
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5832562.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark, Catelyn_Tully_Stark, Ned_Stark, Arya_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Victorian, Sexual_Content, Loss_of_Innocence, Older
      Man/Younger_Woman, Age_Difference, Coming_of_Age, Corruption
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-27 Words: 4919
****** Beyond Modesty ******
by Alayne_StoneColdFox
Summary
     In polite society, among the upper class London social scene, it is
     of utmost importance that a girl must practise proper etiquette and
     retain her virtues.
     Young Sansa Stark may find herself having trouble with both, if she
     continues to be so enraptured by a man of such notorious ill repute
     as Mr. Baelish.
     Victorian AU
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
I am heartbroken, a girl left devastated from the cruelties of love, what
promise I had laid before me in life is now in shatters. I have cried more in
the last week than I can ever remember crying, and now I lye here on my bed and
think I have simply run out of tears. Mother assures me it will stop hurting
soon but soon doesn't feel close enough, I couldn't imagine ever feeling well
again after this. How could she understand, when she has father to love her,
and I have no one, will probably never have anyone else again, because no one
will ever spark the same kind of love I once felt for the boy who is leaving me
to marry another. What a sad story I am. How truly pathetic and un-loved and
forgotten, destined to live the life of a spinster.
“Oh for god sake, can you stop looking so utterly tragic!”
I rise my head off my pillow only to glare at Arya, as she sits on the edge of
her bed in the room we so unfortunately share, lacing up her boots, getting
ready to go out when I lye here in my night gown without the strength to face
the world.
“Do you have no sympathy for me at all?” I ask.
She curls her lip and shrugs “No.”
I scoff “Of course you wouldn't. You're too young and you've never been in
love. Well, I hope you never feel what I feel now, I would never wish this pain
upon anyone, even my own horrible un-feeling sister!”
“You know even father thinks you're being dramatic.” she mutters and I throw
one of my pillows at her. The nerve of her to call me dramatic!
“Of course that's what father says, he's the one who tore us apart! He is glad
to see Joffrey marry Margaery instead of me!”
“I would have thought you might be a little glad to see Joffrey marry that girl
instead of you, considering what a royal prat he was!”
Royal, royal, royal the word taunts me as Arya quickly flees the room to avoid
the other pillow I hurl at the door that she closed too quickly behind her. I
was almost a royal! I would have lived my life in a palace with Joffrey and his
family, gone to balls and galas of the highest order, with the finest company
in the country, but no. That was all Margaery's now, and I had come all the way
to London for nothing. The season was coming up and now I was not to be the
belle of the evening, attached to Joffrey's arm as he led me through dance
after dance, I was only to be the talk of gossip. There she is, the girl he
didn't choose. The girl he discarded in favour for another! It will be all luck
for me to even be invited now! I was to be talked about for all the wrong
reasons.
I said I no longer felt I could conjure anymore tears, but to my credit, I
still find myself able to let out a few more.
With my face in what pillows I have remaining on my bed, I stay like that until
I heard a soft rap of knuckles on my door. The way father does it.
“Sansa?” I hear him question through the door, but I don't answer, as I want
him to know precisely how upset I still am with him, as I have been letting him
know all week. I hear him sigh his gruff kind of sigh through the wood, and I
want to call out how I heard that, how I know my suffering must be tiresome for
him, and how very sorry I am, to be the the inconvenience of a girl with her
heart broken in two!
“Sansa, love, are you coming to church? You know you're mother would be upset
if you don't come.”
He used my affection for mother against me, and it works to tug at my resolve a
little, but not enough to move me.
“I'm ill.” I call back to him, pulling up the covers, deciding if he wanted me
to go anywhere, he would have to drag me himself.
Now, usually, I am not like this. Usually I am the most well behaved of all my
siblings, I promise you, even if it would not seem so now. My heartbreak and my
indignation have simply given me a spirit of disobedience which was not natural
to me. I imagine it's put my father at somewhat of a loss.
“Sansa, you're not ill...” he mutters through the door, but he sounds more
tired than angry, whereas I am of course, angry.
“I am, and I can't come to church, I'll be sick in the pews!” I yell like a
child.
“Sansa-”
“I'm not coming!”
I hear another of those gruff sighs, and then footsteps shuffle off along the
landing, heavy sounding, then a moment later more steps, lighter ones, and
mothers voice, and Arya's, but I can't make out what they're saying, but I know
they are discussing me.
Finally, someone opens the door, and I cannot see who as I lay in bed facing
the wall, all curled up under the covers, but I flinch, almost readying myself
to be dragged from the bed against my will. Plus I know myself well enough to
predict that if anyone was to start truly yelling at me, I doubted I could up
this kind of behaviour any longer. I hate more than anything to be yelled at.
“Sansa,” my mothers voice says quite curtly “We are going to church now, as is
the rest of the household, so if you insist on staying here then you are to
stay here in your bed, and don't think that this is to be a regular occurrence.
You're to come with us next week without any of this silliness, understand?”
I give a little noise, a murmur of a yes. She is not yelling, but she does not
sound happy.
The door shuts behind her and I hear Arya whining that she shouldn't have to go
either if I don't, but she is quickly shushed by father, and by then they have
all moved beyond my hearing.
O0o0o00o00o000o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
With even the maids gone down for their Sunday morning prayers, I wander
through our still new London home with the sense that I should be doing
something more with this chance. A house all to myself. I walk from room to
room and try to think of something special I could do, so as not to waste this
all too precious time, but it is almost as if this time is too precious, that I
can't think of anything worthy of it. I could appreciate the silence and sit
and read, but then I always manage to read and escape into a book even as Bran
and Rickon and Arya run rampant through the drawing rooms, playing whichever
child game had taken their fancy for the afternoon. They used to have me play
the damsel or the princess they were to kidnap or rescue, but I am much to old
to join in with such games now. Rickon had tried to insist Arya play the
kidnapped princess and that had only led to an argument.
Perhaps I could use my watercolours and do a picture, without the fear of
anyone bothering me or asking to use the palette I had gotten as a gift from my
uncle Benjen two christmas's ago. I had let Arya use it once and she had gotten
black into the yellow and made the orange into a murky brown coloured mess
somehow.
I wander through the empty house in my day dress, for at least I have managed
to change from my night gown, though I haven't bothered to put up my hair in
anyway, leaving it loose and un-pinned, and I have no idea what to do with
myself.
I was only passing through the front drawing room when I heard a sudden knock
on the front door. I stopped and wondered who an earth that could be, and
feared maybe it was father or mother come back to check on me, where they'd
find me out of bed, exactly how they'd asked me not too.
I went to the window with a sense of dread, kneeling up on the cushions of the
alcoved seat to pull back the sheer curtains, to peer out at the steps of the
front door, where stood a man.
Now my dread left me, replaced with curiosity.
He was well dressed to be sure, I noticed before anything else, in a suit and
fine wool coat and hat, and polished pointed shoes. By his slender form I at
first thought he may have been a young man, but from the turn of his head I saw
the creases around deep set eyes, his short goatee and moustache, and skin
touched by age.
It was then the man turned his head even further, and his gaze happened to fall
on me in my little hiding spot poking around from the curtains. Immediately
drawing myself back, I blushed at being caught, as just then he knocked once
more, as of course he knew the house was not empty now. It wouldn't do to hide,
whoever he was, so I stood up and fluffed down my skirts to try and compose
myself fittingly.
I made my way down the hall, fingers pausing briefly on the brass door handle.
Should I answer to this stranger? We hadn't long been in London, and father
liked to often warn us children of how vile and wicked this city could be, even
if nothing had come of his talk yet. This man didn't look like some kind of
vagabond,in fact, he looked as much of a gentleman as I could imagine. Then of
course what if he was a man of some importance? What if I blatantly ignored him
and he took offence? Perhaps I would be committing a social faux pas against a
very important kind of man indeed, and then this instance would haunt me in the
season to come, and all sorts of talk would be made about me and my rudeness.
Then he knocks quickly again and I snap myself out of silly thoughts, and pull
the door open, chancing to at least ask him what his business is here.
He stood on the front step, and our eyes met at once, for he was the same
height as me, perhaps even an inch shorter.
“Hello?,” I said, only opening the door wide enough for my self to be seen,
with my hands kept firmly on the door, in case I needed to close it quickly.
He seems about to say something, but he stops, lips paused as if the words he'd
so intended to say have been snatched from him quite suddenly, and then I would
describe his gaze as nothing but brazen. He let his eyes roam over the entirety
of my form, in which I felt my air, my person, and whole figure come under some
sort of examination, and he seemed to have the least regard to the confusion
and blushes his eyeing me so put me too. On my part, with dignity, I tried to
render his summations favourable to me, by standing tall, with hands still
clasped firmly on the door, setting my best looks regardless. Indeed he seemed
to smile, his demeanour one of a man quite pleased to see me, but I of course
should see no reason for him too be pleased to see me at all, as I was sure I
had never seen this man in my life.
“My word,” he said after a moment “you must be one of her little daughters. Not
so little anymore it would seem... my, what a spitting image of her you are...”
I blinked as I was utterly un-sure of what to say. He seemed to sense my
confusion as at once he let out a small laugh.
“Oh, god, where are my senses? I haven't introduced myself and of course you've
no idea who I am. My name is Petyr Baelish. I've come here on word that this is
where Lady Catelyn Tully lives?”
“My mother.” I say aloud, finally understanding something of this mans purpose
“But her name isn't Tully, it's Stark. Catelyn Stark.”
He nods “Ah, yes, of course. It was only that I knew her as Catelyn Tully many
years ago. We were old friends, children when we met, barely just adults when
we last parted, still before she wed. As such I have had no such practice in
referring to her as Lady Stark.”
He has a smooth sounding voice and an accent that indicates an education and
wealth, and in some form, that settles me, as does the fact that he knew my
mothers maiden name. That he had apparently been a friend of her from her
girlhood.
“I'm afraid if you're here to see my mother, she's out at church at the moment,
and she won't be due back until later this morning.”
At once his smile pulls quite thin “Church.” he grimaces the word, and I see a
realisation dawning on him “naturally. It's a Sunday morning isn't it...she was
ever the good church goer.” he mutters, and I imagine he must feel quite
foolish, having obviously not realised, or simply having forgotten.
Then he glances back to me with a little frown that he strangely paired with a
smile “And why are you not at church with her, sweet girl?”
I shift a little on my feet “I'm ill.” I say, entirely unconvincingly.
“Well, you look well enough to me. Theres colour to your cheeks, to be sure.”
he teased, as by now I would say I was blushing.
“And why are you not in church yourself sir?” I ask back, and at that he laughs
and seems to think on his answer.
“Perhaps I am simply ill too.” and he says it in such a way that I cannot help
but smile with him, and I do not feel so bad for my lie. I feel quite a murmur
of pride of seemingly sharing a little joke with such a well spoken gentlemen,
in all his finery. He is surely the most interesting thing that could happen on
a morning like this. I had only just be complaining that I was bored, and I
certainly wasn't bored anymore.
I glance up to the small clock that sits on a decorative table in our entrance
way “I'm sure mother may be back within the hour, or not much longer. If you'd
like you're welcome to come in and wait for her?”
He looks at me with some kind of surprise, before smiling “Why, absolutely, if
you have no qualms with that.”
I open the door for him and he enters, taking off his hat as he does so, where
I see the shine of pomade in his hair, though it can't quite flatten down the
slight curl to the black tresses, specked with grey at the temples. There was a
distinct elegance to him as he walked, something of a natural grace in his
movements. His eyes flick around the entrance hall, but never do they rest on
one thing. He takes it all in idly, and it seems the only thing he truly stared
at with impropriety had been me myself.
“And I'm sorry, my dear, I haven't caught your name?” he asks, as I close the
door behind us, leading him through to the parlour.
“It's Sansa,” I say, very aware of my un-pinned hair now, as we sit.
“Sansa,” he repeats “What a pretty name. I can't say I've met any Sansa's in my
life.”
I smile, quite flattered “People say it's quite an unusual name.”
“Unusual is a touch better than dull, I'd say. I've met far too many Mary's and
Elizabeth's and Charlottes, enough to last me a lifetime. To meet a Sansa is a
refreshing change.”
As we sit across from each other on the edges of well kept chesterfield sofa's,
I at once think to play the hostess role properly. I was the lady of the house,
as it were for the moment.
“Would you like a drink, Mr Baelish? I can make tea?”
He stared up at me as I stood “You would wait upon me yourself? Don't tell me
you've been left here alone?”
“Mother always allows the staff to go down to their local church on Sundays...”
“and a good woman she is for it, no doubt, but to leave such a young girl
alone,” he tuts “Well, who knows what could happen.”
“I am sixteen,” I say to ease his worries “and sometimes I am even left to look
after my younger siblings all by myself, if we were to go down and play in the
fields or the woods...though, of course, that was in our old home. There aren't
many fields or woods here in London.”
“There aren't, though there are the un-savoury types, many more than there
would be in the country side you're most used too.”
“Well, I haven't come across any un-savoury types yet.”
He smiles at me “I am glad to hear it. Do you mind if I smoke?” then he folds
his leg over the other and pulls out a cigarette case. A lovely silver embossed
thing, with twirling vines and little birds.
“Oh, no, go ahead.” I say, thinking he really ought to not smoke in front of a
lady, in a house that was not his. Surely he should know as much, and that I
could hardly say no.
“Now I can't say I'm much of a tea drinker but if you had some wine, that would
be well appreciated.”
I nod, forgiving his cigarette as I did his stares “We have wine...and would
you like some biscuits?”
He laughs again “Wine and biscuits?” the cigarette case click shut again as he
holds one of the thin white sticks between his fingers “Why not.”
I hurry myself to the kitchen to pour a glass from the decanter of red, hoping
to myself he doesn't ask what kind of wine it is, or where it's made, because I
haven't a clue. I arrange a plate full of biscuits from the tin, and stumble
upon a ginger cake under a glass dome in the pantry, made the day before, which
we had for dessert last night. I decided to cut a generous portion and place
that on the plate as well.
Carrying this all in I think I am doing rather well, even as I still wished my
hair was pinned and nicely done, as I come in to find Mr Baelish, with his
cigarette now lit, smoking idly.
“Ah, what a selection. I am served like the gods!” he approved as I placed the
plate on the low coffee table, handing him his wine, hiding my smile. I thought
to grace the table with a glass ash tray, so he could have a sip, and taste the
cake, seeming pleased enough. He asked if I had made it, and for a second I
wished I had, so that he may praise me some more, but I thought it best not to
lie for the second time.
“So, you said you were friends with my mother when you were younger.” I ask,
reaching for a biscuit to nibble as I have not yet had my breakfast, and in
fact barely touched my dinner last night for my grief. Funny how sitting here
now this stranger, Mr, Baelish, had made me forget my depression over Joffrey
for a moment.
He nods “when we were very much younger, yes. We first met when I was, say,
around eight? If I recall correctly. Your mother would have been eleven.”
“And how did you meet?”
“Through our families. Our fathers knew one another.”
“Oh, how nice. Were they good friends?”
“My father always made it sound as if that were the case, though that could
well have been him stretching the truth of it. My father always had a lust to
chase his social betters, to ride their coat tails, and as such, years later,
he knew Hoster Tully owned a school of great repute, and inquired to get me
placed there. Your grandfather agreed, for whatever reason, kind hearted man
that he was, and I was shipped to board at the school to get my education.”
“And that's where you met my mother?” I fill in the rest of the story with my
own knowledge, my mother having told me about growing up as a headmasters
daughter, her family living in private quarters of the old stone school
building.
“We were fast friends, even as she was a couple years older than me. I knew
Lysa and Edmure, your aunt and your uncle, too. See, I never liked going home
for the holidays. I stayed at the school over term breaks when all the other
students had gone home, so often it was just us and another handful of
students, and would spend the entire summer together. Taking paddle boats out
to the lake, chasing cats, having races down the steepest hills we could find.
Blessed summers they were, some of the happiest times of my life.”
“Mother always spoke fondly of the school. Rob and Jon both went when they were
boys, and they always spoke of the lakes too. Mother keeps saying she wishes to
go and visit again.”
“Mm, as I understand it, your family has scarcely travelled from the country
estate at all. I waited for what felt like an age for your mother to do so much
as even visit London, and after the passing years I simply gave in, and
resigned myself to the fact that she may never come down from up north. Until
now of course, when I hear she is to begin living here.”
A smile breaks over my face “Yes, she never wanted to come to London, not until
Father had business here.”
“You seem glad to be here, at least.”
“Oh, yes, it's so much more exciting! I love the shops, and the parks, and the
theatre! We've only been to see one show so far, but father promised me we
would see another soon.” I go on, until I realise how I must sound, over eager,
with no sense to whom I'm talking too. I tuck loose hair behind my ears and try
to settle myself, hoping Mr. Baelish doesn't see me as simply an immature
child.
“Wonderful,” he smiles. I don't think I had seen a smile slip from his face yet
“I frequent the theatre often myself, I should hope to see you there.”
With my family, I should think to add, but I don't. I only smile back.
“Yes, I'm looking forward to the season. Mother's already told me of two
parties we've been invited too, and that I can have new dresses for them.” I
find myself already back to boasting, just as I had chided myself for doing so,
but I find I cannot help it. Arya never likes to talk of such things, and
neither do brothers. All the friends I had, I left in the country. Perhaps I
was simply starved for someone to talk to, to be so open with this man about my
day to day.
At once I seem to see Mr. Baelish's eyes light up, and I see how vert green
they can look if the light is in them just right “You like parties do you?”
I let out a laugh that can't be helped “Why, of course? Who doesn't like
parties?”
He seems delighted by the news, and so in turn I am delighted to have said it
“Why, my darling, I throw parties. It is my trade.” He says with an air that
has me entirely enrapt.
“Parties?” I say “How can parties be ones trade?”
He throws a hand to the air as if it is nothing “When one happens to be good at
throwing them.”
What a wondrous answer, I thought. This finely dressed man, with his air that
has me entirely enrapt, plucked from nowhere to appear on my doorstep. It all
seemed to lend to his utter un-reality, but that fact that he was, in fact,
real and here before me, was terribly exciting.
“Will you be throwing any parties here in London?” I ask, as composed as I can
manage, though I'm sure he can see the un-asked question just hanging from my
lips as I perch on my seat, my face most likely a silent plea.
“Of course, sweet girl. I host some of the most spectacular parties of the
year.” He says with an utter lack of modesty, as he leans back ever so slightly
in his chair, as I lean ever forward “Why...would you like to attend?”
The eager yes hardly escapes my mouth fast enough, though it was that exact
point in time that I hear the front door un-latch, and it was then that my
family had decided to arrive home from church.
Mr. Baelish stands, and I follow suit, as the chatter of their arrival echoes
through the hall, mother telling Rickon to scrape the mud off his boots, for
Bran to hang up his coat, for Arya to run up and check on me, but of course,
her chatter stops as soon as she turns the corner. As the presence of Mr.
Baelish becomes apparent to her.
Her eyes fall quickly upon him, then to me, to the used plates, the glass of
wine, and back again to Mr. Baelish, with a barely composed expression of
shock. Understandably so I suppose. She had no idea we would be having a guest,
no less her old school friend. For a second I feared perhaps they had not seen
each other in so long that she did not recognise him, and so I step forward
quickly.
“Mother, Mr. Baelish has come to see you.” I say “He only arrived not that long
ago.”
“Oh,” she said, as Bran, Rickon and Arya peered curiously at the both of us in
silence from behind her “Oh, my word, Petyr....it's been years.” she laughs
somewhat offhandedly.
“Cat,” he says, quite comfortable using nothing but her first name, a pet name
at that “It's good to see you again.”
I could not say if mother had simply been caught off guard, or if something
else had her smile held taught (and I certainly hoped it was not my being out
of bed) but if she had thought of anything to say, she hadn't the chance to say
it, as Father entered, the front door closed behind him.
He seemed to eye Mr. Baelish with as much surprise as mother, as he stopped to
look at him, and Im embarrassed to say his mouth hung slightly open in an
unseemly manner.
“Baelish,” he said without courtesy “What are you doing in my home?”
I stood, shocked at my fathers brusque nature towards a guest, at the way my
mothers eyes flitted towards the floor, my own eyes taking in all three of them
at once, suddenly feeling as if I had done something wrong, though I couldn't
say what. There was simply a feeling to the air that made one un-rested. To Mr,
Baelish's credit he seemed to take the slight in his stride, that everlasting
smile still in place as he stepped across to my father was a casual stride.
“I simply decided to call in at the wrong hour, it seemed,” he said with open
palms “I'm embarrassed to say the notion that you would be out at church simply
slipped my mind.”
“I am well aware you are not a godly man.” My father said in stern tones, so
much so I almost shivered myself. No one could look stern like my father
“Catelyn, go upstairs. Sansa, you too, and the rest of the children.”
“Come now, Sansa.” Mother ushered me from the room along with my siblings, but
I craned my neck back to glance at Mr. Baelish, to father, where neither even
hardly bothered to watch us leave, they seemed so preoccupied standing across
from each other with some obvious kind of malice between them. I look back all
along the hall, and as we are all but pushed up the stairs, I peer down from
the bannister, and I see Arya do the same, as curious as I am about this
apparition of a man, who to our knowledge had never been mentioned, but who no
doubt held some kind of history with my mother and father both.
I am utterly lost at how this has all transpired, so quickly it went downhill,
so that now I am nothing but confused and upset, where a minute ago I had been
so enchanted. Now in place of such feeling I had been left with nothing but
questions, and a certain unprecedented sadness, at the idea that I may never be
able to feel the presence and un-reality of the man I had just met again.
End Notes
     New fic to fill the void ending 'Curiosity' left in my heart.
     It's just so much fun to be smutty and flowery and prosey.
     Though of course, this time it will all be from Sansa's POV.
     Tags will be added as smut gets underway.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
