy with only one.”
But Lord Stark was not one for vanities. Wool was more practical for the cold weather of the North; gemstones and jewels were well and good for a lady grown and wed, but Sansa was still his little lass, and could make do with the silver chain granted her for her nameday; he had not deigned to even speak of the feathers…
Sansa perks at his casual extravagance, sitting slightly straighter. She feels her mother’s teachings in the back of her mind, that beauty is a virtue, but thrift far dearer - but does not pay it too much mind. “I shall send my maid to your solar with a list tonight, my lord,” she replies-
And is startled when he leans over the table, and takes her hand.
They’re much nicer hands than she might have thought: elegant, tapered fingers, without callouses or cuts. Oh, there’s a stain of ink by the thumb, but that is all of work that is displayed upon them. They are nothing like the hands of Father, brothers, uncle, household members - heavy, thick, used to the grip of a pommel, not a pen. Rings, too, he has many. The smallest finger catches her attention, gold with a ruby center. It’s as pink as a cherry, and she cannot help but stare for a moment.
What will it be like, thinks Sansa, to have her own hand bound to his? To have her hand held by his as they cross the dance floor at the feast?
To be touched on the wedding night?
That thought she quickly banishes.
He asks her for her honesty, and Sansa cannot school her blue eyes from widening, at least a little. No , she thinks. For how can she? Be honest that she hates Cersei, hates Joffrey even more; hates the Keep and everyone in it and is a traitor through and through; that she prays for Robb to come and save her every night and will still pray up to her wedding day, and every day after.
Be honest that she does not wish to wed Lord Petyr Baelish?
In a voice gone dry, she croaks, “I will try, my lord.”
Petyr
He enjoys the way she perks up at the thought that she might have whatever she wishes, and for a moment he sees a hunger in those blue eyes.
In time, he thinks, he might be able to turn that into a hunger for other pleasures– gold, power, carnal pleasures. Later tonight, mayhaps, he will imagine those blue eyes blown wide with pleasure, those pink lips parted to say his name like a prayer to the gods.
He studies her as she studies him, staring down at his hands. What he wouldn’t give to know what she is thinking! Is she imagining his fingers tracing over her skin, as he is? Is she imagining what it will be like to have his hands gripping her thighs, her waist, tangling in her hair?
His fantasy is abruptly ruptured when she chokes out an I will try , in response to his request for honesty.
This will not do. This will not do at all. He is not Ned Stark. He will not have her run to Cersei the minute she thinks something better will befall her.
Petyr Baelish deals in lies. He will not have them from his wife.
He tsks at her, and and strokes his fingers down the skin of her palm, soft and unblemished.
“You’re already breaking your promise, sweetling. I know this is not a union you wish for, that I am no prince from the songs. But we must be true to each other, yes?”
He doesn’t wait for her to nod in acquiescence, but instead leans in close, right to her ear, and drops his voice.
“Else Cersei will control us both and I won’t have that.”
Sansa
Sansa jumps at his finger across her palm. It’s so simple a touch, nothing at all, really; yet it is somehow so intimate, that it makes her shiver involuntarily. A ghost walking over your grave, Old Nan used to say.
But this isn’t haunted Harrenhal, and this is not from any ghost.
At his modesties, she says, “No, I-” but is quickly quiet again. True to each other - what does that even mean?
She startles again when his chair scrapes against the stone floor, and leans a little away when his breath tickles her ear. If anyone were to be watching, what might they see? Tenderness between the newly betrothed? Nothing treasonous, surely.
Sansa’s lips part and her breath comes shallow, uncertainly. What game is he playing at….? Licking her lips, she manages in a whisper, “What would you have, my lord?”
Petyr
That sweet pink tongue darts out to lick her lips.
Does she know what a siren song she is?
Her mother had always known. Cat had been purposefully coquettish, purposefully teasing and that had aroused him much when he was young. But Sansa’s obliviousness, her ignorance to how tempting she was… that is much more arousing now.
“I would have us be friends , Lady Sansa,” Petyr tells her, all polite courtesies, just as he knows she likes. He knows she is lonely– she spends all her days cooped up in her rooms to herself, avoiding Joffrey and his mother as much as she can. The girl will want a friend.
“I would have us talk and get to learn one another, to come to trust each other,” he tells her, and squeezes her hand in his.
“Lord Renly japed at the tourney that I had not a friend and King’s Landing and he was sorely right. There are not many I trust here, my lady. They are liars all. But I would very much like it if we could come to trust each other.
Sansa
Friends with….a man?
It’s possible , Sansa supposes. Her friends had all been girls growing up, for it had always seemed natural to divide by the sexes. Dressing dolls with Jeyne, or even teas with Margaery. Her maid was the closest she had to friend now, and she was most certainly a woman.
But Arya had never had any issue playing amongst the boys; she seemed almost to prefer it, more comfortable there than at the sewing table with Sansa and Septa Mordane. When they had been mere children, Sansa had always played the princess in need of rescue, and Robb her brave knight; when Arya was old enough, she was not interested in damsel-dom, and instead insisted on being a member of the rescuing party. She spent almost all waking hours with their brothers, bastard Jon in particular, so it seemed possible in theory .
But Lord Petyr was not like those men at all….he was so elegant, so genteel, that to befriend him would not require relinquishing her ladylike delicacies at all.
And oh, her heart breaks to hear him speak of Lord Renly and the Hand’s Tourney - and how long ago that was! Is it possible? Could he be just as lonesome as she is? Could it be Lord Baelish pretends as well?
Sansa’s heart speeds up with hope.
“I…” At last she smiles, a real smile, one that reaches her eyes. “I should like that very much, my lord.”
When she feels the air between them relax, she adds, “But, to trust one another, I should…I should have to be sure we had the same aims.” She can’t say too much here; the Queen might return at any moment. But surely, to probe just a little might be enough…
Petyr
Sansa’s smile is a lovely thing. It lights up her lovely eyes, and brings a brightness to her cheeks that had been lacking.
He had seen the hesitation in her face. No doubt Ned Stark had taught her the perils of being friends with men, the daft Northman that he was. He wants to tell her how close he and her mother had been, that Cat had trusted him with all her secrets and even her most precious gift.
But then her face lightens with that smile, and he knows, truly, she is more of Cat than she is of Eddard Stark.
Petyr wants to cup her face then, to close the distance between them and press his lips to hers. He wants those petal pink lips to part with a sigh, while his tongue pushes in and tastes her, drinking in her whimpers and moans.
But to do that would destroy the tentative peace he’s forged, to close her off to him again. It will come in time, he is sure, but for now he must give her what she wants.
“Tell me, sweetling,” he says, and uses his thumb to rub soothing circles on the silken skin. “Anything you would have me do, I shall.”
**
This might not be so terrible; he touches her a good deal, but not at all badly, almost like a lord should touch his lady - with respect and tenderness. She could get used to that - in time.
“Not here…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s just…” Sansa glances to the door and prays he catches her meaning. “The…the godswoods, or perhaps my rooms, or-” The rooms he agrees to; they ought to be safe enough, surely. She’s whispered some horrible things with Shae within those walls, and no harm has come to her. The woman has promised to protect her, moreover. With a nervous sigh and a nod, Sansa promises - tonight.
Lord Petyr is as good as his word: a dock boy has brought in the third bolt of silk for her tonight alone, this time cloth of silver. Shae watches all from her spot by the door, a dark eyebrow raised. “He certainly seems intent on buying your affections.”
“It isn’t like that,” Sansa replies, eyes downcast and a slight blush upon her cheeks; she wishes the Lysene woman wouldn’t tease her, she’s working studiously on cutting this pattern just so. “Lord Baelish is trying to be kind to me.”
“Oh, I’m sure he is that. So kind, so considerate…what will you owe him when he takes your hand at the sept?”
“Shae-!”
A knock at the door stops her; Sansa’s fingers nervously smooth the pattern, and when her maid doesn’t move, she tilts her chin up in the imperial mien she’s accustomed to. “Well? See who it is.”
Petyr
He has been thinking about this meeting all day.
Sweet Sansa, with her breathy sighs has invited him to her rooms. He knows she does not understand the significance of the meeting place. He wonders if one of her handmaids will tell her.
When a woman invites a man to her rooms, away from prying eyes, she means to bed him .
He does not expect that Sansa will bed him, does not expect that she will even touch him. He wonders if she will feel flustered, when she sees him amongst her things. He wonders if she will blush, thinking of the night when they will share a bed as man and wife.
Petyr pushes those thoughts aside as the door opens to reveal her scowling handmaiden, the Imp’s whore. He wonders if she will run to tell Tyrion that Sansa has been entertaining him in her rooms at night– if she would run to tell Tywin or Cersei. It makes no matter, he supposes. He has any number of reasons to be in his betrothed’s room.
He makes Shae a bow.
“Good evening, my lady. I have come to visit with the Lady Sansa, as requested. I am not interrupting anything important, I hope.”
Sansa
Sansa hears the lord’s voice beyond the door and she debates the best course of action to take: act as if she heard nothing, remain nonchalant in her work on the pattern? But no, that won’t do, either; for the bridegroom to see any part of the gown before she walks down the aisle may bring bad luck, and Sansa needs every bit of luck she can manage.
And she does not want Lord Petyr to think she cares. Perhaps that’s absurd, but there it is.
Instead, she adopts a habit of the Queen Regent, standing before her unlit hearth in elegant repose. Cersei would be drinking from her goblet, but Sansa hasn’t wine…In a panic, she busies herself with a candle at the mantelpiece and tries to look the picture of grace.
At the door, Shae is scowling. “I am no lady,” she says to the first point, and to the second, “Yes, as a matter of fact, you are.” Sansa barely hisses “ Shae …” at her, and the woman rolls her eyes. “Won’t you come in, Lord Baelish?” She awkwardly walks the small lord into the room and makes a bad curtsey. “Lord Baelish to see you, my lady.”
Sansa smiles regally. “Thank you, Shae,” but falters to see the man again. She’s not sure she’s seen him only by candlelight before, without the reassurance of daylight, and she suddenly feels a nervous colt and not a grand lady. “Good evening, Lord Petyr. I trust you are….well.” It’s all she can manage…
Petyr
The first thing he notices is the tension in Sansa’s shoulders, the worry etched in the frown that struggles at her lips. The second thing he notices is the loathing in her maid’s eyes. The first, he gives a kind smile to. The second, he ignores– for now.
“I do not know that one can be well after a count a tedious council meeting filled with Pycelle’s coughing,” he says, and presses to fingers to his temple. “I hear the sound echoing in my mind still.”
He wants to sit, to recapture some of that intimacy from this morning– touching her hand, his lips close to her ear. But he will not do so until she has invited to make himself comfortable. This is her domain, her comfort. She wants him here to discuss something she did not want to say in the small hall.
It would be a clever plan, were it not for the presence of her maid– a Lannister plant, he thinks. He will have to check further on the morrow. For now, he needs to get her alone, to remove the scowling thing from the room. She will feel more comfortable with him then.
“And you, my lady? I pray your day has been filled with far better amusements than mine.”
He turns to her maid then, and motions to the empty pitcher and goblets on the small table in the corner of the room.
“May I ask you to bring some wine for myself and Lady Sansa. I fear I have the beginnings of a terrible headache and will be more pleasant company for you both in the presence of Arbor gold.”
Sansa
Sansa giggles in spite of herself; it’s true what the Queen says, Lord Petyr is amusing. She can hear the Grand Maester’s coughing already. She keeps her eyes downcast in a demure expression at his question, replying, “I have had much to do, there is much to….arrange.” Sansa bites the inside of her cheek and tries to keep the nervousness in her stomach down…
Shae doesn’t leave at the lord’s first request, look first going to her lady; Sansa knows from experience the handmaid is unusually protective and loathe to leave her alone. “It’s alright, Shae.” She smiles at her. “Lord Petyr and I have much to discuss.” And it is remiss of her not to have wine for the Master of Coin anyway, though she still drinks little out of habit…Would Lord Petyr think that childish of her?
Shae does leave, but only with noted reluctance, dark eyes on Lord Petyr until the lintel hides him from view. Sansa makes herself comfortable in her usual chair. “Please, my lord, do sit. I fear we will have little time for such intimacies if the Queen will make the marriage as quick as she threa-” Ah, not that word! Sansa smiles brilliantly, as if to show all her teeth. “As she seemed to indicate.”
When she can hear no tread upon the floor, no squeaking of doors, Sansa’s fingers twist into her gown and she keeps her eyes on her lap. “You had wanted to know my aims…I should like first to ask - when will we depart for Harrenhal?”
Petyr
Sansa’s giggle is sweet– high and delicate and ladylike. She is the picture of prim and proper courtesy, a lady in every respect.
It will be nice to strip that away , Petyr thinks hungrily, but he is sure not to show it on his face. He smiles at her genially instead, keeping that smile in place as she sends her maid for the wine. Keeps that smile in place even as the wretched woman glares at him until she is out of sight.
Sansa invites him to sit, and he does, relaxing back into seat she has offered. If he wants her comfortable, he must be doubly so. He leans back and idly trails the fingers of his right hand up and down the arm of the chair. Bored , he thinks. Calm .
But he almost sits up straight when the word threat almost escapes her lips. She is not as naive as she pretends then, his sweet Sansa. She must know then, that as long as she is unmarried, she is a threat– a ripe peach, waiting to be plucked and devoured, with Winterfell and the North, and Robb Stark’s army at its center.
But he leaves the smile in place, as if he has not heard the slip. It would be no use to lie to her, no use to placate her. She will just think him a tool of the Lannisters. It is important that she seems him quite separately from them.
But when she asks about Harrenhal, he cannot help but sit forward. The spark of brilliance he had seen before seems to dissipate before his eyes.
This will not do , Petyr thinks, wondering how the girl could even have gotten the fantasy into her head. Part of him wants to be sharp. He wants to tell her that the Lannisters are no so stupid as to let her venture anywhere near the Riverlands, where her brother’s army could whisk her off. He wants to tell her that he is not so stupid to think that Robb Stark won’t behead him for marrying and defiling his maiden sister. He wants to remind her that should the Lannister army fall, he has no lands at all.
Instead, he leans forward and takes her hand in his, and brushes a kiss to the back of it.
“I’m afraid, my lady, that the Riverlands are too unsafe for travel for a highborn lady such as yourself. Our departure to my lands will have to wait until Lord Tywin’s army is successful. If Lord Tywin’s army is successful.”
Sansa
Sansa looks up at the lord when he kisses her hand, almost startled. He treats her so well, not like Joffrey, or Ser Meryn… She is half relieved and half dejected at the news. No Harrenhal means no haunted castle; so broken crenellations, ruinous to heat; no awful, burnt and barren wilderness.
But no Harrenhal means… “We are to….remain in King’s Landing, then?” That might have once brought her great pleasure, but if that means remaining near Cersei, near Joffrey, near all their tortures and taunts…she’s not sure she can stand it.
“My lord, I…” She cannot look at him and feels tears brimming in her eyes despite herself; it’s not that she’s so upset. It’s just that she feels too much at once and cannot contain herself any longer. “I told you if we were to have trust between us, I must know we have similar aims. I…I beg of you, on any love you bore my lady mother, or bear her still - promise me you will keep our words within this room alone.”
She isn’t pretty when she cries, she knows: blue eyes all rimmed red, nose puffy, breath stuttered, but Sansa is truly desperate. Baelish is her only means of escape if he is to be her husband. If he betrays her, she may as well have thrown herself from the tower window after her father’s execution after all. Slipping from her chair, she is on her knees before him, right hand still in his from being kissed, left upon his knee. “ Please , my lord.”
Petyr
Sansa is terrified. He sees it in her eyes. She is lovely like this, he thinks absently. So forlorn and sorrowful, like a maid in the songs.
And I am her brave knight, the thought almost makes him chuckle.
It is easy enough to acquiesce to her need for secrecy. From now on Sansa’s secrets are tied to his, and he is not such a fool to ever reveal his.
But with the girl kneeling between his legs, he shifts his posture, or else he will reveal a secret– how much he desires her.
He wonders what her reaction would be if he parted the gold and plum brocaded tunic he wore and pulled his cock from his breeches. What would she say if he cupped her cheek and titled her head forward and asked her to seal their promises with a kiss, before pressing the head of his prick to her lips.
He shakes the image from his mind, and instead takes her hands in his, and pulls her up so that she is standing over him.
Give her power now , he thinks. Take it later.
“My lady,” he says, and bows so that is forehead is touching her fingers where they are clasped with his. “I am your man. All our words shall remain hidden, safe, as you will be with me.”
Sansa
She swallows hard as Lord Baelish guides her back to her feet; it’s a terrible risk to take, but what other choice is there? She must depend upon someone, or die from the strain and loneliness.
Biting her lip, Sansa begins: “I…I hate it here.” She feels her body tense as she says it, suddenly vulnerable. “I hate it. I do not love the King, and I hate his mother. I-I wanted him to die in the Blackwater, and see Lord Stannis burn the Queen. I-I-I know it’s treason to say it, to even think it, I-” She can’t help it. The girl begins to cry; great, ugly sobs that stop her breath. “Forgive me, Lord Baelish, I have the traitor’s blood. I have not seen my mother or my brothers since I left Winterfell. Father is dead and Arya gone, Bran and Rickon murdered - Robb and my mother are all I have left in the world, and I fear I m-m-may never see them again!”
She can speak no more. She frees one hand from his grip and covers her face in a vain attempt to stop the tears, but of course it’s no good. She crumples forward, so that her head rests upon the man’s shoulder and her tears will surely stain his doublet - and Sansa cries, and cries, and cries.
Absently, she thinks, I am such a fool - what will he think of me? If he forgives the treacherous thoughts, then he will still think I am nothing more but a child, no woman grown…
But the poor thing can’t help it, and her free arm clings to Lord Petyr and she trembles fit to break apart.
Petyr
He guides her into his lap, and lets her curl up there, her head on his shoulder, her hands clinging to his surcoat. He strokes her hair and down her back, a soothing gesture– on a father or a lover might make.
He wonders if he is to be both for Sansa Stark.
She has spilled her heart to him, this little Cat, the way her mother once had. Fears about Brandon and the North. And here is her daughter, curled in his arms, telling him her deepest darkest secrets.
He tilts her chin up, and kisses her forehead, her nose, both of her cheeks. And then finally, softly, quickly, her lips.
“There are few who love the King and his mother,” he whispers into her ear. Not his secrets, but the secrets of others. “But they fear Lord Tywin and his beasts, Lorch and the Mountain.”
He cups her face, and brushes tears away with his thumbs, pulling her more securely into his lap, resisting the urge to press his hips up against her backside.
“Do you understand, my sweet Sansa, why we cannot leave here, not yet, with them on the lose?”
Sansa
It feels like it has been so long since she has been really, truly soothed.
Shae tries, a little. She brushes her hair and washes her feet, massages perfumed oil into the soles, but her ministrations aren’t exactly tender. Lord Petyr’s touches are almost like being home again; a long, even stroke down the back, over her long, red hair, by his smooth and elegant hand. His rings catch a few strands here and there, but he always untangles his fingers again without hurting her. It’s….it’s nice.
He smells pleasantly as well.
Sansa gasps a little in her throat when he suddenly kisses her; it’s not quite the same as the Hound during the Battle of the Blackwater. It’s almost chaste, and she thinks, He does see me as a child, then; my mother’s child. Lord Petyr’s mouth is soft, unscarred, without chapped lips. This close, she can smell mint on his breath. Sansa swallows and tries to put her many, varied thoughts away.
She only succeeds by asking in a soft whisper, “What about you? Do you love them?” And then, “…Do you fear Lord Tywin?”
Lord Baelish resettles her, and she holds her balance with her hands at his shoulders, squeaking very slightly as he does. All the same, it’s warm, quite almost comfortable on his lap…To be touched kindly for the first time in a very long time is a deep pleasure. “I…I suppose I do,” she says, gaze dropping with a touch of disappointment. Her blue eyes fix on his mockingbird pin, and she says, “Is there nowhere we can go? Nothing we can do?”
And then, suddenly, she touches the pin and asks, “Do you always wear this?”
Petyr
He feels her relax in his arms, settling in. She seems more comfortable now, and even allows her head to lean in closer. She is starved for affection, his sweet Sansa is, and when she brings her hands up to touch his mockingbird, he takes her fingers and kisses them, and chances another kiss to her lips.
“Only a fool would love the Lannisters,” he tells her softly, head inclined so close to hers that he can feel her warm breath on his face. “And only a fool would not fear Tywin Lannister.”
He looks right into her eyes, and strokes over her fine cheekbone with his thumb.
“I am no fool, my lady. But perhaps… perhaps after we are wed I will be permitted to take you somewhere outside of Westeros. To Braavos maybe. Would you like that, sweetling?”
He smiles at her then, trying to coax another out of her. “And after we are wed, I will give you your own mockingbird to wear.”
Sansa
Sansa gives another little gasp at the second kiss; two kisses in as many moments seems a great many to a maid who has been so untouched, even to have been now twice betrothed.
If not the Lannisters, then whom does Lord Baelish love?
Stammering over her breath, she says, “Y-you are making very bold, my lord…”
Braavos? She had not considered something so far away as that. An adventure Arya would have loved for certain; Sansa is less sure for herself, however. “I…I suppose so. I do not know what it is like.”
The thought makes Sansa slightly nervous again; she will no longer be a Stark. They are making a Mockingbird out of her. “I-”
Shae has excellent timing, striding loudly through the door, which bangs upon its hinges. “I have brought your Arbor Gold, my lord, now, the lady Sansa needs her-” She stops abruptly at this rather scandalous position of the two newly betrothed. A dark eyebrow raises and all she says at first is “ Well .”
Petyr
He’d forgotten about the Imp’s whore. Damn .
He does not show it though. Does not stand and push the girl from his lap like some blundering fool would do. Instead, he wraps a more protective arm around her.
Sweet Sansa wants a gallant knight? He can pretend, for tonight.
“The Lady Sansa is most upset,” he says, by way of explanation. “She worries for her brother and mother, and for our King and his mother. This is a terrible ordeal for her, as I’m sure you have heard her confess countless times.”
He strokes his hand over Sansa’s hair, and presses her head to his shoulder.
“I did not think it courteous to have her sob on her own in her chair, with no wine or maid to comfort her.”
He smiles at Shae.
Sansa
The Lysene woman scoffs, round hip cocked to one side, where the bottle also rests to grow warm. “Oh, I can just imagine.”
Sansa is stiff, but sniffles all the same, “Shae, please.”
With an emphatic roll of the eyes, her maid pours two glasses and makes a bad curtsey. “Lady Sansa needs her rest, my lord . She should be abed before the sept bell tolls. I will come to fetch her.” She fixes her dark eyes on the lord, because she is not afraid of him.
But she is also bright enough to retire to the other room, to ready her lady’s evening shift, and Sansa is left in the arms of her betrothed, suddenly very blushing and self-conscious.
Clearing her throat, she says, “I-I’m alright now, Lord Baelish…truly.” Her blush intensifying, she murmurs, “Thank you…For being so understanding.”
Petyr
Cursing the maid, Petyr lets Sansa slip from his lap.
It is no matter though. He has her more than he had before. She trusts him now, or is beginning to, at least. It will do for now. He makes a mental note to find a way to dismiss the whore after they are wed. Sansa’s handmaidens must not be Lannister creatures then.
He stands, and walks to the wine and picks up his cup, handing the other to Sansa.
“To our friendship, my lady,” he says, raising his glass and giving her his best smile. “To our friendship and our trust in one another.”
He drinks and motions for her to do the same. The Arbor gold is warm on his tongue, but he drinks it down the same.
“I will never betray you, my lady. I only ask the same of you.”
Sansa
Sansa watches Lord Petyr drink, and hesitantly brings the cup to her own lips. “ I will never betray you .” The words warm her gullet more than the alcohol. Is it possible? Within the lion’s den, has she found the one true man; a man who may keep his word, as honor demands?
The girl nods her assent, and licks the wine from her lips.
The maid returns, and she is not in a cheerful mood. “Goodnight, Lord Baelish,” she declares, instantly going to Sansa’s side. “My lady needs her rest and may see you at another time. Do allow me to show you out.”
“Ah-” Sansa hesitates, the goblet still in her hands. “G-goodnight, my lord.” Shae has bundled the Mockingbird out the door before he can give his own response, and she shuts and locks it savagely. Sansa frowns. “That was not politely done.”
“Are you so easily won over?” Shae turns to her lady’s bed and begins to angrily turn down the sheets. “A few bolts of silk and into his lap you go?”
“You forget yourself-!”
“He is the Queen’s man, through and through; why would he not be? What cause would he have to befriend you - save one.” Shae straightens and wags her finger at the girl. “If you have no qualms about letting him between your legs, play on, I say. But if not-”
“Well I hardly see how it makes a difference!” Sansa is about to throw her cup into the fire….but that is petulant, and she hates to think of the wasted wine…Instead, she drinks and tries to think of some better riposte. “Nothing but the Seven can stop the wedding now!”
It gives Shae pause and slowly comes back to the girl, brushing back her red hair - the same the lord had pet so sweetly so shortly before. “That may be; but if you are not careful, worse things than a marriage and a bedding await you.” With a sigh, the woman says, “I’ve readied your shift, my lady. Let us away you to bed.”