
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7509232.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark, Jon_Snow_&_Arya_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark, Arya_Stark, Jon_Snow, Roose_Bolton, Ramsay
      Bolton, Original_Female_Character(s)_of_Color, Olyvar_(Game_of_Thrones),
      Ros_(Game_of_Thrones), Olenna_Tyrell, Tyrion_Lannister, Varys_(ASoIaF),
      Tywin_Lannister, Margaery_Tyrell, Lothor_Brune, Mya_Stone, Various
      Characters
  Additional Tags:
      wow_holy_fuck_where_do_i_START_with_this_one, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern
      Setting, Past_Rape/Non-con, Rape_Recovery, Anxiety_Disorder, Strong
      Female_Characters, Aftermath_of_Torture, Crimes_&_Criminals, Happy_Murder
      Family, lmao_@_happy_murder_family_but_like...it's_kinda_real, Older_Man/
      Younger_Woman, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Politics, Corruption, Attempted
      Murder, Angst_and_Fluff_and_Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, Blood_and
      Violence, Religious_Imagery_&_Symbolism, Minor_Character_Death, HOLY_CRAP
      this_is_a_lot_i'm_just_gonna_update_from_my_grave_bye, Sibling_Bonding,
      Enemies_to_Friends, POV_Multiple, Redemption
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-13 Completed: 2017-05-27 Chapters: 35/35 Words: 176236
****** Bloodguilt ******
by moffnat
Summary
     BLOODGUILT (n); the Judaic concept of punishment for committing
     unlawful murder. Innocent blood pollutes the earth and is rejected,
     hanging over the head of the slayer until God or mankind reaps
     judgment upon them.
     Modern AU. Crime and scandal. Petyr/Sansa and platonic Jon & Arya.
     When Lord Chief Justice Ned Stark dies in a freak accident and his
     family burns in their home, Sansa believes she is all that remains.
     Taken hostage by Roose Bolton in attempt to claim her father’s
     inheritance, Sansa flees, knowing there is justice to be found
     somewhere in what's left of the world that betrayed her. Little does
     she know, she is not alone.
***** The Homeless Girl *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
For the love of God and all things holy, please read the tags. This fic deals
with some heavy topics that might not be for everyone. (But we're quite the
sinful fandom, so it shouldn't be a problem for most of you. Just a warning.)
The three POV's are Sansa, Petyr and Arya. The Arya & Jon bromance is very
important, so don't skip Arya's chapters just to get back to the sin!
This fic frequently mentions rape and deals partially with the ups and downs of
rape recovery. Read at your own risk.
I kept Mayana from Run_Me. There's like, 0.2 characters of color in this
series, so I'm bringing my own. Deal.
The mentions of Judaism, Catholicism and Islam in this story are not meant to
be disrespectful in any way, shape or form. This was merely a part of my
interpretation of ASoIAF canon into the modern world. All modern references,
political standings, pop culture references and real-world issues are
researched before I even consider adding them to the story, so be sure to call
me out if I fuck up royally.
Listen. This is a wild ride. I've got all sorts of bullshit headed your way, BE
PREPARED SINNERS, but as always I don't believe in fic that has a tragic
ending, so it'll all pay off. Shhhhh. Trust me. *pets your face*
This story gradually progresses. It's an uphill climb that's slow and steady,
so it may seem awkward at first, but I paced it this way on purpose. The shit
will hit the fan, trust me. And when it does, you'll wish it hadn't.
I'm putting a lot more effort than usual into this so I really hope the
response is enthusiastic. Make sure to keep up with the endnotes for updates.
Enjoy!

                             soundtrack choices:
     [heir_to_winterfell;_ramin_djawadi] ◆ [sweet_dreams;_marilyn_manson]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

15 OCTOBER, 2016
Iron bars were her greatest obstacle. There were thirteen in total, brand new
without a speck of rust, screwed into the frame of her window with metal
hinges. Sansa made them her focal point whenever Ramsay came to use her. Her
mind would fall quiet, sharp and blank all at once, making iron bars her anchor
for however long he was there. In her dreams, Sansa could tear apart the steel
frame and climb out to freedom like an animal, but reality was not so
forgiving. Ramsay was nothing if not persistent, and he came to her every night
to leave bruises and a cracked soul behind.
Sansa Stark was not so easily broken. 
Those bars, Sansa thought repeatedly. Break them and I’m free. Break them and
I’m gone. She said it every night in her mind, like a prayer. Break the bars.
Break the bars. Break the bars.
The first few weeks in captivity were the worst. Ramsay believed his prison too
strong for her to withstand, and fear was his ally. The humiliation of another
human being gave him pride, as much as the act of assault itself, but Sansa
took advantage of his oversights. The moment Ramsay’s father came and spoke to
her alone, Sansa made every detail of her suffering known to him. He wasn’t as
ruthless as his crazed son. It earned her free reign over the manor, at least.
She could handle being followed by paid security detail. If it gave her means
to craft an escape, it was worth the constant supervision.
Three months of lost time chipped away at her heart. But true to her name, she
did not break. She kept face when it was appropriate, submitted to captivity,
and let Ramsay have his way with her. Misery loved company, after all. And at
the end of every day, she muttered her prayer through gritted teeth to the
darkness.
Break the bars.
Her opportunity came when Ramsay broke the kitchen sink. He’d shoved someone’s
arm down the disposal and the blades had broken on the bone, causing the pipes
to clog. Sansa could see the blood as she poked her head into the kitchen from
the outer hall. Scarlet stained a porcelain sink with several chunks of bone
and skin, but something more important caught her eye. A toolbox filled with
expensive hardware sat atop the counter. Ramsay’s lower half stuck out from
under the plumbing, and she heard his muttered curses as he struggled with a
wrench. His father had likely ordered him to fix his mistake. It was all she
could do not to steal a hammer and run.
“What are you doing?” asked Sansa as she stepped into the kitchen.
Ramsay sighed. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Fixing a sink.”
“Yes. I’m fixing a sink.” His words were slow and deliberate, as though he
thought she couldn’t understand. Sansa walked deeper into the kitchen and wrung
her hands, eyeing the toolbox again. Screwdriver, she thought. Crosshair.
Hideable. She reached for a glass from a nearby cabinet and poured herself some
water, scanning the tools sidelong.
The handle of her prize stuck out from the edge of the box. A screwdriver, just
like she needed. Sansa took a drink. I’ll pay for this, she thought. Ramsay
will hurt me. But there was nothing Sansa could face now that she hadn’t faced
before. Her life was the only thing left to lose, and what value was that on
its own? She took a deep breath. “Do you need all of those tools to fix a
sink?”
Ramsay groaned in annoyance. “No.”
“My brother broke the sink once.” Sansa walked over to the toolbox and leaned
against the counter, careful not to tip off the Bolton personnel watching her
at the door. “Father taught him how to fix it. Or tried to. Jon and Robb ended
up playing with two hammers and walked away with broken fingers and tears.”
“How very fascinating,” shot Ramsay.
Sansa gathered her willpower and set her glass down on the counter. “It doesn’t
look all that hard. Maybe I could help—”
She stepped forward, pushing her arm on the edge of the toolbox. It fell to the
floor with a ringing clatter that echoed from the walls. Sansa faked a gasp of
terror. “Ramsay I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it was an accident! I was trying to—”
“Why did you do that?” Her nightmare crawled out from under the sink, clutching
a wrench she feared he would beat her with. It wouldn't be the first time.
Ramsay’s tone was calm and collected, but Sansa knew better than to think he
was without rage. His face was warped with it. “You’ve damaged my father’s
tools. Do you know how much they cost?”
“A lot,” Sansa guessed. She swallowed the lump in her throat and kept her eyes
on Ramsay’s dark ones. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” He wants my tears, she
thought, so Sansa provided. It was incredibly easy to cry on command. “Please,
Ramsay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to help you, please.”
Ramsay smiled as if his forgiveness was genuine. “That’s enough now, Sansa. I
do hate to see you unhappy.” He cupped her cheek, making her nauseous.
“Accidents happen, don’t they? Clean it up. And I’ll make sure every damaged
item comes out of your dead daddy’s inheritance.”
Sansa shivered when his lips met hers. By some miracle, they were not there for
long. Ramsay pulled away and moved under the broken sink again, recommencing
his work and leaving Sansa to pick up the mess she’d made. She scrambled to the
floor like the desperate girl she was, cleaning up the tools in avoidance of
his wrath. She couldn’t run to freedom if he broke her ribs.
The red handle of the screwdriver stuck out to her. There it is. Sansa snatched
the tool before anyone could see. She hid it in her jacket sleeve and put the
others back in their place, returning the toolbox to the counter. “Take her
back to her room,” said Ramsay. “She’s had enough free time for the day. If
she's good, I might even let her eat tonight.”
Sansa quietly obeyed. She had what she came for, and baiting her with food was
useless now. Bolton personnel led her down the hallway of the east wing and
back to the bedroom Ramsay kept her in, with its barred window and bland
colors. The door was closed and locked behind her.
Sansa gave a heavy sigh of relief. She placed a hand over her beating heart,
closed her eyes, and steadied her breath until she calmed.
In.
Out.
In.
Sansa opened her eyes. She couldn't waste any more time. It was already 6:30,
Ramsay would come for her soon. She placed the screwdriver on the table, turned
on the TV for extra noise and began packing a light bag. Only the essentials.
Two spare changes of clothes, her childhood diary, her mother’s rosary,
Rickon’s dreidel from the last Hanukkah. Hygiene products. A hairbrush, a small
blanket, two-hundred pounds she’d stashed away to pay for a bus ticket and
food. Her wallet. Extra socks. Always keep warm, she could hear her father
say. Winter is coming. Sansa stripped from her rich clothes—no gift from the
Boltons would come with her—and changed into jeans and one of Robb’s Oxford
sweaters. She curbed the pain of her brother’s memory with happy ones; the look
on his face when he’d gotten his acceptance letter, the way he smiled at Talisa
on their wedding day, how he’d hold her face and tell her there was nothing to
be afraid of.
Wherever you are, Robb, I need your bravery now.
Sansa grabbed the screwdriver and stood on the bed to reach the hinges of those
damned iron bars, working at them quickly. Her life depended on it. She was
careful when the steel began to give, unscrewing them with speed and placing
the full set down on the mattress. They were heavier than she expected and her
arms ached when she let them go, but the sight of her window, open and clean
with an unimpeded view of the trees filled her with a sense of triumph.
The bars were broken at last.
Sansa snatched her bag and opened the window glass, letting the coolness of an
autumn breeze calm her nerves. She glanced around outside for passing security
before dropping her bag down to the bushes below. It was a two-story fall to
the ground, and Sansa would have to sprint across the gardens from there to
make it to the forest for cover. Roose would send his men after her and Ramsay
would release the hounds, but Sansa had studied them enough to know how to
thwart them. For the first time in weeks, she said a prayer to the skies,
clutching the Star of David pendant around her neck as if it would force God to
listen. “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave me too.”
On the count of three, she jumped from the windowsill.
Sansa met the ground hard. She bit back her cries and clutched her side,
knowing she’d made bruises to accompany the others, but she couldn’t stop to
assess them. Sansa scrambled to her feet and ran for the outer gate. She could
slip through those bars easily enough, assuming the snipers on the roof didn’t
shoot her down before she got there. It was a race against time, now. Against
Roose Bolton and his underestimation of the last living Stark.
In another life, Sansa had loved running, helping Bran train for track or Jon
keep up his routine for the Night’s Watch. But running for her life was
different. Every cell in her body focused on speed. Sansa ran with a prayer in
every step, begging God or the Holy Mother or whoever listened for enough
strength to reach the outer fence. She heard nothing but the whistle of the
wind and the thunder of her feet pounding into the grass. Shouts and barking
dogs were swallowed by her steady breathing. In, out. In, out. Her legs
strained and her core ached, feeling all three months of her constant
captivity, but adrenaline pulled her through until she reached the perimeter of
the Bolton property. She slipped through the bars and broke free into the
shelter of the forest and coming nightfall.
Sansa didn’t stop running, not until she reached an abandoned watch post a
half-mile from the manor. She threw open the door, breath heavy with
exhaustion, and flipped on the lights. Gun, she thought. There has to be one
here. She opened every drawer in search of a weapon, finding nothing but a map
and a few expired granola bars. She smiled at the sight of food and shoved them
in her backpack for later. She also found a first aid kit and took the
ibuprofen from it, along with antiseptic cream and Band-Aids, just in case.
Sansa opened the final drawer. A handgun sat within. Sansa had never held one
before, never learned how to load and fire, but there would be time to figure
it out. She stashed the gun and the bullets in her bag to tamper with when she
was safe. Whenever that would be.
“Sansa,” said a small voice. She whirled around. Theon Greyjoy stood in the
doorway, a rifle strapped around his armored body. His mouth wore a deep frown.
“Sansa, please. You’re not going to survive out there.”
“I’m not going to survive here, either.” Her voice was stern. “They want my
inheritance, Theon. They don’t care about me. Once I’m of age and marry Ramsay,
they’ll have everything. I’ll be expendable.” Her voice began to shake. “You
know what he does to me.”
“Sansa—”
“No.” She slung her bag over her shoulders. “If you really wanted to help me,
you should have thought about that before you chose yourself over my
family. Our family.”
She knew her words stung. Sansa ignored the pain in his eyes and tried to pass
him, but he extended his arm to block her. “Let me go,” she snapped.
“Just listen to me, won’t you? You can’t get to London by running.” From his
pocket, Theon pulled a set of keys and held them out to her. “Take my car.”
Sansa blinked. “What?”
“Take it.” He shoved the keys at her, cautiously. “I’m sick of doing nothing.
Just…just let me do this for you, please? For Robb.” He forced Sansa’s hand
open and placed the keys inside, closing her palm and squeezing tight. “Get in
my car and drive to London. Take a bus to Liverpool, or Bristol or Birmingham
or wherever the bloody hell you need to go. Go to your mum’s family in Ireland
or catch a flight to America with Jeyne. But you get out of here and don’t look
back. Not even for me.”
Sympathy flooded Sansa’s heart, capped only by her gratitude. She clutched the
keys and took his hand. “Come with me.”
“I can’t. Ramsay—”
“Ramsay means nothing. We can outsmart him together.”
“Not Roose, though. He’s more ruthless than Ramsay’s ever been.” Theon’s face
darkened. “You haven’t seen the things I have.”
Sansa made to respond, but the howling of distant hounds cut off her reply.
Terror rose in her chest. She eyed Theon earnestly. “I’ll come back for you,”
she declared. “Maybe not soon, but someday. I won’t leave you here.”
“I deserve it if we’re bein’ honest.” He smiled half-heartedly. “Will you at
least hit me to make it look like we fought?”

“I—okay. Okay.”
Taking the gun from her bag, Sansa lifted her hand and smacked Theon across the
face with the metal. He cried out and fell backwards. Sansa was certain she’d
broken his nose. “Oh, god! Theon I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Just go!” Theon held his face as blood wept through his fingers. Sansa
couldn’t help him despite her caring nature, knowing she’d be caught for
trying. She stored the gun in the back of her jeans and apologized again before
fleeing to the darkness of the woods, leaving Theon Greyjoy and the Boltons
behind.
She found Theon’s car in a parking lot down the road. Sansa hurried into the
driver’s seat, pushing away the thought that she may still be found, and shoved
the keys in the ignition. “Break the bars,” she muttered to herself. Her hands
were shaking. “Break the bars.”
She shifted the gear to drive, and sped off down the motorway.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Sansa knew she had to ditch the car. Roose would have the police searching for
her by now, and the thought of Ramsay’s wrath was enough to keep her moving.
She grabbed one of Theon’s beanies from the back seat and pulled it over her
head, stuffing her red hair, her mother’s gift, under the wool. With a quick
dump of car keys and retrieval of her bag, Sansa fled to the outskirts of the
city. She kept to the shadows and dark alleys where no one would see her.
London. Once a source of joy, now a home for ghosts. Sansa remembered taking
Arya here, travelling through the city just to get away. Sometimes their mother
would come with them and sit by the water, eating ice cream in the summer or
hot soup in the fall, chatting while the boys did whatever boys do. She
remembered her father taking her to temple sometimes, and going to mass with
her mother. They always gave us a choice, didn’t they? To go where we wanted.
Worship where we wanted. Be where we wanted.
That freedom had died with them.
Sansa pulled a granola bar from her bag and unwrapped it, taking a small bite.
The sun had fallen completely and London’s nightlife was in full swing, earning
her more than a few sideways glances whenever someone passed. It occurred to
Sansa that she didn’t have a destination. Take a bus to Liverpool, Theon had
advised, or a plane to America. But she had no passport. No identification
outside of a driver’s license. She could take a bus to another city, but what
would she do there that she couldn’t do in London? What if the police
recognized her before she could board?
Think, Sansa. Your father was the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales,
people loved him. You can find somewhere to go.
Her father had friends in parliament. In the cabinet, even. Surely one of them
would take her in and listen to her story, but where would justice be without
proof? Sansa bore bruises, but she had showered since Ramsay’s last lustful
visit. Any fingerprints or DNA had likely washed away. And due to Roose’s
scheming, Sansa legally belonged to the Boltons, having tricked or forced her
father into making them her legal guardians in the event of his death. She
wondered what Roose had threatened him with to take that right away from
Howland Reed. Was he dead, too? Did someone murder him as they had murdered her
family?
No. The government’s help was not an option. Roose Bolton could buy anyone who
dared outwit him, including politicians and cabinet members who were more than
crooked already.
She was on her own.
Sansa finished her dinner and threw the wrapper in a nearby bin. Rain began to
fall. Not even moonlight poked through the clouds. Hopelessness settled beneath
her skin as her options thinned to nonexistence. The rain fell harder with each
passing minute until she was drenched to the bone, freezing from the cold of a
coming winter. What choice was there but to continue? Punishment would come for
her if she didn’t find a plan. Think, Sansa. You can’t go back there.
She would rather die than see those iron bars again.
Sansa’s fears were quieted by the sight of a telephone booth on the
streetcorner. She didn’t have a cell phone, didn’t have internet access at all,
but she could still reach someone. Sansa rushed through the numbing rain and
opened the glass door to shelter. She pulled her bag over her shoulder and
retrieved her wallet, fishing in the pouches for a few coins.
When had she ever used a phone booth? Sansa always had a cell phone before,
only using the red boxes for silly photo ops with Jeyne or Robb. Sansa turned
on the little light beside the phone and picked up the phonebook chained to the
wall, setting her bag on the floor to finger through the pages.
Poole, Sansa thought, finding the “P” section in the directory.Jeyne’s family
would take me in. When she found the number of her best friend’s parents, she
placed the coins in the slot and dialed, hoping they wouldn’t be too deeply
asleep to hear the phone ring. They were. Sansa left a message detailing her
location, begging the Pooles not to alert the authorities and hanging up when
she felt satisfied. Next, she tried to call the Night’s Watch headquarters.
Someone there could direct her to Jon, if he was still alive, but when the
person on the other line asked for identification she quickly hung up the
phone. She couldn’t give government officials her name. It was dangerous, Robb
had told her that before he died. He’d held her face and told her to run, but
now she was running out of options.
Robb would know what to do. Unbidden tears spilled down her cheeks like the
rain outside, warm in contrast. She hadn’t cried since the funeral, since her
mother and brothers and Talisa were lowered into the ground, but now that she
was free of Ramsay her heart remembered how to feel. Sansa leaned against the
wall and wept. Her body trembled from the cold, the agony, the memories of
being violated, the horror of her family’s death and disappearance. She was the
only one left from a golden childhood. No one would help her. Her mother’s
stories of love and lessons were useless, now.
Mum’s stories, Sansa thought suddenly. She lifted her head from the wall. The
foster boy. The one Uncle Brandon stabbed. Sansa had hated that story—she much
preferred the ones where the heroes won over the monsters—but her mother had
told that piece of her past all the same, when Sansa asked why there were
Christmas party invitations sent to a man who never replied. If the foster boy
would not reply to her mother, there was no reason why he would answer the
phone for her. But Sansa was too desperate to let that stop her from trying.
She flipped backwards through the white pages. B. Baelish. She scanned until
her finger stopped just below the familiar name. BAELISH, PETYR. And sure
enough, there was a number listed. She picked up the phone and placed the last
of her coins in the machine, dialing the number as it read and waiting for
someone to answer. The phone rang and rang and rang again. Please, Sansa
prayed, but her heart sank at the sound of an automated response. “You have
reached the voicemail box of…” A sob burst from her lips and she clenched her
eyes shut, willing herself to be anywhere but here in this tiny little
phonebox. Anything but prey for Ramsay to hunt. Still, she waited for the beep
and left a message.
“Mr. Baelish,” said a crying Sansa. “You don’t know me, but my name is Sansa
Stark. My father was Lord Eddard Stark, the Chief Justice. And my mum was
Catelyn Tully. From your foster family in Ireland.” Sansa sniffled and wiped
her tears. “She died three months ago and the Boltons took me in, but they
tricked my father. They got him to sign me off to them before he died and I’ve
been held there, hurt and locked up. I’ve only just escaped but I have nowhere
to go. They’ll find me if I’m on the streets for too long, the Boltons have
eyes everywhere and pay off police all the time, not to mention the Queen
Mother hates me…”
Sansa was sobbing again. She knew her message was running out of time and
struggled to pull herself through another wave of words. “Please, Mr. Baelish,
if you ever loved my mother at all, I need help. Any help. They’re going to
take me back if they find me, but I’ll die before I let them.” She glanced out
the window to get her bearings. “I’m across from Saint Mary of the Angels on
Moorhouse Road. I’m going to the chapel and I’ll sit inside until…until
something happens. Maybe I’ll think of a plan. Maybe I won’t. But please, if
you get this message, I need help.” Sansa cleared her throat and gathered her
emotions enough to utter a small “thank you” before hanging up the phone. All
she could do now was wait—wait for Jeyne’s parents, for a mysterious foster
uncle, or for death. Whichever came first.
Sansa trudged back out into the rain with her bag clutched to her chest. The
streets had cleared in the wake of the oncoming storm, leaving her free to run
across the open road without worry of traffic. She was shaking from the cold by
the time she reached the steps of the church, hoping to find sanctuary within
its walls as she so often did. If there's no peace here, there's none
anywhere. She opened the door and stepped inside.
The little chapel was quiet and still. Stained glass and pale walls were
illuminated by prayer candles. Sansa had not forgotten custom and dipped her
fingers in the holy water, making the cross over her chest. Surely the Boltons
would not think to attack her here. Not under God’s protection. With her bag in
her arms, Sansa bowed to the altar before taking a seat in a nearby pew.
The Hail Mary was engrained in her, good Catholic girl that she was. Sansa set
her backpack on the floor and retrieved her mother’s prayer beads, glossy and
blue as sapphires with gold links and a crucifix. “The rosary is supposed to be
simple,” Catelyn Stark always said, but every Christmas Sansa’s father would
buy her more. He had an odd fascination with them, prone to watching his wife
pray every night before bed. The Starks were quite the spectacle. A family of
two faiths, never fitting into one but not denouncing the other. Sansa toyed
with the Star of David around her neck and the rosary in her other hand, and
tried to imagine her parents watching over her. She hoped they could see she
was still left, at least, if all the others were gone.
Sansa got on her knees and began to pray. There was little else she could do.
She cycled through the rosary, an hour on her knees before God, saying each
Hail Mary as she’d been taught as a girl. She muttered the words to herself and
ignored whatever happened around her. A priest may have come and tended to the
candles, dusted the altar or otherwise, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was her
prayer. Her hope. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”
On and on she went, until a smooth voice pulled her away.
“Well, shit.”
Sansa was shocked by the use of profanity—in church, of all places—and turned
to find the culprit. A dark-skinned woman leaned against the pillar behind
Sansa’s row of pews, arms crossed, a great smile on thick lips. Her accent was
American and dozens of braids were piled in a bun on her head. “Aww,” she said
when she met Sansa’s eyes. “You’re really pretty. Pete’s gonna die.”
“I daresay you’re right.” A man accompanied the profane stranger, moving out
from behind the column. He was blonde and pale where his counterpart was
otherwise. “Forgive Mayana. She’s never seen a Jew praying the rosary before.”
“How do you—” Sansa’s words caught in her throat. She gathered her things and
stood from her kneeling position, prayer interrupted. “How do you know who I
am?”
“You said so in the message, didn’t you?” The woman, named Mayana, pulled a
touchscreen phone from her pocket and tapped until the message began to play.
Sansa heard her voice pleading with Mr. Baelish for help, detailing her name
and location, sounding half a fool for all her crying and stumbling. “He sent
us to pick you up. He would’ve come in person, but he’s a bit busy makin’ room
for you. Among other things.”
The man chuckled as if she’d made a joke. “I’m Olyvar, Miss Stark. Nothing to
fear from me. We work for Littlefinger. Or, Mr. Baelish.”
“How do I know that?” Sansa clutched her bag and her rosary close to her chest.
“You could be working for them.”
“You didn’t call the Boltons for help, did you?” Mayana waved her phone with a
matter-of-fact expression. “Roose Bolton is crazy and his son is crazier. We
don’t want him running around looking for you, and neither does Littlefinger.”
Sansa looked between the two of them. She didn’t have another option besides
waiting for Jeyne’s parents, who likely hadn’t gotten her message yet and
wouldn’t until morning. Ramsay may find her by then. Sansa shifted nervously
and glanced back to the altar, to the Savior where He hung on the cross, as if
He would give her guidance.
“If you’re waiting for an answer from God, you’re not going to get one.” Olyvar
took a few steps forward and extended his arms to Sansa. “Come with us, Miss
Stark. You look dreadfully cold. The car is warm and waiting.”
“But you get the back seat.” Mayana twirled the keys around her finger and
walked toward the exit, heels clicking on the stone floor. “Pete would probably
let you ride him across London if you wanted to, but not in my car.”
Sansa didn’t register the comment. She looked to Olyvar, who gave her a nod of
encouragement with eyes that held no malintent. Perhaps it was better to die
trying to reach safety than waiting for Ramsay to find her, or worse. Maybe
this is God’s answer. With a trace of uncertainty, Sansa walked into Olyvar’s
offered arms. He wrapped one around her shoulders and took her hand in the
other. “You’re safe now,” he told her gently. “Littlefinger won’t let any harm
come to you.”
Sansa didn’t know if that was true or not, but she supposed she would soon
learn. She climbed into the back of the strangers’ truck parked outside, into
the warmth and comfort of Mayana’s backseat, and hoped this was the right
choice out of the few she could find.
It was out of her hands, now.
Chapter End Notes
     HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS HERE WE GOOOOOOO
     I'm so stoked for this fic. Do you even know? Guys. Guys. This is
     gonna be so good.
     Since these chapters are bigger than usual and this fic will be
     lengthy, I'm going to update once a week instead of twice, just to
     make sure I still can keep up with life and update regularly to keep
     y'all happy. I'll be updating every Saturday at noon from now until
     the end of the fic. Hear that, kids? Every. Saturday. 12pm PST. Be
     there or be square. (Just kidding, you're not a square. I also
     reserve the right to intermissions in case I fall behind like a lazy
     ass.)
     I'm so excited for this storyyyyyy. I'm excited for the practice-
     novel this is going to be, and I'm excited that I get to share this
     experience with a fandom that really cares. You guys are the best. I
     love each and every one of you.
     Until next Saturday, sweetlings! *zooms off with a stream of glitter*
***** Baelish, Petyr *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
        [hold_me_down;_halsey] ◆ [one_way_or_another;_until_the_ribbon
                                    breaks]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               15 OCTOBER, 2016
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching amber waves rush over cubed ice.
It was almost comforting. A familiar sight to pull him from unfamiliar
circumstances. Petyr had felt change coming over the past several months, a
frightening sensation like icy fingertips down the back of his neck, but he'd
lain those thoughts to rest in hope that they were just a temporary
inconvenience.
Unfortunately for Littlefinger, they weren't.
It had been years since he'd heard the name Catelyn Tully. Oftentimes, Petyr
would flip through the channels on TV and see her Lord Justice husband doing
some good work or other, pausing a moment to look at her before changing the
channel again. Once upon a time, he would have cringed at the sight of Cat by
another man’s side, but those were old days. Dead ones. With all pain there
were lessons learned, and Petyr had learned them with the ruthlessness he was
known for.
Catelyn Tully was a curse, though. One he’d yet to shake off.
Petyr replayed the message again. He shouldn’t. He’d listened to it enough
times, heard Cat’s daughter’s tears and her pleas, but something was oddly
enchanting about this new ordeal. Littlefinger was intrigued to hear of Bolton
sabotage and secret plots—he made his living on such things, after all—and
bringing the Stark girl under his influence could prove fruitful in endless
ways. Petyr had seen the pictures Cat sent him of her family in those damn
holiday cards. He'd watched the little redhead girl grow with each new
photograph every year. But it would be different to see her in person, to see
what remained of a family set ablaze.
Petyr cast his eyes to the window. He watched the trees bend and wave under a
ferocious autumn storm, feeling there was a metaphor to be had if he was
patient enough to find it.
“You look lost,” said a voice. Petyr didn’t look at Ros when she entered. He
refilled his empty glass with Glenfiddich and took a sip, comforted by liquor’s
fire on a cold night. “She’s almost ready. You might want to collect yourself
before she comes in here.”
“I’m always collected.” He turned to Ros. “She’s gotten a shower? Clothes?”
“And some dinner. Olyvar and I will take her shopping for a wardrobe when
there’s time. She’s going to need one if she’ll be staying here.”
Petyr nodded in agreement. “Go out tomorrow and get her the necessities. Take
the black card, not the blue one.”
“Sure.” Ros folded her arms across her chest and paced Littlefinger's office.
Her eyes were pensive, distant. Something bothered her. “She’s pretty, you
know. Very pretty. And gentle and sweet and shy.”
“Is she?” asked Petyr, pretending to be disinterested. He picked up the
newspaper and skimmed lazily through the columns, leaning back on his desk for
support.
“She’s got her mother’s red hair and blue eyes.”
“Mm.”
“You’re going to like her.” A statement of fact. Petyr lifted his head at Ros’s
concern. “Don’t treat her harshly, yeah? She’s been through a lot. Too much,
one could say.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that.” Petyr tossed the newspaper aside in favor
of another sip of booze. “Can’t imagine what torture Roose Bolton would inflict
on the key to Ned Stark’s money.”
“You’d be surprised.” Ros’s frown deepened. Petyr sensed there was a darker
story ahead of him. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t be. But for a seventeen-year-old
girl with nothing left, I don't think she's doing too well. She hadn't eaten in
three days before we fed her.”
“She’s not crying, is she?” Petyr cringed at the thought. “I don’t need a teary
teenager moaning around the place.”
“Not that I've seen, but she must have been earlier. Her eyes are all red and
puffy.”
Christ. Teenagers were so emotional. He scratched his chin, feeling the
overwhelming urge for a cigarette, or something stronger. “Send her in when
she’s ready, then, and only when she’s ready. I want to speak with her. Alone.”
“Of course.” Ros nodded and left the room. Petyr felt a peculiar nervousness
wash over him. This was a gift, wasn’t it? A stroke of good luck in an unlucky
occupation. There was nothing to fear from a girl who was a shadow of her
mother’s ghost, a poor reflection of something greater. So why do I feel upset?
Petyr needed distraction. He sat at his desk and glanced through paperwork,
notes from Tyrion Lannister about the crown’s recent expenses and an update
from Olenna Tyrell on America's political season. Mayana’s going
to love this. He cracked a smile and crossed one leg over the other, burying
himself in firsthand accounts of Congress's shitfest overseas. He wasn’t
particularly interested in manipulating America, but it was amusing to watch
them fall apart. Sometimes a view from the sidelines was just as good as
pulling the strings himself.
He didn’t know how long he sat there until the door to his office clicked open.
Petyr lifted his eyes from his reading and stared at the girl who entered.
Perhaps he was right to feel nervous after all.
Sansa Stark was a vision. Long Irish hair like her mother, red as the sun with
rivers in her eyes he could drown in. Her figure was more like an hourglass
than Cat’s ever was, though she kept it hidden in a hoodie too big for
her—Olyvar’s, he assumed. Petyr watched the way she fumbled with her hands and
shifted her feet, eyes everywhere but on him directly. Ros came as a warning,
then. What minuscule heart Petyr had began to stir.
“You must be Cat’s daughter,” said Petyr calmly, rising from his chair and
straightening his suit jacket. “I can tell just by looking at you.”
The young woman smiled, though it was small and withdrawn. “And you’re Petyr
Baelish.” She met his eyes at last. The room brightened and darkened all at
once. “Your home is beautiful. I've never seen anything like it.”
“Ah, yes. Old thing. Bought it about fifteen years ago. Somehow I've managed to
keep it running.”
Sansa looked around his office, admiring the mahogany paneling and plush
carpets. It was useless to Littlefinger, just another show of wealth, but it
seemed exquisite to an easily-charmed teenager. She stepped further into the
room and turned to him. “Thank you so much, Mr. Baelish. I don’t think you know
what you’ve done for me. I would’ve died if I’d stayed out there.”
“I know.” Petyr let his face show warmth. He approached her with care, reaching
to take her hand unthreateningly in his. Her skin was soft, pale under the
light, but her nails were uneven and bitten from anxiety. “You shouldn't worry,
my dear. You’re safe with me.”
Her little sigh of relief was not missed. Petyr gestured to the sofa by the
hearth and let her sit down, watching how her knees held tight together as she
hugged her arms. This is not a girl who’s been treated well. “Would you like
some water?”
“Oh," said Sansa. "That’d be wonderful, thank you.”
Petyr took two cups and filled one with water, the other with his amber
whiskey. He had a feeling he’d need it. He crossed the room again and offered
her refreshment. Sansa thanked him, and Petyr took a seat across from her.
He watched Sansa intently. The silence was awkward, interrupted only by rain
pattering on the window. Petyr was more interested in studying her mannerisms
and physical form than engaging in conversation, for now. Sansa noticed his
wandering eyes and hugged herself tighter, shifting in her seat and taking sips
from her glass.
“I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you,” she said. “I don’t have to stay long if
you don't want me here. I was thinking about going to America with my best
friend, or maybe Ireland to my Uncle Edmure.”
“America?” Petyr scoffed. “No, no. Roose Bolton won't stop pursuing you at the
border. Besides, your uncle's a farmer and his wife is eight months pregnant.
Neither can afford to keep you there. Not with the Boltons on your heels.” He
took a long drink of whiskey and shook his head, resting the cup on his thigh.
“Cat was like a sister to me. I won’t dishonor her memory by turning you away.
You can consider this your home, Sansa. From now on.”
“Home,” she repeated. The word didn’t seem to comfort her as he hoped it would.
Petyr changed tactics and tried for the route of distraction, hoping to dig for
information as he eased her.
“I am curious how you got my name. Not many know it. Did your mother talk about
me?”
“Mhm.” Sansa placed her water on the table and leaned back. Petyr resisted the
urge to remind her to use a coaster. “I was just a little girl, probably eight
or nine. I walked into Mum’s study to ask about presents for the holiday, and
she was sending you an invitation to our Christmas party. I asked who you were.
She told me.”
“And what did she say?”
Sansa cleared her throat. “She…she said that you were her foster brother in
Ireland. My granddad was your godfather because he was war buddies with your
dad, or something. You came to live with them after your parents died. She
thought of you as a good friend.” Her eyes grew sad. “She invited you every
year to our family party, but you never came.”
Petyr’s lip twitched in a smirk. “Did she tell you why?”
“I—” Sansa shook her head. “I don’t want to bring up bad memories for you, Mr.
Baelish. I don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s alright. Many years have passed. It’s impossible to hurt me now.” Petyr
smiled and flicked perspiration from the glass off his fingers, curious enough
to continue. “What did she say?”
Sansa was hesitant, but she spoke anyway. “Mum said that Uncle Brandon stabbed
you. He almost killed you because you were defending her from him.” She
swallowed hard and looked away. “Uncle Brandon was hot-headed. He was angry
that Father was going to marry Mum. Some sort of weird love triangle, I guess.
He tried to come after her drunk one night, but you stepped in and fought him.”
Petyr watched Sansa's eyes go distant, and for a moment he thought he read pity
in them. He didn’t want her sympathy, but it was better than her fear.
“Granddad was furious and disowned you. She never saw you again.”
So, Cat, you told it true. Petyr didn’t know if he was relieved or unsettled
that Catelyn told the truth rather than the lie she’d been forced to repeat.
Littlefinger took a long drink of liquor and considered his answer. “That’s all
true. Petyr Baelish disappeared not long afterward. Remember that, Sansa; I
am Littlefinger to the eyes of the world. To anyone who matters. No one knows
my true name, save for a very small handful of others.” Another drink. Too
fast, slow down. “Ah. Well. Doesn’t matter now. The past is gone for good, all
we can do is prepare for the future.” He stood from his seat and finished his
third glass of whiskey after throwing his head back. “I have a gift for you, my
dear. One I think you might like.”
Petyr set his empty glass on his desk and pulled a small box from one of the
many drawers. The box was an old thing, dusted with time. He’d only retrieved
it an hour ago, waiting for Sansa’s arrival while trying to imagine what she
might look like. But the photos were far better off in Sansa’s hands than his.
He closed the drawer and came to her, offering his simple gift. “For you.”
Sansa didn’t understand, but Petyr was patient. She took the box and opened it.
Inside was the collection of holiday cards Cat had sent over the years, the
humble Stark family growing as the images went on. They all stood before the
same fireplace, the same Christmas tree and menorah, the same decorations. All
that changed was the family.
Sansa was silent for a long time. Littlefinger hoped she was moved by his
gesture. He wanted Sansa to feel safe with him, but more importantly, he wanted
her trust. It was much easier to manipulate someone when their heart was
involved. He put his hands in his pockets and waited for her reaction, for any
notion of gratitude or joy.
What he got instead were tears.
Sansa draped her fingertips over the most recent picture. In it, she was being
carried by her two older brothers, wearing a massive smile while the other
Stark children made odd faces at the camera. Ned and Cat stood in the center
with their arms raised in confusion. It was a humorous pose to say the least,
for those who enjoyed that sort of thing, but the memory was likely painful for
Sansa. “I didn't mean to upset you,” Petyr said.
“No, it's okay. Really.” Sansa sniffled and wiped her tears. “This is a
wonderful gift. I'll keep them forever. Thank you, Mr. Baelish. Thank you so
much.” She lifted her head and smiled at him, eyes puffy and red from whatever
crying she'd already done. She was underweight and weary, Petyr could see it in
her cheeks and blue eyes, and he had the sudden urge to undo whatever had been
done to her. Having achieved his goal, Littlefinger returned Sansa's warm
expression and opened his mouth to dismiss her.
The light caught her skin. He saw them, purple bruises on the back of her neck
in the shape of a hand.
“What are these?” Petyr reached out and brushed her hair back. Sansa gasped and
jerked away, but it was too late. He knew. Petyr didn't have to think very hard
to picture the position her bruises had come from. You'd be surprised, Ros had
said. Only now did it register.
Petyr stepped closer to Sansa, crouching down to her level to meet eye-to-eye.
The last thing he wanted was her fear. “Sansa,” he said, voice raw and stern.
“Tell me who did this to you.”
She was unresponsive. Sansa wouldn't look at him, clutching the box with her
family photos as if it would take her back to better days.
“Sansa,” he said again. “Look at me.”
She blinked. After a moment, her eyes met his.
“Who did this to you?”
“Ramsay,” she said bitterly. “Roose Bolton’s son.” Her tone was cracked and
frayed; she was trying not to cry again. “He took my food away after I wanted
to fast for Yom Kippur. I just wanted to observe the holiday, but he decided
that meant I shouldn’t eat at all.” She shuddered. “He kept me in a room with
bars on the window, and every night he'd come.”
Sansa didn't need to elaborate. Rage was uncommon for a man who kept his
emotions under lock and key, but Petyr felt it all the same. How could anyone
hurt Sansa in such a way? He'd only just met her, but she was exactly as Ros
had described. Sweet, gentle, shy. Beautiful. Ned Stark had done her a
disservice by letting her walk into the hands of beasts, willingly or no. But
there's more to the story than just this.
He sighed as Sansa sobbed again. She covered her mouth and drew her knees to
her chest, setting the box of pictures aside to hug herself. Petyr was
excellent at reading people, and what he saw in her was not unlike what he'd
seen in other victims. She looks terrified of her own body. Petyr was horrible
at caregiving, but it was clear that Sansa needed more than just Littlefinger
if she was to blossom beyond this state of terror. He just had to be careful
not to wilt the flower by tending her too much.
“Shhh, Sansa. It's alright,” said Petyr, moving cautiously to sit by her side.
Sansa melted into him when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his
chest. She was too weak to resist. It fulfilled him somehow, to feel her
weeping and clutching his shirt in the ball of her fist, as if he was the only
thing keeping her from drowning. In truth, he would be the weight that kept her
submerged, but even anchors could offer stability through the waves. He rubbed
her back in slow circles and kept gentle hold of her head. “You are safe here.
We will make them pay for what they've done to you, Sansa, and your family.” He
held her for as long as she needed, not concerned with time until she pulled
away. He wiped her tears with his thumbs and held her face. “Do you believe
me?”
Sansa nodded. “I think so.”
“Good. I have to leave tomorrow on a trip, pre-planned I'm afraid, but Olyvar
and the girls will watch over you. When I return, we can discuss this more.” He
stood from the sofa, taking the box with him and offering a hand to help her.
When she was on her feet, Petyr wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and
walked with her down the hall, up the first flight of stairs to the second
floor. He stopped outside his bedroom door and motioned to the one across from
it. “Your room,” he said. “Mine is just here, if you ever need anything. I will
fetch the others to stay with you tonight.”
“Okay,” she replied.
“They are good company. Feel free to talk with them, just don't keep me up. I
have to be at Heathrow in five hours.”
“Oh.” Sansa sniffled and wrung her hands. “I'm sorry if I kept you up, Mr.
Baelish. I didn't—”
“It's alright. Don't fret.” Petyr handed her the box of photographs and touched
her face again. “I wouldn't have taken you in if it was an inconvenience. And
please, call me Petyr.” With care, he lowered her head to press a long kiss to
her crown. The gesture seemed to comfort her and she was half-smiling when he
pulled away. “I'll see you next week.”
“Have a good trip.” Sansa held the pictures tight and offered a little wave
before entering her room, and closed the door.
Petyr's smile fell. He was furious, offended, as if the Boltons had broken
something that was rightfully his. He'd kept up-to-date on Cat's family with
the letters and cards she would send, though few and far-between, and in a way,
he felt connected to the Stark children despite the lack of contact. But Sansa
was his now. His responsibility. His niece, or daughter, or ward, or whatever
the hell one would call it on a legal document.
It didn't really matter now.
Petyr shoved open the kitchen door when he made his way downstairs. Ros, Mayana
and Olyvar were finishing the frosting on little lemon-flavored cakes, drinking
wine and laughing from some unheard joke. The moment they laid eyes on Petyr,
all the smiles died. "I told you he'd be upset," muttered Ros.
“A better warning would have been appreciated,” shot Petyr. “'You'd be
surprised,' you said. What does that tell me?”
“I didn't think you'd be that upset.” Ros straightened her back. “Was it worse
than I thought? She didn't tell me anything, I just saw the bruises when she
got out of the shower.”
“Worse. Roose's son kept her to himself, locked in a room. You can imagine what
transpired there.” Petyr ran his fingers through his hair and groaned. “He's
gone too far this time.”
“Locked in a room? Are y—no. That's fucked up.” Mayana's face twisted with a
rage he mirrored. “First with Tansy and Donella, and now Cat's kid? He's gotta
go, Pete.”
“Move the Boltons to top priority. Keep eyes on Cersei too, she's got a hand in
this somehow. I'm sure of it.” Petyr caught his phone when Olyvar tossed it to
him across the room, scrolling through his contacts to find Tyrion's number.
“Sansa needs doctor appointments tomorrow. A full examination, dental, eyes, a
physical, medication checks, mental health. Get her clothes from her tonight
and bag them for evidence. Make sure she’s comfortable. And make an appointment
with Varys, someone. I want to see him when I'm back from France.”
“Will do,” said Olyvar.
“And don't let Sansa out of your sight until I return.”
“Of course.”
Petyr pushed open the kitchen door, not bothering to close it when he left. He
trudged up the stairs and hauled himself into bed, fully dressed, knowing it
would take a miracle to clear his head and catch some sleep.
All he knew for certain was the colossal target painted on Roose Bolton's back.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                               23 OCTOBER, 2016
Distance from Sansa was the safest course. For that, Littlefinger was grateful
for France's distraction. Speaking with Margaery Tyrell was always a joy. She
stroked his ego just the way he liked, kept him informed on the United Nations
and was always open to discussing political moves in lesser countries. They had
a working relationship of sorts, deepened by Littlefinger's kept tab on the
favors she owed him. But not even the Tyrell girl or Paris could take his mind
off of Sansa and the predicament Petyr had found her in.
A week after Sansa's daring escape, Roose Bolton put out a missing person's
report. Petyr laughed when he got the message from Varys after landing back in
London.
Got anything to do with this? - V
In the report, Roose had labeled Sansa as his "beloved goddaughter" he'd
adopted from his "late friend" Lord Stark. What a joke. Littlefinger stood on
the escalator stairs, replying to Varys one-handed while the other held his
luggage.
Roose is a cunt. Sell your stock in Bolton Corp while you can.
Petyr slipped his phone in his pocket and looked up when he reached the main
floor. Olyvar was standing in a line of people, cab drivers and friends of
passengers holding signs to locate people of interest. Olyvar rushed over to
him on sight, wearing a ridiculously bright sweater that stung his eyes.
“You stick out,” said Petyr.
“I like attracting attention.” Olyvar handed him a file that Petyr took in
exchange for his luggage. Petyr started walking before Olyvar was ready and
skimmed through the printed paperwork, a collection of information on Roose
Bolton's recent purchases and business deals.
“Boring,” mumbled Petyr, making his way across the airport. “Nothing to suggest
he's expecting Sansa's inheritance any time soon. That's a good sign, at
least.”
“Must be,” panted Olyvar, having finally caught up. Petyr was amused by his
exhaustion. “How much is in that fortune, anyway?”
“Well over six-figures. Millions, I think, perhaps more. I wouldn't put it past
the Starks to live modestly while hoarding all their riches for their children
to live off of.”
“The news has been saying it's one of the largest inheritances of the decade.”
“And they're probably right.” Petyr stepped through the sliding glass doors and
out into the parking lot, spotting Olyvar's Lexus from a distance. He huffed in
disappointment. “I can't believe you left that thing unattended. Someone's
dying to break into it. I don't let you have money so you can have your things
stolen.”
“No. You let me have money because I work for you, and you're not a complete
dick.”
Petyr closed the files and tucked them under his arm. “You shouldn't say that.
People might actually believe you.”
The two men crossed the parking lot to Olyvar’s silver car, beautiful and brand
new. Petyr took the passenger seat as Olyvar placed his luggage in the trunk.
He read through the paperwork again and ignored his companion turning the
engine over, as well as the dull sounds of popular songs on the radio. Petyr
became absorbed in his reading. Roose Bolton's finances were irritatingly well-
run overall. Barbrey does her job well. Olyvar pointed to the file after
pulling out onto the main road. “Page 37,” he said. “Mayana said there's
something you'd like there.”
“37,” Petyr repeated. He flipped the pages and stopped when he reached the
right one. “It's a fucking penis,” he scoffed. “Walder Frey's face with a giant
dick drawn on top of it. Does that girl have any maturity? Why do I let her in
my house?”
Olyvar burst into laughter, changing lanes with a glance out the window. “No,
no! Under that. Fuck, I forgot all about the dick she drew. Oh my god.”
I'm in my forties and I choose children for company. Petyr shook his head and
read the handwritten caption underneath Walder Frey's vulgar face.
Petyr flipped the page. At the top was a photo of Roose Bolton shaking hands
with Walder, handing him a package in a hidden alley.
“Oh,” said Petyr, quite pleased. “This is interesting.”
“What is?”
Petyr skimmed the next few pages to see more pictures of a shady back-alley
meeting, along with a follow-up from Ros on a rather large deposit to Frey's
personal bank account. “Walder Frey is doing business with Roose.”
“Frey's a member of the cabinet,” said Olyvar. “Transport, right? Secretary of
State?”
“Unfortunately, thanks to Tywin Lannister.” Petyr closed the file and scratched
his chin. “I wonder what our friend is doing with a walking corpse like Walder
Frey.”
“Robb Stark was supposed to marry his daughter.”
“He was.” Petyr narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps he was angry for being slighted
over the loss of potential partnership with the Starks. Turned to the Boltons
and/or Lannisters for help. Offs Ned, kills Cat and her sons, burns down their
home and scatters all the rest. Makes sure the missing daughter is never
found."
“And he gets a cut of the fortune when the Boltons take it from Sansa.”
“Right.” Petyr chuckled. “It would be clever, really, if I wasn’t so much
better at finding secrets than others are at keeping them.”
“This could go deeper than we thought.” Olyvar turned to Petyr when he reached
a stoplight. “Sansa is the last Stark to be seen alive, but she's not eighteen
yet. Legally, she can't claim anything until she's an adult. Someone else has
to be in on it. If the cabinet is tainted...”
“She's older than her years, I assure you. But you're right. I think Roose
planned to force Sansa to marry Ramsay, gaining her inheritance through him.”
“Forced marriage.” Olyvar sighed in disgust. “It's the 21st century. How could
someone do a thing like that?”
“There are many ways. We simply have to find out which one it is, and who
benefited from it.”
Petyr fell silent after that. His mind was swimming with possibilities, but
nothing could come to the surface without evidence. Until then, he would wait.
Watch. Plan, and do what he did best.
The sight of home was a welcome one. Petyr had always been fond of the
Cotswolds manor he'd purchased on Jon Arryn's dime, with its A-lined roofs and
growing wisteria. Petyr exited the car when Olyvar finished parking and walked
over to his side.
“Give this back to the girls,” said Petyr, handing Olyvar the file. “Tell
Mayana to stop drawing dicks on things. Repeat to them what I said in the car,
and find out what's in the package Roose gave Walder. I expect a full report on
Frey and Lannister interactions within the past three months. I want to know if
Tywin took a shit and Walder smelled it. Is that clear?”
“As crystal.” Olyvar heaved Petyr's luggage out of the trunk. Petyr stopped him
to retrieve a black box from inside, glad to see his priceless gift wasn't
damaged during the flight. Olyvar laughed wickedly when he read the box's
label. “Are you joking? You got her that and you couldn't pick up something for
me?”
“Buy one yourself. I'm your employer, not your lover.”
“You're not her lover, either.”
Petyr smirked, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lifting it to his lips.
“Not yet.” He left Olyvar with that wonderful thought, lighting his tobacco and
breathing in. He paced the outer perimeter of the grounds to bring Sansa what
he'd bought for her, and to see how his recent acquisition fared.
He found her in the back gardens, on a chair swing under the willow tree. Petyr
kept her present tucked under one arm and his cigarette in his other hand as he
approached her. She was writing something down in a book, concentrating rather
heavily. She only noticed him when he came close enough. Upon realizing she
wasn't alone, Sansa smiled and scooted over to make room for him.
“I didn't mean to disturb you,” said Petyr, sitting down by her invitation. She
looked so much healthier than she had before, gaining weight in her face and
losing it on her heart. “You weren't in the middle of something, I hope?”
“No, it's alright. I was almost done anyway.” Sansa closed her book and rested
her hands in her lap. “How was France?”
“Wonderful, as always. I accomplished things there that had been in the works
for months.” He smiled and took a drag of tobacco, blowing smoke into the
breeze. “It's a good feeling, when bad business pays off.”
Sansa nodded. It was clear she didn’t fully understand, but that was fine.
There was time to teach her. From under his arm, Petyr pulled the wrapped box
and handed it to her with a smile. “I picked this up on my way out of Paris. I
thought to send you a picture for approval, but not until after I'd bought it.
Impulsive purchase, I'm afraid.”
“For me?” Sansa eyed the box with wide eyes, reading the label as Olyvar had.
“But—but that's a Dior box. The Dior. Like, the fashion designer.”
“I'd hope so. I paid a small fortune for it.”
Sansa looked flustered. “Mr. Baelish—”
“Petyr.”
She took a breath. “Are you sure? That's—I've never had something so expensive
before. I hope you don't think I need it.”
“Need? No. Hopefully Ros took care of those things.” Petyr eyed her fondly. “I
never had children, Sansa, never found the right person to settle down with. I
hope it makes sense if I want to spoil you a little.” He pushed the box to her.
“Go on. Open it. Tell me if you like what you see.”
Sansa was wary, but she eventually broke into a smile. Petyr returned it. Even
if she hated the gift, her expression made it all worthwhile.
When Sansa removed the lid from the box, she gasped. The dress was neutral gray
and above-the-knee, long sleeves hidden beneath a flowery lace pattern that
hugged the wrists. It flared at the hips, making a skirt of flowing satin, and
zippered down the back beneath patterned silk. Petyr had seen the dress in a
window and pictured Sansa wearing it, trusting his guess on her measurements
and confirming with a simple text to Ros. The price tag was never an issue.
Only Sansa's satisfaction with it.
“It's beautiful,” Sansa whispered. “Wow. Real Dior.”
“I heard you liked things a bit on the modest side, so the sleeves will suit
you well. Especially with the coming winter.” He watched her match the
shoulders of the dress to her own, imagining how it would look on her. “You'll
have to try it on for me sometime.”
“This...thank you. I can't—I don't even know what to say.” Sansa was smiling,
which was the outcome Petyr had hoped for, but there was hesitation in her
acceptance as well. He couldn't blame her. Others had showered her in luxury
before, only to show her the back of their hand later on. Petyr would offer no
such cruelty. He chased thoughts of her pain away with another intake of
nicotine and a gentle touch on her cheek.
“You're welcome, Sansa. I hope to see you smile like this more often.” Petyr
removed his hand from her. “What were you reading?”
“O-Oh. Just...you know. Something important.” Sansa neatly folded the dress and
tucked it back in the box, pulling the book out from underneath. Petyr read the
title: Recovery After Rape.He frowned when he looked at her, but there wasn't
as much sadness in her eyes as there had been before. I underestimated her
strength considerably. “Ros and Olyvar suggested it to me. They've helped a
lot. Every day we talk about it. How to, you know, work through it. What
happened to me.” She curled her hair behind her ear, a gesture of anxiety. “The
book is really good so far. All three of your friends have been so helpful.”
“I expect nothing less,” Petyr replied. “I asked them to help you. I'm glad
they're doing so. Olyvar always jumps at the chance to put his psychology
degree to use, anyway.” Petyr didn't divulge the fact that he'd bought Recovery
After Rape in the first place, and read it long ago. “You seem like you're
doing much better. Is there anything immediate I can do to help you get
settled? Besides a phone, of course. And a laptop as well, I expect you'll be
wanting one.”
“Not that I can think of.” Sansa toyed with her nails, picking at the jagged
edges. “Really, you don't have to spend so much on me. I don't want to feel
like a burden.”
“You're not a burden, my dear. Trust me. If you were, you wouldn't be here at
all.”
When the silence became unbearable, Petyr rose from the chair swing and dropped
his dying cigarette on the cement. He stamped it out with his shoe. “Come
inside whenever you're finished, Sansa. I expect Ros will have dinner ready
soon.” He turned to leave, content with how his little gamble had played out.
It’s only a matter of time.
“Petyr, wait.”
He paused. The use of his name summoned pride, and Petyr faced Sansa again with
an unhidden smirk. “Yes, my dear?”
“There is one thing. Something you could do.” Sansa stood up and made her way
to him, standing at equal height.
“And what is that?”
“You mentioned making the Boltons pay for what they did.” Sansa looked at him,
too shy to ask directly, but Petyr knew her meaning. “I want them to. I don't
want Ramsay to hurt anyone else and if I can put him behind bars, I should at
least try.”
“Bars?” Petyr scoffed. Her look of defeat told him that she thought he was
mocking her. “No. Ramsay will never sit behind bars, sweet Sansa, nor will his
father. That's not what I meant by 'make them pay.'”
“How do we do it, then?”
Oh, you will learn. He stepped forward and closed the distance between them,
lightly brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. Sansa’s eyes
surrendered to him. Her breath shook with how close they were, and perhaps she
was nervous, but Petyr had her right where he wanted her. Still too soon to
push his luck, he took a strand of her auburn hair between his fingers and
smiled.
"We kill them.”
Chapter End Notes
     I should just title this "AU where Petyr is a swag sugar daddy" tbh
     You'll notice that Petyr might seem a bit...different, but I think
     that's because I insist he has friends in a modern AU. Team Baelish
     is an absolutely FABULOUS group of people and I love them to pieces.
     Ultimate #SquadGoals. And while I know it might divert from canon a
     bit, it's impossible for Petyr to have an operation as big as his
     without buddies to help him run it. I understand if a less chaotic-
     evil Baelish isn't your cup of tea though, so if you're deciding to
     hop off the train here, I'll miss you! :') Chaotic neutral Pete is so
     swag and I love him and I can't wait to write him more. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
     If you want some visual aid for Petyr's house, Google up "Buckland
     Manor". It's a luxury house-hotel about 2 hours from London, but I'm
     stealing it for this fic because it's too beautiful and I want it. So
     there.
     The book Sansa is reading, Resurrection After Rape, is a real book
     that has helped me in my own journey to healing. The authors have a
     download_link to read it for free, for those of my readers who might
     be seeking help, or you can purchase it and support them. :) it's a
     wonderful book. (I should get paid for this lmao)
     Also, here's_a_link to read up about Yom Kippur if you're interested!
     I hope you like this chapter ahhhh, your love for this story has
     given me LIFE. LIFE, MY CHILDREN. I'm stoked to show you how this
     little tale will unfold. Ugh you guys are just so great I can't even
     See you next Saturday! Hint: Petyr and Sansa don't make an
     appearance. Who's the next POV? hmmmMmmMMMmm
***** Sanguine Smile *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
     [paint_it_black;_the_rolling_stones] ◆ [me,_myself_&_i;_g-eazy,_bebe
                     rexha] ◆ [winterfell;_ramin_djawadi]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               31 OCTOBER, 2016
No One could hear them breathing. Ragged sounds, heavy. If she closed her eyes
and tuned out the intoxicated crowd, there were only her opponents and her, the
prey and the wolf. They weren't quiet breathers, either. Great brutes with
rippling muscles and jaws like steel. Eyes held shut, No One clenched her
fists. She’d come too far to lose to men like them. When the cage door closed
and locked, a hungry audience began to cry for blood. She would give them what
they came for.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted the announcer, her voice booming over heavy
metal from the loudspeaker. “Welcome to the House of Black and White!” 
Stupid Waif. No One didn’t want to listen. She ignored the hype over the coming
fight, a showdown to conclude a week-long tournament for a champion’s prize
that could set her free. She kept her inner monologue running, her mantra, the
motto she’d kept close to her heart. Calm as still water, she could hear Syrio
say. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow.
No One opened her eyes. The Mountain’s Men glared at her as if she were the
sheep instead of the predator, but she knew better. The House of Black and
White was her territory. They were the strangers, the intruders, and she didn’t
take kindly to them.
“What are your names?” called No One across the cage.
The three men looked to each other and laughed. The tallest one, sporting a
massive beard she made a note to grab, stepped forward to the middle of the
ring and cracked his tattooed knuckles. “You think you're gonna win? Ten
thousand quid goes to the champion. I ain't givin' that up to some skinny
bitch.”
“Fine. I'll just give you your own names, then.” No One observed her opponents’
features, picking out the notable ones. “Smelly, Fat and Beard-o. I think those
fit well enough.”
“Watch your mouth,” spat Smelly, “or I'll come fuck it when we're done with
you.”
“Not me,” said Arya Stark. “Not today.”
The bell rang.
She dodged Smelly's first lunge. Arya rolled under his fist and slammed her
foot against Fat's ribs, too quick for him to retaliate. He stumbled backwards
and hit the cage wall, dazed and confused at having been pushed by a girl half
his size.
“Come on, that's hardly a fight!” Arya taunted. She skipped around the edge of
the ring, gliding her fingertips along the bars to rally the drunken crowd.
Foul smells of drugs and sweat didn’t faze her anymore. “No One!”they chanted
in unison. “No One! No One!" 
Fat was getting frustrated. He and Beard-o tag-teamed Arya and flanked her from
either side. She leapt forward and dodged their fists. Smelly recovered and
tried to surprise Arya from behind, but she was too fast, too wild. The next
strike met open air. Arya grabbed Smelly's wrist, breaking it over her
shoulder. She climbed him like an animal and snatched his chin and head in her
hands, yanking them backwards until he fell to the ground. A precise slam of
her elbow to his sternum brought a crack she heard over the crowd. One, out.
Fat's weight could be used against him. He came at her and Arya rolled away,
pushing herself up and kicking his jaw before he could strike. An elbow to the
pressure point on the neck followed by a knee to the face was enough to send
Fat reeling, lying beside his friend as blood gushed from his nose. Two, out.
Arya turned to find Beard-o. Where is he? She turned again, realizing her error
when he caught her in a chokehold. His grip was strong and cut off her windpipe
in seconds.
“Think you can outsmart me, skinny bitch?” he growled. “Think we haven’t taken
out rats like you before?”
Cocky jerk. Arya paid for her mistake with fading consciousness, but before she
blacked out Arya reached back to dig her nails in his beard. She yanked out a
handful of hair and left him screaming.
Beard-o’s hold on her broke. Arya collapsed to the ground and gasped for
breath. She clutched her throat, trying to rush her body into recovery, but his
boot met her side and she cried out. He punched her jaw and made her vision
stutter. Once. Twice. One more blow and I'm dead.Arya was a little thing, and
compared to a man of Beard-o's size she was an ant beneath the foot of a giant.
But under such odds, her determination surged.
Arya rolled away from the third strike. She wrapped her legs around Beard-o’s
shoulder and neck, tightening him in a triangle between her thighs and holding
her shin to choke him. He was strong, so strong that Arya felt her muscles
stretch beyond their limits just to keep him held. She screamed to the cage
ceiling. Money means Jon, she thought in agony. Money means Sansa. Money means
home.
Beard-o slowly fell limp. Arya released him and struggled to rise to her feet,
clutching her ribs, barely able to see through her swollen left eye. But she'd
won. The crowd cheered her name. “No One! No One!” The Waif grabbed her arm and
raised it in the air, a motion of triumph, but all Arya wanted was her pay and
her family. She lifted her eyes to the upper booth to see Jaqen smiling down at
her with approval.
She knew she was almost there.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Arya hovered over the kitchen sink, spitting red down the drain. Split lip, she
thought. Black eye. Bruised ribs. And my jaw's all messed up. Arya cupped water
in her hands and splashed it on her aching face, wincing, but it was nothing a
little Tylenol couldn't help. She looked in the mirror and saw a stranger
looking back. A stranger's name was once Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Chief
Justice Eddard Stark, but now she wasn't sure, having lost herself so many
times that it was hard to find where the pieces had fallen.
“It was a rough fight,” said a voice from behind her. Arya knew Jaqen had been
there, watching, but she didn't care. She took a washcloth and the glass of
rubbing alcohol he offered. “No One almost lost.”
“I didn't, though.” She dipped the rag in the clear liquid and brought it to
her bleeding temple, hissing at the sting. “Where's my money? I won it fair and
square.”
“A man gets half.”
“Half?” Arya spat. “No! That's bullshit. I worked for this. You're not taking
half.”
“What does a girl need ten-thousand pounds for?” Jaqen took a seat at the table
and leaned back, expression neutral. He reeked of weed and women. “She is
homeless. She has nothing.”
“I don’t have nothing. And I’m not homeless.” No, Arya knew better. Just
because she lived under a bridge didn't mean she was without a home. “I'm just…
stuck. That's all.”
Jaqen sighed, folding his hands in his lap. “No One makes my life difficult.”
Arya crawled up on the counter to sit, dipping the rag back in the alcohol. It
turned red with her blood. “I never signed that stupid contract. I can leave
whenever I want, and I want to go now.” Her voice was stern where Jaqen was
passive. “Give me what's mine. Then you don't have to deal with ‘difficult’ No
One anymore.”
She watched him sit there, hesitating as if he wasn't rich enough to afford
whatever he lost by giving Arya the full ten. What did he need it for, anyway?
He made enough from his drugs to keep happy. Arya crinkled her nose and
prepared to fight for her winnings, but Jaqen submitted and reached his hand
into his jacket pocket. “I keep thirty percent.”
“Five.”
“Twenty.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen,” they both said together. Jaqen’s smile told Arya that he approved.
He counted out his share and tossed the rest to her, and she caught it one-
handed.
“Where will a girl go?” Jaqen pulled a blunt from his other pocket, along with
a lighter in the shape of a naked woman. “No One has been here for months,
fighting in the cage. She has many fans.”
“I never wanted that.” Arya skimmed through the cash and counted it in her
head, grinning when the number came out right. She set down the alcohol and
walked over to her backpack, securing the money in the menstrual pads she'd
made into a wallet to keep thieves from stealing. The smell of marijuana filled
the room and Arya coughed, trying to wave it away. “I'll go where I have to,
when I have to. Why do you care?”
“You bring in money.” Smoke passed from his lips with every word. “It is a
shame to let a girl of such value walk away.”
“Yeah. It is.” Arya took gauze from the countertops, some Neosporin and other
first-aid things. Antibiotics, rubbing alcohol, ibuprofen and cotton pads. Just
in case. Jaqen didn’t seem to mind her thievery—he owed her quite a lot—and
Arya didn’t plan on coming back, not ever. When her backpack was full and
zipped, she slung it over her shoulder and looked at him across the room.
“Goodbye, Jaqen. Thanks for helping me.”
Arya had made her intentions clear. Jaqen seemed to understand, and gave her a
nod of respect as she left.
The moment Arya closed Jaqen’s door, she heaved a great sigh of relief. It’s
over now. It’s done. Leaving him and the cages behind was a victory all its
own.
Arya carefully descended the steps and walked into the autumn night. She knew
the safest route back to her bridge, having trekked there countless times in
the months of her disappearance. She remembered little of how she got there,
from the fatal car crash to a small community of homeless families living
beneath the motorway. Arya was nothing if not grateful. She’d healed under
Yoren’s care and put her skills to use in the cages, but now she could leave it
all behind and focus on the goals that kept her breathing. Jon. Sansa.
Home. She said it every night before she went to sleep, her little list of
reasons to stay alive. Jon. Sansa. Home. Jon. Sansa. Home. And as much as she
loved Jon and butted heads with Sansa, home could never be real again without
both of them.
Arya pulled her hood over her head, pushing the button on the crosswalk with a
closed fist. Walking was a struggle when all she wanted to do was sleep. Arya
was never a philosophical girl, but she was beginning to understand what her
father meant when he’d talk about feeling older than his years. She was only
fifteen, not even an adult, but already she felt half-buried in an early grave.
Loneliness was hard to bear. Sansa was missing, Arya had heard about it on the
news walking by an electronics store off 5th Ave, and Jon had deserted the
Night's Watch months ago. She’d heard that, too. I could be the only one left. 
No. She couldn't go to that place, the sad place. Arya trudged further through
the city slums and kept to herself, pushing thoughts of her family as far away
as she could while still keeping them close to her heart.
“Cat!” shouted a blonde-haired boy when he saw her across the street. He waved
his dirty arms wildly to get her attention, and she waved back. “Cat, come
quick! Yoren's got chicken!”
“Chicken?” I couldn't have heard that right. Arya waited for the signal before
she crossed the street, climbing over the crosswire fence despite the pain. She
landed on her feet. Lommy was there to greet her. He said nothing about her
face; it wasn’t the first time she’d returned to the bridge looking like hell.
People were used to it.
“He just took them chickens,” panted Lommy. “Snatched ‘em. We were gonna give
‘em to the father and daughter ‘round the corner, because she’s starvin’ an’
all, but they weren’t there. So we get to keep ‘em!”
“I don’t believe you.” But Arya smiled, as much as she could with a split lip.
“Chicken? Really?”
“Come on, see for yourself!”
Lommy grabbed her arm and rushed to their makeshift home. A small collection of
mattresses, barrel fires and sleeping bags were lined in a row beneath the
highway bridge near an entrance to the sewer tunnels. Arya dropped her backpack
near her bed and darted over to where Yoren proudly sat. He was grinning
devilishly. Three pre-cooked, plastic-wrapped rotisserie chickens were in his
lap, smelling fresh of spice and marinade. Arya felt her mouth water.
"I stole ‘em,” said Yoren with a shrug. “Took three a'the fuckers n' ran out.”
His laughter was strong, sounding every year of his old age, but he was a
kindly man who looked after the orphans. Frank yet simple, he told the truth of
every matter and everyone loved him for it. “Do you think they’ll miss ‘em?
Shit their pants if they found out these chickens filled the bellies of
homeless lads.”
“I bet.”
Yoren looked at Arya when she spoke. His smile soured. She’d forgotten about
her face. He didn’t say anything when he turned to the others, but she read the
concern in him and knew he’d want an explanation. “Get in line, you hungry
twerps. I’ll dish it out equally.”
I should wait until everyone’s eaten first. Arya shivered as she made her way
to a barrel fire and held out her hands for warmth. November was around the
corner, and with it the promise of a frigid winter. Father would want me to
stay warm. Winter is coming, he always said. She rubbed her hands together,
eager to relax now that cage-fighting and Jaqen and drug addicts were things of
the past. The wheels in her head began to turn in search of a next move. She’d
intended to keep thinking, too, if Hot Pie hadn’t interrupted her. He
approached her with wide eyes and a small finger pointed at her face.
“Blimey,” said the fat boy. “What happened to you?”
“Another fight.”
“Did you win?”
“Yep.” Proving her point, and getting enjoyment out of frightening him, Arya
spat blood into the fire.
“Wow. That’s… impressive,” muttered Hot Pie. He stared at her for a few moments
before moving away slowly, as if she were a viper that would strike at any
time. Arya couldn’t resist a laugh. Idiot.
When Hot Pie finally left, Arya pulled up a metal folding chair and sat down,
withholding groans so no one would know the extent of her injuries. Cold winds
rushed through the camp. She shuddered, leaning over to pull her only blanket
around her shoulders. Jon. Sansa. Home. She was so close. If only her wounds
could heal in seconds like the heroes’ of Rickon’s comic books, if only she
could fly and find her family with nothing but her super senses. So much could
have been avoided…
“Alright, girl. Time to clean you up.” Arya was startled when Yoren came to
her, offering a paper plate of stolen chicken. Worry was written in his frown.
“You been at those cages again?”
“Yeah.” She wouldn’t deny it. “But I won. I’m leaving soon.”
“With a black eye?”
“My family can’t wait.” Arya took the food and lifted it to her mouth, letting
her eyes flutter closed as the taste of seasoned meat melted on her tongue.
“Mmm. This is good. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Yoren pulled up his own chair, glancing over to the group
of children to ensure they were out of earshot. “You’re fed, but you’re not
well. You can’t find yer sister an’ brother when you can’t even walk straight.
Don’t be stupid, girl. I didn’t pull you from that wreck just to have you die.”
Arya swallowed and sighed. She owed him her life, or what little was left of
it. As much as she wanted to yell at Yoren and proclaim her independence, she
knew better than to turn down sound advice from a man who’d proven his wisdom
before. “It’s not that bad,” said Arya. “I’ll be okay in a few days.”
“Not if you don’t get properly patched up.” Yoren gestured to her backpack with
his chin. “Bring me some a’those things you’ve got there. I can make sure
you’re put back together right, at least, before you leave us.”
Arya couldn’t afford to refuse him. She set her plate on her chair and
retrieved some of the first aid supplies from her backpack for Yoren to use.
She kept eating while he disinfected the cut on her jaw, dabbed ointment on her
black eye and wrapped her ribs over her shirt. He was a good man and wouldn’t
ask her to remove her clothing. Arya knew that Yoren was skilled at caring for
wounds, too. He’d been in the Night’s Watch, just like Jon. Perhaps that was
why she trusted him. When Yoren was finished, Arya thanked him and ate the last
of her chicken, feeling satisfied and full, and tossed her paper plate into the
fire to burn.
She was too exhausted to stay up for long. Arya settled down in her sleeping
bag on a mattress thinner than she was, getting cozy with her head on a pillow
made of bundled clothes. She pulled out her journal from her bag and clicked
the pen, writing the date on a fresh page to finish her nightly ritual. She
began a new entry.
Arya returned her journal to her backpack and shoved it between her mattress
and the concrete wall. Routine goodnights passed through the camp, and with the
help of painkillers and the warmth of the nearby fire, Arya fell quickly to
sleep.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
She was wild in her dreams. Running, racing. The wind in her fur, the smell of
pine trees lingering in the frosty air. She darted across the snow-coated
ground in pursuit of a most dangerous prey. He held a cigarette in his hand and
blew smoke into the breeze. She could smell the mint. She couldn’t see his face
or hear him when he moved, but he stepped away, and she was inclined to follow.
She could see only fractures of him between the trees, a coat whipping in the
wind or the smog of his breath. Gray streaks of hair at his temples. He wasn’t
very tall, maybe as tall as a sister she had in another life, but he was far
more menacing. She had learned to gauge evil in a man, and she saw it in him,
undeniable as the grass and branches beneath her feet. She lowered herself to
the ground, hind legs flexed as she prepared to lunge on his back and sink her
teeth into his open throat.
“Cat! Cat, wake up!”
The stranger heard the voice. He dropped his cigarette and ran. She wanted to
follow him, to snarl at whoever had frightened her prey, but the voice
insisted. The howling in the distance was not her own. Barking and shouting
made her tail drop, and her ears fell back, and the forest around her was
swallowed in darkness.
Hot Pie was shaking her awake. “Cat, get up, get up!”
Arya snatched a flashlight from beside her and crawled out of her sleeping bag,
rubbing her sleepy eyes. Her whole body was sore. “Hot Pie, shut up. What’s
wrong?”
“W-Wolf,” he moaned. His eyes were wide with terror. “From the sewers.”
“From the—” She groaned. “Hot Pie, there’s not a bloody wolf. Go back to
sleep.”
“No, it was there! I saw it, Cat, I swear I did!”
“You’re mental. See?” Arya shined her flashlight toward the maintenance tunnel.
“Open your eyes, idiot. There’s nothing there but a…”
Nothing but a Ghost.
The snow-white German Shepherd was no dream. He bounded toward her and yelped
endlessly, stirring everyone in camp. Ghost knocked Arya backwards with giant
paws on her chest. “Ghost!” Arya shouted in surprise. “What’s wrong, boy? What
are you—” Arya struggled to free herself from the canine’s weight, but when she
stood, Ghost darted toward the maintenance tunnel and whined.
She knew.
Only one person could have brought Ghost here.
Jon.
Arya tore off before Hot Pie could pull her back, pain forgotten. She rounded
the corner of the tunnel and raced down the main stretch after Ghost, following
his cries until he stopped at a junction. Arya froze to a halt. She heard human
groans from the adjacent walkway. Hope bloomed in her chest, and for once in
her short life, it was rewarded.
Jon Stark sat wearily against the wall, bleeding. He looked up when he saw her
standing there, trembling with two hands on her flashlight. “Arya…?”
“Jon!” Arya cried. She ran to her brother, falling to her knees with her arms
around his neck. Jon held her tight as a bear, tight as he could. Arya could
hear his shaking breath and knew he was crying too. She didn’t care if his
blood stained her clothes or her face. He was here. He was real. Six months of
no one, and Jon had come back to her.
He moaned in agony when Arya pulled away. She shined the light on his wounds: a
bullet in the shoulder, a split lip like hers. “What happened? Why are you
here, aren’t you supposed to be in Afghanistan?”
“Not anymore.” Even though Jon was bleeding, all he did was smile. His hand
came up and mussed her hair. “I’m not already dead, am I?”
“No, stupid.” Her tear-stained cheeks hurt from smiling. “You’re not dead and
you’re not gonna be.”
“That’s good.” Jon clutched his shoulder with a bloody hand. “That’s really
good.”
“Come on, I know someone who can help you.” Arya hooked one arm around Jon’s
body for support, but she was much smaller than him and could barely help him
on his feet. Somehow, the siblings managed. Jon walked with difficulty, but
like the soldier he was, he trudged on. Arya kept him close. Her bones ached
and her muscles cried, but all that mattered was her brother’s survival.
He was all she had left.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                               1 NOVEMBER, 2016
Jon didn’t fight when Yoren tended to him. Arya stayed by his side, helping him
bite down on a rag as Yoren removed the bullet from his shoulder. After the
wound had been patched and cleaned, Jon fell asleep. Arya remained with him all
the while.
She’d stopped sitting obsessively at his side when afternoon came and her
stomach growled. Arya would have to fend for herself and Jon for the time
being, but luckily for her, a nearby store had what she needed. Roast
beef, she’d thought. Jon will like that. She’d even found Kosher dog food for
Ghost, ignoring the price when she’d stuffed it in her little bag. As much as
it frustrated her to steal to get by, the big corporations could afford to lose
some sandwiches and food for a half-starved dog. Mum would do whatever it took
to take care of us, thought Arya. I can too.
Ghost was more than happy to eat something he recognized. Arya didn’t know what
they’d fed him in Afghanistan or wherever else he’d been, but his tail wagged
so hard at the sight of dog food that Arya thought it might snap off. She
scratched his ear and told him he was a good boy while he ate. Arya returned to
her spot by Jon’s side, unwrapping her sandwich and waiting for him to wake up.
He looks so different, she noticed. Jon’s cheeks weren’t as full as they used
to be, his beard and hair grown out longer than he’d ever kept it before. Scars
adorned his face from battles unknown and his shoulders were broader with
training and muscle. She wondered what Afghanistan was like. The Wall was said
to be the strongest military base in the Middle East, and she felt sure that
American soldiers would treat men of the Night’s Watch with respect… So why did
you run? Arya wanted answers almost as much as she wanted to hear his voice.
She took another bite of her lunch and brought her knees to her chest,
troubled.
“How is he?” Yoren asked when he approached. Arya offered a small shrug,
swallowing the bite in her mouth. Yoren crouched on his heels beside Jon. He
carefully removed the gauze from his wound, examining it with a pensive nod.
“Looks clean. Doesn’t smell. No signs of infection yet. Just make sure to keep
givin’ ‘im those antibiotics you got.”
“I will.” Arya set her half-eaten sandwich aside and rested her chin on her
knees. “I just want him to wake up.”
“Soon. Let him rest. Boy’s been through a lot, I can tell.” Yoren refastened
the bandage. “I know what it’s like when the Night’s Watch hunts ya. It’ll be
years before they let ‘im go.”
Arya believed him. Yoren had deserted during the war in Vietnam, and the
Night’s Watch had chased him for decades. “But we weren’t in that war,” Arya
had protested when Yoren told her where he’d served. “No, we weren’t,” he’d
sadly replied. “Not officially.” Arya kept her eyes on Jon, wondering what he
must have seen that made him forget the honor he’d valued so much.
“I’ll give you some time.” Yoren stood, placing a reassuring hand on Arya’s
shoulder before leaving her be. She could hear him rounding up the camp and
telling them something about Jon being the victim of a mugging—not a bad lie,
old man—and instructing everyone to leave the siblings alone. A smile crossed
her lips. I should have given him my sandwich.
Hours passed. Arya spent her time petting Ghost, trying to eat and organizing
her things for the long road ahead. A tourist’s map of London was draped across
her lap and a Sharpie caught between her teeth as she pointed out a few motels
she and Jon could stay in. Most of them were on the outskirts of the city, away
from wandering eyes and anyone who might be looking for him. She circled a few
with her pen and fingered through a guide to check their nightly rates when she
heard her brother stir. His eyes opened. Arya was on alert in an instant.
“Arya,” groaned Jon. There were tears in his eyes, and she knew if she looked
at him much longer, she’d cry too. “Is that really you?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
Jon’s smile was wide. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too.” She took his hand in hers so he wouldn’t slip away. Her map
was temporarily forgotten. “How do you feel?”
“Better. It hurts, but it’s better.” Jon yawned and lolled his head to the
side. Ghost perked his ears when he heard Jon speak, and he reached with his
good arm to pet his faithful friend. “Hungry though. Ghost needs to eat too.”
“I already fed him. I got some of that Kosher dog food Father used to buy.”
Arya held up the can to show him. “I got you a sandwich, too. Roast beef. Your
favorite.”
Jon grinned and thanked her. He tried to push himself up, but the pain was too
excruciating and Arya watched his face twist in agony. She let go of his hand
to help him, propping up some pillows so he could rest, and offered Jon the
sandwich she’d stolen. Ghost curled up at her side. Maybe he knows how afraid I
am.
“So,” said Jon, looking at Arya as she scratched Ghost behind the ear. “Is this
what you’ve been doin’? Sleepin’ under a bridge?”
“Mostly,” said Arya. “I did some fighting. Remember Syrio, my Jujitsu teacher?
I used what I learned from him and fought in cages to make money.”
Jon frowned. “Cage fightin’? That’s dangerous.”
“Yeah. But I won.” Arya shrugged. “I won a lot.”
“How much?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Arya knew none of the others could hear her, but
just in case, she whispered her answer in Hebrew.
Jon’s eyes grew wide. “Ten thousand? Here?”
“Shh! Don’t say it so loud. No one can know.”
Jon rested back on the pillows, mouth agape. “Jesus, Arya. Who’d you kill?”
“I didn’t kill anyone! I just…beat them up a little.”
Jon was worried. Arya could see it in his eyes, but after a moment of silence,
brother and sister broke into quiet laughter. Arya retrieved her map and
scooted closer to Jon to show him.
“We could stay in a motel until we find Sansa,” she said, just to Jon. “There’s
a cheap place east of here. Or we could just look around when we get there if
the motel looks shoddy. I’m pretty sure you lost the people who shot you. We
should be alright.”
Jon shook his head. “Arya—”
“Sansa’s been missing for two weeks, Jon. She was with the Boltons before that.
She could be hurt.”
“I know.” Jon winced, though from the pain or the subject matter, she wasn’t
sure. “When I was in Paris, I met someone who helped me get back into the
country. She told me about Sansa. It was all over the news, anyway.”
“We’ve got to find her, Jon. I know she’s out there.”
“Yeah. I agree. She’s a fighter like you.” Jon squeezed her hand, his smile no
less forlorn. “We’ll find somewhere to stay and keep an ear out for Sansa, and
when I’m better, we’ll start looking. Promise.”
“Okay.” Arya sat straighter, filled with confidence from her brother’s support.
They could do this, the two of them. They could save what was left. “No matter
what, we’re in this together.”
Jon lifted their entwined hands, a symbol of power. “Together.”
Chapter End Notes
     ngl I wept 8 tears while writing this chapter. Stark family feels.
     Getchya every time.
     I'm sure those of you who follow me on tumblr figured out that Arya
     was the next POV! I love her. This chapter was really hard to write
     because it's filled with so many firsts--first Jon/Arya reunion,
     first Arya POV, first modern fight scene, etc. But I think it turned
     out alright. :) Let me know what you think.
     Also, I've thought about making a playlist for this fic to keep you
     guys occupied between updates! Would you prefer one super long
     playlist that goes along with the fic itself, or would you prefer a
     shorter one with some key tunes? If you care at all, I'd love to hear
     your input. Could be fun to throw one of these together.
     I don't think there's much else to add here, so I'll let ya go! See
     you next Saturday. ❤
***** Do Your Worst *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
This chapter has a scene of sexual violence. There is no rape, but Sansa
recalls some of the things she suffered under Ramsay. It is written with the
intention of making the audience uncomfortable. If you don't want to read it,
skip the italicized text; you'll know it when you see it.

                             soundtrack choices:
     [in_the_night;_the_weekend] ◆ [before_the_old_gods;_ramin_djawadi] ◆
                         [chandelier_-_acoustic;_sia]
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 

                               1 NOVEMBER, 2016
Of all the places in Petyr’s home, the library was Sansa’s uncontested
favorite. She could sit for hours surrounded by mahogany shelves and the
stories they carried. She’d found her own special place in the seat of a bay
window that overlooked the gardens, crowned in dormant wisteria. It was far too
cold to sit outside among the flowers, as November was promising a ruthless
winter, but Sansa still admired what foliage remained from the warmth of her
secret window. Books and solitude were her peace.
Sometimes, Sansa would sit with her new laptop, checking the social media she’d
been forced to abandon under Bolton imprisonment. Her Twitter, Instagram and
Facebook were swamped with old messages inquiring to her wellbeing, from school
friends to teachers to her parents’ past colleagues. But none of them had
thought to investigate her absence. None of them worried so much to think of
calling the police, not even Jeyne, who’d assumed she was in mourning and
didn’t want to be disturbed. Sansa couldn’t respond to any of the messages, but
she could read them, and while she appreciated the new waves of support, she
wondered if any of her “friends” would notice if she never resurfaced at all.
Most days, Sansa kept busy reading. Petyr had given her a long list of books as
a replacement for the final year of school she was missing. History,
philosophy, chemistry, anatomy and politics were the main subjects Petyr
insisted she learn. An odd group, perhaps, but Sansa enjoyed them. Studying
made her feel normal again. Petyr would sit down with her at the end of every
book and review what she’d learned, trade opinions with her and go over the
most important facts. Those were her favorite times. Sitting with Petyr by the
fireplace in the living room, talking late into the night about her subjects of
focus. Their topics ranged drastically, but it was nice to witness his
intelligence firsthand. He would have been a good teacher, Sansa thought, if
he’d chosen education instead of… whatever he does.
Sansa had just turned a page in her book when Petyr came to her. It wasn’t
quite noon, but already the sun was high and clinging to the last weeks of
autumn. “You look busy,” said Petyr, announcing himself. Sansa smiled at the
sound of his voice. He sat down by her feet at the opposite end of the window,
wearing a fitted gray suit and smelling pleasantly of cologne.
“I’m just reading,” said Sansa. “Not too busy.” Her eyes wandered over Petyr
when they lifted from the pages. He seemed different from his typical business-
casual aura, handsome in a strange way, like he was some sort of…what does he
look like? She shifted awkwardly. “You look really nice.”
“Business requires it. First impressions are everything, Sansa, never let
anyone tell you otherwise.” He gestured with his chin to the book in her hands.
“What are you reading?”
She closed the book to show him the title, The Count of Monte Cristo. “You told
me it was your favorite, so I picked it up last week. I’ve been reading it
between Republic and Utopia.”
“I’m honored that you remembered.” Petyr smiled as he watched her place a
bookmark between the pages. Smiles look good on him. “Do you enjoy it so far?”
“I do!” Sansa placed the book aside and swung her feet to dangle above the
floor. Talking about books always got her excited. “I’m at the part where
Edmond just confronted Villefort and tried to resuscitate the child he killed,
but he fails. He’s wondering if he’s gone too far with his revenge.”
“Ah, the crisis. The saddest part of any story, if the ending doesn’t out-do
it.” Petyr scratched the stubble on his cheek. “‘Oh God, said Monte Cristo,
your vengeance may sometimes be slow in coming, but I think that then it is all
the more complete.’ This book has a wonderful ending. I hope you like it as
much as I did.”
“Me too.” Sansa placed her hands in her lap. Petyr picked up the pile of books
behind her and skimmed through the titles, and she watched him move, vaguely
aware of the pride in his eyes.
“Machiavelli. Another necessity.” He slid his fingertips down the spine of The
Prince. “I’m glad you’ve stashed this one away. It’s a good read, important for
every intelligent mind to have an opinion on.”
“Mum hated it,” chuckled Sansa. “She said it was misguided literature based on
bias and cynicism.”
“That sounds like your mother,” said Petyr. “Ever the optimist. But I would
very much like to hear your thoughts on it, Sansa, whenever you find the time.”
He placed the books down on his opposite side. He patted the top of the stack
as if it were a small child. “I still want you to put priority on your
recovery. Knowledge is nothing without a healthy mind to wield it.”
“I am.” A little smile took her lips. “I really feel like I’ve made progress.”
“You’re still having those daily sessions with Ros and Olyvar?”
“Mhm.” Sansa curled her hair behind her ear and crossed her ankles. “I've
learned so many different things. Like, I didn’t know that…” He probably
doesn’t want to hear. “Oh, nevermind.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“It’s nothing, really.”
Petyr removed his hand from the books and gently directed her chin toward him.
Sansa didn’t flinch at the touch. She’d gotten used to his hands in various
places, from her shoulders to her arms to her cheeks and upper back. But he was
never pushy, never moved lower than she allowed, and Sansa didn’t fear him or
his warmth. Not yet, at least. “You needn’t hide things from me, Sansa. I care
about you.”
Sansa had heard those words before, but they felt genuine coming from him. She
took Petyr’s wrist and moved his hand away, a gesture he took with grace. “I
just…I didn’t think talking about it would help so much. Or, you know. Crying.”
He lowered his hand to his lap. “That can be helpful, I’ve heard.” Petyr seemed
uncomfortable, his eyes distant. Sansa wanted to ask if she’d said something
wrong, but she never got the chance. Petyr stood from the window and offered
his hand to her. “It is good, then, that I have other things in mind for today
besides speaking of your sorrow. Come. I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?” Sansa took his hand and walked with him from the library,
feeling his palm press against the center of her back. Petyr walked beside her
toward the spiral stairs at the manor’s entrance, and turned on his heel to
face her.
“I have a few very important meetings today, Sansa. Meetings that will take Ros
and I away until late this evening. Mayana and Olyvar also have tasks to carry
out, but none of us want you left here alone.” Petyr placed his hands on either
side of her arms. Her back straightened. “If you would like, you can go with
the others to London and sit in on their meeting. You’ve been cooped up in my
home for too long. Two weeks in the same place, no matter the scenery, can wear
on a person.” Petyr's mouth quirked in amusement. “Maybe you can get a taste of
what I do for a living.”
“London?” Sansa smiled, rejuvenated by the thought of something familiar. “I —
yes, I’d love to go. Your house is beautiful, but I miss the city. And I won’t
ruin the meeting. I promise.”
Petyr returned her warm expression. “I knew you’d be pleased. But there is a
condition.” From his pocket, he retrieved a small tube of black something and
held it up to her. Sansa took it, rolling the plastic curiously in her hand.
“What is it?”
“Black hair dye. Don’t worry, it’s only temporary.” He took a strand of her
auburn hair between thumb and forefinger. “Yours is a memorable shade, my dear,
and I haven’t gathered enough evidence to keep the Boltons from taking you away
from me. Until then, you’ll need to dye your hair whenever you leave the
estate. You’ll go by the name Alayne.”
“Alayne,” Sansa repeated.
“You will speak to no one other than Mayana and Olyvar. I know you’ve a kind
heart, but put it aside for the sake of safety today.”
Sansa felt valued by his concern. He was always so generous, so worried for her
wellbeing. It had been a long time since someone cherished her so. “I’ll be
alright,” she said. “It’s just London. And I’ll have your friends with me, so
I’ll be safe.”
“Of course you will.” Petyr leaned in and kissed her forehead, a paternal act
he was prone to. Sansa felt her face flush. He removed his hands from her when
he pulled away. “I will see you tonight, if you’re still awake. Mayana and
Olyvar are certain to make your day eventful.”
“Thank you, Petyr. I look forward to it.”
Leaving him was always awkward. There was a tense moment every time, where
they’d stand and wait for the other to continue a conversation that was clearly
finished. Whether it was from want of a new topic or a desire to be around him,
Sansa didn’t know, but Ros thankfully broke the strange air in the room when
she entered. She looked like a model business executive in heels and a cream-
colored blouse. “Wow,” said Sansa. “You look beautiful.”
“Aw, you’re too sweet. I’d give my left tit if I could be half as gorgeous as
you though.” Ros winked, slipping her arm in Petyr’s as Sansa smiled
sheepishly. “See you later, love. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
“Have fun.” Sansa waved to them both. Petyr’s departing stare was not missed,
and her stomach was in knots when he closed the door behind him.
His effect on her was dangerous. Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she was
attracted to anyone, let alone wanted someone to touch her. The concept was
horrifying. I’ll just get anxious if I think about it. Instead of needlessly
questioning herself, Sansa headed up the stairs to prepare for a London
afternoon, putting all thoughts of Petyr away.
Mayana and Olyvar were sitting on her bed. They were talking about something
over wine, expensively dressed like Ros and Petyr had been. Sansa paused when
her friends looked at her with a mischievous glint in their eyes. “What are you
two plotting in here?”
“How to make you look stunning.” Olyvar held up the Dior box with the dress
Petyr had given her and tapped it. “Take a shower, dye your hair, and wear
this.” He tossed the box to her. She caught it, blinking at the beautiful
people who’d seemingly transformed. Olyvar wore a blue suit with a dotted tie,
and Mayana was charming in a magenta blouse and black skirt that hugged her
lower frame. His hair was slicked back, her braids tied up in a formal bun.
Sansa stood aghast.
“You both look incredible,” she said. “What are we doing at this meeting?
Modeling?”
“Telling you spoils the fun!” Mayana dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Go
on, pretty girl. Get dressed. We leave in an hour.”
Sansa beamed. There was mystery in the air, but it was exciting instead of
frightening. Sansa took the dress and the dye in-hand, rushing off to the
bathroom that connected hers and Olyvar’s rooms.
The dye smelled disgusting, but it certainly did the job. Sansa cleaned herself
and washed her hair with what Petyr gave her. She barely recognized herself
when she stepped out of the shower. Dark hair was one of the many Stark traits
that had skipped her entirely. It was odd, looking in the mirror at someone who
could have been real if her genetics had lined up differently. It wasn’t the
first time she’d imagined herself in a new body, either.
Sansa dressed in what was given — the Dior dress, black nylons and heels with a
violet scarf — and Mayana and Olyvar came in to dote on her. Sansa let them dry
her hair and braid it in a crown atop her head. Being spoiled was something
Sansa loved as a little girl, a stupid girl who didn’t know the world from a
fairytale, but to have a touch of that childish hope again struck another spark
in her soul, in contrast to the wasteland.
Another broken piece on the mend.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
London felt safer as a free woman. The sky was clearer, the colors were
brighter and the people were friendlier, less prone to staring. Mayana and
Olyvar were tremendous company. They bantered and bickered and cracked obscene
jokes in public, making bystanders turn their heads to the small flock of
friends who were dressed too richly to be messed with. They stopped in a few
stores and bought Sansa some business-formal attire for future outings. Sansa
tried to ignore the price tags. “Don’t worry,” Mayana told her, “he likes to
spoil you.” While Sansa was nervous about being recognized, the reassurance of
her companions helped put her mind at ease. It’s only a day. No one knows who I
am.
Where it was impossible before, Sansa allowed herself to relax.
“So,” said Olyvar from across the table. The three had stopped at an open café
down the street, grazing on salad and finger foods as they waited for Petyr’s
client. “What are your hobbies, Alayne? Christmas is around the corner and we
need an idea of what to get you. Clothes alone won’t cut it.”
Sansa hadn’t even considered the holiday, but Olyvar’s hope that she would
still be with them made her grin. “Christmas? Oh, I don’t know. Uhm…I like
playing the guitar. My brother Robb taught me, we used to play together all the
time.” Her hands fumbled beneath the table. “And I like painting, though I'm
not very good at it. My mother was an artist. Oh, and cooking. And sewing.
Singing, reading, fashion…”
“Aw!” Mayana put her hand dramatically over her heart. “She’s adorable. We’re
keeping her.”
“I don’t think that was ever in doubt.” Olyvar took a sip of water.
“Littlefinger likes her. I like her, Ros likes her, you like her. She’s smart,
clever, and more importantly, she’s coming out of her shell. Why would we let
her go now?” He showed Sansa a handsome smile, one that surely made men weak.
“I’d love to hear a song sometime. I bet your voice is lovely. Lovelier than
mine, anyway.”
Sansa chuckled. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It’s bad,” said Mayana. “He’s tone deaf.”
“I am not! Just a tad confused on how notes sound. Sometimes.” Olyvar set his
glass on the table. “But it’s not our choice whether Alayne goes or stays. She
has a home here with us, and she can leave if and when she desires.”
“Never.” Sansa cleared her throat. “I mean, not never, but not any time soon.
You’re all I have.” She frowned, nearly biting her lower lip before remembering
her makeup. “Do you think that would be alright with him…?”
“Are you joking?” Olyvar scoffed. “Please. The man adores you. If you can’t see
that, you’re not as bright as I—”
“Shit.” Mayana glanced up to Sansa from her phone. Her eyes read of distress.
Sansa’s smile fell. Mayana showed Olyvar the screen, and he paled at whatever
he saw. “What are we gonna do? We can’t bring her there with us.”
“Hold on. I’m thinking.”
Sansa shifted in her seat. Her heart began to pound in her head. She knew they
were talking about her, but she didn’t want to ask and disrupt them as they
whispered to each other. She felt like a burden. They have my best interest at
heart, don’t they? They wouldn’t put me in danger.
“We have a problem,” said Mayana, voice lower than usual. “The client we’re
meeting has changed where we’re supposed to negotiate.”
“Is that bad?” asked Sansa.
“Not for us. For you, it could be.” Mayana glanced to Olyvar. “It’s, uh. It’s
at the Bolton head office.”
Sansa fell speechless. She dropped her fork on the plate as she tried to
comprehend what Mayana was telling her.
Bolton headquarters. The Boltons. Ramsay.
“We can’t take her,” said Olyvar. “Look at her. She’s terrified.”
“We can’t reschedule. Littlefinger never reschedules. Remember the last time we
tried? He made us do community service in the sewers for a month.”
“Yes, but this is Alayne. Would one misstep really cause that much fuss? The
man has got to have some mistake in his past.”
“Not in the sixteen years I’ve known him.”
Their voices fell away. Sansa’s breath began to race and she shivered at the
thought of seeing him again, but he never went to the head office. He was
always at home. With her. Or Myranda, doing God-knew-what in the basement at
all hours of the day. I can be strong, Sansa thought, unsure if she believed
it. I’m better than I was before. Mayana and Olyvar will protect me, right?
Sansa summoned her confidence. “It’s alright. He—” Don’t be afraid of a
name. “Ramsay probably won’t be there. I’ll wear sunglasses through the lobby
and I won’t talk to anyone, just like Petyr said.”
Mayana looked nervously to Olyvar. “Pete’s gonna kill us if this goes to hell.
It’ll be Spain but worse.”
“I don’t think we have a choice. We both have to be there for the signing and
we can’t just leave Alayne in the car like a dog. The Boltons would like
nothing more.”
“Yeah. I get it.” Mayana checked her phone again, her leg bouncing under the
table. “Ugh, fuck.” She stood and left a cash payment for their lunch on top of
the receipt and picked up her briefcase, contents unknown, from beside her
chair. “Alayne, I want you to keep close to Olyvar. You’re his wife or
something. And his name isn’t Olyvar, it’s Liam. I’m Abigail.”
“Okay,” muttered Sansa. Olyvar motioned for them to leave. She stood from her
seat and tried to fake bravery.
I’m bigger than this, Sansa told herself on the drive to the Bolton
building. He won’t be there. I’m stronger than him anyway. London passed by
through the windows of the truck, a blur of skyscrapers and storefronts and
British flags. The city was losing its color again.
“Sansa,” said Mayana after parking down a deserted alley. “There’s something
you need to understand about these meetings. You might hear things that confuse
you. We’ll talk differently, present differently. It’s almost like being a
whole new person, but it’s all a part of the act, yeah? So don’t… freak out. I
promise it'll all make sense soon.”
“Okay,” Sansa whispered. She didn’t lie and tell them she’d be fine.
Olyvar helped Sansa out of the truck, squeezing her fingers in encouragement.
“You don’t mind if I hold your hand, do you?” he asked. “We’re supposed to be
married.”
“Huh? O-Oh, right.” She took Olyvar’s hand and stayed close to him as directed,
putting on sunglasses to avoid the security cameras.
Seeing the Bolton logo made her squirm. There was a large amount of people in
the lobby, but Sansa was too focused on keeping calm to wonder why. ID’s were
exchanged, including that of “Alayne”, before the three of them were given
clearance badges and proceeded to the elevators. They ascended to the twenty-
sixth floor. Sansa clutched Olyvar's arm and he kissed the side of her head to
soothe her. It didn’t make her feel warm like Petyr’s kisses did, but she felt
safer, which was all that mattered.
The lift stopped at the financial floor. They stepped off and passed the front
desk. Sansa didn’t bother to remind them to check-in; this clearly wasn’t a
typical business meeting. They walked to a pair of oak double doors down a
long, extravagant hallway, where a gold plaque was mounted on the wall.

Sansa held her breath. She’d met Barbrey Dustin before, only briefly when she’d
come to the Bolton house to discuss business with Roose. It wasn’t likely that
Sansa would be recognized. Barbrey had looked her over, referred to her as
“that Lord Idiot’s daughter” and gone back to her conversation. What does Petyr
want with her?
Mayana and Olyvar entered without knocking. Sansa followed suit, remembering
her promise of silence.
Barbrey’s office was luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows, glass sculptures and
black leather seating made a show of her position. Mrs. Dustin lifted her head
when she noticed her visitors. Mayana closed the door behind Olyvar and locked
it. “Ah,” said Barbrey from her desk. “You must be Littlefinger’s associates.”
She was an older woman, with streaks of gray in her chestnut hair and wrinkles
around large green eyes. Regal for her age, dignified in the way she sat. Sansa
expected nothing less in a woman who worked under Roose Bolton. Barbrey looked
the three of them over. “Didn’t think there’d be so many of you.”
Mayana shrugged. “When you change plans, so do we.”
“Yes,” Barbrey confirmed. “Sorry about that. Normally I wouldn’t yank the
mockingbird’s wing, but I’d rather pull his than Roose’s.”
“We understand.” Olyvar led Sansa to one of two chairs in front of the desk.
She sat down and removed her sunglasses, careful not to meet Barbrey’s eyes
directly. Olyvar stood behind Sansa with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Mayana
took the other chair. “Mind if I check some things, Mrs. Dustin?”
“Check what?”
They didn’t wait for an answer. Olyvar unplugged the phone and computer on
Barbrey’s desk. Mayana pulled something from her pocket, a strange piece of
technology, and pushed a button. “Blocking any unwanted ears,” she explained.
She placed it on the desk and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “We
can’t risk being overheard. Not with this.”
“Of course.” Barbrey straightened her back to regain her authority. “Did you
bring the truth, then?”
Mayana retrieved her briefcase. She clicked it open, pulling out a stapled
packet and sliding it across the top of Barbrey’s desk. “Roose Bolton paid
Doctor Qyburn fifty-thousand pounds to tamper with evidence. Even the autopsy
report was faked. Ramsay killed your nephew.”
Domeric, Sansa remembered. Ramsay’s older brother. The nice one. He liked
horses and snuck me books when I’d cry.
Domeric had gone missing two weeks into her capture. Now Sansa knew why.
Barbrey worked her jaw. She reached for the paperwork and skimmed through it,
through photos of a crime scene and some sort of graph. Sansa couldn’t see much
through the paper. Tense silence fell between them, made unbearable by the
amount of time that passed. Barbrey let the papers fall when she tossed them
back on her desk with a slap. “That little bastard.”
“We can understand your disappointment,” said Olyvar. “Domeric was more fit to
inherit this corporation than Ramsay. For that, Littlefinger mourns your
nephew’s loss.”
“And why does a monster like Littlefinger care so much about this company?”
Barbrey folded her hands in her lap, eyes critical. “He doesn’t hold stock
here, does he?”
“Not anymore.” Mayana’s lip twitched. “Complications arose.”
“Littlefinger’s interest in the Boltons’ industry has less to do with business
and more to do with the family.” Olyvar squeezed Sansa’s shoulder and leisurely
paced the room, much like Petyr would during his late-night lessons. “Roose has
proven his inability to rein in his son. Ramsay was abusing the Stark girl and
killed his own brother, and a man who can’t control a child like that isn’t fit
to remain CEO. Littlefinger prefers someone more trustworthy. More ethical, if
you will.” He glanced to Barbrey. “Someone like you.”
Sansa recognized desire in Barbrey's eyes. How Petyr knew what she’d wanted
baffled Sansa. She watched the wheels in Barbrey’s head turn, considering the
offer Petyr had laid on the table. “He would give me control of one of the most
profitable businesses in the UK? Why?”
“Because we share a mutual enemy,” said Mayana. “You want revenge for your
nephew. Littlefinger wants the Boltons out of power. We can take care of both.”
“In exchange for?”
Olyvar shrugged. “Just a bit of embezzlement. The Boltons won’t need all their
money in the grave.”
Barbrey laughed, twirling a pen in her fingers. “You want me to feed
Littlefinger someone else’s money so I can have everything that I want?”
Barbrey clicked the pen. “That’s hardly a deal I can pass up.”
“I’m glad you share his thoughts on the matter. Abigail, would you give her the
contract?”
“With pleasure.” Sansa watched Mayana pulled a piece of paper from her
briefcase. She approached Barbrey and placed it on the desk, her dark hand
covering the words. Mrs. Dustin smiled without a single stroke of humor.
“What is this?” she asked. “Some sort of show?”
“Not at all. Just making sure you understand what you’re doing.” Mayana pushed
the contract closer to Barbrey, never losing eye contact. “Signing this piece
of paper means you work for Littlefinger, with Littlefinger and by
Littlefinger’s leave. You understand the benefits of this arrangement and the
consequences of failure. Your life, your family’s lives, your belongings, your
property; nothing will be off-limits to him if you turn your back on this
contract.”
Barbrey, unfazed, brushed off Mayana’s warning. “Awfully serious lot, aren’t
you? Move your bloody hand. I know what I’m doing.”
Mayana did as Mrs. Dustin asked. Sansa was not so confident. The contract, now
signed, was offered from one agent of Littlefinger to another for a second
signature. Olyvar added his name and placed the paper back in the
briefcase. Manipulation, Sansa thought. Backstabbing and crime. This is Petyr’s
job. Would she ever be free of people like him?
“Now,” said Barbrey, “get out of my office. I have work to do.” She leaned down
to plug in her computer again. “If you’ve any wit about you, you’ll take care
of that little shit while he’s here.”
Sansa tensed. She gripped the arm of the chair and Mayana and Olyvar exchanged
looks. “Ramsay’s here? Now?”
“Unfortunately. Delivering a press conference about the disappearance of Sansa
Stark. Twenty-ninth floor, I think.”
Ramsay. Here. With me.
Sansa heard nothing else and stood without warning. “Thank you for your time,
Mrs. Dustin. I hope you choose better allies than the Boltons in the future.”
She passed Mayana and yanked open the door, escaping before she could be
stopped.
Sansa put on her sunglasses and tried to seem casual without sacrificing speed.
She made it to the lift and pressed the down arrow. “Come on,” she muttered.
“Come on, come on.” It’s not fast enough. Her heart thundered like a drum. She
jammed the button again, pressing frantically over and over as she began to
panic. Her whole body shook. A TV screen caught her eye from the corner, a
fanfare announcing important news coverage. Sansa turned to the oncoming
broadcast.
Ramsay stood tall and confident at a podium, the headline “RAMSAY BOLTON PLEADS
FOR STARK'S RETURN” running underneath.
“My lovely fiancée has gone missing,” Ramsay said to the press. “The world has
been cruel to her. It makes sense that she ran away in fear of our coming
marriage, but she knows I would never harm her.”
Sansa was going to be sick. She clutched her stomach and stood paralyzed,
reading the word “LIVE” at the top left of the screen.
Live. In the press room.
Three stories above her.
“I am offering a reward for whoever finds her,” said Ramsay. “She is still a
minor in the eyes of the law, meaning her options are rather limited. Someone
may try to steal her for her father’s inheritance. I can’t think of a worse
fate for my beautiful bride-to-be. I implore you, good people of London, if you
have any leads on her whereabouts please report directly to me or my father. I
will personally give twenty-thousand pounds to whomever brings information that
leads to her recovery.”
Sansa gasped as Mayana grabbed her arm. “Don’t ever run like that,” Mayana
scolded through gritted teeth. “We’re the only protection you’ve got.”
“I’m — I’m sorry,” Sansa stuttered, near tears. “I didn’t — I can’t be here,
he’s not supposed to—”
“I know. We’ll get you home. Stay calm.”
Olyvar leaned in to Mayana’s ear. Sansa overheard what he said: “Petyr’s going
to butcher us.”
Sansa's eyes were fixed on Ramsay. As if he knew she was there, he turned and
looked directly at her through the camera.
“My dearest Sansa. If you’re watching this, please know that I miss you
terribly. But don’t worry for a single second. I am determined to find you. And
soon, I’ll bring you back where you belong.”
The press conference came to an end. Sansa was left trembling. Mayana and
Olyvar guided her down the stairs, deciding it was safer to avoid the elevators
entirely. “Breathe,” urged Mayana. “We’re almost to the car. Breathe.”
But all Sansa could hear was his voice. I’ll bring you back where you belong.
Sansa was wordless during the ride home. She did not eat dinner. She did not
smile. She dismissed herself to bed shortly after sunset, stripping from her
expensive dress and barely remembering to hang it up. Sansa felt touched.
Filthy. Even here, in this room, a place where Ramsay had never been. She
pulled on a tank top and crawled under the blankets, taking her mother’s rosary
with her, and prayed until she forgot the meaning of the words.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
The bars were unbroken. Moonlight bled between them. Sansa woke on the sheets,
wet and red under her skin. She recognized her prison in the darkness. It was
the same as it always was. Colorless. Lifeless. “Not here,” Sansa whimpered.
“Anywhere but here, please God, please…”
“God?” said Ramsay from the doorway. “I’m your god, Sansa.”
She scrambled from the bed. Her clothes burned away from her body. When she
reached for them, they slipped through her fingers like ash.
“Why did you leave me, Sansa?” Ramsay’s voice sent chills through every bone.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“I can’t leave you if I was never yours,” she spat. She covered her body with
her hands, ashamed.
“But you are! You are mine. You have been for so long. I can’t wait until
you’re here again.” Ramsay began his approach like a shadow, a wrench hanging
from his loosened grip. He gestured to the bed, sheets stained with blood and
cum and chunks of red hair. “This place has so many wonderful memories. Don’t
you want to come home?”
The sight of it broke her. Her skin remembered the feel of those sheets, the
fluids, tears dripping on clenched fists. She couldn’t pull her eyes from it.
Ramsay backed her into a corner. Sansa cried out as spiders slipped from cracks
in the walls and crawled all over her body, their legs touching everywhere he
had once touched. “No,” Sansa begged. She choked on words of defiance. “You
can’t have me, this isn’t real!”
“Isn’t it?” Ramsay’s smile grew wide. “Shall we find out?”
“You can't touch me.”
He laughed then, a maniacal sound like the scream of a raven. “I’m touching you
now. Can’t you feel it? All those little spiders all over you, claiming you.”
Ramsay stepped forward until they were inches apart, his sickening lips close
to hers. “I’m inside your head.”
She clenched her eyes shut and whimpered as the insects began to bite. “This is
a dream. I’ll wake up soon, and when I do you’ll be gone.”
Ramsay’s mouth brushed hers. He tasted of bile. “We’ll see.”
He struck her over the head with the wrench. Sansa fell to the ground and
curled up, her world spinning, voices calling out to her that she couldn’t
answer. “Sansa,” they cried. “Sansa, wake up!” She only wanted it to end.
Ramsay gripped her hard at the hips. Sansa heard his belt unbuckle. She fell
limp and lifeless, resigning to suffer if it meant she could fight another day.
Her eyes flew open. He was on her, on top of her, pinning her down. “No!” she
screamed. “Get off me, get off!” Sansa shoved Ramsay away and reached her
trembling hands to the nightstand drawer, where she’d hidden a knife just for
him. “Don’t touch me! You can’t, I—”
Petyr held his hands in the air. His eyes were wide.
Not Ramsay, she realized in shame. Petyr. Just Petyr.
She dropped the knife. It clamored to the floor. Sansa looked at her hands,
palms bleeding from her nails in her skin. A dream, that’s all it was. He came
to wake me…
“P-Petyr, I’m — I-I didn’t — I didn't know—”
“It’s alright.” He reached out to her. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
Sansa burst into tears. She still felt the spiders on her skin, crawling in her
lungs, between her legs, inside her. Petyr stepped forward. Seeking comfort,
Sansa rushed into his open arms and wept and shook. “You’re alright,” said
Petyr softly. His voice vibrated through his chest and it comforted her.
“You’re not there. You’re here. On the outskirts of London, in my home, with
me. Do you understand?”
She didn’t have the strength to nod.
Petyr slowly pulled away. Sansa whimpered in protest, but he crawled onto the
middle of her bed and took off his shoes. “Come here, Sansa. I won’t hurt you.”
“Careful,” said another voice. Ros. “She’s so fragile.”
Petyr leaned back against the headboard and motioned for Sansa to come to him.
She did, trembling and curling up at his side, desperate for the security he’d
never hesitated to offer. “Get her some Diazepam and a glass of water,” said
Petyr. “Bandages and alcohol for her hands. And a pillow for my back would be
appreciated.”
“Sure.” Ros left the room. Sansa wanted to see if Mayana and Olyvar were there
too, if she needed to apologize for ruining a good night’s sleep, but Petyr
held her tight and she would not fight him. Her body was weak, weary and
drained. At least the spiders had skittered away.
Sansa couldn’t stop crying as she clung to Petyr. She wept for her parents and
brothers, for Robb and Talisa and unborn Ned Stark, for what Ramsay took from
her, for Arya and Jon who could be dead or dying or worse. She wept for what
was and could never be. For the home she’d lost. For the life she’d been forced
to leave behind, and her innocence with it. For everything she would never have
again.
Time passed. Sansa took the pills and water Ros offer, and rested her head back
on Petyr when she was done. Her weeping faded to small cries and sniffles into
his stained shirt. Someone came and wrapped Sansa’s hands. She barely felt the
alcohol. She was briefly aware of them talking, all four of them, Ros and
Olyvar and Mayana and Petyr, but she was too tired to hear them. I’m sorry, she
tried to say. I’m sorry I woke you. I’m sorry for everything. But her words
slipped away under the medicine’s influence, and Sansa was pulled into a
dreamless sleep.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                               2 NOVEMBER, 2016
Petyr was gone when she woke. Sansa’s eyes cracked open, groggy and aching
under the mid-morning sun. She tried to sit up. The world began to pulse and
spin and she held her head, groaning. “Shh,” whispered Ros, placing gentle
hands over Sansa’s. “Don’t move too fast, love. Easy.”
She came upright with Ros’s help. Sansa blinked, adjusting her eyes to the
sunlight seeping through flowery curtains. Water was offered. Sansa took it and
slowly drank until her body and mind fully woke, and she remembered what had
happened.
Night terrors. I woke everyone. She remembered it all, even the dream itself,
and the warmth that held her afterward.
“She’s awake,” said Ros into the house phone. “She’s ready for you.” Ros hung
up and moved to sit at Sansa’s side. She wrapped an arm around her, and Sansa
rested her head on her shoulder. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Any better?”
“A bit,” Sansa replied. Oh, how nice it was to be held. Ros rubbed her upper
arm and kissed the top of her head. The affection they all showed for her was
sweeter than any pill. They stayed like that for a long time, in a maternal
position that reminded her of her mother, until the door to Sansa’s bedroom
opened. Olyvar held a tray of breakfast in his hands. He brought it to Sansa
with a sympathetic smile. Petyr entered smoking a cigarette, wearing the same
clothes he’d worn the night before, and Mayana came in after. She closed the
door behind them. Sansa smiled as much as she could in the company of people
who cared for her, despite the inconvenience she’d put them through. “I’m
sorry,” Sansa mumbled. Her throat began to sting again. Don’t cry. “I’m so
sorry, I woke all of you up in the middle of the night and I shouldn’t have. I
couldn’t stop it.”
“Don’t apologize,” soothed Olyvar. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“We should never have taken you there.” Mayana sighed in disappointment,
resting her hands on her hips. “Should’ve just rescheduled. It was Barbrey
Dustin, not the damn Prime Minister.”
“No, I… it was me.” Sansa felt another tear fall and wiped it away quickly. “I
thought I was strong enough. I wasn’t. I’m not strong at all.”
“Oh, bullshit.” Mayana came closer, and Sansa looked up at her. “You got your
things together in a tiny-ass bag and ran away from that monster. You looked
for safety when there really wasn’t an option for you. You’re strong as hell,
don’t doubt that.”
“I concur.” Ros rubbed Sansa’s arm again, but it was clear she was distressed.
“I think we should make today nice and relaxing for you, yeah? A long hot bath,
some good comedy films, maybe a bit of Cards Against Humanity?”
“God,” groaned Olyvar. “I’ll need to be drunk for that one.”
Sansa managed to chuckle. Her aged soul lightened in load, and she wiped the
tears that spilled down her cheeks. Ros handed her some tissues. Sansa thanked
Olyvar when he offered her homemade pancakes, lathered with sweet syrup and
butter and whipped cream. She even smiled at the poor excuse for a face he’d
tried to cook into the center. “It looks like shit,” he said, “but at least its
edible.” Sansa was grateful to all of them, her friends, her caretakers. But it
was Petyr’s voice she wanted to hear.
He remained silent. Petyr was leaning against her door with his arms crossed,
smoking a cigarette with an aura of indifference. His hair was unkempt, eyes
bearing dark circles underneath and his grey-green stare wasn’t in the
present. I drew a knife on him. She set down her fork and cleared her throat.
“Petyr—”
“Don’t.” He stared at her. Sansa felt deflated, fearing his anger. Petyr
approached the four of them and dropped what remained of his cigarette in the
glass of water she wasn’t drinking. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of
Sansa, somber and contemplative, almost confused. It occurred to her that the
only people he cared about must all be sitting before him. They were like a
family, odd and mismatched though they were. Maybe they could be as strong as
the one she’d lost, someday.
“The dream,” said Petyr. “Was it about him?”
Sansa nodded. “I was… I was back in that room, and—”
“You don’t have to share.” Petyr shook his head. “Quite frankly, Sansa, I don’t
want to hear about it.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’m sorry. Sansa wasn’t hungry anymore. She set the tray down on
her nightstand before settling beside Ros again. She felt small and foolish,
like she was being punished for breaking a rule. She opened her mouth to speak.
Petyr interrupted her again.
“I’ve lied to you, Sansa. I’ve withheld the truth.” He took her gaze and held
it. “You were meant to be present for the meeting with Barbrey, but not like
that.”
Sansa furrowed her brow. “Why? I thought it was just a day out.”
“It would have been. You were only supposed to observe, not walk right into
Ramsay’s open arms. I'm sorry my idiot employees put you in danger.”
Mayana and Olyvar shared a nervous glance. Sansa wrung her hands in her lap,
and spoke up in their defense. “Don’t punish them, please. They got me out.
They helped me. It was my fault like I said, they just—”
“It is not. Your. Fault.” Petyr’s voice was stern, but not without tenderness.
His hand came to rest on her knee, his thumb tracing slow circles on the
inside. “Say it.”
She swallowed hard. “It’s not my fault,” she mumbled.
“Louder.”
“It’s not my fault.” Sansa straightened her spine. Saying the words made her
believe them, which was surely his intention. Petyr nodded in approval when he
was sure she understood.
“I’m going to tell you the truth, Sansa. Are you ready to hear it?”
She bit her lip. Sansa was afraid he’d be so angry with her that he’d kick her
back out on the street, but deep down she knew he wouldn’t let that happen. She
was ready to face whatever he presented her with. “Yes.”
Petyr took a deep breath.
“I own the western world. Nearly every politician, every wealthy businessman,
every influential celebrity and authority in civilized nations sits pretty in
my pocket. I make money with their secrets. I expose people when it suits me, I
use them when it suits me and I kill them when it suits me.” He met her eyes.
As ridiculous as it sounded, Sansa believed every word. “When I told you we
were going to kill the Boltons, I didn’t mean carrying out a hit. That’s far
too easy. Not personal enough. I want their corporation to burn. I want every
stockholder to go bankrupt. I want every person who ever held a job at their
industry to never make working wages again. I want Cersei and Tywin Lannister
buried in a landfill. But it’s one thing to want revenge and another to carry
it out, and understand, my dear, that I am the only man capable of making these
things happen for us.” He reached for her cheek and brushed a tear away. “That
was what I truly meant by ‘making them pay.’”
Sansa blinked. There was shock in her, as well as a flicker of fear, but not
nearly as much as there should have been. She looked to the others and saw
their looks of confirmation. “You all do this?” she asked. “All four of you?”
“Not for his whole career,” said Mayana. “We came later. I was the first. Met
him sixteen years ago in Chicago, where I'm from. He took me in. Taught me,
raised me, helped me. Then came Ros.”
“I’ve been here since 2007,” Ros added. “I was working the streets selling my
body. He showed me a better way.”
“I was the most recent acquisition.” Olyvar folded his hands in his lap. “Five
years ago, he found me while I was at university. Here I am.”
And now there’s me. Sansa put each unnerving piece together in her mind. He’d
found these people and raised them from nothing. Almost like a cult. “The
books,” she muttered. “Philosophy, anatomy, politics… all of it was for this.
To teach me.”
Petyr nodded.
“Teach me what?”
“How to play the game.” He smiled then, a dark smile that spoke of years of
deception and danger. “It’s how I’ve made a living. It is the identity of
Littlefinger. I would have brought this to you sooner, but taking less direct
routes to get what I want has always come easier to me.”
“He’s a manipulative prick,” said Olyvar. “That’s what he’s trying to say.”
Petyr didn’t deny the claim. Instead, he cupped Sansa’s cheek in his hand. She
did not flinch. “Do you want revenge on those who have wronged you and your
family? To stand by my side as I pull the world’s strings?”
Petyr’s offer wasn’t one of security. It wasn’t safety or hope, or necessarily
wisdom, but neither was it a wrong path. Sansa wanted what Petyr was offering.
The only way to stop Ramsay was to remove him, she knew that now, and this
wretched man was offering her everything to make that happen. Just like Barbrey
Dustin. Sansa lifted her shaking hand, hooking her fingers around Petyr’s
wrist. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to do that.”
“Oh, you will be. We’ll spend the next month teaching you, helping you. And
then we’ll try again. Given time and education and nurturing, you could out-do
the three fools sitting beside you. Maybe even me.”
Sansa chuckled. “I doubt that.”
“I don’t.” Petyr stood from his chair, pressing his mouth to the crown of her
head. She should have felt embarrassed for having such an intimate moment with
the others present, but it didn’t bother her at all. His kiss was tender. She
wanted nothing more than to curl up in Petyr’s arms again, to fall back asleep
and try to recover what the nightmare took, but he pulled away before she could
ask. “I haven’t slept in two days. No one disturb me or they’re getting a
bullet fired at them.”
“Aye sir,” said Mayana. “What do you want us to do?”
Petyr opened Sansa’s door and looked over his shoulder. “Take care of her.
We’ll come together later and make a plan.”
“Sounds good to me.” Olyvar stood from the bed and took Sansa’s breakfast tray,
handing it back to her as Petyr left the room. “You should eat. I slaved over
these pancakes and the ugly faces they’re making.”
Mayana patted Sansa’s thigh. “Eat and then shower, pretty girl, then we can
find something to take your mind off things. We’ll be in Ros’s room when you’re
ready.”
Sansa didn’t feel empty when the others left her alone again. She felt full,
cherished, safe. Determined.
They all believed in her. Petyr believed in her.
There was no reason in the world why she couldn’t believe in herself.
Chapter End Notes
     do y'all know that i would lay down my life for sansa stark
     PHEW, what a chapter. Holy cow. Such a roller coaster. I want to take
     a minute and talk about the dream, just in case someone reads this
     and gets upset. I want every reader to be disgusted by what they
     read. I want you to feel dirty, gross and uncomfortable, because to
     feel anything different wouldn't be accurate to the true horrors of
     rape. I want your hearts to ache for Sansa. I want you to root for
     her. And I want you to understand a small inkling of what it's really
     like to try to recover and fall back after working so hard. I'm sorry
     if I triggered anyone, but to be fair, I did put a warning up top!
     There won't be a scene about Ramsay this graphic again, though. Don't
     worry. This was a one-time deal. But I thought it was important to
     travel with Sansa to that dark place to see where she's coming from,
     and how far she still has to go.
     ANYWAY, ENOUGH ABOUT SAD SHIT. Holy crap, Barbrey!!
     #BaelishSquadFam!!!! World domination! There's so much to digest in
     this chapter. I'd apologize, but you know me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
     I've added songs to the beginning of every chapter thus far, because
     soundtrack choices was something y'all wanted! So here you go. These
     were songs I think fit the chapter, and ones that I listened to while
     writing. Enjoy!
     Next Saturday's update is much more light-hearted. I honestly love
     chapter five SO much, I know you guys will too. A nice break from the
     angst. See you then, my dears! *big smooches*
***** Love & Antares *****
Chapter Notes
                              soundtrack choice:
                            [hearts_a_mess;_gotye]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               5 NOVEMBER, 2016
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
Petyr looked up from his phone, adjusting in the passenger seat. “Why should I?
It’s not important.”
“You say that every year. ‘Don’t celebrate my birthday, spend your time doing
something useful.’” Ros’s tone was mocking as she took a highway exit, turning
off the M25. “She’ll want to do something nice for you. Sansa’s a sweet girl
like that.”
“That’s precisely why I didn’t tell her.” He turned back to his phone and
opened the app for his email. “Just another day in the year, anyway.”
“But you love being the center of attention. Almost ten years I’ve been working
for you, but you never let us celebrate your birthday.”
“Nor will I.” Petyr’s reasons were his own. “Drop it and keep driving. I don’t
want to be late.”
Submitting to his stubbornness, Ros did as she was told.
The radio brought the only sound between them. Petyr never cared what any of
his employees listened to; Ros had her indie music, Olyvar his dance and Mayana
her hip-hop, but Petyr rarely paid attention. He focused on his emails instead.
A notification from Barbrey Dustin on her monetary transfer, a message from
Tywin Lannister about changes to MI5, an email from Tyrion about Cersei’s
spending habits — Oh, that’s interesting. Petyr started reading before Ros
broke the silence.
“You didn’t have to be so hard on the others, you know.”
Petyr looked over at her. The stoplight was red, giving Ros enough time to
stare at him from behind the wheel of his Bentley. His lip twitched. “What
would you have done with them, Ros? Had things gone differently, Sansa would be
back in the hands of Ramsay Bolton. Is that something you would have risked?”
“No,” said Ros, “but it didn’t go differently. Sansa was alright and Ramsay
never knew she was there. We have Barbrey Dustin. Everything’s going as you
planned.”
Petyr sighed, returning his gaze to the screen. “You’re starting to sound like
me. Who’s going to be my conscience if you fail, Ros?”
“You’ll find your own, I’m sure.” The light turned green. Ros took a left turn,
up a hill lined with shapely spruce trees losing their autumn color. “I think
you overreacted. I’ve never seen Mayana so upset.”
“It reminded her of her teenage years, no doubt. I used to threaten her with
death all the time.”
Ros gave him a withering stare. Petyr chose not to acknowledge his harshness
and continued scrolling through Cersei’s purchases. Versace. Versace. Armani.
Christ, woman, get a better taste.
“Anyway,” said Ros pointedly, “I know you wouldn’t actually kill them. Just be
a bit less cruel, okay? We don’t want to repeat what happened in Spain.”
Good god. Petyr locked his phone and turned to face his driver, his right-hand
woman, the constant pain in his ass. “Is it your job to continuously annoy me?
If I’m soft in punishment, all three of you would march over my corpse while
it's still warm. Who runs this operation?”
Ros frowned. “Petyr, I only—”
“Who runs it? Tell me.”
She sighed, gripping the wheel tighter in her hands. “You do.”
“Good. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.” Petyr turned forward again,
adjusting the seatbelt that had moved near his neck. They were silent for
several minutes. Petyr watched the naked trees pass by until he spoke again.
“You can’t tell me Sansa was unharmed. You said so yourself, you’ve never heard
someone scream like that.”
Ros’s grip softened. “It’s true. I haven’t.”
“And that says ‘unharmed’ to you?” Petyr leaned his elbow on the sill of the
window and scratched his beard, frowning. “Mayana and Olyvar were careless with
her life. Her quality of life. Sansa is mine to shape and they threatened my
success. Maybe my protection of her is a bit too… overzealous, but I don’t
regret it, nor do I regret what I told them. I would say the same to you if
you’d been as foolish as they were.” Petyr ignored the fact that it
was his lack of judgment that brought Sansa to harm in the first place. If only
I'd been more patient.
“Well. Either way, you didn’t mean it.” Ros pulled off the main road, down a
concrete driveway that ran the length of a vineyard. Iron gates with golden
roses marked their destination. “You care about Sansa. I knew you would, I said
so when she first came to us. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” said Petyr bitterly. “But I care for her assets, Ros. Nothing
else.”
“Yeah?” Ros scoffed and rolled down her window. “You’re such a bloody liar.”
The security guard at the gate came forward. He peeked inside the car,
recognizing Petyr and saying something into his handheld. Wrought-iron gates
opened for them. Ros pulled in to the curved driveway before the old Chevening
House, historical and outstanding, a last whimsical breath of the English
Renaissance. “Admit it,” said Ros after she parked. “You care about Sansa. She
cares about you, at least. We all do.”
Petyr’s chest felt the smallest trickle of warmth, an uncomfortable feeling
that dissipated as soon as it came. “If you truly care for me, you’re all fools
who’ve learned nothing.”
“Or we’re geniuses who’ve learned too much.”
He glared at her. Ros gave him a cheeky beam, stepping out of the car just
before he did. Petyr straightened his suit jacket and the green scarf around
his neck, embroidered with a mockingbird at the end, and offered his arm to the
frustrating beauty at his side. “You’ll learn, Ros,” he told her. “One of these
days, you’ll learn not to trust me.”
A pair of butlers opened the front double-doors. Petyr had been to the
Chevening House so many times that it was like a second home to him. Had he the
temperament to run for office, he would live in a mansion like this one,
powerful and established with a long line of history. But as he watched Foreign
Secretary Tyrell squabble with a bald man over tea in the garden, Petyr knew
his talents were better suited to the shadows. Darkness was a far better
breeding ground for his games.
“Madame secretary,” said Littlefinger with a bow.
Olenna Tyrell looked at him with eyes full of wisdom, judging him as she always
did. Eventually her frown lit up into a hearty laugh. “Good heavens,
Littlefinger, don’t call me that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Dramatic.
Here, have a seat. Tea’s just cooling off.”
“And how could you forget me, old friend?” said the man across the table.
Littlefinger turned to him with indifference. “Am I hard on the eyes?”
“Unbearable, really.” Littlefinger extended his hand. Varys shook it with a
politely soft grip as if they were just being introduced, but no one knew Varys
better than Littlefinger. “You should grow out your hair," he jested. "Winter
is coming.”
“You sound like Lord Stark. But I’ll admit, I do feel a chill now and again.”
Varys shuddered. “Perhaps I’ll buy a pair of fuzzy earmuffs.” When he saw Ros,
however, dressed in her flowing red gown and braided hair, Varys smiled as
though she was warmth personified. “Or perhaps I should find young beauties to
live with as you have. Littlefinger, how do you ever manage to leave your
home?” Varys greeted Ros with a kiss on the cheek, a gesture she amiably
returned.
“There is always temptation,” said Littlefinger. “Only difference is, I have a
cock to enjoy when I feel the need. I often wonder if that makes you jealous.”
“Oh, come now. Both of you.” Olenna snapped her fingers like she was scolding
her children. “Sit down and act like men.” Her tone was not patronizing; there
was a spark of amusement in her eyes when Littlefinger removed his coat and
took a seat, and he was glad to see it there. Ros sat beside him. A fresh pot
of tea was served, along with a mix of vegetables and dips, but Littlefinger
did not eat. He took scotch instead and lit a mint-flavored cigarette, crossing
one leg over the other to prepare for discussion.
The group of schemers took several minutes catching up on affairs of state.
Littlefinger never divulged information about his personal life, having learned
how to dodge those questions long ago, but he was interested in stories about
other cabinet members and Varys’s associates. Prince Stannis was rumored to be
in the midst of an affair with a Dutch nun. Prince Renly had openly begun a
relationship with Loras Tyrell, and the Physician to the Queen, Dr. Pycelle,
was still on trial for soliciting minors. Littlefinger stored away bits of
relevant information and took a drag of tobacco when the Foreign Secretary
addressed him.
“So,” said Olenna. “To what do I owe the honor of your mysterious visit? Surely
you didn’t come all this way for a bit of gossip.”
Littlefinger smirked, a devious trademark he was known for. “The Stark family
was murdered.”
“Yes,” she said sorrowfully. “I know.”
“But you don’t know who’s responsible.”
“Do you?”
Littlefinger chuckled. “You should know by now not to question me.” Ros handed
him his briefcase. He opened it with two clicks and retrieved the needed files,
offering them to Olenna and Varys respectively. “Lannister, Bolton, and Frey.”
The two curious dignitaries skimmed through the paperwork. Littlefinger leaned
back in his seat and blew cigarette smoke into the breeze, letting them read in
silence before he spoke. “All the evidence of Ned Stark’s supposed accident and
the fire that burned his wife and children are sealed away at MI5. There were
never official investigations into either incident. My mother used to say, ‘you
have nothing to hide if what you’ve already hidden stays buried.’”
“You had a mother?” quipped Varys. He licked his fingers before turning a page.
“I thought you sprung out of the ground like a goblin.”
“Goblins are clever creatures, my friend. Not so terrible a thing to be
compared to.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve been called worse.” Varys looked up from his reading with
a look of disappointment. “This is all very troubling to hear. Not unexpected,
I’m afraid. My little birds told me that Frey and Bolton had been doing dark
dealings, but never that the Lannisters pulled the strings.”
“Everyone knows the Lannisters pull the strings.” Olenna sipped her tea with a
bitter shake of her head. “Even the Prime Minister knows. Poor thing. I warned
her not to run for office, but I suppose it’s better to have Daenerys Targaryen
than Tywin Lannister.”
“That still doesn’t change the facts.” Varys folded his hands in his lap.
“Daenerys is fighting Tywin behind closed doors, but Ned Stark only wanted
peace. He was no man’s enemy. Why kill him?”
“There are many who never liked the idea of a Jew so deep in Parliament,” said
Littlefinger, “much less at King Joffrey’s side. But I’m afraid that’s just the
beginning. Cersei has hated the Starks ever since Joffrey was poisoned. She
openly blamed Sansa Stark at the time.”
“Ridiculous,” Olenna spat, sharing a glance with Littlefinger before
redirecting. “Sansa was, what, thirteen when the king died? Could a thirteen-
year-old girl sweeter than honey commit murder? She was supposed to be his
wife. Cersei is a lunatic.”
“A smart lunatic, unfortunately. One with ties to the most vengeful man in
Europe.” Varys closed the file and handed it back to Ros, who placed it in the
suitcase where it belonged. “Walder Frey and Roose Bolton burned the Stark
family alive. But how does this gain them Lord Stark’s fortune, if that was
truly their motive? Sansa Stark has been missing for weeks and neither Jon nor
Arya Stark have been seen since Ned's death. With no next-of-kin, the money
goes to charity.”
“Unless Sansa marries.” Petyr worked his jaw; the idea of Sansa being wed to
Ramsay made his skin crawl, but he let the feeling hide beneath his mask. “I
believe Roose Bolton tricked Lord Stark into signing Sansa over to him before
his death. Roose is her legal guardian. If she marries his son, he inherits the
fortune with her.”
“And Roose can split the money with Walder Frey and Tywin.”
Littlefinger spread his hands. “Everybody wins.”
“How do you know all this?” Olenna narrowed her eyes at him. “Roose Bolton
forcing marriage seems rather unusual, wouldn’t you say? The girl’s not even
legal yet.”
“Maybe you should ask her.” Littlefinger’s expression was mischievous, his brow
quirked. “I won’t let you see her until she’s ready, though. No sense in
bringing her so much stress so soon.”
Varys shifted in Littlefinger’s peripheral. “You have her?” asked Olenna,
astonished. “Sansa Stark?”
“I have for several weeks.” Littlefinger could barely contain his elation at
their shock, but Petyr didn’t stay smiling for long. “She is safe under my
care. But she wasn’t under Roose Bolton’s. His son, Ramsay, kept her
imprisoned. I had a medical professional in my network examine Sansa the day
after she came to us. She confided in me that she was physically and sexually
abused, and all tests confirmed her claims.”
“DNA?” asked Varys. “Was there anything that can link Ramsay Bolton directly as
the identity of her attacker?”
“Unfortunately not,” Petyr replied. “She told us that she always cleaned
herself after his attacks.”
Olenna looked ill. She kept her hand over her mouth for a long time, eyes dark
with righteous anger. “That is truly vile.”
“And here I thought Littlefinger was the only monster I knew.” Varys frowned.
“I hope you’re being gentle with her. Your history with young women is…
questionable.”
Littlefinger couldn’t help but grin. “The women who work for me at The
Mockingbird are all willing participants, Varys. I’d tell you to see for
yourself, but you lack the parts required to make the most of it.”
“Believe me, I’m brought to tears at the thought of what I’m missing.”
“Oh, enough!” Olenna snapped. “Christ in heaven, it’s a miracle either of you
manage to get anything done.” She turned to Littlefinger, full of fire. “I want
to know why you’re telling us this. If you don’t have enough evidence to go
forward, why are you bringing it to us at all?”
“Because you’re going to help me put a stop to it.” Littlefinger dropped his
finished cigarette in Ros's cup of water. “I have an insider working on Roose
Bolton’s financial downfall, but money isn’t everything.
I need a leash and collar for a rabid dog.”
“Blackmail,” Varys clarified. “If you give me what I need, Littlefinger, I
would gladly be the prosecutor in a case against him.”
“I don’t want a court case. Even without money, he has Tywin’s backing and
Kevan Lannister is the new Chief Justice. Court would be a disaster.”
Littlefinger looked over to Ros, who procured two contracts from the briefcase
to hand to Varys and Olenna. “You know how this goes. Work for me and you’ll be
rewarded.”
Olenna eyed him warily. “Another one of your plots, then?”
Littlefinger shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“What exactly would we be doing for you?” asked Varys, scanning the contract in
hesitation. “I am a lawyer with my own firm. I can’t exactly be caught up in
plotting murder.”
“When has that ever stopped you?” Littlefinger sipped from his scotch,
grinning. “No, you’re terrible at it anyway. I want your little birds to bring
one of Roose’s little birds to me. Olenna will focus on the Lannisters.”
“Oh, will I?” Her tone was spiteful. “And why is that? Why should the Foreign
Secretary get involved in all this?”
Littlefinger stood from his chair. Ros set the suitcase aside to help him back
into his coat. “You were friends with Lord Stark,” he said. “Both of you were,
yet neither of you helped him in his time of need. You can help his daughter
now.”
Olenna studied him behind inquisitive eyes, knowing he had darker, unstated
intentions. Littlefinger met her stare with one of equal persistence until she
gave in. “For Ned, then. God knows he was the only good one among us.”
Olenna signed the contract, as did Varys, and Littlefinger took them eagerly.
“You’ll hear from me before the week is out.”
Unceremoniously, Littlefinger left them to their tea.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
The sun had fully set by the time Petyr returned to his manor on the eastern
edge of London. He unhooked his seatbelt when Ros pulled up to the entrance.
She kept her foot on the brake, eyeing Petyr expectantly as if waiting for him
to leave. He caught the hint.
“I wasn’t aware you had other plans,” said Petyr.
“Do I have to run everything by you? You’re not my mother.”
“This is my car.”
“And it’s your birthday.” Ros turned up the music on her radio and winked. “Get
out, old man. You’ll thank me later.”
She’s up to something. But after a long drive and days of little to no rest, he
wasn’t in the mood for an argument. Petyr stepped out of his car, trusting Ros
knew the punishment if anything happened to it, and closed the door behind him.
Ros stepped on the gas and pulled off down the driveway toward the connecting
street. He watched the taillights of his Bentley fade. What is she doing?
His phone vibrated. Petyr retrieved it from his pocket to read the texts in
their group conversation.
You better forgive us after this, Pete. – M
We are the best evil henchmen you’re going to find. - O
Honestly. Love us. Just be nice to her. Use a condom. - M
I can’t believe we’re drinking and texting in the same chat while sitting right
next to each other. We’re the best. - O
“For fuck’s sake,” Petyr muttered. He locked his phone and walked into the
manor, shrugging off his peacoat to hang it up in the closet. He opened his
mouth to call for the others and scold them for drinking on the job, near to
firing them completely for their lack of forward thinking.
His call was cut short. Petyr heard a voice, feminine and melodic, coming from
the dining room. Sansa. She was singing along to a song that played regularly
on the radio. The smell of cooking meat and seasoning was strong in the air as
he walked down the hall. Petyr stayed silent, pressing his hand against the
door and leaning in to hear her better.
Sansa was belting out the lyrics to the song as though she’d written it
herself. Her voice held the perfect vibrato, exquisite pitch and tone. Not for
the first time, she left Petyr entranced. It would be well within reason to ask
her to sing for him, but he stood frozen instead, waiting.
Sansa remained unaware of her audience. “I’m not gonna write you a love song,
‘cuz you—ouch!” She hissed and jumped, having injured herself on something in
the room. Petyr grinned. “Dang it dang it dang it.” He heard her step around
the table and exit toward the kitchen, muttering something about stupid chairs.
His curiosity got the better of him. When Petyr was certain she was no longer
in the room, he pushed open the door to see what she’d been doing.
He was left speechless.
The long dining table was half-covered in homemade food. Cooked vegetables
marinated with spice, potatoes and mushrooms and onions and zucchini. A bowl of
scones and a loaf of braided bread. Pomegranate wine. Red velvet cake wrapped
in cream cheese frosting and covered in chocolate shavings and strawberries.
All of his favorite foods, minus the main course.
All for him.
Sansa had started singing again when she entered the dining room. In her hands
was a platter of crusted lamb with a black currant gastrique, lined with
polenta and heirloom carrots with a spiced yogurt side. Just the way he liked
it. She gasped when she noticed Petyr standing in the doorway and nearly lost
her grip on the meal she’d worked for. The two of them stood in mutual shock,
neither one sure what to say until Sansa gave him a sheepish grin. “Happy
birthday.”
Petyr stayed still. He watched Sansa, her honest smile and sky-colored eyes
that had haunted him for weeks. He turned to the Bluetooth speaker at the
corner of the room where her new phone was placed. Petyr walked over and
unplugged them both. The song she’d been singing was abruptly cut off, leaving
nothing but silence.
Her smile fell. She shifted nervously, setting down the platter of lamb on the
table and stepping away. She was wearing a red apron covered in flour
handprints and smudges of seasoning, and she looked winded, her hair up in a
bun despite the flyaway that fell in her face. She was beautiful. He was a
damned fool to think any outcome other than this could have befallen him.
Sansa could not stop her kindness no matter her circumstances, and that was
what made her so impossible.
“Happy birthday?” Petyr asked. He crossed the room to her, shaking his
head when she took a step back. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not angry.”
Sansa fumbled with her fingers and curled loose strands of hair behind her ear.
“I know you don’t like to celebrate your birthday,” she said. “They all told me
not to, but you’ve done so much for me. I thought the least I could do was make
you dinner.”
Petyr looked to the table again. His tongue passed over his teeth in thought.
He'd admittedly had other, darker things in mind for her repayment when the
time came, but Sansa had left him surprised with something kinder. Purer.
“You’re not upset, are you?” she asked quietly. “I thought you’d like it. It’s
all your favorite foods. Lamb, red velvet cake, pomegranate wine, there’s even
chocolate mint ice cream in the freezer for later. I asked the others what you
liked…” Sansa trailed off, seemingly embarrassed, and cast her eyes to the
floor.
“You made all this?” Petyr gestured to the table. “Everything?”
“Mhm.” Blue eyes flickered up to his. “I’ve been working since three, I think.
But that doesn’t matter. Everyone deserves a nice dinner on their birthday.”
“So they do.” Petyr felt a smile take him. He tried to mask it by rubbing his
chin, feeling like an idiot for how pleased he was. “I haven’t celebrated my
birthday in nearly thirty years,” he confessed, “but it would be rude to walk
away from your efforts. And you’ve baited me with my favorite things. Clever
girl.” He chuckled under his breath. “Just don’t sing Happy Birthday. You’ve a
lovely voice, my dear, but it might be awkward when it’s just the two of us.”
Sansa beamed then, a smile so great it almost pained him to look at. “That
sounds like a fair trade to me.”
As always, Sansa was wonderful company. The two unlikely friends were deep in
conversation before either of them had taken a bite from their plates. She
raved about the upcoming American election, a topic he’d gladly dragged her
into, and offered her opinion on who should win. They talked about her studies
in philosophy after the completion of Utopia, breached the topic of her mental
care under Ros and Olyvar, and even discussed growing up in the Stark
household, a subject Petyr had always been curious about. He was captivated by
Sansa's glow when she spoke of family. He listened to her go on about Purim and
Rosh Hashanah and other Jewish holidays, but his focus stayed fixed on watching
her giggle at her favorite memories.
He wondered how it felt; being comfortable in one’s past.
“Petyr?”
“Mm?” He raised his brow, sipping at the wine he’d been drinking too much of.
His chest felt warm, light like air, but when he glanced to the bottle it was
only half-empty.
“I asked if you remember anything about your family.”
“Of course. Apologies, Sansa, it’s been a long day.”
“I understand.” She smiled and leaned back in her chair, a glass of water in
her hands. She’d opted out of wine due to her new anti-anxiety medication.
Their meals finished, Petyr studied her with a desire he couldn’t contain, eyes
lingering at the slope of her neck. What to tell.
“I don’t remember my parents much,” said Petyr. “They died when I was eight. My
father was from Chicago, a soldier during World War II, and my mother was the
daughter of a sheep farmer on the Fingers.”
“Your father must have been brave,” said Sansa. She leaned closer, somehow
interested in the topic of his family. “Where are the Fingers?”
“It’s not an official map-marked location, but there’s a stretch off the Swiss
Alps that looks like fingers reaching toward Lake Lucerne. Locals call them The
Fingers. I was born there, in Switzerland.”
“The Fingers,” Sansa repeated. Her back went straight, eyes bright with the
lightbulb that went off in her head. “Is that why they call you Littlefinger?”
“That’s where it came from, yes." Petyr rubbed his chin. It was strange to
think back on those memories, now. "Your uncle Edmure gave me that nickname. I
hated it, but it stuck, and it’s not entirely inaccurate. I was a small boy.
I’m still not the tallest of men.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Though I
suppose Kleinerfinger would be more appropriate, given my origins.”
“Is that German?”
He nodded. “Swiss German. My mother tongue. I learned English too, and some
Gaelic when I was in Ireland. But German was the first.”
“Oh. Strange, all I hear is a British accent when you talk. And a bit of Irish,
too. It comes out sometimes.” Sansa scooted her chair closer in excitement, and
Petyr watched her, amused. “You should say something in German. Mum taught us
some Gaelic, but I’ve never heard German before. Not polite German, anyway.”
She toyed with the Star around her neck. Petyr could guess what she was
referring to.
“You want to hear Swiss German?” Petyr asked, mouth quirking devilishly. He
thought of the lewd things he could say, all the filth he could tell her that
he couldn’t yet in English. But there was only one thing that consistently came
to mind. He held her gaze in earnest. “Ich bin froh, das du mich aglüte hesch.”
I’m glad you called me.
Sansa smiled as though she understood. “What does that mean?”
Petyr chose not to reply. Leaving Sansa to her curiosity, he stood from his
seat to collect the dishes and stack them on top of each other. Sansa reached
to help. Petyr stopped her by taking gentle hold of her wrist, and she froze.
“Let me. You’ve done too much today as it is, and your hands are still
healing.”
“You?” Sansa teased. “Doing dishes?”
“You think I worked my way to a position of power not knowing how to clean?” He
shook his head at her and grinned. “Go start a fire in the hearth. I’ll be with
you shortly.”
“Okay. Thank you.” Sansa smiled to show her gratitude. She tried to pull back
her hand, but he squeezed it tightly.
“On one condition,” said Petyr, looking into her eyes. “You have to share that
ice cream with me. Mayana will steal it if she finds out it’s here.”
Sansa giggled. Petyr watched anxiety slip through the cracks in her pretty
face, leaving nothing but gentle ease. “I can’t turn down ice cream.”
“I didn’t think so.” He let go of her arm and watched her leave, staring at
where she’d been.
Cleaning dishes was an easy task. Sansa had gone to the living room, leaving
Petyr to his job with soapy hands and rolled-up sleeves. It didn’t take long.
When determined, Petyr was quite the diligent cleaner. He dried his hands after
the work was done and served two bowls of chocolate mint ice cream, taking both
in-hand before entering the living room. Sansa was sitting upright on the brown
leather couch. He could see her dress now that the apron was gone. A button-
down navy thing, thin in fabric and modest in style. The fire in the hearth
danced off Sansa’s Irish hair, making her glow like a flame all her own. Her
beauty was frustrating in the way it made him stop and stare.
Sansa smiled up at Petyr when he came to her. She took her offered dessert and
rested back against the arm of the couch, ankles crossed atop the cushions.
Petyr sat beside her feet and propped his own on the edge of the coffee table,
legs outstretched, and pushed out a long sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding.
He closed his eyes and rested his head back. It felt good to unwind. Maybe I
should forgive those two after all.
“Are you already tired?” asked Sansa. “It’s only ten.”
“Mm. Yeah. All that wonderful food, plus the car ride and dealing with
unexciting politics. Other people’s bullshit.” Petyr winced, stretching his
back before coming to rest again. “It occasionally drains me.”
Sansa wiggled her toes and took a bite of ice cream, seemingly quite happy. “I
could give you a shoulder massage sometime, if your back bothers you. I used to
give them to Father and Robb. Even Jon, when he was home.”
There’s an idea. Petyr smirked, trying to keep his sexual thoughts out of a
conversation they didn’t yet belong in. “A back massage?” He raised his head
from the sofa. “You would do that?”
“Why not? I’ve given Olyvar one already. Ros too. You’ll have to wait until my
hands heal, but I’d be happy to lend some help.” Sansa smiled, pure and sweet
without any inclination to his perverted ideas. “Especially for an older
gentleman.”
“Older gentleman?” Petyr’s laughed and sucked the ice cream from his spoon,
feeling half his age. “I turned forty-three today, Sansa. I don’t think I’m at
that point yet.”
“If you say so,” she giggled in reply.
“You should be nicer, young lady.” Petyr placed his bowl of ice cream on the
table. He turned to face Sansa, propping his legs up on the couch to rest side-
by-side with hers. His tone was playful to ensure she knew he was joking. “I
saved you from the streets of London. It would be a shame if you found your way
back there.”
“Psh. I can handle London. It’s filled with tossers anyway.” Sansa waved her
hand. “And for the record, Mr. Baelish, you didn’t save me at all. I saved
myself.”
Petyr frowned. Sansa had saved herself, facing terrible consequence for the
sake of her own survival. Were they so different, him and her? Sansa had chosen
to live, to be something greater than the horror that held her, and while it
had taken Petyr much longer to discover his worth, he’d done so too. Petyr
turned to the crackling fire, mind lingering on the things he’d done to endure.
Her leg brushed his. By the look on her face, he could tell she’d been thinking
similarly.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” said Petyr. His voice was raw. “Anything.”
Sansa leaned over and placed her bowl on the table. Her movements were
cautious. She fumbled with her hands, fighting for words to say until she stood
and began to pace the room. He watched her closely. “You held me,” Sansa
muttered. Her eyes were soft; he could see her open heart through them. “When I
had that nightmare, you held me and you didn’t leave for hours.”
The memory wasn’t one he liked to recall. Holding Sansa was one thing, but
pulling her from the edge of insanity was another. “I did.”
“People say that you’re despicable. Barbrey Dustin, she said you were a
monster.” Sansa looked to the floor, then up at him. “You don’t agree with
them, do you?”
Petyr was taken off-guard. He felt Sansa there, at the base of the walls he’d
spent decades building, scratching at the stone with pick and chisel. She made
him squirm. Uncomfortable with her position over him, Petyr stood from the
couch and came to her. He matched the backwards steps she took in retreat.
“I am despicable, Sansa. You think taking the Boltons and Lannisters from power
is going to leave my hands clean? Do you think they’re not bloodstained
already?”
She didn’t respond. He continued, moving closer.
“You’re a smart girl. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m an innocent man.”
Her hand reached out to stop him, pressing against his chest. Sansa’s back met
the wall and their bodies were inches apart. He felt the heat in his veins
again, strange and familiar, but he shoved it away in favor of a tangible
darkness. He placed a hand against the wall beside her head and kept grey-green
eyes locked with hers.
“You’re not despicable,” she whispered.
Petyr’s free hand cupped her chin. “And what makes you say that?”
“Because you held me. You held me and you didn’t let go.”
There it was. The truth. Petyr released his tension in a sigh, shoulders
lowering in defeat. Her hand stayed on his chest. He could feel her fingers
curling into the fabric of his shirt, over the buttons and seams down the
center. He wondered what she was clinging to. Petyr removed his hand from her
face to take her injured palm in his, planting a soft kiss to her broken skin.
Sansa’s eyes truly opened. No longer was she anxious to be close, and for a
moment he dared to breach the waters of her trust. She would forgive him for
overstepping, wouldn’t she? She could forgive a small mistake. But the memory
of Sansa's screams, the look in her eyes when she’d wielded the knife… Petyr
never wanted to see it again. If pursuing her was what he really wanted,
patience was the only way.
“Have you had any nightmares since then?” Petyr kept hold of her hand. “Be
honest.”
Sansa didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Instead of taking advantage of an
opportunity, Petyr opted for the path of chivalry, defending it with the lie
that it was all for selfish gain. “Maybe I can allay your fears for one night.”
He squeezed her hand. Sansa followed where he led. Petyr walked with her up the
stairs and to her room, closing the door after her. She let go of his hand and
walked halfway to the bed before stopping. Petyr saw the fear in her eyes. “I
won’t touch you,” he promised. “Only enough to help you sleep.”
Sansa wrung her hands. “You just said you were despicable,” she reminded him.
Petyr chuckled. He took her hand again and led her to the mattress’s edge. “I
am,” he agreed. “But not to you.”
Sansa offered a broken smile that he saw in the moonlight. Petyr let go of her
to climb on her canopy bed, settling in the center until he was comfortable. He
patted his chest twice in summons. Sansa curled up at his side, her head
resting on the spot he’d called her to. Petyr felt her sigh as he rubbed her
back. Sansa was such an affectionate girl, so physical and weak to the touch,
and so was he. Already they complimented each other. In company, intellect,
passion and interests.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” she whispered.
“You know how it is when we strain ourselves,” he replied. “Us older
gentlemen.”
Sansa smiled. Petyr smiled, too. The wine could not be blamed.
She fell quiet after a time, her sighs fading to soft breaths and loose arms
around him. It didn’t take her long to drift to sleep. Petyr pulled his phone
from his pocket, certain the three idiots who worked for him would want an
update on his night. He wasn’t wrong. Petyr unlocked his phone to 207 unread
text messages in the group conversation. “Jesus,” he muttered in disbelief,
opening them and skimming through what he could.
I hope they’re not having sex. He’s a freak. - R
It’s her choice if they are. She’s not made of glass, she’s the stuff of steel.
- M
Poetic! Tattoo that on my forehead after I’m done with this bloke in the gray
hat. - O
Were they texting each other in the same bar? Petyr thought with a shake of his
head. Mayana’s texts had gone completely incoherent and Olyvar had stopped
responding altogether, but at the end of the thread was a message from Ros
received about an hour ago.
How’s it going? - R
Petyr thought of a response, his hand moving from Sansa’s waist to the back of
her head. Touching her felt like freedom. He placed a kiss to her crown as if
it was all he was meant to do, unable to resist, and took a deep inhale of her
sweet-smelling hair.
He knew how to respond. Petyr started typing.
It was nice. You’re all fired.
Petyr sent his message and turned off the screen, placing it beside him in
favor of Sansa’s arm. His fingertips lazily grazed her skin. He ached to roll
her over and plant kiss after kiss on every inch of her, to taste her, to be as
lecherous as he yearned to be. But there was something indescribably pure just
in holding her that made sex seem almost unattractive. Almost.
“I’m glad,” muttered Sansa.
“Mm?”
“I’m glad it was nice for you.”
Petyr didn’t respond as Sansa nestled deeper into his arms. His instinct was to
pull her closer, pressing another kiss to her head. He didn’t know where the
line of their relationship had been crossed, but it had been. She’d cracked
open his rib cage and settled in where no one else belonged. And worst of all,
she was comfortable there.
Petyr sighed into her hair and resigned to surrender for the night. He closed
his eyes and kept her tight against him, reconsidering his intentions all the
while.
Chapter End Notes
     i literally saved this in my documents as BARF.docx
     Okay. You got two chapters this week, children, because your sin
     mother is generous. But I hope you guys don't expect this on the
     regular; I've got a schedule to keep between medical issues and full-
     time college, so please be patient with the week-by-week updates! I
     promise this story is worth the wait! :') I'd update faster if I had
     the time.
     Rad Trivia: This chapter name was supposed to be just "Antares",
     named after the brightest star in the Scorpius constellation (the
     star is also called "Scorpio's Heart" or "Heart of the Scorpion"
     ognaoigjewoiagr) but a friend told me that there's an artist--named
     Joe Webb--who has a series called Love_&_Antares. LOOK AT IT. IT'S
     BEAUTIFUL. Thus, this chapter's title and image were born. And I
     screamed for forty years.
     We also get a little dabble of Petyr's backstory here! It goes father
     than just this, but he's not about to open up all the way yet.
     Patience, my lovelies. He's a guarded dude.
     BUT ALSO OLENNA AND VARYS??? GOD. I just love the politics of this
     story, I worked so hard to make it right, lol. I hope it all pays off
     in the end.
     See you next Saturday! (For real this time.)
***** Phantoms *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
I racebended a group of characters for the purpose of realism. It just doesn't
make sense for the Wildlings to be a bunch of white people when the Wall is a
military base in Afghanistan, does it? I'll explain further in the endnotes.
                              soundtrack choice:
                        [organs;_of_monsters_and_men]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               17 NOVEMBER, 2016
Food ran out twice as fast with two mouths to feed. Arya had survived hunger
before, able to balance her meals to keep just off the edge of starvation, but
staying stocked was one of Jon’s constant worries. They couldn’t go hungry with
goals to accomplish. Arya knew how to use her own reserves, but Jon was
healing, and he needed all the nourishment he could get.
Another trip to the store. It felt like all she did these days was shop.
Arya pushed her trolley down each grocery aisle. It felt good to wear new
clothes again, fresh jeans and a winter jacket purchased with her cage
winnings. Fake glasses and a fake name concealed her identity. The police had
stopped looking for her long ago, so it was relatively safe to walk around in
less populated areas. Less risk. Arya glanced to the list Jon had given her,
wanting to get back to him as soon as possible.
Why would anyone put meat in a can? Arya wondered, scowling at Spam on the
nearest shelf. The idea of it repulsed her. She picked up a can, turning it
over to read the ingredients. Pork shoulder? Since when does Jon eat pork? Arya
groaned in disgust and tossed a few cans into the cart. Apparently Spam was a
delicacy among soldiers. They’d found multiple uses for it in Afghanistan; mix
it with eggs, stir it in vegetable soup, stuff it in sandwiches or between
crackers, and so on. Arya had gagged when Jon salivated at the memories. You’d
think they could feed soldiers better, with all that they do.
Arya trudged on through the store. She picked up a few of the necessities; dog
food for Ghost, orange juice, a huge jar of Nutella, bread and milk and butter,
noodles and sauce, peanut butter and jelly, a few boxes of mac n’ cheese and
several cans of Progresso. All on sale. Arya was an excellent shopper. Her mum
had always taken her out for groceries when she’d fight with Sansa, just to get
out of the house for a while. But Mum had coupons. I bet she could get all this
for half of what I’ll pay. Arya didn’t want to think of her mother for long,
though, and distracted herself by picking up a bag of Sour Patch Kids. Yeah. I
can treat myself.
When she was done checking the items off her list, Arya lined up her cart
beside the self-checkout machine. No way would she face a cashier that could
recognize her. Arya took each item and scanned it, trying to zone out as she
continued with her dull routine.
She heard a voice. His voice.
“No, Mum. Let me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gendry. That’s far too heavy for you.”
Arya froze.
“It’s just a bag of cat food. Not even as heavy as Weasel. That cat’s always
eating something.”
Arya wanted to scream. Scream and flee and cry and hurt. Gendry Waters, her
best friend, the one person she’d loved who hadn’t been killed or tortured,
stood behind her at the opposite checkout, buying food for that stupid fat
feline she’d mistaken for a weasel when it was a kitten. It was just her luck,
that the friend who'd moved from London to avoid the Lannisters would run into
her here, now. He can’t see me, she panicked. It’ll just put him in danger.
“If you insist on carryin’ all that, you can,” said Gendry’s mother. “Just be
careful not to drop it like last time.” Arya remembered Ms. Waters’ blonde
hair, how she always smiled and asked Arya how her family was doing whenever
she came over. Arya wondered if his mum's spaghetti was still the best thing on
earth.
Unable to resist, Arya spared Gendry a glance. He heaved the sack of cat food
over his shoulder. He’s gotten stronger, she thought, he was always so strong.
Realizing she’d stopped scanning her items, Arya quickly continued and ignored
the shadow of her past lurking close by.
After a time, Arya heard them leave. Gendry looked good, at least. He was
growing a beard. I wish I could have seen him more. But she couldn’t afford to
be weak, not in public. Arya scanned her items much faster. She shoved a fifty-
pound note into the machine and took her change, filling her empty backpack
with food, not bothering to put the trolley away.
Someone grabbed her arm. She knew it was him. She wasn’t angry when he turned
her around.
“Arya,” panted Gendry, the boy from better times. Joy spread over his face. He
must have dashed back into the store after helping his mother, his chest rising
and falling with rushed breath. “It’s you, yeah? I’m not just seein’ things?”
Arya's arm fell limp in his hold. It’s not safe. The Lannisters know about him,
I shouldn’t… But his eyes were so blue, so earnest and honest. How could she
deny him? Arya took a deep breath and snatched his wrist. “Shut up.”
“What’re you—”
“Shut up.” Arya clutched him tight and walked out of the store, not causing a
scene or giving anyone reason to look twice. She stepped outside and around the
perimeter of the building with Gendry in tow, saying nothing until she reached
the back where no one would see them.
He didn’t hesitate with his questions. “What’s goin’ on? It’s been months,
where have you been? I’ve—” Gendry paused. “Mum n’ I’ve been worried sick about
you.”
“You should still be worried. You can’t know I was here.” Arya hated saying the
words, telling him that they couldn’t meet like this again, maybe not ever. But
it had to be done. She didn’t want his blood on her hands. “You should turn
around and go home and forget all about me.”
Gendry shook his head. “No way in hell am I gonna do that.”
Tears stung her eyes. Arya wanted so badly to let them fall, to finally
collapse and weep for all that she’d lost and left behind. It would be so easy
to break for him. But there was still work to do, still a sister to save, and
no best friend in the entire world could stop her from rescuing Sansa, wherever
she was. “Gendry, you have to. There are people looking for me. Bad people.
They’ll find you if they see us, they’ll hurt you.”
“So? I can take a bit a’hurt.”
“No! No.” She clenched her fists at her side. “You can’t help me this time, I
don’t want you to get killed. I lost everyone but you.” Her voice was shaking,
throat burning with how strongly she held back her sorrow. “You need to get out
of here.”
Gendry’s eyes searched hers. Maybe he could see what she’d done to stay alive,
the months of stealing and fighting and losing herself, how tired it made her.
But if he saw, he didn’t say a word about it. Gendry took her face in his
hands. Arya almost whimpered. “You stay safe then, yeah? And you come back when
it’s all over.”
“You’d better get good marks or I won’t come back at all.”
Gendry chuckled, a hesitant sound reserved for goodbyes. He removed his hands
from her face and dug into his pockets, pulling out a few wrinkled pounds and
loose change. “Here. Take this. I don’t need it.”
“Gendry—”
“Just take it, would you?” He shoved the money in her hand and curled her
fingers around it. “I wish I could give you more.”
“Thanks.” Arya’s smile was weak. She knew that if Gendry embraced her she
wouldn’t let go, so Arya took a few backward steps, increasing the distance
between them. “Tell Weasel I said hi.”
“She’s a cat, Arya, not a person.”
“I still miss her. And you.” Arya stashed Gendry’s money in her pocket, keeping
her pace until she was so far away that she had to shout for him to hear her.
Gendry was still standing there, waiting. “I’ll come back, Gendry! I promise!”
She watched him wave from across the lot. “You better!”
Arya was laughing, then. He was too far to see, and she was grateful for that.
She wiped her cheeks with the sleeves of her coat and turned away, walking as
fast as she could down the sidewalk on a frigid autumn night with Sour Patch
Kids as her comfort.
The past several weeks left her jaded. Jon and Arya had found a few abandoned
homes to stay in at first, a bridge for shelter or a car to sleep in, but the
risk of discovery became too great. Men of the Night’s Watch were around every
corner. Arya had seen them showing pictures of Jon's face to people on the
streetside. Deciding it better to leave London entirely, the siblings had
hitchhiked across England to Manchester. Jon had a friend there who could help,
he said. Jeyne Heddle. A girl he’d met in Israel during his bar mitzvah years
ago. Jeyne was an innkeeper who ran a junky old motel she’d inherited from her
grandmother, and she was more than happy to give Jon a room for a lower rate,
as well as protection should any unwanted visitors come knocking. Arya didn’t
mind going on supply runs if it meant keeping her brother safe. He needed a
place to heal, and for now, a shoddy motel was the best they could hope for
while they came up with a plan.
Arya fumbled with the key in her pocket. She unlocked the door to their room,
swinging it open and closed, and locked it again in every possible way. Ghost
perked his ears when she entered. She heard the dull sounds of the evening news
and Jon loudly eating chips on his bed. He was surrounded by the canned food
they’d had left, with a notepad in his lap and one arm in a sling.
Jon looked up at her, instantly concerned. “What happened?”
Arya hated that he could read her so well. She put her backpack on the table
and unloaded her purchases, bringing some items to the mini-fridge and others
to the cupboards. “Nothing happened. It went fine.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
A sigh. Jon knew how to push her: by being as gentle and understanding as he
could. “I saw Gendry.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Did you talk to him?”
“A bit.” Arya stacked boxes of noodles behind the peanut butter, trying not to
think of Gendry’s eyes. “I told him we couldn’t see each other anymore. Not
until we’re all safe again.”
“I’m sorry you had to do that.” Jon’s tone was filled with sorrow, and Arya
could feel his sympathy from across the room. “It’s never easy sayin’ goodbye
to those you love.”
“It wasn’t goodbye. Well, it was, but just a temporary one. I’ll see him
again.” Arya closed the cabinet and tossed her empty backpack to the corner of
the room. “When we’re finally in Scotland with Sansa, I can convince him to
move with us. I’m sure it’d be safer there anyway. For a king’s son. That’s why
he moved to Manchester in the first place.”
“Yeah.” Jon smiled, but his eyes did not. He turned back to the journal in his
lap, glancing at the food around him and jotting notes. Arya didn’t say
anything more on the subject. When she was done putting away the groceries, she
came to Jon curiously.
“What are you doing?” Arya hopped on the bed, knocking over a small stack of
canned beans. “Oops.”
“S’alright,” said Jon. “I was done with those if you want to put ‘em back.”
Arya didn’t want to, so she stayed put. “I’m writing down how much we have of
everythin’. Stays better organized.”
“Is that something they do in the Night’s Watch?”
“Yeah. Just when we’re out in the field.” Jon closed the notebook and tossed it
on the nightstand between the two beds. His mattress creaked when he moved.
“Keeping track of everything meant we knew what we had and what we didn’t, or
when someone stole somethin’ for a late snack. Commander Mormont hated that.”
Jon chuckled under his breath. “Poor Sam. It was always Sam.”
Arya knew who Sam was. Jon’s best friend, an archiver for the Watch. She knew
about Sam and Grenn and Pyp and Edd, Commander Mormont and Lieutenant Colonel
Thorne and all the others.
The only one Jon never talked about was Val.
Arya picked up a can and read the label. “How are we doing on canned peaches?”
she asked playfully.
“Got three a’those. Should last us a while.”
“And beans?”
“Uhh. Four.”
“Ew.”
Jon grinned. “You said they were half price. I swear, you shop just like your
mum used to.”
“I know. I was thinking that when I was in the store.” Arya liked hearing the
comparison out loud. “She was good at finding the best deals.”
“I think that’s just a mum thing.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Deciding she was too hungry to talk, Arya hopped off the bed and pulled a Cup
of Noodles from the box on the floor. She poured some water in the foam cup and
placed it in the microwave, not caring about the proper directions, and let it
heat while she returned the cans on Jon’s bed back to their homes in the
cabinets. It was a strangely calming routine after months of homelessness. She
had never been so grateful for four walls, or the simple pleasures of a
microwave and a real bed. It was hard to take anything for granted anymore. Not
when she’d had nothing for so long.
A commercial break had ended by the time Arya nestled at Jon’s side with her
dinner. She twirled her fork in the cooked noodles and blew away the steam as
she listened to the headlines. Updates on Prince Renly and an actor Sansa used
to fawn over, Queen Myrcella’s marriage to some Spanish guy, stuff about the
American election that Arya couldn’t care less about. She considered changing
the channel until Ramsay Bolton’s face flashed center-screen, with the words
“BOLTON HEIR WIDENS SEARCH FOR SANSA STARK” running below. “Turn it up,” urged
Arya. “That’s Ramsay. See him?”
“Yeah, I see ‘im.” Jon turned up the television to hear the broadcaster’s
report.
“Over one month has passed since the disappearance of Chief Justice Eddard
Stark’s last surviving child, and not a single tip has led to her rescue.
Investigators feel certain they are searching for a body instead of a living
teenager, but Ramsay Bolton, her fiancé, refuses to give up hope. At a press
conference earlier this morning, he announced that he would widen his search
with the help of Home Secretary Lannister. Take a look.”
The screen changed to footage from the press conference. Arya scowled at
Ramsay’s false tears and Tywin Lannister standing tall beside him. She knew how
to read people. “Liars,” she muttered.
“We are doing everything we can to locate the Stark girl,” assured Tywin. “One
month without a trace doesn't mean her fate is sealed. We are still following
leads on potential kidnappers or locations she may have run to. I am confident
that Sansa Stark is still alive, and will do all I can to recover her intact.”
“Please,” pleaded a weeping Ramsay. “I’ll double the reward money if you want.
Nobody can replace her, she’s everything to me and I just want to hold her
again.”
“Liar,” Arya said louder. “Look at him. He’s a terrible actor.”
“Not to mention Tywin Lannister’s with ‘im,” said Jon. “He hated our family. So
did Cersei, especially after the whole Joffrey thing. Why would he be in on the
search for Sansa now?”
“To kill her, probably. Or take her again to get Father’s money.” Arya sighed
in frustration. “I bet he’s using MI5’s intel, too.”
“Yeah.”
When the news moved on to the weather forecast, Jon turned down the volume and
looked to his sister. “Do you think Sansa’s really out there?” he asked. “It’s
been so long.”
“So? People thought I was dead too. I survived.”
“That’s different. You weren’t a prisoner.”
“No, I was just in a car crash.” Arya gave him a sour look. Jon regretted his
words and apologized, but Arya knew he hadn’t meant to be spiteful, so she
forgave him. “I think she’s alive. Ramsay’s still trying to look for her, so
they clearly don’t know where she is. And if they don’t know, she’s gotta be on
the move or something. Maybe with homeless people like I was.”
“Or being protected by someone.” Jon frowned. “Either way, I don’t think she’s
completely safe.”
“Nope. Not with Shitface Bolton or Queen Crazy running about.”
Jon stared at her. Arya stared back, raising her brow in question, but her
brother only chuckled and turned back to the screen. The news switched over to
a gameshow neither of them had interest in, so Jon turned off the telly and
placed the remote back on the nightstand. “What time is it?”
Arya leaned over. “Clock reads ten.”
Jon yawned, stretching his good arm and scratching his beard. “I should
probably change this, then.” He pointed to his shoulder. “Mind gettin’ me my
bag?”
“Sure.” Arya slid off the bed and grabbed Jon’s Night’s Watch bag, where all
the medical supplies had been stashed. She brought it to her brother and helped
him remove his shirt, careful not to aggravate the healing wound, and from
there he was able to redress and clean it the way Yoren had instructed. Arya
watched him work. His body held so many new scars; Arya recognized the shapes
of blades and bullets, each with their own story to tell. What did you go
through? she wanted to ask. But Jon never talked, so she didn’t pry. He would
tell her when he wanted to.
Arya set Jon's bag on the floor when he was done, but a loud thump called her
attention back to it. She picked it up again. Jon pulled his shirt back over
his head as Arya removed the medical things from his bag in search of what had
made the noise. A yellow scarf sat at the bottom, soft in texture and smelling
faintly of jasmine. Something was wrapped inside. “What’s this?”
Jon looked over. His eyes became glazed with more agony than she’d ever seen,
and it worried her beyond reassurance. “Things,” he ground out. “For the
family.”
Arya removed the scarf and the mysterious items inside, setting it all on her
lap. She opened it carefully. Wrapped within the scarf were small gifts and
trinkets from different parts of the world, all in various shapes and sizes,
each for a certain member of the Stark family. Arya picked up the small folded
yarmulke, hand-stitched with a golden Star of David in the center. “For Bran,”
said Jon. “I saw a woman selling them when I was in Israel. Thought he’d like
one, since he wore them all the time.”
Bran would have loved this, thought Arya. He would’ve thanked you a hundred
times. She set aside the yarmulke to pick out Jon’s other gifts, and listened
as Jon explained them. “A hamsa for Robb and Talisa’s home, from a village in
Afghanistan. A mancala set from Egypt for Rickon.” Jon’s voice began to break.
“Sansa, a scarf from Iran because she likes pretty things. I got your mum that
rosary from Rome. I wanted the Pope to bless it, but I just missed ‘im. And the
dagger’s for you.” He pointed to it. “Stiletto dagger from Austria. They called
it ‘Needle’. It was a gift from the family that housed me for Rosh Hashanah, a
blacksmith named Mikken. Good people. You’d’ve liked ‘em.”
So many questions ran through Arya’s head, but only one stood out. The most
important. “All that time you were gone, all the places you went… You didn’t
know about the fire?”
Jon shook his head. “Not until I got to Paris. That whole time, I didn’t know I
was buyin’ gifts for the dead.” Arya watched his jaw tense, both of them trying
to bottle their emotions because it was all they knew. “Margaery Tyrell was the
woman I met there. Works for the UN. She told me they’d all died months ago in
some terrible fire, that you were presumed dead and Sansa was in the hands of a
psychopath. When she snuck me into London, I went to a few bars tryin’ to find
some work so I could save up money to get Sansa and I to Scotland. But I was
recognized. Chased by men of the Watch. They shot me, and Ghost found you.”
Arya felt like crying. Not for herself. Just for Jon. She fingered the fringe
of the yellow scarf, still an unnamed possession for someone Arya must not have
known. “What about this?” she asked quietly. “For Mum too?”
“No.” Jon’s voice was half a whisper. “That’s my wife’s hijab.”
Val. Arya remembered him saying the name, once. Her real name was Nawal, but
he’d mispronounced it as Val and she’d teased him for it. He’d called her that
ever since. “You married a…”
“Yeah. I did.” Jon glanced to the scarf, every ounce of his pain shining
through tear-filled eyes. “At the Wall they call ‘em Wildlings, or worse, but
they’re not wild. They’re just people. Val was the protector of her village. We
were ordered to shoot it down. Somethin’ about terrorists, but there weren’t
any damn terrorists there, just a few families scrapin’ by. So I disobeyed my
orders. I protected ‘em from the Watch. They were innocent, Arya, they didn’t
do anything wrong. It’s not a crime to want to live a good life.” Jon’s eyes
were so distant that Arya wondered where he was, where he was traveling back
to. “Val thanked me for makin’ a case for her people. And almost every day
after, I’d sneak away from the Wall to see ‘er. Met her family. Her friends.
Saw her way of life. She’s beautiful, Arya, she’s just…” The words broke on his
lips, followed by a heavy sigh. “A few days after Father died, men of the Watch
were ordered to kill me. I still don’t know why. Sam told me to run away, so I
did, but not before stoppin’ at that village. I married Val that night. And I
told ‘er, “I have to find my family and make sure they’re safe. Then I’ll come
back for you, and we’ll all go to Scotland or somewhere new to live free.” She
agreed. I haven’t seen her since.”
Arya watched him struggle. His fists clenched and released, his breath was
slow. She couldn’t let him suffer by himself. She climbed on the bed and
wrapped her arms so tightly around Jon’s neck that she thought she might
strangle him. He pulled her even closer. Brother and sister wept, the first
time either of them had shed a tear since their reunion, and laid all their
despair at each other’s feet. Together, Jon had said weeks ago, but only now
did Arya feel bonded with him again.
Arya pulled away, laughing at how relieved she felt to finally, finally cry.
She settled comfortably across from Jon and reached for her noodles, now cold.
“Tell me about her,” said Arya. “Tell me everything there is to know about Val.
Tell me what happened while you were away.”
And he did. Jon relayed every detail of his near six-month journey from
Afghanistan to London. He told her about the families he stayed with during
Ramadan, how Palestine was a rare safe haven when constantly on the run. He
talked about dyeing Ghost different colors just to make him fit in. He recalled
all the people he’d met and the close encounters he’d endured, and the people
he’d killed just to see his family again. The clock passed midnight by the time
Jon was done. Neither of them wanted to sleep, so Arya shared her story too, of
the fighting and the homelessness and Jaqen’s drug-dealing, how Yoren had
dragged her from the car crash that killed their father. How she’d done all she
could to survive.
Whatever tension had been between them evaporated. Released, like a river from
a dam. Jon and Arya were united, working toward one goal, toward Sansa. Brother
and sister slept side-by-side, Ghost snoring at their feet, and Arya drifted to
the world of dreams hoping that her story could have a happy ending.
Chapter End Notes
     i would literally eat myself for the stark kids fyi
     POC WILDLINGS? WHAAAAT. Yeah. It just isn't realistic for them to be
     white folks. Before anyone rips me apart, no, I'm not implying that
     the people of Afghanistan are "wild" or "savage"; that's merely what
     the soldiers would think of them. Islamophobia is more rampant in the
     military than you'd think. Such are the tragedies of war. (Also, I
     love Val. Sorry for those expecting Ygritte. I personally prefer Val
     over Ygritte anyway, whoops. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)
     This chapter hopefully answered some questions, made ya teary and
     posed a few more inquiries for you, dear fans! Arya is difficult to
     write because her narrative is much more stripped and basic, whereas
     Sansa and Petyr are elaborate people, which aligns better with my
     personal writing style. This is definitely a learning experience. I
     hope I've been getting her voice right; I'm not worried about the
     others as I am about Arya. Tricky lil thing, so hard to pin down
     correctly.
     Also, next Saturday's update is some JUICY SIN, LEMME TELL YA. JUICY.
     SIN. Y'all gonna trip.
     See you then! ;) and thank you so much for your continued support!
***** Deep Down *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
     [your_heart_is_as_black_as_night;_melody_gardot] ◆ [dangerous_woman;
                                ariana_grande]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               10 DECEMBER, 2016
“Oh my god. Sansa, that’s…”
She lay back on her bed, feet hanging over the edge with her phone pressed to
her ear. Jeyne was silent on the other line, either in shock or disgust or
shame, Sansa didn’t know. She stayed quiet until her best friend spoke again.
Her voice was heavy with regret.
“I had no idea what was happening. Oh Sansa, I should have done something. Said
something.”
“It’s okay, Jeyne. You didn’t know.”
“But I should have.” Sansa heard Jeyne sit down on a creaky mattress. Stanford
wasn’t giving her the best accommodations, apparently. “The post to your
Instagram was sketchy at best, and you never said much when I messaged you on
Facebook. I didn’t even think it could be someone else behind your accounts.” 
“Yeah.” Jeyne should have known something was wrong, Sansa couldn’t deny it,
but it wasn’t in her nature to hold grudges anymore. Life was too short. “But
don’t hold it against yourself. I forgive you.”
“I don’t deserve to be forgiven.” Jeyne began to cry. Sansa frowned at her
tears, but part of her was grateful that her friend felt such remorse. It made
forgiveness easier. “If I’d called the police and reported it, maybe something
could’ve been done.”
“The police are bought, Jeyne. That’s why your parents had to move to
California with you. It wasn’t safe for them after I left that message. That’s
my fault.”
“No, none of this is your fault. Okay? You’re the strongest person I’ve ever
met, don’t let yourself think that you caused this.”
Sansa couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.” She sat up on her bed, toying with
the hem of her cream-colored skirt and remembering the good times she and Jeyne
had. Childhood memories weren’t easily tainted. “It’s… it’s alright now,
actually. I’m doing better.”
“I’m so glad.” Jeyne sniffled. “I know you can’t tell me where you are, but are
you safe at least? Away from that psychopath?”
“Yeah, I’m in a good place. In another country.” Sansa looked to Mayana, who
was sitting at a table by the window and playing cards with Olyvar. She gave a
wink and a thumbs up to approve Sansa’s white lie. “I’ve got friends here.
Every day we have little therapy sessions. Today we talked about how important
it is to be able to tell my story, now that I'm strong enough, and you were the
first person I thought to call.”
“Oh, Sansa. I just want to hug you.”
“I hope you can soon.”
Sansa walked to her bedroom window, peeking between the blinds. Petyr and Ros
were standing in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by a dozen
young models all dressed for the winter weather. They listened intently to
Petyr's unheard direction. “I’m getting an education too,” said Sansa. “I’m
studying anatomy right now.”
“That’s cool. To be a doctor or something?”
“I’m not sure. I’m just… just learning, I guess.” Petyr smacked the behind of
one of the women. Sansa scoffed and looked away, distracting herself with a
different topic. “There’s some interesting things in the body, though. Did you
know the appendix is shaped like a finger? I’d always thought it was more like
the liver or something.”
“Yes,” said Olyvar. “It’s like a little finger inside you.”
Sansa gasped. Mayana burst into hysteric laughter, slapping the table with her
hand.
“What’s going on?”
“I — oh my God, Jeyne, I’m sorry. Just some of the people here. They’re being
gross.” Sansa shot Olyvar a look. “I’m sorry, I have to go soon. I just wanted
to call you and… you know, tell you that I’m okay.” She switched the phone to
her other ear, pinching it between head and shoulder so she could straighten
her bed. “It’s getting late for you, isn’t it? Like two in the morning?”
“Yeah, it’s late. But I wanted to answer the phone for you.”
Oh, Jeyne. Sansa had forgotten how much she'd missed the comforts of close
friendship. “Thanks. I really appreciate it." 
“No problem. I missed you, and I’m really glad you told me all this. We should
talk every day. I’m gonna keep tabs on you this time.”
“Okay,” chuckled Sansa. “Get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Yep yep. Night, love.”
“Goodnight.” Sansa hung up the phone. The moment she did, Olyvar joined in
Mayana’s laughter.
“You are such a freak!” cackled Mayana. “Pete would give you a raise if he’d
heard you say that. 'Little finger inside you.' Classic.”
“It was too good to resist.” Olyvar glanced out the window. Sansa joined him,
watching the young women in the courtyard pick out Christmas lights from the
arms of a very happy Petyr Baelish. “Seems like there’s more than enough of him
to go around. Poor Sansa may never get a taste.”
Sansa sighed. They’d all been teasing her since they discovered how close she
and Petyr had become. All it took was a text from a frightened Sansa in the
night, and Petyr would come into her bed with open arms to lull her to sleep.
Sansa didn’t take offense at her friends’ jokes. If anything, they made her
laugh too. But seeing Petyr act so filthy with other women made her stomach
turn, and not in the good way. “He’s being awful with them,” she said when
Petyr began touching the hair of one of the redhead models. “He’s so…physical.”
“He’s always been like that,” Mayana replied. “Especially with redheads.” A
wink. Sansa’s cheeks flushed. “He’s not actually attached to any of those
girls, though. He just pays them extra to do outside work because he hates
getting his hands dirty.”
“Four?” asked Olyvar, gesturing to Mayana’s cards.
“Go fish, gay boy.”
Sansa huffed. “But why does he have to touch them? It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Oh, the girls adore him. He’s all they talk about when I’m around.” Olyvar
drew a card from the center pile and frowned at what he received. “They’re all
dying to know if Littlefinger’s finger is truly little at all.”
“Good luck.” Mayana snorted. “I never understood why he doesn’t just fuck every
single one of them. They’re hotter than sin.”
Sansa shook her head. “Why would he—” Wait, why wouldn’t he? He was
Littlefinger, after all, and Littlefinger always got what he wanted. Women were
likely no exception.
“Pete doesn’t just sleep around, contrary to what others like to believe. I
can’t even remember the last person.” Mayana leaned back in her chair. “God,
who was it?”
“Margaery Tyrell, I think.” Olyvar laid down a matching pair of cards. “They’re
always tearing each other’s clothes off when politics get heated. But that’s
been…what, a few months?”
“Probably.” Mayana shrugged. “He hasn't seen her since we picked up a pretty
homeless girl. Poor Margaery doesn’t even come close.”
Now their jokes made Sansa uncomfortable. She held herself, looking down at
Petyr and his entourage. He made eye contact with her. Petyr gave her a wry
smile before wrapping his arm around the nearest girl, who laughed and leaned
into him.
“He’s disgusting,” Sansa decided. She hoped he saw her disapproval. She pushed
away from the window and made for the door.
“Where are you going?” called Olyvar.
“Kitchen. I want some water.” 
Sansa left without another word.
She shouldn’t be so upset. Petyr was a scoundrel, notorious for his affections
with young women and his deceit with everyone else. But Sansa had thought she'd
meant more to him. I trusted him with my body and he uses girls like that. She
felt mistreated and put aside, as ridiculous as it seemed. There was nothing
romantic between them. Sansa stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water and
drank it eagerly. Let him do what he wants. Why should I care?
“Oh, Littlefinger!” cooed a sing-song voice. Sansa turned, watching Petyr kiss
one of his girls on the cheek as he stood in the kitchen doorway. “You’re such
a pervert. I don’t know why I come here.”
“I do.” Petyr motioned with his head to the outdoors. “Go on, Kayla. Tell the
others I want it all done by the time I return.”
“Anything for you.” The woman, named Kayla, gave Petyr a flirtatious wink
before closing the back door. Sansa straightened her spine. Petyr seemed quite
pleased with himself, buttoning his double-breasted coat and grabbing his keys
from the hook by the door. He paused when he saw Sansa leaning against the
counter, arms crossed.
“Interesting group,” fired Sansa. She took a drink of water. “How old are they?
University-aged? Just a few years older than me?”
Petyr smirked in that frustrating way of his. “Around there,” he confirmed.
“They make the most eager participants.”
Sansa scowled. She turned away from him to glare out the opposite window, her
back facing Petyr entirely. “Lucky you.”
She heard his footsteps. Sansa could feel Petyr move beside her, but she didn’t
look at him, not even when he faced her fully. “Do you know who these women
are, Sansa?”
“No, but you seem to be quite familiar with them.”
“I am. They work for me.” Petyr reached and gently turned her chin, fixing his
eyes on hers. “I run London’s red-light district. They are my employees, Sansa,
and I pay them extra to keep the aesthetic of my estate up and running.”
Sansa’s eyes widened. “I — prostitutes? But that’s illegal.”
“When has the law ever stopped me before? I own a brothel that poses as a strip
club. I am a purveyor of beauty and discretion.” He lowered his hand from her
face. “I’m not fucking them if that’s what you’re worried about. Every
businessman knows never to take from his own stock.”
“I wouldn’t — I’m not —” Sansa felt heat rise in her face. So that’swhat Mayana
was talking about. She felt foolish. “You just… seemed so happy around them, I
thought—”
“You thought I was touching them because it pleased me.” Petyr was so amused
that he smiled wider than she’d ever seen. She hated him for it. “It’s just a
game, my dear, one I play with all the young women who work for me. They
consent to it, I promise. And the only pleasure I take is watching them battle
each other for my affection.” He placed a hand on the back of her shoulder.
Sansa wished it wasn't so relaxing.
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I didn’t think I had to. The Mockingbird is only a side-business as far as I’m
concerned.” Petyr brushed her cheek with his knuckles in a way that made her
shiver. He stepped closer, invading the walls that were barely raised between
them. “Do you honestly think a few whores could please me more than what I
already have?”
Sansa stomach flipped as if he’d shaken her. “I don’t know.”
“You should. Especially by now.” Petyr kissed her cheek, dangerously close to
the corner of her mouth. Sansa knew she should be frightened of him, of his
unsubtle advances and secrets and plots, but she wasn’t the slightest bit
afraid of Petyr Baelish. Only of the effect he had, and the sudden aches he
brought. “I’m not happy because of the company, Sansa. I’m happy because today
is a good day. A day for business, for our plans, and for me.” Sansa caught the
fire in his stare when he pulled back. It engulfed her and she nearly reached
out to touch him again. “I’ll be home before eight. I expect to test you on the
organs in the body, as promised.”
“Tonight?” Sansa fought to regain her senses. She clutched her cup for sanity.
“I — if you’re busy, we can do it another time.”
“No, it’s alright. I’m looking forward to it.” Petyr turned away with mischief
in his eyes. “Study hard.”
He left Sansa there, standing in the whirlwind he’d pushed her to. How long had
it been since she’d wanted someone? Months? Years? Centuries? So long, she’d
almost forgotten what the craving could feel like. She chased away his ghost by
chugging the water in her glass, hoping clarity would surface at the bottom.
Sansa finished her drink and left the kitchen when she heard Ros squeal with
joy. The front living room had become a scattered mess, open boxes labeled
“CHRISTMAS” swallowing the furniture. Ros was in the process of untangling a
row of garland and Mayana was scrolling through her phone near the speakers,
picking holiday music. Olyvar opened a box of lights. They all looked up at
Sansa when she entered. “Look at you!” called Ros. “So cute with your lacy
skirt. You’ll match the decorations.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Sansa asked, feeling the tension in her body
dissipate. She approached one of the boxes and pulled out a few golden
Christmas trees, knickknacks for the mantle, and an antique nativity that
looked hand-painted. “I didn’t think Petyr was the religious type.”
“Oh, he’s not. A complete atheist.” Ros pulled down the black drapery in favor
of gold and crimson. “I was raised in church though, believe it or not, and
Olyvar comes from the most snot-nosed Christian family you’ll ever meet. We’re
not as faithful as you are, but little things like a nativity are a nice
touch.”
Sansa could understand that. She glanced around the room to find a place for
the nativity scene, wondering if she was allowed to put it up. Ros noticed her
confusion. She took the remaining pieces from the box and smiled in assurance
to Sansa. “Help us decorate, love. This is your home too. Come be a part of
it.”
Home, Sansa thought. For the first time, looking in Ros’s sea-blue eyes, she
felt those words were true. Ros and Sansa decorated the nativity atop a shelf
near the manor’s entrance, and when Mayana started playing holiday tunes, the
group of friends set about their work.
The bannisters were wrapped in garland and ribbons, strung with lights that
sparkled off-white. The curtains were switched, linens and towels and rugs
replaced to reflect a theme of warmth and togetherness. Poinsettia plants added
small splashes of festivity in the corner of every eye. The Christmas tree was
raised by the living room’s hearth, a massive thing nearly twice Sansa’s height
that required a ladder just to hang ornaments. Olyvar nearly broke his leg
standing on the highest rung, and if it wasn’t for Sansa holding the base, he
might have done so. The four of them kept watch for each other, helping when
needed and singing together when the song was right. Sansa kept thoughts of her
old family and new in her heart while she worked.
The group took a break after a few hours to roast pumpkin seeds and tell
stories over apple cider. By the time seven o’clock had come and gone, the
prostitutes — or as Ros preferred to call them, “working girls” — had finished
hanging the lights outside, making Petyr’s Cotswolds manor come alive as if
from the pages of a fairy tale. Sansa was so pleased that she’d applauded their
work and taken pictures. When the girls were sent home and the night too chilly
to stay outside, the four friends returned to the living room’s hearth and lit
a fire, adding final touches here and there to make everything look immaculate.
Ros hung a few stockings that had names stitched down the sides. Sansa couldn’t
read them from where she sat on the couch, cradling a handful of pumpkin seeds
in her hands.
Stockings were hung by the chimney with care. Sansa remembered her father, of
all people, reading The Night Before Christmas to his children every holiday.
She smiled to see a set of stockings in this new home, four of them lined up in
a row. Sansa leaned her head to the side and tried to read the names. “Who are
those for?”
“Lothor’s kids,” said Mayana. “You haven’t met them yet, but you will. He
spends every Christmas here with his family.”
“And those horrible triplets.” Olyvar shuddered in his chair. “I don’t know
what I’ll do if they break my car window again.”
“Please. They’re angels if you treat them nicely.” Ros lit a candle that
smelled of holly and cinnamon. “Mya’s raising them right.”
“How old are they?” asked Sansa.
“The triplets are eight and their daughter is… three?” Olyvar guessed. “The
boys are Robert, Myson and Lothor Jr., but we all call him Little Lothor. And
their daughter is Alyssa.”
“Alyssa is beyond precious, Sansa. You’ll adore her.” Ros took a seat in the
armchair opposite Olyvar, and Mayana hopped on the couch beside Sansa. She
giggled and propped her feet on Mayana’s lap. All four of them sat around the
crackling fire, content to rest after a long day.
“So… who are Lothor and Mya?” Sansa asked. “More of your friends?”
“Lothor is our super-secret agent in MI5,” Mayana replied. “Been in Pete’s
group about as long as Ros has, maybe a bit longer. Mya’s his wife. She’s a
vet. You’ll meet them at the Christmas party.”
Sansa snorted. “Petyr hosts a Christmas party? So much about that doesn’t make
sense.”
“He does! Well, we do.” Mayana adjusted her legs so Sansa’s feet could rest on
her thighs. “We convinced him a few years ago to throw a party every year and
invite his closest minions. Keeps everyone loyal, you know. People are more
likely to work for someone who’s nice and generous versus a complete dick.”
“And Petyr isn’t nice or generous, but he can put on a show for one night.”
Olyvar grinned in a way that was so very Baelish. “We have a few people over to
the house and we drink and talk and mingle. There’s a lot of hard work in this
business, Sansa. It’s nice to be able to unwind once a year, if only for a
day.”
“Not to mention the fabulous decorations,” said Ros with pride. She admired the
room they’d slaved over. “It gives a nice change to the place.”
Sansa could hardly believe there would be a Christmas party, but the thought
excited her. “My family had parties too,” she said. “We were a Jewish family
officially, but Christmas was the one thing my mother wanted to keep from her
Catholic traditions. We’d have family and friends over, Jewish and not, and
we’d all just… celebrate. Even though some of us were celebrating different
things.” Sansa smiled at the memories, rubbing her Star pendant between her
fingers. “It’ll be nice to have some of that back again.”
Mayana patted Sansa’s shin in assurance. “We won’t disappoint. We’ll have tons
of food to make. Tyrion always brings Turkish delicacies because of Shae, and
Mya makes this bitchin’ potato salad, oh! It’s just—”
The front door banged open. Sansa jumped. She didn’t see Petyr’s face over the
edge of the couch, but she heard his voice, rushed and sinister as he slammed
the door. “All three of you,” he spat. “With me.”
Olyvar was the first to leave, giving Sansa a gentle touch on the shoulder,
telling her silently to stay put. Mayana slipped out from under Sansa’s feet
and Ros followed suit. Sansa was left by herself, chilled from the ice in
Petyr’s tone.
Why doesn’t he ask for me? Sansa thought. I could help too. This is my home
now, they’ve all said it. She peered over the back of the sofa. Sansa heard
Petyr’s door close upstairs, and the sink water in his bathroom began to run.
There could be punishment in poking where she wasn’t invited, but Sansa was
worried for him. Petyr had been happy earlier in the day. Flirty, even. What
changed?
She stood from the couch. Sansa crept carefully up the steps, quiet as could
be, and tiptoed down the hall. She heard their voices, but couldn’t make out
any words. Sansa cracked open the bedroom door to hear them.
“…believe you went that far, Petyr. It’s not like you.”
“Don’t remind me.” Petyr sounded stressed, which made Sansa worry more.
“When was the last time you got hurt on a hit?”
“A long time ago.”
“You didn’t get any blood on him, did you?”
“Do you think I’m completely incapable of doing my job?” snapped Petyr. Sansa
flinched when she heard glass shatter. “Shit.”
“That’s alright. I’ll get more.” Ros left Petyr’s bathroom and headed toward
her. Sansa didn’t have time to react. She stepped backwards when Ros opened the
door to see her standing petrified, straight as a rod. There was blood on Ros’s
hands. The woman was sad when she looked at Sansa, but said nothing to protest
her eavesdropping. She walked to the small closet down the hall and retrieved a
bottle of rubbing alcohol and some medical tape. She passed Sansa, raising her
finger to her lips as a signal to keep quiet. Sansa nodded. Ros reentered
Petyr’s room and left the door open an inch so Sansa could hear them.
“Did you get what you needed, at least?” asked Olyvar.
“Of course I did.” Petyr was frustrated, but his arrogance remained. “It was
easier than I thought.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” Mayana’s voice was filled with a fear Sansa didn’t
recognize. “You’re bleeding, Pete. Worrying aside, that’s evidence on a body.”
“What body?” He scoffed. “Come on, Mayana. All three of you. Do you doubt me so
much?”
“Where this is concerned, actually, yes.”
Petyr laughed bitterly. He stopped with a sudden hiss of pain, likely from the
alcohol. Sansa chewed her lip. “He made remarks about her. I didn’t tolerate
it. Nothing I couldn’t handle, it’s all taken care of.”
“Who are we pinning the death on?” asked Olyvar.
“Gregor Clegane. Only reasonable party. He’s not like to deny it and the
Lannisters won’t send him to prison. The two were brawling just last night at a
local. Perfect timing.”
“They never did like each other,” said Ros. “Can’t imagine why.”
“What did he say about Sansa?” asked Mayana.
“Nothing you want to hear.”
“Enough to make you beat him bloody, that’s for sure.”
Petyr sighed. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. I got what I went for, and Varys
delivered.”
“If you say so.”
There was a long pause before Petyr spoke again. “I’ll be done here in a
minute. Mayana, get ahold of the Hardyng boy. I want that meeting moved up. And
tell Sansa to prepare for that anatomy test, I’d like to see her before I get
to work.”
Sansa’s hand slid down the door. He murdered someone, she thought,
horrified. For me. Sansa had known this path of vengeance would lead to
violence, but who had Petyr killed? What was their crime? Sansa fled to the
living room when Olyvar and Ros left the bathroom, and she sat on her couch
with her pumpkin seeds, afraid to learn the truth.
She waited for him. Knees held together, hands in her lap. She wrung her
fingers and curled her hair behind her ear, chipping away at her snack until
the seeds were gone. Olyvar and Ros offered tea, but she turned it down,
feeling as though she’d vomit if she ingested anything else. She waited for
what felt like hours until Petyr cleared his throat, and Sansa turned around.
He was standing in the doorway. The sleeves of Petyr's shirt were rolled up to
his elbows, one hand in his pocket while the other held a glass of whiskey.
Sansa wasn’t afraid of him when he sat beside her, but she was afraid of how
her body would respond to him, how her skin would pimple with goosebumps and
her bones would shudder if he spoke too low. Petyr leaned against the arm of
the couch, facing her. He knows I heard. Sansa cleared her throat. “Who did you
kill?” she asked.
“Vargo Hoat.” Petyr smiled into his glass when he took a sip. “I’m sure you
remember him.”
She did. Vargo was a brutish man, terrifying despite his lisp and prone to
joining Ramsay in his gruesome games. He had once joked that Sansa would be his
next spoil if Ramsay let him “have a turn”. Of the few blessings she’d had
during her stay with the Boltons, avoiding Vargo’s lust was one of the
greatest. “He was so huge,” she recalled. “How did you…”
“How did a small man like me kill someone like Vargo Hoat?” Petyr chuckled.
“You underestimate me.”
Sansa watched him take a drink. The knuckles of his right hand were wrapped in
bandages, and she could smell the Neosporin from across the couch. She reached
forward and took the whiskey from him. Petyr stayed still when she placed the
liquor on the table and pulled his hand toward her, brushing her thumb along
his knuckles. “You beat him.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I needed information.” He didn't remove his hand from hers. “Most men aren’t
willing to speak unless their tongues are loosened first.”
“You tortured him, then?”
“I did what was necessary.”
Sansa frowned. This was part of the plan, she knew it shouldn’t bother her, but
she was a gentle girl with gentle thoughts. Violence was something her father
had disdained. And yet, perhaps if he’d been harsher in certain punishments,
many of the things that happened to their family may never have come to
pass. Vargo Hoat can't hurt anyone again. How could I be sad about that?
“You didn’t wear gloves.” Sansa lifted her head to her mentor. “You left your
blood behind.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. I am beyond the point of making mistakes. I’ve been
doing this a long time.”
She glanced down to their hands again, trailing her fingertips lightly over the
back of his palm. It was strangely peaceful, touching him like this. Initiating
where he’d once been the sole initiator. “So… you got information from Vargo?”
“I did. But it's nothing you need to burden yourself with, Sansa. Not yet.”
Petyr’s eyes were fixed on their hands. “Only when I’m convinced that you’re
ready, will I let you in on my plans.”
Sansa couldn’t argue. She’d been anxious at the mere thought of murder,
but organizing it? That would have to wait. “Just be careful,” she told him.
“I’ve already lost one family. I can’t lose another.”
His hand slipped from hers to cup her chin. Petyr’s green eyes were filled with
desire, but Sansa could see sorrow as well, no matter how he tried to mask it.
“You won’t.”
After pressing a kiss to her cheek, Petyr stood. He was attractive this way,
looking as though he’d conquered the world with wits and clenched fists. It was
surprisingly easy to overlook what he’d done. “Now, would you like to be tested
on your knowledge of human organs? That is what we intended to do tonight,
yes?”
“Mhm,” said Sansa with a small smile. Her anxiety slipped away as she mentally
changed focus. “Okay. Ask me.”
“Where is the pancreas?”
Sansa straightened her back and pointed to where the organ would be in her
body, but Petyr shook his head. “No. Not on you,” he said lecherously. “Me.”
Sansa froze. His gaze was insistent, deviant as it had been before. What kind
of man mixed murder and pleasure in the same night? Yet she was helpless to
stop him, feeling a dull pulse in the one part of her she thought to be ruined.
Sansa took an unsteady breath and rose to her feet, crossing the distance
between herself and Petyr. His eyes encouraged her in a sinful way.
Sansa placed her palm below his stomach and to the left, where his pancreas
would be. “Good,” Petyr said. “And what does the pancreas do?”
“It helps the small intestine break down food and regulates sugar in the body.
If the pancreas doesn’t produce enough insulin, the person becomes diabetic.”
“Smart girl,” he praised. “You’re learning so well. Tell me about the spleen,
Sansa.”
She moved her hand just a bit higher, and farther left. Sansa could feel the
heat of his skin through his shirt. “The spleen recycles old blood cells for
new ones. It helps fight diseases like meningitis.”
“And the liver?”
Her hand slid across his body, up and to the right. Sansa tried to ignore the
patterns of his breathing. Stop getting distracted. “The liver helps with your
metabolism and breaking down old blood cells. It’s essential to live. If you
don’t have a liver, you die.”
“Good. Kidneys.” Petyr smirked. Sansa knew she’d have to reach around him to
find those, but perhaps that was his plan. Sansa removed her palm from his
torso and walked behind him instead, placing two hands on the middle of his
back. “The kidneys filter blood to make urine and get rid of waste. You need
both of them to live.”
“Wrong,” he said. “A person can live with just one kidney. But you’re right
enough.” Petyr scratched his chin, and Sansa swore she heard him chuckle.
“Lungs.”
What do you want from me? Oh, but she knew. And she was beginning to
understand. He was playing a game with her now, worrying less about her
knowledge and more about her touch, how far she would go when prompted. Sansa’s
heart thundered. She wanted to dare. It would be easy to wrap her arms around
him and touch his chest, to go wherever Petyr planned with her as if she’d
never been hurt before. But after that, what would he do? Sansa couldn’t
believe that the man who held her in the night would kick her to the streets
once he’d taken her fully, but she’d also believed that once-gentle Ramsay
Bolton would never lay a hand on her. The thought was sobering. Sansa moved
around to Petyr’s front and pressed her hands to his chest, deciding not to
gamble with what little ground she’d gained. “Lungs… lungs take in oxygen and
release carbon dioxide,” she said in a quiet voice. “For our blood and our
brain.”
“Good girl,” Petyr replied in a low growl. Don’t say that, thought Sansa, I
like it when you say that. She shifted her feet nervously and stopped when he
said, “My turn.”
“What?” Sansa's eyes went wide. Petyr placed his hands over hers, thumbs
brushing her wrists.
“Do you think I would ever hurt you, Sansa?”
“No.” Even her body knew. It did not tremble.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” What had he done to her? Sansa's mind was rattled, never on the same
page as her heart where Petyr Baelish was concerned, but all frantic thought
faded away when his fingertips grazed her throat.
“What is the organ here?” he asked softly.
“Larynx,” she muttered. Sansa’s body burned, the space between her legs
throbbing with desire. “Voice box.”
“And here?” His fingers slid down just above her collarbone.
Sansa shivered. Her hands flexed against his chest. “T-Trachea,” she whispered.
“Windpipe.”
Petyr wasn’t asking her the organs’ function anymore. He knew she was aware of
his intentions, of this lesson in touch and boundary, but Sansa didn’t feel the
need to run. It was liberating to be touched, so intimate without any clothing
removed, where lines were drawn that made her desperate to smear them. He’d
written himself into the chemistry of her. Down to every atom of her being, her
body knew; I am safe with Petyr.
His fingers lifted to press below her jawline. Taking her pulse. Sansa met his
eyes and locked with them, with his hunger and his greed and the calculation of
her limits. “Are you afraid, Sansa?”
“No.”
Petyr’s other hand came to rest on the curve of her hip. Sansa was drawn
closer, whether by his will or hers, she didn’t know. He cupped her neck, thumb
rubbing along her jaw. “I killed Vargo Hoat because I wanted to,” growled
Petyr. “I killed him because he knew you suffered and did nothing. I took his
information and I sliced open his windpipe, just here—” He outlined her trachea
with his fingertips. “—and I disposed of the body. No one will ever know.”
Sansa shivered when he moved her hair behind her shoulder, eyeing the slope of
her neck as if he would devour it. “Are you afraid now?”
“No,” she said again.
“Not at all?”
“Not at all.”
He traced down her shoulder with the tip of his finger. “May I kiss you,
Sansa?”
The word came out before she considered, a heated breath between them. “Yes.”
Petyr gave a wicked smile. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. He’s going to
kiss me because I said he could. Sansa stood there, horrified as he came closer
with clear intentions. He pressed his forehead to hers and ignited every inch
of her. He cradled her neck while his other hand rested at the base of her
spine, and he leaned in.
“Hey Pete! I got that German kid on the phone, says he wants to meet up.”
Sansa gasped at Mayana’s voice. She pulled away from Petyr so quickly that the
back of her heel slammed into the coffee table, and Sansa cried out. Mayana
looked between Petyr and Sansa, hands held out before they slapped against her
thighs. “Oh no. I interrupted something.”
“Turn around and leave,” spat Petyr. “Don’t stop walking until you’re outside,
and keep walking when you’re there.”
“But—” Mayana opened her mouth to protest, but she didn’t, and stood there like
a child waiting to be punished. Petyr cursed and ran his fingers through his
hair. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute," he said in defeat. "I want to tell
Sansa goodnight.”
“Sure.”
When Petyr turned away from Mayana, Sansa watched her mouth open in shock. She
waved her hands in the air and mouthed the words, “FUCK HIM.”
Petyr turned to her again. Caught in the act, Mayana hurried away to do as
she’d been told.
Sansa was still breathless. She fixed her posture when Petyr faced her, heart
racing. He cupped her cheek in his hand. Sansa convinced herself she was ready
despite the jitter in her stomach — or was that a good thing? She didn't know.
All Sansa knew was that his kiss would not be gentle, not with the way he
looked at her, and a part of her hoped it wouldn’t be.
Petyr gently tilted her head to the side. Sansa gasped as his lips brushed her
ear, his mustache tickling her skin, and he pressed a tender kiss to her jaw.
“Goodnight, Sansa,” he said darkly. And he pulled away, leaving her alone in
the room with nothing but profound need.
It took time for Sansa to remember how to walk. A part of her didn’t want to
leave, convinced he might come back and continue where they’d left off, lips
engaged as she’d said they could be. But Petyr did not return, and Sansa felt
foolish for wanting him to. She slowly climbed the stairs to her room and
closed the door. God, how he left her wanting. It infuriated her. Sansa had
never been so aroused, every part of her begging to be caressed. Was that his
plan? she wondered. To help me feel something again?
Sansa changed into a fresh pair of pajamas and slid into bed, shifting
constantly when she was under the covers. All she could think of was Petyr's
voice. His touch. The way he’d whispered in her ear, his lips on her jawline,
rough hands and fingertips ghosting her throat…
She needed relief. Sansa bit her lip, looking around to make sure she was
alone, before laying on her back with her legs slightly apart.
I can’t do this. Her sigh trembled. Sansa hadn’t been able to touch herself,
not since Ramsay. It always ended in hopelessness and an inability to
succumb. But that was before Petyr touched me in a way that felt good, before
he whispered in my ear and praised me like he did…
Slowly, Sansa slipped her hand between her skin and cotton pajamas. She could
do this, now. She could try again. Her fingers slid lower until she was there,
and she gasped at how wet she was, how ready. All because of him. The thought
of Petyr was intoxicating. What would he do if he saw me like this? He’d kiss
her entire body, she knew he would, with the way he looked at her as though she
was the strongest craving he’d ever had. Petyr would keep every promise he’d
made with those devilish grey-green eyes. Sansa’s hand remembered how she’d
liked it before and rubbed circles over her center, slick and warm with the
fever she’d been left with.
Sansa hummed as her pleasure began to build. She smiled with her exhale, having
forgotten what it was like to feel good. Her fingers moved faster and her back
arched, free hand clutching the sheets to keep her from moaning aloud. Petyr’s
room is right across the hall, she thought. Will he be able to hear me?
She couldn’t take much more. Sansa covered her mouth and cried out as she came,
caressing herself through her peak with eyes clamped shut. She bit down on her
lip and did all she could to restrain her noises, but she still made them,
moaning into her hand despite the closeness of her room to his. Sansa was
smiling when she fell from the high and she covered her face with her hands,
laughing childishly as her eyes filled with tears. Oh my god. I did it. I can’t
believe it, I actually got there. 
I’m not broken after all.
Sansa wiped her eyes and continued giggling to herself as she rolled over in
bed to hug a pillow. She couldn’t invite Petyr to sleep beside her now. No,
he’d know what she did, and Sansa was still uncertain how far her willingness
extended. But there was victory in her own touch. She’d reclaimed something
Ramsay had skewered, reconquered what he’d laid to waste. It was hers again.
Sansa supposed it had always been hers, but now she felt one with her own body.
No one would take that away from her again.
Her eyes fluttered closed to sleep for the night. They opened again briefly as
she heard steps down the hall, followed by the open and close of Petyr’s door.
Chapter End Notes
     O O F
     Well, here we go kids. It's a one-way ticket to hell from here.
     UM. YEAH. Oof. Ooohh boy. boiiii. You know it's bad when the sexual
     tension of these characters is so intense that I, as a writer, JUST
     AM CONSTANTLY DTF BECAUSE PETYR AND SANSA WANT TO FUCK SO BAD
     @GOD @GRRM @D&D LET ME L I V E
     Would you be more at ease or less at ease if I told you that next
     week's chapter is better? Ahem. Sorry. There you go.
     ALL-ABOARD THE HELLTRAIN, SEE YOU SOON SINNERS
***** The Mockingbird *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
     [it_came_upon_a_midnight_clear]* ◆ [6_inch;_beyoncé,_the_weekend]* ◆
             [the_motto;_drake,_lil_wayne] ◆ [sanctuary;_allie_x]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               13 DECEMBER, 2016
Petyr pressed each note into existence, nimble fingers gliding over piano keys.
“It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” was Ros’s favorite holiday song, so he
rehearsed, knowing she would request it while his party guests mingled on
Christmas Eve. Petyr hated the holidays. Slipping another mask on top of the
one he already wore was cumbersome, but there were benefits to keeping his
people loyal. Petyr could act a role for one night. Even if it meant he
couldn’t relax.
“You’ve got Ros singing up there,” said Mayana from the archway. She entered
the room and sat in a chair near the piano bench, wearing a seductively short
dress with her many braids tied over one shoulder. Long lashes blinked and red
lips curled in a grin. “As soon as she heard the song, she goes, ‘aww! He
didn’t forget!’”
“How could I? She asks me to play it every year.” Petyr began the bridge,
swaying slightly with the build of the chorus. “Olyvar’s favorite is 'Silent
Night'. Sansa’s is 'White Christmas,' and you don’t have one.”
“Nah. I don’t even know the words to most of them.” Mayana examined her nails
in disinterest. “The Christmases I’ve had with you are the only good ones I can
remember, anyway.”
“I never made the holidays exciting,” Petyr countered. “Even back then. They
just slowed down business.”
Mayana snorted. “You dirty liar. I remember the first Christmas I moved in with
you. I was, shit, just barely fifteen? I told you about my terrible holiday
experiences and your dumb ass went out and bought me the new Outkast CD and a
box of Frango’s. The next year I got a motorcycle.”
Petyr grinned at the memory. It wasn’t one he would soon forget, her rebellious
eyes alight with the thought of being thought of. “I can’t stand teenagers. If
I could do something to stop you from whining, I did it.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” She pointed up to the ceiling as if to say, what
about that teenager? Petyr only shook his head. He ended the song on a few
high, floating notes, and heard Ros applaud him from upstairs. Mayana leaned
her head back and shouted, “any requests from the peanut gallery?”
“No,” called Olyvar, “we’re almost done!”
Mayana squealed in excitement. “You’re gonna flip, Pete. She looks so
different, but in the best way.”
Petyr rose from the bench and softly closed the expensive grand. He tried not
to wince from the pain his knuckles were still giving him. “Sansa will be
lovely, I’m sure. She’s supposed to look different. That’s the point.”
“She’s just as gorgeous with black hair as she is with red. But we all know
you’ve got a preference.”
“Good. I’ve made no move to hide it.”
Mayana stood from her chair to fuss at Petyr’s collar. He watched her adjust it
and observe his choice of attire, a light gray button-down with the sleeves
rolled up, and charcoal slacks to match. “Your shoes are damn shiny,” she
commented. “And you would wear cologne. I see you, sneaky.”
“I’m allowed to dress nice for an important client.”
“Psh. Right.” Mayana moved away from him to grab her coat, slipping it on over
ebony arms. “You haven’t even met him yet and you already hate the kid. Admit
it.”
“Oh, freely. But he doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to.” Petyr walked to
the closet and retrieved his peacoat, buttoning it over his chest and wrapping
a thick wool scarf around his neck. The weather was far too frigid to go
without. “He’s a complete idiot. Perfect for the job. This meeting is nothing
more than a test, Mayana. For him and for Sansa.”
“I still can’t believe you’re taking her. She’s uncomfortable with the whole
idea of The Mockingbird, you know.”
Petyr sighed. Sansa had expressed hesitation when he’d brought the idea to her
the day before, but he’d worked his words well enough to gain her consent.
“There’s nothing for Sansa to be uncomfortable about,” said Petyr. “My
establishment is one of the most well-surveilled places in London. She’ll be
safer than Myrcella.”
“I’m just sayin’. She’s nervous about how people are gonna look at her with
that dress on.”
Petyr shoved his hands in his pockets, merely wanting to get on with it. He’d
waited long enough for Sansa’s deceitful debut. He wanted to see what his work
had earned him. “Men can look, they can fantasize and remember her for later,
but they cannot touch. No one would dare reach for a woman at my side.
Especially when she’s posing as my daughter.”
Mayana stuck out her tongue in disgust. “That is so weird. Don’t remind me.”
Petyr smirked.
Five minutes passed before he heard them come down the stairs. Ros and Olyvar
were particularly prideful as they led Sansa by the hand. “Careful love,” Ros
warned. “Those heels are tall.”
Mayana leaned in close to Petyr. “Told you,” she teased. Petyr hated it when
she was right.
Sansa’s delectable curves were hugged tight in a short plum-colored dress. The
plunging neckline was deep, ending where her midriff began, but the generous
exposure was contrasted with long sleeves and black nylons to conceal slender
legs. Spiked heels made her look fierce, a killer all her own. Dyed black curls
hung loose down her back and she carried a pair of winter boots, likely to
change into later. Sansa smiled nervously when she saw him. She folded her
hands in front of her with trademark innocence.
Petyr Baelish was not so pure. His gaze was lecherous. Sansa was weak against
it, and though she was taller than him in her heels, Petyr remained dominant
through eye contact alone. He watched her eyes flicker with hesitation. “I feel
so naked,” she whispered. Petyr quirked his brow. “I-I mean, uncomfortable.”
“Do you?” Petyr reached out and placed his hand on her upper arm, letting it
glide downward until he’d taken her hand in his. The friction was electric.
“You look exquisite, Sansa. Not a soul will recognize you.”
“Thank you.” Her thumb twitched. “I don’t feel like myself.”
“Nor should you. You are Alayne tonight, my dear. No one else.” Petyr’s eyes
drifted to the golden Star around her neck. It was small, not likely to be
noticed, but Harrold Hardyng was exactly the kind of ingrate to make a comment.
“Your necklace, however…”
“We already tried,” said Ros from the back of the room, where all three of them
were watching. “She won’t take it off.”
“I never do.” Sansa stood taller, as though the Star brought courage that
couldn’t be found elsewhere. “Who says your daughter can’t be Jewish? You never
told me who my mother is supposed to be. If you don’t know, no one else will
either.”
Petyr laughed under his breath. “Smart girl. It could give you away, but
considering no one knows of my affiliation with your family, perhaps it is safe
to gamble.” He gave her hand a soft squeeze. “I will warn you, though. The
person we’re meeting isn’t known to be sensitive.”
“I can handle it if he says anything,” said Sansa. “I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”
He didn’t doubt that. Petyr kissed her knuckles, letting his lips linger,
keeping a watchful eye on her uncertain reaction. “Mayana. Ros,” Petyr said as
he turned to them. “Let’s get going. We shouldn’t leave poor Harry on the
hook.”
“Heaven forbid.” Ros kissed Olyvar on the cheek in farewell. She was dressed
for the club, but Olyvar wasn’t, having offered to stay behind to take part in
a phone conference with Olenna and Tyrion. “I’ll send you updates, love.”
“You’d better,” said Olyvar. “This is bound to get interesting.”
The four of them left the manor without further delay. Petyr helped Sansa into
the backseat of his Bentley, and Olyvar waved them goodbye from the porch.
Mayana offered to drive. She pulled out onto the main road and turned on some
music, but it wasn’t loud enough to thwart conversation. Petyr listened
intently as Ros and Sansa chatted behind him.
“The Mockingbird’s a beautiful place,” Ros was saying. “The men are well-
behaved, and those that aren’t are escorted out.”
“I’m not really afraid of men,” said Sansa. “Not after what Ramsay did to me.”
Petyr wished he hadn’t heard that. He and Mayana shared a glance before turning
their eyes back to the road.
“I know, love. But a little assurance can’t hurt. The men and women we service
are mostly rich people looking for a place to be discreet. Judges, policemen,
lawyers, businessmen, even royalty. Anybody who wants to experience something…
different.”
“How can a place be discreet if people know about it?” Sansa asked. “Doesn’t
that defeat the purpose?”
“Not if you’re me,” said Petyr, unashamed to interrupt. “People who could shut
down my establishment or throw me in prison are paid to keep quiet. Secrets and
pounds, my dear. That’s all it takes.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is,” he replied. “Everything’s easy when you’re unbeatable.”
The rest of the ride was taken in silence.
Mayana pulled down the alley behind The Mockingbird, a hidden building in the
heart of London’s nightlife, a place no one would expect. She parked by the
back entrance.
“I’ll go in first,” said Ros. She opened the door and slid out the back seat,
summoning Sansa to walk with her. Petyr watched Sansa give him an anxious look
in the rearview mirror before following Ros’s lead, leaving her winter boots
behind. Mayana didn’t speak until the door closed, and she and Petyr were given
a moment’s privacy.
“Which one? Smith?”
“Ruger,” said Petyr. “Take the nine.”
From the glove compartment, Mayana pulled a Ruger 9mm pistol and loaded it with
the bullets Petyr offered. One of them had to remain armed at all times. He
insisted on it whenever his trusted trio did any sort of business for him.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Mayana. “Gimme a sec to put this damn strap
on my thigh.”
Petyr chuckled. Mayana was the kind of woman who would rather stuff a gun in
her waistband than wear a thigh holster, but she did as Petyr instructed
regardless. He exited the car and closed the door behind him.
Winter had come to London. The December evening was chillier than most, a cold
so biting that it stung Petyr’s lungs with every inhale, and he was certain it
would snow later. But Sansa was his focus. She was still stunning, even under
unflattering alley lights. He approached her as Ros entered the club ahead of
them.
Sansa didn’t smile. Her shoulders were tense. “Harry will notice your fear,”
said Petyr. He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone and the corner of her
mouth twitched upward. There you are. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my
dear. How many times must I tell you?”
“I know. I know you won’t let anything happen, but…” Sansa shifted her feet,
wringing her hands in that worried way of hers. “Can I say something? Before we
go in.”
“Of course.” Petyr rested his hand on her upper arm in hope of easing her.
“I just — I just want you to know that if anyone tries to touch me, I might
panic. I know you all believe in me, but I’ve never been in a situation like
this and I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens.” Sansa sighed in
disappointment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Your concerns are valid.” Petyr removed his hand from her.
“As I said before, no one will make a move against you. Even if you weren’t
mine, the people here know better than to lure a woman who doesn’t want to be
lured. This place celebrates consensual sex. Freedom and liberty, not crime.”
He turned back to the car as Mayana closed the door, locking it with a click of
the key. She came to them with a ready expression that faltered at the sight of
Sansa. “Aww,” she said. “What’s wrong, pretty girl? Got cold feet?
Figuratively.”
“N-No, I’m ready. I want to do this.” Sansa squared her shoulders. “I just
don’t know what to do if someone does something to me.”
“Kick ‘em.” Mayana shrugged. “Punch the bastard.”
Petyr read Sansa’s shock. “Really?”
“Yeah. Scream, flail, beat the shit out of him. The days of suffering to stay
alive are over for you, you don’t have to take it.” Mayana rubbed Sansa’s arm.
Petyr watched her anxiety fall away. It was incredible to him, and very
frustrating, how women could reach each other in ways that no man ever could.
“Make a huge scene and either I, Ros or Mr. Gross over here will come take care
of it.”
“Okay.” Sansa smiled, breathing far steadier. “Thanks, Mayana. I feel better.”
“Good,” Petyr jutted in. “Let’s get moving.”
Sansa slipped her arm in Petyr’s when he offered, and Mayana held open the
door. They entered a long hallway, the sound of heavy bass and laughter
bleeding through the walls. “Hold tight to me,” Petyr said to Sansa alone, “and
no harm will come to you.”
She took his advice. He turned the knob on the club’s entrance and pulled open
the door.
The Mockingbird was elegant, with no lack of depravity. A horde of freaks and
perverts. A place of retreat from the constraints of society. Colored lights
flashed through a crowd that jumped to a rapid beat on the dance floor. A group
to his left took turns snorting cocaine off the body of a stripper. Three women
under a spotlight swung naked around poles in hanging cages, tossing their lacy
bras to lustful men begging for a better view. Several of the girls who’d
helped with the Christmas lights gave lap dances to the gentlemen of a
bachelor’s party, smoking as their hips rolled to a filthy beat. Petyr felt
Sansa tense on his arm. If she was afraid, she made no show of it. Her eyes
were light and observant, flicking from one scene to the next as her expression
remained neutral. He would have to praise her for her strength later. Such a
brave girl, his Sansa. So resilient.
Littlefinger greeted some of the working girls as he passed, though his
destination was clear. Harold Hardyng was several drinks into his visit, hands
on the thigh of the girl nearest to him as he said something in her ear. Two
other women refilled the vodka in his glass. Greedy, Petyr observed. No
control. Lothor was right about this one, he’ll do nicely.
“Mr. Hardyng,” said Littlefinger, spreading his hands as if addressing an old
friend. “Schön dech kennezlerne.”
Harry looked up. He was a handsome kid, blonde hair and blue eyes reflecting
his German ancestry. He stood from his chair and held out his hand. “Ah,
Littlefinger! Freue mich auch, dich kennen zu lernen.”
Petyr already hated him. Too informal. He faked politeness and shook hands with
the German boy, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it. I
trust you’re enjoying The Mockingbird?”
“Yes, very much. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Good to hear.” Littlefinger pressed his hand against the small of Sansa’s
back, rubbing softly along her spine in encouragement. “This is my daughter,
Alayne. She will join us during our negotiations.”
Harry’s expression grew lustful when he looked at Sansa. Petyr's possessiveness
came alive, but he humored the interaction for now. Harry offered his hand. “I
didn’t know the infamous Littlefinger had a daughter. It’s a pleasure to meet
you, Alayne.”
“No, Mr. Hardyng, the pleasure is mine.”
Petyr turned to her. Sansa had flipped an inner switch, transforming from
victim to player in the blink of an eye. She let Harry kiss her hand and smiled
in a way Petyr knew to be flirtatious. “I’ve heard many things about you from
my father. He assures me you’re the perfect man for the job.”
“I hope to be,” said Harry. “If it is enough to impress a woman like you, I’ll
do all I can.”
“I look forward to it.”
Clever girl. Petyr didn’t know why he’d ever worried. Of course she’d been
learning his lessons, how could he deny it? Petyr brushed his thumb along her
back to praise her. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? The sooner we attend
to business, the sooner Mr. Hardyng can return to Armeca and Daisy here.”
The prostitutes giggled. Petyr knew false laughter when he heard it. Harry
beamed at Sansa in agreement, not Littlefinger, before following Mayana’s lead
through various perversions.
One of the many rooms at the back of The Mockingbird was kept separate from the
others. Plush couches, curtains, opulent incense and shelves of adult toys
lined the walls of a room meant for orgies as well as formal arrangements.
Petyr had forgotten about those. He smirked at Sansa, catching the flush of
color in her cheeks. He wondered if she’d ever seen anything like this,
explored how positive sex could be. Had she been a virgin, before? Sansa looked
away as if she knew what he was thinking. She moved from Petyr’s roaming hand
and sat on the blood red sofa, removing her coat and folding her hands in her
lap. Petyr did the same. Harry sat on the opposite couch and accepted a drink
from Ros, who acted deceptively as a server. “So good,” said Harry in his heavy
accent. “The drinks, all the women, everything. You are lucky to own a place
like this, Littlefinger. I would never leave.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Petyr accepted his favorite whiskey from Ros and Sansa
was offered a full martini glass. He smirked as Sansa tasted it, no doubt
expecting liquor, only to be surprised with a cup full of flavored water.
You’re not old enough yet, Petyr teased with his eyes. Sansa huffed.
“So.” Harry leaned back on the sofa, relaxed. “I hear you need someone killed.”
“Many someones.” Petyr lit a cigarette and tossed his lighter on the table with
a clatter. “I hear you’re quite the skilled assassin.”
“When I want to be.” Harry shrugged. “Money is a nice motivator.”
“Then I suppose it is good that I have money.” Petyr drew from his tobacco and
blew smoke into the air. “There are seven targets. Discretion is key. I don’t
want this coming back to me, and neither do you.”
“Ooh, I’m intrigued.” Harry leaned forward. “Where is this list?”
Petyr flicked the ashes of his cigarette. “It’s not the targets that are
important, necessarily. I need these deaths to look less like hits and more
like unfortunate accidents.”
“Sounds easy enough, if I’m given time.” Harry took a drink. “If the victims
are connected, won’t people suspect?”
“I certainly hope so,” said Littlefinger. “I need to make someone paranoid.
Someone who will spend hours pouring over evidence and find not a shred of
proof that their life is in danger, but deep down, they’ll know they’re next.
They’ll fear.”
Harry laughed. “I’ve heard of your cleverness, Littlefinger, but I had no idea
you were so devious too.”
“Then you haven’t heard very much.” Petyr took a long sip of his whiskey, aware
of Sansa waiting for him to arrive at the point. She didn’t know what Harry was
needed for, only that he was needed. Littlefinger lifted his stare to his
German guest. “Here are the names, then: Preston Greenfield, Osmund
Kettleblack, Balon Swann, Meryn Trant, Boros Blount, Mandon Moore, and Gregor
Clegane.”
Harry’s smile fell. Sansa shifted beside him. Littlefinger knew he’d succeeded
in shocking them both. “You’re mad,” spat Harry. “I may be foreign, but I know
who those people are. They’re Cersei Lannister’s pets.”
“Her favorites,” Petyr confirmed. “I want them all to die.”
“Father?” Sansa questioned. Petyr looked at her with a spark of amusement. “How
can Mr. Hardyng kill all seven of those men? Especially Gregor, he’s…
terrifying. Massive.”
“That isn’t for you to worry about, my dear. Harry is a professional. He won’t
fail, especially when I mention his reward.” Littlefinger turned to him. “Isn't
that right?”
“Depends.” Harry scowled. “That’s a lot of men. I didn’t come here to bring
down an army.”
“Hm. Shame.” Petyr shrugged, a rouse, and stood from the sofa. “I suppose that
concludes our business, then. I will find a different assassin eager to make a
million euros.”
Littlefinger casually sipped his drink as Harry and Sansa gasped.
“One million?” barked Harry. “You can’t be serious. I want to see.”
Petyr snapped his fingers. Mayana, who had been standing silently the entire
time, brought forth a silver briefcase and opened it. Inside was one million
euros, all real, all well-intended. Littlefinger watched greed ignite in
Harry’s eyes. “You'll be paid a small portion for each death.”
“How do I know this isn’t some trick?” asked Harry. “Some lie?”
“Ah, yes. That.” From underneath the stacks of fresh euros, Petyr retrieved a
piece of paper. A contract. “Sign this,” he said. “It ensures that I will hold
up my end of the bargain if you do yours.”
Harry took the paper from Petyr. He scanned it over, frowning on occasion,
likely at the clause that more-or-less stated a claim to Harry’s life if he
failed. Littlefinger waited until Harry had read it thrice over before handing
him a pen. His signature was victory. Petyr passed the contract to Mayana, who
also signed it, and placed it with the money when she was done. “You’ll hear
from me soon,” said Petyr, content to leave.
“Those are difficult targets,” said Sansa. Her voice was seductive in a way
he’d never heard from her. “They're going to be hard to take down. I’d be so
impressed, you know. Killing seven highly-trained men takes skill and strength.
And any man with a million euros is worth a night, at least…”
Petyr proudly straightened his back. She’d chosen a route, then. Make the idea
seem like Harry’s, dangle a carrot before a hungry pig. Harry was being dragged
down so many paths of temptation that he’d surely never see light again. “Which
target should I pick first, Alayne?” asked Harry, eyes dark with desire. “In
your professional opinion.”
Sansa stood, all grace and beauty and objectified lust. Petyr wanted to fuck
her there, then. He wouldn’t care if Harry watched. He wouldn’t care if they
had an entire audience, so long as those tantalizingly slender legs wrapped
around him and he heard her cry out his name, moaning the way she did when he'd
listened to her touch herself. Petyr chewed his cheek to remain in the present.
Sansa sat beside Harry, promptly swatting his hand away when he reached out to
touch her. “I think you should kill Boros Blount first. He’ll be the easiest.
He meets with Walder Frey’s sons every Saturday night to play cards. Boros
always drives drunk. Crash his car. It's the perfect cover-up.”
Petyr grinned. Sansa had likely remembered that information from her days with
Joffrey. Oh, how wicked she was becoming, how perfect. “Now now, Alayne. Don’t
teach him how to do his job. I look forward to seeing his creativity.”
“Sorry, Father,” said Sansa. She stood and smoothed out her dress. “Until next
time, Mr. Hardyng. I wish you success.”
“Thank you for your help,” Harry said in smitten reply. “I will be sure to do
exactly as you say.”
Petyr helped Sansa back into her coat and sent three prostitutes in to service
Harry, a gesture of good faith for a bargain well-struck. I hope the boy enjoys
them, Petyr thought. They're likely his last. He led Sansa down the hallway and
out the back door, the way they came, and out into the frosty night. A few
inches of snow had fallen in their absence. It lined the streets and sidewalks,
covering London in a blanket of white.
“Oh my God,” laughed Sansa, whirling to face Petyr. “That was — that
was exciting. I feel so different, so unlike myself, but it’s not a bad
feeling. I did something to stop the Lannisters. And it snowed!”
“Yes,” said Petyr, admiring her innocence. “You did wonderfully well.” He
stepped close, leaning up to kiss her cheek. “Go put on those boots you brought
with you, my dear. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”
Sansa, looking as though she’d conquered the world, walked off to the car with
Mayana by her side. The two were raving about the deal as Sansa changed her
shoes to flat winter boots, much warmer and more comfortable. Petyr wondered
how victorious this all must feel for her. To finally, after seventeen
years, be in charge of her own fate.
Ros came from the club after Sansa and Mayana returned to him. “Can we walk
home?” Sansa asked, all sweetness and smiles. “I know it's long. We could call
a cab later, but I don't want to go back just yet.”
Petyr didn't know what puzzled him more: Sansa’s desire to remain in the open,
a thought that once scared her, or her use of the word home. “I'm sure he'd
love that,” said Mayana when Petyr failed to respond. "Gives him a chance to do
something for himself once in a while. But I can’t come with. Uh. Shit to do,
you know.” He noticed her nudging Ros from the corner of his eye.
“Me too,” Ros piped in. “Party preparations. Things.”
Bullshit, Petyr thought, but they were lying for him. To give him time alone
with Sansa. They hadn't shared a moment since the lesson three days past, and
he would taste a lie to say he wasn't eager for her. “I suppose I could,” Petyr
offered, as if it was a difficult decision. “Alayne wants to take a walk. It
would be rude to refuse her.”
Mayana took Ros by the wrist. “Come on, let these two be gross. We have a party
to plan.” Petyr watched the women say goodbye and depart, his hand on Sansa's
back until the Bentley faded from view. He turned to his protégé and tried to
disguise his curiosity, his odd wonderment to her intentions. “Are you ready?”
“Mhm.” She curled her hair behind her ear like a shy teen on her first date. “I
know where I want to go, too.”
“Oh?” Petyr offered his arm, which Sansa took, and began walking with her down
the snow-crusted pavement. Christmas lights lined every building with a cozy
glow. Last-minute shoppers had long since left, meaning the streetsides were
open to them. “I wasn't aware we had a destination.”
“Well, we do now.” Sansa beamed and pointed to a 24-hour café across the road.
“I saw it on our way here. It’s not too late, right? We should get hot
chocolate!”
Petyr couldn't remember the last time he'd indulged. Sugar was a danger with
him, his sweet tooth always getting him in trouble with the doctor, but this
was Sansa's request. He couldn’t refuse her. Not when she seemed so happy. “I
prefer eggnog, personally, but hot chocolate it is.” It would warm her hands,
if nothing else.
The café was a homey place. A bit of a hole-in-the-wall, but Petyr didn’t mind
if it was what Sansa wanted. He ordered their drinks, leaning against the
counter as she explained how hot chocolate was a Stark family tradition. Theirs
was a home of ritual, it seemed. Mismatched customs and simple pleasures. It
wouldn’t occur to Petyr until later that she was starting to share those simple
pleasures with him. When their drinks were ready and paid for, Petyr held the
door open for Sansa and led her back out into the snow, keeping side-by-side on
a cold winter’s night.
Petyr could marvel for years over how easy it was to talk to Sansa. She spoke
her mind, adding new perspectives that he hadn't considered even on topics as
mundane as car sales or the gendering of shampoo. Where it once was awkward to
stop at the end of a conversation, those times were behind them, and they
jumped from one point to the next like children playing hopscotch. He couldn't
place her. Sansa was an irritating and exciting enigma to him, even now, after
having sheltered her for months. She never ceased to find ways to surprise him.
“Do you have any Christmas traditions, Petyr?” asked Sansa. “From your
parents?”
Petyr tried to find an answer without revealing too much. “I don’t remember,”
he said. “I was young when they died. But I remember your mother's traditions,
growing up.” The memory of helping Cat braid wreaths and hang ornaments was
bittersweet. “She crafted holly circles to hang on the doors of the house, and
gave homemade food to the homeless. She was a generous woman. Too generous,
some would say.”
“She’d fight you on that. Mum never believed there was such a thing as ‘too
generous’.”
“I know.” She always made a point of reminding me. Petyr fought to keep his
expression neutral, feeling the discomfort of Sansa trying to open him up. “It
was mostly Irish traditions the Tullys held. Like Gaelic.”
“Nollaig Shona Duit,” said Sansa, taking a sip of her drink. “Happy Christmas.”
“Yes, exactly.” Petyr remembered how difficult it was to pronounce the phrase
at first, but it’d grown easier with Cat's generous tutorship. “Every Epiphany,
Edmure and I would have to do all the housework while your mother, aunt and
grandmother did nothing. The ladies went to all the neighbors’ houses to speak
with other women. Some old Irish practice, I think, but it was always bad luck
for me. I had to do most of the work.”
“Aw! That doesn’t sound very fair.”
His chuckle wasn’t nearly as cheerful as hers. “One of many injustices, I’m
afraid. Your grandfather hated me."
Sansa stopped walking. Petyr turned to her, seeing sadness in her eyes. She’d
done it again. Torn him open. “He did?” asked Sansa. “Why?”
Petyr buried his free hand in his pocket. She made him nervous, and Petyr felt
juvenile because of it. “Do you know the story of how my father met Hoster
Tully? Why I was sent to Ireland in the first place?”
“No, I don’t.” Sansa moved to a nearby bench, brushing off the few inches of
snow before sitting down. Petyr did the same. She took a drink of her cocoa,
eyeing him intently, and for a moment Petyr could fool himself into believing
Sansa truly cared. I’ll need a cigarette for this. He pulled one from his
pocket and ignited it, drawing deep, pushing out a smoky sigh that hung in the
winter air.
“Your grandfather was in the Irish military,” said Petyr. “Ireland was neutral
during World War II and remained so throughout, but Hoster was among the five-
thousand Irish soldiers who refused to stay away. They switched uniforms and
fought for the British. Hoster met my father when the Americans joined the war.
They fought at Normandy together and became friends. Inseparable, so my father
said. When the war ended a few years later, my father returned to America after
promising Hoster he would write to him, and Hoster promised the same. But it
never happened.” Petyr took a drink. “Ireland didn't take kindly to those who'd
switched uniforms. Your grandfather was stripped of his rank and placed on a
no-hire list. Went into poverty, lost his home, his possessions, everything.
All for being a soldier.”
“That's awful,” whispered Sansa.
“It was. My father and Hoster never spoke again, but he still loved the man
enough to name him my godfather the day I was born. And when my parents died, I
was sent across Europe. I was a living reminder of Hoster Tully's greatest
mistake. I’m certain he hated me because of it.”
Sansa fell silent. Petyr looked over to make sure she was paying attention, and
frowned when he saw pity in her eyes. He felt her under his skin, crawling,
digging deep. “Don't look at me like that,” said Petyr bluntly. “I don't need
to be pitied, Sansa.”
“Why not? I can feel sad for you.” Sansa faced him. “You weren't a mistake and
I don't care if my granddad thought so. You shouldn’t have been treated
differently. I’m sorry you were.”
Petyr didn’t know why he was relieved to hear her apologize. It wasn’t her
fault. He sipped the last of his hot chocolate and tossed the empty cup into
the bin beside him. "It was a long time ago," said Petyr. “Better left there,
in the past.”
“I think you should always work through things that hurt you.” Sansa rested her
hand on his arm. Petyr looked down at where she’d placed it, unsure how to
respond. “One of the books I've been reading, those recovery books, you know.
It talked about past experiences and compared them to cuts on your skin. If you
don't treat them, they fester. And even if the infection doesn't kill you, it's
an infection all the same. It’s bad for you. The longer you let it sit, the
harder it is to cleanse as time goes on, until eventually you're just a bitter,
broken person who can't be helped.”
Petyr narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you think I am? A bitter, broken
person?”
“I don’t know. Is that what you are?”
He scoffed. “I couldn’t do the things I do if I wasn’t able to function,
Sansa.”
“That’s not an answer.” She tightened her hold on his arm. Sansa’s voice had
cracked, and he searched her face for sorrow. This isn’t about Ireland. She was
hesitant, as if speaking at all was a great risk, but she did so anyway. “Your
receipt,” Sansa muttered. “You left the receipt in the back of Recovery After
Rape. It had your signature on it.”
Petyr’s tongue dug into his cheek. That was uncrossable territory.
“Coincidence,” he said, but Sansa didn’t take the bait.
“Even though cleaning cuts stings terribly and the antiseptic burns, and you
need time for the skin to close, it's the only way to heal. To be whole again.”
She looked at him with wisdom beyond her years. “I think you have more than a
few untended cuts.”
Petyr was frustrated. Angry. How could she talk like this? She, Sansa Stark,
who'd been beaten and raped in captivity, humiliated in the public eye when
King Joffrey set her aside, destroyed by the death of her family and the
innocence she'd known. Petyr was not an empathetic man, but her life was horror
compared to what he’d faced. She was still so young.
How could Sansa possibly be stronger than him?
Petyr didn't know the answer. It threw off his instincts, pushing him out of
balance, and he drew in so deep from his cigarette that his lungs began to
burn. He brushed off his feelings with a laugh and leaned his elbow on the back
of the bench, a casual stance that thwarted her suspicion to his withering
heart. “Are you my therapist now, Doctor Stark?” he teased. “Believe me, my
dear, I am not a weak man. I am also not a broken one. Whatever 'cuts' I have
are not yours to bear, nor are they your responsibility. I suggest you let
those skeletons lie.”
Sansa frowned. He hadn't intended to upset her, but if it changed the topic, he
would do so again. She fumbled with her hands. “I just... I want you to be
happy. I want that for all of us, you know?” She rested her drink in her lap
and stared off into nothing. “I want the Boltons and Lannisters to pay for what
they did, and I’m grateful for your help. But what I want more than anything
else is to just be happy. I went so long without happiness. Now that I feel it
again, I feel human. I feel like me. You deserve to be happy, too.”
Petyr tensed. Was he a teacher feeling pride in his student's progress? A
father watching his daughter grow wings? A player admiring a pretty piece on
the board, or a love-hungry man eyeing the perfect girl? Petyr's throat was raw
when he tried to swallow. He looked at Sansa in bewilderment, trying to figure
out this mess of a girl who'd gone and made a mess of him.
The first snowflake fell. Sansa was distracted, her face lighting up with the
happiness she'd spoken of. “Look,” she giggled. “Snow.” Sansa held out her
hands to let it fall in her open palms. It melted. Petyr never thought he could
relate to a fucking snowflake. Sansa stood as the snowfall grew heavier, so
thick that it blurred everything in the distance, and the ice kept falling,
falling. Sansa tossed her empty cup into the bin and held out her arms,
laughing and skipping along the sidewalk like the child she was.
He watched her. Sansa stuck out her tongue to catch the snow, brushing it out
of her eyes and jumping around to hear it crunch beneath her winter boots. She
was incredible, even with her dyed hair and fake name. Impossible with her
healing cuts. What was a thousand pounds compared to Sansa's smile? What was a
million to her joy?
Petyr threw his cigarette in the snow and followed Sansa's trail. She stopped
when he approached her. Snow was sprinkled in her hair, on her small shoulders,
but he didn’t notice much else. Her lips were his target. He cupped either side
of Sansa’s face and abruptly pressed his mouth to hers.
She froze under his touch. Her lips tasted of chocolate and lipstick and
something so distinctly Sansa. Petyr held her there for as long as he dared
without consent, and when the kiss broke, he only pulled away an inch. Petyr
was convinced he'd crossed a line until he felt her hands on his chest,
resting. Not afraid. Not defensive. Receptive, wanting, waiting.
When he kissed her again, she met him halfway.
Sansa's lips moved under his, parting and closing in kisses that threatened to
swallow him whole. He raised one hand to cradle the back of her neck while the
other slid beneath her winter coat, finding home at the small of her back.
Petyr should have chastised himself for his lack of control, but he'd waited
too long to taste her, waited against wishes and instinct. Sansa's kiss was a
weakness he readily stumbled into. She whimpered when he moved her backwards to
press against the nearest wall, mouths linked and tangled in a kiss long
overdue. He didn't care who saw them. Petyr wouldn't stop for anyone. Just her.
Only her.
Sansa gasped when their tongues touched. Petyr was jolted by the familiar
sensation, unsated lust racing to his groin. Her mouth tasted just as sweet as
her lips, irresistible when fully surrendered to him. Sansa's arms wrapped
around him and he felt her fingertips at the nape of his neck, and Petyr
groaned, keeping his kiss all-consuming. He let his tongue explain to her what
words could not. She made him feel young again. She triggered memories of hope.
And, though Petyr knew he must, he wasn't yet willing to push her away.
Sansa's little hums made him ache. Petyr broke from her lips to kiss down her
jaw, tasting her skin and smelling the perfume he'd bought for her weeks ago.
He left a possessive mark by sucking at the juncture of her neck and shoulder,
and Sansa moaned. She was perfect. Petyr knew he would lose it if he didn't
stop himself from fucking her right there, against the wall. He was suddenly
very grateful for the length of his coat. Petyr fought every urge to kiss lower
as his mouth travelled up her sweet neck, over her jawline and back to the
eager lips he'd already missed so much.
Their pace began to slow. Petyr pulled back despite the needs of his body.
Sansa's hands fell from his hair to cup his cheeks, and his grip remained at
her waist, hands warm under her coat. “I've never been kissed like that,” she
told him breathlessly. “Not ever.”
“Then I was your first.” Petyr felt cocky that such was true. “By the look in
your eyes, sweetling, I trust it was not a disappointment.”
Sansa beamed. Her smile, among it all, was what made the first dent in his
walls. “I don’t want to go any further,” she said. “Not yet. But… I mean, if
you don't mind, I think I like this kissing thing.”
“Do you?”
“Mhm.” Sansa’s fingertips brushed over his throat. She would undoubtedly feel
the restlessness of his heart. “Only if that's okay with you,” Sansa clarified.
“I don’t — I can't speak for what you want.”
Petyr nearly rolled his eyes. He pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it
in her hand, returning his own to her hip. “I think you should call a cab,” he
said, “while I show you what I want.”
Sansa’s eyes darkened. She slowly dialed the number, and Petyr kissed and
nibbled at her neck while the phone rang, drinking down her moans like they
were sweetwine. “I — mmm, I n-need a cab,” whimpered Sansa into the phone, and
Petyr could barely conceal a laugh, his hands sliding up her back to pull her
closer. Sansa managed to give the driver their location in a somewhat normal
voice despite Petyr’s diligence. When she hung up, Sansa slipped his phone back
in his pocket and giggled as his lips brushed her ear. “We’re in public, you
know.”
“Do you want me to stop?” Petyr lifted his head, smirking at her. “Do you?”
Sansa’s cheeks flushed, but her answer was confident. “No.”
He kissed her again with little restraint. Sansa returned every ounce of
affection. When the cab arrived, Petyr made sure to pay the driver double for
his tolerance as Petyr had no intention of stopping. Not even in the back seat
of a taxi, not even with an audience. Sansa was soft and warm under his hands,
receptive under his mouth, and while she gently pushed his hand away when he
cupped her breast, she didn't reprimand him. Knowing where the line was drawn
made it easier. Easier to kiss her, touch her, knowing she was letting him
explore within a certain range. It was enough for Petyr. Until she wanted more,
it would always be enough.
When they returned home, Petyr gave her a final kiss goodnight and separated
before he was tempted to share her bed. He could tell that she wanted him to
sleep by her side, but Petyr was nothing if not a man with urges where Sansa
Stark was concerned. He would not ruin the gift she’d given. Sansa’s consent
was as rewarding as her body, and he would ravish both equally until inevitable
disaster took her away.
Chapter End Notes
     * = these links don't go to youtube because i was unable to find
     these songs there. the first goes to spotify's web app and the other
     to an unknown site (beyoncé's got crazy good lawyers lol). click at
     your own risk!
     AYYYYYY SMOOCHIE SMOOCHIE
     Finally, the payoff begins. Petyr is such a slut. I love him. And so
     does he.
     So my betas flipped over this chapter? Apparently it's the best-
     written one so far, but I don't see it. Maybe it's just that sweet
     sweet release of tension. Who knows. All I know is that I jammed to
     Sanctuary (link above) while writing the kiss scene and may or may
     not have pictured them in an 80's movie. Don't judge. That's Petyr's
     era anyway.
     I feel like I had so much to say about this chapter but now I've just
     forgotten? It's 1am when I'm writing this and I'm tired.
     OH. Next chapter. Next chapter is good shit. It's Arya again, but her
     plotline becomes very relevant, so I hope you guys actually care
     enough about the plot of this story aside from the sin to be
     following along. I'm stoked tbh.
     See you next week, lovelies! xx
     (also holy SHIT this is already at 50k words and I'm only on chapter
     eight??? FUCK. THIS STORY IS GONNA BE HUGE, remember me when i've
     died)
***** Berakah *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
This chapter goes heavy on the Judaism. Please, please keep in mind that I've
written everything about this culture in the story so far with every ounce of
consideration I'm capable of. I have books and pages of research and three
different Jewish people I'm talking to on Tumblr for advice/references. I know
what I'm doing.
                             soundtrack choices:
                [rambo;_bryson_tiller] ◆ [oblivion;_bastille]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               21 DECEMBER, 2016
Life in hiding was almost worse than homelessness. Between Jon’s injury and the
persistence of the Night’s Watch, their options were limited. Jon couldn’t
leave the motel room at all, Ghost was constantly restless and Arya was sick
and tired of living without a tangible plan. The slowest month of her life
dragged on. Sleep. Work. Sleep. Work. There wasn’t anything they could do in
the search for Sansa, who still hadn’t been found. Not even Jon’s contacts in
the Watch could locate her. Arya felt stuck, trapped between two brick walls
that squeezed closer together with each passing day. It was becoming harder to
breathe.
There was little to be found in the way of happiness, but the siblings made do
with what they could. Arya had spent a significant amount of money to purchase
Jon a good laptop. He tried to contact Val, sent emails back and forth with Sam
using code and gathered all the information he could on their sister’s
disappearance. They’d even found an old truck to claim as their own. Arya had
taken a job at a bar on the other end of town, bussing tables and washing
dishes, nothing spectacular. It gave her access to easy cash that could pay for
their room and restock the pounds she’d already blown. And somehow, time went
on.
Sleep. Work.
Nothing.
Arya leaned over the table to wipe it down. Business was stagnant at The
Brotherhood, which wasn’t unusual for a Tuesday night on the outskirts of
Greater Manchester. There were plenty of other pubs to hit if one was looking
for a good time. Most people avoided The Brotherhood entirely. Too many scary
men. They took me in though, thought Arya, they’re not all that bad. She’d
grown accustomed to the little band of outcasts, from a chef they called Lem to
Tom the singer, to a drunken priest named Thoros who managed finances. The
owner, named Beric, was kind enough despite running a bar known for thugs and
criminals. Arya fit in perfectly. But out of all her battered coworkers, Sandor
Clegane was her favorite.
“Missed a spot,” said Sandor with a voice as rough as sandpaper. He pointed to
a smudge on the table she was cleaning. “Beric won’t like that.”
“I was getting there.” Arya made a face at him before wiping where he’d
pointed. “I just started my shift. Gimme a break.”
Sandor grinned, though with his burned face it looked more like a snarl. Arya
was used to it. He’s gotten better looking since he left the Lannisters,
though. I bet Sansa would like to know he’s okay. Sandor had yet to recognize
her as Arya Stark, which wasn’t much of a surprise. It’d been five years since
Sansa had stopped seeing Joffrey. The Starks were likely ghosts from a memory
to Sandor, and Arya was much younger the last time he’d seen her. But it was
nice to know Sandor this way, as a simple barman instead of the brute he’d been
forced to be. “How late you workin’, Beth?” he asked. “Wanna make sure someone
gives you a lift home. Streets aren’t safe for a girl.”
“I’ll be fine.” He and the others were protective of Arya, but she had seen
more horrors than they knew. “Don’t worry about it. If it’s that late, maybe
Lem could take me back.”
“Or Thoros, if he’s not too damn drunk.” Sandor leaned against the wall, wiping
greasy hands with a wet rag. Tom must’ve broken the fryer again. “Should be a
slow night anyway. Always is before Christmas.”
“Yeah.” Arya tried not to frown. “Most people are with their families, I
think.”
“Mm.” Sandor cleared his throat. Neither of them were keen on personal
conversation, and they didn’t prod, so the topic changed with ease. “You
bussin’ tables tonight?”
“Yeah. And serving. You?”
“Workin’ in the back. Jack’s on the bar.” Sandor scoffed. “I hate doing grunt
work. Tom needs to stop breaking the fucking fryer.”
“At least there’s food, though,” said Arya. She knew better than to think he
wouldn’t get special treatment, being so close to the kitchens. “Every time
you’re back there, you practically roll out the door when your shift is up.”
“Money’s good. Food’s better.” Sandor shrugged, but Arya didn’t miss the quirk
of his mouth. “See you on break. Maybe there’ll be somethin’ in it for ya.”
“Get the chicken. I love the chicken. And that bread, the seasoned one! With
the garlic and the cheese and spinach.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sandor pushed away from the wall and waved before ducking his
head to enter the back kitchens. He’s too tall, thought Arya. I hope he hits
his head on the ceiling someday.
The night was sluggish as promised. It was too close to Christmas for regular
customers, only drunken loners without families or those with recent losses to
account for. Arya could relate. A middle-aged man drank away the sorrows of
divorce, a truck driver stopped by on a long route to London, a business owner
complained about holiday shoppers. Arya collected their stories. It never hurt
to arm herself with tales of the outside world, and listening to normal
people’s problems helped her deal with her abnormal ones. She swept the floor
and eavesdropped, counting the hours until she could be with Jon again.
A gameshow on the telly switched to the nightly news. “I wanna hear this,” said
Jack. Arya took the remote from behind the counter and turned up the volume,
frowning at the headline.
“The body of MI5 agent Mandon Moore washed up on Tower Beach earlier this
morning. Officials feel certain this was a suicide.”
“It’s a shame, that.” A man sitting on a stool beside Arya pointed to the news.
“Third death this month.”
“No it’s not,” said Arya. “Just the third they want us to care about.”
He chuckled. Arya turned to him. The man was blonde with chiseled cheekbones
and a handsome face, and blue-grey eyes that Sansa would swoon over. His German
accent was heavy. “What do you make of it?” he asked. “The death.”
Arya looked back to the screen. “Drowning. He probably jumped, happens often
enough.” But not for an MI5 agent, she thought, and not for someone like Mandon
Moore. The German stranger was right about the body count. First Boros Blount,
then Preston Greenfield and now Mandon Moore. Hopefully Jon can find a
connection. “I don’t care, though,” said Arya as she continued to sweep. “He
should’ve gotten help.”
The man swiveled on his stool, facing her. “You’re pretty upbeat for someone
working before Christmas.”
What does this guy want with me? “I don’t celebrate. I’m Jewish.”
“Are you really?” He seemed interested in that. Most people were turned off by
hearing her background, but her admission fueled his curiosity. “How
interesting.”
“Why’s it interesting?”
“I’ve met two of you this month. You don’t see many Jews around these days.”
“Yeah,” Arya spat, “maybe because millions of us were killed.”
“Beth!” scolded Jack from behind the bar. “Sorry, sir. She’s new.”
Arya groaned. It wasn’t the first time she’d silenced people with the truth,
and it wouldn’t be the last. “What? Not my fault everyone forgets. Enjoy your
drink.” She clutched her broom and dustpan, returning to work with spite in
every move.
Germanboy didn’t leave. He stayed at the bar, drinking vodka and watching the
news, chatting up Jack every so often. He was cocky and sly. Arya didn’t like
him. She went about her work, cleaning and serving the few customers that came,
but the blonde stranger remained. An hour passed before he moved. He got up
from the bar to sit at a table by the window and ordered chips. Arya served him
flatly, not saying a word as she shoved the platter toward him. She tried to
forget about Germanboy until the person he’d been waiting for entered The
Brotherhood, ringing the door as he did.
Into the bar walked Meryn Trant.
Arya panicked. She gripped her broom, fearing Meryn would recognize her, but he
didn’t. He glanced over her before taking a seat across from Germanboy. The two
shook hands and greeted each other as if they were friends. Arya huffed in
anger. Of course someone who thought Jews were rare would be friends with Meryn
Trant, but what were they doing here in the first place?
Jack placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You know how to pour a drink, kid?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t get into trouble.” Arya watched him round
the corner and push open the kitchen door, and she was left alone with the two
customers.
Quiet as a shadow. Arya continued to sweep as though nothing was wrong. She
kept her ears open, blending into the background to overhear the conversation.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Trant,” said Germanboy. “I hope you found this place
alright. Bit junky, but I’m fond of it.”
“I see why.” Arya wasn’t looking, but she could feel Meryn’s eyes on her before
he spoke again. “You come here often for business, then?”
“All the time.”
Liar, thought Arya, I’ve never even seen you before. But why was he lying?
Arya’s work with the floor was done. Instead of leaving to do other things, she
walked behind the bar and began cleaning cups. Anything to stay close enough to
hear.
“So,” said Meryn. “I hear you’ve got connections.”
“As long as there’s money to be had.” The foreigner popped a chip in his mouth.
“Product isn’t easy to come by.”
“Can’t imagine it is.” Arya heard Meryn cough. She hated being so close to him,
in the same room with the man who’d beaten her sister on Joffrey’s orders
and liked it. She kept cleaning cups and hid her scowl.
Meryn and the stranger ordered drinks. Arya served them and was called back for
more. And more. It occurred to her after five orders that Germanboy had barely
taken a sip and Meryn had done all the drinking. He was beginning to sway,
movements clumsy, yet Arya said nothing. She kept silent and observed, wiping
down the table behind them.
“How many girls?” asked Meryn in slurred speech. “I want to know what I’m
buying. Walder Frey’s word is good, but I’ve got my own tastes.”
“Three girls for sale. All virgins, all young.”
Arya nearly fell over. Girls? Are you kidding me? She knew better than to react
and blow her cover, but her knuckles turned white with how hard she gripped the
rag.
“Are they pretty?”
“Very.”
“How pretty?”
“Very.” Germanboy sighed in longing. “You’re lucky to be able to buy your
women. There was this Jüde I had my eye on the other day. I’d have paid for
her. Fantastic beauty. Tall, striking blue eyes, perfect body.”
Arya knew a tall Jewish girl with striking blue eyes. But it can’t be her. Can
it?
“A Jew? Fuck, been a long time since I seen one a’those.” Meryn took a drink.
“Most of ‘em know to stay far away from me.”
Germanboy laughed. “Because of the Starks? It’s no secret your queen hated
them.”
“Yeah, she did. Hated ‘em less after poor Ned’s accident. He and that girl of
his went right up an’ over. That calmed Cersei for a bit.”
“I imagine so.”
Arya froze. No one had known she was in the car with her father. Not even the
news. She was simply missing, the Lannisters had covered up her disappearance
and said the incidents were never linked…
Her fist clenched. There was only one way Meryn could have known she was in
that car: if he’d seen her in it.
“Give me a minute to make a phone call,” said Germanboy. He stood. “I want to
make sure the ones you want are ready for sale. Then we can haggle price.”
Meryn gave a drunken nod. The stranger left out the front door. Arya and Meryn
Trant were inside The Brotherhood, alone.
Three questions ran through her head. One: can I do it? Two: will he
talk? Three: can I escape? There would be time to run. She could help Jon get
out of town, and Father deserved justice, didn’t he? She remembered where she’d
stuffed Needle in the side of her boot. God should forgive me for this, Arya
thought, but even if He doesn’t, I’m doing it anyway.
“Girl,” called Meryn. “Pour me more booze. I’m thirsty.”
Arya did as he asked. She flipped over the “CLOSED” sign and twisted the blinds
shut. Meryn was too drunk to notice. She stepped in front of him, watched him,
and stayed there.
Something in her eyes attracted him. Meryn looked her up and down as he’d been
doing all night. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifteen.”
“Are you, now…” Arya hated the way he looked at her, tongue gliding over his
lower lip. “What’s a fifteen-year-old girl doin’ in a bar?”
“Working. My dad owns this place. I help sometimes.” She curled her blue hair
behind her ears, pretending to be shy, the way he liked it. “Hey, um… are you
good with electrical stuff? There’s something wrong with the breaker out back
and I want to fix it before Dad gets here.” She met his eyes. Calm as still
water.
Meryn sneered, falling for her bait. “The girl wants a man to help her fix
something.” He seemed so pleased that Arya wanted to vomit. Quick as a
snake. She reached for his wrist and pulled a surprised Meryn Trant from his
seat. Arya led him outside to the back of The Brotherhood. The night was so
cold that it pained her lungs, but she ignored it, continuing until they were
out of sight.
Meryn shoved her against the wall. Arya squirmed. She’d led him too far, but
that was what it would take. His grip was strong; he’d done this before. Arya
regained her bearings and pressed hard against him before he leaned in to kiss
her. “You haven’t even asked my name,” she said. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Not really,” snarled Meryn. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Wait.” She pushed against him again, and by some miracle he paused. “I want
you to know my name. It’s a good one.”
“Fine,” spat Meryn, palming over the bulge in his jeans to grant pleasure while
he waited. “Tell me your fucking name.”
“It’s Arya,” she replied. “Arya Stark.”
Meryn’s eyes grew wide before Needle stabbed them out.
She was on him before he could scream. Arya plunged Needle into his face and
neck as many times as she could. Each stab was penance for a death. Father.
Mum. Robb. Talisa. Little Ned. Bran. Rickon. Repeat. She didn’t know how many
times she’d gone through the cycle before someone pulled her off of the dead
man, and she flailed and screamed, cursing at whoever restrained her. Germanboy
stood at the end of the alley. His face was red with wrath.
“He was mine!” shouted the German. “He was mine to kill, why did you take my
kill? Scheisse, scheisse.” He ran his fingers through his hair. Before she
could call out to him, he turned and bolted from sight.
Arya wrenched free from the arms that held her. Blood coated her hands and
shirt, dripping to the concrete, freezing to the ground. Arya’s chest heaved.
Adrenaline and pride flowed through her like a river, but the fear came shortly
after. I killed him. Evidence, investigations, my face will be all over the
news…
“Run,” growled Sandor. He stood behind her, snatching her by the shoulder to
spin her around. “Run, girl!” He gave Arya a hard shove. She nearly fell over.
“W-what?”
“Meryn Trant deserved to die, but you’re not takin’ the fall for it.” Sandor
spat on the ground. “I didn’t help the little bird to see her sister go to
prison. Go on, get the fuck out of here.”
He knew. Did all of them know? Was that why they’d hired her without ID, why
they insisted on keeping her safe? Beric always spoke highly of her father. And
Sandor, he made sure I got home alright, just like Sansa when she’d visit
Joffrey…
“Sandor—”
“What does ‘run’ mean to you?” he snapped. “Get going before the police show
up. You don’t want the Lannisters to find you.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Sandor pulled the knife from Meryn’s chest and handed it back to
Arya. His grey eyes met hers in a stare so intense, she felt burned. “Go, girl.
Find your sister. My days are done, but yours aren’t.”
He pushed her away. Arya shoved Needle in her boot again and ran, just as he’d
told her. Just as she had to.
No matter how livid Jon would be, how hurt when he’d tell her to pack up and
get in the car, Arya would not regret her triumph.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                               24 DECEMBER, 2016
Jon and Arya had barely spoken since their return to the road, heading nowhere
fast with no destination in sight. They walked. They drove. They slept where
they could, and cold nights grew colder without beds to keep them warm.
“Stop being stupid,” Arya told Jon one morning, when she handed him cooked
ramen and he refused it. “You need to eat.”
“You’re right. Not eating is pretty stupid, I should avoid doing stupid
things.” His stare was filled with judgment. Jon snatched the ramen from her
and shivered under his blanket, keeping close to the barrel fire for warmth.
They’d spent the night under a bridge. Back to square one.
“Why are you so mad?” Arya spat. “Meryn killed Father. He’s the reason I went
missing, he was a killer!”
“And now you’re a killer too. Congratulations.”
“I’m not a little girl, Jon. Stop treating me like one. I’d do it again and
again and again if I had the chance. Meryn Trant—”
“Meryn Trant didn’t have Sansa!” Jon snapped. “He didn’t know where she was, he
didn’t even care about her! What are you doin’, Arya? You gonna fight the
Lannisters all by yourself?”
“No, I—”
“You what? You think I’m gonna join you?” Jon didn’t break eyes with Arya. She
stayed quiet. “All I’ve done since I left for trainin’ was fight. I fought when
I swore my oath, I fought in Afghanistan, I fought for six months on the run to
make it back here, to you and Sansa! And you think I’m gonna fight more? Fight
a war we can’t even win?”
Arya cringed. When Jon spoke again, his voice was burdened and sad. “Sansa’s
gone.”
“No.” Arya shook her head wildly. “She’s not.”
“Arya—”
“Stop talking like you’re hopeless!”
“It’s not hopeless, it’s practical! It’s been two months of nothing, how are we
supposed to find her if Tywin Lannister can’t?” Jon’s voice cracked. Arya could
feel his despair, and she would've hugged him if she weren’t so bitter. “We
need to leave the country. We need to go home.”
Arya turned away from him. She settled in her burrito of a blanket and held
herself, indignant. “There is no home,” she muttered. “Not while the Lannisters
are alive.”
An hour of silence went by until Arya couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m taking
Ghost for a walk.”
“Arya, that’s not—”
“I don’t care.” She didn’t need Jon’s permission, and she wouldn’t ask for it.
Arya patted her leg. Ghost trotted over to her. He’s mad at Jon too, she
thought. Good. At least someone’s with me. 
Arya didn’t know how long she walked. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets
and kept mostly to the pavement, Ghost never leaving her side. Broughton was a
welcomed change compared to Greater Manchester. They’d been lucky to find a
Jewish community. Arya stuck out with her blue hair, but she spoke enough
Hebrew and Yiddish to fit in and was left relatively alone. She knew her people
wouldn’t let anything happen to her, even if her instincts were to fight and
flee. We protect our own, Father always said. I hope that’s true.
Broughton Park was nice enough. It was a shopping center, nothing like the
parks Arya and Bran had played in as children, but the people-watching was
still enjoyable. She walked to a nearby McDonald’s and bought dinner, feeding
Ghost some chips and sitting cross-legged on a metal bench. She eyed everyone
who passed. Some Jews, some not. Most were indistinguishable.
Arya didn’t care who saw her anymore. Let the Lannisters come, she thought
bitterly, at least I could go down with a fight. Was she all out of blessings,
then? Arya toyed with her Star necklace, feeling lower than she ever had
before. Jon was done, but that didn’t mean she had to be.Sansa’s alive. It was
a prayer if she’d ever said one. Please, please, don’t take her too.
“Shabbat Shalom,” said a voice. “Is this seat taken?”
Arya snapped out of her reverie. A man had approached her, elderly in years
with a peaceful smile. Arya was wary until she noticed his kippah. “No,” she
said. “It’s not taken.”
“Oh, good. May I sit?”
“Sure.” Arya took her McDonald’s bag and scooted over enough to give the old
man a seat. “It’s a fine evening for a walk,” he said, “even if I’m not as
young as I used to be.”
Arya dug into her bag and handed him a chip. “Want one?”
“Oh, no thank you. I’m afraid my heart isn’t in the condition for fast food.”
He chuckled. “Today is the first day of Hanukkah. B’ezrat Hashem, I will have a
good meal tonight.”
Arya smiled. “Chag sameach.” He looked at her, and she looked at him. They
shared understanding. “Will your family make something?”
“No,” said the man. “I’m afraid I don’t have family nearby. My wife died of
cancer many years ago, and my children all immigrated to America. It’s
expensive to fly across the pond, you know. They’ll be here again for Purim.
But not before then, I expect.”
“Oh.” Arya bit into her burger, savoring the taste before she swallowed. “Most
of my family's dead. Mum an’ Father, my brothers, and probably my sister too.
All I have is my brother.” It felt good to talk. The only person she could talk
to unfiltered was Jon, and she didn’t want to talk to him right now. “Instead
of helping Mum with the Christmas tree and Father say prayers at the menorah,
I’m sitting here, on a bench in Broughton eating shitty McDonald’s with my
dog.”
To her surprise, the stranger laughed. “I suppose it is good that God blessed
you with the money for food, then? Think on your blessings, my dear. Few though
they may be, it is never easy being a Jew, and we are no strangers to hardship.
You will overcome.”
There was comfort in his words, and Arya grinned despite herself. She finished
her burger and gave the rest of her chips to Ghost, who ate them eagerly. “Do
you know anyone who could take in two people for the holiday? My brother and I
have been sleeping in a car for the past few nights, and I know a bed and a hot
meal would cheer us up. We’re kinda not well-off right now.”
The man frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. You should have somewhere to go.
Hanukkah is a simple holiday, but not insignificant.”
“Yeah.” Arya picked at her chipped nails. “Oh well.” There wasn’t much else to
say. Ghost sniffed at the stranger’s pantleg, and he reached down to pet the
dog on the head.
“I have a spare bedroom,” he said quietly. “Your brother can sleep on the sofa
downstairs, if you'll forgive an old man his traditions. I can’t turn two young
people away, not when community is so important.”
Arya blinked. Her instinct wasn’t to believe him, but if she couldn’t trust her
own people, who could she trust? “You’d do that? Take us in?”
“Of course. For as long as you need, until you can stand on your own feet
again.” The old man pulled a piece of paper and a pen from the bag he’d been
carrying and wrote down his address. “I should get home and start cooking, but
this is where I live. As long as you and your brother respect my home, I would
be honored to open my doors for you.”
Arya couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so nice to her. Yoren,
maybe? She missed how it felt to be valued. Arya took the slip of paper, a
little blessing in disguise. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there with my
brother before sunset, I promise.”
“I look forward to it.” The man stood up, a pleasant smile on his face that
reminded Arya of a grandfather. “What is your name, by the way? I certainly
wouldn’t like to greet you as ‘stranger’ when you arrive.”
Arya, teary, said the first word that came to mind. “Mercy.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mercy.” He shook her hand. “The children I teach
call me Mr. Luwin. Feel free to do the same.” Luwin said his goodbyes and left
her sitting there, and Arya, for the first time in months, felt the warmth of
human kindness. She’d barely done anything, and there was a roof over her head
again. A bed to sleep in. A place to stay until whatever happened, happened.
Surely God wouldn’t bless a murderer like this. No, the death she’d given Him
was justice, and she was determined to serve more.
Jon was laying in the truck bed when Arya returned to him. He sat upright at
the sound of Ghost barking, and while he didn’t smile when his sister
approached, Arya didn’t try to make him. “Get up,” she said. “I found a place
for us to stay.”
Jon rubbed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I met a man at the park. He’s going to take us in for Hanukkah.”
Jon gave a heavy sigh. He tried to speak, but Arya talked over him. “Shut
up. I found us a place to stay and I worked for the money we have and I’m the
one who got you help. I even bought you a friggin' laptop!” Arya huffed. “I’m
going to stay with the nice man. His name is Luwin and he lives nearby. I’m
taking Ghost with me. You can come or you can stay here, but Sansa needs me and
I’m not giving up on her. I’m not going to stop fighting because if I do, what
did Mum and Father and our family die for? What did your mother die for?” Arya
grabbed her bag and heaved it over her shoulder. “But it’s fine. You can bury
your head in the snow for all I care. I’m leaving. Bye, Jon.”
She turned and left. Ghost padded after her, wagging his tail as if it was all
for fun. Perhaps it was. Arya knew Jon wouldn’t let her go. Seconds later, she
heard him call out and offer to drive. Victory. The siblings piled into the
truck and Arya gave Jon the address to Luwin’s place, saying nothing more.
The house they arrived at was smaller than she expected, two stories high and
painted brown. Arya took her things and called Ghost to her side, ignoring Jon
entirely as she marched up to the stranger’s door. She knocked. Mr. Luwin
greeted them both with smiles and ushered them inside.
“Apologies for how humble it is,” said Luwin, gesturing to a simple living room
with a sofa and two chairs. The décor was modest, but Arya liked it. “My late
wife was the decorator.”
“It’s okay. We’re just grateful to have somewhere.” Jon shook Luwin’s hand and
introduced himself as ‘Jon Snow’. No one’s gonna fall for that, Arya thought,
but she didn’t blow his cover and sat down on the sofa. Jon sat beside her, and
Luwin took a seat in the chair opposite them. His expression was somber.
“I thought perhaps, before we pray, I might get straight to the point.” Luwin
folded his hands in front of him. “I know who you are.”
Arya tensed. A part of her wasn’t surprised, but that same part remained
unafraid.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn you in.” Luwin smiled in reassurance. “Your
father was, and still is, greatly respected in this community. We all looked up
to him and mourned his passing. Your family was a beacon to us.”
They were my beacon, too. Arya looked at Jon, and the two arrived at a mutual
conclusion; this could be a safe place, for now. “Thank you,” Jon said as he
faced Mr. Luwin. “You’re too kind. It’s been… hard for us. To say the least.”
“I’m sure it has been. I hope I can make you as comfortable as possible,
though. Everyone deserves a nice holiday.” Mr. Luwin stood and walked into his
kitchen. He returned with a dish of latkes and challah and two bowls, one with
applesauce, the other with sour cream. “I have both. Just in case.”
Arya beamed. Latkes, just like Mum's. “Thanks.” 
“You are most welcome.”
Slowly, Arya’s joy soured. The last time she’d celebrated Hanukkah, she was
home. They all were. Rickon had beaten everyone at dreidel and hoarded every
chocolate coin he’d won. Father had his silver menorah, shaped like a tree
branch. They’d all sung the prayer. Even Mum. Afterward, they’d laughed and
told stories over hot cocoa, discussing what they wanted for Christmas while
Talisa passed around her ultrasound pictures. Arya’s eyes began to sting. She
was still angry with Jon, and perhaps he was with her, but she reached for his
hand and held it tight. Jon leaned over and kissed her forehead. A gesture of
forgiveness. His eyes were as pained as hers.
The siblings accompanied Mr. Luwin to the mantle. He lit the first candle, and
the three of them sang the Baruch. Arya struggled through the final line. By
the time it was done, she sniffled her way out of the room, not bothering to
wish Mr. Luwin goodnight or indulge in the food that reminded her of the past.
She climbed the stairs and walked into the open guest room, closing the door
behind her.
There weren’t any tears left. Arya was depleted of sorrow and rage had taken
its place. She wanted to hit something, anything. She wanted to travel back in
time. Arya climbed on the bed of another strange place, a place that wasn’t
home, and hugged her knees.
She didn’t know how long she sat there before Jon came to her. He entered the
room with a cup of water and a plate, Ghost trotting in behind him. The canine
climbed on the bed and licked Arya’s face. She couldn’t help but smile.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” said Jon, sitting beside her. “Drink this. I
brought some latkes for you, too.”
“Thanks,” she said, setting the water on the nightstand. She took the plate of
latkes and smiled at the sour cream on the side. He remembered.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said. About Sansa, and fightin’.”
Arya bit her lip. She had to find Sansa, she knew it in her heart, and she
needed Jon to join her.
“You were right. If we don’t find Sansa and get rid of the people who are
lookin’ for us, everyone we loved all died in vain. I don’t think I could live
with myself if we left the country and Sansa was still out there.” Arya watched
Jon’s eyes go distant. He didn’t say anything else, just sat there carried away
in his own mind. She pulled him back when she nudged him with her foot.
“What are you trying to say?” asked Arya. “You said you didn’t want to fight
anymore. That Sansa was probably dead.”
“I was wrong.” Jon looked at her, eyes filled with a fire she hadn’t seen in
years. “We can’t be separated again. We go home happy with Sansa, or not at
all. And I know just where to start.”
Chapter End Notes
     * = Before I get into the goods of this chapter, I wanna take a sec
     and talk about the Holocaust line mentioned by Arya earlier. I was
     advised by one of my Jewish sources on Tumblr that avoiding mentions
     of anti-Semitism and the Holocaust is an unrealistic way to portray
     Judaism. These are very real things that Jews, especially European
     Jews, have to face. In the words of my main source (that wishes to
     remain anonymous because they aren't a part of the fandom), "ignoring
     the Holocaust and anti-Semitism is just as bad as pretending they
     never existed/don't exist." And I think the "six million of us" line
     from Arya is a very IC reaction to Harry's ignorant statement. So,
     there you have it. Don't kill me.
     I'd also like to thank @equipoise for being my Jewish sensitivity-
     reader! She helped me clear up a few things and gave me a shiny stamp
     of approval. Bless u. This was a hard chapter to write for many
     reasons, mainly because it put all my research to the test, but I
     think I did well. Even though I'm sure I'll get dragged. Whatever. I
     did my best.
     That being said, if you are a Jewish reader and see a problem in this
     chapter, please bring it to my attention! I want to correct any
     errors. You can message me here to talk about it.
     ANYWAY, WOW. WHAT A CHAPTER. What a beginning to the drama ahead. The
     next chapter is gOOD SIN and then just, wow, we're really starting to
     get into the thick of it. Juuuust leaving the introductory phase and
     getting into the meat of this tale. Thanks for sticking with me so
     far, even though I'm a plot writer over a smut writer and this
     story's probably garbage overall. You rock. (All the later smut is
     dedicated to u.)
     See you on Saturday ;) chapter ten is h u g e so prepare for a long
     read!
***** White Christmas *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
     [moonlight_serenade;_glenn_miller] ◆ [don't;_bryson_tiller] ◆ [white
                           christmas;_bing_crosby]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               24 DECEMBER, 2016
Hanukkah would never be the same. Sansa stood before the fireplace in the
library, lighting the menorah by herself. Alone. Does Jon still celebrate? she
wondered. Wherever he is, is he lighting the shamash? Is he thinking of me? Jon
Stark was a lost boy, though, as she was a lost girl. She sang the Baruch. She
prayed. And all the while, she missed what was.
A slow applause came from behind her when Sansa finished the blessing. Petyr
leaned against the nearest bookshelf with a grin on his face. Has he been
listening the whole time? Sansa wondered. He was dressed in a cable knit
turtleneck and a pair of dark jeans that fit him perfectly, looking every bit a
wealthy host ready to greet his guests. Sansa smiled when he came to her. His
eyes observed before he said anything, drinking her in from head to toe,
cocking his head to see her from a different angle. The spotlight would have
embarrassed her before, but now it only made her blush.
“Do you like it?” Sansa asked. She looked down to the Dior dress he’d bought
for her months ago, and the ballet flats that covered her feet. “You haven’t
seen me wear this yet. I thought tonight would be a good occasion.”
“A perfect one,” he agreed, “but not as perfect as you.” Petyr cupped her
cheek. He eyed her red lips and curled hair, never frowning. “You look
stunning, my dear. Your beauty puts the dress to shame.”
Sansa rested her hands on his chest, smiling wider when he took her by the
waist. Petyr’s touch was freeing. It filled her with peace. “Thank you. You
look handsome too, I like the pullover.”
“I’m glad.”
Sansa’s breath hitched when he kissed her neck and slipped his fingers through
her hair. He loved her hair; Sansa had learned that in the two weeks they’d
been exploring one another. Petyr turned to the menorah with its two lit
candles, neutrally curious. “If it is the first night of Hanukkah, why are
there two candles? Forgive me. I don’t know much about it.”
“Do I finally get to teach you something?” Sansa moved to the mantle with a
cheeky grin. Petyr followed, slipping his arms around her from behind to pull
her close against him. His constant need for contact never bothered her. It
made her feel cherished, and she knew it made Petyr feel cherished, too. “This
is a shamash," said Sansa, pointing to the center candle. "It’s what we use to
light the other eight candles. And this one is for the actual first day of
Hanukkah. It can be strange for outsiders.”
“No, that makes sense.” Petyr adjusted the menorah so it sat in the center of
the mantle. “If Cat grew accustomed to your practices, so can I.”
The fact that you even try is enough. Sansa turned in his arms, hoping he could
see how much she appreciated him for comforting her. Petyr responded by kissing
her gently. Repeatedly. They’d discussed it at length, how a simple kiss could
calm whatever storms raged in Sansa’s mind. His lips parted the clouds and
cleared her foggy head. Kissing was safety, security, warmth. Something she’d
only shared with him.
Petyr eventually pulled away. “The others will be arriving soon,” he said. “You
should join me in greeting them. You are the lady of the house now, after all.”
“Lady?” Sansa laughed. “I’m not a lady. I’m just a girl.”
“Regardless, you are mine.” He kissed her cheek. “Everyone will want to meet
you. You can’t hide from them, or the world, forever.”
“I know.” Sansa was anxious to meet Petyr’s associates. There weren’t many, Ros
had assured her of that, but there were enough to make Sansa worry.
“There is nothing to be nervous about. It’s a small group this year, anyway.”
Petyr offered his arm to her. “Ros is setting up the food. She might want some
help.”
Sansa glanced back to the menorah. She longed for it, longed for home, but
those days had vanished. Sansa linked arms with Petyr and forced a smile.
“Okay.”
The two left the library, and the menorah, behind. Sansa held tight to Petyr,
the sound of Christmas music growing louder with every step down the hall. She
could feel him tense on her arm. Petyr didn’t enjoy these parties, so Olyvar
had said, but he dealt with them for the sake of keeping his circle loyal.
Sansa admired him for it.
“Oh, Sansa!” chimed Ros when the pair entered the living room. “You look
adorable. I love the red lips.”
“Thank you,” said Sansa. Mayana had showed her a wonderful lipstick brand that
didn’t smudge or rub off, even in the middle of snogging sessions. Sansa had
made sure to wear some tonight. “You look beautiful, too. I love the dress.”
“Thank you, dear. We have to dress up, even if the others don’t.”
Mayana entered the room, balancing a platter of cookies on each hand. She wore
a sweater with a picture of Jesus in a party hat, holding a sign that
read “Birthday boy!” Olyvar wore the tackiest Christmas pullover Sansa had ever
seen. She laughed at the both of them. “I’m overdressed.”
“They’re just making fools of themselves.” Petyr removed his arm from hers.
“Help them set up, sweetling. I’m going to play a few lines.”
“Okay.” Sansa smiled when he kissed her forehead, no longer in a paternal way,
but far more sensual and romantic. He left her in the living room. Sansa coyly
curled her hair until she turned to face the others, all of whom were staring
at her with suggestive grins. “What!” laughed Sansa. “It was just a kiss.”
“Mmmhm.” Mayana waggled her eyebrows. “Y’all disgusting. I should move out.”
“I’m coming with you.” Olyvar placed a pitcher of apple cider next to a kettle
and laid out cups. “I don’t want to overhear what happens next.”
Sansa rolled her eyes. “Now you’re being disgusting.”
“They’re relentless,” said Ros. “Ignore them. We all know I’m winning the bet,
anyway. New Year’s.”
“No way!” Mayana put her hands on her hips. “It’s gonna be tonight. Look at
her. Pete’s prob'ly already jackin’.”
“I think you’re both ridiculous,” chimed Olyvar, popping an M&M in his mouth.
“He’ll wait until Valentine’s Day. It’s the perfect setting, and an appropriate
amount of time by a young lady’s standards.”
Sansa's cheeks turned red as her lips. “Are you betting on — on when Petyr and
I — when we…”
Mayana’s snort told Sansa all she needed to know. Sansa huffed and stole one of
the lemon cakes from the table to hide her embarrassment. She skipped into the
kitchens to gather what had yet to be set out, mouth full of pastry, as Petyr
began to play Christmas tunes on the piano.
The living room had transformed again by the time final preparations were made.
A long table lining the outer wall was covered in holiday dishes and pastries.
Small frosted cakes, chocolates and caramels and marshmallows with cream,
French wine and candied apples and numerous holiday drinks. Fruits and glazed
doughnuts, brownies, even cinnamon challah and latkes. Sansa wanted to taste
everything. Ros had to stop her from stealing another lemon cake, going so far
as to physically move the platter out of the room until the party began. Sansa
chased after her until the doorbell rang.
“I bet it’s Tyrion,” said Mayana. “He’s always here first. Come on, pretty
girl, let’s say hi!” Sansa was dragged from the living room before she could
argue. She didn’t have time to contemplate her fear before Mayana swung the
front door wide open.
Sansa remembered Tyrion Lannister. He was always kind to her despite Joffrey
and his ways, and he looked no different than he had back then, aside from the
new beard. He’d become Chancellor of the Exchequer since Prime Minister
Targaryen took office. He looks so happy. Sansa shook hands with him after
Mayana gave him a hug. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Lannister.”
“And you, Miss Stark. It is wonderful to see you smiling.” Tyrion squeezed her
hand. “I am so sorry for your losses.”
The words caught her off-guard. It had been ages since she was granted
someone’s sympathy, since she cared to have it, but Tyrion’s words seemed so
genuine that she nearly forgot to reply. “Oh. Thank you. I really appreciate
it.”
Tyrion motioned to the woman at his side, a beaming beauty with dark hair and a
platter of Turkish delight, her belly swollen with pregnancy. She must only be
weeks from delivery. “This is my wife, Shae.”
“Hello, Sansa,” said Shae with her heavy accent. “Tyrion’s told me all about
you. You have your mother’s eyes, I saw in the pictures.”
“Thank you.” Shae gave Sansa a hug before she could be told otherwise, but
Sansa didn’t truly mind. Mayana ushered the couple to the living room where the
party was to be held. When Tyrion left to greet Petyr in the piano room, Sansa
stayed with Shae to discuss the coming baby. Petyr's right, she thought after a
while, there are worse things than this.
A half-hour passed before Lothor Brune arrived with his wife, Mya, and the
children. Lothor was huge, almost as big as Sandor Clegane, and Mya was a
little thing with short black hair and a roguish attitude. They were friendly
enough, even though Mya did all the talking. Lothor mostly made indirect grunts
and rallied the triplets while his wife was busy. Hearing the children run
around reminded Sansa of her younger siblings, all three of them. The more time
she spent watching little Alyssa play, the more she realized how deep her ache
for family still was.
Petyr spent most of the party lurking in the background, but Sansa was not so
anti-social. She soaked up the opportunity to be in trustworthy company; it
could be her last for a long while. She talked with Shae about immigration to
Germany and her transition to London life. Lothor wasn’t much of a talker, but
Sansa managed to make him smile when praising him for his devotion to the
Secret Service. Mya was all jokes and stories. She raved about the hardships of
her veterinary clinic. After a time, it clicked with Sansa that Mya was Gendry
Waters’ older half-sister, the illegitimate daughter of King Robert that the
media had swept under the rug. If only Arya were here, Sansa thought, I bet
she’d love to know how Gendry’s doing. Sansa made a point to ask. Mya told her
that Gendry was recently in charge of the kennels in her clinic and let all the
dogs out at once, but some of them were in heat and now half their owners were
expecting puppies. Sansa laughed at the story, knowing Arya would laugh too,
but she made no mention of her sister to Mya. This was a time for the present,
not the past. A time for joy over sorrow.
“Miss Stark,” said Tyrion Lannister when the party was half-over. Shae was
locked in an intense conversation with Petyr in German and Ros was bouncing
little Alyssa on her knee. Where the others were, Sansa didn’t know, but Tyrion
seemed insistent on speaking with her. “Could I ask you something, if you don’t
mind?”
“Of course.” Sansa followed him to a space by the window, far enough away to
avoid eavesdroppers. It made her suspicious. “What would you like to talk
about?”
Tyrion sipped at his wine. She waited for him to mull over his words, concern
burning bright in his Lannister eyes. “How are you being treated here, Sansa?
Is Littlefinger kind to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s very kind.”
“If that ever changes, there are… other places I could take you. To keep you
safe.”
Sansa shifted in discomfort. “Like where?”
“I have an associate who can watch over you. Someone I trust. Littlefinger is
not known for his trustworthiness, Sansa, I’m sure you’ve learned that.”
Sansa couldn’t argue. But Petyr had her trust, which was all that mattered.
“You’re here at his party,” she countered.
“Pleasantries. He is good company, but I don’t fool myself into believing we’re
friends. I don’t even know his name.” Tyrion glanced around the room to make
sure Petyr was nowhere near. “I have a friend, Sansa. One who would take care
of you in the name of your father. He had a great respect for Ned Stark, many
people did.”
“And Littlefinger didn’t?”
“No. He didn't.” Tyrion dug into his pocket and handed her a business card.
“The decision is yours, of course. My friend would ask nothing of you, as I’m
sure Littlefinger has. We both know he is not the kind of man to take something
that won’t benefit him later on.”
“He’s not going to ‘take’ me, Mr. Lannister. Not ever.” Sansa dropped his card
in the nearest rubbish bin, unashamed, but not cruel. “I appreciate your
concern. Really, I do. But I'm happy here. Littlefinger has never been
inconsiderate or harmful to me. This is the safest place I've been since my
family was killed and I don't want to leave.” Sansa found she truly believed
those words, despite intending a lie. “If you’re so worried, you should turn
your attention to Ramsay Bolton. He is a bigger threat to me than Littlefinger
has ever been, almost as big as your father was to mine. Tell your friend that.
See what he says.”
And Sansa left him.
Sansa didn’t speak with Tyrion for the rest of the night, but she was still a
polite hostess. She spent the remainder of the party with Shae and Mya and
Olyvar, telling stories while playing with the children. Alyssa started calling
her “Aunt Sansa” before long, sitting in her lap with a toothy beam. I bet
Robb’s son would have been as sweet as this.
Tyrion and Shae left an hour later. Mya let out a long sigh when the door
closed behind them, the party officially through. “Phew,” she said, “do you
know how hard it is to refer to you as ‘Littlefinger’ all the time? You
could’ve come up with something shorter.”
Petyr grinned. “I’m sorry my alias inconveniences you.”
“Petyr’s been called weirder shit before,” said Lothor, “Littlefinger doesn’t
even come close. You can start cleanin’, babe. I’m gonna put the kids to bed.”
“Okay.” Mya and Lothor shared a kiss. Petyr smirked at Sansa from across the
room before disappearing down the hall with Mayana and the others. “Come on,
Sansa,” said Mya. “Let’s get this place cleaned up. Let those four have their
fun, they work hard enough.”
Sansa helped Mya clean the dishes in the kitchen and put away the spare food,
talking and singing to Christmas songs as they worked. By the time they were
done, another hour had passed and Mya was yawning when Lothor came to bring her
to bed. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Sansa.” Mya waved. “My kids will probably wake
you up early. Get some sleep, okay?”
“I’ll try.” Sansa smiled as Mya and Lothor left the room. She stood in the
kitchen alone, taking a moment to think on her blessings.
Sansa heard music coming from the hall. Mayana’s laughter bled through the
cracked door of Petyr’s office, followed by Ros and Olyvar spitting drunken
jokes at each other. The music sounded hollow, distant and unclear. A record
player? Swing music, Sansa thought, but she didn’t know the artist or the song.
She considered peeking inside, but they wouldn’t spite her for entering
unannounced.
The fireplace in Petyr’s office was lit, crackling behind Ros and Olyvar as
Mayana tried to teach them how to swing. All three of them were drunk. Mayana
cackled at Ros’s attempt to move her feet like the dancers do, and Olyvar had
taken to practicing the twirl on his own. Petyr leaned back in the chair at his
desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His cheeks
were flushed. Behind him was the old phonograph from which the record played.
“What’s going on in here?” asked Sansa. “A dance party?”
“Sansa!” called Mayana. She attempted to crawl over the back of the couch to
reach her. “Oh my god, please tell me you know how to swing. These two are
hopeless.”
Sansa shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“Agh. Come on, it’s not hard! Pete made me a master by the time I was twenty.
Here, come here, I’ll show you.” Mayana tried to stand. She wobbled and caught
herself on the back of the sofa before falling over. Olyvar burst into
laughter.
“You’re not in a position to teach anyone anything,” said Petyr from his desk.
“What happened to ‘I’m not going to drink that much’?”
“Who knoooows.” Mayana snorted. “I’m having fun. Don’t kinkshame me.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” said Ros. “He’s the biggest freak we know.”
Petyr spread his hands. “I have a reputation to maintain. You should get in bed
before you pass out, Mayana. I’m not cleaning up any messes you might make.”
“I know, I know.” She sniffled. “C’mon, y’all. Let’s give Pete some jackin’
time. Muse A is here.”
Sansa shook her head at Mayana’s joke, made in ill-taste, but humorous all the
same. Ros and Olyvar said their goodnights and helped Mayana from the office.
When the door closed, Petyr and Sansa were alone.
“Benny Goodman,” he said. Petyr stood from his chair, snuffing out his
cigarette in an ashtray and setting the whiskey down. He faced the record
player. He’s so handsome, thought Sansa, even in the way he moves. “My parents
loved swing music. They went out dancing every Saturday that I can remember.”
She heard him scoff. “They’d dance in the kitchen, the living room, the dining
room, anywhere there was space. This was one of their favorite songs.”
“They must have been lively people.”
“No, not when they were apart. But together? Lively’s a good word.” Petyr
lifted the needle, ending the song, and removed the record to exchange it for
another. The song that began was much slower than the last, paced for romance
versus jive, and Petyr turned to Sansa with mischief. “I’ve always preferred
the softer things.”
Sansa didn’t move away when he came to her, taking her hands. She let him place
one on his shoulder, the other still held while his free hand rested at the
base of her spine. Sansa smiled as he began to sway her to the beat, feeling
giddy for a thousand reasons combined. “Softer?” she asked. “That’s surprising,
coming from someone like you.”
“Everyone needs a hobby. Soft fabrics, soft jazz, soft women — these are all
interests of mine.” His eyes lingered at the slope of her neck before returning
to her face. I know that look, she thought, and it excited her. “Did you enjoy
the party?”
“Mhm.” Sansa was grateful for a distraction from his stare. “I’m glad I got to
see Tyrion, and I absolutely loved Shae. Mya has the funniest stories, too. Her
kids are adorable. I can’t see why you don’t like them.”
“I didn’t grow up with siblings,” said Petyr. “I’m not particularly well-versed
in children. The triplets are much better behaved this year than last year,
though. I don’t know what Mya threatened them with.”
Sansa laughed. “Children don’t have to be threatened to be well-behaved.”
“These ones do.” His grin quickly faded. “I heard them call you ‘Aunt Sansa’.”
“I know, aren’t they sweet?”
“Does it bother you?” Petyr cleared his throat, almost nervously. “They called
you ‘Aunt Sansa’ because I’m ‘Uncle Petyr’. That typically implies marriage.”
Oh. The connection was obvious in hindsight, but Sansa had been so honored that
she hadn’t noticed it. Their dance came to a slow halt. She searched Petyr’s
grey-green eyes for purpose, but all she found was confusion. “That’s not…
that’s not such a bad thing, is it?” asked Sansa. “It’s harmless to let them
think that.”
“I suppose.”
There was greed in him. Sansa felt it in his touch when he tightened his hold.
She could read Petyr better than anyone, she’d learned that, and what she saw
in him dug at the resistance she’d built over time, at the base of her self-
defense until there was nothing. She was left submissive.
“Moonlight Serenade,” said Petyr in a low voice.
“What?”
“The song. If you were wondering.”
He kissed her hard. Sansa opened to him, her arms around his neck. She knew the
movements of his mouth, his practiced restraint, but the boundaries slipped
away and Sansa lost her footing. She moved backwards with him until the back of
her thighs hit a table. Petyr gripped her hips and guided her down on the
surface, settling between her legs as he kissed her neck. Sansa felt a flush of
warmth, the core of her begging for what she wasn’t yet ready to receive. His
hand sliding up her thigh was electric. Nerve-wracking. “Petyr,” she whimpered.
“Petyr, I don’t…”
“I know.” He nibbled at her neck, making her whine. “I know.” Petyr’s hands
moved up her back and pulled her against him. Sansa let her eyes flutter
closed, unable to do anything but melt under his touch and his voice and his
heat. “I won’t hurt you, sweetling. But I crave you. I crave touching you,
hearing you, seeing you.” He kissed her ear. “Let me please you, Sansa.”
Yes, her body replied. Do it, do whatever you want. But hesitation remained.
The thought of sex was still frightening; her body was broken territory, wasn’t
it? Sansa chewed her lip, looking at him when he pulled away. His eyes were
half-open and infected with desire.
“I won’t undress,” he assured. “I’ll even keep my shoes on, if that’s what you
want. No part of me will enter you. There are other ways to please a woman.”
Petyr's knuckles grazed her throat. “Let me show you.”
The fire between them was kindled by time and togetherness, solidifying his
promise to her. He won’t hurt me. Petyr held her face and she felt confident,
safe in her needs. Sansa nodded. “Okay.”
He kissed her again. She sighed into his open mouth and clung to him as he
wrapped his arms tight around her waist. Sansa could feel him, hard between her
thighs, under his jeans. She wanted to touch him where he ached. He wouldn’t
hurt her. He would like it, Sansa was certain, he’d waited long enough for her
to be comfortable. I can be comfortable, right? I can give him what he wants…
Petyr pulled away before she could act. He took her hands delicately and helped
her off the table, eyes never leaving her. “Not here,” he said. “My room.” He
led her down the hall and up the stairs, and she followed him, keeping hold of
his hand.
Petyr opened his door and closed it behind her. His room was dark, barely lit
by the Christmas lights outside his window, and she saw only shadows and dull
shapes of furniture. Petyr moved away. Anxiety slithered in, replacing him at
her side. Sansa wrung her hands and tried to keep her breath steady in the
darkness. He won’t hurt me. He promised. “Petyr,” she whispered. “Petyr, where
are you? Could we turn on a —”
A lamp clicked on. Petyr stood by his nightstand, one hand on the switch,
worried. The light was dim as though he’d lit a candle, but it was enough to
soothe her. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just — the darkness —”
“I know.” Petyr came to her and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “I
haven’t forgotten what upsets you.”
Sansa sighed in relief. They’d talked about what brought panic for her, in a
room with a bed, with a man. She was grateful for Petyr’s patience. Even if his
reasons for being kind were to gain sexual gratification from her, she knew it
was better than no kindness at all.
“Do you trust me?” Petyr asked.
“Yes.” Her heart raced with the thrill. The man she’d chosen would touch her by
her own will and consent and God, she was ready. She melted when Petyr pulled
her closer, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, mint and whiskey still on
his tongue. He toyed with the zipper of her dress before pulling it down, down,
sliding his hands along her back and dragging his nails lightly on her skin. A
shudder took her. The dress came over Sansa’s shoulders until Petyr pushed it
to the floor, and she was exposed. “Gently,” he whispered. “I am going to savor
you.”
Sansa hummed when Petyr caressed her scalp, her Irish hair, guiding her head to
the side to plant a kiss where neck met shoulder. Her eyes fluttered closed.
Lips and teeth cast a spell from his mouth to her skin, pumping through her
blood until she was properly bewitched. He didn’t hesitate to finger the back
of her bra. “May I?” he asked in her ear. She nodded. Petyr unclasped the hooks
and pulled the lace from her body, and to her own surprise, Sansa didn’t feel
the need to hide. Willing exposure was something she’d never done, but Petyr
wouldn’t hurt her. He’d please her. He promised.
Sansa felt his ragged breath down her neck, hot and trembling at the sight of
her nakedness. She wondered if he liked what he saw. Tentative and exploring,
he glided his fingertips along her curves, over her stomach, her sides, and
Sansa shivered so hard that she gasped. Petyr held her breasts in his hands. He
rolled his thumbs over her nipples and Sansa whimpered, curling her fingers
into his jumper from how much he made her ache. Her head fell forward until
Petyr caught it with his own and he kissed her tenderly. “You are a gift,
Sansa. Truly exquisite.” He touched her peaks again. “Perfect.”
“I’m not perfect,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m just me.”
“That is why you are perfect.” He took her hand. Sansa let him lead her to the
bed, feeling her confidence settle.
“On your back,” said Petyr. His command reared something dark inside her. Sansa
obeyed, laying on his blankets and trying to keep calm. Petyr climbed on top of
her and claimed her mouth in a heated kiss. He settled between her legs, a
position she knew they could make love in were it not for the clothing that
separated them, and she felt his hardness grind against her. The pressure made
her moan. Sansa smiled at the taste of his kiss, the familiarity that chased
her fears away. His mouth moved down her neck to the valley of her chest. Her
breath shook when he took her nipple in his mouth and traced it with his
tongue. Sansa closed her eyes, humming behind closed lips at the pleasure that
shocked her. Petyr guided her legs further apart as he caressed her body, but
Sansa knew where she wanted him, where she craved him. He was driving her mad
on purpose, touching her everywhere but the one place she needed him most. His
fingertips traced the inside of her thigh and she squirmed. What are you
doing? she almost asked, until his kiss came lower and lower, below her rib
cage and her abdomen, and lower still. Sansa trembled in anticipation. “I’ve
never — Petyr, I don’t, I’ve never —”
“I know,” he growled. Petyr pulled the lace underwear from her hips and tossed
them aside, exposing her fully to him. Sansa felt strangely open, defenseless
under his gaze, weak to his dominance. What does he see? she thought, but all
Sansa recognized in his stare was hunger. Petyr kept his eyes between her legs.
She was nervous to be vulnerable, but he wasn’t a threat. A blush crept over
her face. “So beautiful,” he muttered in a tone she didn’t recognize. “Divine.”
Sansa laughter was defense; Petyr’s compliments to the place she'd been ruined
made her want to cry. “What about it is beautiful?”
“What about it isn’t?” He kissed her thigh. “You will feel it soon. Don’t hold
back your sounds, sweetling, I want to hear you.”
She wasn’t given time to respond. Sansa moaned to the ceiling when he traced
her sopping slit with his finger, not pushing inside, but teasing enough to
make her wish he’d never promised restraint. Sansa looked down at him, his eyes
lascivious in a gaze that grew darker by the second. “Do you trust me?”
Her answer was quick. “Yes.”
Petyr slid one hand up her stomach. Sansa laced her fingers with his. He spread
her thighs further apart, and came down to taste her.
Sansa gasped when she felt his tongue. A jolt of pleasure shot through her body
and she jerked backwards, suddenly embarrassed. “Ah! Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t
expect —”
“It’s alright,” soothed Petyr, voice deep and calming. “Relax, sweetling.
Relax.” He reached for her again, his face between her legs, that wicked smile
ever-present. “Don’t pull away unless you’re frightened. It defeats the
purpose.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she chuckled. “I’m new to this.”
“Not for long.”
His mouth touched her again. Petyr’s tongue was warm and soft against her,
making her sex throb harder as if he wasn’t touching her at all. Every move
made her muscles quake. Sansa didn’t recognize the sounds the came from her
throat, somewhere between whimper and hum, but it wasn’t in displeasure. She
moaned and closed her eyes, head falling back to the mattress as he began to
work her in ways she didn’t think were possible. It was so much sweeter than
touching herself at night, thinking of him when he was undoubtedly thinking of
her, too. Petyr was fire and she was an evergreen, and he would lick her until
she ignited.
Sansa writhed beneath him when his pace sped. Already she was building, higher
and higher toward a bliss she’d never reached with anyone else. She gripped his
hand tighter while her other snaked into his hair. Sansa had abandoned trying
to keep quiet long ago and whined to the ceiling, light sounds that made him
groan against her flesh. Her pitch raised with each press and flick of his
tongue and her body felt like it had unlocked, opened fully to let him devour
her inside out. Sansa clenched her eyes shut. “Petyr,” she mewled. “Don’t stop,
please…”
Her begging pushed him further. Petyr sucked and feverishly lapped at her core
until she teetered on the edge of oblivion, breathing hard and clutching his
dark hair, every muscle tense. Like a boulder off a cliff, she fell. Sansa
cried out as her body spasmed, clinging tightly to anything she could reach
just to stay on earth. She moaned his name, back arching, and Petyr guided her
through orgasm. It was heaven, a blank state of mind, nothing but euphoria that
set all parts of her to a frenzy. Sansa quivered with pleasure until she came
to rest again, panting and smiling and completely overjoyed. She covered her
face with her hands and giggled. “Oh my god.” There were no words she could
find, none that fit. She moved her hands away to look at him.
Petyr was staring. He sat back on his knees, frowning, watching.
Her smile fell. Petyr’s eyes were everywhere, scanning her entirety as if
searching for a clue. A clue to what? Petyr seemed confused, impassioned but
saddened to be so. She pushed herself upright. Sansa reached out and touched
his cheek, and his eyes lifted to hers. Petyr didn’t speak. He kissed the
inside of her wrist and gave her a look she didn’t quite understand, something
between longing and self-deprecation, and he pulled away before she could
question him. Petyr pulled some pajamas from his dresser and disappeared into
the connecting bathroom.
The shower began to run. Sansa sat there, still breathless and tingly from
whatever he’d given her, but something felt wrong. Different. She ran her
fingers through her hair. A few minutes passed before she thought to move, and
Sansa wondered if he expected her to be gone by the time he came out of the
shower. I don’t want to be gone, though. I want to stay. He wouldn’t mind,
would he? She wasn’t sure anymore.
Sansa picked up her underwear from the floor and slipped it on. The Dior dress
was too expensive to sleep in, but she didn’t want to cross the hallway to her
room half-naked, either. She walked over to his laundry basket and picked a
gray t-shirt from the top of the pile. She brought it to her nose. It didn’t
smell bad. On the contrary, it smelled like Petyr, which made her feel safe.
Sansa pulled on Petyr’s shirt and returned to his bed, settling on top of the
covers. His mattress felt like a cloud. She leaned back on the headboard with a
little smile, feeling relaxed and peaceful, as if he’d taken off an edge that’d
been poised against her throat. I hope he’s not angry with me, Sansa thought. I
didn’t even touch him…
She couldn’t go there. Sansa took the TV remote from his nightstand and turned
on the telly for distraction. It was past one in the morning, too late for any
notable news, but while scrolling through the channels she found something
worthwhile. White Christmas. Father’s favorite. She turned it on, burying her
feet under Petyr’s blankets and settling in to watch. I hope the children
didn’t hear the noises I made.
Petyr came from the bathroom. His hair was wet, amusingly flat, and Sansa
smiled to see him in plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt. He looked so simple, so
domestic that it was almost humorous. She’d seen him charm thousands from the
pockets of bankers and negotiate lives like they were product on a shelf, yet
there he was, Petyr Baelish, just out of the shower and ready for bed. He
paused when he looked at her. Sansa kept her smile. She hadn’t forgotten the
sadness in him.
“This is a sight I could get used to,” he said, smirking as he leaned against
the bed frame. “You. In my bed.”
“I prefer you and me together in the bed,” Sansa countered. “I don’t like
watching movies alone.”
Petyr tossed his towel in the hamper and gestured for her to scoot over. He
pulled back the blankets and settled in at her side, eyeing the TV. “White
Christmas?”
“Mhm.” Sansa wasn’t going to let Petyr be distant, so she snuggled close to
him. He smelled of soap and steam. “My father loved this movie.”
“Your father?” Petyr wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Sansa moved
closer. “That seems… odd.”
“Not really. He loved Christmas. The decorations, the togetherness, the spirit
of giving.” She toyed with her necklace. “He loved it as much as the next
person, even though he celebrated for different reasons.”
“I see.” Petyr reached for his phone on the nightstand. He scrolled through a
few pages while Sansa kept her attention on the film. An Army division from
World War II was sending off their beloved general to a musical number,
thanking him for his leadership. The camera focused on the general’s teary eyes
as his soldiers declared their love. It reminded Sansa of Petyr’s father. A man
she’d never met and barely heard of, but she thought of him all the same.
“Did your dad have a uniform like that?” Sansa asked, pointing to the screen.
“Yes, he did. Kept it in a closet somewhere.” Petyr seemed passive, dodging the
topic of his family as usual, but there was something else buried in the way he
spoke. Sansa could feel it. Petyr locked his phone and placed it on the
wireless charger. “You should sleep, sweetling. It’s already late and Lothor’s
brats will have us up before sunrise.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not much of a sleeper.” He kissed her temple and turned off the lamp,
letting the light of the movie be their only guide. Petyr settled on his back
for Sansa to snuggle beside him, her head on his chest, arms curled between
them. She sighed as his fingers stroked her hair. He kissed the top of her
head. It was so tempting to fall asleep just then, without discovering what
Petyr was upset about, but she cared for him too much to let it slide.
“Petyr?” asked Sansa in a quiet voice. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You’re not angry, are you?” Sansa looked up to him. She sat up on her knees so
she could see him better, nervously twirling her hair. “You looked sad earlier,
after we… after you,” she corrected. “I’m sorry I didn’t return the favor. I
just don’t know if I’m ready. I shouldn’t be scared of a body part, but I’m—”
“Sansa.” Petyr gently pulled her down to him, kissing her. Sansa’s tension
slipped away. “Pleasing you pleases me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, I’m not angry with you. I have no reason to be.”
“But you’re not happy, either. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I’m not sure you can see much of anything in this darkness.” Sansa could hear
his grin.
“No, stop. I’m not joking.” Sansa placed her hand beside him to stay upright,
the other caressing his cheek with tenderness. Petyr stopped moving entirely.
“I think we’re past the point of hiding things from each other, aren’t we?”
A flicker of frustration crossed his face. She noticed it when the movie came
to a snow scene, filling the room with white light. Sansa brushed her
fingertips along his cheek, over his jaw, reveling in how sweet it was to feel
his vulnerability. It was for her, after all. Petyr moved her hair behind her
ear and held it between his fingers when he spoke. “If I’d gone to your
mother’s Christmas parties, been around her at all, I could have seen what was
coming. I could have killed your enemies before they laid a hand on you, and
tonight I could have had you fully. Instead, you are afraid.”
“That’s not your fault.” Sansa frowned, toying with the silver hair at his
temple. “You didn’t make the Lannisters do what they did. You didn’t tell the
Boltons to hurt me.”
“But I could have prevented it, if I’d been a part of your lives.” His smile
was somber. “One of many regrets.”
Sansa felt his burdens. Petyr seemed like a man who didn’t have any regrets at
all, not from the crimes he’d committed or the lives he’d taken, but Sansa
didn’t inquire. She leaned down and kissed him sweetly, slowly. “I don’t hold
it against you. You shouldn’t either.”
“I don’t. I’m merely stating an inconvenience.”
Oh, you liar. Sansa knew better, but it was pointless to argue. She cuddled
beside him again and let him hold her, his breath in her hair, pulling her
close, and in his arms Sansa drifted to a peaceful sleep.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                               25 DECEMBER, 2016
“Sansa,” said a soft voice. “Sansa, darling, wake up.”
Sansa groaned and rolled over in bed, hoping to wrap her arms around Petyr, but
instead she found empty space. She opened her eyes. Ros was sitting on the edge
of the bed, dressed in sweatpants and a loose top, hair in a messy bun. She
carried a mug of coffee and her eyes were warm and maternal. “Happy Christmas.”
Sansa pushed herself up and looked around the room. Petyr was nowhere to be
found. “Happy Christmas,” she said to Ros, smiling despite herself. “Where’s
Petyr?”
“Downstairs. He thought you’d want to sleep in. Olyvar and Mya are making
french toast from the leftover challah. Can you smell it?” Ros inhaled deeply,
her eyes more joyful than Sansa had ever seen them. “I love the holiday. Best
time of year.”
“Yeah.” Sansa felt odd, sitting in Petyr’s room without Petyr beside her. She
almost got out of bed before remembering she didn’t have pants on.
“Are you alright, love?” asked Ros. “Petyr came downstairs this morning looking
like he’d killed someone. That’s to say, he looked very happy.”
“I’m okay,” Sansa said with a smile, appreciating that Ros even bothered to
ask. “We didn’t go all the way. But he was good to me.” I wish I could have
been good to him. 
“I’m not surprised. Petyr is mostly gentle to those he actually cares about,
though you’ll never hear him say it.” Ros patted Sansa’s leg over the blankets.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I brought some clothes over from your
room, they’re sitting on Petyr’s desk. Come down when you’re ready. Breakfast
should be done soon.”
“Thank you, Ros. Really.” Sansa would never get used to how much these people
cared for her. “I shouldn’t be long. I don’t want to keep the children waiting
to open gifts, that used to drive me mad when I was little.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Lothor never lets them start until he’s had
breakfast and at least two cups of coffee. They’re trained.” Ros winked. She
stood from the bed, sipping her espresso. “I’ll save a seat for you,” she said,
and left the room.
Christmas, thought Sansa. It was hard to believe she’d made it this far. If
there’s anything I want this year, it’s to stay safe and happy. For as long as
I can.
Sansa walked to Petyr’s desk near the fireplace. Ros had picked out a pair of
baggy flannel pajamas and Robb’s Oxford sweatshirt for her to wear. Sansa
quickly dressed. Petyr keeps a tidy work space, she observed, eyeing the neat
stacks and folders that he kept everything of necessity filed in. She wondered
how many national secrets his storage contained, how much blackmail and
international scandal. It wouldn’t do to poke and prod, though. Not on
Christmas Day. 
A book caught Sansa’s eye. It sat beneath a short stack of paperwork, tucked
away at the back of his desk. Recovery After Rape: Helping Your Partner Reclaim
Their Sexuality. Sansa reached for it. The cover was worn with use and sticky
notes poked out from between the pages. Others were dog-eared for reference.
Sansa opened the book and scanned over different topics and texts that Petyr
had highlighted for emphasis, and her eyes began to sting with tears. There
were passages about boundaries, patience, cooperation, communication and
understanding, all of which were surrounded by handwritten notes and sentences
Petyr had underlined. The corner of “Trust Exercises and Relearning Touch” was
folded down, with the word “TRACHEA” written next to it. The organs
lesson, Sansa thought. So he did plan that. Sansa knew Petyr’s methods were
unorthodox, concerning to those who didn’t know him, but he’d taken great care
and concern for her comfort. Who else had done that for her?
One handwritten line stood out.

                          She is more than her scars.
Oh, Petyr. She wiped a stray tear from her cheek and took a pen from his top
drawer, writing a message in the space below.

                         And you are more than yours.
She capped the pen and placed it beside the book, knowing he would see it.
Sansa freshened herself up in the bathroom, feeling secure knowing her
happiness had value, and left Petyr’s bedroom to join the others.
“Good morning!” called Mya when Sansa entered the kitchen. “French toast is all
served up. Take a plate and find somewhere to sit. We’ll start presents after.”
“Thank you, Mya,” Sansa poured herself a glass of milk. “I’m sorry I slept in.
Am I the last one up?”
“No. Mayana’s still dead to the world, but I’m not surprised.” Mya flipped over
sizzling bacon in the skillet. “Petyr said she drank tequila last night. That
shit always knocks her out. He’s checking on her.”
Sansa took her plate from the counter, looking around the otherwise empty
kitchen. “Where is everyone else?”
“Out on the deck,” said Mya. “Bring another coat before you go out there,
though. We had a hell of a storm last night.”
Sansa peeked out the back windows. The gardens were blanketed in fresh snow
that had fallen overnight. Tree branches were lined with crystals of snowfall
and the air was crisp, pure. Sansa smiled to herself. A prayer had been
answered. Thank you, Father.
Sansa ate her breakfast with Lothor and Olyvar, swapping holiday stories over
challah and hot chocolate. She built snowmen with the children, braided
Alyssa’s hair and had a snowball fight with Olyvar, who made fun of Mayana’s
hangover the moment she came outside. Sansa sent a snowball Ros’s way. Ros
yelped as it slid down the back of her robe, nearly spilling her coffee on the
ground, and Sansa laughed so hard her sides began to hurt. The children thought
Aunt Sansa had done a commendable thing. They made snowballs and hurled them at
their parents, Ros and the others, which earned them a scolding from Uncle
Petyr when he came from the kitchens. He wasn’t cruel with them, but he was
stern, earning apologies from four little children with their heads hung in
shame. They didn’t stay solemn for long, though. When Ros announced that it was
time for presents, they pushed passed Petyr and paraded into the living room by
the tree, eagerly calling everyone else inside so they could start. Sansa made
to follow them until Petyr took her by the wrist, kissing her when it was just
the two of them on the deck. “Nollaig Shona Duit,” he said.
The passing of presents was its own disaster. Ros and Olyvar tried to pace
things one present at a time, but the children were too demanding and Mayana
too grumpy, so everyone opened their gifts at the same time. The room was soon
smothered in wrapping paper. Petyr cringed. Ros and Olyvar were exhausted by
the end of it, but overall, the gifts brought many smiles. The children
received brand new iPads from their Uncle Petyr, and while Mya didn’t look too
pleased, she knew there was merit in keeping four young kids occupied. Mayana
gave Petyr a coffee mug that read “You’re the Worst” with an assortment of
flavored condoms inside. Sansa blushed when he eyed her suggestively. Olyvar
and Ros bought each other matching shirts and Mayana got a box of Frango’s from
Petyr, some sort of tradition between the two. Petyr liked Sansa’s gift. A
simple silver pin in the shape of a mockingbird. She didn’t think he would be
so appreciative, but he enjoyed the present so much that he kissed her full on
the mouth after opening it. The children yelled in disgust. “I’ll wear it with
pride,” Petyr told her. “Thank you.”
Sansa, of course, was showered in gifts. Clothes, perfume, makeup, shoes,
books, even an acoustic guitar like Robb’s. By the time the presents had all
been unwrapped, the living room was a jungle of papers and plastic, but
everyone was happy. Sansa sat content in Petyr’s lap with her gifts all around
her, looking to the menorah on the mantle where someone had moved it from the
library. She knew the best gift of all was one they’d given her long ago: a
place to belong.
“Sansa,” said Petyr, rubbing her shin with his hand. “Come with me for a
moment.” Guiding her off his lap, Petyr stood and offered his hand to her.
Sansa took it and followed his careful navigation through the labyrinth of
children and crumpled paper. He led her to the piano room, out of sight from
the others, and only then did Sansa notice his other hand still held behind his
back. “My present to you, Sansa.” Petyr lifted his palm and offered her a small
box, sleek and black without any lettering.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You’ll see.”
Trying to hide her giddiness, Sansa took the box and cracked it open. Inside
was a pair of princess cut diamond earrings in white gold, glittering and new
and huge. Sansa gasped. “P-Petyr, these are — this —”
“Diamonds, yes. Two karats. I know you worry about price, but don’t. I like to
spoil you.” He curled her hair behind both of her ears and reached for the box,
grinning. “May I?”
Sansa nodded. Petyr took the earrings and unclasped them, and she moved her
head to the side to allow him to put them in place. She giggled when his lips
ghosted her neck, his mustache tickling her, every move one of passion. Trust
exercises. When he was done, he eyed her with admiration. “How do they look?”
she asked.
“Beautiful, but you outshine them.” He lowered his hand to her hip. “I was
hoping you would wear them to the gala.”
Sansa raised her brow. “What gala?”
“Myrcella’s. She is hosting a formal event on the New Year, and I’ve been
invited.”
Sansa blinked. “Queen Myrcella? Joffrey’s sister…”
“She is nothing like Joffrey, I assure you. I know you haven’t seen her since
you were younger, but she is a very sweet girl, every inch a benevolent
monarch. You will like her.”
Sansa bit her lip. “Queen Cersei and Tywin Lannister will be there. The Boltons
will be there, Ramsay will be there.” The thought of facing him was terrifying.
She’d begun to panic when Petyr cradled her neck in his warm hands, and she
lifted her eyes to his, inches apart.
“You have become a strong woman under my guidance, Sansa. Beautiful. Confident.
Intelligent and sharp-tongued. There is nothing the Lannisters can do to
reverse that, not now. As for Ramsay, I will be by your side.” Petyr kissed her
forehead. Sansa felt uncertain, standing there with the inevitability of her
fears around the corner, but she found the will to be strong. “Are you ready to
come back to the public eye, sweetling? To finally begin what we set out to
do?”
Sansa knew what he meant. I want their corporation to burn,he’d said before.We
kill them. She stood taller.
“I’m ready,” Sansa Stark replied.
Chapter End Notes
     i am so glad this chapter wasn't in petyr's pov because it literally
     would have been "and then he died." (sidenote: my beta killed me omg,
     she was like: "Sansa smiled when he kissed her forehead, no longer in
     a paternal way, but far more sensual and romantic." do u mean "he
     kissed her like a dad only hotter" #callhimdaddy)
     Reference for the Baruch, which Sansa sings at the beginning and
     Arya/Jon sang last chapter!
     A visual ref for Sansa this chapter, to further bury Petyr in his
     grave: x
     This is almost 9k words and I can't believe myself. This took me so
     long and ugh I'm sick of looking at it, so HERE. HAVE IT. I hope it's
     good like I planned! :) Feedback on this chapter in particular would
     be great!
     I really hate doing this, but since I want this fic to constantly be
     great quality, I'm going to take a little break. There will be no
     update next Saturday. I just need to take a day or two and play some
     video games or something, I have no free time lately and I'd love to
     take a breather. Consider chapters 1-10 "part one" of Bloodguilt! Now
     we're onto the good stuff. Chapter 11 will go up on Saturday, October
     22nd. I'll keep my weekly updates from then on, unless I need another
     break, but I think it's important for me to take some time off. 65k+
     words in two months is a lot! You can also go back and reread before
     the plot starts to get heavy. To catch anything you might have
     missed; I've been planting seeds for a while so I hope you've been
     paying attention! (And if you ask nicely, maybe I'll make a gifset
     next Saturday in replacement of an update. Hmm.)
     See you in two weeks, my lovelies! Things are really going to kick
     off. Your support and enthusiasm has meant so fucking much to me.
     This story is going to be a huge personal accomplishment and every
     time I hear how much you love it, I feel all warm and fuzzy and
     worthy. So thank you, truly. I love you all. And remember you can
     always reach out to me on tumblr. xoxo
***** Slaughterhouse *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
               [power;_kanye_west] ◆ [addicted_to_you;_avicii]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               29 DECEMBER, 2016
The mockingbird pin had become Littlefinger’s badge of honor. It rested over
his black heart on a suit of the same color, where a politician might boast the
flag of their country. But Littlefinger wasn’t loyal to any nation. Only his
own. Only himself.
He looked down to the silver symbol with pride. Sansa knew him well enough to
have purchased the gift on her own. It made Petyr smile. The little mockingbird
was one of his favorite possessions, though he could never tell Sansa that,
even if she already knew. He’d nearly snogged her when he opened the box.
“Every villain needs a symbol,” he’d told her, “and now you’ve given me mine.”
It was perfect. A little bird pinned upon his breast, masking the lies he spoke
with song.
Petyr’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, crossing one leg over the
other as he read the sender’s name. Sansa. He had a minute to reply to a
text or two. Cersei wouldn’t send for him just yet, and the extravagance of
Buckingham Palace had lost its charm. He’d much rather talk to his girl. Petyr
tapped the screen and read her message.
Red velvet cake tonight? For Olyvar’s birthday.
Petyr smirked. His response was immediate. I’d much rather have your red
velvet.
Sansa sent him a sarcastic emoji.
I could tell him and the others to leave the house. Go to a bar or something,
give us the place to ourselves.
And what if I want to go with them?
That’s illegal. You’re underage.
That didn’t stop you from taking me to The Mockingbird.
Petyr laughed. One of the guards looked at him strangely, but didn’t
inquire. Red velvet sounds fair. As long as I get my extra serving when the
others leave.
You’re gross.
For you, I will be everything.
“Littlefinger!” called a sing-song voice. Petyr recognized Myrcella before he
saw her, golden locks and Lannister eyes identifying her as queen. Petyr stood
and bowed at the waist, slipping his phone into his pocket. He didn’t have to
fake smiles with Myrcella. She was a sweet girl, and had not earned his
contempt.
“Your Majesty,” said Petyr. “You look beautiful, as always.” He politely kissed
her cheek. Petyr had known to stay close to the Baratheon children long before
he ever rose to power, and it had paid off considerably. Myrcella thought of
him as a friend. She’d even invited him to her royal wedding, in a seat beside
Prince Renly. “Did you receive my message?”
“About the gala?” said Myrcella with excitement. “I did! I’m so happy you can
join us. It’s going to be fun. And I can’t wait to meet your girlfriend, she
sounds wonderful.”
“She is.” Petyr offered his arm like the gentleman he was, and she took it.
“Have you been sent to lead me to your mother, Your Majesty? Not to be rude,
but my appointment was with her. You and I will have plenty of time to catch up
at your gala, I assure you.”
“I know. I look forward to it, but when I heard you were here, I had to come
say hello.” Myrcella walked with Petyr to the lift, her bodyguards trailing
behind. Petyr knew two of them as Arys Oakheart and Areo Hotah. Two men loyal
to their queen, and the Spanish boy she’d married. “You’re always such a
fashionable person, Littlefinger. Which color should I wear to the party? Red?
Or green?”
“Neither,” said Petyr. “Wear gold. Christmas is over, dress for the new year.
Be a star to your people.” He stepped into the lift with her. He returned his
arm to his side when they began to ascend. “Gold will match your hair. A bit of
sparkle and a train to make you stand out. I’m sure there are many of the crown
jewels that will match.”
“Ooh,” cooed the queen, “I hadn’t thought about gold. That would be perfect.
What are you going to wear?”
“Black. It fits me best. I have a suit prepared, Your Majesty, don’t worry.” He
grinned at the memory of trying it on for Sansa’s approval. She’d loved the
sight of him in it. She’d loved it even more when he had her on her back.
“Has your ladyfriend picked a dress yet?” teased Myrcella.
“She has,” said Petyr, “but she won’t let me see it. Wants to wait for the
surprise.”
“Aw. She sounds like a smart woman.”
“Very. And beautiful. You will enjoy her company.” The lift came to a stop.
Petyr motioned for Myrcella to leave first, but she shook her head. “I’m going
back down,” she told him. “I only wanted to escort you to Mother. I have an
appointment too. Being queen is busy work.”
Petyr understood. He was making a queen of his own, after all. He gave fond
farewells and parted ways with young Myrcella Baratheon, following the hall to
the Queen Mother’s private office. Petyr couldn’t care less to ogle the art
around him. He was too focused, too masked behind Littlefinger to appreciate
anything other than his craft.
The office doors were opened for him. Littlefinger entered briskly, finding
Cersei Lannister seated at a conference table. She was not alone. To her left
sat Roose Bolton and his son. Ramsay.
“Mr. Bolton,” said Littlefinger, smirking at his twist of good fortune. “I
didn’t think to find you here with the Queen Mother.”
“I hadn’t thought to be here. Unfortunately, Tywin is occupied and we have
urgent business to discuss.”
Cersei smiled. She took great satisfaction in doing her father’s work for him,
convinced it made her more valuable in his eyes. The former queen consort did
not stand to greet Littlefinger like she normally did. Stressed, are we? “I’m
glad you could make it, Littlefinger. Forgive the short notice.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” Littlefinger glanced in father and son’s
direction, pausing a moment on Ramsay’s pale eyes. “Smart of you to invite the
Boltons, Your Grace. Saves me a trip.”
“Does it?” Cersei turned her head to the side, examining him in that sly way of
hers. “Why?”
“If you think you could hide the Lannister-Bolton relationship from me, you’re
mistaken. Fortunately for you, your best interest is also mine.” Littlefinger
took a seat at the table. Cersei straightened her back, asserting herself as
the leader, but it was Roose Bolton who spoke first.
“I don’t believe you’ve met my son,” said Roose. “Ramsay, this is Littlefinger.
One of the most dangerous men in the United Kingdom.”
“I would argue the world, but unfortunately there are those worse than me.”
Littlefinger shook hands with a willing Ramsay. Petyr wondered what this Bolton
boy would do if he knew Sansa had been in his care this whole time. If he
learned that Petyr’d had her just hours ago, tasting what he’d won with his
head between her thighs. “I heard about the loss of your fianceé,” said
Littlefinger. “Such a tragedy.”
“Yes. I do miss her terribly.” Ramsay leaned back in his chair, hands in his
lap. “People searched for ages. Too bad she’s dead.”
“We don’t know that,” snapped Cersei. “For your own good, Mr. Bolton, I suggest
you keep your son quiet. He’s the reason Sansa fled in the first place.”
“You don’t treat a prized lamb with cruelty,” Littlefinger agreed. “Otherwise
you lose her.”
“And what do you know about lambs?” asked Ramsay. His expression was dark.
Wild, testing. “Have you ever skinned one before?”
“Enough." Roose eyed his son with scorn. “I brought you here to teach you, not
to let you run your mouth.”
Petyr watched Ramsay’s irritation, keeping his own remarks hidden deep. The
family dynamic was more strained than he’d thought. Littlefinger chose not to
respond to Ramsay’s question and laughed instead. “Children. It’s little wonder
the rich ones never learn. Thankfully our young queen has more wits about her.”
Cersei scoffed. “Myrcella is an innocent girl and I love her dearly, but she
should listen more. If she asked for our enemies to be found and decimated, it
would be done in an instant. There’s a trend of unyielding loyalty to her.” She
shook her head. “I should never have let her agree to this marriage. The
Spanish are too passionate, it’s getting to her head.”
“Her Majesty is in love,” said Roose. “I wish her good fortune. The more
distracted she is, the more she stays out of my way.”
“Careful.” Cersei narrowed her eyes, a lioness in defense. “Myrcella may be
naïve, but she is my daughter still.”
All the bickering over children and love was useless to Littlefinger. “I’m a
busy man, Your Grace. Can we get to the point?”
“Please,” said Roose. “I have a meeting with Locke at two-thirty. I don’t plan
to miss it.”
Cersei folded her hands atop the table, blonde curls waving like a river around
her. Petyr saw the frustration on her face. It pleased him greatly.
“Littlefinger, did you hear what happened to Meryn Trant?”
“Yes,” he said. “I heard it on the news. The man was hated. It doesn’t surprise
me that someone finally killed him.”
“He wasn’t killed. He was butchered. Stabbed in the face and neck thirteen
different times. The evidence doesn’t match the suspect.”
“Hasn’t Sandor Clegane confessed?” asked Roose.
“He has, but I know it wasn’t him.” Cersei's green eyes flared. “If Sandor
wanted to kill someone, he’d smash their head in with a single fist. Thirteen
stabs from a man like him would have left Meryn unrecognizable. No, this person
was smaller. Child-sized. Traffic cameras caught this girl minutes after the
police were called.” Cersei slid a photograph across the table to Littlefinger.
A teenage girl with blue hair and blood on her hands crossed an intersection a
half-mile down the street from The Brotherhood. Petyr recognized her
immediately. Fuck.
“A girl,” said Littlefinger. “You think a girl killed Meryn Trant? This blood
could be from anything. There’s no evidence she was at the scene of the crime
and you’ve no reason to believe Clegane would take the fall for her. The man’s
half-burned and savage, what would he protect a child for?”
“He was always soft with Sansa Stark,” spat Cersei. “That little whore. I know
she’s alive, and her beast-like sister, Arya. This must be her.”
Ramsay’s eyes were hungry at the mention of the Stark girls. It’s too soon for
this. Littlefinger shook his head, already defensive. “She could be anyone.
There’s not a clear picture of this girl’s face.” He examined the photo again.
Short, dark eyes, pale skin. She faced away from the camera, but Petyr knew her
look. The Stark look. He’d seen it enough in the pictures Cat would send, in
the tabs he'd been keeping on Jon and Arya Stark for months until he'd lost
them. Harry was right after all. “Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father
was killed,” said Littlefinger. “Just after her fifteenth birthday. This girl
looks older. Eighteen, nineteen. And the blood on her hands, not nearly enough
to come from the injuries you describe on Meryn Trant. Even aside from all
this, Your Grace, there is no reason why Clegane would take the blame for Arya
Stark. He was loyal to your family before he left the service. Not theirs.” He
dropped the photograph on the table. “I have another solution, if you’ll
permit. A better one.”
Cersei quirked her brow. Ramsay smiled, and Roose motioned to Littlefinger with
his chin. “Show us.”
From his coat, Petyr retrieved a folder. He placed it on the table, taking the
picture at the top and pushing it to Cersei. “Harrold Hardyng,” he said. “An
assassin from Germany. I believe he was behind the deaths of Mandon Moore and
the others, as well as Mr. Trant.”
“Why?” asked Roose. “What would a foreign assassin want with any of us?”
“It’s not about you. Rather, what he was offered.” Petyr handed Roose Bolton
the folder. “Someone hired him to carry out hits on your closest allies in
attempt to weaken your position. In the folder, you’ll see the receipt from a
multi-million euro deposit into Mr. Hardyng’s bank account.”
“Who hired him?”
Littlefinger shrugged. “I’m not sure. My people have been unable to trace Mr.
Hardyng in the last several days. His last known location was Liverpool, but
he’s since disappeared.”
“Do you have that location?” asked Cersei. “I can pass it along to my father.
He could have agents there before sundown.”
“In the folder, Your Grace. Everything I know is there.” Littlefinger gave
Roose and Cersei time to look everything over, sitting calm and collected as he
always was. He remained indifferent to Ramsay’s presence in the room. A fly on
the wall. “If you can afford it, I would be happy to find this boy for you. Or
you could send some of your father’s agents. Frankly, I don’t care which.”
Cersei pondered that a moment. Littlefinger observed them, her drumming
fingers, Roose’s tightened jaw, the glance of mutual worry they shared. “Find
him,” said Roose. “We can haggle price later. I want to know who’s behind this.
Whoever it is knows we’re after the Stark fortune, and wants to stop us from
getting it.”
“I’ll speak to my father.” Cersei looked displeased, as though she’d failed in
some great task. “Either my freakish little brother is behind this, or the
Starks themselves. Lyanna’s boy hasn’t been found dead or alive, and neither
has Arya or Sansa.” She stood from the table. When the Queen Mother rose, so
too did everyone else. “I want them dead, Littlefinger, especially Sansa. Bring
her to me and I’ll reward you in ways even you can’t imagine.”
Littlefinger grinned. It was hard for Cersei to make an appealing offer when
his prized possession was her asking price. “I look forward to the
possibilities,” he said. “If that concludes our business here, there are other
places I need to be.”
“It does. I’ll have someone reach out to you.” Cersei took the folder and all
of Petyr’s bait, and left the room promptly.
“She has a short fuse,” said Roose.
“Indeed.” Petyr pulled out his phone. A coded message from Mayana had come
through, as planned.
What’s the score?
8-6, Petyr replied. Raiders up. Get out of there.
Whoever found Harrold Hardying would be sorely disappointed.
Roose Bolton motioned to the door. “Walk with me.” Littlefinger obeyed, still
aware of Ramsay lurking behind them as they reentered the open hallway.
“I’m sure it is troubling,” said Littlefinger, “to hear that your plans are
being met with resistance.”
“Resistance?” said Roose. “Hardly. Some things take time. The Stark girl was an
unfortunate loss, but I don’t expect to recover her. Girl’s likely dead. And if
she lives, she knows better than to try anything against me or my son.”
Littlefinger glanced back to Ramsay. The boy’s eyes were sinister yet playful,
looking directly at him. “Perhaps she is stronger than you care to admit,” he
said. “She did manage to run from you after months of captivity. Such a shame,
to let someone so valuable slip through your fingers.”
“And how would you have handled it?” Roose stopped walking, as did Petyr, who
turned to face him in front of the elevator. “If you are an expert in hostages,
then by all means, share your secrets. I should like to learn them.”
Petyr knew a threat when he heard one. Regardless, it was ill-made. He knew he
had the upper hand, the match to light the Bolton dynasty aflame. Littlefinger
summoned the lift and kept a sly smile. “That is a bit redundant at this point.
You should have come to me sooner. Myrcella wears the crown, but everyone
knows I am the king of secrets here. If you wanted Sansa Stark to cooperate, I
should have been your first contact. But here you are.”
“Here I am.” Roose’s expression was scorned. “She would have cooperated
eventually, Littlefinger. Do not think me a fool.”
“You’re not a fool, Mr. Bolton. You’re selfish. In this, we are the same.” The
elevator opened. Littlefinger stepped inside and pushed the button for the
bottom floor. “Let me know if I can assist you.”
Roose nodded passively and kept walking. The doors began to slide shut, and
Petyr pulled out his phone for further news.
A hand reached out and stopped the closing door. Petyr looked up. Ramsay stood
before the elevator, looking flustered and embarrassed as the doors opened
again. “I’m sorry," he said. "Do you mind if I ride with you? My father has
another meeting and I’d rather wait in the car.”
No, thought Petyr, back off before I snap your neck. But Littlefinger knew
better than to raise the tension. “Plenty of room for two,” he said, and moved
aside to let Ramsay stand next to him. The doors closed. The lift descended.
Petyr stayed silent and still.
The air was thick. Petyr made no move to loosen his tie, standing patiently
with his hands clasped in front of him. Ramsay bounced on his heels. Petyr eyed
him sidelong. Ramsay was immaculate, a trimmed beard and handsome smile,
clipped nails, bright eyes, a fine suit. Perfect at face value. They were alike
in that manner. Petyr had something else in common with Ramsay: desire for
Sansa Stark. But one of them had made her moan in pleasure, and the other had
made her scream.
Ramsay pushed the red button on the elevator panel. The lights dimmed. The lift
stopped. Petyr’s mask flipped from casual business to confrontation, and he
turned to Ramsay with all the indifference he could muster. “An odd place for a
private conversation,” he said.
“Not at all! I like it. Nice and cozy.” Ramsay smiled as though he was making a
joke, but quickly arrived to the point. “My father doesn’t take the search for
my bride-to-be seriously. Neither does Tywin Lannister.”
Littlefinger almost laughed. Oh, what a stupid boy. “What makes you think she's
still alive?” he asked. “It’s been nearly three months. No one has seen her.”
“I know that,” said Ramsay in annoyance. “But she’s out there. I can feel her.
I’m part of her now, you know.” He turned to Petyr. “You didn't answer my
question earlier. Have you ever skinned a lamb before?”
Petyr ground his teeth. “Can’t say I have.”
“Oh,” said Ramsay. “That’s a shame. It’s so much fun. You take a fistful of
that beautiful red hair and slam her head against a hard surface, like this.”
Ramsay punched the elevator wall with a bang. Petyr didn’t flinch, only
seethed. “Then you skin her while she’s still dizzy. All that nice wool her
daddy paid so much money for, to make her pretty. And when it’s just you and
her, naked and bloody in the slaughterhouse?” Ramsay sneered. “That's when the
fun begins.”
Calm, urged Littlefinger, killing him in the lift won’t help Sansa. Petyr took
a slow breath. “A lovely analogy,” he said, “but I’m missing your point. I have
things to do, Mr. Bolton, and listening to your fantasies isn’t one of them.”
“It wasn’t a fantasy. It was my reality. And I want it back.” Ramsay moved
closer to push his point. “I want you to find her. You said it yourself, my
father should have gone to you sooner, only he didn’t. So I will. Find Sansa,
bring her back to me, and I’ll split the inheritance with you like the generous
man I am. Fifty-fifty.” He pressed the red button. The lift began to move
again, descending to the main lobby. “Think it over. I’d like to know before
the end of the week, so I know whether to ready her room again.”
Petyr stayed silent. Flexed his fist. The lift moved down, down, until it
reached the floor just above the lobby, and Petyr began to laugh. It was
impossible not to. With a smile that did not reach his eyes, Petyr stopped the
elevator with a push of the button. He squared his shoulders. “Let me tell you
something, Mr. Bolton.”
From his belt, Petyr pulled his gun and slammed the barrel into Ramsay’s ribs.
He kept him trapped with his forearm shoved into his neck, cutting off Ramsay’s
windpipe. “I don’t like your games, Mr. Bolton. And I won’t be told what to do,
not by you, your father, or anyone else. Do you understand me?”
Ramsay’s eyes were full of hate. He was at a loss, unsure how to play an
unplayable man, but Petyr continued with a push of his arm against Ramsay’s
throat. “Perhaps if you hadn’t treated Sansa Stark like a toy, she would never
have left. But that would have required you to stop being the stupid, pathetic,
monstrous little shit that you are.” Petyr pressed harder. Ramsay began to
choke. “You don’t know how to behave. How else would I know that you bludgeoned
your brother to death with an iron pipe in the back acres of your father’s
property? That you repeatedly assaulted Sansa while she was under your
protection? Your confession aside, it was obvious. Her avoidance of the public,
her friends, her family, the social media she loved. But I suppose hindsight is
always clearer.” Petyr thrust the Ruger harder into Ramsay’s side and reveled
in his groan of pain. “And your little whore, Myranda. What a twisted thing she
is. How will you explain to the court that the two of you find innocent women
and murder them in your basement? Paying off the police won’t work if I get
involved, you know. I’m much better than that.”
“You won’t do anything,” choked Ramsay. “You can’t kill me.”
“Can’t I?” Petyr jerked away, letting Ramsay fall to the floor in a heap.
He shoved his gun in his waistband and pushed the red button. “The next time
you threaten me, Mr. Bolton, I will blow your fucking head off.”
The lift chimed and opened. Petyr left.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
The drive home was silent. Ros tapped the steering wheel with her fingers,
trying to break the tension. Petyr glared out the window to the slush and muddy
snow piled up on the sides of the freeway. He didn’t know what he was looking
for. Clarity, maybe. Inspiration to keep his heart cold, when all he felt was
rage.
“Petyr,” said Ros gently. Traffic had them stopped in the city, which would
irritate him more if it weren’t for Ramsay's words. “What happened? You really
don’t… look good.”
“No,” he said. “I guess I don’t.” Petyr scratched his chin and kept his eyes on
the mud. “Ramsay was there.”
Ros’s eyes went wide. “Ramsay Bolton? Why?”
“Roose is trying to teach him the ways of the game,” said Petyr. “It’s not
working. He threatened me in the lift, so I put him in his place.”
“You didn’t tell him, did you? That you have Sansa?”
Petyr shook his head. “I’d much rather see the look on his face when she walks
into Buckingham Palace on my arm.”
Ros sighed. “This isn’t good. Ramsay’s going to lash out. I don’t know what
Sansa’s told you about him, but I’ve been working with her since she came to
us. He’ll do anything to hurt her. Anything.”
“I wasn’t afraid to involve myself, Ros. I’ve met worse people than Ramsay
Bolton and I’ve killed worse people than Ramsay Bolton.”
“But this isn’t about you, Petyr. This is about Sansa.”
Petyr knew Ros was right, but that didn’t make the thrill of his victory any
less sweet. “Sansa is mine,” he said. “I won’t let that little bastard believe
anything else.”
“Sansa doesn’t belong to you, though. Or anyone.” Ros shifted in her seat as if
the idea bothered her to some extreme. “She’s with us because she wants to be.
Not because you own her or because she has to. She wants to be with us. She
loves us.”
Petyr couldn’t accept that. It was easier to claim Sansa as a possession than
to believe she truly cared for him. The latter was impossible, even for a
wonder like her.
His phone beeped. Petyr retrieved it and opened Sansa’s sent message. It was a
picture of her — a “selfie” — all dolled up in extravagant makeup, smiling,
perfection, with Olyvar winking behind her. Diamond earrings sparkled in the
light. New Year’s test run, said the text. What do you think? (:
Another hour would pass before he could taste her smile. Traffic kept Petyr
from Sansa, kept him stuck on Ramsay’s words and what it meant to “skin a
lamb.” A rare stroke of anxiety painted his mind black until he saw her in the
manor doorway, safe and happy and his.Ramsay Bolton couldn’t matter any less.
Petyr held her face the first moment he could, barely through the door. He
kissed her there, hard. It was foolish to be so affected by Ramsay’s words. He
never intended to be dragged down, but he had been. Petyr parted Sansa’s lips
with his tongue and tasted her. Sansa did not push away, and wrapped her arms
loosely around his body as though she knew how much he needed her.
Nearly a minute ticked by before their kiss broke. There was worry in Sansa’s
eyes like he knew there would be. “You are a welcome sight,” he said, brushing
his thumbs along her cheekbones. Her makeup had been removed. She was still
just as beautiful. “I trust everything went well at the shooting range today?”
“Yes,” said Sansa. “Mayana says I’m getting good. I still have to work on
moving targets, though.”
“I’m sure you’ll get used to it. You’re a smart girl, a quick learner.” He
kissed her forehead to prove his point. “After dinner, I want to time you on
loading and unloading the Ruger. I know you don’t like guns, but you need basic
training in case I or the others aren’t around to protect you.”
“I know. I’ve worked on it, I promise.” Sansa smiled, rubbing his back like the
affectionate girl she was. It relaxed him. How had she learned to do that?
“Will you tell me what’s wrong, Petyr? Did Queen Cersei say something, or…?”
Petyr should be proud of her observation skills, but it was inconvenient
whenever Sansa was able to read him. “We can discuss it later, sweetling.
Olyvar deserves a nice meal for his birthday.” Petyr reached behind him and
took her hands, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a kiss. “Go on. Join the
others in the dining room, I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Okay.” Sansa smiled at him, but Petyr knew her concern hadn’t ceased. She
moved away, glancing over her shoulder before disappearing down the main hall.
Petyr shed his winter coat. He didn’t plan on staying away from her for long —
how could he? — but his phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out. A text
from Varys.
You have a serious problem.
Seconds later, an incoming call. Cersei Lannister. Petyr answered it quickly.
“What happened?”
“Turn on the news,” said Cersei.
Petyr went to the lounge. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV as
directed.
The screen showed a mansion on fire. Petyr felt a hand on his back and knew
Sansa was beside him long before he saw her. The others weren’t far
behind. “The estate of Walder Frey has gone up in flames,” said the
broadcaster. “Unfortunately, the Secretary of State and his sons did not make
it out alive.”
“Are you still there?” asked Cersei.
“Yes.” Petyr slid his arm around Sansa’s waist, bringing her close. “The Freys.
How many are dead?”
“All of them. Their throats were slashed.”  Cersei’s voice was low with boiling
rage. “This is not a coincidence. Someone is launching an attack on my allies
and I want answers, Littlefinger, I want themsoon. Or I’ll find someone else
who can give them to me.”
Chapter End Notes
     Remember how this fic is a round-trip ticket to pain and suffering?
     BUCKLE UP KIDS, THE PLOT'S ABOUT TO GOOOOO
     I enjoyed my week off. <3 I've got two chapters queued up and I'm
     back on the horse for part two. AYY. Damn, I'm so stoked, this story
     is gonna be so good adfljagjlkjgalskg
     I don't really have that much to say here??? I'm just so excited???
     BYE LOVELIES, I hope you had a good week off too! See you next
     Saturday for a trip to Arya town. ;) I wonder what that little punk's
     up to.
***** Lead Us Home *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
          [sabotage;_beastie_boys] ◆ [lead_me_home;_jaime_n_commons]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               29 DECEMBER, 2016
Arya knew how to properly cut a throat. Slicing wasn’t right. Into the carotid
artery, then down, not across. Snap the vocal cords so the victim can’t scream.
She gripped Needle tight and jammed the pointy end through Walder Frey’s
jugular. She jerked downward and out, ripping open his throat and severing the
flow to his brain. Blood rushed from his wrinkled neck and stained his suit in
crimson. His sons were beside him, dead. A sea of scarlet pooled at her feet.
Arya made no move to step away.
Justice.
“Are you about finished yet?” asked Jon impatiently through her earpiece. “Come
on, Arya, get out of there.”
“Hold on. Almost got it.” She wiped Needle on Walder’s sleeve and moved to his
computer, reading the download percentage. 97%. 98%. 99%. 100. Arya hit the
enter key and yanked the flash drive from Frey’s desktop. “Be there in a sec.”
She eyed the clock. Five minutes ahead of schedule, perfect. She rushed to the
window and opened it, feeling the winter breeze brush across her cheek like a
kiss. It could be. A mark of pride from God, for a job well done.
Arya braced her foot on the windowsill and prepared to jump. The crackling
fireplace caught her eye. She had an idea; more justice. “You’d better be out
of that building,” scolded Jon, but Arya ignored him, running to the hearth to
turn up the gas. She snatched every liquor bottle at the bar and doused her
surroundings in the alcohol Walder Frey had loved so much. Security personnel
banged on the office door, the one she’d barred with a desk and three pairs of
handcuffs. Time was running out. She threw the bottles until they shattered
along the walls, spoiling photographs of a happy Frey life, ignition to mimic
the fire that had made ashes of her past. Foot on the sill, she launched the
final bottle directly at the fireplace and leapt.
Arya flailed mid-air until her body collided with a tree branch. She clung to
it tightly and kept her face away, expecting an explosion, but all she
registered was pain and the wind that’d been knocked out of her. “Shit,” she
cursed. “Shit! Come on, Bran, give me a hand here.”
“What?” said Jon.
“Nothing,” she panted. “I’m out.” Arya looked up at the window. The fire was
spreading, slowly but surely. Alarms began to ring. She hadn’t thought that
through. “Oh, crap.”
“What the hell did you do? Jesus, Arya, I knew we should have waited until I
could do it myself—”
“Just shut up!” Arya unwrapped herself from the branch and dropped to the
ground hard. She landed on both feet, but her legs shook from the blow and she
winced. “Start the van. I’m coming.”
“Make it fast.”
Arya broke into a run. She was incredibly quick, and adrenaline pushed her
through exhaustion. The wooded area of the Frey estate brought shelter from
wandering eyes. Arya followed the route they’d mapped until she came to the
neighborhood where Jon was parked, to the windowless van they’d stolen. She
threw open the door and scrambled into the passenger seat. “Drive,” she
ordered. “Now!”
Jon did as he was told. He drove until they came to the freeway, checking the
rearview mirror every few seconds in fear they were being followed. Brother and
sister merged onto the M40 and didn’t take a breath until an hour had passed
and they were still roaming free.
Holy shit, Arya thought with a smile. I did that. 
Arya climbed into the back of the van, around Jon’s computers and equipment
they’d gone broke to buy, until she reached a cooler near a turned-over chair.
The wireless connections to the Frey manor's security had been broken, the
screens showing only static. Looking at them made her uneasy. She turned them
off. Arya reached into the cooler for water to wash the sticky blood from her
hands and change into the sweater and jeans she’d packed. When she was done,
she grabbed a Coke and cheese sticks to bring with her to the passenger seat.
She settled in, rebuckled her seatbelt — getting pulled over would not be good
— and offered one of the sticks to Jon. “Hungry?”
“No,” he said. “Thanks.”
Ayra peeled open the plastic and bit into cold cheddar. “Stay fed on the
road,” Luwin had told her. “Take care of yourself.”She hadn’t wanted to tell
the old man goodbye, but it wouldn’t be safe to drag an innocent person down
the path of vigilante justice Jon and Arya had chosen to walk. They'd
reluctantly parted ways. Luwin offered sound advice and a gift,
the mezuzah he'd received on his wedding day, which he gave to Arya just before
she’d left. “To remind you that home is where the heart is.”
They drove past cell towers and farmland. Night had fallen, and Arya could see
the moon’s reflection off fields void of crops, remnants of snow making white
patches along the land. The sky was dotted with stars. Arya tried to find as
many constellations as she could. She remembered watching the night sky with
all her siblings as a child, laying on the roof in the cold when they were
supposed to be sleeping. Arya still found herself stargazing from time to time,
if only in grief. It was better than crying.
Jon pulled off the motorway, in the middle of nowhere, to the abandoned barn
they’d taken shelter in. There was nothing but empty fields for miles. Jon
pulled into the building, killing the van’s engine, and Arya shivered as she
closed and locked the broken doors behind them.
The two-story barn was their residence now, for however long it would last.
Filled with old hay, raccoons and a small family of rats, it was cozy for the
most part, secluded and far from civilization. A generator powered heated
blankets during the night and the air was cold enough to keep groceries fresh
without a fridge. The back of the van had become Jon and Arya's office of
electronics, most of which they couldn’t use so far from internet service, but
Arya managed to hack the occasional connection. Bran had been wonderful with
technology, in another life. Arya used to help him tap into their school’s
website and change holiday dates on the public calendar. Between Bran’s memory,
Arya’s tech-savvy ways and Jon’s Night’s Watch training, the two of them
managed a fair setup. They were confident in their anonymity. For now.
“Did you get the flash drive?” asked Jon, closing the car door.
“Right here.” Arya pulled the stick from her pocket and hopped into the back of
the van, taking a seat on a stool. She pet Ghost when he climbed in and settled
at Jon’s feet. “You think we can reach Sam from out here?”
“I think we can try.” Jon turned on the computers, connected to a second
generator they’d bought for the sole purpose of their mission. Arya hacked
their way into some low-signal internet. All this success made her feel like an
action movie hero, someone straight out of an old movie. Rickon would be
proud. Jon did some work with the keyboard and pulled up a video app on-screen.
Arya heard a phone ring. In a cluster of broken pixels and low quality frames,
the fat, smiling face of Samwell Tarly came into view.
“You made it!” Sam exclaimed. He was dressed all in black, sitting in an
unsuspicious Afghan home outside the Wall. “Good heavens, I’ve been worried.”
“We’re safe, for now.” Jon and Arya shared a rare smile. “We can barely hear
you though. The connection’s not great. Might have to repeat yourself once or
twice.”
“That’s alright. I’m just happy to see you not in the clutches of MI5. Or
worse.” Sam chuckled. “I can’t believe you did it. A Secretary of State, too.”
He pointed to Arya. “You’re good.”
Arya sat up straighter, quite pleased with herself. “Thank you.”
“I’d tell you to join the Night’s Watch, but… well. That’s a bad idea.” Sam,
jolly as ever, gestured with his thumb to a room at the other end of the house.
“It’s my night off, so I snuck away to see Gilly and the baby. I’m just happy
to not be at the Wall. Everyone’s on edge and the news channels have gone
batty. Even the Americans are concerned.”
“What are they saying?” asked Jon.
“Well, mostly it’s just fear for other politicians. Some of them are talkin’
conspiracy. Which, you know, they’re half-right. But so far it doesn’t look
like they’ve found a suspect, so you should be in the clear for a bit.”
Jon sighed in relief. “I was surprised at how easy the Frey security was to
outplay.”
“Maybe he thought the Lannisters would protect him,” said Arya. “He should’ve
known better. Too late now.”
Sam took a drink of water from a canister. “Have you looked at the flash drive
yet?”
“No,” said Jon. “We were waitin’ for you.”
“Oh. Well, I’m here now. Plug it in and send it on over.”
Arya retrieved the flash drive from her pocket. She pushed it into the USB port
on the computer tower, and Jon began a download. “Gonna take a bit,” said Jon.
“But that’s alright. We can catch up.”
Arya listened while the two soldiers talked. Sam gave updates on all of Jon’s
friends from the service — apparently Edd was coming back to London soon — and
they spoke of things that went completely over Arya’s head, like military lingo
and jokes in Pashto and shitty food. Arya couldn't wrap her head around it, but
Jon had been happy in his life with the Watch. She stayed silent and let them
prattle on. It was much more entertaining to listen, anyway.
“Download’s done,” said Jon after a few minutes. “Let me send it over to you.”
“Got it.” Sam began typing. Arya’s leg bounced anxiously and she tried to keep
her thoughts from spilling everywhere like water. “Ready to see what Walder
Frey’s been hiding?”
“Yeah,” said Jon. “I’m ready.” He looked to Arya, who nodded before he double-
clicked.
The files opened. The Freys weren’t known for organization, but there was
enough to raise considerable suspicion. In the documents were three separate
folders: Wives, Daughters, and Granddaughters. “Gross,” said Arya. “I don’t
want to know what’s in those.”
“We don’t have a choice but to find out.” Jon hovered over the Wives file.
“Didn’t Walder Frey only have one wife?”
“Two, I think,” said Sam. “Remarried after the first one died.”
“This should be interesting, then.”
Jon opened the folder. The images that surfaced made Arya recoil. Dozens of
naked women in a series of obscene positions, videos and photoshoots. All
pornographic. All exploited. “Jesus,” spat Jon. “What the hell is this?”
“Sex trafficking.” Arya clenched her fists. “Meryn Trant talked about it too,
with the German boy I told you about. Said he was gonna buy some girls because
Walder knew the best sellers.”
Sam looked like he was going to be sick, covering his mouth to hold it in.
“Someone has to turn this over to the authorities. There are, what, twenty
women here? Maybe more?”
“Maybe. And I don’t want to see what ‘Granddaughters’ means,” growled Jon. “We
can’t bring this to the police in person, though. They’d arrest us instead.”
“I know someone.” Arya stole the keyboard from Jon’s lap, closing out of the
atrocious folder and pulling up a separate email account. She typed so hard
that her fingers hurt. “Officer Tarth. She’s the one who arrested Sandor when
he got in the fight that discharged him from the service. He said she was good.
If he thought she was okay, we can too.”
“Tarth.” Jon folded his arms in thought. “I know that name. Was she the one
that always wanted to be in your mum’s guard detail? They were good mates.”
“Yep. Same lady.” Arya pulled up Brienne Tarth’s profile on the London police
website. “She’s still active. I’ve gotta send her all this.”
“The police will be able to trace where the email was sent from,” said Sam.
“Evidence like this would make them want to come looking for you. Especially
now that Walder Frey… well, you know.”
“What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just let these girls get bought.
Girls shouldn’t be bought.” Arya drafted a carefully-worded email with the
attached files, an anonymous tip, and sent it off without waiting for approval.
A great weight lifted off her shoulders as though it had been there for years.
“Oh dear,” said Sam. “Are you done with that bit? Look in the ‘Young Wolf’
section of Mr. Frey’s account. I don’t mean to upset you, but it’s important.”
Young Wolf? Arya did as Sam advised. The folder was filled with long
conversations between Walder, Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton. The emails
were dated from mid-January to October. A list of Robb’s schedules, pictures of
him and Talisa on the street, his bank statements and credit card numbers, a
copy of his driver’s license. His class schedule. Photos of him inside his
flat, taken through the windows. “They were stalking him,” muttered Arya. A
pang of pain rose in her throat. She hated how seeing Robb's face was
bittersweet under the circumstances.
“Look at this,” said Jon. He pointed to a line and read it aloud. “‘Don’t
forget Lyanna’s boy at the Wall. The fewer heirs there are, the more we
share.’”
“‘The girl will make a nice match for Ramsay,’” read Arya. “‘She's the weakest
link. He’ll break her, and when he does, we’ll celebrate with a good scotch.’”
Jon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “They planned it all. Right from the
beginning. Robb’s death, Father’s, Bran’s and Rickon’s and the others…”
“Oh, no.” Sam paled. “The October ones. Listen: ‘Has your boy broken her yet?’
asks Tywin Lannister. ‘Working on it,’ Roose Bolton replies, ‘he’s getting
close. We'll have it signed over soon.’”
“What did they do?” Arya looked to her brother, more worried than she’d ever
been for the sister she’d loved to hate. The possibilities of Sansa's suffering
made Arya shudder. “‘Broken her’? What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I think it means.” Jon’s jaw was tight. Arya had never
seen him so filled with hate. “You heard the rumors, we all did. No one did a
thing about it, though, and that’s why.” He jabbed his finger at the computer
screen. “Roose Bolton had Tywin Lannister protectin’ ‘im the whole bloody time.
All because of Father’s fortune. That’s why they wanted me dead at the Wall,
why they tried to find you, why they killed our family. Just so we’d be out of
the way. So they could take everything Father left for us, using Sansa.”
Arya knew she should feel rage. And she did, undeniably, but it mixed with
unparalleled fear for her sister’s wellbeing. “So she’s gotta be alive then,”
Arya concluded with wide eyes. “She has to be! If Shitface is still looking for
her—”
“—it means they haven’t secured the money another way,” finished Jon, “and they
still need her before she turns eighteen. She must’ve run.” Jon took the
keyboard from Arya’s lap, making a list of people Sansa might have gone to. “I
thought they’d done something with her. I didn’t think that maybe she’d
actually gotten away on her own.”
“Right,” Sam agreed. “It’s one thing for the Lannisters to say she ran, but
another if she really did.”
“Where would she go, though?” Arya leaned back in her seat. “Where would she go
that would keep her away from Shitface for this long and not leave the
country?”
“The Pooles?” Jon thought aloud. “No, wait, I already checked them. They moved
to California. There’s no way the Lannisters would have let Sansa sneak away on
a plane, she would’ve been stopped at the airport. And Mr. Reed's already been
killed.” Jon ran his fingers through his hair, stressed. “I think we’ve hit a
dead end.”
“Not really.” Sam offered a reassuring smile. “You’ve learned who’s involved in
your family’s murder and what was done. Now you know who your next targets
are.”
“The others won’t be nearly as easy as Walder Frey. The Lannisters and Boltons
keep a tight security, tighter now that Frey is gone.” Jon rubbed his shoulder.
“And my arm’s not a-hundred percent either. Arya can’t do it alone next time,
it’s too big a task.”
“So what do we do now?” Arya turned to her brother. “We can’t just do nothing.”
“I don’t know.” Jon scratched his beard, thinking out loud. “Where would Sansa
go? Who would keep her safe this long?”
“We’re back at square one.” Arya sighed. “I hate square one.”
“It’s alright,” said Sam. “We’ll find her. People have gone missing for longer
and turned up, right? And if she ran away, it shows that she’s got some
strength left. So don’t give up. Sansa didn’t, why should we?”
Jon’s smile was tense, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Thanks, Sam. For
everything.”
“No need to thank me. You’re my brother, so that makes Sansa my sister too, and
we’re gonna find her together.” Arya saw Jon’s pained expression in her
peripheral. “Why don’t you two get some sleep? I’ll keep going through these
documents and see if I can find anything else.”
“Sounds good. Night, Sam.” Jon tried to grin. It looked more like a grimace.
“Night,” said Arya with a wave. The call ended. Jon turned off the computer.
Moments of silence passed. “You did good today, Arya. Really.”
“You too. Nice work on the cameras and stuff.” Arya held out her hand, and he
gave her a high five. She stood from her seat. “C’mon, grumpy, stop moping. I’m
tired.”
Brother and sister bunkered down for the night. The lights were shut off, the
car battery, the lamps. They settled in the barn stall they’d cleaned and made
into a bedroom. Hanging sheets kept the half-walls closed in, trapping heat
inside. Jon plugged in their electric blankets and Arya bundled up, shivering
until the warmth finally came. Jon laid down beside her. Their backs were
together, staying close, and Ghost curled up at their feet.
Jon. Sansa. Home. That had been her list before, an innocent one, but Arya
found a new list that felt sweeter on her tongue. Roose Bolton. Tywin
Lannister. Cersei Lannister. Ramsay Bolton.
She fell asleep whispering the names. 
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                               30 DECEMBER, 2016
Morning came too soon. A break in the wood walls let sunlight hit Arya’s face,
stirring her from a sleep she’d barely earned. She rolled over, fighting to get
back to the wolf dream she’d had, but her body was too sore and hungry to
succumb. She rubbed her eyes and sat up from the warm cocoon of her electric
blanket. “Shit,” she whispered with a shiver. Too cold. She could smell sausage
cooking, heard the sizzle of fat and oil and the chomp of Ghost’s jaws. “Good
boy,” said Jon. “You’re getting better at catching.”
Ghost heard Arya move. He trotted into the stall and licked Arya all over her
face, sniffing her and running around. “Okay,” chuckled Arya. “I’m up, I’m up.
Get out of my face.” She playfully shoved Ghost’s snout away and crawled from
her nest. She unplugged the blanket and peeled back the hanging sheets, letting
Ghost run outside into the open fields where crops and cattle once roamed.
“Morning,” said Jon with a half-smile. A troubled smile. He sat in front of
their makeshift fire pit, cooking sausage in a pan. “I’m makin’ breakfast if
you want some.” He held up a bowl of steaming scrambled eggs, two spoons
sticking out the side.
“Thanks.” Arya sat cross-legged beside him. She took the bowl and spoon,
blowing off the eggs until they had cooled enough to take a bite. Jon plucked
the cooking sausage from the pan and piled the links onto a paper plate. The
two of them ate in silence, simply grateful to be in each other’s presence with
a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. She’d gone so long without a
house to call home, but Arya was beginning to understand that home was wherever
Jon was. Wherever Sansa would be.
“I was thinkin’ I could start trainin’ ya,” said Jon after a time. “How to use
a gun. How to load, how to fire. You can’t just use your fists and Needle all
the time. Our enemies won’t stop to throw a punch if they don’t have to.”
Arya shoveled the eggs in her mouth. “That’d be good. Walder Frey barely had
any security people, but the others won’t be that stupid. Especially not
Tywin.”
“Not Tywin.” Jon pulled a piece of challah from a plastic bag and ripped off a
chunk for himself, before passing it to Arya. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She took the bread. Luwin had baked them several fresh batches before
they’d left. “Have you been able to talk to Val yet?”
“No.” The mere mention of her made Jon’s expression heavy. “Last I heard, she
was on her way to Dubai with her family. She said she’d get ahold of Sam when
she was safe, but that’s not an easy thing.”
“I’m sure she’s okay.” Arya bit into the challah and shrugged. “If she’s as
tough as you say, she’s probably there already. And safe. Just like Sansa is.”
“Maybe. I just can’t help but worry that she’s dead.”
“Who? Val or Sansa?”
“Both.”
Arya frowned. “They’re not dead. I wasn’t. Sansa’s not, they would’ve found her
body by now or stopped searching for her. And Val isn’t dead either. Sam
would’ve heard about it. You know that Thorne guy would’ve bragged about it or
something.”
“That’s probably true.” Jon didn’t seem convinced, though. Only uncomfortable.
Arya wondered why he found it so hard to trust her word. Ghost began to bark
outside, and Jon huffed, looking thirty years older. “Can you get Ghost? If he
keeps barking like that, he’ll draw attention.”
“Sure.” Arya set her food down and slipped on her winter boots. “Try to cheer
up. I didn’t save your life just have you die on me.”
He smiled at that.
Morning frost crunched under her feet as she stepped on frozen mud and grass.
Her breath came in puffs of fog through the air. “Ghost!” Arya called. “Come
here, boy! Want a treat?”
The dog didn’t come. He continued to bark and pounce wildly back and forth,
growing madder by the second, bounding in circles and wagging his tail. Arya
stopped. She heard it before she saw it. A black SUV driving off the road,
toward her.
“Jon!” Arya cried. She bolted for the barn. Jon met her there, reaching for the
handgun he kept with him and slamming the barn door shut after Ghost raced
inside. Jon cocked his weapon and stood in ready position in front of the van,
the barrel pointing straight at the barn door. “Get behind the wheel,” ordered
Jon. “Turn on the car and drive away.”
“What? No!” Arya clenched her fists in balls of rage. “Stop being stupid, I’m
not going without you!”
“There’s no time to argue about it!” Jon shouted. “I’ll cover for you. Take all
the files and leave, I’m not riskin’ your life!”
Outside, a car door slammed shut. An engine died. Ghost started growling and
Jon and Arya exchanged a nervous glance. He kept a grip on his gun. “I’m
armed!” Jon said to the intruders. “I’m a man of the Night’s Watch,
I will shoot you if you open that door!”
“No need, Mr. Stark!” called a man’s voice. “I did not come here to fight. I’ll
wait out here in the cold if it makes you more comfortable, though warmer
surroundings are preferred.”
Arya paused. Jon’s shoulders lowered only a moment before tensing again. “Who
are you?”
“A concerned party,” said the man. “A friend.”
“My father was promised friendship too,” spat Arya.
“I know. I could have you surrounded if it means you’ll come speak to me, but I
do hate to use excessive force. It’s gotten our little country into quite a big
mess.”
Arya didn’t recognize the stranger’s voice. By the look on Jon’s face, he
didn’t either. “What do we do?” she whispered. “He could be bluffing.”
Jon didn’t answer. The man didn’t press them for time, but Arya was out of
patience. She stormed toward the entrance and ignored Jon shouting her name,
and yanked open the barn door.
The stranger was unassuming. Long black winter coat, a bald head, fuzzy
earmuffs. Three armed agents stood around him. He smiled when he saw her. “You
must be Arya,” he said. “You really do look like your father. It’s almost like
I’m looking right into his eyes.”
“Who are you?” demanded Arya. “Leave us alone or my brother will kill
you. I’ll kill you.”
“Well, which do you want me to do? Answer your question or leave?” He put his
hands in his pockets. Arya felt Jon at her side, weapon still at the ready. “I
suggest you come along. A young, murderous heir and heiress on the run are
likely targets for worse people than me.”
“What does MI6 want with us?” Jon asked. The armed men kept their guns locked
on him. “I know those uniforms.”
“Oh, they’re just for insurance. In case any unwanted visitors happened to find
you before I did.” He gave a sad smile. “Unfortunately, there are many out
there who would take a Stark for their own gain.”
“What does that even mean?” Arya fired. “Tell us what you want or we’ll kill
you, end of story.”
The stranger sighed. “No harm in being honest, I suppose. My name is Varys. I’m
here to protect you.” He took a step forward. “And I know who has your sister.”
Chapter End Notes
     *law & order's DUN DUN plays in the background*
     this chapter took me soooooo looooooong idk man, it's a huge deal for
     the audience but as the writer I've already been through the shock of
     these realizations!!! so idk. i hope it all came across as i
     intended. :)
     OKAY BUT NEXT WEEK'S UPDATE??? FUCK. HUGE CHAPTER. I'm like so
     excited to post it and listen to y'all scream. I JUST REALLY LOVE
     SANSA STARK OKAY, AND I'M HERE FOR HER HAVING A GOOD TIME, AND I'M
     ADGALKRGJALKJALK
     See you Saturday, lovelies! xoxo
***** She Blooms *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
I've got some links for you. Because this is a pivotal chapter and I'm a slut
for aesthetic.
Sansa: hair, dress (credit to @kingbae-lish on tumblr for photoshopping the
dress, thank you!!)
Petyr: suit, tie
Buckingham Palace: ballroom, blue_drawing_room
one day i will have my life back

                             soundtrack choices:
[the_way_you_look_tonight;_frank_sinatra] ◆ [don't_hurt_yourself;_beyoncé,_jack
                          white]* ◆ [trouble;_halsey]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               31 DECEMBER, 2016
Sansa felt like a queen. The stakes were too high for her to be anything less.
She sat in front of the vanity mirror, admiring her mask of makeup, barely
listening to Jeyne blabbering on about Stanford and boys on the other end of
the phone. Sansa finished a final stroke of neutral pink on her lips and made a
silly face in the mirror. “I don’t know, Sansa. At least your weird boyfriend
gives you straight signals.”
Sansa chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Do you think daddies are just better at saying what they mean?”
Sansa nearly fell out of her chair, mortified. “No! No, please don’t call him
that. He’d never let me hear the end of it.”
Jeyne’s cackles turned to mimicking moans. “Oh, Daddy! Harder Daddy, please,
please!”
Sansa dropped her lipstick so fast that the cap broke. She scrambled to her
phone and shut off the speaker, bringing it to her ear. “Jeyne! You were on
speaker.”
“Do you think he heard me?”
“God, I hope not.” Sansa turned to her door, knowing Petyr could be listening
on the other side. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“It’s true, though.” Jeyne giggled. “Get ready for your gala and send me pics!
I gotta head out soon anyway. My friends want to make sure we get to San
Francisco before they have huge lines for parties and stuff.”
“That makes sense. You’ll have fun. Be safe, okay?”
“I will. You too. Bye, baby girl!” Sansa rolled her eyes, said farewell and
happy New Year, and hung up the phone.
“Daddy,” Sansa muttered. “Ridiculous.” She stood in front of the floor-length
mirror and admired the gown she’d chosen for the gala. A silver bodice with a
sweetheart neckline bore etchings of hundreds of feathers, and a black train
of real feathers fell from her hips to the floor, like a songbird. Her eyes
were winged with liner, lashes curled, rose-colored lips turned upwards in a
smile, auburn hair pinned back in a bun with two stray curls falling away by
her ears. Petyr's Christmas gift of diamond earrings sparkled under the light,
and the Magen David remained at its place around her neck despite the clashing
gold. “Wow,” she whispered. I really do look nice.
A knock came at her door. “Yes?” she called, but she knew who was there. The
others had taken the holiday off, leaving Sansa and Petyr alone. There could be
no one else.
Her bedroom door opened. Petyr froze when he saw her. He stood in the doorway
with a hand on the knob, mouth open with words that never came. She curled her
hair behind her ear, feeling sheepish and shy, even though he’d seen more of
her than anyone else. “Not bad?”
“No. Not bad at all.” Petyr’s awe faded to fervent lust. He came to her, hands
on her waist to pull her in, but she pressed her finger against his lips to
stop his advance. “No kisses,” said Sansa. “I just put lipstick on.”
“Oh, the things you do to me.” He kissed her jaw instead, her neck, teasing her
as she was teasing him. Chills chased down Sansa's spine, but Petyr had the
grace to stop before he pushed too far. “There are no words that do your beauty
justice. The newspapers, the broadcasts, the web; no one will be disappointed
by the return of Sansa Stark.” He took a stray curl between his fingers, eyeing
her earrings with a cocky grin. “You will shock them all.”
“I don’t care about them,” she replied. “Not really. I just want to get this
over with.” Sansa adjusted Petyr’s silver tie and mockingbird pin. “I really
like your look. Your hair, the cologne, all of it.” Sansa toyed with the gray
at his temple and smiled when he kissed the inside of her wrist. Petyr’s fitted
three-piece suit brought a dashing, characteristic sharpness to him. The two of
them could conquer the world like this. And we really could, she thought, he's
taught me what to do.
“Perhaps I should wear suits more often for you, sweetling, but only if you
wear dresses for me.” He stepped away and offered his hand to her. “Come. We
shouldn’t waste any more time.”
The New Year’s Ball would be Sansa’s grand reveal to the public eye. She would
confront her ghosts and make a claim to what belonged to her: her father’s
fortune, and justice. But there was still room for fear. Petyr carefully helped
her into the back of the limousine he’d hired to bring them, and kissed her
knuckles to soothe her. “You have come too far to lose now,” he assured. “Let
us show them what it means to underestimate a Stark.”
Sansa quite liked the sound of that.
Petyr held her hand during the ride to Buckingham Palace. They talked about the
gala and what to expect, but nothing too explicit that the driver might
remember. “No one will try anything,” Petyr promised. “Not with Walder Frey’s
killer still on the loose. There is nowhere you could be safer, except back at
home.”
“I like being home.” Sansa tried not to frown. “I know this is important, but
I’ll be glad when it’s over.” She looked to their joined hands, her skin soft
and young, his slightly wrinkled with visible veins. She traced one
absentmindedly. “Will there be cameras?”
Petyr nodded. “The paparazzi are going to harass you. They’ll ask questions
about Ramsay. They’ll do whatever they can to get a reaction. Be calm, my dear,
and ignore them. You can make a public statement at a later date if you feel
the need.”
“What if Ramsay tries to take me back?” she asked. “Tries to steal me or
something. Or if the police come after you for kidnapping.”
Petyr laughed. “Do you think I’d bring you into a situation where you are at
any risk of returning to him?” He reached over and touched her cheek. “No one
would dare steal what belongs to me. You’ve said that you trust me, sweetling.
So trust me.”
I do. I do trust you. Sansa lifted their entwined hands and placed a kiss to
the back of his palm, to show him. She watched Littlefinger slip away to her
Petyr, eyes passionate, and he kissed her hand in return.
The limo came to a halt near the edge of a red carpet. Not a single
photographer or newscaster focused on their arrival. Most were directed to
Prince Stannis and Princess Shireen, hounding him with questions of his strange
affair, or following Prince Renly and Loras Tyrell until they reached the
palace hand-in-hand.
Petyr exited the limousine. He offered his hand to Sansa, which she took, and
helped her from the back seat. Sansa stood tall on solid ground. She slipped
her arm in Petyr’s before he ever offered it, and they climbed the stairs
together to Buckingham Palace.
No one recognized her. Sansa was content to remain unnoticed, but her luck
disappeared when her red hair and Jewish pendant gave her away. “Sansa Stark,”
muttered a reporter. “Jesus, it’s Sansa Stark.”
“Calm,” said Petyr, only to her. “Breathe.”
But she didn’t need his encouragement. Sansa felt strong on her own, for there
was nothing a few journalists could do to her that hadn’t already been done.
Cameras flashed and reporters shouted questions, but Sansa denied them all. She
kept quiet and walked on Petyr’s arm until they reached the main doors, and
their invitations were exchanged for entry. The press had become a circus, but
royal security pulled through, and no one was allowed inside to harass her.
Sansa finally exhaled when she was safe. Petyr waited for her to regain
composure before continuing down the hall, keeping close.
The palace ballroom was nothing like Sansa remembered from her days with
Joffrey. Patterned crimson carpeting, long tables with fine china and
decorative glass, roses and candelabras, crystal chandeliers, a small
orchestra, a space for the Royal Family at the head of the banquet table. Sansa
craned her neck to admire the architecture, the lights, how high the music
travelled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Petyr. “It is brighter now that Myrcella
is queen.”
“It’s incredible,” Sansa replied in wonderment. She remembered Joffrey’s awful
sense of décor that she’d pretended to like, a lifetime ago. “It’s so elegant.
I feel out of place.”
“On the contrary, sweetling, you fit the atmosphere to perfection.” He placed
his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. She felt a hundred eyes staring
at her. “Come with me. I’m sure there are many who would like to meet you.”
Sansa followed where Petyr led her. He knew everyone, it seemed. They exchanged
pleasantries with Prince Oberyn and his wife, Ellaria, of Spain. The Spanish
royals had done business with Littlefinger in the past, and were happy to greet
him as a friend, treating Sansa no differently than any other guest. She met
with Foreign Secretary Tyrell, who praised Sansa for her strength and offered
help whenever needed. They spoke with Tyrion and Shae as well, making small
talk over champagne while guests filed into the ballroom. They were mid-
conversation about Shae’s upcoming due date when Sansa felt a tap on her
shoulder.
Sansa turned. The man behind her was bald, dressed in a fine suit with shoes so
clean they reflected the lights. “Forgive me for startling you, Miss Stark. It
is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“My friend,” said Petyr, perhaps a bit too loud. Sansa felt his arm wrap tight
around her waist, ignoring Tyrion and Shae entirely in favor of the newcomer.
“What a surprise. Here I thought you’d skip this little event. Only important
people were invited, after all.”
Sansa nearly commented on Petyr’s rudeness until the stranger replied. “An odd
thing, I know, considering myself important. But many here do. Just as they
consider you important.”
“Because I am. How is your night, Varys?”
There was something hostile between them. Hate, masked with friendliness. Or
was it competition? Sansa didn’t know. Varys politely clasped his hands behind
his back as if nothing was amiss. “My evening has been wonderful so far, thank
you for asking. But I had hoped to speak with Miss Stark privately.”
“Anything you can say to her, you can say to me.” Petyr tightened his hold on
her waist. He doesn’t trust this man, thought Sansa. Maybe I shouldn’t either.
“I understand. It would be a shame if she were to again fall in the hands of
those who would use her.” Sansa didn’t like his tone. “I merely wanted to offer
my apologies for the terrible loss of your family, Miss Stark. Your father was
a good man. And your mother and three brothers… such a tragedy. I hope you’re
doing alright.”
“Thank you,” said Sansa warily. “I appreciate it, and I am doing better.
Littlefinger and his associates have taken great care of me. I know my father
would be proud of how far I’ve come.” The last statement tasted false, no
matter how she wanted to believe it. She forged a smile. “I’m sure you’re very
busy. I hope you enjoy yourself and have a happy New Year.” Not allowing Varys
a reply, Sansa took Petyr by the hand, hoping he would read her discomfort.
Petyr laced their fingers together and walked with her to the other side of the
ballroom, away from Varys and Tyrion Lannister.
“Who was that?” asked Sansa. “He doesn’t look familiar. My father never talked
about him.”
“He is no one,” said Petyr, but there was mischief in his eyes when he kissed
her knuckles. “An old friend.”
“A rival,” she clarified.
“That depends on who you ask.”
The lights dimmed. Guests were encouraged to find their plates, bringing the
gala to its formal beginning. Sansa stayed close to Petyr as they were directed
to their labeled seats at the long table, a pair by the window with a view of
the moonlit garden.
“Well, if it isn’t Littlefinger,” laughed a voice. Prince Renly Baratheon
clapped Petyr hard on the back, startling Sansa. “It’s a miracle you’re not
actually wearing upholstery this time.”
“Your Highness, you wound me.” Petyr placed a hand dramatically over his heart.
“Your interest in my wardrobe is flattering, though. Perhaps if you gave your
personal affairs as much attention.” He shook hands with the prince. Sansa
nearly forgot herself. How many people does Petyr know?
“And you must be Sansa Stark.” Renly took her hand and kissed it. “I was sorry
to hear about your father. If justice still exists, we can put the monsters who
killed your family in prison where they belong. Or better yet, an open desert
and leave them to rot.”
“Thank you.” Sansa gave a small smile before she gasped. “I mean, thank you,
Your Highness.”
Renly introduced Sansa to Loras Tyrell, his boyfriend, whom Sansa once had a
raging crush on in her younger years that Arya used to tease her for. She shook
his hand while the guests took their seats, pleased to find that he would sit
beside her and the Foreign Secretary for the duration of the meal, and even
more relieved when they proved to be pleasant, noninvasive company. Sansa felt
she could use a little more of that.
Renly kissed his lover on the cheek. “It seems we’re both in unconventional
relationships, aren’t we, Littlefinger? You with your teenaged orphan date and
me with Loras.”
Petyr grinned. “It’s true. But I knew about your taste for men long before you
knew about my fascination with redheads.” Petyr toyed with one of Sansa’s stray
curls. “And I do love redheads.”
Sansa blushed.
On ceremony, everyone rose to their feet when Queen Myrcella Baratheon entered
the ballroom with her royal Spanish husband. She gave an optimistic speech
about the coming of a bright new year, of celebrating with honored guests and
setting a tone of peace and prosperity for the times to come. Sansa applauded
when appropriate and tried to listen intently, but the hair on the back of her
neck stood straight with the haunting feeling of being watched. Sansa glanced
to the head table and saw the hateful stare of Cersei Lannister boring into her
like knives. She’d nearly forgotten that the Queen Mother would attend. And
Tywin Lannister too, where is he? Where is Roose Bolton, where’s…
She felt a hand on her thigh. Sansa nearly jumped until she saw it was Petyr’s
hand, brushing his thumb along the feathers of her dress. “You’re with me,” he
whispered. “Don't fret.”
Sansa took his hand. She knew she could withstand on her own, but the extra
encouragement would keep her afloat for now.
Dinner was served after the queen’s speech. Salmon steaks with hollandaise
sauce, puréed pheasant mixed with macaroni and mushrooms, roast turkey and
braised chestnuts with pearl onions, woodcock pie and Yorkshire pudding, all
among dozens of other dishes Sansa had no name for. Exquisite French wines
complimented the meal. Sansa knew she’d never dined so richly in her life, and
may never again, so she ate as many different things as she could, trying a
bite here and there to taste all the possibilities. She asked Petyr if he knew
how to get some of the recipes so she could try making them at home. He only
laughed, eyed her fondly, and promised that he would inquire.
Dancing began when the dining ended. Sansa wasn't ready to move around yet,
still frozen under the scrutiny of dozens in the room, but Petyr was content to
stay by her side. She enjoyed lengthy conversations with the Tyrells. Several
members of Parliament who admired her father offered their sympathies, which
she appreciated, and Commissioner Jaime Lannister of the London Police came to
see her with his deputy, Officer Tarth. Sansa was polite to both of them.
Officer Tarth offered such a sincere apology that Sansa was nearly moved to
tears. Sansa assured her that she didn’t blame her for her parents’ death, and
they shared a hug. Sansa hadn't anticipated being blessed with so many allies.
Over the course of the night, Sansa noticed Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton in
the corner of her eye, speaking with the Tyrells when they left the table. But
there was still one person she dreaded to find. Ramsay was notably absent.
Sansa knew he was in the ballroom somewhere, she could feel him lurking, but
she’d yet to see him directly. It wouldn’t be long until he came for her. And
he would come, wouldn't he? The thought alone was horrifying.
A blonde boy rushed to Petyr and tapped him on the shoulder. He whispered
something in his ear. Petyr nodded as the boy left. He turned to Sansa grimly,
and she knew what he was going to say before he said it. “Cersei and the others
wish to speak with me. No doubt about you.” Petyr finished his champagne in a
large gulp. “I imagined they’d wait until tomorrow at least, but it seems
they’re impatient.”
Sansa felt it. Down her back, like ice. He’s here. She wondered if Petyr could
feel it, too.
“Sansa?” He looked at her. “I’d be a fool to tell these people no.”
“I know.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ll be okay.”
“Ramsay will try to speak to you.”
“Let him.” She squared her shoulders to prove herself, even though it felt
premature. “It’s like you said. Nothing can happen to me here.”
Petyr held her arms, ever tender. She felt her spine straighten even more.
“You’ll be strong without me.”
Sansa nodded. Petyr leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, ignoring
the audience around them. He stood, rubbing her shoulder in support, and then
he was gone, leaving Sansa exposed and alone under the eyes of a predator.
She knew he was near. Sansa heard his footsteps minutes after Petyr left,
before he ever said a word.
“Hello, Sansa.”
She resisted a shudder. Sansa saw Ramsay in her peripheral, sitting down in
Petyr’s chair with a conquering smile. She kept her eyes forward and sipped her
champagne, back straight, never wilting. Gone were the days when he made her
cower.
“You look lovely tonight. A true goddess among the rabble.” He leaned closer to
her. “I can’t wait to have you back in my bed.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time.” Sansa refused to look at him. “What do you
want?”
“Well, what else would I want?” asked Ramsay with a scoff, as if she should
know, and she did. “My beautiful bride. I wonder what you’re wearing under this
pretty dress. Lace? Silk?” He smirked. “Nothing?”
Sansa swallowed hard. “I’m not your bride.”
“Oh, come now. Let’s not lie to each other.” Her breath shook when Ramsay’s
fingertips grazed her bare arm. “I made my mark on you. And before long, you’ll
come back to me. That’s what happens when a master loses his pet.”
Sansa couldn’t will herself to leave, hardwired to freeze and obey when he
spoke. He can’t hurt me here, she thought. Move! But she couldn’t. Didn’t.
Sansa retreated into herself and played dead.
“I trained you,” Ramsay boasted. “Your sister would’ve bitten off my cock when
I shoved it in her mouth, but you? You knew better. You learned like the good
little lamb you are.”
That’s in the past, Sansa reminded herself. “I learned enough to run away, too.
I’m not going back.” She gathered the courage to face him. His eyes were wide
and wild, the way he looked when he was angry and ready to beat her until she
bled. “I’m not going to sign over my father's fortune and I’m going home with
Littlefinger. Leave me alone.”
“Ah, the ever-dangerous Littlefinger,” mocked Ramsay. “Does he fuck you like I
do? Does he make you scream?”
“Never.”
Ramsay laughed. The sound made her sick. “He must not have balls after all!
Such a waste, I would love to see how he compares.” He snatched the champagne
from her hands and drank it down. “Did he tell you about our little chat in the
lift a few days ago?”
“Yes.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap, trying to remain civil and stone-
faced. “He put a gun to you and you fell to the floor, like a corpse.”
“That's not the good part though.” Ramsay set the glass on the table. “I told
him to bring you back to me. And here you are. Right in my hands.”
Don’t panic, he’s just lying to make you afraid. “He would never do that,” said
Sansa. “Even if he did, I’d rather die. You’ve taken nothing from me and you
never will.”
Ramsay’s eyes darkened. Instinct told her she would pay for her outburst, but
Ramsay was limited, a dog on a leash. He sneered, leaning in so close that she
could feel his breath on her face. “Oh, I have taken from you. You remember
when you bled for me that first night? I took that. And I will take again. All
your kike daddy’s money, your Stark name, your—”
Sansa stood abruptly. She did not have to hear this, to listen to his sick
fantasies. She turned her back. Ramsay spat a hateful command and snatched her
by the wrist, so hard it pained her.
Sansa whirled around and slapped him across the face.
The sound echoed. Nearby guests paused to look, staring at the man who’d fallen
back on the table, shattering glass and breaking a centerpiece. Sansa’s hand
burned, but there had never been an ache so sweet. She met his violent eyes
dead-on, watching the bloody corner of his mouth, wanting him to hear every
word when she made her intentions known.
“You will never touch me again.”
Ramsay glared, doing all the things he’d done to her and more with his eyes
alone, but Sansa would not succumb. She left. Sansa maneuvered through the
growing crowd of people and escaped to the open hall, rushing to the blue
drawing room and through the open doors. She rounded the first corner and
pressed her back to the wall, hand on her chest, trying to steady her heavy
breathing. In. Out. You’re okay. Her head fell back, eyes closed. She wanted to
cry, but tears never came. There was victory in what she’d done. And though
defeat may come again, she was safe within the palace walls. She was safe with
Petyr.
Sansa jumped when a figure came around the corner. She feared it was Ramsay and
nearly fled, but the golden hair and gown of Queen Myrcella told her otherwise.
Sansa was shocked. “I — Your Majesty,” she stuttered, trying to remember
manners enough to offer a curtsy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a
disturbance, I only—”
“No, no. You’re okay. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Myrcella looked just like
her mother, but without a single drop of Cersei’s cruelty. Green eyes warmed
with a sympathetic smile. “Leave us,” she told the guards. “Keep the ballroom
calm. Mother should be back with Littlefinger soon, but distract the guests
with a waltz or something. I’ll be there in a moment.”
A large, dark bodyguard bowed to her command. He whispered for the others to
leave, but he remained and stood watch at the entrance to the drawing room.
“Areo,” the queen explained. “He doesn’t talk much, but I like that about him.”
Sansa tried to smile. She didn’t know what Myrcella was doing, why she’d come
for Sansa at all, but she wasn’t going to refuse the Queen of England a private
audience. Myrcella gestured for Sansa to follow her, and the two young women
sat down on a plush sofa by the pillars. Sansa wished she could appreciate her
surroundings, but adrenaline kept her on edge.
Myrcella placed her hands in her lap. Her posture was all royal. Sansa tried to
mimic it, but her hands were still shaking.
“So… forgive me for asking,” said Myrcella, “but are the rumors true? About
what Ramsay did…”
Sansa chewed her lip. It was a great crime to lie to a queen. “Yes.”
“People talked about it for months. Parliament was a mess. Cabinet members
begged law enforcement to investigate, it was like you disappeared or
something. No social media, no public appearances, nothing.” Myrcella frowned.
“I can’t have Varys prosecute without evidence, and I can't convince Uncle
Jaime to charge Ramsay either. But I can do something. I’m going to tell Ramsay
Bolton to leave and he’s no longer welcome in my home, not ever.”
Sansa blinked. “Your Majesty, you don’t have to—”
“I know. But I want to.” Myrcella’s eyes were fiercely protective. “I remember
the way Joffrey treated you. He treated me horribly too, and Shireen and
Tommen. No one should have to suffer that and what Ramsay did.” She shook her
head. “You didn't deserve any of it.”
Sansa didn’t know what to say. She remembered Myrcella’s kindness, but this was
more than Sansa felt she deserved from a girl she barely knew. Sansa looked
down the open hall. A figure was moving toward them, but Sansa didn’t fear; she
saw the mockingbird on his chest in the light. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I hope
your family won’t be upset.” Sansa turned to Myrcella. “I know they’re friends
with the Boltons.”
“Mum and Granddad are. I’m not. To be honest, I think they’re creepy.” Myrcella
sighed. “I’m sorry Ramsay said something to you. I’m glad you’re not really
dead, too, and please let me know if I can do anything to help. You were nice
to me. I never forgot that.” She smiled. “You can call me Myrcella, too. When
it’s just us.”
“Thank you.”
Sansa felt awkward. It was strange to be offered friendship so readily, even in
confidence by a much-loved queen.
“Oh. And a word of advice.” Myrcella stood from the sofa, all grace and beauty,
her sparkling gown making her look like an angel. “I don’t know what you’ve
been through, Sansa, but I’ve learned that the best thing you can do to hurt
people like Ramsay is to be happy. It’ll haunt him forever. It’ll give him
sleepless nights while you sleep soundly, knowing he could never break you. And
you deserve to be happy anyway.”
I do?thought Sansa curiously. I deserve to be happy…
“Sansa,” breathed Petyr when he entered the drawing room. He rushed past the
queen as if she wasn’t there at all, taking Sansa’s face in his hands. She
could tell he was adding a touch of drama to manipulate Myrcella, but it didn’t
bother her. Not when he was at her side again. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Sansa shook her head. Petyr sighed in relief, kissing her forehead for a long
time. “I’m sorry I ever left.”
“It’s okay. Business, I understand.” Sansa took his hands, just wanting
something to hold on to. She didn’t need Petyr to be her anchor. She’d faced
Ramsay alone and triumphed. But having Petyr beside her, her friends and a
network of support… it had made all the difference.
“Aw,” fawned Myrcella. “I’m glad you have each other. I should get back, but
you can stay in here for as long as you need to. Okay?”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. You are too kind.” Petyr wrapped an arm around
Sansa’s shoulders. “Don’t toast to the new year without us.”
“I won’t.” Myrcella turned and left them.
When they were alone, Petyr moved to sit by Sansa’s side. He kept her hands
held. “Did he touch you?”
“No.” Sansa sighed. “I mean, yes, but it was nothing. Just my arm.” Petyr began
searching her skin for marks. “Not enough to hurt me,” she clarified. “I’m
okay. I really am.” She paused. “I was strong without you.”
Petyr looked at her, a mixture of sorrow, doubt and blistering anger, but Sansa
knew it wasn’t directed at her. She squeezed his hand. “I’m not afraid of him.
He took so much from me, it’s hard to live with, but Ramsay wins if I let it
ruin me. I just…” She sadly smiled. “I have to be happy.”
Sansa didn’t know if Petyr truly understood, but he wasn’t calling her foolish,
which was a good sign. “Happy, you shall be.” Petyr kissed her cheek. He stood
and offered his hand to her. “I don’t believe I’ve had a dance yet. We did come
for a party, didn't we?”
Sansa managed a little giggle. She took his hand and walked with him down the
open hall, and when they returned to the ballroom, the Boltons were nowhere to
be found.
The party didn't last long enough. Sansa spoke with dozens of people, so many
that she couldn’t remember their names, and danced with Petyr to six different
waltzes. She helped Shae think of names for the coming baby — somehow they
hadn't picked one yet — and she and Loras and Renly spent an entire forty-five
minutes deep in discussion about fashion and social trends. When the countdown
to the new year began, Petyr pulled Sansa close, and they shared a New Year’s
kiss despite onlookers who disapproved. And though Sansa was tired, emotionally
drained and shaky from her run-in with the devil, she knew she’d never been so
blessed.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                                1 JANUARY, 2017
It was near two in the morning by the time they returned home. Petyr gave Sansa
a deep kiss goodnight and retired to his room, and Sansa entered hers, feeling
a cocktail of emotions that were hard to swallow. She took off her heels and
makeup. She pulled each bobby pin from her hair one by one, placing them on the
vanity. Auburn curls rolled down her back like waves. Sansa looked in the
mirror and saw herself as she never had before, bold and beautiful, a survivor.
But Sansa didn’t feel victorious. Ramsay had said his words and she’d left them
behind, yet there was still emptiness inside her, a part that hadn't
been reclaimed. The best thing you can do is be happy, Myrcella had advised.
But what did happiness mean? What would free her from the chains she felt,
pulling her farther and farther from what she wanted most?
She checked her phone. Texts from Ros, Olyvar and Mayana sent at midnight
cluttered the screen.
Hey, love! Happy New Year! We’re so grateful to have you in our lives. - R
My favorite dress-up doll. I love you. Happy 2017! - O
SANSAAAA. Happy new year girl!! treat yoself tonight ;) - M
Sansa’s chest swelled. These people love me, she realized, somehow for the
first time. All four of them. She remembered Petyr’s hands on her waist, his
lingering New Year’s kiss, his praises, his words, and everything he’d done for
her. Of course.
She could take what she wanted. She was strong. And she deserved to be happy.
Sansa picked up her feathered dress and ran from her room, into Petyr’s across
the hall. Her heart pounded when she saw him, standing by the fireplace with a
hand on the mantle and whiskey in the other, tie and jacket draped over the
back of a chair. Petyr looked mystified by her. Sansa found her voice before
fear could choke it from her. “Do you ever make New Year’s resolutions?”
Petyr placed his drink on the mantle, eyes pensive. “Not usually.”
“Neither do I. But this year, I want to.” Her voice cracked. She tightened her
fists and released them, desperate to find her ground. “I’m sick of this ache
in me, this voice in my head telling me I’m broken and untouchable. That I
can’t be whole again.”
“Sansa—”
“Let me finish. Please.”
Petyr fell silent.
“I know I’ve come a long way. You and Ros and Olyvar and Mayana, all of you
helped me reach where I am now. But I helped myself too, didn’t I? I did what I
had to do. And lately I’ve been doing things I want to do because I have the
strength to do them.” Sansa’s throat tensed. She wrung her hands. If I can’t
hold it together, maybe I don’t want this. But she did. Oh, she did. With every
trembling breath, Sansa wanted. She wiped away the tear that fell. “I deserve
to have what I want without being scared.”
Petyr moved around the sofa until he stood across the room, eyes never breaking
from hers. “What is it that you want, Sansa? Ask.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Yes you do.” He took a step closer. “I’ve already taught you.”
That look, Sansa thought. His eyes could burn a hole in her if she weren’t
already on fire. She forced her hands apart and kept them at her sides. “I want
to feel it,” she said quietly. “What it’s supposed to be like. Being with
someone.”
“That’s not specific enough.” Petyr’s voice had lowered, barely audible. He
stepped around her, close enough to reach, but resisting. “Tell me what you
want.”
“I want…” Sansa shuddered when his fingers brushed along her back, taking her
hair and twining it between his fingers. “I want to be touched.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“By who?” Sansa felt him lift her hair from her back, heard Petyr kiss her
curls. “I can’t grant your wish if you don’t tell me.”
Sansa didn’t know what to say. She knew what he wanted to hear, though.
Something vulgar, direct, but Sansa was neither of those things. He gripped her
waist and pulled her against him, brushing his lips on her ear, making her
sigh. “Don’t be shy, sweetling. Tell me.”
She turned in his grasp. Petyr leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him, her
hand at the center of his chest. She could feel him pushing against her. “You
know what I want.”
Petyr shook his head. “I am a selfish man, Sansa. Thief, schemer, murderer.” He
slid his hand up her back, bringing her closer, their faces inches apart. “Be
careful what you ask for. I’m not the sort of man to have what he wants only
once, or let go of what he craves.”
He leaned in. For half a heartbeat Sansa yielded, but she pushed against Petyr
again, ignoring his noise of frustration. “I need you to hear me,” she said.
“Please, Petyr. Please look at me.”
His heated gaze lifted from her lips to her eyes. Petyr was confused, if a bit
aggrieved, but Sansa couldn’t surrender until he understood. “I don’t want this
because I’m attracted to you or because you’ve touched me before. I want it
because of who you are. A caretaker who’s been good to me. I feel safe with
you. I want you.”
Grey-green eyes softened. She’d tamed Petyr’s fire, melted him, turned him to a
pool of liquid flame. There was pain in him, too. A sadness she couldn’t
ignore. “I am not a good man, Sansa. You’ve read me wrong.”
“No,” she said. “I think I’m the first person to read you right.”
Petyr broke the tension with a sudden, bruising kiss.
It was already different. Better, sweeter. Sansa’s skin prickled when his hands
rose to touch her, aged and soft and everywhere she needed him. He unhooked the
back of her feathered gown in haste, pushing it down her body, unclasping her
bra to cup her breasts in eager palms. Sansa hummed when he kissed down her
neck, hungry, tasting her as though he was a man starved. Sansa pulled his
shirt from where it tucked into his slacks, working at the buttons with hands
that didn’t tremble. Her movements were deft and sure, certain in what she
wanted, solid in her decision to decide.
Petyr was not.
His breath began to shake. His hands stopped their caresses to freeze when she
unmade his shirt. Petyr buried his face in her neck and kissed her there,
hiding, and his muscles tensed when Sansa unhooked the final button. “Are you
okay?” she asked meekly. “Am I doing something wrong?”
Petyr laughed. The sound was bitter and harsh, and it cut her. “You’ve done
nothing wrong.” He pushed her hands away and shrugged off the garment, pulling
his undershirt over his head to drop it to the floor.
By firelight, Sansa saw it. The gash in the center of his chest, dark, deep,
old. Uncle Brandon’s knife. Sansa touched it gently. How many years had he
carried the wound and all it stood for? And there were others too, scars from
blades and brawls, silver wisps of drug abuse in the crook of his left arm.
Sansa didn’t move. His hands rested on her waist, holding tight as though he
feared she’d leave. “Not the man you might have hoped for,” he said with a
grin. A lie. “Ignore them.”
But Sansa remained still. She traced the deepest mark with her fingertips, not
falling for the mask Petyr used to defend himself. It would not work with her.
Sansa pulled away to look into his eyes. “You are more than your scars.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. His hands tightened around her. Sansa’s words
of love hurt him more than any injury he’d sustained, but she knew how to
soothe him. She slipped her fingers in his hair and kissed his parted lips. She
tasted his tongue when he held her close, and their bare chests together
sparked encouragement. Sansa was desperate for him. Desire pooled between her
legs with more urgency than she’d felt before, made wilder by the caresses he
so willingly gave. Sansa shuddered when he slipped his hand down her stomach
and beneath the lace, touching her where she throbbed. Petyr circled her center
and repeated the motion when she whimpered aloud. He kissed her breasts and
sucked at the peaks, and Sansa had to reach back for the end table to keep from
falling over. His skin on hers brought an odd sense of safety, a comfort deep
down. Petyr's fingers never entered her, only tormented, ensuring she was ready
until Sansa begged him. “Petyr,” she moaned. His name alone told him what she
wanted. Petyr removed his hand from between her legs, sucking the taste of her
from his fingers. “Bed,” he told her. “On your back, facing me.” He kissed her
as though sealing a pact.
Sansa walked with him until the backs of her legs hit Petyr's bed, and she
broke their kiss to crawl to the center of his mattress. She heard him unbuckle
his belt. Sansa laid down on her back and stared at the canopy above her. Fear
returned, unbidden. He stripped her of the lace and made her bare. Petyr moved
on top of her and settled between her legs, and Sansa could feel him, hard and
heavy against her inner thigh. She whimpered in anticipation and dread. Petyr
touched her chin and directed her gaze to his.
“Sansa,” he said, voice tense and strained. “I won’t be cruel to you.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “I think I just need a moment.”
“Take as many as you need.” Petyr kissed her cheek, adjusting his knees to a
more comfortable position. Sansa felt secure when he started petting the top of
her head, softly, his thumb brushing her hairline. “When you were taken to the
hospital, the day after you came to me, did the doctors offer you birth
control?”
Sansa nodded. “I’ve been on the pill.”
“Do you still want me to use a condom?”
She smiled a bit. Selfish, she thought. Sure. “You don’t have to.” Sansa’s
fingertips grazed his throat, her whole body wired to touch him, undoubtedly of
his own making. “It’s not going to hurt, is it?”
Petyr shook his head. “I will be gentle.”
Sansa believed him. She wanted to enjoy this like all the other women she’d
known, like her mother, like Jeyne, like Ros. But when Petyr reached between
them and pressed the tip of his cock to her entrance, Sansa clenched her eyes
shut and gripped the sheets, afraid. “Shhh,” soothed Petyr. “Relax, my love.”
He kissed her cheek and her jaw and her neck, mustache tickling her skin, and
he moved the head of him slowly along the sopping line of her sex. “You’re with
me, Sansa. I will take care of you.”
Of course he would. Had he not already? Sansa opened her eyes. After a few
moments, she nodded.
“Hold on to me. Put your arms around my shoulders and breathe.”
Sansa did as she was told. Petyr repositioned himself and, unhurried, he
entered her.
The pressure was uncomfortably familiar, but there wasn’t any pain. Sansa bit
down hard on her lip. Petyr continued to kiss her neck, her collarbones, her
shoulders, and Sansa stayed clinging to him when he pulled out. His next thrust
was slow. Testing her limits, her comfort, and when he pushed in again Sansa
wasn’t sure if she wanted to continue.
On the fourth movement, she felt the change. Small at first, a flicker of
something that could be, maybe, if she allowed it to happen. But it grew. With
every inch of friction, Sansa blossomed with heat and ease and until she could
finally relax. Petyr brushed his lips against hers and smiled when she moaned
into his mouth. “There you are,” he hissed. “Such a brave girl.”
Petyr set a lazy rhythm inside her that sent Sansa into a series of sighs and
whimpers, focused solely on the feeling. Memories of fear were knocked away
like dominoes under Petyr’s fist, and Sansa craved every second of the fallout.
She hummed when he kissed her. The taste of mint in his mouth became the taste
in hers, and she kept her arms around his neck to pull him near.
Petyr pushed faster with her approval. Sansa crossed her ankles behind his back
and slipped her fingers in his hair, kissing the patch of gray, the wrinkles
near his eyes when he smiled. She felt him strike her deepest point and Sansa
cried out, unable to contain her sounds, just the way Petyr liked it. He
praised her for her strength. Told her how fucking tight she was, how perfect,
how warm and soft and beautiful, and every word of devotion was felt. Sansa
heard the slap of skin and Petyr’s ragged breathing, grunts mixed with her
desperate whines and wet sounds of motion. Her words added to them. She sighed
his name. She pleaded for more because she wanted it, and when he obliged,
Sansa nearly cursed to the ceiling.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “I-I mean no, no, don’t stop.”
Petyr chuckled darkly. “I liked that first answer better.” He rammed into her
hard, and Sansa wailed with delight. “Say it again.”
“Yes.”
Petyr repeated the motion. “Again.”
Sansa laughed, out of breath, but a cry wasn’t far from her lips when he pushed
inside her as far as he could. Petyr smirked as she writhed beneath him.
“Say it,” he demanded. “I want to hear you.”
Petyr struck her depth again. His pace was relentless. Sansa’s muscles
tightened on the brink, their foreheads together, and her mind was lost
entirely. “Please,” she begged, “Petyr, please, please.”
“Fuck,” he growled, taking a fistful of her hair and locking her gaze to his.
“There’s my good girl. Beautiful girl.” Petyr sped his thrusts until he was
fucking her out of her mind, pumping into a body she’d freely offered. Sansa
clung to his shoulders, ready to fall and begging him to help her there. Petyr
reached where they were joined and rubbed her clit until Sansa saw stars.
Climax swallowed her into space and Sansa reeled under the force, gripping his
hair, head thrown back to cry out as he kissed her throat. Her thighs shook and
she’d nearly screamed by the time the high had fallen, her world so thoroughly
rocked that she was sure it would never be stable again. She held Petyr close
and smiled when he moaned her name like a prayer, “Sansa,” releasing himself
inside of her and claiming her as his.
His face stayed buried in the crook of her neck. They lay there, still one,
holding each other in showers of kisses and breathlessness. Sansa felt so loved
she could cry. Hearing sobs, she realized she was crying, hot tears spilling
down her temples. Petyr lifted his head to look at her. “I’m okay,” she
managed, and Sansa laughed, wiping her face. “I’m sorry. I’m just happy.” She
sniffled. “I never thought I could have this, like this. Thank you.” Sansa
pulled him down for a passionate kiss. He returned it tenfold. His hands roamed
her body, little touches of tenderness that spoke words Petyr had trouble
saying on his own. But Sansa didn’t mind. She knew his heart now, no matter how
he tried to hide it.
Petyr pulled out of her, reaching for his trousers on the floor to wipe them
both clean. He guided Sansa into his arms when he laid on his back to rest. She
curled up to him as close as she could be, head on his chest, holding him as he
held her. Sansa didn’t know how much time had passed before she fell asleep,
but she hoped that one day, it would slow. Ramsay wouldn’t matter anymore. Not
the Lannisters, not a fortune, or the ghosts of the dead she’d left behind.
One day, she could be happy.
Chapter End Notes
     * = not a youtube link!! but this song is the best sansa/ramsay thing
     to ever happen so you should listen anyway
     :') my kids :') they finally did it
     WOW so like 800 things: I am in love with this chapter. I worked a
     ton on it and I'm pleased with the outcome. Sansa is so strong and
     JUST, THIS IS HUGE FOR HER, SHE BLOOOOOOMED (can you believe it took
     me 13 chapters to get here?? jesus)
     CAN WE TALK ABOUT BAD BLOOD SANSA FOR A MINUTE THO BC DAMN. #GOALS.
     There is so much to love here omg
     I really hate Petyr aslgjakgljaska writing this smut had me shouting
     "GROSS" at random intervals and gagging, god he's a freak, but I
     can't take the daddy kink out of him without sacrificing his
     character so here we are ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
     ohhhhhh my goodness y'all this chapter is my LIFE. And here we go,
     further into Plot Town. if you're looking forward to more dirty sin,
     chapter 16 is probably the most ~Sinful chapter of the whole story,
     and that's right around the corner. Get ready!
     As always, I appreciate all the love and support from my FANTASTIC
     readers, and I'll see you on Saturday, lovelies!! I hope the smut
     passed expectation. :')
     EDIT: I don't know how many of you actually listen to the soundtrack
     options that I give, but if there's ever an important song in this
     fic, it's Trouble. Go listen. I've had this song on repeat since the
     fic started, WAITING to write their first time together because this
     song is just so perfect for it. SO THERE.
     EDIT #2: The day this chapter posted is November 5th! Petyr's
     birthday! How cool is that. ❤
     EDIT #3: Myrcella's advice to Sansa is inspired by the Elizabeth
     Smart story. You can watch a bit about that here if you're interested
     (but trigger warnings for rape mention, of course). Elizabeth Smart
     has been a huge personal inspiration for me, and for Sansa's
     development in this story.
***** Aggressive Factor *****
Chapter Notes
                              soundtrack choice:
                  [if_you_want_blood_(you've_got_it);_ac/dc]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                1 JANUARY, 2017
Cereal crunched between her teeth. Arya hated Cheerios and milk, but the bald
man didn’t have anything better in his kitchen, barely stocked as it was. Arya
still wanted something more than baby food to eat. She sat on a barstool and
swung her legs while Jon rewound the news coverage of the queen’s gala they’d
been watching all morning. “Stop,” said Arya. “She’s right there. Hit play
again.”
Jon resumed the recording. Sansa looked so elegant that Arya almost didn’t
recognize her, dressed in a gown of black feathers with huge diamond earrings
that sparkled under flashing lights. She looks like a princess, thought Arya.
Sansa walked on the arm of a stranger, ignoring reporters, never saying a
word. 
Despite everything, Arya was thrilled to see Sansa alive.
“She looks healthy,” commented Jon, leaning against the counter with his arms
crossed. “Doesn’t look like she’s being mistreated.”
“That doesn’t mean crap. Joffrey never left marks people could see when he hit
her, remember?” She pointed to the remote. “Go back to the morning news. I
wanna see if they’re talking about it.”
Jon changed the channel. A reporter stood in front of the gates of Buckingham
Palace, and the headline read, “SANSA STARK: ALIVE.”
“At the queen’s ball yesterday evening, Sansa Stark, daughter of the late Lord
Eddard Stark, was seen alive for the first time in nearly three months. The
teen went missing after an apparent abduction from the home of her legal
guardian, Roose Bolton. However, new reports suggest that instead of
kidnapping, Sansa Stark  fled the Bolton property after suffering sexual abuse
from Roose Bolton’s son, Ramsay. To further suspicion, Her Majesty has banned
the Boltons from Buckingham Palace and personally pushed through a restraining
order against them on Sansa’s behalf. Miss Stark has yet to come forward for
comment. At this time, she will not be returning to Bolton custody, but Deputy
Commissioner Tarth has assured the public of her safety.”
The screen switched to footage from a press conference held an hour ago.
Brienne Tarth, tall and fearless, stood fierce in Sansa’s defense. “Lord Eddard
Stark was an example to us all,” said Brienne at the podium. “As a nation, we
are all relieved to know that his daughter has been found. In honor of the
respect I held for Lord Stark, as well as his wife Catelyn, I will continue to
look after and protect Sansa until she no longer has need of police. It is the
least I can do after all her father accomplished for law enforcement and the
judicial system.
“As of this moment, Ramsay Bolton is our primary person of interest in the
ongoing investigation of Sansa’s abuse. Captive for three months, she escaped,
and was protected by a friend of the family until deciding to return to the
public eye on New Year’s Eve. No charges are currently being pressed against
the Boltons, but given the recent unveiling of Secretary Frey’s sex trafficking
ring and the Frey-Bolton partnership, I am personally taking charge of the
investigation and will continue to look for connections to put all guilty
parties behind bars. Sansa will remain in the care of her current guardian, and
neither I nor Commissioner Lannister feel it appropriate to force her return to
the Bolton home regardless of Roose’s title as her legal caretaker. Sansa has
asked to be left in peace. Remember that she is still young, a teenage girl and
a child by the law, and she deserves her hard-earned privacy. Thank you.”
Arya beamed as Brienne stepped down from the podium. She turned to Jon with a
cocky shake of her shoulders. “See? I told you she was cool.”
The news switched to the weather forecast. Jon turned it off and poured himself
some water. “When do you think Varys is gonna come by? He said he’d tell us
about the gala. I bet he saw Sansa, talked to her.”
Arya took a bite of cereal. “I don’t know. He better come by soon or I’ll smack
him.”
“Don’t,” scorned Jon. “He’s takin’ us in, you don’t get to just threaten ‘im.”
“Why not? He threatened us. And I liked that barn.” Arya wondered if the little
rat family had eaten the cheese she’d left behind.
“I didn’t,” said Jon. “It was cold. Really cold. I’m used to the desert.” Jon
shuddered just thinking about it. “Don’t you like wakin’ up in a warm bed?”
“I don’t know.” In truth, Arya had stopped caring about comfort long ago. “It’s
nice I guess.”
Ghost barked wildly outside, in the small, fenced backyard he’d claimed as his
own. Arya slipped off the stool to shush him. “Ghost!” she called after opening
the slider. “Hey boy! C’mere!” The canine bolted into the house, wagging his
tail and yipping. “Ghost,” Jon commanded. “No bark. Sit.”
Ghost did as he was told. Arya rolled her eyes — she could never get the dog to
obey any of her commands — and sat on the stool to keep eating. “I bet Varys is
here.”
Just in case, Jon grabbed his gun from the counter and cocked it ready. He
peered through the peephole in the front door. “What the hell?”
“It’s me,” called Varys from outside. “Forgive the disguise.”
Disguise? Arya stretched out her neck to see down the entryway. Jon opened the
door and Varys stepped inside, wearing a long trench coat and hat, sporting a
fake mustache and smelling like cigarettes. He peeled the mustache off his
upper lip. “I do hate these things,” said Varys. “How Littlefinger manages an
actual mustache, I’ll never know.”
Arya scrunched her nose. “Why are you dressed so weird?”
“Being a master of disguise has its uses, my dear. I’ve learned more valuable
information this way than I can remember.” Varys removed his hat and coat, but
not before pulling a credit card from his pocket, which he handed to Jon. “For
you. Food, a used car, anything you need. But try to stay inside as much as
possible. The Lannisters are still looking for you and show no sign of
abandoning their pursuit.”
“I understand.” Jon examined the card before pocketing it in his jeans. “Thank
you, sir. I’ll repay you as soon as I can.”
“No need.” Varys folded his hands and stepped further into the simple home,
smiling when he saw Arya. “Do you like the house? I bought it a few years ago.
Impeccable location. Not a suspicious neighborhood, secluded enough to have
important guests without unwanted listeners.”
“It’s alright.” Arya kept a skeptical eye when he passed her. “Did you see
Sansa at the gala? You said you’d tell us.”
“You certainly don’t waste time, do you?” Varys gestured to the living room, to
the beige couch and armchairs. “Have a seat.”
The three of them settled in for discussion. Jon sat on the couch. Arya sat
beside him with her bowl of cereal, propping up her feet on the coffee table’s
edge. Varys took one of the armchairs, well-postured. Arya read his body
language for signs of a liar.
“Have you seen the news this morning?” Varys asked.
“Yeah. We saw Sansa at the palace in a fancy dress, but she was with some older
guy.” Arya rested her bowl on her thighs. “Like, a much older guy.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, he is a part of the problem.” Varys reached for the remote
and turned on the telly. He scrolled through the recently watched programs as
though he knew Arya and Jon had recorded the broadcast, and pressed play. He
paused on a frame of Sansa and her date. “That man is called Littlefinger. He’s
one of the most dangerous men in Europe, and if I hadn’t found you when I did,
I’m sure he would have come for you.”
Varys pointed to the black-and-gray-haired stranger on Sansa’s arm. He didn’t
look particularly dangerous to Arya, and she squinted to find anything that
stood out. “He’s just some guy,” she concluded. “The news said he was a friend
of the family, but I don’t remember him. Why does he have Sansa?”
“She chose him. A poor choice, but she had no way of knowing. Your sister
called him the night she fled the Boltons and he came to retrieve her. She’s
been in his care ever since.”
“Why is he a bad choice?” asked Jon. Varys gave him a matter-of-fact look. “I
just want to know, is all. She seemed happy from what I saw.”
“I’m sure she believes that she is.” Varys pulled a few photographs from his
suit jacket and handed them to Arya. “Littlefinger is a master manipulator.
He’s likely telling her whatever she wants to hear to keep her at his side.”
“Why do they call him ‘Littlefinger’?” Arya scanned every picture of Sansa to
look for bruises or signs of abuse. She found none, but there were other ways
to hurt a girl. Secret ways. “Is it some kind of weird nickname?”
“Yes. Given to him by your Uncle Edmure.”
Arya looked up from the photos, baffled.
“Petyr Baelish is his true name. He was raised with your mother, aunt and uncle
in Ireland until he was removed from the home in 1989. He stayed two weeks in a
hospital after a serious injury, and then…” Varys shrugged. “I don’t know.
Nobody knows where he went, until he returned to London in 2001 and began
taking over Parliament bit by bit. Word has it that he put America in his
pocket before he returned. The Clinton family seems to know him well. But
outside of that, all my leads are dead ends.”
Arya remembered her mother mentioning another sibling, an estranged foster
brother she’d wanted to reconnect with, but Arya never thought much of it.
Until now. “He’s not acting like an uncle,” she said. “He’s being… touchy.” She
went through the pictures again. Littlefinger’s hand on Sansa’s back, her arm,
her cheek, her waist. Far too close for pseudo-family.
“They were worse in person, believe me.” Varys motioned to the photographs.
“Littlefinger has an irritating need to be physical with people, especially
young women. It seems that Sansa has become his new favorite.”
Arya made a gagging noise. She didn’t like this ‘Littlefinger’, and she wanted
her sister back. “When can we get her?”
Varys pressed play on the recording. Arya watched Littlefinger kiss Sansa’s
hand before they entered Buckingham Palace, out of sight. “Not for some time.
Littlefinger keeps a tight hold on her.”
“She doesn’t look hurt, though.” Jon took the pictures from Arya’s hands to
look through them. “I know Sansa. I watched her with Joffrey. She gets
weirdly polite when she’s scared, but you can still see fear in her eyes.” He
pulled a photo of Sansa dining with Littlefinger from the back of the pile. She
was beaming when he pressed a kiss to her cheek, his arm around her shoulder.
“She looks happy. Even if he does have ulterior motives, he’s not hurting her.
That’s not Sansa’s ‘hurt’ face.”
“But she’s not safe,” pointed Arya.
“Her physical well-being was my biggest concern. Aren’t you at least a little
relieved?”
“No.” Arya snatched the picture from him. “He’s creepy.”
"You’re not listening,” groaned Jon. “You think after dealing with a guy like
Ramsay, Sansa wouldn’t know a creep when she saw one? She’s not afraid of this
person.” He pointed to Sansa’s smile on the page. “She’s safe. She’s been safe.
Compared to what she was before, at least.”
Arya quirked her mouth to the side. She didn’t want to admit that Jon was
right, so she shoved the pictures in his hands and crossed her arms over her
chest. “Why can’t I just march up to this guy’s door? You know where he lives,
right?”
Varys shook his head. “I’m afraid it isn’t so simple. Littlefinger is a
dangerous man, and he does not take the theft of his possessions lightly.”
“My sister is no one’s possession.” Arya scowled. “I don’t care what mustache-
guy thinks.”
“Oh, you should.” Varys scratched Ghost behind the ear, his frown poorly
masked. “Littlefinger has done terrible things. Not caring what he thinks would
be your first mistake. For now, it is simply best to leave Sansa where she is
until I can undermine Littlefinger enough to bring her to safety. Or perhaps,
if there’s no other choice, work with him to come to some sort of mutual
conclusion.” Varys sighed. “As much as I admire and despise Littlefinger, I
don’t want to make your sister unhappy. There are few who have suffered more
than she has.”
Arya strongly disliked the idea of teaming up with Littlefinger, let alone
having to be around him at all, but something in her gut told her it was
inevitable. She finished her cereal and gulped down the milk while Jon and
Varys talked about the rules of staying incognito. She wasn't interested in
listening, more focused on the prospect of having to wait to see Sansa again.
All because of some freak with a clear ego problem. I don’t like him. How could
she?
“If there’s nothing else, I have a proposition for you.” Varys folded his hands
in his lap. “One I think you’ll be interested in.”
“Does it involve actually doing something?” groaned Arya. “I’m sick of being
cooped up in this house.”
“Not quite.” Varys stood from the couch and he waved for them to follow him. “I
have something to show you.”
Arya set her bowl on the table. She passed Jon, too curious to stay behind, and
peered into the closet Varys pointed to. “Behind these coats is a small door,”
he told her. “Perhaps you'll find something interesting inside.”
She pushed past hanging jackets and tapestries, reaching to feel the back wall
until she touched a handle. “Found it!” Arya turned the knob and scooted
through with her brother behind her. The door led to a little room with two
chairs and a table, both facing the glass that Arya knew to be a mirror on the
other side. A perfect view of the living room stood before her.
“A one-way mirror,” said Jon in disbelief. “You sneaky bastard.”
“Thank you,” called Varys from the closet’s entrance. “If you wish, you and
your canine friend can listen to my conversation with Cersei Lannister when she
visits in an hour.”
“Cersei? Queen Cersei? Here?” Ghost began to growl, feeling Arya’s tension.
“But what if she finds us?”
“She won’t.” Arya watched Varys grin through the small hole between jackets.
“May I close this door? In case she comes early.”
Brother and sister shared a look. Jon shrugged as if to say, why not? Arya let
Varys lock them in his secret room with Ghost. Together, they waited. They
played cards with a deck they’d found in a drawer, engaged in a pun battle and
told jokes. But an hour later, as promised, a knock came at the front door that
Varys was quick to answer. Arya scrambled to her feet. She left Ghost on the
floor where she'd been petting him, eyes fixed on the living room through the
one-way glass.
Cersei Lannister entered the living room with Gregor Clegane. Seeing the queen
again after so many years brought back awful memories, and Arya gritted her
teeth to fight them. “Don’t,” said Jon, holding her shoulder to keep her from
moving. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Your Grace,” greeted Varys with a generous bow. “I’m glad you could come all
this way to meet.”
Cersei dragged her fingertips along the top of the kitchen counter, inspecting
it for dust. “Your home is so… quaint.”
“I prefer to spend my wealth in other places.” He motioned for her to sit on
the sofa by the window, and she did, posture straight as any queen’s should be.
Arya hated how regal Cersei looked, even here, where she didn’t have to try. “I
suppose we should get straight to business,” said Varys. “I can’t imagine the
Queen Mother has much time on her hands these days. Especially with your
security now a great concern.”
“Yes, well. Hopefully it won’t be for long.” Cersei folded her hands in her
lap. “We still don’t know who hired Harrold Hardyng. When my father ordered his
agents to raid the location Littlefinger gave us, the hitman was already dead.
There was nothing at the scene to determine who gave him the orders. The
culprit is still at large.”
Littlefinger gave them? thought Arya. Germanboy said he’d met a pretty Jewish
girl. That had to be Sansa.
Varys chuckled. “I don’t think you will ever find the head of the snake if you
keep looking at its tail, Your Grace. Littlefinger will be no help to you now
that Sansa Stark is his.”
Arya watched Cersei’s hands tighten. “The little wretch managed to convince my
father it was for everyone’s benefit to have Sansa under his wing, but I don’t
buy it. His silver tongue doesn’t charm me, and Roose’s son is positively
enraged. Someone needs to leash him before he does something dangerous.”
He’s already done that, Arya thought bitterly. She hated that Sansa meant
nothing to Queen Cersei, a girl who would’ve been her daughter-in-law once upon
a time.
“More dangerous than abusing her in the first place?” asked Varys.
Good. Thank you.
“You’ve always been a soft one.” Cersei crossed one leg over the other, leaning
back. “Are you working with Littlefinger?”
“I would sooner wed a goat,” said Varys.
“So you deny any involvement in covering up Sansa’s location?”
Varys took her interrogation with grace. Arya wondered how good he was at
playing this game, to stay calm around an angry Lannister. “I will align myself
with whomever I must to protect young girls.”
The corner of Cersei’s mouth twitched in a mocking smile. “Having been a
teenage girl yourself helps with that sentiment., I imagine.”
“On the contrary, Your Grace. It’s rather irrelevant. After all, you were one
as well, and look at what you’ve allowed to happen.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Cersei’s smile fell. “Sansa’s suffering, the
suffering of the girl who helped Tyrion murder my son, your king, is of no
concern to me.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I meant no offense.” Varys nodded politely. Even Arya
was nearly convinced. “Why did you come to speak to me today? Clearly we have a
fundamental difference of opinion on the Stark girl.” Varys leaned forward. “I
am loyal to the crown as I have always been, but I cannot encourage Sansa’s
return to Roose Bolton. Even if I did, Littlefinger would never agree to it, no
matter how much you tempt him. You saw them at Myrcella’s ball. Manipulation
though it may be, he is enamored by her.”
Cersei sighed. “Yes, it was quite disturbing. But I want to know why she is so
important to him. I want his every move, his intentions with Sansa, his true
motivations. There’s something he’s hiding and I will discover it.”
Varys outright laughed. “If I knew Littlefinger’s true motivations, I’d be the
most wanted man in the world. Perhaps you would be better suited speaking to
one of his closest employees?”
“Impossible. They’re loyal to a fault.” Cersei stood from the couch.
“Littlefinger is becoming an enormous grievance to me, but Father insists he
still has his uses. I’d much rather eliminate him and be done with it, but
since I can’t, I’m going to hire you.” She held out her hand. Gregor Clegane
offered her a piece of paper, which she handed to Varys. “You’re going to spy
on him. You will watch him. Tell me everything you learn, and your reward will
increase.”
Varys shifted in his seat. He looked like he was battling with his mind,
struggling to reach a decision, but he came to it quickly. “I will do what I
can. If I discover something useful, you’ll be the first to know.” He took the
paper from Cersei. The queen made for the entryway, already finished with what
she came for, and Arya was torn between wanting to strangle her or push her out
the door. Jon tightened his grip on her shoulder. Cersei and Varys exchanged
brief goodbyes, but Varys called to her before she left. “Your Grace,” he said.
“Might I ask just one question?”
“Of course.” Arya peered through the farthest side of the mirror to watch them.
“I was wondering something, if you don’t mind an answer.” Varys stepped closer
to her. “That entire time, all three months of Sansa Stark’s imprisonment, did
you know what Ramsay was doing to her?” He paused. “Did you encourage it?”
Arya steeled her jaw. She observed Cersei’s reaction, from the threatening
stare that gauged Varys to the bitter smile of her conclusion. “I knew that
Roose Bolton would supply me with a multimillion pound fortune that would
provide a future for my family name. The Lannister name. Sansa Stark was the
weakest link, a murderer, and she was the key. I would butcher any man who so
much as thought about harming Myrcella in the ways Ramsay likes, but before you
play your guilt card, Varys, consider this.” Cersei turned her head to the
mountain behind her. Gregor grabbed Varys by the throat on her unspoken
command, thrusting him hard against the wall. Varys yelped. “I don’t fear the
wrath of Ned Stark’s ghost, and neither do I fear you.”
After a long minute, long enough to ensure her point was received, Cersei
nodded to Gregor who let Varys drop to his feet. Varys rubbed his throat and
stared out the open door, watching the queen enter a car and ride away, but
Arya didn’t feel whatever uncertainty plagued him. She cracked her knuckles at
her sides, logging the memory of Cersei’s confidence deep in her mind where she
kept all her vengeance hidden.
“Cersei doesn’t fear Ned Stark’s ghost?” muttered Arya with a scowl. “She
should.”
Chapter End Notes
     oooooo shit's gettin' REAL
     This chapter was like, virtually impossible to write. I already knew
     all of this plot stuff so it seems so boring to me, but from a
     reader's POV I hope it's good enough!
     I'm not sure if you expected a Petyr chapter or not. Surprise! I've
     broken the pattern of POV's now. The plot's too important to stay in
     focus that way. But the next two chapters are SINFUL so you won't be
     disappointed. I just had to bring Arya up to speed and show a little
     bit of Cersei's character. And Varys's. Good shit.
     mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm not much else to say here! See ya Saturday lovelies!
     xx
     Oh, and to all my fellow Americans out there, stay safe. We'll get
     through this. I promise.
***** Freezeout *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
       [clair_de_lune;_claude_debussy] ◆ [clique;_kanye_west,_jay-z,_big
                    sean] ◆ [suffer_-_remix;_charlie_puth]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                5 JANUARY, 2017
Clouds hung heavy on a dour winter morning. Petyr felt useless. A mockingbird
without a flight path. He pressed the piano keys with effortless grace, but his
mind was a tangle of tension, even through the music.
Ramsay’s rebound had begun. Since the gala, Sansa had received threats from
over a dozen different numbers, so many that Petyr forced her to shut off her
phone. Then the posts began. Any social media platform, whatever means Ramsay
could use, he exercised them all to torment Sansa and whoever she held dear.
The worst threat had come to Sansa’s email. Received the night before, Sansa
had opened a message from her best friend Jeyne, thinking it was a link to
something funny to cheer her up. Instead, she was directed to a video of
herself in a room with white sheets and iron bars, and the trauma Ramsay
wrought within.
The damage was exhaustive. Sansa wept. She’d wretched up what little dinner she
ate in the bathroom sink and spoke to no one, and Petyr could give no comfort
to her. He’d made the mistake of trying. Even a caress was too much, so Petyr
held her until she slept and didn’t move until Ros came to watch over her. He’d
found no rest of his own. All he wanted to do was play, hoping music would keep
him focused on the task ahead.
Bare feet padded across the wood floor. Petyr drew in a deep breath when he
felt Sansa behind him. She wrapped her arms loosely around his shoulders, her
chin in the crook of his neck. Petyr’s anger thawed under the warmth of her
touch. He stopped playing for a moment to revel in her, in all that she was,
before gathering himself enough to move through the end of the song. When Petyr
was finished, the final note lingered in the air while Sansa held him.
They were silent for a time. Petyr closed the piano as Sansa nuzzled his ear.
He shut his eyes to focus on the feeling. She squeezed him tight. An apology,
but she had nothing to apologize for. Petyr opened his eyes and moved her hand
to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “He needs to die, Sansa.” He brushed his
thumb over her skin. “Soon.”
“I know.” Sansa rested her head against his.
“I’ve taught you all you need to know. You’re ready.” Petyr turned on the piano
bench, his legs on either side of her. Sansa kept her arms around him, toying
with the gray hair at his temples that she loved so much. She didn’t seem
shocked or upset; if anything, she expected this, and he was glad she did.
“Unless you don’t want to participate. I will gladly take care of him myself.”
Sansa frowned. Petyr knew she had religious beliefs, but offing Ramsay was more
important than mediocre commandments from an ancient book. This was the
difference between tranquility and fear. Success and failure. Petyr would defy
any god for Sansa’s peace of mind.
“I want to be there,” she concluded. “I feel like I have to be.” Sansa looked
into his eyes. “Ramsay’s too dangerous to be left alive, and I have to be a
part of it.”
Petyr didn’t hide how pleased he was. She had learned so well. “Go and get
dressed, then. We’re having guests.” He reached up to touch her cheek. “I need
to invite the necessary parties over for tea.”
“A meeting? Here?”
He nodded. “I’m not letting you leave the house until Ramsay has been detained.
Today, we plan. Tomorrow, we act.”
Sansa took a slow breath. “Okay.”
Petyr rubbed her thigh before patting it in encouragement. “Go. Breakfast will
be ready by the time you’re done.”
She did as he asked. Petyr watched her cross the room, wearing one of his
shirts and flannel pajamas, and admired her from a distance until she stopped
and turned. “Petyr?”
“Yes?” He rose to his feet.
“Could we… try again? Tonight.” Sansa wrung her hands. “Last night, I wanted
to, but with what happened and the video, I just… broke down. But I still want
to.” She looked up at him. “It makes me feel safe.”
Petyr grinned. He was delighted to hear that Sansa craved him as he craved her,
but now wasn’t the time for a proposition. “You don’t have to ask. As always,
my love, I am yours.”
Sansa smiled and continued up the entranceway stairs.
Petyr walked to the kitchen. Breathing deep, he steepled his fingers under his
chin and began to pace. Mayana and Olyvar sat at the dining room table,
surrounded by paperwork and two open laptops while Ros cooked breakfast. None
of them were surprised by Petyr’s entrance. Mayana began typing when he spoke.
“Invite Tyrell.”
“Good choice,” said Olyvar. “Who else?”
“The Deputy Commissioner. Bella, Brianna, something.”
“Brienne,” groaned Mayana. “You’ve met the woman twice, Pete. For God’s sake,
remember her name.”
Petyr waved a dismissive hand. “Invite her. Not Jaime Lannister, though, I
don’t want Cersei to suspect something.”
Olyvar held out his hands. Petyr pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it
to his employee across the room, continuing to pace. “The Greyjoy girl,” he
said. “Have we heard from her?”
“She said that she’s been unable to reach her brother,” Olyvar replied.
“Something about ‘Reek’? I didn’t quite understand her accent.”
“Reek,” Ros added from the stove. She paused her stirring. “Theon kept calling
himself that at The Mockingbird the other day, when Ramsay brought by that dead
pig.”
“A code?” Mayana guessed.
“I have no idea.” Petyr pushed out a breath and stopped walking, resting his
hands on his hips. “Is Miss Greyjoy back in Norway?”
“Yeah.”
“See that she stays there. Invite Tyrion here, too, I want word of this meeting
to reach Varys. Give him a bone to chew on.”
“You sure about that?” asked Mayana. “I mean… you know. With them, and all.”
All three of his employees stared at him. Petyr knew how they felt about hiding
Sansa’s siblings from her, but they’d confessed to trust him, so he ignored
Mayana’s jab. “I don’t fear a fifteen-year-old and a wounded soldier.” He
pointed to Olyvar and his phone. “Send the texts. I want everyone here, don’t
take excuses.” He grabbed a plate of pancakes when Ros finished cooking and sat
down at the dining room table. Sansa joined him, dressed in black leggings and
an oversized sweater that hung off her shoulder. Her hair was down, an Irish
mess that Petyr would love to bury his hands in. Sansa had opted out of makeup.
If anything told Petyr how truly upset she was, it was skipping the opportunity
to dress nice when expecting company.
If Sansa was broken, however, she did not show it. She engaged in conversation
over breakfast, ate enough for Petyr's approval and smiled at Mayana’s stupid
jokes. Though quiet, she was not defeated. That alone eased him.
Sansa didn’t want to spend her day alone, so Petyr stayed near. Mayana told him
he was hovering like a mother goose, but Petyr couldn’t care less what she
thought. He asked Sansa for a song to lift her spirits. With the guitar she’d
been given for Christmas, Sansa sang about a girl with dreams to her own
acoustic accompaniment. Petyr listened selfishly. She was singing for him,
after all. When Sansa was done, she sat across his lap, and the two of them
spent hours deep in conversation wherever the topic drifted. His hands stayed
on her, on her thigh, the other playing with her gorgeous hair, and he kissed
her between discussions to keep her mind off the past. It wasn’t until Ros
entered the room and started setting up for tea that Sansa bothered to ask
about the day’s meeting. “Who are you having over? Oh, Ros, I’m sorry for not
helping. I can if you want me to.”
“No, it’s alright. You look comfortable where you are.” Petyr noticed Ros’s
lack of playfulness. They were all a bit mournful lately. “You stay right
there, where you’re happy.” Ros smiled and left the room. Sansa reached over
and snatched a cookie from the tray, taking a small bite.
Petyr brushed the crumbs off her shirt. “To answer your question, I’m inviting
everyone who needs to know that Ramsay is going to die.”
Sansa paused. She knew he was testing her, giving another lesson, so she
narrowed her eyes in thought. “Brienne? To keep police involvement out. Ramsay
is the suspect in at least two different cold cases and he killed Domeric, so…
I think she’ll help us.”
“Very good.” He curled her hair behind her ear. “Who else?”
“I don’t know.” Sansa looked off into the distance, thinking. “It seems like
the fewer people who know, the more likely we are to get away with it. Right?”
Petyr chuckled. “Whoever said anything about getting away with it? You can’t
expect Roose Bolton to get our little message if he doesn’t know that we sent
it.”
“You want him to know it was us?” Sansa asked. “But he’ll come after us, won’t
he?”
Petyr smirked, tracing her collarbone with the tip of his finger. “Yes,
sweetling. He will. But how he comes after us is important, and when. Give him
enough gossip to suspect for now, but no true evidence. He’ll resign from
Bolton Corporations, giving us time to clear out Cersei’s final supporters, and
by the time they reenter the picture together we’ll be ready to burn them to
the ground.” His eyes lifted to hers. “All of this is a part of my strategy. No
need to worry.”
Sansa shifted. Petyr watched her beautiful mind work through her doubts. “I
trust you,” she decided. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”
He slid his hand down her body until it rested on her thigh. “Everything will
go according to plan.”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” called Olyvar, rushing from the kitchen to
open the manor’s front door. Petyr stayed with Sansa next to the tea and finger
foods Ros had made, deviled eggs and biscuits and small cookies, cucumber
sandwiches with veggies and dip. Sansa bit into a baby carrot as Brienne Tarth
entered the room. Brienne eyed Petyr and Sansa on the couch, Sansa’s legs over
his lap and his hand on her thigh, but if Brienne disapproved, she made no
comment. “Littlefinger,” she acknowledged. “Miss Stark. It’s good to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” Sansa climbed off Petyr’s lap to greet the Deputy
Commissioner with a hug. Brienne and Petyr were equally shocked. Sansa was
hesitant to be physical with anyone, let alone someone she’d only known for a
handful of days, but Petyr calmed his suspicion. Brienne was trustworthy. He’d
investigated her enough to know that much.
The others were not far behind Officer Tarth. Olenna Tyrell and Tyrion
Lannister arrived as Petyr had instructed. Sansa greeted Olenna with warmth and
an embrace, and shook hands with Tyrion as they came into the sitting room.
Petyr stayed quiet as the visitors found their seats. Sansa stood awkwardly,
unsure where to go. “It’s alright,” soothed Petyr, opening his arms for her.
“This is your home. They won’t mind.”
Sansa gave in. She sat close to Petyr’s side, leaning against him and bringing
her knees to her chest. Petyr kissed her cheek to praise her.
“I didn’t come here to watch you groom an underage girl, Littlefinger.” Olenna
poured herself some tea and dropped sugar cubes in her cup, leaning back to eye
him with scrutiny. “Forgive me if I vomit all over your French rugs.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tyrell.” Sansa hugged her knees. “I didn’t mean to make you
uncomfortable.”
“Oh, you did nothing, my dear. But I would prefer it if that lecher kept his
hands to himself.” Olenna glared daggers at Littlefinger. He smirked.
“That’s not even the half of it. They’re like this all the time.” Mayana
ungraciously kicked up her feet on the coffee table’s edge. "But we won't go
into that."
“Good,” said Tyrion.
“Tell me why you called us here, Littlefinger. I’m a busy woman.” Olenna sipped
her tea. "I'll even stop shaming you if it means you'll talk."
Petyr opened his mouth to speak. He was cut off by an excited, puzzling gasp
from Sansa. “Wait! Did Shae have the baby?” she asked. Petyr had never seen her
so animated before. “What did you name her?”
Tyrion brightened at the mention of his daughter. “Florence. Yes, she was born
two days ago.”
“Aw, I love that. Florence Lannister, how elegant.” Sansa smiled. “Tell Shae
congratulations for me. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful father.”
Tyrion seemed shocked by her compliment. He tapped his stunted fingers along
the side of his teacup, hiding how pleased she’d made him. “Thank you, Sansa.
That means more than you know.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sansa turned to Petyr. He tried to study her face, read her for some sign of
intention. He felt her hand on his knee. A request. Let me do this. He moved
her hair over her shoulder, brushed her cheek, and nodded.
“Ramsay has been threatening us.” Sansa faced the group. “Specifically, me.”
Olyvar snorted. “That is a very drastic understatement.”
“Can you tell us what he’s been saying?” asked Brienne.
“He said he’d steal me back.” Sansa swallowed. Petyr didn’t want to hear her
repeat Ramsay's violence, but neither would he interrupt her. This was a
pivotal moment for Sansa. One she may need more than he realized. “He said he’d
feed Littlefinger to his dogs. Burn the house down. Let his friends have turns
with me until I begged mercy.” Sansa leaned across Petyr and took her phone
from the end table, standing to show the messages to Brienne. “And he… he sent
a video of him raping me.”
Brienne was appalled. “He what?”
“It was a recording. I didn't know he ever filmed me…” Her sigh shook. Petyr
wanted Sansa to be near, but he stayed quiet on her behalf. “It’s from a later
attack. I stopped fighting him after a while. It could be argued as consensual
in court, but I promise it wasn’t. It never was.”
Tyrion and Olenna looked ill. Even Petyr, a man who’d seen and heard worse,
felt a touch of disgust. “How long has this been going on?” asked Olenna.
“Since the ball. He threatened me there, too.”
Tyrion scoffed. “He's a lunatic. I’m sorry he’s been doing this to you, Sansa.
You deserve some peace of mind.”
“I won’t get it,” she asserted. “Not while he’s still around.”
“Technically this violates his restraining order.” Brienne held up the phone.
“I could have him arrested and charged with harassment. It’s not what you might
hope for, but it would stop this, if only for a time.”
“No. It wouldn’t.”
Petyr felt oddly silent. In truth, he had nothing to say; it was clear Sansa
had this entire meeting planned and arranged in her mind, and he was glad
of it, despite feeling slighted of the upper hand. He drank his tea and
observed.
“What do you mean?” Tyrion asked. “If Ramsay is apprehended, he won’t be able
to come after you.”
“You don’t understand,” pressed Sansa. “He would find a way.
Ramsay always finds a way.” She wrung her hands. “No one knows him better than
I do. He has to be stopped.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Olenna condemned Petyr
with a stare. “Telling Sansa to pitch your moves is clever, Littlefinger, but I
won’t fall for it.”
“No, it’s not him. It's me.” Sansa moved from her seat by Brienne. She stood
tall and talked with her hands, shoulders back. “This is my choice. I’m not a
child. I’ve been through too much to still have that title. I’ll kill Ramsay
because I have to, whether I have your support or not.”
A dangerous gamble, thought Petyr. It was safer to bet on people you know
versus the people you don’t, and Sansa did not know these individuals
intimately. But she had a story, a purpose that would tug at their good hearts.
Petyr watched her bite her lip, toes together, frowning. Show your innocence to
sell it. Good girl.
“I never thought being a police officer would involve so much scandal,” said
Brienne. There was a long moment of pause. “I will help you, Sansa. But only
because Ramsay is a monstrous man, and I know he’ll keep hurting people if he
isn’t stopped.”
“Thank you.” Sansa smiled. She looked to Tyrion.
“I’m not sure what I can do to help,” said Tyrion. “I’m the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. My job is money. I have nothing to do with law enforcement.”
“But you can make a money trail,” said Sansa, folding her hands. “If
Littlefinger gives you enough, you can wire it to certain places and change
transaction dates. That'll make Brienne’s fake story more believable.”
Tyrion sighed. “Sansa. As much as I admire your spirit, I don’t—”
“Please, Mr. Lannister.” Sansa asserted herself. “You said you wanted to keep
me safe at the Christmas party. I said no because I didn’t trust you, but now I
need your help. I have to get rid of Ramsay. I have to protect the girls he’s
hurt, including myself.”
Petyr watched Tyrion and Olenna have a wordless conversation. Neither one
wanted to deny Ned Stark’s daughter. Neither of them could.
“Tyrion will help,” said Olenna. “He knows better than to refuse. But I’m not
sure how I will be able to help you, my dear. Care to let me in on your little
plan?”
“You’re the Foreign Secretary,” said Sansa, not missing a beat. “A German
assassin was hired to kill Queen Cersei’s bodyguards. You're going to tell
Roose Bolton that while investigating the Harrold Hardyng case, you came across
a sex trafficking ring that leads back to him and Walder Frey.
Roose was involved in that. They were using the basement to hide the girls.”
“How do you know this?” asked Tyrion. “Did you see it?”
“No. But Ramsay talked about them.” Sansa frowned. “I thought he was just
trying to scare me until I heard about Walder Frey on the news. Harry wasn’t
actually connected, but Roose doesn’t know that. As Foreign Secretary, you can
tell him to step down from his position as CEO unless he wants to be
investigated. You could probably pin Mr. Hardyng’s hire on him too. Say that he
wanted some of Cersei's people dead because they were customers who bought what
Walder was selling. Loose ends and all that.” Sansa motioned to the dwarf.
“Tyrion will provide a fake bank statement so Queen Cersei will believe that
the Boltons hired Mr. Hardyng. Brienne will cover up the evidence of
Ramsay’s true death to make it look like he committed suicide. Or… something.”
She picked her nails. “I, uh. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
Oh, what a proud man Petyr was. He wished he could fuck her right there on the
table, take her by the hips and thrust into her until she forgot her name. She
was perfect. A woman bloomed, a rose with thorns. Thorns that would soon draw
blood.
“It looks as though Littlefinger has quite the apprentice,” said Olenna,
impressed. “But you’re right. Ramsay Bolton is a danger. He’s been a pain in
our arses for far too long. I say, good riddance.”
“As do I,” Tyrion agreed.
Mayana clapped her hands together, as if in prayer. Olyvar and Ros shared sighs
of relief.
“It’s settled, then.” Petyr stood. “Mayana and a colleague of mine will take
the Bolton boy tonight. Tomorrow, he will be dead.”
“Try not to be obvious. I’d rather not get caught up in all this.” Olenna set
down her tea and walked to Sansa, gently holding her upper arms. Sansa
straightened her back. “You are a very intelligent young lady, Miss Stark. I
expect great things from you.”
“Thank you,” Sansa replied with a smile. “That means a lot to me.”
The final details were discussed over lunch. Petyr kept a constant eye on
Sansa, on her feelings, her fears, but they seemed to have fled. She was
bolstered by the support she’d earned. And while Petyr took partial credit for
her newfound strength, he wondered how much of it had always been there to
begin with.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Mint cigarette smoke filled the air around him. Petyr leaned against the wall
of his bedroom balcony, overlooking frost-covered gardens under a moonlit sky.
A thick wool robe and pajamas kept him warm. Tobacco, solitude and fresh air
would be a recipe for peace, were it not for the company. Ros and Olyvar sat in
a pair of patio chairs by the door. Petyr flicked the ashes from his cigarette
and watched them shuffle cards, pondering a question until Ros broke the
silence.
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
Petyr sighed. “You’ve already said that.”
“It’s not just bad, it’s ridiculous. Killing Ramsay so soon is going to give
Roose more reason to come after you. After Sansa. He didn’t let her father
stand in his way, why would he let you?”
“I am not Ned Stark.” Petyr drew from his cigarette and blew out. “He didn’t
know how to play the game. He walked blindly into politics and business, but I
never have.”
“That was before you met Sansa.”
Olyvar widened his eyes at Ros, trying to convince her to be quiet, but she
didn’t back down. “By all means,” said Petyr coldly. “Explain.”
“I didn’t mean that in a negative way, Petyr. I just. You know.” She motioned
aimlessly. “You’ve never had a weakness before. The Lannisters know that, Roose
knows that.”
“They don’t know half as much as they think they do. Let them believe what they
want, it doesn’t change anything.”
“Sansa is your weakness, though,” said Ros. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m happy
you’ve found someone. But I’d hate to see you lose her, Petyr, and it’s a
possibility if you keep chasing these people.”
Of course it was a possibility. Petyr had known that from the start. “Sansa is
not a weakness,” he lied. “She is the sharpest weapon in my arsenal. An asset.”
“Oh, please. You didn’t send Mayana and Lothor out to kidnap the man who hurt
your asset.”
Petyr strangled his discomfort with Littlefinger’s realism. “You think you know
me?” he asked with an edge. “Sansa is a pleasure to have in my bed and I enjoy
my time with her, but she is a means to an end. I said I would help her. When
all this is over, things will change.”
Ros rolled her eyes and snorted. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve seen denial this
bad.”
“Tell me about it,” quipped Olyvar.
“I mean, really? It’s not like she bought you a pin that you wear all the time.
Or made you dinner on your birthday. She gave you her virginity and lets you
be outrageously handsy; I’d slap you if I were her. She talks and laughs with
you even though you’re not that funny, she even bloody sang to you.” Ros’s
voice fell to one of concern. “I don’t know what else you’re waiting for.”
Petyr worked his jaw. They’d never worried so much about his emotions before,
and he didn’t want that to change. “Leave it alone,” he spat. “If she decides
to stay indefinitely, she will work for me as you do. That will be that.”
“Friends with benefits?” asked Olyvar. Petyr crushed his cigarette in an
ashtray. “Come on. We know you. You’re not going to just let her go.”
“Get off my balcony,” ordered Petyr. “Both of you.”
Ros huffed. She helped Olyvar gather the cards. “Let’s play downstairs, love.
He won't listen to us.”
Petyr lit another cigarette and enjoyed peace and quiet under the moonlight.
Solitude was a rare treasure, so rare that he wondered why he ever let people
live with him in the first place. Petyr rested his head against the wall,
closed his eyes, and breathed.
The door opened. “I told you to get off my balcony,” shot Petyr, but when he
moved to scold Ros, he saw only Sansa. Blue eyes blinked at him and her hair
was wild. She’d just woken up. “Sansa.” His tone softened. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” She smiled a little, half-yawning. “I fell asleep on the couch
downstairs. Ros and Olyvar woke me up, and…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It's
comfortable here, I don’t like sleeping alone anymore.”
“Then don’t.” Petyr snuffed out his cigarette and stepped into the room, kept
warm by the fireplace, and closed the french doors behind him. “Move in here.
There’s space for your belongings.” He placed his finger under her chin,
lifting her eyes. “I’d welcome the company.”
Sansa chuckled. “Of course you would.” She slowly pulled at the tie on his
robe. He hadn’t forgotten what she wanted. “Do you really mean that? You’d let
me stay here, with you?”
“Why not? I enjoy you. You know that.” Petyr shrugged off his robe and tossed
it over the nearest chair. His hands found purchase on her hips and pulled her
close. “There’s no reason to keep someone I like so much across the hall.”
Her smile was a blessing to him. Sansa rested her hands on Petyr’s chest and
bit her lower lip. The sight was arousing. “Could I have the left side of the
bed?” she asked. “I always sleep farthest from the door. If that's okay with
you.”
“You can have whatever you want.”
Petyr cradled the back of her neck and kissed her, his tongue pushing between
her lips. The heat between them quickly swelled. His free hand pulled the strap
of her tank top down her shoulder, exposing her breast, and he caressed her in
slow circles, gently squeezing. Petyr could feel the trembling breath in her
mouth, the goosebumps raise on her arms when she shuddered. The power he held
over Sansa was intoxicating. She hummed and moved her head to the side to allow
his mouth passage down her neck. He took her skin between his teeth, sucking
and nibbling beneath her jawline, pressing a kiss to her ear. His voice was a
growl. “Here’s what’s going to happen, sweetling.” Another kiss. “You’re going
to lay down on our bed.” Another. “I’m going to call Mayana and see where she
and Lothor are.” Another. “I’ll ask her how her day was, and by the time she’s
done with her reply, I'll have you coming so hard you forget your sweet name.”
He pulled away. Sansa's eyes were wide, her chest heaving with deepened breath.
She nodded and pressed her mouth to his.
Sansa was delectable. So young, so perfect. Her lips moved effortlessly against
his. Petyr pushed her back on the mattress when they were close enough and
hovered over her, nipping at her neck and drinking down her sighs. Her
pleasured tones weakened his knees. He kissed her breasts after stripping them
bare, sucking at the peaks until they were swollen and Sansa was squirming with
delight. Her moans sent shockwaves straight to his groin. He slipped his hand
between her thighs and smiled when he felt how much she wanted him, copper
curls and a pool of slick heat he ached to taste. “Look at you,” he praised,
watching how her eyelids fluttered from his touch. “Such a desperate thing. Do
you want me inside you, Sansa?”
She giggled. Petyr knew he’d embarrassed her, but her blush was too endearing
to resist. Sansa pushed down her pajamas and tossed them off her ankles. He
spread her legs apart and glided his hand down her inner thigh, and when he
circled the nub at the top of her sex, Sansa held back a cry. She tentatively
lifted her head to kiss him. Petyr indulged her, licking her lips and brushing
tongues, sliding his fingertips over her entrance and stroking her. He propped
up on his knees and retrieved his phone from his pocket, his other hand still
teasing her. He knew Sansa was ready for him, but Petyr had to fulfill his
promise first.
He dialed Mayana’s number on speaker phone.
“Hey, Pete!” came Mayana’s cheery voice. “I was wondering when you’d call. We
just pulled up to the stakeout point.”
“Good job.” Petyr cocked his head to the side, watching Sansa’s uncertain
expression until he slipped two fingers between her folds. Inside, she was all
warmth and wonder and Petyr ground his teeth, pulsing with need. Sansa covered
her mouth to stop from moaning aloud. Mayana, as usual, had no idea. “Do you
see him yet?” asked Petyr, pulling out his fingers enough to push back in with
a harder thrust. Sansa covered her mouth even tighter. “I want it done.”
“Nah, not yet. Lothor says he’ll probably be here in about five or ten minutes.
We’re just waiting.”
“Fair enough.” Petyr pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sansa’s ear and grinned as
she writhed beneath him, her hands snaking in his hair. “Tell me about your
day, Mayana. While we wait.”
“Oh, sure.” He heard her shuffle in the passenger’s seat, getting
comfortable. “Well, you saw me this morning. I was super tired though, I had a
terrible night’s sleep and…”
Petyr looked at Sansa, still inside her. “You’d better be ready for me,” he
whispered.
“I am.”
Petyr kissed her neck over the marks he’d already made, leaving a damp trail
from his tongue when he pressed kiss after kiss down her torso. Mayana kept
blabbing on the other end of the phone while Petyr studied Sansa’s shy little
smile that made him ache to fill her. He kissed down and down until he reached
the source of her pleasure, the scent of her driving him mad, and he swiped his
tongue where she wanted him.
Sansa clutched her mouth shut. Petyr licked her pleasure point at a growing
pace, so drunk on her arousal that he didn’t stop her from reaching over and
muting his phone. When she was sure Mayana couldn’t hear them, Sansa moaned.
The sound vibrated through him and set his mouth to a quickening pace, tasting
her sweetness and lapping at the ball of nerves that would send her reeling.
His fingers sped to a fast-paced thrust inside her and Sansa cried out, hands
in his hair, and he watched her expression change to reflect what he was making
her feel. Lips parted in gasps, eyes closed, brow creased. Petyr slid his free
hand over her rib cage to reach for a breast, rolling her nipple between thumb
and forefinger. She grabbed his hand and held tight to his hair. Petyr could
feel her getting close before a minute had passed. Her thighs tensed and her
breath sputtered in exasperation, teetering on the edge of ecstasy. He groaned
against her flesh and kept his pace. The taste of her was all over his tongue
and he was hard as rock, desperate to fuck her, kiss her, take her. Petyr
curved his fingers to work her deepest spot, and with his tongue flicking her
sex, Sansa came with a spasm that shook her to the core. Petyr watched her back
arch, her expression lax, how she moaned and mewled and trembled under him.
When the high had fallen, Petyr sucked her arousal from his fingers and came up
to kiss her hard. Sansa held him there. He was happy to stay, chuckling and
vulgarly praising her obedience until Mayana’s voice spoke loudly from the
phone.
“Pete? You still there?”
Petyr gave Sansa another kiss before he reached for the phone and unmuted it.
“Yes. Apologies, Mayana. I was hungry.”
Sansa smacked him playfully on the chest.
“Oh, that’s fine. But yeah. It’s been pretty lame. What about you?”
“Wonderful. Just wonderful.” Petyr glided his fingertips up and down Sansa’s
impeccable body, laying on his side, watching the movement. “Sansa sang another
song for me.”
“Stop,” Sansa whispered, but her expression was all amusement.
“Aww. That’s cute. What did she sing?”
Petyr raised his brow at her. “Well, sweetling? What did you sing?”
Sansa giggled. “I can’t remember the name.”
“Oh! I didn’t know you were there too. Hey girl.”
“Hi Mayana.” Sansa slowly pushed Petyr on his back. He smirked, desire
thrumming through his veins when she straddled his lap, naked and perfect, red
hair spilling over her shoulders. “And Lothor, too.”
“Mm,” said the man.
“How much longer until this bastard shows up, Pete? I don’t wanna wait here all
night.”
“If it comes to that, you will.” Petyr caressed Sansa’s breast in one hand,
unable to resist, while the other summoned her down to him with a wag of his
finger. “Have you seen him at all?”
“Not since he left the house an hour ago. Do you think we’re in the wrong
place?”
“No. You’re right where you need to be.” Petyr moved Sansa’s hair over her
shoulder when she leaned forward, and he kissed her slow. He slid his hands up
her back and tangled them in her hair.
“I — oh my god. Are y'all doin' shit right now? I swear to god Pete, if you’re
being an actual freak I’m gonna—”
Sansa broke their kiss to laugh. Petyr loved the sound. “We just kissed, that’s
all.” He groaned quietly when he felt her fingers toy with the seam of his
trousers, slipping beneath to brush the head of his length.
“Uh-uh. I’m not havin’ it.” Petyr heard a bag crinkle and crack, followed by
the crunch of crisps. He ignored it as Sansa kissed him again. “I swear to
Jesus I will hang up this phone.”
“Hey,” said Lothor. “I told you not to eat in the car. Mya will flip if she
finds crumbs, she just cleaned it.”
“Psh. Let her bitch. I’m hungry and Pete mentioned food, and…”
She trailed off. Sansa stopped her kiss, as though she knew what was happening
before Mayana spoke. “I see him. Just pulled up to the trail in his dad’s car.”
“Who’s with him?” asked Petyr.
“His psycho girlfriend and their victim. It’s messy, but I think the girl’s
still alive.”
Sansa met Petyr’s eyes, afraid. He cupped her cheek to soothe her. “Are they
getting out of the car?”
“Yep.”
“Take him. Kill his whore and make it look like a lover’s quarrel. Save the
innocent one, but make her swear not to tell the police. Pay her family if you
have to.”
“Okay.”
“Bring him to the cabin. Sansa and I will take care of it from there.” Petyr
slid his hand down Sansa’s neck to the valley between pert breasts, twirling
his fingers in her fiery hair. Sansa’s eyes were worried, but so too were they
prepared beyond anything of his own doing. She was ready.
Petyr didn’t wait for a response. He hung up the phone and flipped Sansa on her
back. She made some sound between a laugh and a whimper, pulling his shirt over
his head as he pulled his cock from his trousers, and he pressed into her with
a low groan. Buried deep, Sansa’s body hugged him tight. He thrust into her
until she was crying out for him, for God, trembling from another orgasm that
squeezed him inside, nails digging into his back, and Petyr grabbed her hair to
make her look at him. Blue eyes were all he saw before he succumbed. Her name
fell from his lips in a shuddered sigh, “Sansa,” as he spilled inside her. He
kissed her tenderly in the center of her forehead, a sign of praise for how
strong and irrefutable she’d become.
“Tomorrow,” he told her.
“Tomorrow,” she repeated.
Chapter End Notes
     the things i do for y'all im tellin' ya (it's 4am but here i am,
     making edits, doin changes)
     can you believe i once had a life
     Okay so 1) petyr baelish is the GROSSEST human on the planet good
     lord 2) when writing him being touchy and weird i get so annoyed like
     honestly why did i choose to love him 3) is anyone more obsessed with
     anything the way he is with sansa?? i think not. find one for me i'll
     pay ya $10 (just kidding im way too poor but i'll give u ten
     imaginary $$$ how's that)
     im so tired
     ANYWAY this chapter is Sinful and next chapter is Sinful and petyr is
     gross and sansa is strong blah blah the basics
     if i go to sleep RIGHT THIS INSTANT and wake up at noon to update
     that's 8 hours of sleep (is that enough? who knows im half-dead)
     anyway i love u and your comments give me life and i can't WAIT until
     next week because y'all gonna flip (i know i say that a lot but chap
     16 is like, the most important chapter i've written thus far so
     listen it's good shit)
     hopefully i didn't screw up my edits im exhausted adlkja;lkgda if
     there are typos or this chapter sucks pls forgive i am a walking
     stress bean
     here is a picture of me, tumblr user liittlefinger and ao3 user
     moffnat, at the current time circa 2016
     [https://i.gyazo.com/f923bb2e8392484088a80c228a9412ba.png]
     night y'all
***** Epiphany *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
        [take_charge_of_your_life;_ramin_djawadi] ◆ [evidence;_marilyn
                     manson] ◆ [wrong;_max,_lil_uzi_vert]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                6 JANUARY, 2017
They drove for hours. Sansa slept most of the way, hers and Petyr’s hands laced
together in her lap. She leaned her head against the window and fell into a
lucid half-sleep, avoiding thoughts of where they were going and what they were
about to do. Calm before the storm, urged her conscience. Don’t face it 'till
it’s here.
Petyr owned a cabin in the Welsh countryside. According to Olyvar, it was less
a retreat and more a key location for hidden crime. A small A-frame lodge
rested at the top of a hill, cozy and unsuspicious, but a steel door on the
property led to an old bomb shelter underground. Ramsay was being held
there. He’s waiting for me, Sansa feared, but she knew that was misguided. All
Ramsay waited for was the death she’d come to deliver.
“Sansa,” said Petyr, squeezing her hand. Her eyes fluttered open from dull
slumber. The car had stopped moving. “We’re here.”
She didn’t see a cabin. Only evergreens, the steel door, and a wooden staircase
leading west up the hill. Night had fallen and a light snow sprinkled the
windshield. Petyr let go of her hand and shut off the engine, keeping the
headlights on to see their surroundings. He exited the car. Sansa watched him
toy with an electrical box attached to a light post, and after a minute, the
path to the cabin was illuminated.
Sansa got out of the car. Gravel crunched beneath her boots and she hugged
herself, a fur-lined coat doing little to stop winter’s chill. The smell of the
forest brought solace to her, spruce and pine and juniper and oak. Rushing
water from a ravine echoed to the sky. It was tranquil here, so far from London
and the chaos she’d come to know. Far from the problems that would be waiting
upon her return.
Sansa approached the bunker door. She knew what was inside, who was inside, but
she wasn’t yet ready to enter. Something held her back. She stared blankly
forward.
“You can go up to the cabin if you’d like,” said Petyr, standing at her side.
The absence of his touch made her uneasy. “You don’t need to dirty your hands.”
Sansa wasn’t fooled. Petyr wanted her to take part, he’d encouraged as much,
but she knew there was one thing he wanted more: to kill Ramsay himself. She
looked to him in dismay. “I’m nervous.”
He studied her sidelong. The headlights from the car brought his features to a
forefront, the wrinkles near grey-green eyes, silver streaks of hair, the
smoothness of his cheek. Petyr held her face in his cold hands. “There’s no
justice in the world. Not unless we make it.” His thumbs brushed her skin, and
Sansa managed a thin smile. “You loved your body and he took that from you. You
loved your home, your parents, your family, all of which he burned to ash.” He
leaned in and pressed his lips to her ear. His voice surged through her like
lightning. “Avenge them.”
Her fingers curled into the front of his coat. Sansa let Petyr hold her until
she felt confident enough to continue, and when she pulled back, her shoulders
were settled firmly. Even if her heart wasn’t. “I’ll take our things to the
cabin,” said Petyr. “Then we will end this together.”
Sansa nodded. Petyr pressed a long kiss to her temple, and then he was gone,
taking their bags up the stairway.
You can do this, Sansa told herself when she faced the door again. The voice in
her head was Robb’s, somehow. You’re not fragile anymore. You’re steel, you
will cut him down.
With a deep breath, Sansa entered the bunker.
She walked down the steps. The room was swallowed in darkness. Sansa felt the
wall for a light switch, flipping it on. Ceiling lamps flickered to life.
Concrete walls were lined with shelves, two sinks, beakers and chemicals and
cleaning supplies. The smell of bleach was overwhelming.
The door opened behind her. Petyr came down the stairs, but Sansa’s focus was
fixed on Ramsay.
Her nightmare was tied with rope to a chair in the center of the room. Covered
in filth, head hanging. Ramsay lifted his gaze to her. Neither of them spoke.
Sansa shuddered, still afraid to be around him even knowing he couldn’t harm
her, but what if he does? The question lingered. Sansa suffocated those fears
with the woman she’d become.
“Sansa,” groaned Ramsay. His bloody mouth twisted in a smile. “Hello, Sansa.”
Petyr placed his hand on her shoulder. She held his fingers tight. “I am at
your disposal,” he whispered. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
Sansa’s eyes never left Ramsay’s, paralyzed under his stare. But it wasn’t
terror that kept her frozen. Only uncertainty, and the break in her morals that
allowed her to be here at all.
Petyr removed his coat and rolled up his cotton sleeves. Ramsay watched him.
“And Littlefinger, of course. What a pleasant surprise. I must
be very important.”
Petyr didn’t respond. He looked to Sansa, a near-sickening hint of amusement in
his eyes. She didn’t remove her coat — Ramsay had seen enough of her — and took
a folding chair from where it leaned against the wall. Her mask slipped on. She
sat down in front of her rapist and coldly observed him. Ramsay’s face was
beaten and bruised, crusted dirt and blood smeared over his skin. She crossed
one leg over the other and met his piercing gaze with the shield of her own.
When Sansa refused to cower, Ramsay chuckled. “You always were a fighter.”
“I always will be.”
Ramsay leaned back in his chair. Sansa didn’t pay mind to what he was thinking,
what he was doing to her in his head. She had his life in her hands. There was
little he could do, and his greed for her was harmless compared to what had
already been done. “You look ravishing,” he said. “Seeing you almost makes me
feel better.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Why not? Are you going to kill me, Sansa?”
Silence was her answer.
“You can’t kill me. I’m part of you, inside you.” Ramsay’s smile was twisted.
“All those lovely nights we spent together. There’s nothing you can do to
change them.”
“You’re not a part of me,” said Sansa. “If anything, you’re a symbol of all
I’ve overcome.”
Ramsay averted his eyes, a wry grin still present. The situation was humorous
to him, but Sansa knew him well enough to see past his defense.
“You’re finally going to be a killer,” said Ramsay. “How is your god going to
like that?”
Sansa folded her hands. “There are three instances where taking a life doesn’t
invoke God’s wrath. Self-defense, judicial execution or times of war. You fit
two of those.”
“I’ve been a very busy man.”
“Joke all you want. My truth is stronger than yours.”
He leaned forward menacingly. “Not strong enough to keep me out of your cunt.”
Sansa winced. She forced herself to realize the power she possessed, standing
at a crossroad where every direction led to the same gruesome end. All she had
to do was choose a path. She kept her back straight and addressed Petyr. “Do
you have gloves?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You should put them on.”
Petyr nodded and did as she asked.
Sansa rose from the chair. Ramsay sneered in a too-familiar way, so close to
past memory that her stomach turned. “Do you know how hard I’ve tried to get
rid of you? For weeks after I left, all I did was cry. I felt broken. Dirty,
untouchable.”
“Oh, you are very touchable,” said Ramsay. Sansa looked to Petyr. He took her
hint, clenching his fist and slamming covered knuckles against Ramsay’s jaw.
The hit sent him reeling.
“I had so many nightmares,” she continued. “You kept your hold on me and I
didn’t know how to fight it. I spent so long wondering if I could ever heal.”
Ramsay laughed, sudden and sharp. “I broke you. Oh, Sansa, you always know how
to make me happy.”
Petyr punched him again, spattering blood on the floor. Ramsay spit out one of
his teeth.
“But I moved on,” Sansa proclaimed, chest full of fire. “I fought for myself. I
survived, and a day will come when I never think of you again.”
“I own you,” Ramsay insisted. His speech was jutting and harsh, stronger than
it should be. “You can never undo what I did. I fucked you. You’ll always
remember the way you screamed and—”
Petyr yanked Ramsay’s hair and struck him so hard that Sansa heard bone crack.
“Don’t!” she urged, holding back his arm. “Please, Petyr, please don’t. He’s
just trying to upset me.”
“It’s not something I care to hear.”
Ramsay laughed, spitting blood at his feet. “Petyr? Are you joking? That’s your
real name?”
Sansa tightened her grip on her lover’s arm.
“Petyr, Petyr, it rhymes with beat her.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Sansa. “Please.”
“It’s alright. I’ve heard worse.” But there was danger in Petyr’s tone, an
unprecedented darkness that Sansa dared not test. She didn’t want him to turn
hateful, nor did she want Ramsay to think her control was slipping away. Sansa
reached into the back of Petyr’s jeans and pulled the Ruger from his waistband.
She walked to the cabinets. A drawer labeled “Tools” held a silencer, and Sansa
quickly attached it to the gun. Ramsay went on about the many ways he’d abused
her, from the raping to the beating to everything else, but Sansa let his words
evaporate like mist. She would not listen.
When she was done, Sansa stood before Ramsay and aimed.
Her father’s words came back to her. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it
to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. Sansa bit back a
sob. “Why?” she shouted. “You could’ve manipulated me by being kind. I could’ve
slept with you willingly, I could’ve signed you into my father’s fortune
without all this pain.” Her hands began to shake with their grip on the gun.
“Why did you hurt me?”
Ramsay’s eyes were wild. He leaned forward. “Because I could.”
Petyr stood by Sansa, one hand on her waist, his mouth at her ear. “Steady, my
love.” She squared her shoulders. She scanned Ramsay’s body for his vital
organs, and fired three times.
Ramsay’s smile fell. Blood spilled from his chest cavity and wept to the floor.
His head fell back. Sansa waited until she was sure he was dead, lowering the
gun only after he stopped breathing.
The task was done. Sansa felt no different than she had before, no stronger or
weaker, no better or worse. But she felt weightless. Of that, there was no
denying.
Petyr stepped in front of her. He gently took the gun from her hands and lifted
her chin to meet his gaze. She felt the blood from his gloves touch her face.
“You did well,” he praised, their mouths inches apart. “Take the cabin keys. I
will finish the rest.”
Sansa took the keys from his pocket, her hands still shaking. Petyr held them
with care. Ramsay’s blood stained her skin. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” She squeezed his hands, taking a breath to settle herself. “It’s done.
He’s gone.”
Petyr nodded. “Forever.” He kissed her forehead like a father, but his lips
lingered like the lover he was. Petyr moved away. Sansa, feeling she’d done all
she could, climbed the stairs and left the bunker without looking back.
The night had grown colder. Sansa shivered and held herself. There was peace
among the smell of the forest and fresh snow, the frost-coated grass, the rush
of water down a rolling Welsh countryside. She was alone, but she did not feel
alone. She dared to think God was with her. She touched the Magen David around
her neck and closed her eyes. Forgive me. He’d hurt other women, he’d hurt me,
I had to.
But there was no need to explain. Snowfall grew heavier and fell on her cheeks
like a kiss. Sansa felt forgiven.
She trudged up the hillside stair. The A-frame cabin looked nothing more than a
large wooden triangle on a hill, but Sansa thought it charming. She found the
right key and unlocked the door. A wall of heat from the fireplace met her
face, and Sansa quickly closed the door so it couldn’t escape. The ceiling was
paneled in oak wood. A small dining room sat to Sansa’s right, a couch and
telly to her left, a modest kitchen, a hallway to the bathroom. Stairs at the
back led up to the loft that overlooked the quaint interior. It was strangely
welcoming for a place of death and scandal. How appropriate, for this family
she'd found.
Sansa shed her winter coat and hung it up by the door, and climbed up to the
loft. As promised, her bag of clothes for the weekend was sitting on the bed,
next to Petyr's. She retrieved her mother’s rosary from a small zipped pouch
and got on her knees to pray. Not because she felt damned or sinful, but
because it was all she knew, and she wanted to make sure God was still
listening. Sansa prayed for the souls of her family. Even Arya and Jon,
accepting their likely deaths, and for Theon, whom she hoped she could save.
She prayed for her new family, too. Ros and Olyvar and Mayana and Petyr. And
when she was done, her soul felt cleansed.
Sansa grabbed a pair of pajamas and went down to the bathroom. The shower was
massive and modern, and the door was made of glass, no curtain. She placed her
clothes on the counter and stripped down. Sansa looked at herself in the
mirror. Small traces of Ramsay’s blood still lingered on her hands and chin
where Petyr had touched her, but there were no bruises, no marks. She grinned
at the hickeys on her neck. Except these.Sansa was beginning to learn the
difference between marks made with pain and those earned by choice, and what a
thrilling distinction it was.
Sansa opened the shower door. There were two knobs, one for directional water
and the other for a rainshower. She turned the second. Water fell from the
nozzle in the ceiling, and Sansa held out her hands in wonderment when she
stood beneath it. The water was the perfect heat, not scalding but certainly
warm enough. Sansa smoothed her hair, letting water run down her naked skin.
She began to sing. She rubbed the blood from her hands and face, listening to
her own voice until her song was done.
Sansa stepped out of the water to find soap. A figure caught her eye.
Petyr stood in the middle of the bathroom, covered in Ramsay’s blood, watching
her.
Sansa froze. She didn’t dare move, not when he looked at her like that, like a
predator ready to pounce. She was familiar with that stare. Petyr had shown it
to her many times, and whenever he did, it always ended the same way.
He pulled off his shirt. His upper body was pale skin and black hair and scars
and red. Petyr unbuckled his jeans. Arousal made her shiver at the thought of
what he was going to do and how hard he was going to do it. Undressed, Petyr
opened the shower door and stepped in to join her.
“You’re filthy,” she whispered.
Petyr looked down at himself. “A mess, I agree.” He moved toward her and
touched either side of her neck, bodies close, hearts pounding. “What am I to
do about that?”
Sansa touched his chest. It was strange to think that the blood had come from
Ramsay, a man who’d tortured her, and it covered the very person Sansa had
trusted in the aftermath. What a mess we’ve made together. “I guess I’ll have
to share the soap.”
Petyr smirked. He kissed her hard.
Sansa’s skin grew hot as their kiss ignited, lips parting for his tongue to
invade. Petyr moved them under the raining shower. Ramsay’s blood ran down his
body and slithered fast to the drain, as though passion had purified them of
what they’d done. Sansa tasted the mint in his mouth, the sweat on his
mustache, the shower water dripping between kisses. She felt him harden against
her stomach and he gripped her hips so tight that it pained her, but she closed
the distance even still, no longer a stranger to depravity. The shower floor
ran red. Tiles stained crimson. A younger Sansa would be ashamed of this aching
need, trapped in the mouth of an unholy man who’d convinced her to kill, but
she’d grown far beyond naïveté. She was powerful. She was her own. And she’d
made the choice to be his.
With a groan, Petyr pushed Sansa against the cold wall, spreading her legs and
lifting her, arms hooked under her knees. She gasped and held him. There was
wickedness in the control he exercised, made worse by his growl when he reached
between her legs to ensure she was ready, but Sansa knew which control to
desire and which to fear. Petyr had a touch of both.
When he slid inside her, Sansa whimpered in his ear.
Petyr cursed. Vulgarity was followed by praise, exalting Sansa for her bravery,
her resilience, her beauty, all to the rhythm of piercing thrusts. Sansa clung
to his shoulders, the back of his head, and Petyr rammed into her with an
animosity she’d yet to see. She pulled away enough to kiss him. Tame him. It
only stoked his lust. He took her lower lip between his teeth and kissed down
her neck, biting her without grace, but the way he gripped her ass and pounded
into her made Sansa’s world collapse, and she didn’t care how rough he was, so
long as he didn’t stop. The sound of rushing water was all she knew, his grunts
and groans and Sansa’s echoing cries, begging him to keep going. The angle
brought pressure right where she needed it. Over, over, and over again. Her
body tightened up like a coil until she found release in his arms, a shuddering
wave that nearly choked her, and Petyr followed directly after, moaning her
name and jutting inside her until he was too spent to continue.
Sansa fought to catch her breath. Petyr kissed her cheek, her nose, her temple,
and Sansa smiled when their lips met. He moved lazily inside her. “You are such
a brave girl,” he praised. “You’re perfect.”
He set Sansa down on her feet, but her legs were wobbly from climax and she
could barely keep standing. Petyr smirked when she clung to him to stay
upright. “Obviously not perfect,” she joked.
Petyr guided her to the shower bench and helped her sit down. He said nothing
as he grabbed a bottle of pomegranate-scented soap and squeezed some onto his
hands, kneeling in front of Sansa to wash her. He rubbed soap over one leg at a
time, her knees, her shins, between her toes, all while she resisted laughter
at how it tickled. He spread his hands over her thighs and up her torso,
caressing her breasts and kissing her neck, unable to get enough of her, making
her hum and squirm with delight. His hands are so nice, she thought as she
watched them. Soft and gentle and wrinkled with age, veins along the backs of
his palms. He massaged her shoulders and ears, gliding soapy hands down her
arms, cleansing every bit of her in a ritualistic way. Sansa knew what Petyr’s
worship meant. His care to cleanse her body was just another symptom of their
mutual sin.
“Why the gun?” Petyr asked.
“Mm?” Sansa lifted her head from the wall, so lost in his touch that she hadn’t
heard him.
“The gun. Out of all the weapons at your disposal, you picked mine.” He stood
and offered his hand to help her to her feet. “Why?”
Sansa accepted his help. Petyr twisted the other knob, changing the water’s
source from the ceiling to the wall, and Sansa rinsed off. “I don’t know,” she
decided. “You were right there. You taught me how to use a gun and it’s
quicker, so…” Sansa found Petyr’s body wash and lathered some on her hands. She
moved behind him to massage his shoulders, and his muscles lost tension
instantly. “I didn’t want to feel him die.”
“How noble of you.”
“I wouldn’t call it noble. I just didn’t want to be cruel, or waste more of my
time on him.” She shrugged. “He can’t hurt anyone now, though. That’s all that
matters.”
Petyr’s chest shook with a laugh. “You’ve learned well.”
“I had a good teacher.”
Sansa felt Petyr relax under her hands as she rubbed his shoulders in a
circular motion. He succumbed to the weakness she brought out in him. Who else
had such power? Sansa knew of no one, not even Mayana, who had been with him
for so many years. She pressed a grateful kiss to the back of his neck and
wrapped her arms around him. Her cheek rested on the back of his shoulder, and
she held him silently. Her hands came together at the center of his chest,
under the water’s aim. She felt his shoulders rise and fall with heavy breath.
Petyr placed his hands over hers, lifting one to kiss her knuckles. Sansa
marveled at how lucky she must be to see him so open. In her arms.
Under her care. The world’s most dangerous man was desperate to be loved, even
if he never said so himself.
Sansa was content to remain still until Petyr turned around. He held her face
and kissed her forehead. “I am very proud of you, Sansa. You have grown
stronger than even I had anticipated. When our plans are complete and your
vengeance taken…” He met her eyes. “Do not travel far.”
Sansa smiled. Petyr knew how to make demands, but asking from the heart was
rare. “I won't go,” she assured. “I know where I belong.”
He kissed her slow. Sansa felt the scratch of his beard and the softness of his
lips, the sweet taste of his tongue, and closed her eyes.
Chapter End Notes
     OH BOY
     what did i tell you. good sin right? very sin
     A few things. Firstly, I know some of you might be thinking that
     Petyr wouldn't get his hands dirty or get so involved with this
     death, but this is again another symptom of modern AU changes. Petyr
     had to be on his own for a while, had to rise somehow, so he knows
     how to do the dirty work. Sansa sees this side of him firsthand
     primarily because it's a learning experience for her. And Petyr gets
     satisfaction from hurting Ramsay even though that's really not his
     place, but w/e. Pete's selfish. [casual shrug emoji]
     ah yes, another late night editing, how lovely my life has become
     ummm yeah, good shit! Next week will be the last chapter before the
     intermission/halfway point/end of part two, and then I'll take
     another week off just for my own sanity. I need to get myself
     together for the SHITSTORM that the second half of this story is. I'm
     not sorry.
     also like....this goes without saying, but i do not condone the
     murder of your abusers omg. this is a special scenario. and it's
     fiction. don't go and kill people y'all i don't fancy being accessory
     to murder ok
     mmm sleep
     see you saturday lovelies <3
***** The Ladder *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
       [no_church_in_the_wild;_jay-z,_kanye_west] ◆ [chaos_is_a_ladder;
                                ramin_djawadi]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                9 JANUARY, 2017
Cheesy eggs and sausage were much better than Cheerios. Arya sat on the couch
with her legs crossed, shoveling food in her mouth between comments on the
program she was watching. Most of Arya’s free time was spent binge-watching
Netflix or finding new puns to irritate Jon, but doing both at once was
something special. Her brother opened a can of beer and walked into the living
room. When he did, Arya held up her plate. “Breakfast is eggcellent.”
Jon groaned. He picked up a pillow and threw it in Arya’s face before sitting
down beside her. “What’re Jew watching?”
“Top Gear.” She bit into a piece of beef sausage. “There’s nothing else on. And
your pun is unoriginal, no points for you.”
Jon leaned back to watch. The two of them sat through some stuff about cars
until they reached the adverts. Jon leaned over and stole a sausage from Arya’s
plate. She yelled at him.
“Turn to the news,” he told her. “I wanna see what they’re sayin’ about
Ramsay.”
Arya eagerly changed the channel. The siblings watched the weather forecast and
another round of commercials before the news anchor talked about their topic of
interest.
“Investigators in the Ramsay Bolton case have concluded that the death was a
homicide. The suspect, Myranda Smith, 19, was also killed in what appears to
have been a lover’s quarrel in the hills outside city limits. Despite his
attempts to lead police down a different path, Roose Bolton, the victim's
father, was furious when Commissioner Tarth announced this morning that the
case had already been solved. So far, there has been no comment from Sansa
Stark, who claims to have been abused by Ramsay during their brief engagement.”
“A fight?” said Arya, unimpressed. “That’s the best Littlefinger could do?”
Jon looked at her. “What would you’ve done?”
“I’d tell the truth. ‘Victim of Monster Slays the Beast.’” Arya smiled at her
creativity. “It sounds better. Sansa deserves credit, anyway.”
“Yeah, if she wants to go to prison.”
Arya made a sour face. Jon took her dishes when she was done, rinsing them and
starting the dishwasher. Sansa shouldn’t go to prison, Arya thought, switching
the channel back. She did what she had to do, just like Varys said.
Arya would always be proud of Sansa for pulling the trigger.
Someone knocked on the door. Varys had said he would come by at eleven, and
Arya glanced to the clock, realizing she’d lost track of time. “Oh. It’s
Varys.”
“You think?” said Jon sarcastically. He shook the water from his hands and
wiped them on his jeans, walking down the hall to open the door. Varys entered
with a shiver. No disguise this time, Arya noticed.
“It is insufferably cold outside,” said Varys, taking the earmuffs off his
head. “Too cold if you ask me.” He waved to Arya, who waved back. Ghost barked
and wagged his tail in excitement, trapping Varys by the door until he pulled a
treat from his pocket. “Here, you overgrown pup.”
Ghost yipped and caught the jerky in his mouth. Able to pass, Varys hung up his
coat, but kept his shoes on. He sat down in a chair in front of the telly. “Top
Gear?”
“Yeah. Nothing else is on.” Arya turned off the TV. She didn’t want to distract
him. “Why are you here?”
“Arya,” scolded Jon from the kitchen, but she ignored him.
“Am I truly that unbearable to be around?” asked Varys with a fake frown. “And
after all I’ve done for you.”
Arya shrugged. Ghost curled up under her feet, content.
“Do you want something to eat, sir?” asked Jon. “Coffee? Tea?”
“No, no thank you. I just ate, actually.” Varys patted his stomach. “A dear
friend took me out to breakfast.”
“Which friend is that?” Arya asked.
“Olenna Tyrell. Foreign Secretary, head of MI6.”
“Oh.” Arya didn’t bother to ask why that was important, and picked at her nails
instead.
“You two have been keeping busy,” said Varys. “I noticed you purchased a
bicycle?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna get a job soon.” Arya patted the seat beside her. Ghost
crawled up and laid at her side, resting his head in her lap. “I can bring in
some extra pounds. I need something to do or I’ll just destroy everything.”
“It’s true,” said Jon, drying his hands with a rag as he entered the room. “She
gets awfully destructive when she’s cooped up for too long.”
“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I have a little something on the agenda for
today.” Varys smiled. Arya eyed him closely. “Perhaps you’d like to take a
seat, Mr. Stark. This may be a lengthy conversation.”
Jon hesitated. He tossed the rag on the kitchen counter and sat near Ghost’s
other side, patting him on the back. “What’s this about?”
“Cersei has asked to see me again,” said Varys. “I don’t believe she’ll be
alone this time. I think it’s best if both of you come with me.”
“To meet the queen?” asked Jon, surprised. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Varys waved his hand. “Of course it’s dangerous. No, you won’t be meeting with
the queen. I will. And with the help of my friends at MI6…” He pulled a pen
from his pocket and held it delicately. “You’ll watch.”
Arya raised her brow. “It’s a pen.”
“Yes. A very small pen, and a very small camera.”
Arya snatched the pen from his hands and examined the chrome exterior for a
lens. There was nothing. When she looked up at Varys, he was still smiling.
“MI6 is quite the innovative group, my dear. Befriending the Queen of Thorns
has been a good investment on my part.”
Arya held the pen up to the light. “What does it do?”
“It captures video and audio of everything nearby and transmits it to a local
device. In this case, your brother’s laptop.” Varys pointed to Jon’s Macbook on
the table. “Just a bit of installation and, voilà. Instant broadcast.”
“No way,” Arya muttered. What would Rickon say if he knew Jon and I were a
Jewish James Bond?
“Why do we need to go with you?” Jon questioned. “Can’t we see the stuff here?”
“Unfortunately, no. This device has a shorter range. You’ll need to wait in the
car.”
“Like sitting ducks,” spat Arya.
“Perhaps. But no one will know you are there, except me and the undercover MI6
agents who’ll be protecting you.” Varys folded his hands. “I wouldn’t leave the
Stark children unguarded in a car park.”
“Agents? Real agents?” Arya grinned. “Cool.”
“It sounds risky.” Jon met eyes with Arya. “You in?”
“Hell yeah.” She high-fived her brother. “But why does Cersei want to see you?
Is it about Ramsay?”
“I’m not sure,” Varys replied. “She didn’t tell me any details over the phone,
but I imagine it’s rather important. Whatever it is, she’ll want the
information on Littlefinger I promised her.”
“What about Sansa?” Jon crossed the room to slip on a pair of runners. “We
can’t put her in danger.”
“No, we can’t,” said Varys as he stood. “My goal is to pry her from
Littlefinger’s grasp before she turns eighteen, so when she collects the Stark
fortune, she’ll be under no one’s influence but her own. But we’ll have to see.
It all depends on what Cersei says today.”
Arya whistled for Ghost to move. She found her shoes and jacket, tussling her
blue bedridden curls in the mirror and grabbing a package of chewing gum. “We
won't have to kill anyone, right?”
“No,” chuckled Varys, “no killing. You can’t get out of the car.”
“Nice.” Arya grabbed a water bottle, some snacks for the ride and her cell
phone, fully charged. Jon and Varys met her at the door.
“You’re wearing pajamas?” pointed Jon.
Arya looked down to her bright green, wolf-print pajama pants. “What? We can’t
get out of the car, he said.”
Her brother snorted and opened the door.
The drive to their destination didn’t take more than an hour. Arya lounged in
the backseat while Jon installed the necessary programs on his laptop. After
doing next to nothing for over a week, Arya was glad to get out of the house,
flip off the Lannisters, wreak a little havoc. Her leg began to bounce. Anxious
thoughts paced in her frazzled mind.
“Where are we?” Arya asked when they pulled into a parking garage off a street
she didn’t recognize.
“Bolton headquarters,” said Varys. “But don’t worry. Like I said, there are
undercover agents nearby to make sure nothing happens to you. Olenna Tyrell
takes your protection as seriously as I do.”
“Good to know,” said Jon half-heartedly. He peered out the window after Varys
parked. “Tinted windows?”
“Yes.”
“And Cersei really doesn’t know we’re here?”
“No.” Varys turned to them, a sad smile on his face. “If I wanted to lead you
both into a trap, Mr. Stark, don’t you think I would have already done so?”
Arya rolled her eyes. That’s comforting.
“Set up the computer and open the program you installed. You’ll hear from me
shortly. And don’t leave the vehicle, the agents can only protect you when
you’re out of sight from wandering eyes.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Arya popped a piece of gum in her mouth, despite Jon’s judging
stare. “Good luck.”
“Thank you. I may need it.”
Varys left. The car beeped, locked inside and out, and Arya released a nervous
sigh. They were vulnerable here. No matter how much she trusted Varys, she felt
like a wolf trapped in an expensive cage.
Time passed. No feed from the camera, no audio. Ten minutes. Twenty. She tried
to stay occupied with a Batman comic Jon had bought for her, but she didn’t
have enough focus to stay pulled from the tension.
“This is stupid.” Arya folded her arms across her chest.
“What do you want me to say?” asked Jon.
“I don’t know. We should be doing stuff, not just sitting in the back of a
car.” Arya pressed her feet against the back of the passenger’s seat and slid
down to get comfortable. “I thought this would be fun. I hate it when people
don’t think we can handle ourselves.”
“He’s the only hope we’ve got, Arya. We have to trust him.” Jon adjusted the
laptop on the center console. “Might as well relax.”
“Pfft,” was Arya’s reply.
They waited for what felt like hours. Arya kept bouncing her leg and shaking
the car, ignoring how many times Jon asked her to stop. She pulled out her
phone. Scrolled through Sansa’s Instagram. Nothing new, she thought, just
filtered pictures of snow and Gross Guy’s hand on her thigh.Jon didn’t say
anything, leaning back on the headrest to catch some sleep. A shame. She wanted
someone to complain to.
Arya was both relieved and horrified when Varys’s voice came from the speakers.
Video capture went live on the laptop screen, showing Arya and Jon the inside
of an empty men’s restroom.
“I’m going to assume you can hear me,” said Varys.
“We can.” Jon perked up. “Your mic’s—”
“I can’t hear you, though.”
“Hah.” Arya pointed at Jon, mockingly.
“Forgive me for what you’re about to hear,” muttered Varys. “We’re in hostile
territory, now.”
He pushed open the bathroom door. Arya marveled at the clear picture from such
a tiny camera, silver Bolton logos and dressed-up employees, all eyeing Varys
with scrutiny. “Thought you’d use the ladies’ room,” said someone to his
right. What an asshole, thought Arya, but Varys didn't respond and continued to
the room at the back of the hall.
Oak doors swung open. Roose Bolton and Cersei Lannister sat across from each
other at the CEO’s desk, neither one pleased. The camera dipped low as Varys
bowed, coming up as he straightened his back. “Your Grace,” he said in
greeting. “Forgive the delay. I trust I’m not late?”
“Right on time,” said Cersei. “As always, your presence is appreciated.” She
cradled a glass of wine in her hands and gestured to the chair beside her.
“Sit.”
Varys did as she asked. Arya watched the fearsome Roose Bolton scan every bit
of Varys he could see. The childless father didn’t look heartbroken over his
son’s loss. Only a black tie signified his mourning, but Arya knew rage when
she saw it, and it was there, boiling beneath his eyes.
“I wasn’t aware I would be seeing Mr. Bolton as well,” said Varys, “though I
should have known given the location.”
“Change of plans.” Cersei sipped her drink. “Not my father’s doing, but he will
be pleased, I’m sure.”
Arya tensed, as did Jon. The siblings shared a look of concern before scooting
closer together, both knowing the significance of this meeting, the key that
would unlock Sansa's future. Arya clutched the Star around her neck.
“So,” said Cersei, a smug grin on painted lips. “Tell us what you’ve learned
about Littlefinger. I trust you haven’t disappointed me?”
“Never, Your Grace. Littlefinger has Sansa Stark on a rather tight leash. I
believe he is manipulating her to gain the upper hand. To keep you, your father
and Mr. Bolton from the Stark fortune.”
Roose’s voice was sharp like a blade. “Littlefinger informed me before the
queen’s gala that money isn’t what he’s interested in. Not the Stark money, at
least.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Varys folded his hands in his lap. “He wouldn’t be
one of the richest men in the country if he wasn’t interested in money. Ned
Stark’s fortune would make him unstoppable.”
“It would make any of us unstoppable.” Cersei tapped her glass. “That is why it
must be ours and not his. I won’t let that little wretch interfere. The Starks
have too much set aside for us to let it pass on.”
“Jews,” said Roose. “Always good with money. Their only gift.”
Arya clenched her fist.
“Unfortunately for Ned Stark, he fit the stereotype.” Cersei turned to Varys.
“But that tells me nothing. What have you actually learned, Varys? I need
answers.”
Varys cleared his throat. “I believe Littlefinger is sexually involved with
Miss Stark.” Arya could picture the look of annoyance on his face, mirroring
her own. “I have no evidence to suggest she is unwilling.”
“Then he managed to do what Ramsay could not.” Roose sighed. “I’m not
surprised. Ramsay had his own way of doing things, but he got results, and
clearly consensual sex has gained Littlefinger no ground in the Stark fortune.
Unless he’s fooled her into believing he’s in love?”
“Oh, I hope she’s smarter than that,” Varys replied. “Littlefinger is devoted
to no one but himself. Then again, I’ve a hard time believing Ros would allow
an innocent girl to be used in such a way. She’s the only one working with
Littlefinger who has a conscience.”
“I don’t care about a whore’s conscience, Varys.” Cersei leaned over the arm of
the chair to intimidate him. Smile thin, fingers flexed. “Sansa Stark killed my
son. Don’t bore me with useless information about who Littlefinger spends his
time with, because I don’t care. I didn’t pay you to tell me things I already
know.”
“Not good,” muttered Arya.
Varys’s grip tightened in his lap as Jon’s did on Arya’s hand. He took a deep
breath, and spoke condemning words. “Myranda Smith did not kill your son, Mr.
Bolton. Littlefinger and Sansa Stark murdered him. Together.”
Arya felt her chest collapse.
“My son,” said Roose, calm and hateful all at once. “Littlefinger murdered my
son?”
“Yes. But I believe Miss Stark pulled the trigger.”
Roose pushed up from his chair and began to pace. Cersei seemed pleased,
wearing a wicked smile that made Arya want to break the screen. Jon wrapped an
arm around Arya’s shoulders. The siblings held tight to each other, neither
knowing where to go or what to do.
“Olenna Tyrell threatened me the other day,” said Roose. “Told me to resign.
She’d discovered my connection to Walder Frey’s sex trafficking ring and used
it against me.”
“Why on earth were you involved in that?” questioned Cersei, not in
disapproval.
“I had to keep Walder happy. I needed his investments to save my company. There
was a time when he spared me from bankruptcy, and as much as I loathed him, I
needed him.” Roose stopped pacing. “Now he’s gone. Killed by Littlefinger too,
I expect. Just like my son.”
“Your batshit son,” Arya corrected, even though Roose couldn’t hear her. “Your
crazy killing rapist son. He deserved it.”
Jon didn’t reply, but Arya knew he agreed.
“Whoever did kill Walder Frey has vanished,” said Varys, “seemingly without a
trace. As for Littlefinger, that is all I know at the present time. Though I’m
sure there’s more to this little puzzle.” His tone had changed. Arya heard it —
once confident, now unsure.
“You’ve done well, Varys. I knew I could rely on you.” Cersei pulled a check
from her inner coat pocket, which Varys took. Arya’s spirit sank. What am I
supposed to feel?
“If Littlefinger thinks he can ruin me so easily, he is mistaken.” Roose
adjusted his tie, eyes on the queen. “He wants me to resign, I expect. Gladly.
Let him believe he’s won for now. We’ll—”
Cersei cleared her throat. “Perhaps our dear friend Varys should leave before
we discuss what to do with Littlefinger.”
“Shit,” Jon whispered. “I wanted to hear that.”
“Why?” asked Arya.
“Because. Whatever they do to Littlefinger, they do to Sansa too. They’re tied
now.” He turned to her. “Regardless of how we feel about him, Sansa obviously
likes him. She’ll be hurt by whatever happens.”
“Or maybe he’ll hurt her to save himself,” said Arya.
Jon shook his head. “If he does, I’ll kill ‘im.”
Varys bowed before the queen, leaving the office. “Did you notice how he didn’t
say ‘is name, either?” said Jon.
“Whose?”
“Littlefinger’s. Varys knows 'is name is Petyr and all about his relationship
to your mum, but he didn’t say anythin'. Seems vital.”
Arya rested her chin in her hand. “Yeah. That’s weird.” She remembered Varys
claiming to respect Littlefinger deeply, but that didn’t mean it was worth
lying to protect him. Did it?
“Either way,” Jon continued, “this doesn’t look good for any of us. Especially
Sansa. We need to get to ‘er as soon as we can.”
“Not if Littlefinger has anything to say about it.” Arya leaned back in her
seat, watching Varys leave the front doors of the Bolton building. She buckled
her seatbelt. “Maybe we’ll just have to take him out.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
If it keeps Sansa safe, Arya thought, I’ll pull the trigger myself.
Displeased with the turn of events, Arya blew a bubble from her chewing gum and
popped it. She watched Varys take a turn down an alley. The parking garage was
across the street. He didn’t say anything to them through the mic, walking
quicker than usual.
A figure moved toward him from the end of the alley. Varys stopped. Arya did
too.
“Varys, Varys, Varys,” said a sultry voice. “You’ve really fucked up this
time.”
The figure was a woman. Her skin was dark, head crowned in dozens of braids
tied up in a bun. She was dressed like a businesswoman, but her tone and
American accent suggested a different line of work.
“Who is that?” Arya panicked.
“I don’t know.” Jon took out his phone and snapped a picture of the woman on
the screen, trying to Google her. No results.
Varys chuckled. “Ms. Washington,” he said in greeting. “I didn’t think you were
the type to wander in places like this.”
Footsteps halted behind him. Varys turned. Littlefinger’s face was warped with
anger, a stare so focused that Arya's skin crawled. She felt Varys’s fear and
whispered, “fuck.”
“I didn’t think you were the type to betray a contract, Varys.” Littlefinger
folded his hands in front of him, legs apart. “What am I going to do about
that?”
“Intimidation is useless, my friend,” defended Varys. “Lying to Cersei
Lannister was far more dangerous. I’m sure you can agree.”
“Not in this case.”
The woman struck. First with a fist, then her knee, slamming Varys’s head
against the brick wall. He fell to the ground. Arya jumped as the camera rolled
out of Varys’s pocket and across the concrete. It came to a stop at an odd
angle, but Arya could see blood pouring from Varys’s face, between his fingers
when he held his nose. Littlefinger moved beside him. His shoes were all she
saw. “You signed my contract, Varys. Did you think providing me with Harrold
Hardyng and Vargo Hoat fulfilled that deal? You were supposed to help me
protect Sansa and ensure the Bolton-Lannister downfall. Now, you’re aiding
them.”
“Cersei came to me,” Varys said, still calm and aloof as though nothing had
gone wrong. He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the two figures
towering over him. Arya remembered his words — stay in the car— and hated him
for it. “I did what I did for the safety of the Starks, and for this country.
Their fortune in your hands would see Europe bleed.”
“Europe is already bleeding,” snarled Littlefinger, “and I don’t recall you
coming to Ned Stark’s aid before. Would you like to explain that to his
children? How you so eagerly stood by and did nothing when their family was
being picked apart?”
“You joined me on the sidelines,” spat Varys.
“Yes, I did. The Starks didn’t interest me then.” Littlefinger crouched to
Varys’s level, draping the ground with his coat. Arya could see the silver in
his hair, his hateful smile, the twist of his lips when he spoke. “But they do
now. And because of you, everything I've worked for has been undone. The timing
is all off. The day Sansa turns eighteen, she will be in more danger than
either of us can predict.”
“You have never cared about the girl’s safety.” Varys pulled a handkerchief
from his pocket to stop his bleeding. “You’re only using her. Admit it.”
Yes, thought Arya, seeing red. Say it.
“I have no interest in her fortune,” said Littlefinger. “There is nothing Ned
Stark’s money can give me that I don’t already have. But now that you’ve pitted
Roose Bolton and the Lannisters against me much too soon, well…” He spread his
hands. “Things are about to change.”
“Kill me, then. If I’ve ruined your every plan, kill me and be done with it.
Why wait?”
“Because you’ve played your cards well. It is the one thing that will save
you.”
Littlefinger stood. He walked out of view for a moment, until the camera began
to rise. Arya froze when he looked right into the lens she couldn’t find, grey-
green eyes staring her down.
Jon squeezed her hand so tight she thought it would break.
“Let me make something clear to both of you,” said Littlefinger. “You were
never supposed to fall into Varys’s hands. He betrayed me. Went behind my back.
As a result, the puppet strings are tangled up in knots, and you will have to
wait even longer to see Sansa again.”
“Fuck you,” Arya growled. “You can’t take my sister from me.” But Littlefinger
couldn’t hear her, and he could take Sansa. She felt like crying.
“If I am to burn the Lannisters and Boltons to the ground, I will need the both
of you at full health. Sansa's birthday is only two months away. Expect me when
the time comes. Until then, enjoy peace while you can.” Littlefinger sneered.
“And don’t worry about your sister. I will keep Sansa very, very close.”
Arya lunged for the car door. Jon wrapped his arms around her waist and held
her back. “No, Arya! You can’t leave!”
“I don’t care!” she shouted. “He can’t have her, he can’t!”
“He already does.” Jon held her tight until she stopped flailing. Arya’s anger
was lanced with a feeling of hopelessness, her throat on fire.
I’m never going to see her again.
“I have a gift,” said Littlefinger. From his suit jacket he pulled a dog bone,
still with the price tag. “For your pet.” He threw it, and the pen, at Varys’s
feet. The video feed began to crack and shake from the damaged lens, but Arya
heard their footsteps as the two enemies walked away.
Two more names on her list.
Chapter End Notes
     you know, this 3am "edit the chapter last minute before it publishes"
     nonsense has gotta stop fam i am TIRED
     OKAY BUT ANYWAY WOW, DEVELOPED PLOT, THINGS ARE HAPPENING, PETYR IS A
     DICK
     And we've hit intermission! Or, halfway point. Whatever. IT'S HERE.
     This is the end of ~part two I guess! Which means I get to take a
     much, much-needed break. My life is wild rn (as anyone who follows me
     on tumblr would know) and I could use an extra week to queue up some
     chapters and get some sleep, and focus on upcoming finals. Ugh,
     winter break is right around the corner. I can smell it.
     This chapter has me like, ~~meh because I wrote it super fast, and
     I'm at one of those points where I'm thinking, "wow. My writing is
     total garbage." But someone out there likes this story so I should
     probably continue, yeah? And things are just getting exciting, too.
     okok im sleeping for real this time
     Next update will be December 17th. I might do another gifset if asked
     but idk, i'm tired and sad and TIRED, but also I'm a pushover, so if
     you yell at me I'll probably do it. I'm also down for answering
     questions on tumblr if you guys have some. You're an awfully
     talkative bunch, and I love that, so hmu!
     OK IM SLEEPING WOW SLEEP, WHAT A CONCEPT
     GOODNIGHT LOVELIES, see you after the break!! xoxo
***** Porcelaine, Ivoire, Acier *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
        [quelqu'un_m'a_dit;_carla_bruni] ◆ [titanium;_madilyn_bailey]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               11 FEBRUARY, 2017
“I don’t know, Mayana. Do you think it’ll be too cold?” Sansa raised her
shoulder, exposed from an oversized sweater that hung loosely off her frame.
Simple leggings and flat knee-high boots, hair up in a bun. “It’s still winter.
And what if Prince Renly meets us at the airport? I’ll be so underdressed.”
Ros leaned against the door of Petyr’s walk-in closet — more like a small
bedroom, really — which Sansa now shared. Mayana reclined on the ottoman in the
center. “I think it’s adorable,” said Ros. “Who cares what you’re wearing?
Renly won’t. He’ll be too busy arguing with Petyr over his fashion choices
anyway.”
“You’re probably right.” Sansa grabbed her purse from beside Mayana and slung
it over her shoulder. “I think I’m ready.” She clapped her hands in excitement.
“I’ve never been to Paris before! It’s like a dream come true.”
“Paris is nice,” said Mayana, propping up on her elbows. She waggled her brows
suggestively. “Especially for a two-week vacation with your man. You’ll get to
see everything.”
Sansa beamed, giddy at the thought. Even if the United Nations conference would
take Petyr’s attention away for a bit, she’d been promised the company of
Prince Renly and Loras Tyrell in his absence. That certainly wasn’t a loss in
her books.
“Put your hair down, love.” Ros pointed to Sansa’s bun. “You know how Petyr
likes your hair. If it’s down, maybe your arrival at the hotel will be…
sexier.”
Mayana snorted. “I do not envy the maids cleanin’ that suite when y’all leave.”
“Sansa?” called Petyr from downstairs. “Are you ready?”
“I’m coming!” Sansa grabbed her rolling suitcase by the handle, pausing a
moment to consider Ros’s advice. She pulled her hair from the bun. Long strands
of Irish red tumbled down her back, and Sansa smirked, knowing how Petyr would
react. “Thanks, Ros. Ah! I’m so excited.” She burst into a fit of giggles.
“You deserve it. You really do.” Ros gave Sansa a warm hug and a kiss on the
cheek. “You have fun. Call me when you’ve landed.”
“I will.” Sansa moved to Mayana and embraced her as well.
“You better update your Snap and Insta, girl. I wanna see all the pictures.”
Mayana brushed a flyaway hair from Sansa’s face. “Tell me all the embarrassing
shit Pete does, too. He’s gonna be a mess on Valentine’s Day. He’s a fucking
sap.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” laughed Ros.
Sansa followed the two women with her luggage, fighting to heave the massive
thing downstairs. Olyvar saw her struggling and rushed to meet her, taking the
suitcase and hoisting it over his shoulder with ease. Petyr stood in the
doorway. He was wearing a simple half-zip sweater and slacks, something
comfortable for travel. Sansa smiled when she saw him. As expected, Petyr ogled
the red hair she’d left wild.
Olyvar returned from the car, passing Petyr entirely to place both hands on
Sansa’s upper arms. “Make sure to keep up on everything,” he said. “Don’t let
Petyr distract you from your studies or workbooks. And make sure you stay
hydrated; all that tourism takes a toll on the skin if you don’t take care of
it.”
Sansa chuckled. All three of them reminded her of her mother sending Robb off
to college for the first time. She said her final goodbyes, and with Petyr’s
hand on her back, Sansa left the manor and climbed into the Bentley’s passenger
seat.
The drive to Heathrow was fairly short. Sansa watched planes take off when they
were close enough, making up stories for the passengers and their destinations.
“That one’s going to Spain,” she said, pointing to an aircraft that sped to the
skies. “It carries an eager Spanish lover returning to his bride. He’s been in
London working, but now he has enough money to buy her a proper ring. He’s
going home to propose to her.”
“What about the other eighty-five people?” Petyr asked from the driver’s seat.
Sansa faced him. “How do you know there are eighty-five?”
“I don’t. It was a guess, but that’s the usual capacity for a craft like that.”
Petyr glanced out the window to see Sansa’s plane once they came to a
stoplight. He was close enough for Sansa to smell him, the cigarette smoke on
his collar, his aftershave, his natural musk. “Regardless, I’m sure it doesn’t
just carry that poor Spanish boy. It would be a lonely flight.”
“He wouldn’t care, though. He’s got a girl worth waiting for.”
Sansa smiled when he looked at her. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, and
he held her hand for the rest of the drive.
Heathrow Airport wasn’t crowded on a February morning just cresting afternoon.
Petyr and Sansa checked in their luggage and walked together through security.
When the two of them found their terminal, they decided to pass the remainder
of their time by exploring nearby shops and stores. Petyr had seen them all in
his travels, but Sansa hadn’t been to the airport since she’d gone to Bran’s
bar mitzvah in Israel, so she was curious to see what had changed. They bought
coffee and talked about their trip, flipped through some magazines, bought a
couple donuts. Sansa sent Jeyne silly selfies via Snapchat when their boarding
time came close. She even waved to a few bystanders sneaking pictures of her.
She had nothing to fear from strangers who’d made it past airport security. Not
when she had Petyr by her side.
First class was the only way Petyr travelled. Sansa had laughed at him when
she'd noticed that the flight was only an hour and a half long, wondering why
he’d pay extra for luxury on so short a trip, but Petyr wouldn’t change his
mind, so Sansa dropped the issue. She settled into her seat when they boarded
the plane and reclined after takeoff to get comfortable.
“Will you show me the dress yet?” asked Sansa after a half hour had passed,
reaching across the armrest to touch Petyr’s shoulder. “You keep saying I’m
going to love it, but I want to see a picture. Please?”
“That will ruin the surprise.” Petyr grinned, bookmarking his page in a
political novel. “The United Nations are a boring bunch, sweetling. You’ll be
grateful for a little fun.”
Sansa hoped so. When Petyr had pitched the idea of attending Margaery Tyrell’s
charity dinner to benefit the United Nations, Sansa hadn’t been sure why Petyr
was interested. It wasn’t until he mentioned that the proceeds benefitted UN
efforts in preventing violence against women that she understood. The
conference, a week-long delegation on the worldwide crisis of domestic abuse,
would be supported by Petyr’s presence and investments. There was also a
political advantage for him, having so many ambassadors in one place. And how
could Sansa say no to Paris?
Sansa bundled up with more episodes of Buffy for the majority of the flight. By
the time they landed, her stomach had twisted into a thousand knots. So many
world leaders, celebrities and journalists in one room talking about something
she was too familiar with. The possibilities haunted her. She tried to keep
calm through the ride from the airport to their suite, holding tight to her
hands.
Sansa didn't see much of Paris through the car window, but she would have time
in the weeks to come, and the Highgarden Hotel was a masterpiece on its own.
Onyx and marble, silk drapes and a quartz fountain. Aside from being one of the
richest European families, the Tyrells had launched a widely successful hotel
chain where many of the dignitaries would stay for the charity dinner. “It’s
incredible,” Sansa commented. “It’s like I’m walking into Buckingham Palace all
over again.”
“Wait until you see the suite,” said Petyr.
After checking in, Petyr led Sansa to the elevator, rising to the highest
floor. Ivory hallways and golden doors branched off the fifteenth story. With a
swipe of a key card, the couple was granted entry to their private room.
The suite was fit for royalty, far beyond the likes of Sansa. A full kitchen
and bar, a living room with gilded furniture, gold moulding and emerald accents
on white walls, paintings from famous French artists, floor-length curtains, a
wide balcony with a view of the Eiffel Tower, a bed bigger than any she’d ever
seen and a bathroom to match. “This is where we’re staying?” Sansa asked,
facing Petyr in astonishment. “You’re sure?”
“Quite. Do you like it?”
“I — I don’t even know what to say.” She felt small with her rolling suitcase
and oversized sweater, like a poor country girl having luxury for the first
time. Sansa kicked off her shoes. She ran over and hopped on the bed, giggling
as she bounced a few times.
“That’s not very ladylike,” said Petyr, amused. “Jumping on the bed is
childish.”
“I’m not a child,” chuckled Sansa when she stood still. Petyr quirked his brow
and moved to the edge of the bed. “Don’t be disgusting.” Sansa fell to her
knees before him. Her forearms rested on his shoulders when he came near and he
pulled her close by the hips.
“I have a few hours to be as disgusting as I want, my love. Dinner doesn’t
start until eight.” Sansa hummed when his roaming hands gripped her backside.
“What if I wanted to take a nap?” Sansa pulled away, sitting on her knees.
“This bed looks comfortable.”
“We’ll have to break it in before any sleeping occurs.”
Petyr pushed her on her back. Sansa laughed when he crawled on top of her for a
kiss, one hand sliding up her side, the other in her hair. Ros had been right
about that one, at least. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened
their kiss until a knock at the door interrupted them. Petyr pulled away with a
huff.
“Who could that be?” Sansa asked.
“Mace Tyrell. Checking to make sure I’m settled, no doubt.” Petyr reluctantly
crawled off of Sansa. She sat up to join him, but he turned around, pointed his
finger at her and spoke in a tone equally seductive and commanding. “Don’t.
Move.”
Sansa bit her lip. She watched Petyr open the door. “Ah, Mr. Tyrell,” he said
loudly to assure Sansa there was no danger. She heard a few words from an older
voice, and became disinterested in the conversation. Sansa pulled her phone
from her pocket. Olyvar had texted her.
Did you land alright? How do you like the hotel? - O
Sansa smiled, quick to respond. Yeah! omg, the hotel is GORGEOUS. I feel like a
princess.
Yes! I absolutely love staying with the Tyrells. - O
I haven’t met them yet, but I bet they're lovely.
Margaery will adore you. I hope the dinner goes well. Eat some escargot for me!
- O
Sansa began typing a reply when she heard the door close. She’d barely looked
up before Petyr snatched the phone from her hand, tossing it aside on the
pillow. His hands pushed her sweater up and he ravished her stomach with
kisses. She laughed at how his mustache tickled. “Now,” he said. “Where were
we?”
The bed was quickly broken in.
Lazy hours ticked by, filled with snuggling and deep conversation. Sansa
managed to take a small nap while Petyr sent some emails. By the time she woke,
he was dressed in a tux for the coming dinner, pacing. His phone was at his
ear.
“…just make sure he doesn’t come back to London. We don’t need this
happening so soon.” Silence. Sansa lifted her head to watch Petyr pace. “I
know, Ros. Just get it done.” A pause. “Then I suppose things will have to
change.”
What is he talking about? Sansa climbed out of bed, frowning when he looked at
her. His mask slipped on. “Keep me updated,” said Petyr, and he hung up the
phone. “You should start getting dressed, sweetling. We're expected downstairs
in a little less than two hours.”
“Is everything okay?” Sansa asked.
“Of course.” He pulled the mockingbird pin from his pocket and pointed to the
tie around his shoulders. “Put these on for me?”
Sansa allowed herself to smile. She tied his light pink tie around his neck and
fastened the mockingbird in its place, admiring his allure. “An interesting
color choice,” she said. “I like it. Black tux, white shirt, pink tie. Very
chic.”
“I’m glad you approve.” He brought her hands to his lips for a kiss. “I’m going
to find Margaery, see if she needs my assistance.”
“Okay.” Sansa trusted Petyr; he’d assured her that his past relations with
Margaery Tyrell would never interfere with his devotion to her. “Oh! Wait, what
about the dress?”
“In the bathroom, hanging up.” He smirked. “It was in my suitcase the entire
time. Shame you didn’t think to look there.”
Sansa playfully smacked his arm. “You’re such a sneak. I was so excited to pick
it up.”
“Go look, then. It’s waiting for you, as I will be.” Petyr moved for the door.
He gave Sansa one final grin over his shoulder, and left.
Sansa was alone with her doubts. Whatever Petyr had said to Ros involved
something important, and she wanted to talk about it, but she filed the
information away instead. She could ask him later. There were more important
things on her mind, happier things. Sansa rushed to the master bathroom and
flipped on the lights.
A light pink dress hung up near the shower. The chiffon gown cinched at the
waist and flowed to the floor, light as air. Bishop sleeves and a deep V neck
kept the modesty Sansa prized, but still stated the elegance that Petyr adored
in her. He knows me so well.
Sansa spent time curling her hair and putting on makeup, nothing too dramatic,
and made sure her diamond earrings still sparkled. She slipped her feet into
gold heels that matched her Star of David, and with a final spray of perfume,
she was ready. Physically, at least. She still didn’t know what to expect from
the charity dinner, from strangers discussing something she’d lived through as
though they could relate. She left the suite and found the elevator, pushing
the button with hands that shook.
The conference hall of the Highgarden Hotel was crowned with golden roses and
hanging vines, a symbol of the coming spring, so opposite the bitter winter
still present outside. Sansa craned her neck to look up at painted ceilings and
a statement crystal chandelier. French reporters asked her questions that she
didn’t understand, so she passed through them with polite smiles and little
waves, ignoring how anxious being crowded made her feel. She was relieved to
enter the dining area, restricted to guests only, but there was little peace to
be had. Her name had become famous, along with her story. She was instantly
surrounded.
It was strange to be treated as a celebrity, but even stranger to be stared at.
Some of the guests spoke to Sansa with confidence, which she appreciated, but
most were wary to shake her hand or speak plainly, like she was dynamite rigged
to explode with a wrong move. Those who prodded into her trauma made her feel
sick altogether. She fled those conversations more often than not, sometimes
without warning, doing what was necessary to preserve the small sanity she’d
restored. The dinner had yet to begin, and already Sansa wished for the comfort
of another nap.
“Miss Stark!” came a call. A bubbly blonde approached her, more beautiful than
any woman Sansa had ever seen. Her doe eyes were bright and cheerful,
complimented by a slightly immodest crimson gown. “Forgive me for startling
you. I picked you out of the crowd, it wasn't hard with that gorgeous red
hair.”
“Oh,” said Sansa. “Thank you.” She offered her hand, knowing who the woman was.
“You must be Margaery Tyrell.”
“I am. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.” Margaery came forward and gave
Sansa a hug. The contact was surprising, but Sansa didn’t feel threatened and
hugged her gently in return. Margaery beamed when she pulled away. “I was so
sorry to hear about the death of your family. I hope my grandmother is helping
you as much as she can.”
“Your grandmother?” Sansa asked. The connection dawned on her. “Oh, the Foreign
Secretary! I’m sorry, I didn’t think about the last name.”
Margaery was forgiving. “Don’t worry. She wouldn’t take offense, I'm
sure.” She’s so joyful and beautiful, thought Sansa when Margaery took her arm,
leading her to a table near the stage. No wonder Petyr likes her.
“Do you mind if I sit with you and Littlefinger tonight?” asked Margaery. “Not
just me, of course. My brother and Renly will join us.”
“Of course not,” said Sansa. “I’d be honored to dine with you.”
“Wonderful.” Margaery touched Sansa’s hair affectionately, the way Petyr would.
“I’ll find Littlefinger and tell him you’re here. Please, take a seat. I’m so
glad you’ve come.”
“Thank you so much.” Sansa watched Margaery leave, taking a hesitant sip of
water and sitting down.
More dignitaries came to speak to her. Strangers offered their condolences and
words of support. Sansa appreciated them, but she tired of being nothing but
someone to pity. She had no desire to hear Ramsay’s name, let alone speak of
him, and even comments with good intentions were uncomfortable. I shouldn't be
so sensitive.
A hand on her shoulder saved her from another awkward conversation. Sansa
reached back to take Petyr's hand. “The event will begin soon,” said Petyr to
Sansa’s guest. “Perhaps you could come by later.”
He didn’t give the stranger time to reply. Petyr stood between Sansa and the
other person until they left. Petyr brushed her cheek with his thumb, asking
without words if she was alright. Sansa nodded. I’m okay.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, eyeing her dress with a touch of desire. His
fingertips grazed her arm. “The color is perfect. It suits you.”
“And you managed to guess my measurements correctly,” she pointed out, resting
her shaking hand on his knee when he sat down. “I wonder how you managed to do
that.”
Petyr caught her joke, and her fear. He placed a hand on her shoulder and
kissed her. Sansa let the taste of him calm her, of cigarettes and mint and all
that he was, and when he pulled away, she’d stopped trembling. “I hate it when
I shake,” she said quietly. “Robb’s hands used to do that too. Whenever he was
anxious.”
“Don’t worry. I will be a rock for you, if you need one.”
“I know.”
He squeezed her hand.
Loras Tyrell and Prince Renly joined them at the table when the guests began to
settle in. Sansa was too anxious to pay mind, keeping still with her hands in
her lap when the speeches began.
Margaery Tyrell took the stage first. She stood at the podium with dignity and
thanked those who applauded her. “On behalf of the United Kingdom and the great
country of France, I would like to welcome you all to the United Nations
charity dinner for victims of domestic violence. I have worked hard within my
position in the UN to accomplish the end of this worldwide crisis, and I am
confident that cooperative progress can be made over these next seven days of
delegation.”
More applause. Sansa clapped too, but she was still uncomfortable, shifting in
her seat, unable to find a position that would relax her.
Margaery opened the dinner with a few jokes and acknowledgments of political
appointments, an overview of statistics for the good works the UN had done, and
a list of feats still to accomplish. She talked about where the money from the
charity was going and how long the road to recovery can be for women who are
abused. Sansa halfway listened, trying to keep occupied in her mind to escape
the feeling of being a victim. It paralyzed her. She sat in a room full of
people who supported her, but none of them really understood.
It wasn’t until she saw the first guest speaker that Sansa started paying
attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Margaery, “I proudly introduce you to survivor,
author and activist, Lollys Stokeworth.”
Applause. A woman walked onstage and shook hands with Margaery. She was larger,
older and simpler with long dark hair and equally dark eyes. She took the
podium with an aura of humility that Sansa admired. She felt connected to her
across the room, even though they’d never met.
Lollys shared her story. She’d been on her way home from school six years ago,
on a college campus, when a group of drunk men dragged her into an alley and
took turns raping her. She’d contracted two STDs and wound up pregnant from the
assault, but because of the support she’d found through UN-sponsored agencies
and friends and family, she was able to receive the intense psychiatric and
physical treatment that she needed. Much to Sansa’s surprise, she’d even kept
her son, despite how the baby had been conceived. Lollys wasn’t eloquent, nor
was she the brightest speaker, but she was a woman who’d survived and offered
hope to others through charity and good works.
Sansa felt like crying. She wasn’t so alone anymore.
When the speech was through and the dinner begun, Sansa didn’t eat. She went
straight to Lollys Stokeworth. “Hi,” said Sansa meekly.
“Hello,” said Lollys, recognizing Sansa.
The two women embraced. Sansa managed to keep tears at bay, hugging a bit too
long, but Lollys didn’t mind. She pulled away with a nervous smile. “Your story
was inspiring. I've never heard it before, but I really admire you. Thank you
for having the courage to share.”
“Thank you. And you're welcome.” Lollys's silly grin brought warmth to Sansa's
heart. “Your story inspires me, too. You're so strong. I have to sit down now,
but I want you to know that people look up to you, so don't give up. No matter
how hard it is.”
Lollys squeezed Sansa's hands. Sansa squeezed back, filled with determination.
“I won't.”
The interaction was brief, but it meant the world to her. Sansa returned to
Petyr’s side with the confidence she’d misplaced.
Dinner was exquisite. Blanquette de veau, coquilles Saint-Jacques, baked
camembert and buckwheat crêpes, with Beaujolais or sauvignon to drink. Sansa
made sure to send Olyvar a picture of the escargot she’d promised to
try. Tastes like chicken, she told him, and I love the little forks. Thanks for
the suggestion! <3
Throughout the dinner, Sansa was pulled from one conversation to the next,
between Margaery and Prince Renly’s fashion debates to Loras’s opinions on
Hollywood. Petyr and Margaery had a rather heated discussion on American
politics and Renly showed Sansa pictures of his favorite crown jewels. New
friends, safety, socializing and laughter with Petyr by her side. Sansa
couldn't think of anything better.
When the dinner came to an end, guests were allowed to mingle while trays of
desserts were handed out. Cream puffs and soufflés, sweet crêpes and chocolate-
covered strawberries. Sansa plucked one from a tray and bit into it, smiling at
Petyr from across the hall. He was deep in a conversation with Margaery. She
tossed the end of the strawberry in a waste bin and made to approach them.
“Sansa Stark?” said a voice from behind her. A woman, well-dressed with a
pleasant smile, offered her hand. “My name is Taena Merryweather. It’s nice to
meet you.”
Sansa shook the woman’s hand. “You as well,” she said politely. “I’ve never
heard your name before. What do you do?”
“I’m self-employed,” said Taena, pulling long dark hair over her shoulder. “My
husband works in law enforcement. He greatly admired your father, you know. As
many of us did.”
“Thank you.” Sansa was tired of being reminded of her father's absence. “He was
a wonderful man. I’m sure he would be pleased to hear of your husband’s
praise.”
“Mm,” Taena agreed. “It’s a shame that they never got to meet. I believe they
would have liked each other.” Taena motioned for Sansa to come with her. “Have
you tried the champagne? It’s exquisite, the French always make the best. Come.
I’ll get you a glass.”
Taena walked with Sansa to the nearest waiter, who offered them fresh glasses.
Sansa took hers gratefully. Her eyes wandered the room, trying to find Petyr
again in the mass of leaders and dignitaries. He was nowhere to be found.
“I’m sure you value justice, don’t you Miss Stark?” asked Taena. “With your
father’s occupation and all.”
“Yes,” said Sansa warily. “I do.”
“You must be disappointed that Ramsay Bolton never got to face a judge.” Taena
sighed. “You did good by running away. Living in that hell must’ve been
terrifying.”
“It was.” Sansa didn’t feel like drinking anymore. She quickly changed the
subject. “This ballroom is incredible—”
“Of course, Ramsay deserved more than a long trial. The things he did to you,
the way he made you suffer, so horrid.” Taena looked into Sansa’s eyes. “Do you
wish he would have gotten justice from the law?”
Sansa blinked. “I don’t—”
“Surely there would have been enough evidence. DNA on your clothes, sexual
fluids, torn tissue, bruises. If Littlefinger managed to have you examined.”
Taena was relentless, not noticing Sansa’s shiver. “Perhaps that was why you
had Ramsay killed?”
Sansa’s fear flipped to anger. She gripped her champagne glass tightly. “You’re
a reporter, aren’t you?” she spat. Her voice had grown louder. Nearby heads
turned to her attention, and Taena Merryweather shrunk under the spotlight, not
expecting a Sansa that would fight back. “You’re trying to get a statement from
me. Who hired you? How did you find me? What do you want?”
“Miss Stark,” Taena sputtered, “surely if I said the wrong thing—”
“No. Don’t apologize.” Sansa shoved her drink into Taena’s hands, so hard that
the liquor spilled. “Leave.”
Sansa stormed away.
She pushed open the balcony door. No one dared follow her, in part because of
her frustration, but mostly from the harsh winter cold that made the outdoors
unbearable. Sansa shuddered and held herself, biting back tears and hating her
fragility. She’d come so far, healed so many wounds only to have memories of
abuse pick at the scabs until she bled again. Fluids, torn tissue, bruises…
“Sansa?”
She turned at the sound of her name. Petyr was leaning against the wall near a
potted plant, smoking cigarettes with Margaery. He came to her side. His warm
hand was welcome on her skin. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “I just — it’s nothing, I-I’m okay, I’m
fine…”
“No you’re not. Tell me what happened.”
Sansa couldn’t speak. She gripped his suit jacket and clenched her eyes shut,
feeling wave upon wave of panic surge through her until she choked. Petyr
pulled her close — or did he? She couldn’t tell — and the thunder of her heart
overwhelmed her senses as she trembled. She willed herself to be calm, to push
through hyperventilation and paralyzing fear, but she knew the attack would
have to be endured before it would pass. When Sansa finally relaxed, she found
herself still in Petyr’s arms, exhausted. A worried Margaery Tyrell brushed her
hair from her face.
“Did someone say something to you?” asked Margaery, frowning. “I was sure that
nobody would, considering the nature of the event.”
Sansa took a deep breath. “It was just, just a journalist I think.” She pieced
together what she could, her head on Petyr’s shoulder. “Someone must’ve hired
her to get me to say something about Ramsay.”
“What was her name?”
“Taena Merryweather.”
“Oh.” Margaery scoffed. “I’ve had run-ins with her in the past. She’s Cersei’s
pet. I’m so sorry she bothered you, Sansa. If I’d known she was here I would’ve
stopped her immediately. She wasn’t on the guest list.”
“Cersei’s doing,” said Petyr, chest vibrating with his voice. “Don’t worry
about hiding what we did from Margaery, sweetling. She knows.”
“And so does Cersei, apparently.” Margaery placed a protective hand on the back
of Sansa’s head. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.” She flashed Petyr a
dangerous look, and left the lovers alone on the balcony.
Sansa decided that she liked Margaery Tyrell.
Petyr shed his suit jacket and wrapped it around Sansa’s shoulders. “What did
this woman say?” he asked, lifting her chin to make her look at him. “Do I need
to dispose of her?”
“No. It — it wasn’t too bad, just questions about Ramsay.” Sansa placed her
hands on his chest to steady herself. “I freaked out. I thought she was going
to arrest me or something, and the words she used just… brought back memories.”
She sighed. “I should be better than this.”
“Better than what? You are human, my love, and you were threatened.”
“But I shouldn’t be back at this point.” Frustrated tears returned. “I
shouldn’t be so afraid to talk about it with people, but I can’t. I’m not ready
yet. I’m just not.”
“No one will make you speak, Sansa. No one can.” He pulled her closer. “You’re
still anxious. Why don’t you go back to our room? I won’t keep you here, it was
never my intention for you to be upset.”
“I know. It’s been a good night, really, it has.” Sansa leaned into Petyr’s
arms and let him rub her back. She sniffled and wiped her cheek. “I hate
feeling like I’ve fallen back again.”
“Shh,” whispered Petyr, stroking the back of her head. “He is gone, Sansa. I
know what happened to you is not, but you will overcome this feeling as you
have all the others. You are stronger than you know.”
He rubbed her shoulders in parting. Sansa returned his jacket to him, smiling
under his care, and walked into the building.
Sansa sighed when she was back in the hotel room. She took a moment to stand
still, leaning against the door, eyes closed to find peace. She found it, but
being alone meant it wouldn’t stay for long. Sansa busied herself with taking
off her makeup and changing into warm pajamas. She put on one of the offered
bathrobes made of the softest fabric, slipped her feet into fuzzy slippers, and
grabbed her phone. A quick connection to wi-fi, and she called Jeyne for a
video chat.
Jeyne answered. Sansa saw her best friend, curled hair, happy smile and all.
“You have such good timing,” said Jeyne. “I’m walking back from my two-o’clock
class. With that bloody biology teacher I hate, you know?” She shook her head.
“God, I hate American uni sometimes. How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Sansa paced around the room, still anxious. “Just… I don’t know.
The charity dinner went well and it also didn’t go well at all, so. I’m here.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. No problem, I’m the queen of distraction.” Jeyne leaned closer to the
screen. “Are you in a fucking palace? Show me around! I’m so jealous,
Highgarden Hotels are basically fit for royalty.”
Sansa grinned. “Oh, yeah. This place is ridiculous. Hold on, I’ll give you a
tour.” She turned the front-facing camera to the suite around her, showing
Jeyne the luxury. The art pieces, the paintings, the massive unmade bed, the
huge bathroom. “And this isn’t even half of it,” said Sansa. “We’ve got a view
of the Eiffel Tower right outside.”
“Ohh! At night? I gotta see this.” Jeyne entered her dorm and leapt onto her
bed, settling in for the sight. “Show me, show me!”
Sansa pulled open the drapes covering the balcony doors. She twisted the brass
handles and stepped out into the frigid air. Frost clung to the ground and the
Eiffel Tower was lit up like a star, complimenting real stars hanging in a navy
sky. The moon kept the streets of Paris illuminated in an alabaster glow.
“Jeyne, it’s…” Sansa sighed. “It’s beautiful. Look.” She flipped the camera
around so her friend could see.
“Wow…” Jeyne trailed off. The girls fell silent together. Sansa rested her
elbow on the balcony rail, chin in her hand, wondering if Jeyne knew how much
she missed her. Passing cars and distant chatter were all they heard for a
while. “This is really something, Sansa. I’m glad you can be able to do this.”
“Me too.” Sansa thought about Lollys Stokeworth. “I feel like I’m getting
closer to that light at the end of the tunnel. The one I always knew was there,
even when I couldn’t see it. But I think I see it now. It’s right there.
Someday, I’ll reach it.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks. I’m proud of me too.” Sansa watched cars stop at a traffic light,
shoppers passing by, a couple sitting together in the window of a restaurant.
She found purpose, as if God tapped her shoulder. “When I’ve reached that
light, do you know what I’m gonna do?”
“Flip the middle finger at Ramsay’s grave?”
“No.” Sansa beamed. “I’m gonna give it back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Help people, Jeyne. I could write a book about what I went through. Make a
charity for survivors, build a shelter, speak at universities and social
events, maybe even be an ambassador to the United Nations. Give back the
light.” Sansa felt liberated just saying the words. “When I’m ready, I’m gonna
help victims break their own bars and set themselves free.”
Jeyne didn’t respond for a moment, so long that Sansa wondered whether she’d
heard. “That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever said.”
Sansa smiled. She knew she wasn’t ready yet, and may not be for years to come,
but there was hope on the horizon clear as the Eiffel Tower before her.
“Thanks, Jeyne. Thank you for helping me.”
“Of course. And thanks for letting me help, too.”
She heard the door open. Sansa turned, taking Jeyne’s view with her. “Hey!”
called Jeyne. “Turn back around, I wanna see the — oh.”
Petyr had opened the glass doors. He unmade his tie, leaning against the frame
with a grin. “Hello Jeyne,” he said. “Forgive me for interrupting.”
“Uh… no! You’re fine.”
Sansa bit back a laugh. She looked down to the camera, knowing her friend’s
shocked-to-hell face when she saw it. “Sorry. I didn’t think he’d be back so
soon.”
“I can go if you need me to.”
“No,” said Petyr, “that’s alright. You can have Sansa for a few minutes before
I steal her from you.” Petyr stepped forward, pulling his tie from his neck and
cupping Sansa’s cheek. “Are you feeling better?”
“Mhm.” Sansa placed her hand over his. “Jeyne always makes me feel better.”
“Good.” He kissed her forehead tenderly. “I’m going to get changed for the
night.”
“Okay.” Sansa watched him leave, temporarily forgetting that Jeyne was still on
the phone.
“That’s him?” Jeyne nearly shouted. “Holy shit, Sansa! He’s as old as my dad.”
Sansa rolled her eyes and faced the skyline again. “You knew he was older. I
told you that.”
“Well yeah, but — shit. He’s got gray hair and everything. But it looks good.
Like, really good.”
Sansa chuckled. “Yeah, it does.” She chewed her lip. “I like his gray hair. He
has nice hands, too.”
“I’ve seen them on Instagram.” Jeyne winked. “I see you, twirling your hair
like that. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking about.”
“What?” Sansa noticed her free hand, twirling a lock of red hair in her fingers
subconsciously, and blushed. “Oh my god.”
“Go get him. I’ll talk to you later.” Jeyne blew Sansa a kiss. “You earned a
romantic Parisian vacation, so go start it now!”
Sansa didn’t bother to inform Jeyne that the romance had already begun. She
thanked her best friend, said goodbye, and ended the call. She walked back into
the suite and shuddered when the warmth from the heater chased away the outside
cold.
“Your friend seemed surprised,” said Petyr in amusement. He stepped out of the
bathroom and flipped off the lights, wearing the gray sweats Sansa loved him
in.
“She’s never seen what you look like before.” Sansa hopped on the edge of the
bed, swinging her legs off the edge. “You’re older than she thought you’d be.”
“Am I?” Petyr smirked. “She’s going to have to get used to it.”
He came to her, stepping between her legs and holding her face. Sansa felt her
whole body smile. “Are you certain you’re alright? I will have Taena
Merryweather taken care of, or anyone else who dares to bother you. I take your
protection very seriously.”
“I know.” She placed her hands on either side of his torso. “I’m okay now. I
promise.” Sansa slid her hands under his shirt to feel the heat of his skin,
the familiar electricity that sparked when they touched. “I don’t want to think
about it anymore. I just want to be here, with you. Here is all that matters.”
“Here is all that matters,” he agreed. Petyr leaned down and kissed her
sweetly. Sansa laid on her back, crawling to the center of the bed, and Petyr
filled her with the pleasure of the present to keep her from the pain of the
past. She lay in his arms, counting blessings like the many kisses they shared,
and drifted to sleep knowing hope was still a risk.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter made one of my betas cry. <3
     Okay but wow, this chapter is pretty great, right? Acknowledging that
     there are still ups and downs in the recovery process is a big deal.
     It's not all fun and games now that Ramsay's gone. Sansa still has a
     way to go, and there's still more drama to be had~~~
     This chapter up through chapter 20 are all sort of an "intermission"
     section. Still relevant to plot, but kinda like a calm after the
     storm, and a calm right before a much much larger storm. You've been
     warned. :)
     I might skip next Saturday's update too. I know, I just took a two
     week break, but I've been going through some really hard times
     lately, not to mention next Saturday is Christmas Eve! We'll see
     though. I might take a break, I might not. It depends on how I'm
     feeling throughout the week and how much work I can get done. Just be
     aware that if I miss next week's update, I needed another break. But!
     I should be good to go for a while after that, so don't fret!
     Happy holidays you guys! xoxo I hope you liked this update.
***** Paradigm Shift *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
                 [panic_station;_muse] ◆ [bad_girls;_m.i.a.]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               13 FEBRUARY, 2017
Arya pinched her mobile between ear and shoulder, pulling a pair of warm jeans
straight from the open dryer. She nearly moaned when she slipped them on. The
denim hadn’t been wet or dirty, but Arya had dried them anyway, wanting warm
clothes to wear before she faced the outside cold. She moved her phone to her
other ear, listening to the repetitive ring and waiting for someone to pick
up. Come on. I know you’re open.
After a few seconds, someone answered. “Thanks for calling the Brotherhood, how
can I help you?”
“Beric!” said Arya. “Hey. It’s me again.”
Beric Dondarrion laughed when he heard her voice. “Well, well. I didn’t think
you’d call twice in the same week.”
“I just wanted to see how everyone’s doing, I guess.” Arya grabbed her Star
Trek tee and pulled it over her head. “You’re not too busy to talk?”
“Not at all. I can always find time for Beth.”
Arya smiled. She slipped on fuzzy socks and combat boots, a fur-lined jacket to
fight the winter weather. “I got a job.”
“Yeah? Where at?”
“Another bar. This one’s run by some woman named Lady Crane. She’s pretty nice.
She says I’m her favorite.”
“I’m not surprised. You know how to make people like you, when you try.”
“When I feel like it, you mean.” Arya tied her shoes and grabbed a beanie from
the counter, shoving the house keys in her pocket. “Hold on a sec, kay?”
“Sure.”
Arya lowered the phone from her ear. She turned to Jon, who was laying on the
couch in the living room, watching a movie, surrounded by Kleenex and daytime
cold medicine. Ghost lifted his head when he saw her by the door. “Bye, Jon.
I’m goin’ to work.”
“Okay. Don’t forget to—” Jon sneezed. He blew his nose and coughed a couple
times, but Arya was patient. He’d been sick for a week. Poor guy. “Take
Needle,” he said when he’d regained himself. “Be careful. Call me if you need
anything.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She snatched her dagger from the countertop and stuffed it in the
side of her boot. Arya touched the mezuzah Luwin had given her where it hung in
the entryway, kissing her finger with respect, and closed the door.
“Back,” she said to Beric through the phone. “Sorry. I’m just leaving for
work.”
“I should probably let you go, then.”
“I’ll go in a bit. I wanted to check up on everyone.” Arya unhooked her bicycle
from the fence and walked it down the sidewalk, her free hand keeping hold on
her mobile. “How’s Yoren doing? And Hot Pie and the others?”
“Hot Pie’s a fine cook. An odd name he has, but he’s starting to get regular
customers comin’ in, so that’s nice. Your little friend Lommy is a great
busboy. Yoren keeps the place clean and the kids in line, and he’s got his own
place now, so all the children live with him.”
“That’s great,” said Arya.
“It is. They all want to start school too, but most of ‘em don’t even know how
to read well.”
Arya lit up with excitement. “I know someone who can help. His name’s Luwin,
he’s a teacher in Broughton. He doesn’t have family in the UK anymore, so he
could move out to Manchester if he needed to. He’s really good with kids. He’d
probably teach them all if you said they were my friends.”
“You’re sure about that?” asked Beric.
“Yeah. He took Jon and I in for Hanukkah, you can trust him.”
Beric laughed. “You’re popular for a homeless girl.”
Arya straightened her shoulders proudly. “It pays off.”
“It does.” Beric moved in his seat. The creak of his chair could be heard
through the phone. “I should tell you that I hired the other kid whose name you
gave me. Gendry Waters.”
Arya stopped walking. “Gendry,” she repeated. It felt good to say.
“He’s a good lad. Loyal lad. I hired him on the spot because I trusted your
judgment. I’m not disappointed.”
Arya smiled. Gendry and Yoren and Beric and all her friends, together, was a
brighter thought than most. “Is he there now?”
“No. Doesn’t come in until dinner.”
“Oh.” Arya shifted her feet. “You should tell him I said hi.”
“Will do. He misses you.” 
I miss him too. Arya shook her head to chase his memory away. “How’s Sandor? I
tried to call the jail and ask for him, but he wasn’t there.” 
Beric’s sigh was heavy. “No. He’s not.”
“Do you know where he is?” Arya’s heart beat faster. “I can pay his bail when
we get my dad’s inheritance in a month or so, and then… I don’t know. We’ll
have a lot of money. There’s gotta be something I can do.”
“I don’t think so, kid. No one knows where he is.”
Arya stopped walking again. “What do you mean?”
“We had contact with him up until about a week ago, but we haven’t been able to
get ahold of him since.” Beric cleared his throat. “I don’t know where they’ve
taken him.”
Arya didn’t say anything. She felt stupid, rasher than ever for killing Meryn
Trant and letting Sandor take the fall. If the Lannisters were targeting people
she cared about, they’d have an easy time with all her friends working at the
same bar. “Take care of each other,” she said quietly.
“We will. You keep your eye out, yeah?”
“You too.”
Arya hung up after a brief goodbye. Was Meryn Trant really important enough to
Cersei to kill Sandor in secret? Or was there something else going on?
She couldn’t think about it. Arya stored the grim possibilities away, saving
them for Jon and further research when she got home, and hopped on her bike.
One problem at a time.
The ride to work was peaceful. Just Arya, the frigid wind, random passersby and
Pearl Jam blasting through her earphones. Arya and Jon didn’t live very far
from The Theatre, the locally-owned bar she’d been hired at a few weeks past. A
ten-minute ride was all it took. Arya parked her bike near the bar’s back door
and stepped inside.
“You’re on the floor today, Mercy,” said Lady Crane as Arya grabbed her apron
and name tag. “You can take turns with Clarenzo for the bar when he gets here.”
“'Kay.” Arya stuffed her iPod in her pocket with her phone and slipped her
apron over her head.
“You alright, sweetheart?” asked Crane, a tall brunette with a kind face. “You
seem tired lately. I’m not overworking you, am I? I know uni can be quite hard
your first year.”
Arya shook her head. “No, Mrs. Crane. My brother’s just sick at home. His
coughing’s been keeping me up.” It wasn’t a total lie. Arya couldn’t come clean
about stalking and killing the Queen Mother’s trusted men over the past month,
so a half-truth would do. “Just grateful to have a job, really.”
“You’re sweet.” Lady Crane patter her arm. “Go on. Work hard, and maybe I’ll
let you off early.”
Eager to earn that dismissal, Arya set to work.
Taking and filling orders was easy. Time went by faster when she kept her mind
active. Arya served a few of The Theatre’s guests, thinking of puns to torture
Jon with and shows she wanted to catch up on. Hours passed. She came to the bar
to serve another round.
“Hey,” she said to a pair of new customers. Arya pulled out her notepad and
clicked the pen. “Welcome to The Theatre. What can I…”
She recognized the woman. Dark skin, braided hair. Littlefinger’s friend.
Across from her sat another woman Arya didn’t know, with short black hair and a
tattoo of a mountain on her upper arm. Arya froze. Both women stared at her,
seemingly oblivious. “I’ll have a mimosa,” said the black-haired woman. “And
some of those cheesy chips you sell here.”
“Fries,” corrected Littlefinger’s friend. “God. I can’t stand that you call
them chips.”
“Get over it, Mayana. You’ve lived in the UK long enough.”
“Mm-mm. I stick to my roots.” She flipped her many braids over her shoulder.
Arya watched her, half in disbelief, half in fear. Does she even know who I am?
“Actually, forget the mimosa,” said the other woman. “I think I just want
water.”
“Boo. I’ll have the mimosa, then.” Mayana looked at the menu. “I’ll have onion
rings too. Ranch on the side. And Mya wants a lemon in her water, but she
always forgets to say so.”
“Ugh, true.”
Arya blinked. She jotted down their orders, trying to act as normal as possible
while scrambling for a plan. “Anything else?” she asked quietly.
“No, that sounds good.”
“Okay.” Arya flipped her notepad shut. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She walked away as the women began to talk. Her stomach felt like it was
floating, unattached from her insides. Arya ripped the piece of paper with
their orders from her booklet and slid it back to the chef, drumming her
fingers on the counter. Should she say something? Do something? Put poison in
Mayana’s mimosa? Wouldn’t she love that, thought Arya with a grin. But it was
Littlefinger who deserved her rage. Arya couldn’t reach him without
information. She moved back to the bar and whipped up Mayana’s drink, pouring
the girl named Mya some lemon-flavored water. Mayana barely looked twice at
her. How does she not know who I am?
Arya rushed back to the kitchen when the bell rang with their food. She placed
it on their table and grabbed a rag, staying nearby under the guise of washing
tables to hear their conversation.
They were talking about Sansa.
“I don’t know, Mya. She’s really changed things.”
Arya slowed her movements. Mya took a drink of water. “I can tell. Petyr’s
weird now. Not in a bad way, but she’s really tamed him. I don’t think he
notices.”
“Oh, he does,” Mayana insisted. “He just denies it all the time.”
“Why? Is it really so bad to feel something for somebody?”
Mayana’s tone was burdened. “It is and it’s not. Pete’s gettin’ older, ya know?
He deserves to put all this behind him and hand the operation to me, so he can
actually live a life. Marry this girl. Settle down. But shitting on people,
hoarding money and being shady is all he knows how to do. And when you’re in
this line of work, you can’t afford to love people.”
Mya bit into a chip. “He loves you, though.”
Mayana laughed. “That’s different. I’m trained and I know the consequences of
this kind of life. But Sansa?” She fell silent for a moment. “If he lost that
girl, Mya, it’d tear the world apart. He’d be completely unhinged. And he’d say
it was all fine as the country was burning or he’s orchestrating some big war.”
“Jesus,” muttered Mya. “You really think so?”
“Yeah. You know the things he does on the regular. It’d be like that, but
worse. Much worse.”
Arya narrowed her eyes. Realizing she’d been idle for too long, she gathered up
the dirty dishes and walked them back to the kitchen for washing. The thought
of what she was missing frustrated her. She threw the dishes in the sink so she
could return to the bar. More customers, she thought with a huff, noticing the
strangers who’d taken seats, waiting to be served. Arya took their orders and
mixed a couple drinks, trying and failing to listen to Mayana from a distance.
Anticipation made her nauseous. The moment Clarenzo came in to take his shift,
Arya wordlessly shoved her orders in his hands. “Take the floor,” she panted,
“Crane’s orders. I’m at the bar.” Clarenzo didn’t argue. Arya took her rag to
find a spot by the counter again, remaining as inconspicuous as possible.
“Listen,” said Mya. “If Petyr’s really that crazy, are you sure she’s safe with
him? Lothor and I will always be his friends, but we worry about her. Everyone
does.”
Mayana’s answer was immediate. “There’s no safer place for her. Trust me.” She
leaned across the counter to touch her friend’s arm. “Here’s the thing no one
understands about Pete. The man’s stable. He’s just ruthless and a little
broken. And I know that sounds like it don’t make sense, but it does when you
know him like I do.” She pointed to the center of her chest. “He’s got this
hole in him. He keeps sayin’ he doesn’t, but he does, and now it’s filled with
Sansa. If he protects his money and himself so damn well, why wouldn’t he
protect her with just as much, if not more ferocity? He’d burn down nations to
keep her safe.” Mayana leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know. Maybe I just
understand him because I’ve known him so long.”
“I’m glad he has you,” said Mya. “Not just for his own well-being, but because
I know you’d kill him yourself if he went that far off the rails.”
“Damn right I would.”
Arya paused. The version of Littlefinger she was hearing about didn’t match
what she’d seen, what she’d grown to hate, and it angered her. Was Mayana
trying to fool this Mya person? It was impossible for her claims to be true.
The two women moved on to a different topic, but Arya wasn’t thrown off course.
She waited until they were done eating, serving them like the good little
waitress she was, and took their generous tip with gratitude.
Mya said her goodbyes to Mayana and left. Arya let her go; Mya was innocent as
far as she was concerned. Mayana stayed at the counter and sipped her drink,
one leg crossed over the other. Ten minutes passed. She checked her phone and
picked at the remaining chips, sitting there long after Mya was gone. What’s
her deal? Arya thought. Who’s she waiting for?
Another ten minutes ticked by before Mayana grabbed her purse and walked out.
Arya watched her through the windows until she disappeared. “I’m going on
break,” she told Clarenzo, throwing her rag and apron over a chair. She left
the building before her coworker could call her back.
The sun had set. The streets were cold, but Arya’s adrenaline kept her blood
warm. She followed Mayana from a safe distance. She dodged the woman’s backward
glances every so often, disappearing behind different objects to stay hidden.
Inch by inch, she worked her way closer.
Mayana turned down an empty alley. Quick as a snake. Arya slipped Needle from
her boot. When the opportunity came, she snatched Mayana by the arm and slammed
her against the concrete wall.
“I know who you are.” Arya held Needle tight against Mayana’s chest. “I know
who you work for.”
“You’ve got spirit.” Mayana smiled, amused instead of frightened. “You’re like
Sansa that way.”
Arya snarled. She lifted the blade. Mayana caught Arya's wrist and spun her
around, pinning her against the wall with her arm behind her back. “Hey!” Arya
shouted when Mayana yanked Needle from her hand. She was too restrained to
move. Mayana was taller, stronger and faster, and Arya wondered how the hell
she'd been disarmed so quickly.
“This is a cute blade,” said Mayana. “Don’t worry. You can have it back when
we’re done talking.” She placed Needle in her purse as if it belonged there.
“Can we do that? Talk? You don’t wanna fight me, I’m a killer in heels.”
“You don’t scare me,” spat Arya, turning to face her.
“No? That’s okay.” Mayana shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good thing. We’ll be living
together before too long.” She ignored Arya’s confusion and motioned for her to
follow. “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I — what? No!” Arya clenched her fists. “I don’t want your stupid food. You’ll
probably poison it.”
Mayana laughed. “You’re really not that smart, are you?” She leaned back
against the wall, but her expression was far less menacing than it should be.
Calm, controlled. Sympathetic.
“You work for Littlefinger,” said Arya.
“Yes.”
“You have my sister.”
“I know.” Mayana frowned. “Believe me, I’m not a fan of that whole setup. But
it’s how things have to be for now.”
Arya scoffed. “If you don’t like Littlefinger’s plans, why are you working for
him?”
“I have for most of my life. The man’s a complete asshole, but he’s like a
brother. I’d never betray him. As for Varys,” she said, crossing her arms over
her chest, “I take it you’re angry about that time I beat him up after he
blabbed to Cersei? That was nothing. I should have broken bones, but I didn’t.
I really like the guy.”
Arya felt like she was slipping on ice. Mayana was friendly, casual in the way
she spoke. Approachable. Arya tried to lunge for Mayana’s purse. The woman held
up a finger to stop her. “Nice try. We ain’t done talkin’ yet.”
“I heard you in there,” said Arya, angry all over again. “Talking about Sansa.”
“Of course I was. I had to bait you somehow. Did you think we had her locked up
in a dungeon or something?”
We? Arya shifted her feet. “Do you?” 
“Oh, Jesus.” Mayana pulled out her phone. She turned it to Arya when she’d
found a picture, a selfie with Sansa alongside another redhead and a blonde boy
Arya didn’t know. Sansa looked… happy. She was laughing while Mayana and the
others made ridiculous poses with makeup and hair products. “That’s from a
couple weeks ago,” said Mayana. She flipped to a photo of Sansa kissing the
blonde boy on the cheek. “Olyvar’s birthday,” she explained. “And this one’s
from five days ago.” Mayana showed Arya a picture of her and Sansa in a tight
embrace, cheeks pressed together, facing the camera with big smiles.
Arya was frazzled. “You — she—”
“She looks happy, right? Because she is.” Mayana pulled the phone away. Arya
almost asked to see more. “We love her. Me, Ros, Olyvar, even Littlefinger.”
“You mean Petyr?” shot Arya. “Petyr Baelish?”
Mayana blinked. “How do you—”
“Varys told me.” Arya wore a smug grin, having displaced her enemy. “He knows
his name’s Petyr and he knows where he’s from. And Varys says Petyr Baelish
only loves himself.”
Mayana clenched her jaw before shrugging off the shock. “Good. That’s exactly
what we want people to think.” She put her phone back in her purse in exchange
for Needle. Arya reached for it, but Mayana held it high. “Look, kiddo. I know
it’s hard to be away from your sister and I know it’s tough to see the big
picture. But we’re takin’ care of her. How can I explain it?” Mayana sighed.
“She’s kinda like our queen.”
“How can I trust you?” Arya demanded. “How do I know you’re not just using her
for my father’s money?”
Mayana rolled her eyes as if the whole notion of wanting money was a joke. “You
see this purse? Louis Vuitton. Two grand. I’m wearin’ Gucci and this jewelry’s
all fourteen-karat gold. We’re not havin’ money problems, girl. Even if we
were, Pete knows how to pull money outta thin air to replace what gets blown.”
“But—” Arya scrambled for offense, something to throw Mayana off and make her
admit she was lying. But there was nothing. Mayana couldn’t fake those
pictures, why would she? “But Sansa…”
Mayana put a hand on Arya’s shoulder. She flinched, but didn’t flee. “Sansa’s
okay. Varys doesn’t want to hear that because he thinks Pete’s some big
monster.” Mayana looked away in thought. “I mean, he’s not wrong. But Pete’s
not a Bolton-level monster, and he’s not a Lannister either.” She pulled her
hand away. “I’m glad you and your brother care enough about Sansa to keep
investigating. And you shouldn’t trust Petyr, so you’re already on the right
path. But you can trust me. I like you. In a couple weeks, we can all sit down
and talk this out. Until then…”
Mayana placed Needle back in Arya’s hands. She pulled a fifty-pound note from
her wallet and set it atop the blade. “Here’s an extra tip,” she said with a
wink. “See you soon.”
Mayana left, the click of her heels signaling a thousand doubts.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I'M BAAAAAAACK, i hope you all had a good holiday!! i did!
     things are getting kicked the hell OFF in this story omg. Next week's
     chapter is the last fluffy chapter you'll see for the rest of the
     fic. It's all downhill from chapter 20 lmfaoooo
     Mayana met Arya!! god idk what to say anymore I'm just so excited to
     finally, FINALLY come up on the actual PLOT DRAMA of this damn thing,
     i've spent so much time building this up, i'm ready for it to
     explode.
     see you saturday my loves!!
***** Cœur Divisé *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
      [heavy_shoulders;_trace] ◆ [in_the_mood;_glenn_miller] ◆ [heal;_tom
                                    odell]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                               14 FEBRUARY, 2017
Petyr never slept much, a bad habit for an older man. The wheels in his mind
never calmed enough to keep him under for very long. Valentine’s Day was no
different. Petyr woke before the sun. He rolled over in bed, making sure Sansa
was still asleep before he left her side. A shower and a cup of coffee tided
him over until sunrise. He stood on the balcony to watch the horizon, and when
the sun crested over the skyline, Petyr returned indoors to shake away the
cold.
He sat on the edge of the bed, at Sansa’s side. She was beautiful when she
slept, eyes peacefully closed, red hair covering her naked body where the
blanket left her exposed. He moved her hair from her shoulder and touched her
bare skin. She was warm under his palm. His fingers traced her shoulder blade
like a feather. Sansa was a work of art; every time he looked at her, there was
something new to admire.
Petyr didn’t know how long he stayed there. When his stomach began to growl, he
left Sansa in favor of food. He ordered room service for both of them and put
Sansa’s meal in the fridge, for whenever she woke. He pulled out his laptop and
typed several emails over breakfast, scanning through the news and picking out
headlines of interest. A few pictures of Sansa shopping with Renly and Loras
had made the spotlight. And the Stark children have been busy, Petyr noted,
reading another name of a murdered agent Cersei kept close: Balon Swann. Varys
had better warn those two to be careful, thought Petyr, before I have to
intervene.
Petyr was grateful when he heard Sansa stir. She yawned, a little squeal that
made him grin, and padded into the room. Sansa was wearing one of the bathrobes
tied loosely around her waist, messy hair falling every which way. She smiled
when she saw him. Petyr returned it, leaning back in his chair and opening his
arms for her. “Good morning, my dear.”
Sansa crawled onto Petyr’s lap. He smirked in that dark way of his, but Sansa
couldn’t see, preferring to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his
neck. “Good morning,” she grumbled. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty,” said Petyr. “You slept in.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Sansa yawned again. “Renly and Loras took me
shopping at the Champs-Élysées yesterday. I was so tired when I got back.”
“Shopping with Renly Baratheon can be tiresome.”
“Mhm. We had a lot of fun though.”
“I'm glad.” His hand traveled down her body, resting on her upper thigh and
sliding beneath the robe. “You wouldn’t be wearing anything under this, would
you?”
“No,” laughed Sansa. “I didn’t feel like getting dressed.” She placed her hand
over his and pushed it down, away from her hips, to his disdain. “Not now. We
have plans today.”
Petyr sighed. “Go on, then. Take a shower and get dressed. We should leave here
within an hour.”
Sansa planted a kiss on his cheek and slid off his lap. She walked to the
bedroom. Petyr felt cold in her absence.
While Sansa took her time getting ready, Petyr changed into something casual,
rolling up the sleeves of a button-down shirt and buckling a belt around
khakis. Leather shoes, a gray peacoat. He combed his hair and dabbed a bit of
cologne on his neck, Sansa’s favorite, and left the suite to smoke a cigarette
on the balcony while he waited for her. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He
retrieved it, reading obnoxious “happy V-day” messages from his three employees
in the group text. He shook his head. Didn’t they know him? Petyr wasn’t a man
for love. He was celebrating the holiday for Sansa’s happiness; it was too
dangerous to be anything more.
“What do you think?” called Sansa from inside. Petyr snuffed out his cigarette
and returned to her. Sansa twirled in a white blouse tucked into a floral
skirt, mary janes, a double-breasted coat. And the diamond earrings, thought
Petyr, she never forgets those.
“You look beautiful, my love. As always.” Petyr shoved his wallet in his pocket
and placed one hand on her hip. “We should leave before I’m tempted to take all
these pretty clothes off of you.”
Sansa laughed. She took him by the arm and led him from the room, clutching a
to-do list in her hand.
Sansa’s first stop was the Eiffel Tower. She’d admired it from a distance but
had yet to see it up close, so Petyr took her there, climbing the tower steps
and listening to her gush over the view. They walked through the crowd to the
highest level. Sansa snapped pictures with her phone in each direction. Petyr
leaned against the rail and waited, gazing casually over the skyline while she
fussed over Instagram filters. “Hold on,” she said, “we can go in a minute. I
wanna get a selfie from up here.” Sansa turned the camera. She took a few
pictures of herself with the view in the background.
“Why not have me take a picture of you?” asked Petyr. “The angle might be
better.”
Sansa lowered her phone with a cheeky grin. “Or, you know, you could just take
a picture with me.”
So that had been her plan. Petyr snorted. “I try to stay out of the media,
sweetling.”
“The only pictures we have of us together are from the gala.” Sansa slipped her
arm around his torso, inside his coat. “It’s Valentine’s Day. We should have
more.”
Petyr damned his romanticism, a part of him that refused to die. He supposed
there was merit to having a picture with Sansa. Telling the world she was his,
telling their enemies they were united. He pulled her close. “Take your
picture, then. But I can’t promise I will behave.” He cupped her cheek and
kissed the other, her jaw, the side of her neck as she giggled. Sansa allowed
him to keep kissing her until she pulled away, eyeing him with playful
condemnation.
“We’re in public,” she said.
“Did you get the picture you wanted?” Petyr curled her hair behind her ear.
“Show me.”
Petyr caught the suspicious stare of an older couple watching them. He wrapped
his arm around Sansa’s waist, smirking when the onlookers cringed and left.
“Here,” said Sansa. She showed him the photo. Sansa was beaming mid-laugh,
Petyr’s mouth pressed to the corner of her jaw, the Paris horizon behind them.
“I can put filters on it, too.” She swiped the screen. Dog ears sprouted from
her head and a long tongue from her smile.
“What is that?” asked Petyr in disgust. “Is this Snapchat? I’ve seen Mayana do
this before.”
“Oh, yeah. She loves putting different filters on you. She takes pictures when
you aren’t paying attention and puts them in her story.”
Petyr sighed. Sansa saved the picture in its original form and slipped her
phone in her pocket, her hand in his. She led him down the stairs, telling him
that L’Arc de Triomphe was next on her list, and he went with her, encouraging
her happiness.
Sansa became quite the experienced tourist in a matter of hours. She took him
to all the landmarks she wanted to see: Sacré-Cœur, Montmartre, Palais
Garnier and more. She bought a rosary from Notre Dame and fawned over the
stained glass windows of the Sainte-Chapelle. Petyr couldn’t remember the last
time he’d seen Paris as a tourist. Whenever he travelled it was always for
business, but the city held a charming beauty even he couldn't ignore. The
lovers grabbed a late lunch in the Luxembourg Gardens and toured an art museum
before the sun set. They returned to the hotel to change into clothes more
appropriate for fine dining. A suit absent of a tie for him, a tight knee-
length dress for her, black with a gold belt around her waist. She looked
stunning, beyond her young age, a wealthy twenty-something mistress with a man
to call her own. It wasn't far from the truth.
Petyr had reservations at Pierre Gagnaire, one of the finest restaurants in
downtown Paris. Holding Sansa's wrapped gift in one hand and her waist in the
other, Petyr followed the waiter to their seats, a table for two by the window
and wine display. Petyr pulled out Sansa’s chair for her and sat down to glance
over the menu.
“Petyr,” Sansa whispered from across the table. She seemed embarrassed,
pointing to the menu so only he could see. “I can’t read French.”
Petyr chuckled. He stood, leaning over her shoulder to translate the meals
Sansa pointed to. “This is lamb. That’s veal. And this one is…” He leaned back
a bit, so the words would come into focus. “Uh, lobster. It’s lobster.”
Sansa faced him. “Are you having trouble reading?”
“No,” he lied. “The font on the menu is difficult.”
“Is not.” Sansa’s smile was wry. “You need reading glasses, don’t you? You’ve
been squinting all day at street signs and brochures, and your laptop has
larger text than it used to.”
Petyr ground his teeth. Sansa was wholly amused by the idea of him needing
glasses. She was too observant for her own good. “You’d better watch yourself,
young lady. The older I am, the more inappropriate it is for me to be with
you.”
“You’ve never cared about being appropriate.”
“No,” said Petyr. “I haven’t.” He kissed her temple and returned to his seat,
ignoring her laughter when he had to hold the menu away from his face just to
read what was there.
The first courses were brought to them. Sansa raved about the meats and
cheeses, the wine, the desserts that followed. Petyr talked with her over a
wide range of subjects, from the things they’d seen on their day out to the
list of places Sansa had yet to visit. Petyr saw no harm in indulging her. They
wouldn’t be able to spend time together like this once her birthday came and
went. Sansa continued to marvel over the little Parisian wonders that had
charmed her, and Petyr listened, wondering if she would cling to how she felt
now through the hardships to come.
“Oh,” said Petyr after their meals were finished. “I almost forgot.” He pushed
her gift across the table to her. “For you.”
“It’s not expensive, is it?” asked Sansa with a little frown. “You know how I
feel about that.”
“And you know how I insist.” Petyr motioned to the box. “Open it.”
As expected, Sansa loved the ruby teardrop necklace she found wrapped in pink
paper, and thanked him no matter how uncomfortable she may have been. Petyr
took a moment to admire how it looked on her, the gold complimenting her skin
and hair, before pulling out his wallet and handing his credit card to the
waiter.
“I have a present for you too,” said Sansa.
Petyr hesitated. “You didn’t have to get anything, my dear.”
“I know. But you’ve done so much for me, so I wanted to return the favor.
Besides, we're together. It’s fair.” Sansa’s smile was innocent. Did she not
know the things she’d done for him already?
From her clutch, Sansa retrieved a small box and handed it to him. Petyr
unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a pair of brass collar stiffeners engraved
with her signature. Petyr sat still, dumbfounded, staring at her present like
it was a wired bomb he could disarm.
“I couldn’t think of a message to put on them,” she said. “So I signed my name.
I hope that’s okay.”
Petyr would have accepted a pricey watch or tie with gratitude, but being
reminded of Sansa’s feelings was almost too much. Red flags shot up in his
mind.
He accepted her gift anyway.
“Thank you,” said Petyr with a small grin. “This is very sweet.” He pulled the
collar stays he was wearing from his shirt and replaced them with Sansa’s,
admiring the loops and curves of her signature before slipping them under his
collar. She was smiling when he looked at her.
“Good?” he asked.
“Good,” she confirmed.
When the waiter returned with his credit card, Petyr stood and offered his hand
to Sansa. The couple left the restaurant and returned to the hotel in a hired
cab.
Sansa kicked off her heels when Petyr opened the suite door, and she skipped
into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. She hopped up on the
counter with a silly grin.
“Sex in the kitchen?” Petyr teased, tossing his jacket on the table and
approaching her. “We’ve already done that. But if this is what you want…” He
spread his hands over her thighs and kissed her neck, pulling her close to him.
Sansa playfully pushed him away.
“Can’t I drink water without you making a move on me?” Sansa crossed her legs,
frustrating him on purpose. “I want to wash my face and change first. Once
we’re in bed, you won’t let me leave.”
Petyr laughed against her shoulder. “Smart girl.” He cupped her cheek, brushing
it with his thumb, wondering how he’d been so lucky to find someone to satisfy
him. “Take your time. I’ll be outside.”
“Okay.”
Petyr moved away. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and his lighter, and opened
the balcony doors.
An outdoor chaise lounge was a comfortable place to enjoy the view. He sat down
and lit a cigarette, leaning back while the smoke floated through the air. He
thought of anything other than the beautiful girl getting ready for him. Anyone
but Sansa. Petyr closed his eyes to rest.
After a time, he heard Sansa open and close the balcony door. Her shadow
crossed over his eyes. Petyr grinned when he felt her touch his shoulders,
working the muscles in a slow massage. He groaned and leaned further back into
her touch. “That feels wonderful, Sansa. Keep going.”
Her thumbs worked hard circles on the back of his shoulders and Petyr grimaced
despite how good it hurt. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” said Petyr. “Just the pains of age. You had me walking all over Paris
today.”
“Oh, you poor man,” mocked Sansa. “I remember you coming along quite happily.”
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint the lady.”
Petyr heard her smile. He continued to smoke, opening his eyes every few
moments to watch the stars before closing them again. Sansa massaged his
shoulders with near-expert practice. He groaned here and there to encourage her
attention to a certain spot. When his cigarette was done, Petyr flicked the end
in an ash tray and reached back to take Sansa’s hand in his. Her skin was cold.
He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. “That’s enough, sweetling. You
don’t want to tire your hands.”
“If you say so,” she replied. He felt her other hand move through his hair.
“Can I sit with you?”
“Of course.” He led her around the chaise by the hand. Sansa was bundled up in
a blanket, wearing the fuzzy bathrobe she liked so much, curled red hair
spilling over her shoulders. Sansa sat between Petyr's legs and leaned back
against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her, the other toying mindlessly
with her hair, feeling warm from more than just the contact. A few tender
moments passed.
“Can I ask you something?” said Sansa quietly.
“Anything."
“I wanted to talk to you. About, um… about the past.”
Petyr narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Sansa curled her fingers around his. “You bought that book. And the scars, and
Chicago and my mother…”
Petyr scoffed. The sound was bitter.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have to, I just — you deserve to have someone to talk to.”
She squeezed his hand tighter. Petyr leaned his head back and sighed. It would
be easy to crush her, to be so cruel that she'd never ask again, but Petyr felt
like he owed her an explanation. Sansa had been open with him. If he wanted to
keep her, she would require that courtesy in return.
“Ask,” he said, “but be specific. I don’t want to repeat myself.” Petyr lit
another cigarette. He would need one.
Petyr could tell Sansa was nervous, feeling her tension under the robe and
blanket she covered herself with. She sat up from his embrace, tapping his
thigh so he would scoot over. Sansa sat on the edge of the chair as he stayed
reclined. She looked down at him with sympathy. He felt like a child. “You
bought that book,” said Sansa. “Recovery After Rape. Normally I wouldn’t ask,
but with the UN conference and all, I wondered if that was why you were
interested in coming here. Women aren’t the only victims.”
Even here, even with Sansa, Petyr’s instinct was to shut her away. “We came
because it was important that I meet with certain people,” he said. “The nature
of the conference was a coincidence.”
“Oh.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap, wringing her fingers. Petyr blew smoke
from his mouth. He flicked the hanging ashes of his cigarette on the ground.
“Twice.”
“Hm?”
“It happened twice.” Petyr didn’t want her to see his discomfort, so he didn’t
look at her. “Maybe more.”
“Who?” she asked softly.
“Your aunt Lysa.”
It sounded ridiculous to confess out loud. Ros insisted that what happened was
valid rape, and Petyr believed her, but to say so felt wrong. He was never
beaten, never tortured like Sansa, never broken. Lysa was just mentally
unstable. It didn’t count.
He realized his fist had been clenched and released it.
“My aunt?” said Sansa in shock. “I… I don’t really remember her.”
“You wouldn’t. I pushed her out a window when you were young.”
Sansa didn’t say anything. She was waiting for him to continue. Petyr crossed
his ankles and folded one arm over his chest, closed off, while the other held
his still-burning cigarette. “I was fifteen. Your grandparents went out
together, all four of them. The Starks had come to visit after Cat and your
father announced their engagement, so Edmure held a party while they were gone.
All the brats in our school were there. Little else to do in small Irish
towns.” Petyr cleared his throat, staring down at the patterns on the balcony
floor. He could still remember the music. The beer pong, the laughter. “I
thought I loved your mother, Sansa. Teenage infatuation. I was distraught that
she’d chosen Ned Stark over me, so I drank. I kept drinking until I passed out.
I woke up the next morning in your aunt’s bed, naked and terrified. It didn’t
take much to piece together what happened.”
He felt Sansa’s hand on his knee. Petyr still didn’t look at her, taking a
breath and shrugging off the memory like it wasn’t real. “After I was
stabbed by your uncle, I stayed in the hospital. Lysa came again. Hospitals are
much nicer now than they were in the 80s, much better security. I don’t know
how many times I blacked out from the morphine and woke up to find her there.
Going on about how we should get married, how we had a child, some fantasy.
There was no child in the end. Hoster made her have an abortion when he found
out I was the father.”
Sansa covered her mouth. Petyr laughed bitterly.
“Don’t pity me. I’d be a terrible father, and that would’ve been a terrible
child, coming from Lysa.” Petyr didn’t consider the idea for more than a
second. “No one came to collect me from the hospital. I had nowhere to go, so I
lived on the streets for a year.” He rolled up his sleeve to show her the scars
of drug abuse she’d seen before. “Heroin was nice. Cocaine was nicer. But after
a year, I learned that dealing drugs was far better than using. Six months
later, I ran every drug ring in Dublin.”
“As a teenager?” asked Sansa.
“I always had a talent for business.” He smirked to downplay the subject
matter. “America had better opportunities, though, and Ireland had nothing for
me after your mother moved to England, so I went to Chicago, where my father
was from. Left my name behind. I met Mayana there, had some fun with American
politics, got in good with the Clintons, covered up some scandals. The Bush
administration was far less exciting. After Bill left office, I took Mayana and
my money to London. It was good timing. A few months after we left, two
hijacked planes demolished the World Trade Center and changed America.  I never
moved back.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I bought the manor, opened the
Mockingbird, met Ros and Olyvar, and the rest is history.”
Petyr finally looked at Sansa. In her eyes was the glisten of tears. “Did mum
know about all this?” she asked quietly. “Is that why she kept inviting you to
our holiday parties? Is that why you never came?”
Petyr placed his hand over hers. “Don’t cry, sweetling. It’s in the past. It’s
nothing to me.”
“It’s something to me.” Sansa squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Petyr snuffed out his cigarette and sat upright. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your
fault.”
“It wasn’t yours either.”
Petyr’s chest twisted. It felt like pain. It felt like danger. “Sansa—”
She came forward and embraced him. No kisses, nothing sexual. Nothing but a
hug. Petyr’s shoulders relaxed when she held him and gently rubbed his back.
“Thank you for sharing with me,” said Sansa. “I’m really glad you did.”
Petyr should scold her. He should yell at her, at himself, for daring to let
feelings become real. He’d taken Sansa under his wing to fuck her and teach
her, and now what was he doing? Both, and too much more.
Sansa’s phone rang inside the suite. “That’s probably Jeyne,” she said, “I
should answer that.” Sansa kissed his cheek. He said nothing as she walked
away, taking all the warmth with her when she closed the door.
Petyr felt cold. Confused. He rubbed his hands together and stared out to the
horizon, the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the star-studded skyline. Power was
the focus of all he’d done, from the drugs and money to the politics and death.
But on its own, it was nothing. Sansa took his power whenever she left the
room, and brought it back when she returned.
He pulled out his phone to send a message to Mayana. Not good.
Her response was immediate. oh god what happened? don’t tell me you fucked it
up
Had he? Petyr didn’t send a reply, but Mayana had more to say.
You love her, don't you?
Petyr stared at the screen. Mayana sent another text. 
How are you just now figuring that out?
He scoffed. Mayana’s know-it-all sass wasn’t appreciated. Petyr tossed his
phone on the chaise lounge, not caring if it froze overnight. He’d buy a new
one.
Petyr stepped inside the suite and closed the door. Sansa was pacing, twirling
a copper curl around her index finger, on the phone with Jeyne. She hadn’t
noticed him enter the room. “Then he took me to a really nice restaurant, and
oh my God, the food was amazing.” Sansa paused as Jeyne spoke. “I know! He’s
such a romantic. He bought me this beautiful necklace, I’ll send you a picture
tomorrow. Then we came back here and had a good talk. I just… agh. He’s good to
me.” Sansa paused again. Petyr didn’t care that he was missing half the
conversation; hers was the half that mattered. “Maybe I do. I don’t know. I’m
just really happy.”
There was a rarity, indeed. He’d made someone happy. He’d made her happy.
Petyr knew what was ahead of them. The Boltons and Lannisters, the siblings
he’d hidden, the fortune, the future. The beginning of the end, or so it could
be. He could lose her.
I could lose her.
Sansa saw him, and her smile died. Petyr had failed to hide what he was
feeling. Sansa spoke into the phone, not breaking away from his gaze.
“Yeah. Thanks for calling, Jeyne. I’m gonna go.” Sansa chuckled — Petyr figured
Jeyne had encouraged something particularly delicious, but he wasn’t in the
mood to ask. “We will. Love you too.”
Sansa hung up. She placed her phone on the table, cautious in her movements,
almost afraid. “You’re, um… you’re not upset with me, are you?” she asked. “I’m
sorry if I was pushy about things.”
Petyr shook his head. His voice was raw. “You didn’t push me, Sansa. I am a man
of few limits.”
“You’re upset, though.” Sansa hugged herself. “I know you.”
She did. Petyr hated that such was true. He watched her walk to him, reaching
out to hold her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, drowned
in her eyes. Long ago, he thought he’d be the anchor that held her down. But
anchors were the ones that stayed submerged, weren’t they?
He loved her. He was in love with her, he had been for a while, he would be
forever.
“I’m not upset,” he told her honestly, “so long as you are mine.”
She rested her hands on his chest. “I am.”
His. It was safer to call her a possession. Love was danger. Love was grief.
He kissed her tenderly. Petyr wanted to devour her, consume her, corrupt her to
make loving her more bearable. He pulled the ties of her robe open and slid it
down her shoulders, palms gliding over her bare skin to touch what was his.
Sansa wasn’t wearing pajamas under her robe. Just lingerie, a crimson push-up
bra, half see-through with lace patterns and matching panties. Petyr chuckled
under his breath. “What’s this?” he asked, resting a hand on her hip, eyes
never leaving her body.
“A present.” Sansa smiled in that shy little way of hers. It aroused him more
than her attire. “Ros helped me pick it out. I thought you’d like it.” She
curled her hair behind her ear and bounced on her heels. “It’s Valentine’s day,
so…”
“Yes, very nice.” He caressed Sansa’s breasts over the lace and leaned in to
kiss her neck. He crouched before her and moved his lips down her stomach,
feeling her laugh. He turned her around to grip her ass in his hands, loving
the way it looked in red lace, kissing one cheek and smacking the other. A
perfect distraction from his plight. “Lay down,” he ordered. “You’ve earned
some special attention tonight.”
Sansa moved to the bed, a big, girlish grin on her face when she laid on her
back. Petyr stood between her legs and marveled at the sight of her. Red hair
spilled over white sheets and skin, pretty lace, a slender figure, lower lip
between her teeth. Blue eyes were half-open with desire. “You are so
beautiful,” he told her in earnest, making it sound like lust instead of love.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“I think so.” Sansa lifted her slender legs parallel to his body and rested her
ankles on his shoulders. Petyr turned to kiss one. “Someone keeps telling me.”
Petyr pulled his sweater over his head and tossed it to the floor, capturing
her mouth mid-smile. Their kiss roughened when she unbuckled his belt and
pushed down his trousers. He crawled over Sansa and ground against her, rubbing
himself against the damp lace between her thighs. Sansa hummed in delight. He
held her hands above her head and pressed kiss after kiss down the center of
her body, down until he reached her stomach and yanked her underwear from her
hips. He hooked his thumbs under her knees and pushed her legs up and apart,
burying his face between them.
God, he loved this. Petyr could feel Sansa quivering under him, his tongue
flicking her clit and tasting what he craved, giving as good as he got. Every
relentless move of his mouth made her whimper and moan. Being an animal kept
him far from being a man in love. His tongue lapped at every inch of her,
drinking her in, not stopping until she begged him to. He kissed her pink flesh
and curls and inner thighs before coming up to claim her mouth. They kissed, a
mix of harsh and sweet until Petyr couldn’t stand how hard he was anymore,
driven mad by his need to prove he still owned his heart, dead as it was. He
laid down on his side and pulled Sansa’s back against his chest. One arm hooked
under her neck, the other guided himself inside her from behind.
Sansa moaned when he entered her. She was warm, so slick and tight that Petyr
cursed into her neck. He kissed her jaw and growled possessively as he thrust
into her. Sansa’s little sounds were intoxicating. Light and honeyed and drawn
by him, small sighs of ecstasy that built higher with each push. Her body
hugged his cock and he cradled her in his arms, turning her head with his free
hand to kiss her. He reached between them to unhook her bra, throwing it off
the bed, caressing her and hissing against the nape of her neck. His name fell
from her lips. Sansa smiled, he could hear it in her sigh. He hugged her close
and pumped into her, face buried in her neck and hair, savoring her like a
champion’s prize.
Petyr was normally talkative in bed. Not tonight. Few words were exchanged
between them but the usual, fuck and God and yes and please, and it kept his
feelings concealed. Sansa spread her legs when he reached between them. She
adjusted on her back as Petyr fucked her from the side, half-hovering over her
and circling the ball of nerves at the top of her sex.
And he loved her, still. Here, when it was just the two of them, he could be
hers without saying so, and pretend their love was normal.
Sansa came with another few strokes, a mess of shakes and cries in his arms.
She trembled when he pulled her close, touching her in whatever way he could to
help her through her peak. When the high fell, Sansa held his face and smiled
so innocently that he could almost mistake her for an innocent girl.
Petyr paused to let her catch her breath, brushing his face against her neck.
His mustache tickled her and Sansa giggled. Petyr stayed inside her, moving
slowly to keep the friction but not fast enough to overwhelm her. “My girl,” he
praised. “Sansa, you’re perfect.”
She only laughed. It made his chest ache. Petyr changed positions and moved her
leg over his shoulder, climbing on top of her and thrusting deep. Sansa cupped
his face and kissed him.
Petyr settled on his knees to push faster, to own her. He slipped his tongue
between her teeth to swallow her sighs and drink them down. Sansa's body
tensed. He knew she was close again. Petyr was barely able to keep off the
brink himself, but he fucked her until she was gasping, clinging to him, her
nails in his back and countless moans between them. Her muscles squeezed his
cock when she came a second time and drained him of pleasure too, a climax so
hard he gripped the sheets in the balls of his fists, fiery rakes dragging down
his back and to his toes. He was left breathless. Sansa was much the same, and
he collapsed beside her to collect himself.
There was nothing but their breathing for a while. Both exhausted, struggling
to catch what they’d lost, but in that weakness he succumbed. Petyr grabbed
Sansa’s robe from the floor and gently wiped her clean. He tossed it aside to
pull her in his arms. They shared many kisses.
And damn him, but he loved her still.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                               15 FEBRUARY, 2016
Cigarette smoke hung in the morning air. Petyr ignored the buzz of his phone
and distant sounds of life as Paris awoke. Margaery stood beside him with a cup
of coffee, leaning against the rail of her apartment balcony. The crisp, cold
dawn didn’t seem to bother her. Petyr caught the smirk in her eye.
“It’s strange,” she said, watching him closely. “I can’t remember the last time
we met and didn’t fuck.”
“Neither can I.” He briefly thought back to those fond memories. Hypersexual as
he was, Margaery held no intimate interest for him anymore. Petyr’s desire was
all for Sansa. “Sorry to have broken our tryst. I did enjoy it, while it
lasted.”
“Oh, no. Don’t be sorry.” Margaery flashed him a perfect smile. “I’m glad you
found someone, Littlefinger. I truly am.” She sipped her coffee. “Poor thing’s
probably worn out. I only had you for a week at a time. I can’t imagine dealing
with you every day.”
Petyr chuckled. “Sansa never complains. She’s a good girl.”
“I’m sure she is.” Margaery winked. “But you didn’t come to Paris to talk about
your love life.”
Petyr shook his head, grimly.
“What’s this about, then?” Margaery set her mug on the ledge of the railing.
“Why see me in person, in secret? Why not send an email or leave a message?”
“I wasn’t sure of my next move until recently. The information is sensitive.”
Petyr faced her. “I told you about Varys, yes?”
“You did. How does he know your name?”
“I don’t know.” Petyr flexed his fist and released. “I shouldn’t be so
surprised. He has ears everywhere.”
“So do you,” said Margaery.
Petyr drew from his cigarette, eyes cast out to the rising sun. “He told the
Starks.”
“The other two, you mean?” Margaery sighed after Petyr nodded. “When you told
me to smuggle Jon into London, I figured Varys would make a move for him. I was
shocked to hear that Arya was alive, though. Jon spoke so highly of her. As
much as I adore plotting with you, I am glad they found each other.”
“As am I. It works in my favor.”
“Does it?” asked Margaery. “You still have to explain it to Sansa.”
Petyr turned his back to the skyline and leaned on the rail, frustrated, arms
folded with his cigarette cradled between two fingers. “My main concern is the
coming month. Roose Bolton and the Lannisters aren’t going to act until Sansa
turns eighteen, and when she does, everything could come undone.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Not yet. They’ve been irritatingly silent. Cersei and Roose have had meetings,
I’m sure they’re working together, but I’ve been kept in the dark.” Petyr’s lip
twitched. “If Varys hadn’t told them about Ramsay, I would have an ear in their
conversations.”
“Is that why you came here?” asked Margaery. “To ask me to spy for you? Cersei
despises me, Littlefinger. Ever since you and Grandmother killed Joffrey, she’s
wanted nothing to do with me. I spoke out in Tyrion's defense.”
“I know. It would be a disaster if she found out the truth.” Petyr’s phone
buzzed again. He reached in his pocket and pressed the button for silence. “No,
that’s not why I came here. I don’t need another spy. Cersei doesn’t know I’m
onto her, so there may still be hope in getting her to come to me behind
Roose’s back. You have a much more important part to play.”
“Aw, Littlefinger. I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.”
Margaery playfully touched his arm, leaning closer to him. “What’s my role?”
Petyr snuffed out his dying cigarette in an ash tray nearby. He placed a hand
on her shoulder. “I need you to keep the United Nations out of my business.”
Her expression fell to concern. “Why?”
“The death of the Queen Mother and Home Secretary so close to all the other
murders will start to raise questions. I need the UN to be silenced.  I can’t
have any outside investigations happening while I’m trying to take care of
business.”
“They could help, you know.” Margaery placed her hand on his arm. A gesture of
alliance. “I know people who wouldn’t ask questions, who could help you take
your enemies down.”
“Too risky. I can’t afford to bring new people into the fray, not now.” He took
her hand in his and kissed her knuckles politely. “I appreciate your concern,
Margaery, and your continued help. Sansa appreciates it too, though she doesn’t
quite know the scope of things.”
“Yet,” said Margaery. She pulled her hand away. “I’ll do what I can. Just
promise to take care of this, and let me know if I can assist you further.”
Margaery passed him and reentered her living room, exchanging slippers for a
pair of heels and grabbing her keys. “Would you like to accompany me to the
seminar? I’m giving a lecture on the importance of domestic violence shelters
for homeless victims. I’m hoping the American ambassadors will pay attention.”
“My day is booked from here on out.” Petyr stepped into the room. “Sansa wants
to tour the city more.”
“Oh, right.” Margaery grabbed her purse and positioned it over her shoulder.
She stood by the door with her hand on the knob, and paused. “Can I ask you
something, Littlefinger?”
Petyr leaned against the wall, hands folded. “Ask.”
“Will you ever tell me your name?”
If anyone outside his trusted circle deserved to know Petyr’s name, it was
Margaery Tyrell. But his personal rule couldn’t be broken. Petyr shook his
head. “No.”
“But Sansa knows it, at least?”
“She does.”
Margaery’s smile was peculiar, somewhere between relief and sorrow. “I’m glad.
She’s a special person, Littlefinger. A strong one. I hope you make each other
happy.”
Don’t hurt her. Petyr read Margaery’s warning through her offered blessing, and
appreciated both. “I hope the same,” he admitted, unsure if such was true.
Chapter End Notes
     it's pretty much a downhill fall from this point on, welcome to hell
     :)
     and as always, your support means everything to me. thank you so
     much.
***** Players and Pieces *****
Chapter Notes
                              soundtrack choice:
                    [welcome_to_the_jungle;_guns_n'_roses]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 2 MARCH, 2017
Arya glared at her sister’s Instagram. She studied a picture Sansa’s laugh,
Littlefinger’s mouth on her neck, the Paris horizon behind them. The photo had
been posted on Valentine's Day and captioned with a heart. Arya remembered
Mayana’s protective words, how Varys had been treated, the confusion that
overcame her when Littlefinger got involved. And it made her angry.
“You should stop lookin’ at that,” said Jon. He touched her shoulder across the
back seat. “It's not good for you.”
“I hate him.” Arya closed Sansa’s Instagram and shoved her phone in her pocket.
“He’s a liar and he’s disgusting.”
Jon sighed. They’d been over this half a hundred times, but Arya never
listened, choosing to be spiteful because it was easier. She folded her arms
across her chest, watching trees and city buildings blur by as Varys drove down
the freeway. The car fell silent, as silent as it could be while Arya fumed.
Meeting Littlefinger face-to-face would not be fun.
“Not a lively pair today, are you?” asked Varys from the driver’s seat. He took
an exit off the M25 toward downtown London.
“Arya’s a bit tense,” said Jon. “She might come to blows before Littlefinger
says a word.”
“He will undoubtedly have people present who can prevent that.” Varys smiled
sadly to Arya in the rearview mirror. “You can fight him at a later time, I’m
sure.”
“I just hate that he made us wait so long.” Arya propped her feet on the back
of the passenger seat and sank down to pout. “I hate that he holds Sansa up
like a carrot or something. We’re not animals and she’s not bait.”
“I know.” Varys took a right turn down a dimly-lit street. It was well past
closing time for most shops and bars, but Littlefinger’s place never slept,
according to Varys. “Perhaps you can make your case when we meet with him.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Arya frowned. “Aren’t you nervous at all? He said he’d kill
you.”
Varys’s laugh was unexpected. “I know Littlefinger better than most. He won’t
kill me.” Varys paused at a stoplight and turned to Arya over his shoulder. “We
have a complimentary relationship, he and I. We could have killed each other
long ago, but without a viable and constant enemy, who would I fight? I enjoy
being the thorn is his side. I’m sure he enjoys being the thorn in mine.”
“And the enemy of our enemy is our friend,” said Jon. Arya felt like a child
being scolded. “We want the Lannisters an’ Boltons gone. He wants them gone
too. If we work together, we can have Sansa back and make sure we’re all safe.”
Arya rolled her eyes. She settled deeper into her little ball of rage and
stared out the window again. “It’s never that easy.”
The ride was quiet from then on. Arya didn’t move from her curled up position
until Varys turned down a narrow alley off the main road. She perked up at the
sight of a single red lamp next to a maintenance door. Varys parked close to
the wall and turned off the engine. “I’ve told you what this place is, haven’t
I?”
“No.” Arya pressed her hand against the window and peered out. “Why’s that
light red?” Jon stared at her flatly. It dawned on her. “Gross! Isn’t that
illegal?”
Varys snorted. “So is harboring fugitives and killing cabinet members. I think
we’re a little past the point of judgment, aren’t we?”
Arya didn’t like that comparison. She hopped out of the car and tugged a beanie
hat over her blue hair, partially to keep warm, mostly to stay unrecognized.
The deep bass of club music broke through like thunder claps when Varys opened
the door and ushered the siblings inside.
A run-down passage made up the establishment’s back entrance. At the end of the
hall stood Mayana Washington, smiling with dark red lips.
“Varys,” greeted Mayana. She came forward, taller than all of them, and
examined Varys’s face. “Oh, good. I didn’t break your nose?”
“No, no. You were most generous.”
“Cool.” Mayana offered her hand to Jon. “My name is—”
“Ms. Washington,” said Jon, shaking her hand warily. “Arya told me about you.”
“Of course she did.”
Arya didn’t like being in Mayana’s presence, but it was better than
Littlefinger’s would be. She shrugged when Mayana waved at her.
“Follow me,” said Mayana. “It’s Thursday so it’s not too busy, but stay close
to me anyway. Especially you.” Mayana pointed to Arya. She hated being treated
like a kid, but she understood the danger when Mayana opened the brothel door.
The music was so loud that Arya felt it in her stomach, the bump, bump, bump of
a suggestive bass. A range of diverse men and women, some scantily clad, some
naked entirely, swung around poles or giggled in the laps of their patrons.
Three naked prostitutes sat in vulgar poses in cages hanging from the ceiling.
“What the hell?” Arya mouthed to Jon, but he wasn’t looking at her. Jon was
red-faced and embarrassed, trying and failing not to look at the women for too
long.
They were led to a back room, a room with a sign: FOR PLAY ONLY. Arya backed
away. “No no no,” she protested, “fuck that. I’m not going in there. What is
this? Where’s Littlefinger?”
“He’s here,” Mayana assured. “I’ll get him when you’re settled. Don’t let the
sign throw you off, kid. It’s just a place to meet.”
Arya scoffed rudely and shoved the door open. She plopped on the couch with her
arms crossed and a scowl on her face. The room was lined with shelves of sex
toys, a stripping pole, two big beds, and a booklet on the table with pictures
of men and women to choose from, arranged by price. Why did he have to make us
come here? Is this some stupid joke?
Jon sat beside Arya, looking like a puppy in a shark tank. Varys took a seat in
one of the chairs and Mayana stood at the door. “I’ll get Littlefinger, sit
tight. Drinks?”
“Vodka tonic for me,” said Varys.
“I’m good, thanks,” said Jon.
Arya wanted to test her limits. If she was going to deal with adults, she could
damn well be treated like one. “I’ll have a beer,” she said. “Ice cold.”
Mayana grinned before she left and closed the door.
“Beer?” asked Jon.
“What? I’m thirsty.” Arya lifted her knees to her chest and pulled out her
phone. No updates to Sansa’s social media, and Gendry hadn’t texted her back
yet. She bounced her leg. I want to get this over with.
The sounds of the brothel had gotten louder. Moaning pierced through the wall
to their right and the music’s beat could be felt through the floor. Jon
cleared his throat when the moaning didn’t stop, and shifted in his seat,
obviously bothered. Arya almost laughed at him.
“Why did we have to meet here?” Jon asked. “Is it some sorta test?”
“Don't worry, Mr. Stark. I'm sure you’re not the first married man to enter
this room.” Varys tried to smile. “You should relax. Your wife won’t hold this
meeting against you.”
“Yeah, if I ever see her again.”
Jon fell silent. He still hadn’t found Val, hadn’t heard if she’d made it to
Dubai. Not even Varys’s contacts could find her. Arya leaned her head on Jon’s
shoulder. The memory of his wife was enough to stop any further embarrassment,
and he let the moaning continue without comment.
A knock came at the door. A pretty redhead in a short dress and heels entered
with a platter, two drinks sitting on top. She handed Varys his vodka and Arya
a bottle of beer. Holy crap, she thought, they actually let me have some. She
held it awkwardly in her hands. Jon gave her a look, but she didn’t pay
attention.
Mayana entered the room as the waitress left. Littlefinger came in after her.
He was dressed for business, a mockingbird pin on his tie with combed hair and
his signature mustache. An irritating smirk made wrinkles near his eyes. Arya
wanted to smack it off.
“Mr. Stark.” Littlefinger offered his hand, which Jon took like the polite
soldier he was. “A pleasure to meet you in person.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Jon replied. Littlefinger’s smirk grew.
“And you must be Arya.” Littlefinger stood before her, hand outstretched.
Arya considered not standing up at all, leaving him hanging like an idiot.
Instead, Arya rose and shook his hand like an equal. “You must be Petyr
Baelish.”
His grin fell as she sat down.
Littlefinger strode over to a chair and sat, crossing one leg over the other.
He seemed pleased with himself, already over her use of his name as if it
hadn’t disturbed him at all. Arya glared at him and he glared back. She could
meet any challenge Littlefinger threw at her. Just try me, she begged.
“You’re much younger than I thought you would be,” said Littlefinger. “I forget
you’re only fifteen.”
“Sixteen in April,” said Arya. “I bet you like how young Sansa is. You’re a
filthy pervert.”
Jon nudged her foot. Littlefinger smirked again. “You’ve taken quite an
interest in my relationship with your sister.”
“We care about her safety,” said Jon.
“So do I.”
“Then you understand our concern. You don’t exactly have a good reputation.”
A woman screamed in orgasm from behind the left wall. Arya snorted.
“If my reputation bothered Sansa, she wouldn’t continue to stay by my side.”
Littlefinger folded his hands in his lap. “She wouldn’t stay in my bed,
either.”
He’s trying to get a reaction out of us. Arya tried to stay calm. Jon’s temper
flared; she could feel it in the way he tensed at her side. Varys voiced the
discomfort all three of them were feeling. “Yes, Littlefinger. We’re aware of
your fondness for Sansa Stark. But that’s not why we’re here, as I’m sure you
know.”
“Of course. The Stark children want to arrange a meeting with their long-lost
sibling.” Littlefinger pulled a cigarette from his suit pocket and lit the end.
He blew smoke into the room. Arya waved it out of her face. “I believe the
timing is finally right.”
“It was never wrong,” Arya spat. “You just hoarded her all to yourself.”
Littlefinger shook his head. “Hiding one Stark from Cersei and Roose Bolton was
difficult enough, but three at once? Too risky.”
“She came out of hidin’ on New Year’s,” defended Jon. “Why couldn’t we see her
then?”
“You would have. Someone interfered.” Littlefinger turned to Varys. “Would you
like to explain to them why they couldn’t see their sister, my friend?”
Varys chuckled. “As usual, you give me too much credit.”
“You should be flattered.”
“Oh, I am.”
Littlefinger took a drag from his cigarette and Varys swirled his drink, eyeing
each other with caution. Arya knew Varys had stolen her and Jon away before
Littlefinger could get his hands on them, but a part of her began to wonder if
he was telling the truth. If they could have been with Sansa all this time.
“Varys found us to keep us away from you,” said Arya, venom dripping from every
word. “You’ve got into my sister’s head. He wanted to keep us from—”
“Enough.” Jon glared at Arya, telling her to be silent. “I don’t really care
who did what or why. All I care about is finding Sansa and makin’ sure she’s
alright.”
“A noble cause,” said Littlefinger, almost mockingly. “You have questions?”
“Yeah. I do.” Jon rubbed his hands together and glanced to Arya, wordlessly
asking if she had anything appropriate to say. She shrugged. Arya was more
interested in watching Jon face off with Littlefinger. If she said anything,
she’d just get angrier. “How long have you had her?”
“Since October of last year,” said Littlefinger. “She called me the night she
escaped from the Boltons. Mayana brought her to me.”
Jon swallowed a lump in his throat. “We heard about what she went through with
Ramsay.”
Littlefinger’s expression changed from cold and calculating to something tamer.
“Whatever you heard, I’m sure it is only a small portion of the truth.”
“Is that why you killed him?”
“There were other reasons, but Sansa’s safety was the primary.” Littlefinger
flicked his ashes in a tray on the side table.
“How is she?” Jon flexed his hands. “With… with all that.”
“She’s doing really well,” said Mayana before Littlefinger could respond. “She
takes daily medication for anxiety and PTSD, prescribed by a doctor we trust,
and two of my coworkers are providing. Olyvar graduated from UCL with a
doctorate in psychology and Ros has a lot of experience working with victims of
abuse. She’s in good hands.” Littlefinger opened his mouth to speak, but Mayana
held up her hand to quiet him. “There’s no possibility that she could be
pregnant. She started taking pills the day after she came to us when the
hospital ran tests. I know pregnancy could be a concern, given Littlefinger’s
very open discussion of their relationship, but she’s safe in all aspects. If
you want to know other details about what happened and how she’s doing, you
should ask her yourself. It’s not mine or Littlefinger’s place to speak for
her.”
Arya was stunned. After a long pause, she and Jon nodded to each other. They
liked Mayana, they decided; she seemed to care about Sansa to a considerable
degree.
Littlefinger and Mayana had a silent conversation of their own. It ended when
Mayana plucked his cigarette from his fingers to claim as hers.
“I saw a picture of Margaery Tyrell on Sansa’s Instagram,” said Jon. “She was
the woman I met when I got to France. She helped smuggle me into London.”
“Yes,” said Littlefinger. “On my orders. I’d been following your journey since
you left Egypt. You never wondered why a notorious fugitive with an iconic
canine was never found by the Night’s Watch?”
Jon ground his teeth. Arya could sense her brother’s conflicted emotions, and
they became hers, too.
“I kept the military off your back while you traveled across Europe, to
Margaery. It was easy from there. I didn’t anticipate young Miss Stark,
however. An added bonus.”
“I’m not a bonus,” grumbled Arya.
“Why meet with us now?” Jon asked, wanting to get to the point. “What do you
want?”
“A great many things.” Littlefinger steepled his hands. “Sansa will soon be old
enough to claim her inheritance, which makes her a much larger target for our
enemies. Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton are actively working against me,
thanks to the efforts of our friend here.” He gestured to Varys. “Telling Roose
of my involvement in Ramsay’s death set a plan in motion that—”
“I don’t care about all that,” spat Arya, on the verge of shouting. “Why now?
What do you want?”
Littlefinger slowly blinked. He stood, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t very
tall, but he towered over everyone. “I want everything there is,” he hissed.
“But from you, I want your skills. You’ve proven yourself a fair assassin. Jon
is a soldier trained by the Night’s Watch. Your tools in my arsenal will help
me burn my enemies, as well as Sansa’s, so she can claim what your parents left
for you.”
Jon spoke first. “What if I have a condition?”
Littlefinger raised his brow. “Name it.”
“I’m married. My wife, I left her back in Afghanistan.”
“Seems like a poor decision.”
“She wanted to help her village,” Jon asserted. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was
her choice.”
“But you’ve lost contact, I assume?” Littlefinger stroked his beard. “Tragic
indeed.”
“Find her and I’ll help you.” Jon tightened his grip on his own hands. “We both
will.”
Arya didn’t want to be tied up in Jon’s desperation, but she was. She’d come to
accept that Val was her family, too.
Littlefinger pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He offered it to Jon.
“This is the phone number of a family in Palestine,” he said. “Your wife is
there with him.”
“What?” sputtered Jon.
“I thought you might ask about her. Nawal is her true name, yes? A twenty-year-
old Pashtun Muslim girl, an able fighter and hacker, called a Wildling near
your Afghan wall?” Littlefinger pointed to the number. “She’s staying in the
city of Ramallah with the Dayne family, friends of your father's. She is safe,
for now. By my arrangement.”
Arya was speechless. Jon took the piece of paper like it was plated in gold. To
him, it was.
“Consider yourself hired, Mr. Stark.” Littlefinger turned to leave.
“Wait,” barked Arya. “What about Sansa? If we help you, you’ll let us go.
Right? We’ll never have to see you again?”
Littlefinger stole his cigarette back from Mayana. He took a final drag before
snuffing it out. “Sansa goes nowhere,” he said. “She stays with us.”
“We are her family.” Arya had risen from the couch without thinking.
“She’s our sister.”
“Arya,” said Jon, pulling on her arm. She didn’t budge.
Varys swirled his drink and sighed. “Perhaps it is best that we wrap this up. I
believe that—”
“No, listen!” Arya yanked herself away from her brother and stormed across the
room to Littlefinger. Mayana stopped her before she could get too close, but
Arya shrugged off her hand in a sudden jerk. “Where Sansa goes, we go. I’ll
kill you if I have to. You’re nothing.”
Littlefinger’s smile was deadly. “It’s a shame, then, that you insist on
behaving so harshly toward me. For wherever Sansa is, I will be too. And
Mayana, and Olyvar, and Ros, and whoever else Sansa wants.” He placed a firm
hand on Arya’s shoulder. His grip pained her. “I suggest you get used to me,
Miss Stark. I’m not going anywhere.”
Littlefinger opened the door. Before Arya could shout at him, he was speaking
again. “We’ll come for you on her birthday, one week from now. I hope you can
be civil. Sansa has been through enough, and seeing her sister and lover fight
would stress her out. As for killing me,” he said, smug, “I’d like to see you
try.”
He left with Mayana in tow. Fuming, Arya reached for her beer to take a sip.
She read the label.
IBC
Root Beer
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Arya sat on the back steps of the house, hugging herself in the winter cold,
watching the fog of her breath. She thought about a lot of things. About Val
and Jon and their tearful Skype reunion, about Sansa spending Valentine’s Day
with a freak, about Sandor and wherever he’d been taken to. About everything
she couldn’t change. Ghost padded up to her from the yard and sniffed her hands
for a treat. “I don’t have anything,” she told him. “Go find your ball. I’ll
throw it for you.”
Ghost yipped and bounded off to retrieve his toy. He brought it to her, tail
wagging. Little joys. Arya threw the ball across the yard and Ghost tore after
it, dirt and grass flying up as he failed to stop his full throttle run.
“He’s playful for a military dog,” said Varys from the open screen door. “Most
of the dogs I see aren’t very affectionate. It’s part of their training.”
Arya didn’t care to talk about dogs. “Why are you still here?” She picked up
the ball when Ghost dropped it at her feet and threw it again.
“I wanted to make sure Littlefinger didn’t trick your brother by faking his
wife’s location.”
“He didn’t.”
“No. He didn’t.” Varys walked down the steps and sat beside Arya. “Val looks
healthy. It’s really her, too, which is the most important thing.”
“How come you couldn’t find her before Littlefinger did?”
“I don’t have many eyes in Palestine,” said Varys. “I have greater ties with
Israel. You can see the complication.”
Arya frowned, brushing a bit of dirt off her knee. “I’m glad she’s okay
though.”
“Yes, I agree. It’s good to see a Stark cry from happiness for once.”
Varys pet Ghost on the head when he came back with his ball. Arya threw it a
third time. They sat together, watching Ghost play and shushing him when he got
too loud.
“I’m scared,” Arya admitted. The words spilled out before she could stop them.
“I’m scared for all of us.”
“You should be,” said Varys. “Littlefinger is a dangerous man, and once you’re
with him, I can’t protect you.”
“But we’ll have Sansa, at least.” Arya picked at her sleeve. “She wouldn’t let
anything happen to us.”
“No, I don’t believe she would.” Varys folded his hands and sighed. “I’m
concerned as well, if truth be told. Littlefinger was uncharacteristically kind
today.”
“Kind?” spat Arya. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I am. He gave your brother word of his wife before any deal had been made.
Call it a calculated assessment of Jon’s loyalty, but I think it may have come
from a different place. And the way he spoke of your sister’s recovery…” Varys
stared off into the distance. “It troubles me.”
“Why?”
“Littlefinger is a vicious, ruthless man. He would see this country burn if he
could be king of the ashes. Admirable to a degree, but he’s never had a
pressure point. If your sister has truly become his weakness and not just a
pretty bedwarmer, and his enemies know it, she may be in more danger than any
of us can imagine.”
Arya furrowed her brow. She couldn’t let Sansa be hurt anymore. People would
die for it. She stood from the steps and summoned Ghost to her side, suddenly
exhausted, but one goal remained clear. “I don’t care if he loves her,” said
Arya. “If he lets anything happen to her, I will kill him. I’ll kill anyone who
threatens me or Sansa or Jon ever again, or puts us in danger. It’s best you
know that.” You could be next.
Arya trudged up the stairs and closed the door, leaving Varys out in the cold.
Chapter End Notes
     yessss s s ss sss s
     i'm sorry if there are edit mistakes in this chapter lsdkgjkalgjda i
     got like 4 hours of sleep my life is just super stressful rn. and the
     banner doesn't look very good either lakgjalgj SORRY i did my best!!
     shit's about to get real
     love you guys <3
***** The Pack *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
      [powers;_lostboycrow] ◆ [goodbye_brother;_ramin_djawadi] ◆ [coming
                                down;_halsey]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 9 MARCH, 2017
Sansa woke from a blissful sleep. The morning sun peeked through pale curtains,
casting a dull glow across her eyes. Sansa nearly fell asleep again until she
felt a sigh at the nape of her neck and warm arms around her. Petyr pulled her
close. “Good morning, my love.”
Sansa rolled on her back. Petyr hovered over her, gently petting the top of her
head. “You’re never in bed when I wake up,” said Sansa, happily surprised. “Did
you sleep in?”
“No. I know you like waking up to me, and today is a day where I give you what
you want.” Petyr kissed her nose, her jaw. Sansa wrapped her arms around him
and hummed as his mouth travelled down her neck, his other hand in her hair.
“Is this supposed to be a present?” Sansa barely restrained a moan as he
caressed her, unable to fight him, unable to want to.
“Perhaps.” He kissed down her chest and flicked his tongue over her nipple.
Sansa shuddered. “What do you want?”
“Breakfast would be nice,” she teased. “I — mmm, I think we should… maybe wait
until tonight…?”
Petyr continued kissing her. “I won’t be here tonight. Work will take me away
for a day or two.”
“On my birthday?” Sansa frowned. “Couldn’t it wait?”
“Unfortunately not.” Petyr lifted his head, offering a smile. “Now is the only
time. What do you want, Sansa? Tell me.”
He was hiding something from her. Sansa didn’t know why he’d keep secrets after
all this time, but she let it slide. He’d aroused her too much for her to make
a solid argument. Maybe he'd planned it that way.
Sansa flashed him a playful smile. She rolled over on her stomach, propping up
on her knees, face down.
Petyr laughed. He sat up and ran his hands over her body, back and hips and
sides and breasts, tangling his fingers in her hair. It felt wonderful, being
pleased under the gentle softness of his touch. He mapped out her body. He’d
memorized every inch.
Petyr moved away and positioned himself behind her. Sansa whimpered as his
mouth met her between her legs, his tongue tormenting her with a long swipe. He
circled her and tasted her opening as his hands palmed her ass, giving her a
smack. He kissed her pink flesh as harshly as he dared, and Sansa closed her
eyes and moaned against her will. Petyr kissed and lapped at the pool between
her thighs, sending waves of electric shock through her, hard thrums that
pulsed in her ears. “Petyr,” she begged after she'd had her fill, pushing up on
her hands. “Please, please…”
He pulled away and leaned over her back, one hand wrapped loosely around her
neck. “Please what?”
She ground back against him, feeling how hard he was. It excited her. “You know
what.”
He laughed softly in her ear. Petyr rubbed the head of his cock against her, a
tease, and Sansa whined when he finally pushed in. Petyr slid all the way
inside and pulled out, thrusting in again, knowing exactly how she wanted it.
Sansa let her head fall to the mattress. His hand rested at the base of her
spine, pushing her down to meet his hips. “Look at you,” he praised. “So ready
for me. So perfect.” Petyr fell to mumbles of vulgar praise when he set a
rhythm, but Sansa soaked it in, pleading for him to move faster, smiling at
every wet clap of skin when he rutted forward. The angle let Petyr strike her
deep. Sansa kept hold of the bedding in her fists, face buried in sheets that
smelled like him. Friction and slick sounds left her hot and reeling. Petyr was
tangling her up in knots, but she’d soon come undone.
Sansa tucked her arms under her chest and mewled when Petyr sought her climax,
groaning to the ceiling, filling her again and again. Sansa’s body wound tight
and found explosive release. Her muscles shuddered and she cried so loud that
she feared the others might hear her, but it didn’t matter in the moment. She
whimpered his name. Petyr leaned over her, slowing his movements enough to be
gentle, brushing her hair off her back to kiss between her shoulder blades.
Sansa closed her eyes as he made his way to her neck, and his chest pressed
against her back. She lowered her hips and stretched out her legs. Petyr held
her and resumed his pace. Mouth buried in her hair, he said nothing but words
of devotion between kisses on her skin. Petyr came with a hiss of her name,
stilling inside her, and he gathered her tight in his arms when he was strong
enough to move. Sansa didn’t feel crushed under his weight. She felt safe,
warm. Loved.
Petyr lifted his head after a time and pulled out of her to lay by her side. He
smoothed the hair from her face. “Happy birthday, sweetling.”
“Thank you.”
They shared a kiss. Sansa propped up on her elbows and watched him cross the
room, naked, to grab a shirt and jeans from the dresser of casual clothes they
shared. He looked at her with a smirk. “Are you going to join me in the
shower?”
Sansa giggled. She rolled out of bed, stretching with a squeal, and found
something to wear in the drawers. Leggings and an over-sized sweater were good
enough. Today was a day for comfort. She followed Petyr into the bathroom, into
the shower when it was ready, and let him wash her in his ritualistic way,
reminding her how cherished she really was.
When the lovers were clean and ready, Petyr led her into the kitchen. Ros had
cooked Sansa’s favorite breakfast: hot blueberry pancakes with butter and
syrup, and a fresh glass of milk. Mayana put a birthday hat on Sansa the moment
she entered the kitchen and Olyvar clapped his hands in celebration. “Hooray,
Sansa!” he cheered. “Finally eighteen! My conscience is so much clearer now,
you have no idea.”
Mayana ushered a happy Sansa away from Petyr and sat her down at the table.
“All these presents are for you, pretty girl.” She pointed to the dozen wrapped
gifts in the corner of the room. “But don’t freak out. They’re all from us,
it’s not Pete goin’ on one of his sugar daddy trips.”
Sansa chuckled. People could think what they wanted about her relationship, but
she was happy, and that was what mattered. All three of them sat down to eat
with Sansa, but Petyr was missing. Sansa turned in her chair to find him.
“Where did Petyr go?”
“He’s making a phone call.” Mayana pointed to her pancakes. “Try ‘em, girl!
You’ll love ‘em. Ros added the special ingredient of loooove.”
Sansa didn’t doubt it. She ate with her friends and unwrapped her gifts,
clothes and guitar music and other things, but when Petyr returned with a
reserved smile, his behavior began to worry her. He didn’t say much as the
others chatted over their meal. Sansa tried to open him up with a kiss and
political talk, but it didn’t work. Even after breakfast, he was much the same.
The others felt it too. Awkward silence fell over them. What do they know that
I don’t?
“Sansa,” said Petyr, touching her arm. “A word.” He led her by the hand to the
front door. Sansa tried to peek out the window to see what he was taking her
to, but she saw nothing.
“What’s going on?” asked Sansa. “Don’t tell me you bought me a car. Please,
Petyr, you know how much I—”
“No,” he said. “No car.” Petyr held her face tenderly in his hands. “My gift to
you is not an object, but a person. You’ve dearly missed them.”
Sansa blinked. She studied his eyes for a clue, but he was guarded, more walls
between them than ever. “Theon?” she guessed hopefully. “Were you able to
smuggle him out?”
“No. Not Theon.” He opened the front door. “Better.”
Sansa looked out to the driveway. Varys, of all people, stood leaning against a
black SUV with a grim smile. She glanced back to Petyr. He motioned to the car
in encouragement, and she trusted him, so she stepped over the threshold.
“Happy birthday, Miss Stark,” said Varys. “I hope this can make up for our
dreadful mistake of not rescuing you sooner.”
He knocked on the back window. The door opened. A short girl with blue hair
climbed out, followed by a man, a soldier dressed in black.
Sansa knew them by their eyes. The Stark eyes. “Arya?” she whispered. “Jon?”
Her legs went numb. She couldn’t feel the wind when she rushed forward or her
tears when they fell, but she felt Jon’s arms when he pulled her tight against
him. He felt like home. Sansa sobbed into her brother’s shoulder and he sobbed
into hers, barely believing a reality she’d long since discarded.
“You're not dead,” she wept.
“No,” said Jon. “And neither are you.”
Sansa hugged Arya close. They were sisters, tied together by blood and bond,
and neither of them had forgotten. Their embrace was so tight, so full of
apology and longing that Sansa didn't want to let go.
Sansa stared at the brother and sister she’d thought to be dead. The weight of
a thousand worlds fell from her shoulders. You’ve grown a beard, she could tell
Jon. I like your blue hair, she could say to Arya, where have you been, how are
you here, how is any of this possible? But instead of asking questions, she
settled for a statement of fact. “I love you,” she wept, “I love you both so
much.”
“We love you too,” said Jon.
All three of them came together for a hug and more tears. Ghost bounded from
the SUV and barked at Sansa, standing on his hind legs to prop his giant paws
on her shoulders and lick her face. Sansa laughed and kissed the top of his
head. She felt like fainting, like being pinched to wake from a dream, but
she’d learned long ago the difference between reality and fantasy. This was
real. This was everything.
She looked back to Petyr to call him over, to introduce him to her family.
He was gone.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Jon and Arya didn’t leave her side for a moment. The day had flown by entirely,
a glowing moon high in a late winter sky. Sansa had gotten comfortable in her
old room with her brother and sister. The siblings sat on a bed that once was
hers, catching up on time that had been stolen from them.
“…and now I’m here,” said Jon, having finished the full account of his journey
from Afghanistan to London. He sipped from a bottle of beer and pet Ghost on
the head, but the dog didn’t budge, curled up at Sansa’s side. She smiled when
Ghost put his head in her lap.
“That’s incredible,” said Sansa. “I can’t believe you did all that. Saw all
those things. I have so many questions, but I don’t know where to start.”
“That’s alright. We’ve got loads of time.”
Sansa scratched Ghost behind the ear. Arya and Jon had been through so much,
from homeless life to life on the run. It was a miracle they still lived and
breathed. Sansa was grateful that God had chosen to answer her prayers for
their safety, if nothing else.
“Sansa?” said Arya. “I want to ask you about something.” Her sister did that
thing she always did when she was nervous, eyes roaming the room as if looking
for a way to escape. She hadn't spoken much since their reunion. Something was
on her mind.
“What is it?” asked Sansa.
Jon cleared his throat. “We heard about Ramsay.”
Oh. Sansa knew they would want to talk about that. Arya and Jon had relayed
their experiences to her; it was only fair that she do the same. She brought
her knees to her chest and hugged them. “You want to hear it from me?” she
asked.
“Not if you don’t want to talk about it.” Jon gave her a sweet smile. “We don’t
wanna make you relive all that.”
“It’s fine. I relive it enough anyway.” Sansa hugged her knees tighter. “Ramsay
was kind at the funeral. He offered me his coat. He let me lean on him and cry.
He held my hand after I said Kaddish for the family. You’d never know, looking
at him… or maybe I was just blind.” Sansa shrugged. “It didn’t matter in the
end. That night was the first.”
“The day of the funeral?” asked Jon.
Sansa sighed. Memories barged into her head, as Ramsay had. “He kept me locked
in a room. He came for me every night and sometimes the next morning. He
wouldn't even let me sit shiva. He beat me, humiliated me and used me.” Sansa
shivered. “It was three months of a living hell.”
Her siblings stayed quiet. Sansa spiraled down to that place, the bad place,
before Arya called her back. “I’m glad you ran away,” said Arya in a voice
darker than any Sansa could remember her having. “I’m glad you killed him.”
“That doesn’t take away what he did.” Jon reached for Sansa’s hand. He stopped
halfway, letting his hand fall to his side. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t.” Sansa took his hand and clasped it tight. He needed to know she
was okay, but more importantly, she had to assert herself as more than just a
victim. “Don’t treat me any differently, Jon, please. I’m still me.”
“I know. I just didn’t know if you want to be touched, is all.”
“You’re my family,” said Sansa. “It’s different.”
They smiled at each other. Jon squeezed her hand, and Sansa squeezed back
before they let each other go.
“Littlefinger doesn’t hurt you, does he?” asked Arya sharply.
“Of course not.” Sansa leaned back against the headboard. “He’s good to me.”
“Just because he buys you stuff doesn’t mean he’s good to you.”
“Arya,” Jon warned. Sansa felt tension in the air and it made her
uncomfortable. She glanced to the door, wondering where Petyr was.
“He is good to me,” Sansa said when she found courage. “When I have nightmares,
he comforts me. He never pushes. He’s gentle, he never hurts me, never asks for
something I’m not willing to give. He’s intelligent and he makes me laugh. I
feel safe when I’m with him.” Sansa straightened her back. “He helped me find
myself again, and I’ve helped him, too.”
Her siblings fell quiet. Sansa could feel Arya’s judgment and Jon’s hesitation,
their collective uncertainty at everything Sansa said. But she didn’t care.
She’d made a promise to herself that she would protect Petyr from anyone. Even
himself. He deserved that much.
“You love him,” said Jon.
Sansa was unashamed to admit it. She’d never confessed out loud before, but it
felt good. “I do. I really do love him.”
“Yikes,” said Arya.
“Why is that ‘yikes’? I’ve just told you all he’s done for me.”
“It’s ‘yikes’ because he’s a pervert and he’s got you wrapped around his
finger.”
“Arya,” scolded Jon, much louder than the first time. Arya ignored him. Sansa
grew nervous.
“He hid us from you,” spat Arya, sitting up on her knees. “Your real family. He
knew about us the whole time and he lied to you.”
“It was safer,” Sansa defended. “You heard what Mayana said. It was safer to
keep us apart so we could all be better protected.”
“But he didn’t care about any of us until you escaped Ramsay! He didn’t try to
get you out before!”
“Neither did you.”
“Girls,” urged Jon. “Both of you, enough. Jesus. We’re just reunited and you’re
already fightin’?” He placed a hand on Arya’s shoulder and spoke sternly.
“Arya, Littlefinger helped us. Even if it was for ‘is own good, he did. And he
helped Sansa more than either of us had the power to.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Littlefinger is a part of our family now, whether we like it or
not. You don’t get to choose who Sansa loves.”
Arya fumed. She crossed her arms and huffed, saying nothing.
Jon put his other hand on Sansa’s shoulder. He looked at her and spoke gently.
“But Arya’s right, Sansa. He lied to you. We could have been together for
months and he kept us apart, and he only brought us together when he could use
us.”
Sansa couldn’t argue. It was an awkward truth to face. “He cares about me,” she
tried. “He won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Honestly, Sansa? He'd do wha’ever he could to have you. And you know it.”
Sansa sighed, fumbling with her shaking hands and thinking of everything they’d
said. She couldn’t devalue her siblings’ opinions. They cared for her just as
much as Petyr did. They deserved to be heard. She couldn’t let her feelings for
Petyr put aside what he’d done.
“I’ll talk to him,” Sansa decided. “I’ll talk to Petyr about it. I promise.”
She lifted her head to Arya. “I don’t want to fight. I just want my family
together.” Her eyes began to water. “I just want to be happy.”
“Don’t cry,” begged Arya. She scooted closer to Sansa, so close their arms
touched. “We can be happy. We’ll get there. I’ll even try to be nice to your
disgusting boyfriend.”
Sansa burst into an unexpected laugh. The sisters chuckled together, and Sansa
leaned her head against Arya’s, grateful to be united. A long moment of silence
passed. Forgiveness went unspoken, but it was felt all the same.
“He isdisgusting,” Sansa admitted. “He likes to smell my hair. He kisses me all
the time and keeps a pair of my underwear in his pocket.”
“Noooooo,” Arya wailed. “Don’t talk about it. I'll barf.” They stayed snuggled
for a while until Arya got off the bed. Sansa felt more at ease when Arya
brought over her laptop. “I have to show you the funniest cat video. This one
jumps out a window like Batman.”
Sansa looked up at Jon. He had tears in his eyes, watching his sisters get
along.
We can be happy, thought Sansa. We can. We can.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Jon and Arya went to bed early, laying side-by-side with Ghost between them.
They were all exhausted. Sansa didn’t want to keep them up with her questions,
so she let them be. She crept from her old room, careful not to wake them, and
entered hers and Petyr’s bedroom across the hall.
“Petyr?” she called, flipping on the lights. He wasn’t sitting at his desk or
smoking on the balcony. Sansa frowned and walked downstairs to look for him.
“Petyr?” she called again. “Where are y—”
“Oh,” said Ros, nearly bumping into Sansa when she opened the kitchen door.
“Sorry, love. I didn’t see you.”
“It’s okay.” Sansa wrung her hands. “Where’s Petyr? I can’t find him anywhere.”
There was pity in Ros's eyes. “He already left.”
“Oh.” Sansa didn’t want to seem needy, but it was her birthday, and she wanted
to be with Petyr. She wanted to be held.
Ros placed a hand on Sansa’s arm. “Don’t take it personally, dear. He’s just
got a lot to deal with. Things have changed now that you’re eighteen. It’s
dangerous.”
“I know. But I just, I wanted him here.” It was easier to keep track of her
family when they were all in one place. “When will he be back?”
“Two days, I think.” Ros motioned for Sansa to come into the kitchen. “There’s
leftover cake if you want some. Where are your brother and sister?”
“Sleeping,” said Sansa.
“Ah. I was about to bring two servings up for Olyvar and Mayana, but I can come
back down and talk if you’d like?” Ros could tell Sansa needed a friend. She
always knows.
“I’d like that,” said Sansa. “Thanks.” Ros took the two plates for the others
and left. Something was wrong, Sansa could feel it, she was sensitive to
changes in the moods of those around her. Sansa watched the clock. Ros came
back after three minutes and sixteen seconds, three minutes too long.
Ros poured two glasses of water and passed one to Sansa. She sat across the
table and smiled sadly. “What’s wrong, love?”
Sansa didn’t take a drink. She wrung her hands, staring at the glass. “Why did
he keep Jon and Arya from me?”
“To keep you safe,” she said. “That’s the truth. I promise.”
“But it’s not the whole truth.” Sansa forced her hands apart and held the cup,
frowning. “He kept my family from me. I want to know why.”
Ros sighed and scratched her forehead, almost in shame. A unfamiliar darkness
swept over her. “Sansa, we love and adore you, and we had to keep Jon and Arya
a secret for everyone’s well-being. But I do think Petyr was… selfish about the
whole thing. He’s very possessive of you.”
“I know.” Sansa leaned back in her chair. She thought back to what Jon had
said; he’d do whatever he could to have you. She didn’t know how to feel.
Comforted? Flattered? Terrified?
“You should talk to him about it,” suggested Ros.
“Do you think he would?”
“Petyr will talk about anything if you approach him the right way. Especially
with you. You have a power over him that none of us could ever hope of having.”
Sansa hugged herself. The possibility of a fight with Petyr put the fear of God
into her. He could be angry, he could yell at her, he could strike her. He
could dump her on the street. He could do anything he wanted. Anxious, Sansa
began bouncing her leg under the table.
“Hey. Don’t go there, love.” Ros reached across the table and took Sansa’s
hand. “It’s okay to confront him when he’s wrong.”
“Okay. Okay.” Sansa squeezed Ros’s hand, sharing in her strength. “I feel
better now,” she lied.
“I’m glad.” Ros stood from the table and motioned for Sansa to follow. “Why
don’t you come be with us for the night? Mayana and Olyvar are battling in
Mario Kart. It’s fun to watch.”
“Sure.” Sansa pushed away thoughts of Petyr as much as she could and followed
Ros upstairs. She allowed herself to ease a little, knowing she was safe, but
the promise of an uncertain future kept her fearful through the night.
Chapter End Notes
     yo it's 4am again here i am, this is my life
     something about the reunion scene seems...off to me? maybe i've just
     read it 800 times and it's late idk
     WOW I AM SORRY FOR WHAT'S AROUND THE CORNER
     the next chapter is like the last "happy-ish" chapter and then it's
     literally downhill ever single chapter after that until the end so
     here we go kids buckle up, this is what 23 chapters and 5 months of
     work have bought you
     love you guys! stay strong in your lives! xx
***** Menace *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
             [cry_me_a_river;_julie_london] ◆ [i_miss_you;_adele]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                11 MARCH, 2017
It was done.
Petyr held tight to the steering wheel, knuckles pale. He was alone in the car.
No music, no small talk. Just a desperate man and the motorway, after midnight
on a day that he’d rather forget. Arrangements were made. Plans, executed. And
he damned himself for every one of them.
Petyr pulled off the main freeway and grumbled when he came to a stoplight. He
tugged his sleeves. The light was red for too long, so he checked his phone.
Sansa had been texting him over the past two days, and her last message he
hadn’t replied to; When are you coming home?
He was close, now. Petyr took a deep breath. He parked in the manor driveway,
not wanting to wake the house by opening the garage, and sat in the driver’s
seat. Waiting. For courage, defense or excuses, he wasn’t sure.
Minutes passed. Petyr opened the door. He walked quietly into the house,
shoulders heavy, and entered the living room.
Ros was sitting in her chair by the fireplace. One leg over the other,
expression stern. “Do you know what time it is?”
Littlefinger scoffed.
“I asked you a question.”
Irritated, he checked his watch. “It’s one-thirty in the morning.”
“One-thirty.” Ros stood, and she was angry. She read right through him. “You
did something.”
Littlefinger shrugged off his coat. “I’m a businessman,” he said. “I’m always
doing something.”
“You’ve been acting odd since you got back from Paris, and now you’re making
plans without us?”
“Some secrets are best kept.”
“It’s not a secret to me, though.” Ros pulled her phone from her pocket and
showed him the screen. A GPS app. “I tracked you.”
Littlefinger pushed out a sigh. He saw the location she’d tracked him to: Roose
Bolton’s manor. “Ros—”
“I know you. You’ll do anything to get what you want, even if it means
betraying us or getting Sansa hurt.”
“Don’t talk like you know what’s at stake,” barked Petyr. “Stay in your lane.”
“You think Sansa’s safety isn’t my lane?” Ros’s voice had risen, but
Littlefinger couldn’t shush her. “She’s like a daughter to me, Petyr! You love
her! Olyvar doesn’t care about what you do as much as he should, and Mayana
would rather bury her head in the sand than think you’ve done something awful.
But I’m not stupid.” She shoved her phone into his chest, showing the manor on
the map where he’d been. “Confess.”
Littlefinger pushed her phone back to her. He moved away to the coat closet,
fumbling with a hanger.
“Promise me.” Ros came closer. “Promise me she’ll be happy and healthy at the
end of all this.”
Littlefinger couldn’t make that promise. He stayed quiet.
“If you can’t guarantee that, you may have lost yourself a friend.”
“Friend? I hired you.” He pointed to his office down the hall. “You’re under
contract.”
“You think I stay because of a bloody contract?” Ros shook her head bitterly.
“You have no idea.”
She was testing his temper. Littlefinger inhaled through his nose. “You know
too much, Ros. You know what I’ll do if you leave.”
“You wouldn’t,” she countered. “You wouldn’t kill me even if I betrayed you.
I’m your conscience. I’m important to you.”
He laughed her off. “I’ve told you many times not to trust me.”
With a frown, Ros moved away. She doused the fire in the fireplace and darkness
fell over the room. “If you won’t protect her, Petyr, I will. Whatever it
takes.” Her voice came from the shadows. “She deserves to be happy.”
“If I get what I want, she will be.” Littlefinger shoved his hands in his
pockets. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope so,” said Ros. “I hope you don’t lose her along the way.”
Ros turned and left. Petyr stood in the living room alone, feeling the walls
inch closer together.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sansa would want to speak to him, he knew
that. She was probably angry about her siblings. With Arya’s loud mouth, who
knew what they’d talked about? The hour was late. Maybe Sansa was sleeping.
Petyr walked upstairs to their bedroom and hoped she wasn’t awake.
She was.
Sansa turned to him when he closed the door, wearing pajamas and a little
smile. Petyr feigned innocence. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said
truthfully. He didn’t cross the room to kiss her, so Sansa took initiative. She
wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. Petyr closed
his eyes. He’d forgotten how warm she was.
“I missed you,” said Sansa.
Petyr was struck with guilt. “I missed you as well.”
Sansa took his hands, leading him to the sofa by the fireplace, and sat down.
He sat beside her. Petyr knew Sansa’s anxiety when he saw it, and he knew his
actions were the cause. He waited for her to address the wall between them.
“I need to ask you something.” Sansa held his hands tight. She was afraid, he
could feel it in her muscles. “About Arya and Jon.”
“You want to know why I kept them from you.” Petyr cupped her cheek in his
hand. He’d rehearsed this. “I had to protect you, Sansa. I couldn’t afford to
tangle with the Night’s Watch, had they discovered I was holding a fugitive,
and your sister murdered a head of state. The Lannisters would do away with me
in a heartbeat if it meant getting their claws into another Stark. Now, I have
the means to fight them and keep your siblings safe from harm.”
“You’ve had the means for a while,” she countered.
Petyr sighed. His hand fell to his lap.
“They’re my family, Petyr. I thought they were dead, but you knew they weren’t
and didn’t say a word.”
Petyr stood to pour himself some whiskey. He took a long sip. “If you knew they
were alive, you would insist we bring them here. I couldn’t guarantee anyone’s
well-being if they were with us before I had my allies in place.”
“But there’s more to it,” said Sansa quietly. “They could have been here since
New Year’s, or maybe after we killed Ramsay. There was no reason to wait.”
Sansa hesitated. “Are you… are you afraid of something?”
“Excuse me?”
Sansa flinched. She’s terrified, Petyr noticed, she thinks I’m going to hurt
her. He tried not to take it personally. This was Ramsay’s effect, it had
nothing to do with him. But that didn’t make her fear easier to bear. “Speak,
Sansa. You know me better than to think I’ll strike you.”
Sansa wrung her hands. Petyr leaned back against his desk, drinking and
watching her. “You… you’re possessive of me,” she said. “Protective, yes, but
also possessive. I’m — I don’t know.” He waited for her to gain the confidence
to continue. Sansa stood from the sofa and squared her shoulders. “I think you
kept Jon and Arya from me because you wanted to keep me here, with you. If they
had found me sooner, they would’ve taken me somewhere else. Out of the country,
probably. And you didn’t want that.”
Petyr couldn’t resist a smile. She was brilliant, his Sansa. reading between
the lines. But his smile quickly faded. Her truth was nothing to boast. It made
weakness of him.
Sansa huffed. “That upsets me.”
“You said so yourself,” said Petyr. “They are your family. Where they go, you
go.”
“But they’re not the only family I have.” She moved closer to him, insistent.
“Ros, Mayana, Olyvar, they’re my family too. You are. How many times have I
said that? Where you go, I go too.”
Petyr scoffed and set his drink aside. “I am a businessman, Sansa. I don’t have
time for family.”
“Oh, stop. That’s not true and you know it.”
“Drop it, Sansa. I don't have the—”
“I won’t drop it!” Sansa shouted. “I don’t want to fight with you, but you have
to listen to me. I know you’ve had a hard life, Petyr, but you’re being blind.
Ros cooks you breakfast, Mayana tells you everything, Olyvar irons your suits,
we all suffer your political rants. But there’s so much more to it! We’re here
because we care!” She reached forward and held his face in her hands, her voice
soft and pleading. “That’s what it means to have a family. Can’t you see how
much we love you?”
Sansa’s eyes were full of hope. Her heart was impossible to avoid, and it drew
the truth from him like poison. Petyr swallowed the lump in his throat. “I
don’t know what love is.”
Her hands fell to his chest. “Yes you do.”
This wasn’t what Sansa wanted. Petyr knew that. He remembered her stories from
girlhood of wanting a prince charming, a younger, selfless man to give her a
family, to give her all of him. Petyr was not that man. He would never be. He
was the devil, the serpent in her Eden, and he would force-feed her the apple
if it meant he could have her forever.
Sansa leaned in and kissed him. It was a passionate kiss, gentle yet firm, and
she started unbuttoning his shirt in haste. Petyr pulled away. “What are you
doing?”
“You learn by touch,” she said, opening his shirt and pushing it down his
shoulders. “I’ve lost too many people who didn’t know how much I loved them. I
can’t have that happen again, I just can’t—”
“Sansa.”
“I can’t lose you—”
“Sansa.” He grabbed her wrists to stop her from moving. There were tears in her
eyes, and he stared at them.
“You’ve known what love is for a long time,” she said. “You’re just too afraid
to chase it. I have to show you how in a way you’ll understand.” Their
foreheads pressed together, and Sansa whispered in the air between them.
“Please, Petyr, let me show you.”
Gently, Sansa kissed him. He returned it with force, gripping her waist and
pulling her close. He walked with her to the table by the window. Sansa bumped
against it, knocking over Petyr’s glass of whiskey that shattered on the floor,
but he was too drunk on her to care. Petyr yanked her shirt over her head and
threw it aside, kissing her throat. He unhooked her bra and cupped her breasts,
giving each nipple attention from his mouth while Sansa whimpered. Petyr could
worship her forever. Let the forbidden fruit be hers. He would make Sansa love
him if it meant she would forgive him when this was all over.
Petyr hooked his fingers under the elastic of her pajamas to pull them down,
but Sansa pushed against his chest to stop him. He submitted to her. Sansa
kissed down his neck and nibbled at his ear, moving him to the bed, unbuckling
his belt. Petyr couldn’t help but laugh. Sansa was never one to take control,
but now she was determined to prove a point. Did she really think it worked
like this?
He sat on the bed by her insistence, but not before stripping her bare. Petyr
laid back and chuckled as Sansa pulled down his pants. “Perhaps you should show
me things more often,” he chided.
Sansa looked at him. Her eyes were wounded, and he bit his tongue. “A joke.”
“A poor one.” Sansa straddled him, carding her fingers through his hair. “But
I’ll do it. Every day I’ll show you, if that’s what it takes.”
Stop, he almost said, don’t waste that on me. But he didn’t say a word. A true
devil wouldn't change his mind.
She kissed down his chest, his scars, his stomach, and Petyr hissed when Sansa
took his cock in her mouth. His hands busied themselves by tangling in her red
hair, gripping hard when her tongue flicked over his head. He pet her curls and
hummed as she worked him, fully erect, trying to teach him something words
couldn’t. The softness of her tongue made him groan as she tasted him, her
mouth warm and wet. The lecher in him accepted her lesson and expected more,
misbehaving as he was, but there were more important things to learn. He saw it
in her eyes when she looked up at him.
“Sansa,” Petyr breathed, stroking her hair with affection as she bobbed up and
down. She'd gotten good at this. Too good. He bit the inside of his cheek and
released a groan. “God, enough. Your pretty mouth will waste me before you’ve
had the chance to teach me anything.”
Sansa pulled her swollen lips away by his command. She moved up to him, face-
to-face. She was so beautiful, so tender in the way she touched him, angelic.
Sansa reached between them to take his length in her hand. He was hard as stone
when she rubbed the tip against her opening. She was silky and soaked, her body
promising warmth and fulfillment he’d never found elsewhere, despite the others
he’d fucked in the past. Her mouth hovered over his until she sank down. Taking
him in at full length, Sansa smiled before kissing him.
She began to move. Sansa rolled her hips, planting her hands on his chest to
lift and drop down, lower lip between her teeth, eyes closed. Petyr gripped her
hips to help her along. He had to touch her. Do something. Being sexually
controlled wasn’t a pleasing prospect for him, and Sansa knew it. She held his
face and leaned down to kiss him. Petyr took her mouth and slipped his hand
into her hair again, gripping hard on that perfect red. Sansa moaned and
pressed her lips to his nose, his cheek, his chin, his neck. Her chest rubbed
against his and she moved faster, but not fast enough to bring her over the
edge. Petyr knew what she liked. He propped up his knees and wrapped his free
arm around her back to buck his hips up to hers. Sansa whined and rested her
forehead on his. Petyr felt her breath on his face and held tighter to her
hair, pulling, thrusting up into her as she made wonderful noises for him.
Sansa nuzzled him as he sped inside her until they were both sore. She regained
control when he stopped, riding him while he brushed the hair from her
forehead. They shared a kiss before Petyr flipped her on her back.
“I get it,” he growled, spearing her as deep as he could while she mewled for
him. “You’re tender, Sansa, you’re sweet.” Another drive. “You’re too loving
for your own good.”
“You’ll have to deal with it,” said Sansa. “Neither of us are leaving, so —
ooh!” Petyr silenced her with a hard thrust. “Mm, I — you’re just going to… oh,
God.”
He chuckled darkly and kissed her forehead. “There’s my girl. Coherent thoughts
aren’t what I want to hear.”
“I was supposed to lead,” she complained. “I was supposed to… to show you…”
“You have.” It pained him, but he couldn’t mourn yet, not when he was inside
her. “Let me show you in return.”
Petyr rutted into Sansa and set a wild pace. Both of them were panting and
breathless. He felt aches and sweat on his back, but Petyr did not stop. He sat
up on his knees and held her by the waist, pushing and pulling, in and out like
the tide. He could hear the smack of skin, the slickness of her arousal coating
his length, the headboard banging against the wall, and it was music to him.
She was a far too perfect creature. Her body was something holy. Sansa squirmed
and gripped the sheets as Petyr circled her clitoris with his thumb. “That’s
it,” he encouraged, eyes focused on her. “Come for me. Come for me, sweetling.”
Sansa reached for him. She pushed herself up, and Petyr sat back on his heels
as he gathered her in his arms, straddling his lap. Sansa wrapped herself
around him and came undone. Her body trembled, voice broke, nails dug into his
back and her legs wrapped tight around his waist. He felt her, muscles
squeezing and contracting with a force of pleasure harder than he’d known her
to have. Petyr groaned into her hair and inhaled the scent. Cradling her neck,
he guided her back down to the bed to plant kiss after kiss on her face.
They paused to breathe. Petyr moved slowly inside her, thrumming from the heat
he was buried in, wet and warm and deep and her. He stroked her hairline with
his thumb and kissed her gently. They didn’t say anything when his pace
resumed. Sansa’s moans and Petyr’s sighs broke the silence, a wordless
confession all their own. He cherished her, touched her, kissed her, fucked
her, brought her inside himself as he was inside her. It was more than sex.
Fulfilling. Completing.
Petyr and Sansa made love so thoroughly that Sansa found her peak again,
sobbing his name, body wound tight. It left her a mess, a perfect, happy,
disheveled husk of a girl, but she was so blissful that Petyr came moments
after she’d collected herself. Sansa drained him as she always did, the heaven
between gorgeous thighs taking all he had, and Petyr collapsed on top of her
when he was spent. They stayed close. Holding each other, kissing and praising
and humming in delight until Petyr overheated and finally moved off of her.
The lovers lay naked, tangled atop blankets. Sansa curled up in his arms. The
crown of her head rested just below his mouth, and Petyr kissed her there.
“I love you,” said Sansa. She snuggled closer to him. “I really do.”
Petyr sighed into her hair. “I know.”
It made agony of what came next.
Chapter End Notes
     SHIT
     FUCK
     wow, this is probably one of the most important petyr-development
     chapters to date and i have a lot of emotions
     i feel really good about this chapter??? usually the things i put the
     most effort into get overlooked in favor of ones i put less effort
     into, but i feel damn good about this one and i hope it's not
     misplaced. there's a lot to like.
     here's a list of things this chapter was supposed to accomplish:
THIS IS NOT A HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP. jesus CHRIST like, he kept her family from
her, she thinks the way to show her love is with sex (it WORKED), and petyr's
just a selfish dick GOD i hate them. but it's still cute somehow so whoops
that's it that's the ship
a sense of foreboding. things are not going well fam
petyr is being swiper_the_fox and i'm shouting "SWIPER DON'T FUCKING SWIPE"
i planned on this being a longer list but i forgot the rest

look. this is not good. don't look at this and think "AWWW ADORABLE" because
force-feeding someone the apple of eden and feeling like you have to show love
via blowjob aren't adorable things!!!!!1!! ok
but also i love these two, wow, this chapter is just really powerful imo. lemme
know in the comments what y'all think
last note: if it tells you anything about how much shit is around the corner,
this was the last smut scene in the whole fic. it's literally a constant bummer
from here on out, so have fun chewin' on that bone for a week
:)
***** Hell Is Empty *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
            [growing_up;_dennis_gundermann] ◆ [hell's_bells;_ac/dc]
     "hell is empty, and all the devils are here." - william shakespeare,
                                 the tempest
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                28 MARCH, 2017
Living with Littlefinger reminded Arya of how much she despised rich people.
Being homeless and constantly on the run had taught her the value of money, of
what really mattered. She’d made ten-thousand pounds in Jaqen’s cages and never
bought herself nice clothes, not a car, not jewels, nothing she didn’t need.
But Littlefinger and his associates lived in luxury. A Bentley, a Cotswolds
manor, Dolce & Gabbana, Tiffany’s, Dior, the latest phones and laptops,
thousand-dollar bottles of whiskey. The opposing ways Arya and Sansa had spent
their year apart aggravated her. She never said anything to Sansa, though. Jon
insisted that it would be selfish. They had to think about Sansa’s well-being,
he’d said, and do what they could to keep her happy.
It was easier said than done.
Arya didn’t completely hate life with Littlefinger, but neither did she enjoy
it. Seeing Sansa every day was the best thing. Sansa laughed, she smiled, she
joked, she socialized. Even on her bad days when anxiety got the best of her,
she didn’t isolate, nor did she spend the whole time with Mr. Horrible doing
God-knows-what. Arya begrudgingly admitted to liking Mayana and the other two.
They were sane and friendly, not creepy and weird. They didn’t invade her
space. Just because Arya enjoyed them, though, didn’t mean she trusted them.
Not long after moving in, Arya’s investigations began.
“Where did I meet Petyr?” Olyvar had questioned when Arya came to him. “I was a
student at university. I was struggling, you see, a poor college boy with a
family refusing to support me after I came out. Petyr gave a lecture at the
school on running an effective business. I excelled at his lessons more than
anyone else, so he bought me dinner the next night and offered me a deal. He
would pay for my degree, room and board if I worked for him after I graduated.”
“And you just went with it?” Arya asked.
“Petyr is nothing if not persuasive.” Olyvar had sipped his tea, suspiciously
amused, and Arya left it at that.
Ros was next on her list. “I met Petyr after he hired me for a night,” she’d
told Arya. “I was a working girl on the street at the time. He’d seen me while
looking for women to hire at the brothel he was building, and he wanted me to
help him run the place. More than just sex, of course. He said he liked my
mind.”
“Wait, you slept with him?” asked Arya.
“No. Not once. He flirted and I flirted back, but when I made a move on him, he
simply said he wasn’t interested.” Ros shrugged. “He’s never touched any of the
girls who work at The Mockingbird, did you know that? I thought he was
dysfunctional until I heard about Margaery Tyrell, but even that wasn’t
intimate. Just a way to keep her close.”
“Don’t tell me about his sex life,” Arya had said in disgust. “I want to keep
my lunch down.”
Mayana’s answer about Littlefinger was more troubling. She’d stuffed her face
with a burger from McDonald’s to avoid Arya’s prodding, but Arya was a stubborn
girl, and Mayana eventually gave in.
“I was fourteen when Petyr killed my dad,” she said casually.
“What?” Arya blinked. “He killed your dad?”
“Well, yeah. My dad was a dick. He was a rival drug dealer for Pete’s business
in Chicago, so he ganked him. I wasn’t sad to see him go. He was a real ass.”
Mayana took another huge bite of her Big Mac, talking with her mouth full.
“Pete liffed up in a loft ‘partment when ‘e was workin’ drugs. Fancy shtuff.”
She swallowed. “So I stalked him. I didn’t have nothin’ without a dad, mom died
years ago. I sat outside his rich white apartment building with its swinging
glass doors and every day when he came out, I asked him to take me in. He
ignored me for six months.”
Arya didn't know what to say. Hearing that Mayana had been a homeless teen like
she was made her more comfortable in a weird way. She waited for Mayana to
finish.
“I tried begging. Worked for crap, Pete’s not the kind of guy to respond to
that. So I studied him over the six months he ignored me. I learned all about
his deals and trades, how he ran his drug business. It wasn’t very good. So
after those six months, I finally got my courage and told him he was one of the
shittiest drug dealers I’d ever met.”
“You did?” asked Arya.
“Yep. I told him why his business was fallin’ apart.” Mayana beamed. “No one
wanted to buy drugs from some short know-it-all white dude, especially when he
wasn’t even American. He needed someone who knew the streets. Spoke the way
they do, no suit and tie college-educated shit. He had to be real if he wanted
to do it right. So I told him to take me in because I’m the best way to teach
him.”
“You were only a kid?” asked Arya, surprised.
“I was around fourteen at the time. It was weird at first, sleeping in his
apartment, but we warmed up to each other real quick. I taught him how to
better manage his drugs, he gave me food and a roof and a good education. I’m a
college graduate!” She flexed her right bicep and kissed it. “Bachelor’s in
Business Management, baby.”
Arya hadn’t wanted to see Littlefinger in a positive light. “That’s all because
of him?”
“Oh, hell no.” Mayana swatted the air. “He was even more of a dick back then
than he is now, if you can believe it. Nah, I worked hard on my own, he didn’t
give me nothin’ except the money to get it done. He was one hell of a tough
teacher too. But I learned. I owe him my life.”
Arya hadn’t known what to say. She thought back to those three conversations
with Littlefinger’s henchmen while they laughed over a card game at the kitchen
table. They’d been playing with Jon and Sansa since early morning. Arya sat on
the countertop, peeling a banana, swinging her legs and watching them. Mayana
had won the last two games, but Olyvar was quickly catching up.
“Six aces,” said Jon. He was a terrible liar. As a result, he held most of the
cards.
“Playing with two decks really fucks over the weak links,” laughed Mayana. “Two
twos.”
“Four threes,” said Sansa.
“Two fours,” said Ros.
“One five,” said Olyvar.
Jon raised a brow. “Bullshit.”
Olyvar stared at Jon in challenge before eventually cursing and taking the
cards in the center. “How did you know?”
“Because I have all the fives.” Jon showed them to him.
Mayana laughed and slung her arm over Olyvar’s shoulder. “Poor baby,” she
mocked. “Starting to lose your upper hand, are you?”
“Be gentle,” said Ros. “He’s still wounded from the beating you gave him
earlier.”
“You all are.” Mayana leaned back in her chair with a cocky grin. “Whose turn
is it?”
“Yours.”
“Oh.” Mayana played her cards and the game continued.
Arya made everyone sandwiches when it was lunchtime. She sat at the table and
observed their game, learning how to play but not feeling up to participating.
She’d probably just beat them all. She sat beside Jon and pointed to the cards
he should use to lie when the kitchen door opened, and Littlefinger entered.
“Petyr,” said Sansa. Her expression brightened like a bulb and she stood from
the table to go to him. Arya rolled her eyes when they kissed. Jon gave her a
look as if to say, “it’s not that bad.” She replied by sticking her finger in
her mouth and pretending to gag.
Littlefinger kept his hand at the small of Sansa’s back, studying the group.
“Playing Bullshit?”
“Your favorite game,” mumbled Arya.
Mayana dropped her cards on the table. “Come join us, Pete! We’re playing with
two decks.”
“I can’t, unfortunately. I need to make a few phone calls.” Littlefinger placed
his hands on Sansa’s hips, looking only at her. “And you were promised a self-
defense lesson from your brother, weren’t you?”
“Mhm,” said Sansa. “We were going to start after this game.”
“Good. Finish up, then. The sooner you’ve mastered it, the more at ease I will
be.” He kissed her forehead. Arya groaned rather loudly and avoided Jon’s
judging stare. She didn’t want to hear how she had to just deal with this. If
she provoked Littlefinger, maybe he’d snap and they could all leave, and he’d
disappear like a bad dream.
The game of Bullshit ended with Sansa claiming victory. Arya couldn’t remember
her sister being such a good liar — she was as bad as Jon, way back when — but
she’d clearly discovered the ways of deception. Mayana complained about Sansa
being lucky. The two exchanged banter, but Arya didn’t care to hear it, and
left the room. She ascended the stairs and walked down the hall, to the
farthest end away from Sansa and Littlefinger’s bedroom, to the room she shared
with Jon. Arya opened the window and retreated to her happy place.
The window, once opened, led to the tile-covered roof on an incline. Arya
climbed out and crawled across until she found her perch, a few feet from the
sill, in a place where the tiles grooved just right to fit her between them.
Bran had taught her how to find the perfect spot. She sat cross-legged and
closed her eyes as the spring breeze rolled by, tousling her hair. The
temperature was still a little cold, but nothing unbearable as winter had been,
and the front gardens were nicer now that the snow had melted and flowers were
budding. The hanging wisteria and chrysanthemum bushes were Arya’s favorite.
She even liked the roses, despite Littlefinger’s promise to present Sansa with
a daily bouquet once they bloomed. The stone brick driveway curved through
bushes and trees, greenery and foliage, a botanist’s spring dream. It was
beautiful to the eye.
Arya’s phone chimed. She pulled it from her pocket, reading a text from Gendry.
A smarter Arya would know not to talk to him, to keep him from getting involved
in all this, but she was nothing if not lenient with him.
i’m so glad winter is over, read the message.
Arya grinned. Why?
too bloody cold. we get less customers now that people have lives and stuff.
baby showers and school and whatever
I’m jealous. I wish I could be working at the brotherhood again.
haha yea. instead your stuck with a grade-A sleaze ;)
Arya wrinkled her nose. Why the winky face? Get out.
Gendry replied with another winking emoji. Arya huffed. She wanted to ignore
him, but Arya felt too stranded to push her only friend away. Sansa and Jon
came out of the manor’s back door, talking. Jon led her beneath the willow tree
and started showing her how to make a proper fist. Arya watched them briefly
before responding to Gendry. How has your day been? How is everyone?
good. luwin’s been teaching the kids how to do maths and stuff. he’s good to
them. yoren’s an assistant manager now. beric and thoros are trying to get more
creative with the menu. ive mostly been doing mechanical work to fix up the
place.
Arya smiled. Everyone was alright, then. I bet you’re good at that.
the best. or at least i will be
You will be. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She sniffled before typing
again. And no sign of Sandor?
Gendry’s reply was immediate: none.
Months of nothing from Sandor had Arya worried out of her mind. He was her
friend, he’d protected her, and the thought of him paying the price for her
crime brought incredible guilt. Everyone else was safe. He deserved to be, too.
A knock came at her window. Arya jumped, turning to see Littlefinger poking his
head out to find her. “What the hell!” she shouted. “Can’t I be alone up here?”
She scooted away from him.
Littlefinger laughed, opening the window farther to step out onto the roof. He
carried a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with him. He sat beside Arya,
looking like he’d just left a business meeting that didn’t go well. He lit a
cigarette. She glared at him.
“Want one?” he asked.
“What? No.”
Littlefinger shoved the cigarettes in his pocket and inhaled from the one he
had. The smoke made Arya cough. She considered leaving his presence altogether,
finding somewhere else in the house to escape, but Littlefinger seemed intent
on talking to her. “A fine day for it,” he said, pointing to Sansa and Jon
sparring under the tree.
Arya didn’t respond. She didn’t know what he was playing at. She stared at him,
hostile, until he changed the subject.
“I’ve forgotten to ask how you like it. The manor.” He motioned to their
surroundings. “Must be comfortable for you, considering where you were before.”
“Varys treated us well,” she defended. “He did his best to keep us safe and he
never exploited us.” Arya crossed her arms. “That’s more than you can say.”
Petyr chuckled. “I was referring to the house itself, Miss Stark. I can only
imagine how your previous accommodations were.”
Arya rolled her eyes. Rich people. “I lived under a bridge for six months. I
stopped caring about nice things a long time ago.”
“Ah,” he said. “Yet another difference between the two of us. Homelessness
taught me to appreciate the finer things even more.”
Arya glanced at him. “You were homeless?”
“For years.”
She hadn’t known that. Arya studied him behind guarded eyes, but the moment was
brief. She chastised herself for being curious even a fraction of a second. So
he liked expensive things, good for him. “Why are you here?” Arya asked. “I was
doing fine on my own.”
“You have been avoiding me for weeks,” said Littlefinger. “It is best that we
find some way to get along given our common denominator, don’t you think?”
Arya huffed. Jon had talked to her about this — tolerate him, Arya, for Sansa’s
sake— but she was sick and tired of looking at his smug grin and wandering
eyes, following her sister wherever she went. “Maybe,” Arya muttered. The two
sat in silence until Littlefinger cleared his throat.
“I know you killed the Freys and Meryn Trant.”
Arya’s shoulders relaxed. Now that was something she could talk about. “Yep.
They had it coming.” She turned to him. “You killed a lot of Cersei's people,
too. Why?”
“If Cersei is out of options for protection, her most trusted people killed,
she will be far more likely to seek me out. Roose Bolton knows I killed his
son, but Cersei wouldn’t care about betraying him if it meant her own safety.
I’ve made myself invaluable to her.”
“But why did you have to?”
Littlefinger flicked the ashes of his cigarette to the wind. “It’ll make
everything easier.”
Arya didn’t like the sound of that. Being Cersei’s ally would make Littlefinger
her enemy, wouldn’t it? As if he wasn’t her enemy already. Arya turned back to
Sansa and Jon, who were play-fighting for the sake of learning a lesson. She
felt uncomfortable with the parallel.
“What do you want with my sister?” Arya asked, with venom. “You know I’ll—”
“Kill me? Yes, I’m aware.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Littlefinger kept his stupid smirk. Arya watched it closely, watched how it
faded as his thoughts progressed. “Your sister is a special girl,” said
Littlefinger. “Special and impossible. I don't believe either of us has the
intention of leaving the other. Not yet, anyway.”
So I really am stuck with this guy, Arya thought. She should have known. It was
obvious. Arya couldn’t understand, couldn’t put the pieces together and see how
Sansa would want anything to do with an old pervert who would use them for his
own gain. But again, Jon’s advice came back to her: tolerate him, Arya, for
Sansa’s sake. She sighed in defeat.
“It’s cool,” said Arya.
Littlefinger raised his brow.
“Your house. It’s cool, I guess.” Arya picked at her nails. “Our room is nice
and the beds are comfy.”
“Is that a thank you?” asked Littlefinger.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’ve still got my eye on you. And don’t think
I’ve forgotten everything you—”
“Yes, yes.” Littlefinger waved his hand. “I’m aware.”
Arya, content with the exchange, turned to watch her brother and sister again.
Sansa attempted to punch Jon’s open hand. When she smacked him successfully,
Jon smiled and applauded her. “Good job! That one really hurt.”
“Did not,” laughed Sansa. Arya couldn’t tell what they said beyond that, they
were too far away, but she was happy just to watch them, even with someone like
Littlefinger beside her.
She heard a buzz. Littlefinger retrieved his phone and read a message. He
paused. Uncharacteristically quiet. Without asking, Arya leaned over to see the
text.
It was from Roose Bolton.
Late birthday present for Sansa. Thirty seconds.
Littlefinger stood abruptly. He left Arya on the roof and climbed back inside.
Arya panicked and followed him. She rushed down the stairs and out to the porch
after Littlefinger threw open the front door. “Sansa!” he shouted. “Come
inside, quickly!”
Sansa didn’t understand, but Jon, ever the soldier, took action. He grabbed her
arm and ran with her to the door. A car engine revved in the distance, a black
van speeding down the long driveway toward the manor. Jon shoved Sansa into
Littlefinger’s arms and pulled his gun from the back of his jeans. Arya reached
for Needle. The others stood in the hallway, surprised, but none of them were
needed. The van only stopped for a second.
“Happy birthday, princess!” mocked the driver. “Can’t wait to give you the rest
of your gift.”
The van door opened. Two men dumped a body in the driveway. Jon stepped forward
and fired his gun more than once, but the van was already speeding off, leaving
the smell of rot and death in the air.
A mangled corpse lay at Arya’s feet. Partially dismembered and covered in
grime, naked, genitals severed, hair white and half-gone.
The body of Theon Greyjoy.
Sansa screamed.
Chapter End Notes
     well kids, here we go!!
     AAAAAND it's hiatus time! this marks the end of part three of this
     monster fucking fic. HOME STRETCH FAM, HOME STRETCH. i'll take a week
     off. maybe two, you'll have to check my tumblr @kingpetyr for
     updates, but what i'm trying to do is save up enough chapters to be
     able to publish the final three in one day. just because it's a lot,
     and i'd hate to leave people waiting for the conclusion in the middle
     of all this tension, ya know? so we'll see. AHHHH FINALLY HERE, LET'S
     GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD BITCHES xoxo
***** Hail Mary *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
       [el_malei_rachamim;_yitzhak_husbands-hankin] ◆ [ave_maria;_vienna
                                 boys'_choir]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 2 APRIL, 2017
The last time Sansa had attended a funeral, it was her mother’s. Robb’s and
Talisa’s, her unborn nephew’s, Bran’s and little Rickon’s. The day had ended
with bruises and torture as though the loss of her family wasn’t enough pain to
bear.
Now, Sansa was attending another funeral. One she could have prevented.
“He was tortured for months,” Jon had said the evening prior, reiterating the
coroner’s report on Theon’s remains. “Some wounds are as old as before the
fire, others are from the time you were captive. But most of 'em happened
after…”
“After I left.” Sansa didn’t need him to say it.
So many things fell into place for her, then: why Theon avoided her during her
captivity, why he didn't stop Ramsay, why he’d stayed silent when she begged
him for help. Theon was Ramsay’s prisoner as much as she had been. Not in the
same way, perhaps, but they'd both suffered at a monster’s hands. She’d
promised to save him as he’d saved her.
And Theon was dead.
Yara held a quick memorial. She didn’t want to stay in England longer than she
had to. Sansa couldn’t fault her for that. She couldn’t fault her for anything,
her short remarks at the podium, her quick dismissals of guests, her
unwillingness to speak. The memorial wasn’t conclusive at all, in pieces like
the situation that led to it. Sansa sat in the back row with her siblings and
prayed that Yara could forgive her failure.
“We should say Kaddish for him,” said Sansa after the service.
Jon turned to her. Even Arya looked confused.
“He was our brother, once.” Sansa wrung her hands. “He loved our family. He
betrayed Robb, but he saved me in the end. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be
with Ramsay.”
Arya nearly argued, but Jon held up his hand to quiet her. “We can go to temple
tomorrow,” he said. “We'll say Kaddish for everyone we’ve lost. Not just ’im.”
Sansa liked the thought of that. She stood from her seat to brush out her
dress, and stopped her siblings from following her. “I want to talk to Yara,”
she said. “I’ll be back.”
Jon gave her a reassuring smile. Sansa didn’t return it, and walked quietly
through the small crowd to where Yara Greyjoy stood at the funeral home’s
window. Yara cradled a drink in her hands, dressed in modest black, watching
spring rain patter against the glass and wilting flower buds. She didn’t turn
to Sansa when she approached.
“Yara,” said Sansa in a broken voice. “I — Ms. Greyjoy, I’m Sansa. Sansa
Stark.”
“I know who you are.” Yara looked at her, expression stone-cold and wounded.
“We met on Theon’s birthday a few years ago.”
“Right. I just, um, I didn’t know if you remembered.” Sansa nervously curled
her hair behind her ear. She didn’t know where to begin. How could she explain
in words what Theon had done for her, or the gratitude she felt because of it?
“I, um… Theon, he — he wasn’t as bad as people—”
“I know he wasn’t.” Yara turned to the window again. “He was a stupid little
shit sometimes, but he was my baby brother. My only living family. I loved
him.” She sipped her drink. “Now it’s just me.”
Sansa wanted to offer her sympathies. I know how you feel, she could say, but
did she truly? Sansa once believed she was the only remaining Stark, but her
brother and sister had returned to her. Yara’s family would not come back from
the grave.
“Doesn’t help that I’m gay as all hell,” laughed Yara bitterly. “I can’t pass
on the bloodline. My father always prized it. Too bad for him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sansa.
“Don’t be. Not your fault.” Yara studied Sansa’s face. “Did you want
something?”
Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat and picked her nails. “I — I told Theon
I would go back for him. I told him I’d help him escape, but I never did.” Her
hands trembled. “Yara, I’m sorry, I spent so long in hiding and trying to
recover that I—”
“The Boltons did this,” blurted Yara. Sansa fell quiet. Yara threw her head
back and finished her drink, placing her empty glass on the table nearby.
“Don’t blame yourself. I know Ramsay hurt you, just like he hurt my brother,
but you getting out alive was what Theon wanted. So don’t talk about his last
good deed like it was a bad thing.”
Sansa didn’t know how to respond. She tightened her grip on her own hands.
“You’re right,” she said after a time. “I wanted to go back for him, I truly
did. But it was so complicated.”
“I know. Littlefinger told me.” Yara managed a compassionate smile. “I’m sorry
Ramsay hurt you. And as much as I wish I could rip out that bastard’s throat
myself, I know you got Theon’s revenge.”
Sansa straightened her back. “I did.”
“That’s all there is to it.” Yara stared out the window again. The rain poured
harder and thunder rolled through the sky. “I’m going home.”
“To Norway?” Sansa asked.
Yara nodded. “There’s nothing left for me here. My father’s enterprise —
my enterprise — we operate out of Oslo. I was only here for my brother. The
police won’t give me his body any time soon, if ever.” Yara pulled something
from her pocket, a small slip of paper, and motioned for Sansa to hold out her
hands. “This is my direct number,” she said. “Theon died to keep you safe. The
least I can do is honor that. Anything I can do. Just call.”
Sansa took the paper and thanked Yara, looking down at the handwritten
digits. It all comes down to a phone call, doesn’t it? “Here. I have something
for you too.” Sansa opened her purse and retrieved a small key. “It’s for a
safe deposit box,” she explained. “I put a few things in there. Pictures of
Theon from when we were younger, some of Littlefinger’s business tips and
Norwegian contacts, and some money. It’s not much, but I had to do something
for you.” She looked up to Yara. “Take care of yourself. Please.”
Yara wrestled with a smile. She took the key, and Sansa’s hand. “You take care
of yourself too, Sansa. And give Roose Bolton hell.”
Sansa had never made a quicker promise.
Jon, Arya and Sansa left the funeral home when the reception was over. Mayana
was waiting for them in the car park. The drive home was silent, interrupted
only by Sansa’s buzzing phone from Jeyne’s unread text messages. Yara’s words
of comfort aside, Sansa had failed Theon. Roose Bolton had made sure she would
never forget it.
“Sansa,” said Olyvar when she stepped through home’s front door. Rainclouds
blocked the sunset, casting a gray glow inside. “You look dreadful. Do you want
some tea? A hug?”
“No thank you,” said Sansa. She stared blankly forward. “Where’s Petyr?”
No one responded. Sansa broke from her monotone trance to look around. “He’s in
a meeting,” said Mayana. “He’ll be home soon.”
“Okay.” Sansa hugged herself and walked upstairs. She entered hers and Petyr’s
bedroom, housing a numb heart, and crawled under the blankets to rest.
Sansa didn’t eat dinner. She curled up with a pillow and laid there in search
of comfort she never found. She cried for a bit, slept a bit more, and didn’t
move more than a few inches. Hopelessness kept her paralyzed.
After an unknown span of time, Sansa heard the door open. She knew it was Petyr
by his footsteps, and felt his weight when he sat beside her on the bed.
Petyr’s fingertips brushed her hair from her cheek. “You should eat,
sweetling.”
“I don’t want to eat,” she said. “I just want to lay here.”
“No you don’t. You want Roose Bolton to pay for what he’s done, and he can’t do
that if you’re not strong enough to make him.”
Sansa sighed. She pushed herself upright and leaned back against the headboard.
Petyr gave a sad smile and cupped her cheek. “Better.”
Sansa took the handful of crackers he offered and ate them slowly. Petyr
watched her, his hand on her thigh, stroking his thumb along her skin beneath
the dress. Nothing lecherous, just a touch, a connection. “None of this is your
fault, Sansa. Do you understand that?”
Sansa felt her tears return. One spilled down her cheek, and she wiped it away.
“I should have gone back for him sooner.”
“There was nothing you could have done. Even if there were, you would’ve risked
being retaken by Ramsay. I would not have allowed that.”
“But…”
“Come here.” Petyr reached for her when she sobbed. He pulled her into his arms
and held her tight, shushing her gently, her head tucked under his chin. Sansa
wept and clutched his shirt in the ball of her fist, clinging to him in fear.
Of what, she didn’t know. But she was sick of losing people she loved.
“Perhaps you should visit church,” Petyr suggested.
Sansa lifted her head. His eyes were distant, but not without earnest.
“You find comfort in prayer, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She sniffled. “I do.”
“There’s a new parish a few miles away. Perhaps your brother and sister could
take you there.” He touched her arm. “Would you like that?”
The thought of prayer was comforting to her. “I think I would,” Sansa decided.
“You’re right. You’re always right, aren’t you? Except when you’re not.” She
chuckled.
“Except when I’m not,” he replied. Petyr squeezed her hand. “I don’t want you
to go alone.”
“Would you come with me?”
“I'm afraid I can't tonight. Ask your family, perhaps.”
“Okay.” Sansa wiped tears from her cheeks. “Thank you, Petyr. For everything.”
Petyr held her face. “Don’t thank me yet, Sansa. Not until all is said and
done.”
He kissed her tenderly. When they parted, Sansa grabbed her coat and shoes,
slipping them on. She took her mother’s rosary from her bedside table. “I’ll be
back in an hour,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”
“Always.” Petyr pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “Be
careful, my love.”
“I will.”
She smiled at him and left the room.
Jon and Arya were talking to each other when Sansa entered the lounge. Her
siblings waved at her. “Hey,” said Jon. “You feelin’ better?”
“Not really.” Ghost rose from his bed by the fireplace and came to Sansa for
pets, which she gave. “I was thinking I might go to a parish down the road,
just to clear my head. Would you come with me?”
“To church?” asked Arya. “Us?”
“It’s not like we haven’t been before,” said Jon. “Is it safe?”
“I don’t know.” Sansa shrugged. “Petyr thinks so.”
“I’m just worried about someone recognizin’ us. Greyjoys are one thing, but if
the priests know who we are, it could get ugly.”
“What’s the matter?” Ros stepped into the room from the kitchen, having
overheard them. “Is everything alright out here?”
“It’s fine,” said Sansa. “Petyr gave me the idea to go to church. I was gonna
go to the one down the road, you know. But he thought Jon and Arya should go
with me for protection.”
“He said that just now?”
“Mhm.”
Ros hesitated. Sansa tried to read her when she crossed the room to the coat
closet, pulling her peacoat off the hanger. “I’ll take you instead.”
“Are you sure?” Jon asked. “You don’t have to. We can—”
“No, it’s fine.” Ros smiled in assurance. “You’re right, it’s better if you two
stay hidden. Sansa will be safe with me.”
Sansa said goodbye to her siblings and left the manor on Ros’s direction,
sitting in the passenger seat for the short drive. St. Mary’s Parish was a new
church in the area. Sansa had wanted to visit since it opened, but she hadn’t
had the chance. Mourning was as good a reason as any to visit the house of God.
She walked with Ros across the empty parking lot, past a fountain of stone
angels, and into the dimly-lit building.
A priest was sweeping the wood floor. He lifted his head from his work and
beamed when he saw Ros and Sansa. “Welcome to St. Mary’s Parish,” he said
amiably. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I don't think so,” said Sansa. “I was just hoping to sit in the oratory for a
minute or two.”
“Of course, of course. Just down the hall.”
“Thank you, Father.” Sansa dipped her fingertips in the pool of holy water,
making the sign of the cross, and walked where the kind priest directed.
The oratory was a small place. A few rows of pews, lit candles and incense,
simple stained glass windows, a wall of brochures for Catholic events and
charities. The room was silent and empty. Sansa relaxed when Ros stood beside
her.
“You know,” said Ros, “even as a prostitute, I still find places like this
comforting.”
“Former prostitute,” said Sansa.
“Former. Of course.” Ros winked. “Here, love. Let’s take a seat.”
Sansa walked down the center aisle. She bowed to the altar and sat in a nearby
pew. Ros sat beside her. They were both quiet, observing the wooden Christ on
the cross, hanging with his crown of thorns. Sansa rolled her mother’s prayer
beads between her fingers and inhaled the incense. Ros’s sigh echoed to the
ceiling.
“I was in love once,” said Ros. Sansa looked at her curiously. “He was a simple
boy, sweet and handsome and kind, and I was damaged.” Ros leaned back in the
pew. “I broke his heart, in the end. I started working the streets because I
needed money, but eventually I got in with a bad procurer and things went
south. The boy promised me that we could work it out despite what I’d done, but
I felt I’d hurt him too much. He deserved better. So I ran from him.”
Sansa frowned. She didn’t know why Ros was telling her this, but it felt
important. “Why don’t you find him again?” Sansa asked. “I'm sure it’s not too
late.”
“Believe me, I wish I could.” Ros swallowed hard. “He died of cancer six years
ago.”
Sansa placed her hand on Ros’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright. That’s life, isn’t it? You have choices, and if you make certain
ones you've got to live with the consequences.” Ros lifted her eyes to Christ.
“I would hate to see you make a bad choice, Sansa. You don’t deserve this life.
All this scheming and plotting. I hope that when this is all over, you can get
away and live in peace with your brother and sister.”
“I plan to,” said Sansa. “We want to leave the country. I don’t know if Petyr
would come with us, though.”
Ros squeezed Sansa’s hand. “Make him understand. I’d hate for Petyr to end up
like me, full of regret that I didn’t keep what I had.”
Sansa wished she could read Ros’s mind, to see her pain and make it better. Ros
deserved to be happy. She turned to Sansa after a long silence and patted her
hand. “Go pray,” she encouraged. “God’s listening. I’ll just sit here,
protecting you.”
“Thank you, Ros.”
“You’re welcome, love.”
Sansa pulled down the panel on the back of the pew and knelt with her mother’s
rosary. She closed her eyes and clutched the beads as she made her way through
the Hail Mary. The words fell from her lips, made simple by memory, while her
mind spiraled with thoughts of what she should pray for. Safety, her sins, her
family, peace. For Ros and her lover. For herself and Petyr. For Theon and his
butchered soul. The list, it seemed, would never end.
The priest’s voice echoed down the hall. “Welcome to St. Mary’s Parish,” he
said. “Is there anything I can—”
Pop. Pop.
A gun fired twice.
Sansa shot up from her prayer. “Ros?”
“Shit.” Ros pulled her weapon from inside her coat and turned off the safety.
She gripped Sansa’s arms. “Listen to me, Sansa. Run.”
“What? But what about—”
“I’ll be fine,” Ros insisted, “I’ll be right behind you. Call Varys. Don’t go
back to Petyr at the manor, do you understand me?”
“But—”
“There’s no time to explain.” Ros kissed her cheek. “Go!”
Sansa held tight to Ros. She searched her eyes as she’d searched Robb’s,
desperate for answers, knowing she would get none. In a rush of fear-driven
courage, Sansa tore away from Ros and out the back door.
Sansa kicked off her heels and ran. She didn’t look back. She didn’t care about
the sheets of rain drenching her to the bone, the gravel under her feet that
turned to cold pavement and grass, the rush of wind in her ears, the rise of
her dress that left her legs chilled. She ran toward the wrought-iron fence at
the edge of the property. Get to the bars, she thought, get there and out, get
help.
Her breath was stolen by a strong arm around her waist.
Sansa screamed. Her rosary fell to the ground. A massive hand clasped tight
around her mouth and pulled her against a muscled chest. “Now now,” said her
assailant, “be quiet. Wouldn’t want to wake anyone.”
“She’s a runner, that one,” said someone else.
“Not for long.”
Several men laughed. Sansa screamed against his palm and squirmed like mad. Her
reward for her struggle was a needle in the neck. Her body fell limp. Her eyes
slowly shut.
Ros bled out into the fountain of angels.
Chapter End Notes
     welcome to hell
***** Conscience *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
     [ballad_of_a_politician;_regina_spektor] ◆ [you'll_come_around;_sara
                jackson-holman] ◆ [blackbird_song;_lee_dewyze]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 3 APRIL, 2017
The massacre made the early morning news. Petyr watched, unfeeling, hands
clasped tight around a hot cup of coffee the Lannister maid had brought him. He
remained silent as the television reporter informed the nation of his crime.
Police lights and caution tape littered the background.
“Four people were brutally murdered inside St. Mary’s Parish late last night.
Three priests were shot to death, alongside a woman believed to be a
prostitute. The suspect in the murders was apprehended by police two hours
later, roaming the highway with the gun still in his hands. He claimed
allegiance to ISIS shortly after police made the arrest.”
“Terrorism?” asked Cersei. “Too obvious, don’t you think?”
“Obvious,” said Roose Bolton, “but believable. ISIS is proud enough to have
taken responsibility, and there’s nothing quite like foiled terrorism to put
public pride in our Home Secretary.”
At the head of the table sat Tywin Lannister. He didn’t smile at the
recognition, only nodded.
Littlefinger turned off the TV. He didn’t want to see Ros’s face on the screen,
see the carnage he’d made. He chose his words wisely. “My associate didn’t have
to die, Mr. Bolton. You told me your men would take Sansa. There didn’t need to
be blood.”
“You killed my son,” Roose countered. “Consider this a late repayment.”
Cersei sneered. Petyr ground his teeth, choking his guilt until it pretended to
disappear.
“Besides, your woman didn’t seem to know the plan. She killed two of my men. We
had to disguise them as priests just to satisfy the news. She needed to be put
down.”
Littlefinger couldn’t argue. “Fair enough.”
“Nothing wrong with a dead whore,” said Tywin. He pulled reading glasses from
his pocket and fingered through a stack of paperwork to his left. “You have
quite a lot of them, Littlefinger. I'm sure you can pick another.”
“All in due time,” he replied.
Cersei’s mood had taken a positive turn. She looked delighted, as though the
sun shone through her wicked grin. “Where is the Stark girl being held? I’d
like to speak with her.”
“She’s at headquarters,” said Tywin sternly. “You will not see her. Mr. Bolton
and I are better suited to interrogation.”
Petyr didn’t like the use of that word; interrogation. Neither did Cersei.
“Sansa killed your grandson,” she asserted. “The king.”
“Joffrey’s killer was not a thirteen-year-old, anxiety-ridden Jew. We will find
his assassin eventually, but for the last time, it was not Sansa Stark.” Tywin
leaned forward to address Roose and Littlefinger, frustrated with his daughter.
“Is there anything else you’d like to discuss? I have to corral the press in an
hour.”
Petyr drummed his fingers on the table. It was physical agony to keep his
thoughts on business and away from Sansa, his Sansa. “How are we splitting it?”
asked Littlefinger. “Twenty-five percent each way?”
“That would be fair if you’d helped us from the beginning,” said Cersei. “You
haven’t.”
“Neither did I bar your way. If you recall, Your Grace, I was the first person
to gain Sansa Stark’s trust and hand her over. Am I to be punished for doing
what you could not?”
Cersei’s grin was filled with spite.
“My daughter and I will take sixty-five percent,” Tywin decided. “You two can
split the rest. That is a fair exchange, given your amount of effort compared
to ours.” He stood from the table. “I will contact you when the girl has agreed
to forfeit her inheritance. The matter is settled.”
So it was. No one argued.
Littlefinger bowed his head as Tywin Lannister took his leave. Roose
followed. That was easier than I anticipated, Petyr thought, but there was no
joy in victory. Petyr straightened his suit jacket, tired and agitated from
lack of sleep. He almost ignored Cersei’s voice calling out to him.
“Littlefinger, do you have a moment?”
Petyr kept an appearance of pride. “Of course, Your Grace. Shall we sit again?”
“No, that’s quite alright. This won’t take long.” Cersei walked around the
table and came to him. “I’m sure you’re aware by now that all my guard detail
are dead, aside from Gregor Clegane.”
“Ah, yes. Arya Stark’s doing, I imagine. She must have finished what Harrold
Hardyng started. Would you like me to locate her?”
“No need. The little ingrate will turn up one way or another, dead or alive.”
Cersei folded her hands. “No, I need your protection. You’ve managed to keep
your people close. Do you have any names of others I can seek out? Only until I
find adequate replacements.”
Littlefinger smiled. “Certainly. Let me make a list, Your Grace, and send it to
you before noon. I’m sure there are many who can fill these positions for you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” Cersei turned to leave, until she stopped
abruptly. “Oh. I almost forgot.” From her pocket, she pulled a set of sapphire
prayer beads on a golden chain. Sansa’s rosary. She dropped it in Petyr’s hand.
“Hopefully, in the future, you can keep your toys from breaking.”
Cersei left him there, in the wake of what he’d done. Petyr’s stomach lurched
as he held Sansa’s beads in his fist. He couldn’t digest Cersei’s threat and
the fear for Sansa’s safety at the same time. He buried his hesitations and the
rosary deep in his pocket, and fled.
By the time Petyr drove away, he was openly miserable. He’d done his worst. The
Starks would not forgive him. It was crippling, how much of him had broken
apart now that Sansa was lost. Had he relied on her so much? The more Petyr
dwelled on her, the more he came to realize that Sansa was a support beam he
didn’t know was there, raising him higher, making him stronger. But
Littlefinger had torn her down for the sake of his goals and lied when he
claimed they were hers. As a result, Petyr caved in.
He took a deep breath when he pulled into the manor driveway. Facing everyone
would not be pleasant. Petyr entered the house and closed the door behind him,
feeling the chill of Sansa’s absence and the emptiness Ros left behind.
His phone fell from his pocket. Petyr sighed and leaned down to retrieve it.
Thunk.
Petyr stood. The handle of Arya Stark’s dagger stuck out from the wooden door,
wiggling from the force of a throw.
“Liar!” shouted Arya from the stairs. “Liar, liar, liar!”
She charged him. Petyr reached for his gun, but Jon grabbed Arya around the
waist and held her back. “Arya!” he ordered, “Arya, stop!”
“He betrayed us!” she cried. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him!”
Mayana and Olyvar ran in from the kitchen. Olyvar looked grim and Mayana’s
cheeks were tear-stained. The three of them consoled Arya enough to keep her
steady. Petyr yanked the dagger from the door and killed his feelings in their
crib.
The four of them argued over how to handle the situation, but Petyr could not
help them. Mayana turned to him from the group. If anyone would still be on his
side, it would be her. Petyr felt relief when she approached him. “Are we calm
now?” he asked. “I promise, everything can be explained.”
Mayana struck him with her bare fist. Petyr fell back against the door, holding
his cheek.
Everyone fell silent.
“You son of a bitch!” Mayana screamed. “You betrayed her! You betrayed all of
us!”
“Mayana—”
“Shut up!” She wiped angry tears from her eyes. “When you brought Sansa here,
you told us to watch out for her, this teenage girl, and we had to just deal
with it. You didn't even ask us how we felt. But now that we all care for her
you just take her away? And Ros,” Mayana sobbed, “she was the best of us. The
only one who had a heart she was proud of.”
Petyr rubbed his face where Mayana had punched him. He felt blood. He felt
empty.
“Get my knife,” said Arya from the staircase. “Mayana, get Needle and I’ll do
it for you.”
“No one’s killin’ anybody.” A distressed Jon Stark kept his sister held by the
shoulder. “We need to find out exactly what ‘appened.”
“We know what happened!” Arya shouted. “Stop being stupid, Jon! You always give
him the benefit of the doubt, but look where Sansa is now! We lost her!”
“Please, the shouting,” groaned Olyvar. His eyes were red. Petyr had never seen
Olyvar cry before.
Jon looked his sister in the eye. “We need to be careful, Arya. This might be
part of a plan. When I was with the Night’s Watch, we—”
“I don’t care,” spat Arya. “I don’t want to hear what he has to say.” She
shoved Jon away, throwing another dagger at Petyr with her eyes. “I want him
dead.”
Arya stormed up the stairs. Jon followed her. Olyvar and Mayana stood in the
entryway, broken-hearted and scorned. Petyr clenched his fists. “I can
explain.”
“You’d damn well better.” Mayana walked into the living room. Olyvar went with
her. Petyr could hear the Starks yelling at each other upstairs, though he
couldn’t make out what they were saying. Grimly, Petyr went to his companions
and sat down in the fireside chair. Ros’s chair. Her perfume was in the fabric.
No one said anything for a long time. It felt wrong to be without Sansa and
Ros, both emotional and spiritual anchors for the household. Both gone.
Petyr sighed. He rubbed his face, composure broken.
“What did you do?” Mayana asked.
Petyr pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “I gave Sansa to the
Lannisters and Roose Bolton,” he said. “In exchange for their trust.”
“Why the hell…?”
Jon entered the room, distraught. He sat beside Olyvar on the sofa and didn’t
spare Petyr a glance. “My sister won’t be joinin’ us,” he said. “Whatever we
talk about here, I’ll pass on to her.”
“She’d rather hear it from you, anyway.” Mayana patted Jon on the shoulder. “Go
on, Pete.”
Petyr drew in so deep from his cigarette that his lungs singed. “I traded Sansa
for Lannister loyalty. I did the one thing they believed I wouldn’t do, and now
I have their trust.”
“But why?” asked Olyvar. “Why would you do that to her?”
“To get access to MI5, steal the evidence of the Stark coverup, and go public
with it. To prove that the Lannisters and Boltons conspired to kill the Starks
and steal their fortune.”
Mayana and Olyvar exchanged a look. They knew how Petyr functioned, knew his
plan was thought-out and geared for success if the pieces fell into place. Jon
merely shook his head. “You’re insane.”
“Perhaps. But Sansa wants justice, and this was the fastest way—”
“She doesn’t care about justice!” shouted Jon. The room fell quiet. “She just —
she just wants to be happy. If you don’t know that, you don’t know her at all.”
Petyr felt the stab of Jon’s words. He leaned forward, resting his elbows
unprofessionally on his knees. “She does care about justice,” Petyr countered.
“She’ll care even more when she’s safe.”
“There could have been another way,” said Mayana, arms folded over her chest.
“You didn’t even come to us for help. You didn’t tell us.”
“Your reactions to everything had to be genuine if they were to be believed.”
Mayana made a loud, rude noise.
“Did you tell Ros?” Olyvar questioned. “She came to Mayana and I and told us
you were up to something, but we didn’t believe her. Did she know?”
Petyr inhaled from his cigarette. “She had her suspicions, but I told her
nothing. She wasn’t supposed to die. The Starks were supposed to go to the
church together, but Ros must've sensed I was up to something and offered to go
instead. Roose said her death was payment for Ramsay.” Petyr scoffed. “Ironic.
Ros warned me that killing Ramsay too soon was a bad idea, but I didn’t listen.
Sansa’s pain clouded my judgment.”
“Didn’t seem to stop you this time,” said Olyvar.
“What do you know?” shouted Petyr as he stood. “You, Mayana, Ros, all of you
adjusted to Sansa being here without a problem. You were able to do your jobs
without being compromised by her, but she dismantled everything I’ve ever known
to be true.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, turning helplessly to the
fireplace. “She ruined me.”
Long silence.
Mayana came to him, putting her hand on Petyr’s shoulder. He knew she could
feel him falling apart. “You’re like a brother to me,” she said, “and I’ll help
you get Sansa back. But I don’t feel bad for you.”
Petyr supposed that was fair enough. “I don’t want your pity.”
“Then maybe you should figure out what you do want, Pete. Because I won’t let
that girl suffer anymore, even if it means letting her go for good.”
Separation from Sansa was unacceptable. Petyr ignored Mayana’s comment for now,
finishing his cigarette and throwing the rest in the fireplace. Mayana moved to
the sofa where Olyvar and Jon sat. “Well?”
“I’ll help,” said Olyvar. “But I agree with Mayana. If you can talk your way
out of this one, Petyr, I’ll be overjoyed to have Sansa back. But you need to
check your actions.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve been her therapist. She told me
everything. What she went through with Ramsay.”
“I know,” said Petyr.
“No you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have handed her back to his father.”
“Enough,” Mayana pleaded before Petyr could respond. She rubbed her temples and
her voice cracked. “God, enough.”
Petyr reluctantly backed down. Olyvar moved to Mayana’s side, rubbing her back,
leaving Petyr alone on the other side of the room.
All of them turned to Jon.
Jon stood, good soldier that he was, and took a breath. He walked across the
room to Petyr. Both men straightened their shoulders. “I’m in,” he said. “Arya
is too.”
Petyr sighed in slight relief. “I’m glad. I’ll have need of you.”
Jon gripped hard on Petyr’s shoulder as he tried to leave, so hard that his
muscles ached.This was the fearless warrior Petyr had heard so much about.
“We’re taking Sansa when this is over,” Jon commanded. “No exceptions. You’ll
never see her again.”
Is that what you think? Petyr shot Jon’s glare back at him, but didn’t have the
energy to make a comment. No one said a word when Jon left the room. Mayana and
Olyvar followed him out, leaving Petyr alone with the crackling fireplace. He
leaned his hand on the mantle. All he could think of was how the flames looked
like tendrils of Sansa’s hair.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Sleep never came to him. Petyr couldn’t bear to lay in bed, the one he shared
with Sansa, the one that smelled like her. He drank several glasses of whiskey
and laid on the couch by his bedroom fireplace. He wasn’t himself. Petyr felt a
scattered mess, as if Sansa had unzipped his spine and spilled him everywhere
at once. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Petyr lay on his back, arm draped
over his eyes, trying to stay distracted from the chaos he was beginning to
hate.
Petyr was able to fall into sub-par slumber until he heard his door slowly
open. No footsteps. Petyr figured the girl would come to uphold her promise. He
had half a mind to let her.
Petyr opened his eyes and stared down the barrel of Arya Stark’s gun.
“That’s a cruel way to kill a man,” he said. “Unarmed and defenseless in his
own room.”
“It’s crueler to do what you did.” Arya tilted her head to the side. Petyr read
her danger, her wild soul. “No one hurts my family and lives.”
“A shame, then, that the Lannisters still draw breath.”
“I’m getting there,” said Arya. “One at a time.”
Petyr held her gaze. “Whether you believe me or not is immaterial. I have what
you need, and killing me will damn Sansa to a fate worse than before.”
“Nothing’s worse than you,” she said.
“Ramsay Bolton might beg to differ.”
Arya’s confidence wavered. She stepped back, giving Petyr room to sit upright.
“I don’t trust you,” she told him.
“Nor should you. But your sister…” Petyr cleared his throat. “She’s mine. Ros
was mine, and our enemies have taken them both. Vengeance is what we seek, you
and I. That, you can trust.”
“So you’re a liar who tells the truth?” Arya shook her head. “That’s not
possible.”
“Isn’t it? You’ve done the same. No One, a mysterious fighter in Jaqen H’gar’s
cages. Cat, a homeless orphan who lives under a bridge. Beth, a waitress in a
small tavern. And Mercy, the Jewish girl seeking refuge for Hanukkah.” He
spread his hands. “All true. All false.”
Arya shoved her gun forward. “Don’t compare the two of us. I’d never hurt
Sansa. We fight a lot, but she’s my sister and I—” She paused. “I don’t hate
her.”
“I don’t hate her either,” said Petyr. “Quite the contrary.”
“Then why did you sell her out?”
“I explained earlier. You decided not to listen.”
“No explanation is good enough for this.” Arya stepped closer, expression torn
between hatred and tears. “I don’t need you. Neither does Sansa.”
“I’m the only one who can get her out alive,” said Petyr, ignoring the weapon
in his face. “But not without your help. That’s why I brought you here in the
first place.”
Arya narrowed her eyes. “Jon told me your plan.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“What’s to stop me from killing you now and carrying out that plan on my own?”
“You need me to get into MI5,” said Petyr. “You can’t infiltrate a government
agency on your own, no matter how good you think you are.”
“I’m better than you think,” she countered.
“Perhaps.” An idea came to him. Two birds, one stone. “You were the one who
sent the files on Walder Frey’s trafficking ring to Officer Tarth, weren’t
you?”
“Maybe,” said Arya.
“Then you might be the perfect one to help me.” Petyr motioned to his closet.
“You could wear your sister’s clothes with a bit of tailoring, yes? And learn
to walk in heels?”
Arya scowled. “Why?”
Petyr stood from the sofa. Arya raised her weapon, but Petyr knew she wouldn’t
pull the trigger. He dared to press the barrel to his chest. “You want to be
involved in rescuing your sister and getting the justice you seek,” he said. “I
have the perfect way. Come with me to MI5. We’ll steal the Lannisters’
confidential files, present the evidence of your family’s murder to Prime
Minister Targaryen, and put this all to rest.”
The offer was too tempting for a hothead like Arya Stark. She pulled back her
gun, shoving it in the back of her jeans, eyes lethal. “I’ll do it,” she said
spitefully. "But after Sansa’s back, you’re dead.”
Petyr watched Arya storm out of the room. A smirk crossed his face, quickly
replaced by a frown. The satisfaction didn't last. Petyr curled up on the couch
again, not bothering to turn off the lights, and closed his eyes.
Chapter End Notes
     ugh this is starting to hurt my heart :( hang on lovelies, we're
     getting there! hopefully this chapter answered a couple questions.~
     let me know your thoughts!
***** Happiness Blinds *****
Chapter Notes
                              soundtrack choices:
        [everybody_wants_to_rule_the_world;_lorde] ◆ [ocean;_liza_anne]

     "I am not proud, but I am happy, and happiness blinds, I think, more
                                 than pride."
                  - Edmond Dantes, The Count of Monte Cristo
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 3 APRIL, 2017
Sansa woke to blistering white light. She lifted her hands to shield herself,
blinking hard until her eyes adjusted. Blank walls and a blue door, a wide
mirror to her left. Someone had handcuffed her to a table and chair. She still
wore her black dress from Theon’s funeral, hair half-out of its styled bun.
Sansa looked at herself in the mirror. Her temple was crusted with dried blood,
lips chapped, bare feet filthy from her failed escape. Her clothes smelled of
rain and cherry cigars.
She was alone. Sansa turned her head as far as she could to see if anyone was
behind her, but there was nothing. Only emptiness, and the terror in its wake.
The door opened. Roose Bolton entered by himself, dressed in a suit and tie,
looking like the CEO he once was. He took the seat opposite Sansa. The table
separated them only just. She held his stare and didn’t back down, but being
near him brought back memories she'd rather forget.
“How do you feel?” asked Roose.
Sansa's throat was scratchy and raw. “Threatened.”
“I’m not surprised. You went through quite the ordeal under my care. Seeing me
again must be hard for you.”
“No harder than it always was.”
Roose pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. The smoke smelled like her
clothes, sickly sweet, artificial. How long has he been watching me? “I always
wondered why you never ended my son’s treatment of you while you had the
chance,” he said. “I’m curious.”
“Ended?” spat Sansa. “Nothing Ramsay did to me was my fault.”
“Yet you could have made him stop,” said Roose. “All it would’ve taken was your
signature, and Ramsay would never have touched you again.”
“I don’t believe you. Ramsay made false promises just like you. He would’ve
done whatever he wanted with me after I signed those papers. That’s why I
killed him.”
Roose Bolton’s eyes grew so cold that Sansa shivered. He stood from his chair.
Metal scraped the tile floor. He paced in front of the table, letting her sit
in the fault of her words until he broke the silence. “Did Ramsay ever tell you
how he was conceived?”
Sansa didn’t want to answer. She clasped her hands in her lap and stayed still.
“I was competing with another wealthy man for stock in a rising company. He
always seemed to get the better end of certain deals. Naturally, I had to
eliminate him.” Smoke passed through Roose’s smile. “I snuck into his home,
killed him in his bed and raped his young wife, still covered in his blood.
Nine months later, she brought me a baby. I nearly sent the child away until I
looked at him. And I knew Ramsay was mine.”
That’s what Ramsay wanted from me, Sansa realized, trying not to vomit. He
wanted to be like his father.
“Ramsay was always… enthusiastic about following in my footsteps,” Roose
continued, making his way around the table. “I should have suspected that he
would try to breed you. When he came to me with the idea, I almost told him no,
but he wanted to prove himself worthy of me. He was admirable that way.”
“Admirable,” scoffed Sansa. She could barely speak, fighting the urge to shake
and sob.
Roose came to her side. He leaned on the table and folded his arms. Sansa
couldn’t move away. “Shall I ask again, Miss Stark? Why didn’t you stop my son
while you could?”
“It’s not my fault,” Sansa asserted, tears in her eyes. “He never would have
stopped because I never would’ve given up my family’s money. All Ramsay’s
actions earned him was death.”
Roose’s grin soured. He pressed his palm to the table, leaning close to her
like a viper. Sansa could smell stale cherry and tobacco on his breath. She
tried to cringe away, but she could not go far, and Roose continued to
intimidate her with his frightening sense of calm. “Look at me.”
Sansa did. His eyes were venomous.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking my son’s methods are off limits to me. I
could make you suffer more than he ever did.”
Sansa did not falter. “Whatever happens, I will not break.”
The door to the room opened. In walked Tywin Lannister, Joffrey's grandfather,
the man who pulled the strings, wearing a suit and a stern look. Sansa paled
when she saw him. “Enough,” said Tywin. His booming voice echoed off the walls.
“Your time is up.”
Roose moved away from Sansa on command. He straightened his tie as Tywin took a
seat across from where Sansa sat helpless, folding his hands atop the table.
Sansa took a moment to catch her breath. Whatever they were playing at, she
would fight them, using wit and will for fists. She knew how to play the
captive game.
“Where am I?” asked Sansa, while she still could.
“MI5 Headquarters in London,” said Tywin. “Would you like something to drink?
We can’t have you getting dehydrated.”
Sansa nodded. She needed to stay healthy if she was to escape. Moments later, a
man in black came in and placed a glass of water in front of her before leaving
the room again. Sansa drank gratefully. The water was ice cold, refreshing in
her mouth, and she gulped it down until there was nothing left.
“Now,” said Tywin. “We have much to discuss.”
“No we don’t. I already know what you want.” Sansa leaned back in her chair,
vaguely aware of Roose Bolton pacing behind her.
“I’m sure you do,” said Tywin. “That will make this easier.”
“But why? Your family is one of the richest in Europe. You own gold mines. Why
is my father’s money so important to you?”
Tywin’s reply was unreadable silence. Sansa used her mind and worked through
her question on her own. He’s not wearing any gold, she observed, his tie has a
thread sticking out. His cuff links are three years out of fashion and he’s not
clean-shaven. “You don’t have money,” she muttered.
“The mines went dry years ago. Besides, gold is not worth what it once was.
Your father’s fortune will repair the damage done to the Lannister name as a
result.”
Sansa didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. “You want my inheritance,
generations of Stark savings just so you can keep living in luxury?” Her throat
burned. “That’s what you killed my family for?”
Roose chuckled behind her. “It was much more complicated than that, I assure
you. Your father was poking around in our business. Found things he wasn’t
supposed to find.”
Sansa came to the same conclusion. “All that about the queen and her brother,”
she muttered dismally. “It’s true? Father found out. You were sex trafficking
women, Ramsay was killing people and you covered it up…” Sansa’s posture fell.
“He must’ve found out you were spying on Robb, too.”
“Robb Stark was a political prodigy,” said Tywin. “I did not want him in my
government.”
“Your government,” breathed Sansa. I can’t believe this.
“Mr. Bolton forged a change of custody form, for you, to become your legal
guardian after your family’s deaths. He would marry you to Ramsay and try to
gain your fortune the peaceful way. You did not agree.”
She covered her face and leaned her elbows on the table, swallowing bile. My
family died for being too smart, she grieved. I was raped for money.
“And now Littlefinger has betrayed you,” said Tywin. “Must be difficult,
knowing you were close to justice.”
Sansa raised her head. Petyr? “He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He’ll find out where I
am, he’ll hurt you for this.”
“Really?” Roose Bolton stood beside Sansa and held out his phone. “Perhaps I
should enlighten you.”
Sansa read the screen when he showed it to her.
       04/02/2017, 11:37PM - From: Littlefinger
              St Mary’s Parish, oratory. She’s there.
Sansa froze. She read the text a hundred times, scanning the words frantically
in hopes they would morph and change.
“He told us where you were because we made a deal,” said Roose. “You, for a
percentage of your money.”
“No.” Sansa shook her head wildly. “You’re lying.”
“This is his number, yes?” Roose showed her. Sansa read the digits and clasped
her mouth to hold back a sob. It’s not, it can’t be, he protected me, he loves
me…
Tywin pulled a pen from his pocket and placed it near Sansa’s hand. From his
suit jacket, he procured a file and passed it across the table to her. “Sign on
the highlighted areas,” he demanded. “Then this will all be over.”
Sansa opened the file with shaking hands. She could hardly read the words
through teary eyes. There were insurance documents, statements to forfeit her
rights of inheritance, already signed by the beneficiary, Tywin Lannister.
Sansa's stomach lurched. Her survival was paramount, it had always been, but
reading the printed words of her defeat made the promise of going home after
signing impossible. It would not be worth it.
“I can’t,” she muttered.
“Pardon?”
“I can’t do it.” Sansa pushed the file away from her. “I won’t.”
“Your stubbornness will get you nowhere, girl.”
“I don't care.”
“There will be pain,” warned Tywin. “You understand that?”
“Yes. But I won’t sign those papers, no matter what.”
Roose Bolton sighed behind her. “I told you. She refuses to bend.”
“Give her time,” said Tywin. “She’ll learn. She has yet to see how persuasive I
can be.”
Sansa glared at him. Didn’t they know she was unbreakable?
Roose Bolton returned to Tywin’s side when he stood. “Put her in a cell,” Tywin
said, “down with the other ones. Give her the night to think about her
decision. Tomorrow, perhaps she’ll see sense.”
The two men left her in the interrogation room. Only when they'd gone did
Sansa’s mask slip away. Three agents in suits unlocked a trembling Sansa from
her handcuffs and forced her to her feet. She walked where they directed,
submitted to big hands and foul mouths, descending in an elevator to a lower
floor. She wasn’t given shoes to cover her feet. No food, no blanket to sleep
with, no soap for a shower.
To Sansa’s dismay, she was a prisoner again.
A collection of holding cells gathered at the end of a long hall. Made of
bulletproof glass, locked with badge scanners for agent use only. One of her
guards held his badge to the reader. The cell door opened. Sansa was shoved
inside, so hard that she almost hit the back wall, and the door locked shut
behind her. The agents were gone by the time she turned around. A single light
in the ceiling flickered and the air was stagnant, thick, choking her with the
reality of her new captivity.
Sansa curled up on the cold floor and wept. She couldn’t remember the reason
for her tears anymore. Family? Friends? Love? She’d wept so often that sorrow
was beginning to feel pointless. How many times do I have to cry before this is
over? she wondered, seeing Ros and her family when she closed her eyes. When
will it stop hurting?
“Girl keeps crying,” said a man in an opposite cell.
“A pretty sight,” said another. “Pretty girls on the floor.”
“Bugger off,” barked a voice like sandpaper. It came from the cell to Sansa’s
right, a figure in the shadows. “Shut your mouths and leave the girl alone.”
I know that voice. She ignored the others, crawling desperately to the edge of
her cell and pressing her hands up to the glass.
The half-burned face of Sandor Clegane peered at her with eyes of stone.
“It’s you,” she breathed.
Sandor came to her, at the edge of his own cell, sitting cross-legged in front
of the window that separated them. His frown spoke his concern for her. “What
the hell happened to you?”
“I was taken.” Sansa's hands fell from the glass. She stared at the floor,
trapped in memory.
“Are you alright, little bird?”
Sansa wanted to cry again. “No,” she admitted. “Everything’s wrong. I was—”
“Careful,” he warned, pointing to the ceiling. “Don’t know which fuckers are
listening.”
Sansa swallowed her emotions and regained herself enough to think. She settled
down to a more comfortable position, crossing her legs like he had. “I was
taken while I was trying to pray. My friend Ros, she…” Sansa blinked through
tears that wouldn't leave. “She was killed.” All because she wanted to protect
me from Petyr.
Petyr…
“I’m happy to see you at least,” she said to change the topic. “Strange as it
sounds.”
“No need to lie, girl. My face ain’t a pleasant one.”
“That never mattered to me.”
Sandor looked uncomfortable. When he turned his head, Sansa noticed a swollen,
aggravated bruise on his left eye, and a healing cut on his cheek. He’s
suffered here, too.
“What are you doing here?” Sandor asked.
Sansa stared at the ground again. She remembered Petyr convincing her to go to
St. Mary's, his gentle embrace, his lingering kiss, his last words to her: be
careful, my love. “Littlefinger betrayed me.”
“Littlefinger?” said Sandor. “The little rat bastard with the mustache?”
She couldn’t help but chuckle. Her chuckle turned sour at the memory of how
that mustache had felt on her skin. “Yeah… him.”
Her tears returned. Sansa tightened her fists and sobbed without restraint, as
though her chest cavity had been caved in by a hammer. Sansa wept so hard that
she began to feel dizzy, her head full to bursting with blood and pulsing pain.
The thought that Petyr had taken advantage of her trust was too much to bear,
but the worst part was how deeply she still yearned for his comfort.
Think rationally, Sansa, think rationally. It’s too soon to be weak. She forced
herself to steady the hysteria, hand on her chest, palm pressed to the cold
tile floor. She closed her eyes and worked through the events to find hints
she’d missed. Petyr had held her. Told her to be safe. I want their corporation
to burn, he’d said long ago. We kill them. After everything Petyr and Sansa had
endured together, it seemed improbable for him to betray her now when he could
have hundreds of times before.
But it didn't matter in the end. Ramsay had violated her body, and Petyr had
violated her heart.
Sansa brushed dirt off the soles of her feet. “There are two parts to
Littlefinger,” she said carefully. “There’s a good side and a darker one.
Sometimes he’s sweet, he’s gentle and funny and romantic…” Sansa wiped her
tears. “But other times, he’s Littlefinger. Businessman, political saboteur,
manipulator. Somehow I still loved him for it. But both sides always have a
plan, you know? I don’t think he would have left me here unless there was a
reason for it. He loves me.” Sansa sighed. She couldn't think straight, and her
words sounded ridiculous now. “I don’t know.”
Sandor laughed, a deep and harsh sound that cut her like a knife. “You’re
crying so hard you can barely open your eyes, and you’re still defendin’ the
fucker?”
“I have to.” Another tear fell down her cheek. She wiped it away. “Without
hope, I’m lost.”
Sandor was quiet. Sansa picked at the fraying hem of her dress, thinking of the
funeral it’d been worn for, of the funerals she’d yet to attend. It kept her
distracted from this new reality, and the memories of Ramsay that came with it.
Sandor released a long sigh. “For your sake, little bird, I hope you’re right.”
“Me too.”
Sansa would not rely on anyone to save her. She would do what she must to
survive. She would leave all her enemies in the dust of her freedom, or die
trying.
Chapter End Notes
     adlksjakldgjaslkj
     okay, so since people were upset about petyr's actions, i talked
     about it in a blog post here. it explains things a bit. basically,
     petyr is selfish and this fic was never meant to make it seem like
     this was a good relationship, because it's not healthy and never was,
     despite how cute they seem. it's MESSY
     anyway <3 i love you guys. stick with me till the end. i promise the
     payoff is worth the pain. promise.
     xoxo
***** King of the Ashes *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
          [light_of_the_seven;_ramin_djawadi] ◆ [medicine;_daughter]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 4 APRIL, 2017
Petyr woke an hour before dawn. He showered and washed his face, combed his
hair, shaved his stubbled cheeks. Put on a suit of the highest quality.
Business blue with a patterned tie. Shiny leather shoes, his favorite collar
stays, a handkerchief in his breast pocket. He finished with a patch of cologne
on the sides of his neck. Subtle, but necessary. Tywin appreciated style. Petyr
looked in the mirror and saw an image that used to make him proud, and felt
nothing.
When Petyr came down to the kitchen, Olyvar was heating leftover french toast
in the microwave. “This is the last meal of Ros’s we’ll ever get to eat,” he
said with a glare in Petyr’s direction. Petyr looked at the plate of toast
saved for him on the counter, smelled the butter and cinnamon that Ros loved to
cook with. He pushed it away. He wasn’t hungry.
By eight, the household was awake and deep in preparation. Mayana was dressing
Arya Stark upstairs and Jon was setting up the computers in the library. Petyr
found Jon there, surrounded by three different monitors. One was turned on. The
smiling face of a hijabi woman soured when she saw Petyr approach. Jon turned
and frowned, too.
“This must be Val,” said Petyr, pointing to the screen. “It’s a pleasure to
meet you.”
“Not really,” said the woman with her thick Afghan accent. She eyed Petyr up
and down. “But I should thank you for putting me up here in Palestine. You
saved my life.”
You hear that, Jon? Petyr almost asked, but he settled for a smile instead. “It
was the least I could do for a woman such as yourself.”
“I would be flattered if I did not know you better.”
Petyr saw fire in Val. He expected nothing less.
With Val’s disdain on his mind, Petyr sat at one of the other computers,
turning it on and opening the necessary programs. Jon began speaking to his
wife in Pashto so Petyr wouldn’t be able to understand.
Olyvar entered the library. He brought Jon coffee and a plate of breakfast, and
Petyr, nothing. He sat at the free monitor and got to work. No “hello” or “good
morning.” Petyr could feel ice from all angles, and knew it was well-deserved.
“Get Mr. Tarly and Olenna on the phone,” Petyr instructed, standing from his
chair. "I'll check on the girls."
“Olenna Tyrell won’t be coming,” said Olyvar with a shrug. “She has decided she
wants nothing to do with you anymore.”
Petyr paused. “Really?”
“I believe she said something along the lines of, ‘I have no desire to work
with monsters who hurt innocent girls.’”
Petyr scoffed. Olenna made him sound like Ramsay, and any sane person would
find that comparison lacking. “Her loss, then.”
No response. Petyr left the library and climbed the steps in haste.
Arya’s room, the one she shared with Jon, was at the farthest end of the
second-floor hallway. To be away from you two, she’d once told Sansa. Petyr
found himself jogging by the time he pushed open the door. Mayana was putting
final touches on the girl’s makeup. Neither of them greeted Petyr, but Mayana
turned the teenager around to him when her disguise was complete. “What do you
think?”
No longer did the girl look like Arya Stark. Her hair was dyed a chestnut
brown, up in a bun with a pearl clip. Thin glasses framed her eyes, irises made
hazel with contact lenses, and decent makeup aged her to her early twenties at
least. A stuffed bra accented her chest to make her look older, short heels to
make her legs look long, giving her an allusion of height and maturity, neither
of which Arya had. Her attire was purely professional. Black slacks and a white
button-down blouse, and a jacket to match. Simple earrings, a fake engagement
ring, neutral-colored lips and subtle perfume. Only her scowl blew the cover of
an angry Stark.
Petyr stepped forward to examine her. He cupped her chin to look at her makeup,
but Arya violently slapped his hand away. “Arya,” warned Mayana. She didn't
listen. Petyr didn’t have the energy to snap at her.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Lyanna,” Arya replied.
“Using the name of your dead aunt? No. Pick something else.”
Arya narrowed her eyes. “Mercedene.”
“Mercedene what?”
“Mercedene Williams. I’m twenty-three. I go to school at Oxford. I’m studying
criminal justice and computer science. I have an apartment in Lewisham with my
fiancée and my pet dog. I specialize in computer technologies, coding and
hardware mechanics.”
“Why are you going to MI5?”
“I’m a new intern. Agent Brune is giving me a tour of the area and teaching me
the ropes before I get started.”
“Good.” Petyr scratched his chin as he looked at her, picking out her flaws.
“Mayana did good work on you. You’re hardly recognizable.” He reached for her
shoulders, but stopped when Arya moved away. “Let me,” he said, “it’ll help you
fit in. Your posture is atrocious.”
“You’re atrocious.”
Petyr gave her a pointed look before she gave in. Arya moved closer so he could
correct her stance. “Shoulders back,” he instructed, showing her how. “Spine
straight. Center yourself here.” He made a fist and gently pushed into her gut.
“Stand tall, but don’t bring attention to yourself.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
“Yep.”
Petyr pointed in her face, with authority. “And listen when you’re told to do
something. This is not a time for games. This is a sensitive, high-risk mission
that requires your full cooperation.”
“I get it,” snapped Arya. “But this is the only time I’m helping you. That’s
something you’d better get.”
Petyr turned to Mayana, staring blankly at her Tweety Bird pajamas and “Fuck
You” sweatshirt. An interesting contrast. “I assume you’re ready as well?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she said.
Arya grabbed her brother’s gun and stuffed it in the back of her slacks. Petyr
was strangely impressed by her, this almost-sixteen-year-old girl doing
whatever it took to save her family, even at the cost of her childhood. She
would never be normal. He related to her that way.
Petyr was nearly out the door when he noticed Arya’s final piece of jewelry. He
pointed to the gold Star of David around her neck, insistent. “That has to go.”
“What? No it doesn’t, don’t touch it.”
“I already tried,” said Mayana with a shake of her head. “She won’t take it
off.”
Petyr made a fist. He could understand pride in a symbol bigger than oneself,
but to ignore its risk to her life was foolish.
It was so very Sansa.
Petyr dropped the subject. “Follow me,” he ordered, and promptly left the room.
The three of them descended the stairs. Petyr led them back to the library, and
Jon looked like he was going to fall out of his chair when he saw his sister.
“Jesus,” he said, “you look like a girl.”
“Shut up.” Arya folded her arms. “I hate this.”
“It’s for your protection, kiddo. I promise.” Mayana put her hand on Arya’s
shoulder. “Just go with it for a few hours. It’ll be over soon.”
Samwell Tarly’s round face smiled from the second monitor. “I think you look
really nice,” he said. Arya managed a tiny smile in return, and dropped her
arms to her side.
Petyr moved past them. He retrieved several sets of easily hideable wireless
earpieces and handed them to each person, keeping his own in his pocket.
“Alright,” he said with a clap of his hands. “Are we ready for the final
review?”
No one answered. Petyr scanned everyone’s faces, from Arya’s scowl to Mayana’s
impatience, to Olyvar thinking his nails more interesting than what Petyr had
to say. He was fully aware of the hatred they felt for him, but he continued
because he must. Petyr laid out a map of MI5 Headquarters on a table and told
everyone to gather around him.
“Miss Stark and Agent Brune will ride in a separate car and enter the Thames
House after me,” said Petyr. “You will use the security lane Lothor has cleared
to get your weapons and gear into the building without triggering any alarms.
Lothor will show you around a bit to make your fake internship believable
before taking you to one of the security rooms.” Petyr pointed to the location
on the map. “By this time, I will be in the building awaiting Tywin Lannister
and Jon will have hacked the video surveillance. Mayana and Olyvar will stay
here and keep an eye on overall building functions. When Val and Samwell get
clearance from Mayana, they will begin a cyber assault on the facility, drawing
Tywin’s attention away. Jon will block the cameras from seeing me where I go
throughout the building, and Arya will keep an eye on Tywin. I’ll enter his
office during the assault, take the information I need from his computer, and
pass it to Lothor. Then I’ll meet with Tywin after the assault ends, if he
still desires to see me, and we all leave the building fairly quickly.”
Sam whistled. “Did you think all this up in a day?”
“More or less,” said Petyr.
Val responded with something in Pashto. Jon chuckled, then pretended he hadn’t.
“You should get going.” Mayana tossed car keys to Petyr across the table. “And
don’t forget to smile, asshole.”
Petyr didn’t know if she really meant it. He toyed with the keys in his hand
and summoned Arya and Jon to his side, exiting the library in favor of the
driveway. Arya’s heels clicked behind him.
After unlocking his Bentley, Petyr sat behind the wheel, rolling down the
window to give Arya and Jon final direction. “Wait for Lothor here. He should
arrive in a few minutes.”
“No tricks?” asked Jon.
“No tricks.” Not when Sansa’s life is in danger. Petyr pulled out of the
driveway and onto the main road, guilt and red hair on his mind.
The drive was quiet. Shorter than he'd hoped. Petyr parked where Tywin
Lannister had told him and stepped out into the freshness of a spring breeze
under grey clouds. It didn’t feel refreshing. Petyr crossed the street and
entered headquarters on his own, pulling open the heavy glass doors of the
historical Thames House. He observed the different security checkpoints to find
the one Lothor had sabotaged.
“I see you,” said Mayana in his earpiece. “Lothor said the line with the bushy
brunette is the one.”
Petyr found her. A brown-haired officer with equally brown eyes, who barely fit
into her uniform. Her nametag read “ROYCE.” Petyr approached her, tossing his
wallet and keys on the conveyer belt and spreading his arms so she could scan
him with a metal detector. “You must be Myranda,” he said.
The woman gave a flirty grin. “Well, Mr. Littlefinger, I didn’t think you’d
know me by name.” She walked to him with a swing of her hips. “Do you mind if I
pat you down?”
On any other day, Petyr would have indulged her, letting his ego take the
generous stroke or two. But he wasn’t in the mood. “Be gentle,” was all he
could manage.
Myranda giggled. She scanned him with the metal detector, one that was clearly
faulty, and patted him down around the waist and legs. He tensed when she
reached his thighs. Get on with it, he thought flatly, faking a smile when she
came away at last. “You’re good,” she said. “Good luck.”
Chivalry would get him far. “Thank you, Ms. Royce.” He kissed her cheek. “I
look forward to being patted down again.”
“Perhaps I’ll go harder next time.” She winked. Petyr faked his amusement until
he’d left her presence entirely, and his smile fell.
Petyr checked in with the secretary at the front desk and sat down in a poorly
decorated lobby. Tywin Lannister would fetch him when he was ready. Petyr took
a magazine from one of the side tables and crossed one leg over the other,
opening the pages on his lap with little interest. “I’m here,” he said quietly.
“I’m all set up,” said Jon.
“Everything looks good on our end,” said Mayana. Petyr heard her munching on
potato chips. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“Lothor and I just got here,” said Arya. “This Myranda lady is weird.”
Petyr kept an eye on his surroundings, looking for anyone who was out of place
or observing him too closely. For all intents and purposes, it seemed to be an
average day at the Thames House. He checked his watch. “Where is Tywin now?”
“In his office,” said Olyvar. “Talking to an awfully large man. Name badge
says—” He paused.
“Clegane?” Petyr asked.
“I thought you already got him,” said Arya harshly.
“No,” Mayana replied. “He was the only one we missed.”
Petyr sighed. “Just get set up, Miss Stark. Don’t worry about Gregor.” He
continued pretending to read a magazine, flipping the page. The headline for
the next article was about commitment issues. He flipped again.
“Okay,” said Arya after a quarter hour. “I’m in a lower security room all set
up.”
“You hear that?” said Mayana. “You’re good to go, Val and Sam. Light ‘em up.”
Petyr glanced around. After a few minutes, several agents rushed frantically
toward the left end of the building, saying something about a security breach.
He couldn’t help but grin. “Where is Tywin now?”
“On his way to the briefing room,” said Jon. “Arya’s in the clear. I don’t see
anything that could get in her way, no one’s headed there at all…”
He stopped talking. Petyr looked up from his magazine.
“I found Sansa.”
“Where?”
“Don’t,” Mayana warned.
Petyr stood from his seat. “Tell me where.”
“I’m not sure,” Jon replied. “An interrogation room I think?”
“I can see her too,” said Arya. “And a map. She’s on the third floor down, in
an interrogation room off a blue hall. It’s got a rubbish bin by it.”
Petyr set down the magazine and started walking, chest thrumming with every
step. “Start the camera loop and cover me. I’m going to see her.”
“You fucking dumbass,” Mayana cursed. “Don’t you dare do this. You’ll get
yourself killed!”
Petyr ignored her and followed Arya’s instruction. He had to see Sansa and tell
her she wasn’t forgotten, assure her there was a plan. Being hated by her
wasn't a thought he could bear. He took the safer route of stairs instead of
the elevator and maneuvered through the halls when he reached the lower floor,
dodging suspicion and passersby as well as he could.
“This is dangerous,” Mayana warned. “Petyr, would you turn around? You could
blow this whole damn thing.”
“I can’t. I’m already here, there’s no point in stopping.” Petyr picked up a
folder on a cart, pretending to read it to blend in. “Which room?”
“Seven,” said Arya. “Down the blue hallway. I'll be watching.”
Petyr followed the signs until he came to the door in question. Down a blue
hallway, like Arya said. He rested his hand on the doorknob, heart pounding in
his ears, feeling like he could vomit from the nausea then and
there. “Petyr,” said Olyvar, “you don’t have to do this.” But Petyr knew
better. He muted his mic, gathered his excuses, and entered the interrogation
room.
The heavy door swung closed with an echo. Sansa lifted her head. She looked
sleep-deprived and a bruise swelled on her left temple, but she was still
beautiful, still Sansa. It gored him, how much he missed her.
Sansa stood from her chair. Petyr rushed forward. He grabbed her face and
pulled her close for a desperate kiss. For a moment she submitted, her mouth
moving with his to give him purpose again, but she yanked herself away. Sansa
shoved him back and slapped him hard across the face.
Petyr stumbled backwards. He rubbed his cheek where she’d struck him, feeling
pain that went deeper than the skin.
“You betrayed me,” she spat.
“Sansa—”
“No.” She held herself close. Her tone was nothing but spiteful. “You’re
selfish. You’re a liar, you loved me and left me when the moment was right.
You’re just like them.” Sansa’s eyes filled with tears. “Get out. I’ll save
myself without you.”
Petyr reached for her. “Sansa, I need you to—”
“To what?” She moved out of his range. “To go along with the plan you kept from
me? The one that got Ros killed? Or was that supposed to be Jon and Arya
instead?”
“They wouldn’t have died,” said Petyr in a rush. “I only — I only meant to gain
Lannister trust, so I could move things along and take them down. Like I
promised you.”
Sansa laughed through her tears. “Don’t you dare say you did this for me. Look
at me.” She pointed to her filthy bare feet, her bruised face, her broken lip.
“Was this worth it to you? Is this what you wanted the whole time?”
“Never,” he confessed. Petyr’s throat went dry.
Sansa’s hands were shaking when she wiped her tears and her body trembled
between sobs. Looking at her this way, broken, beaten, made Petyr's mistakes
come to a fatal reality. “You do this all the time,” she wept. “You're kind to
me and the next minute you pretend like none of it matters. Do you think I’m
blind? Out of everyone you’ve ever known, I’ve seen you for what you are, but
still you play your games and try to trick people into thinking you don’t care
about anything!” Her voice had risen to a shout. “It’s bullshit!”
Petyr stood there like stone, feeling all the weight. “Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I know.”
Her voice cracked. Petyr rubbed his chin and turned away so she couldn’t see
his face.
“Do you know what Roose Bolton threatened to do to me?”
He won’t do anything, Petyr wanted to say, Roose is smarter than that. But his
mouth didn’t move. He balled his fists.
“He said he’d hurt me more than Ramsay ever did,” Sansa continued. “That he was
proud of his son and wouldn’t hesitate to finish what he started.”
Petyr felt nauseous again. The thought of anyone laying their hands on Sansa
was abhorrent. Why hadn’t he considered that before? Why had he underestimated
his enemies? Petyr said the only words he could think of. “I’m so sorry.”
“You said you would protect me.”
“I will.” Petyr turned and came to her. “Believe me, this was the only way to
outwit them. The fastest.”
“How can I believe you?” Sansa held herself tighter, cried harder. “They’re
going to hurt me, Petyr. They’re going to undo everything I’ve worked so hard
to fix.”
“No they won’t,” Petyr asserted. “Your siblings are helping me gather the
evidence of your family’s murder. That’s why we’re here, Sansa. Tomorrow, the
Prime Minister will have the Lannisters and Boltons arrested when I’ve brought
everything to her. All this will be behind us, and you can come home.”
Sansa shook her head. “No. I can’t.”
Petyr faltered.
“I can’t do this anymore. All these scandals, this betrayal…” Sansa took a few
steps toward him and stopped, like she was scared. “I know you promised me
justice, but not like this. I don’t want this. I wanted to be happy, you knew
that, and you did all of this anyway because it benefitted you more.”
“That’s not—”
“It is true.” Sansa moved away from the wall and gently touched his arms. He
almost backed away. “You never would have done this if it weren’t for that
horrible part of you that you can’t let go. I don't love that part of you. I
don’t love Littlefinger.” Sansa sniffled. She looked up to him, at him, into
his eyes. “You were there for me, Petyr. I know it’s hard. This is all you’ve
ever known, but it’s too much. I can’t live like this.”
“What are you saying?”
“If we both get out of this alive, and you insist on keeping things the way
they are…” Sansa whimpered. “Then I’m leaving for good.”
Petyr searched her face for a lie. He wished she would recall those words, to
say she didn’t mean them any way that she could, but he found her resolve to be
stronger than ever. Sansa had reached into his chest and pushed his organs
apart to purge the rot in him from the source. It left Petyr speechless. He
held her arms tight. Sansa leaned her forehead against his to connect to him.
“You can still be a good person.”
“The time for that has come and gone,” he said.
“There’s always time. Littlefinger can go away as quickly as it came. We can
live a life outside of this, together.” Sansa reached up and held his face
tenderly. “Please, Petyr. Let it go.”
Sansa didn’t know what she was asking of him. Three decades of criminal
behavior, drugs and blackmail and prostitution and treason, murder and money
and foul politics. She was asking him to uproot all he’d built his life upon to
build a better life with her. It would take so much, years to reverse the
damage he’d done to himself and those around him, to give him something good to
live for.
She made it all so very tempting.
“Tywin’s leavin’ the briefing room,” said Jon in his ear. “You should get out
of there.”
Petyr cradled the back of Sansa’s head, lifting his own to press a kiss to her
crown. He could feel her clinging to his suit jacket. “Losing you is not an
option,” he said weakly. “For you, sweetling, I will consider what you want.”
Sansa’s smile was worth every pain. Petyr pressed his lips to hers, and she
accepted his kiss, returning it with a gentleness he knew he didn’t deserve.
Maybe, someday, he could be better for her.
Petyr pulled away. He turned and left Sansa standing broken in the center of
the room, reaching for the door handle.
“I believe in you,” she said.
Petyr swallowed the lump in his throat. He fled without reply, the heavy door
swinging open and closed. He dipped out to the nearest staircase to ascend to
the main floor.
Halfway up the second flight, his legs gave way. Petyr’s back hit the wall and
his breath came in shallow huffs, and he buried his face in his hands. Pull
yourself together, Petyr scolded, but that didn’t stop his body from reacting
the way his heart couldn’t. Petyr wiped sweat from his forehead and caught his
breath. Time was limited. He unmuted his microphone.
“Anyone got eyes on Tywin?” he asked.
Arya was the first to respond. “He’s still talking to a group of people. You’ve
got time, but be quick.”
Petyr reached for his phone. He trudged up the stairs to the main floor, but
his fingers caught something sharp in his pocket.
He pulled it out.
One of Sansa’s diamond earrings rested in his hand.
Oh, you stupid girl. Petyr clutched the diamond in his fist. My sweet, stupid
girl.
“Where are you?” said Arya. “Tywin’s coming.”
Petyr swallowed the fire in his throat. “So am I.”
Even if everyone burned, even if he burned, it was a price Petyr would
willingly pay. Sansa Stark would live. And she would be happy.
Chapter End Notes
     I'M
     SO
     SAD
     okay. like, i know there are plenty of y'all who are dropping out of
     the story at this point and like, that's fine, sorry you didn't enjoy
     where i took this, but this is such a huge changing point and i've
     been working up to this with petyr's character the entire time. it
     feels good to see the payoff. i'd love to hear what you have in mind
     on this one, i've been excited about this chapter for aaaages. :( and
     i guess this is the point where we see BG pete in his own light
     because he's emotionally developed far and deep enough to realize
     sansa's importance to him...idk it may seem "out of character" but
     that's because this version of petyr has developed emotionally where
     canon petyr has not, so don't hate me lol. (idk why i'm defending
     myself for my own damn fic i just want y'all to love what i do i
     suppose, bc if you didn't love it i wouldn't write it anymore ya
     feel)
     also like, clearly i've never infiltrated MI5 so forgive a few
     inaccuracies
     anyway time to die, see u next week fam
     (also, just like halsey's "trouble", medicine by daughter [up in the
     song choices] is a huge song for this fic and inspired this chapter
     specifically so give that one a listen if you like suffering)
***** Walk By Sight *****
Chapter Notes
                              soundtrack choices:
            [we_will_rock_you;_queen] ◆ [when_it's_all_over;_raign]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 4 APRIL, 2017
Arya stared blankly at the computer screen. The cameras she’d been watching had
microphones built in. She wished she hadn’t heard Littlefinger be human, be who
Sansa saw him as, and be demolished entirely by her ultimatum. You’re too
good, Arya wanted to say, watching Sansa sit down at her table again. She
touched the screen where her sister sat sobbing. You don’t have to go through
this. Jon and I will get you out of here, I promise.
She was pulled back to the present by Littlefinger’s voice. He sounded
distressed, moreso than ever. “Anyone got eyes on Tywin?”
Arya turned to the third-floor cameras. “He’s still talking to a group of
people. You’ve got time, but be quick.”
“How’s the hack going?” asked Olyvar.
“Good,” said Val. “Tywin and his people are not as smart as they should be. Sam
is very good, too.”
“That’s awfully nice,” said Sam. “With any luck, they won’t be able to pin our
locations before Littlefinger is done.”
“Where are you?” Arya asked Littlefinger. “Tywin’s coming.”
“So am I,” he said.
Arya watched Tywin Lannister meet with a group of high-ranking agents for
discussion. She was alone in the small security room, which was a nice change.
Usually she was the one running around doing everything. She sipped at the
apple juice Lothor had gotten her from the break room and returned her watchful
eyes to Sansa. Her sister hadn’t moved.
“Where is Jon?” asked Val. “I have not heard him in a long time.”
“I’m ‘ere, love. Everythin’s fine on my end.” Arya rolled her eyes at the
fondness in Jon’s voice. “Arya, you can’t see Littlefinger on your cameras,
yeah?”
“Nope,” said Arya. “It still shows him sitting with that magazine.” Arya looked
over to the looped footage of Littlefinger, trying to match his mannerisms to
the man she’d seen talking to Sansa moments ago. They were two entirely
different people, it seemed. One somewhat decent, one evil. Is this what Sansa
has to deal with?
“I’m almost to Tywin’s office,” said Littlefinger. “How much time do I have?”
“Ten minutes at most,” said Jon. “Tywin’s wanderin’ down some hallway with
agents. He’s not near you.”
Arya found Tywin on the screens. “He’s on the main floor,” she noted. “I heard
him say something about the attack. I think he’s trying to—”
“Arya!” Jon shouted suddenly. “Get out of there, now!”
Tywin had taken a left turn, walking down the hallway toward Security Room 4-B.
Towards her.
“Fuck.” Arya had just managed to shut off Sansa’s camera when the door opened.
She stayed very still.
“What are you doing here?” asked a deep voice.
Arya turned around. Tywin Lannister glared at her.
“Sir!” Arya rose to her feet and saluted him, even if that wasn’t what she was
supposed to do. This disguise had better work. “I — I’m just waiting for Agent
Brune, sir. He’s showing me around headquarters. He left to use the loo.”
“Keep him occupied,” said Littlefinger in her earpiece. Mayana started arguing
with him.
Tywin observed her, stepping forward a few inches, just enough to read her fake
badge. “An intern,” he stated. “Why would Agent Brune leave an intern alone in
a military intelligence facility?”
“I’m a security intern, sir. I specialize in hacking.” Arya swallowed
hard. He’ll never buy this if I don’t sell it. “The truth is, Agent Brune
didn’t leave me here. I came here on my own, sir. To see if I could help with
the attack. I thought there’d be more than cameras here, but there's not.”
Arya kept her head down, not wanting to seem too eager, or worse, to be
recognized. Tywin kept staring. It made her skin crawl.
“You are aware that breaching unauthorized areas could lose you your internship
at best?” asked Tywin. “Arrested, at worst?”
“I just wanted to help.” Give him more, Mercedene. She lifted her head. “Our
national security is at risk. That’s why I’ve spent my life trying to get this
job, sir.”
“I’m sure they taught you to obey the law in school.”
“They taught me to obey authority,” said Arya. “No authority told me I couldn’t
be here.”
Tywin made a noise that sounded like approval. “You’re braver than half my
agents, standing up to me like that. Mrs. Williams, is that your name?”
“Miss. I’m getting married soon.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Their stare was tense. Arya refusws to stand down even if that’s what
Littlefinger would have wanted. Tywin’s eyes traveled down her neck, to her
glittering Star of David. “Interesting necklace.”
Lothor burst into the room.
“Sir,” Lothor panted, interrupting the staredown by rushing to Arya’s side.
“Damn you, Mercedene, I told you to wait in the break room.”
“Sorry, Agent Brune. I’m really sorry.”
He put a hand on her shoulder and looked at Tywin. “Forgive me, sir. I’ll
discipline her.”
Tywin did not smile. He waved to the two agents at his side, telling them to
stand at ease. “Go on, then. This little attack is nearly snuffed out. I’m sure
you will watch over her closely?”
“Yes sir,” said Lothor. “Apologies, sir.”
“Carry on.”
Arya passed Tywin and stepped out the door with Lothor Brune. He kept a firm
hand on her shoulder and moved quickly down the hall, into the stairwell where
there were no cameras. “We need to get out of here,” said Lothor. “It’s only a
matter of minutes before Tywin figures out something’s wrong, if he hasn’t
already.”
“I’ve got the files,” said Littlefinger. “On my way.”
“Mayana,” said Lothor frantically. “Call Mya. Tell her to get the kids and head
for Petyr’s. I’m not takin’ a chance with my family.”
“Got it.”
“What about Sansa?” Arya barked, yanking herself out of Lothor’s grasp. “We
can’t just leave her here!”
“We have to. We can’t let these fuckers think anything’s wrong and give Tywin a
reason to hurt her.” Lothor grabbed her arm again. “Now come on, would you?
You’re not gettin’ left behind on my watch.”
Arya followed helplessly. Lothor met with Littlefinger briefly to exchange the
flashdrive, the key that would end everything, and then they fled, Lothor’s
strong hand keeping Arya within his reach. They left the building, and Sansa,
behind.
“We got lucky,” Lothor insisted on the drive back. “We might not be so lucky
again.”
But Arya didn’t feel lucky at all. Only confused.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Dinner wasn’t the same without Ros or Sansa’s cooking. Mayana had tried to play
chef, but she wasn’t nearly as good, and everyone knew it. Looking at Ros’s
handwriting on the recipe brought back the memory of her, still too fresh to
put aside. They all settled for ordering pizza instead.
Arya ate in the living room, watching cartoons with Lothor’s family. No one
smiled except for the children. Tension had peaked ever since little Alyssa had
clung to Littlefinger’s legs and begged him to see Sansa. “Uncle Petyr,” she’d
pleaded, “where’s Aunt Sansa? You remember her. She has long pretty hair and
plays tea party with me.”
“Probably dead like Aunt Ros,” said Myson. Mya had gripped his arm and scolded
him.
Arya could hardly focus, but she took comfort in what little piece of
friendship she had. She’d finally made the connection that Mya’s kids were
Gendry’s niece and nephews. Mya was King Robert’s daughter, which made her
Gendry’s half-sister. They had the same black hair, same strong builds. Mya had
been elated to meet Arya face-to-face.
“Did Gendry ever tell you about the time he accidentally got half of my dogs
pregnant?”
Arya nearly choked on her pizza. “What?”
“I’m a veterinarian,” explained Mya. “You know that, right? Well, I also check
in on the pet daycare next door to the hospital. We share the building. Gendry
forgot to lock the gates for the male dogs while the females were outside
playing, so they escaped. Before long, the play area was filled with fucking
dogs and half of them got pregnant. It’s a miracle I didn’t get sued.”
Arya managed a light laugh. “Gendry did that?”
“Yep. And other things, too. He’s not the brightest when it comes to animal
care.” Mya chuckled at the memory. “We only connected this past year, so Gendry
and I aren’t the best of friends yet, but we do share a love of animals. It’s
how we bond. His mum lets him come to the hospital and help out every so
often.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“She’s a nice lady,” Mya agreed. “It’s a bit awkward being around him, having
to make sure no one knows you’re a dead king’s illegitimate kids, especially
when I didn’t know I had a sibling until last summer. But we’ve been getting
on. That’s why I was so excited to meet you. He talks about you quite a lot,
you know, even when he thought you were dead.”
Arya’s face grew warm. “He’s stupid.”
“Why don’t you give him a call and tell him who you’re with?” said Mya. “I bet
he’d get a kick out of it.”
“I tried about an hour ago. He didn’t pick up.”
“Hm. Odd.”
They watched cartoons again.
Another hour went by before her phone rang. “It’s Gendry,” said Arya with a
smile. She answered the phone. “Took you long enough. Guess who I’m with?”
Gunshots. Mya heard them too. “Gendry?”
“Arya,” he panted. “Listen. She’s after you.”
“Who?”
“The queen.” More shots. Arya leapt from the couch, Mya close behind, and ran
to find Jon.
“You have to get out of there!” Arya shouted. “Take whoever you can and go to
the hotel Jon and I stayed at. Beric knows where.”
“Beric’s dead,” said Gendry. Mya rushed downstairs, calling for the
others. “Everyone’s dead. ‘Cept me, Yoren and Thoros.”
“Luwin?” asked Arya.
“Don’t know. We’re gonna try to get to ‘is place. I just wanted to call you in
case this—”
“This is not the last time you’re gonna talk to me,” spat Arya. “Don’t even say
that. Don’t even think it.”
Littlefinger came up the stairs and yanked Arya’s mobile from her hands. Arya
screamed at him, lunging forward to fight, but Jon held her back before she
tackled him. Arya struggled until she heard what Littlefinger was telling
Gendry. Giving directions to a rendezvous point, help was on the way.
Littlefinger hung up and handed her phone back to her. “Try not to kill me
before I save your friends, at least.”
Mayana looked confused. “Pete?”
“Take Olyvar and Lothor and go get them.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“Use the van so you can carry everyone,” said Littlefinger. “The boy says there
could be as many as six people total.”
“What if they don’t fit?”
“Make them fit.”
Littlefinger didn’t say anything else. He entered his room and closed the door.
Arya was frozen with shock.
“You heard what the man wants,” said Lothor. He kissed his wife on the cheek.
“We’ll get ‘em, baby, don’t worry.”
Mya nodded. She looked like she was going to cry.
“And you,” said Lothor, turning to Arya. “We’ll get the boy and your friends.”
“But I don’t trust Littlefinger,” said Arya. “How do I know you won’t kill
them?”
Lothor wasn’t amused. Arya felt ashamed, accusing him of falling to
Littlefinger’s lows. Lothor didn’t seem like the kind of man to kill his own
brother-in-law. “Don’t trust him, then. Trust me.”
Perhaps she owed him that much.
Begrudgingly, Arya watched them leave with Mya and Jon at her side. Mya took a
deep breath and put on a fake smile for her children, ushering them to bed,
assuring them nothing was wrong. If they were smart, they’d know better.
Jon kept his hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Maybe we should go to bed too,” he told
her. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’m waiting for Gendry,” said Arya, insistent. “How can you just go to sleep
after all that? I can't until they’re here and safe.”
“It could be morning by the time they arrive.”
“I don’t care. I’ve stayed up for longer.”
“If you want,” said Jon, knowing he couldn’t talk her out of it. “I’m gonna
take a shower.”
“Okay.”
Arya stared at Littlefinger’s door when her brother left. She wanted to demand
a hundred questions from him, ask him where his balls went, if Sansa had
whipped him worse than she thought. But double-edged jokes had no place
anymore. Lives were on the line, lives of people she cared about. She wondered
if Littlefinger cared.
Arya trudged back into her room, sitting by the windowsill to look out at the
stars. Robb used to watch them with her, a lifetime ago. He’d knock on her door
and come in the middle of the night, and they’d talk about movies or music or
the smelly old Rabbi at temple, his life at Oxford, his stress over homework.
Sometimes Bran and Rickon would sneak in and join them. Robb was such a good
person, Arya thought, frowning. She’d learned a lot recently about the good in
people.
“Hey,” said Jon when he came into the room. His hair was flat and wet from a
shower, and a towel was draped over his broad shoulders. “I’ve got a good one.”
“Shoot.” Arya slid off the windowsill.
“I was singin’ in the shower until I got soap in my mouth. Then it was a soap
opera.”
Arya laughed. It was good to remember how smiles felt. “That’s rubbish.
Negative ten points.”
“Negative ten? That’s a bit harsh.” Jon plopped on his bed, on his back, and
sighed. “I miss Val.”
“I know.” Arya fell beside Jon. The siblings lay side-by-side, staring at the
ceiling. “Do you think Littlefinger will bring her here?”
Jon shrugged. “I’m not relyin’ on it, honestly. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll
find her with or without him.”
Arya rested her hands on her stomach, picking nervously at her shirt. “Did you
see Littlefinger talking to Sansa on the cameras today?”
“Yeah.”
“But you didn’t hear them?”
He looked at her. “No. Could you?”
“Yeah. The cameras all had microphones in them. I could listen to whatever room
I wanted.” Arya tried to choose her words, but the blatant truth was too strong
to mask. “I think she loves him.”
“Still?” asked Jon in disbelief.
“They talked. It was… weird. He said he’s gonna consider leaving all this for
her.”
“Really?” Jon looked as confused as Arya felt. “Does he know you could hear
them?”
“Don’t think so.”
“That’s good, I think.”
Arya picked her nails. “Sansa said she believes in him.”
“And they kissed. I saw that bit.”
“Only after she slapped him.”
“Yeah,” chuckled Jon. “Good for her. Should’ve slapped him twice.”
“Should’ve let Roose Bolton pick out his eyes.”
Jon turned to Arya, and she turned to him. “You said Sansa believes in him?”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s gonna consider leavin’ all this for her?”
“He said that, but that doesn’t—”
“I know it doesn’t absolve ‘im of ‘is crimes,” defended Jon. “But if Sansa
still cares for ‘im, you can’t kill ‘im yet. I know you want to. But that’s not
your place.”
Arya scoffed. “Are you serious? Littlefinger—”
“It’s not. Your. Place. Let Sansa decide what to do with ‘im.”
Arya felt the familiar tinge of anger. She wanted to argue with Jon, but she
knew he was right, and it ate at every justice-driven bone in her body. She
groaned and pushed herself up off the bed. “I don’t want to talk about him
anymore.”
They didn’t. Arya left the room after their conversation, saying goodnight, and
went downstairs to wait for the others.
Time passed too slowly. Arya paced around the living room, played games on her
phone, texted Gendry to see if he would respond and tried her damnedest not to
worry too much. She’d lost too many people to be so afraid, but that didn’t
stop the fear from happening. Quite the contrary.
It was near three in the morning when Arya decided that a glass of water would
calm her down. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a cup, but a
stirring figure in the garden caught her eye. The white blur moved in a
repetitive motion, back and forth, back and forth, poking out of the ground.
Arya squinted her eyes to see clearer, but it was too dark.
She climbed atop the counters to grab a flashlight from the top of the fridge.
Arya slipped her arms in one of Sansa’s cardigans by the door and stepped
outside. She clicked on the flashlight and walked across the wet grass, feeling
it tickle her ankles with the cold. Spring still hadn’t fully bloomed. It felt
like winter to her.
The closer she got to the willow tree, the clearer the white shape became.
Littlefinger had taken off his suit jacket. He was working under the tree’s
shadow, plunging a shovel into the dirt to dig a hole. A grave, Arya thought. A
big bottle of whiskey sat on the edge, within reach. Littlefinger must have
heard her coming, but he didn’t stop digging. He didn’t address Arya at all.
To the left of the grave was Ros’s body, eyes closed. Her hands were folded
over her stomach as if she were sleeping.
“What are you doing?” Arya asked redundantly. She couldn’t think of anything
else to say.
Littlefinger didn’t answer. He kept digging more aggressively, waist deep in
the grave. He paused to sniffle, wipe his nose on his sleeve and continue. He
looked so ragged that Arya thought he might pass out.
“Where did you get her body?”
“Traded it,” said Littlefinger. “Ramsay for Ros. Easy bargain.”
Arya continued to watch him. She could hear him panting, see the sweat on the
back of his neck. “How long have you been out here?”
No reply.
“Hey,” said Arya. “I’m talking to you.”
Still nothing. Arya was getting impatient.
“I heard what you said to Sansa, you know.”
Littlefinger finally stopped. He gave a heavy sigh, resting the shovel against
the dirt wall to reach in his pocket for a cigarette. That’s gonna put you in a
grave of your own, Arya thought, but his life still wasn’t worth saving to her.
Littlefinger leaned against the side of the hole and smoked before he answered.
“How did you hear? I muted my microphone.”
“The cameras had microphones too. They were easy to turn on.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see what you were really like,” she admitted. “With my sister. If
you were good to her.”
“You saw us together for weeks. Was that not proof enough of my devotion?”
“No,” Arya spat. “You sold her out. How is that proof of anything? She’s
suffering right now and it’s all your fault.”
Littlefinger drew from his cigarette for too long, so long it had to be
painful. Arya stared at him, this mess of a man, hair unkempt and shirt
wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes. Not the fashionable businessman she’d
come to hate.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he finally said. “No one was.”
“Well, I did.” Arya took a few steps closer to the grave. “I still want to kill
you. But Sansa said that she believes in you, so Jon says I have to.”
Littlefinger scoffed. “You’re a rebellious girl. You don’t let what your
brother says hold weight over you.” He blew smoke into the cold air. “It’s best
that you forget what you heard.”
“Why? So you can keep on pretending to be someone you’re not?”
He laughed bitterly. “Who do you think I am? Some monster sent from the depths
of hell to corrupt your sweet sister?”
“I’m Jewish,” said Arya. “We don’t believe in hell.”
“But you believe I’m a monster.”
Arya hesitated. “I think you’re disgusting and selfish.”
Littlefinger finished his cigarette, flicking the end into the dirt and picking
up the shovel again. “The only thing I believe in is chaos,” he told her.
“Chaos, and its ability to work in my favor.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” said Arya as Petyr deepened the grave.
Arya heard a car door shut from the driveway, and voices. Gendry.She left
Littlefinger and broke into a run, dashing through the house, through the
kitchen and the front living room, nearly tripping over Ros’s chair. She threw
open the door and rushed out to Mayana and Olyvar, who were helping Luwin out
of the back of the van.
She did a head count. Hot Pie, Mr. Luwin, Lommy, Gendry. A pause.Where are the
others?
“Arya,” said Gendry when he saw her. A big smile betrayed her solemn face, and
she ran into his open arms. He was so warm. He smelled of firesmoke and sweat
and blood, but he was Gendry, and he was here. That was all that mattered.
Until it wasn’t.
“Where’s everyone else?” Arya asked when she pulled away. “You said you were
with Yoren? And Thoros and the others?”
Gendry shook his head. “Yoren and Thoros bought us time to get in the van,” he
said. “They didn’t make it.”
Arya observed the weary faces of her friends, all tired, all broken. She
accepted the deaths of her loved ones quickly; they were only a handful of
losses among many, and there would be time to mourn later. “Come into the
house. I’ll wake up my brother.” She pointed to the front door. “We can get you
food and find rooms. Littlefinger’s got too many.”
“Toda,” said a sorrowful Mr. Luwin, clasping Arya’s hands. “Toda raba, my dear.
Thank you.”
Arya led her remaining friends into the manor. She sat them down in the living
room and went upstairs to wake her brother, and the siblings worked together to
make their new guests comfortable. Jon brought them all blankets while Arya
went into the kitchen to pour them some water. She looked out the window to
check on Littlefinger. Olyvar and Mayana had found him, and they were arguing.
She watched Mayana shove Petyr away from Olyvar when they nearly came to blows.
Part of her wished that Olyvar would hit him.
Arya returned to the living room, only because her friends were more important.
She would've sat by Gendry, but Mya had taken that spot, one arm wrapped around
her brother. Arya handed out cups of water and busied herself lighting a fire
in the fireplace.
“What happened?” Jon asked the group. “I thought you all were safe at The
Brotherhood.”
“We thought so too,” said Lommy. “The bad men found us anyway.”
“It was awful,” said Hot Pie. “Guns everywhere. Like we was in some action
movie, only it was real life.”
Hot Pie had a way with words.
Arya came to her brother’s side. “Gendry, you said it was the queen who was
doing this? Like, Myrcella?”
“No. Her mum, Cersei.”
Arya and Jon shared a look of concern.
“She came into the bar,” Gendry continued. “I knew her face. She asked us where
you were. I told her I hadn’t seen you in months. She called me a liar,
threatened to burn the whole place down if I didn’t tell her, but I still
didn’t. I didn’t want anythin’ to happen to you.”
Arya had the crushing urge to hold him.
“Then, she called a bunch of men in suits inside, including this big guy.
Massive. Like Sandor, but bigger somehow, and they all started shooting
people.”
“Gregor,” said Arya. “Sandor’s older brother.”
“The one who burned his face?”
“Yeah.” Arya folded her arms across her chest. “Guess I’ll have to kill him
too. But only after Cersei.”
“Let’s just take it easy for tonight,” said Jon. He looked almost as tired as
Littlefinger. “There’ll be time to talk tomorrow, when Littlefinger’s with the
Prime Minister. Everyone should get some rest. I’ll find rooms for all of you.”
Jon motioned for the group to follow him. “G’night,” said Gendry, and Arya
half-smiled.
Her rage over Cersei fueled fire in her. But there were other fires kindling,
too. Arya could see it in Lothor, in Jon, in Mya, in Gendry. In Mayana and
Olyvar. Even in Petyr Baelish.
Arya walked back into the kitchen to look out the window again. Ros was buried
beneath the tree, her grave filled in, a makeshift cross pushed into the dirt
to mark the spot. Olyvar and Mayana held each other close as Petyr placed a
rose atop her resting place.
Chapter End Notes
     shit's about to get r e a l
     no but honestly, after the next chapter, it's the climax of the whole
     story. and then it's the end. we're so close alkjalsjgdkjga
     thanks for sticking with me so far, to the few who have made it here.
     it means more to me than you know.
     see you next saturday. <3
***** The War To Come *****
Chapter Notes
                              soundtrack choices:
        [i_found_-_acoustic;_amber_run] ◆ [stronger_than_ever;_raleigh
                                   ritchie]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 5 APRIL, 2017
Tension grew with every tick of the clock. Littlefinger sat across from Prime
Minister Targaryen as she looked over the files he’d raided from MI5. Her
violet eyes were hard to read. Petyr stayed patient, leaning back in the chair
behind her desk with one leg over the other, studying her calm expression.
Occasionally her face would give way to anger, infuriated by something she'd
read, but those moments were few. She’d become exceptional masking herself, as
he had. Daenerys’s white curls were draped over her shoulders, creating an
ambiance of power. She bore the genetics of a dying race. The last of her kind,
some said. Littlefinger wondered if that would make her more sympathetic to the
Stark cause.
“And you found all this on Tywin Lannister’s computer?” asked Daenerys. “At
MI5?”
“Mostly. Some sources were buried in private servers. Others came from Walder
Frey’s accounts, retrieved by Arya Stark.”
“Arya Stark is dead.”
Littlefinger just smiled.
Daenerys continued to sift through the paperwork until she was finished, and
pushed the stack away. “I can’t say I’m surprised by any of this. Tywin
Lannister is a viper, but I learned early that if you cut off the head, two
more grow in its place.”
“Are you going to bring beheading back to England, Prime Minister? I can’t say
I object.”
Dany ignored his comment. “You want me to have them all arrested, then? The
Queen Mother, Home Secretary and Roose Bolton?”
“Arrested is a mild word,” said Littlefinger. “But it’ll do. For now.”
“So you want them dead?”
He shrugged. “Another mild word.”
Daenerys leaned back in her high-back chair, looking unimpressed. “I don’t know
how the former Prime Minister ran things, Littlefinger, but I am not a butcher.
Fair trials and justice are what I promised people.”
“Even Tywin Lannister?” asked Littlefinger. “The man who smeared your campaign,
who dragged your name through the dirt by exploiting your father’s crimes, who
openly rejoiced when your niece and nephew were slain? Spain still remembers
the loss of their princess and her children, Prime Minister. Sentencing Tywin
to death or imprisonment would please them greatly.”
“We don’t need to please Spain,” said Dany. “Since the queen married their
prince, our relationship with them has improved greatly.”
“All the more reason to have the Lannisters removed from power.” Littlefinger
leaned forward. “Tywin and Cersei have been thorns in your side since the
moment you decided to campaign. You are young, the youngest in history to take
the job, and still not even a year into your service. Let me advise you in this
matter.”
Dany raised her brow. “And what would you advise?”
“Allow me to retrieve Sansa Stark from the Thames House and take care of Roose
Bolton. He owns a great portion of the police force, and they would undoubtedly
interfere with any trial you have planned for Tywin. Cersei is equally as
dangerous. She needs to be dealt with as well.”
Daenerys scoffed. “You want me to let you murder Queen Myrcella’s mother? I
despise the woman and she has blood on her hands, but that doesn’t—”
“Prime Minister,” Littlefinger interrupted. “Cersei knew that Sansa was being
abused by Ramsay Bolton. A teenage girl, not far in age from the queen herself.
Can she really be that good of a mother to allow such a thing to happen to a
young girl who was almost her daughter-in-law?”
Daenerys paused. She was mulling over his words, Petyr could see it, and he
knew he was close. He continued softly.
“Roose Bolton will block and manipulate your every attempt to force justice on
Tywin. Cersei will attack you with the press, she will burn your administration
to the ground if she must. She is fierce and without consequence.”
“So she thinks.”
“Even so, Ms. Targaryen, she is not a force you want to reckon with.
Fortunately, you don’t have to.” Littlefinger straightened his back. “Let me
take this weight off your shoulders. I can deliver your enemies to your
doorstep, stripped of allies and ready for the justice you wish to implement.”
Daenerys considered him with a watchful eye. She didn’t say a word for some
time, glancing between the file and Littlefinger’s confidence. She took a
minute to confer with her advisor, an African woman Petyr didn’t know. At last,
she addressed him.
“Your devotion to your carefully crafted plan is admirable,” said Dany, “and
perhaps an older, wiser Prime Minister would listen to you. But I did not
assume this position to do to my enemies what they have done to others. If I
cannot give fair justice, then my promise to the people of the United Kingdom
is as good as poison.”
Littlefinger sighed. Youth. “You’re making a mistake,” he asserted. “You don’t
know what you’re up against.”
“Neither do they.” She picked up the phone. “I will make the order for their
arrest and send these documents to the proper legal authorities. Tywin
Lannister and the others will be in custody before—”
“Stop!” Petyr shouted before he could think. Shame fell over him as fast as
shock fell over the others. All he could think of was Paris, and how beautiful
Sansa had looked with the sunset in her hair.
Daenerys glared at him. “Stop?”
“If they know you’re going to arrest them, and believe me, they will, they’ll
hurt Sansa.” Petyr swallowed the lump in his throat. “They’ll do whatever they
can with as much time as they have. They’ll know I betrayed them and use her
against me.”
Dany slowly lowered the phone, placing it back on its base. She studied him
even closer. Littlefinger tried to pick up his cards, hide them away behind the
mask, but the mask had cracked and she could see. “It’s true, then? You love
her.”
Petyr didn’t reply.
“I thought Myrcella was romanticizing things. Maybe a strange rumor at best.”
Littlefinger managed to regain himself, sitting straight once more.
“Very well. You have 24 hours.”
“Prime Minister, I don't—”
“24 hours.” Daenerys folded her hands atop her desk and stared at him. “But you
are only to rescue Sansa Stark. No death.”
Petyr sighed. “As you wish."
“I want your word.”
Littlefinger stood from his chair, hand over his heart. “My word is given,” he
lied. “No death.”
“Then you have my consent.” Daenerys stood as well, and the two shook hands. “I
look forward to seeing Sansa safe and sound.”
“As do I,” said Littlefinger, a smile on his face. But Petyr did not feel the
same joy.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
“She said what?” Mayana asked, near to shouting. “Are you kidding me? Does that
girl have any idea who she’s dealing with?”
“Clearly not,” said Olyvar. “I’d hoped our own Prime Minister would be
smarter.”
Petyr sat at the head of the dining room table, elbow resting on the arm of his
chair. Anyone who could save Sansa was present: Olyvar, Mayana, Arya,
Jon, Lothor and Mya, even Varys. It was starting to feel like a fighting force,
if enough people could be managed. If a plan could be formed. The others began
to bicker, voices clashing and making Petyr’s head ache.
It wasn’t until Arya came to Petyr's side that he looked up from the table. She
stared at him, less than a yard away. Her expression was hard. “So what’s your
plan? I know you’ve got one.”
Petyr grinned. He stood from his chair and looked at them, all these people he
knew loved Sansa, who would help him for her sake. “We get her back,” he
stated.
“And how do you plan on doing that?” asked Varys.
“Very carefully.” Petyr needed to move. He stepped away from the table and
began to pace, hands clasped in front of him.
“What’s so bad about a trial?” said Jon. “It doesn’t matter what happens to the
Lannisters, as long as we get Sansa back.”
“Are you kidding?” argued Mya. “We need to do more than just put them behind
bars. These people have control over police, lawyers, government officials.
They’ll stop at nothing to corrupt a trial. People could get hurt.”
“That’s a long process none of us want to go through.” Olyvar folded his arms
over his chest. “Not to mention, if they know they’re about to be arrested,
they’ll hurt Sansa in whatever way they can to get at Littlefinger for
betraying them.”
Lothor sighed. “Our only option is a direct attack.”
“Another one?” said Jon, baffled. “They’ll expect us. We can’t just go through
the front door.”
“Who said anything about a front door?” Mayana shrugged. “We’ll make our own.”
“You don’t have the gear for that. That’ll require everything: grenades, guns,
bulletproof vests. A full military operation.”
Mayana’s smile soured. She approached Jon slowly, never breaking eye contact.
“You don’t think we got gear?”
Jon paused. “I — well.” His ears turned red. Everyone was looking at him. “I
mean, we’re talking Night’s Watch type.”
“Yeah?” said Mayana. “And?”
“You’ve really got that stuff?”
“Oh, honey.” She patted him on the back. “We got the stuff.”
“If we launch an assault on the Thames house, it’ll have to be tonight.” Petyr
glanced to the clock: noon. “Daenerys gave me 24 hours.”
“I’m in,” said Mayana and Jon at once. They smiled at each other as others gave
their commitment to the cause.
Petyr scratched his chin, thinking over their new plan. Something was missing.
This had to be perfect if they were going to succeed. His sigh trembled and his
heart raced. Petyr wondered if this was how Sansa felt whenever she was afraid.
“This needs to be done in two separate locations," he said. "Two groups.”
“Why?” asked Olyvar.
“Freeing Sansa without killing Roose Bolton is pointless. He’ll make her life
miserable as long as he’s able to.” With a resounding sigh, Petyr made his
decision. “He needs to die tonight.”
“What’s your plan?”
Petyr looked around the room, to everyone. “I’m going to set up a meeting with
Roose and Cersei at the Bolton manor. Mayana and Miss Stark will come with me.
Jon, Olyvar and Lothor will go to MI5 to rescue Sansa.”
“Why can’t I go with Jon?” Arya spat.
“Because he is better suited for military-level operations,” said Petyr, “and
you’re better at stealth, which is what I need.”
Varys cleared his throat to get Petyr’s attention. “Not to be the bearer of bad
news, old friend, but you can’t pull this off with just the six of you. You’ll
need help. I cannot offer anyone to you.”
“You’ll get Jon and Lothor access to the building.” Petyr pulled out his phone.
“Who’s gonna help us, then?” Jon looked at Petyr with a soldier’s resolve.
“Three of us against MI5 isn’t gonna work.”
“I know someone who can help.” Petyr sent a few text messages and slipped his
phone back in his pocket. He walked around the table and offered his hand to
Jon. “But first I need your word.”
“Don’t,” warned Arya, but Petyr ignored her. It was Jon he needed most; it was
Jon who would pull Sansa from the lion’s den.
Jon hesitantly shook Petyr’s hand. Petyr grinned, let go, and turned for the
door.
“Who’s going to help us?” Jon called. “I should at least know that much.”
“A very powerful ally,” said Petyr in response. He climbed the stairs to his
room to make the arrangements.
The race against time had begun.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Littlefinger stood waiting on the Westminster Bridge. He’d slept only an hour,
ate a bite of a sandwich and cleaned up enough to be presentable. He stood at
the edge of the bridge, hands in his pockets, watching the distant bruise of
sunset fade into the navy of night. Stars glittered, much like the diamond
Sansa had left him. He toyed with it in his pocket. He hadn’t yet put it away.
Littlefinger heard the familiar click of heels. She’d come. He saw her in his
peripheral, blonde curls framing a pretty face.
“Isn’t it dangerous to walk around without a disguise, Your Majesty?”
Littlefinger asked when he looked at her.
Myrcella only smiled. It was as though the sun never set at all. “It’s alright.
It’s just for a minute anyway, and no one’s out here. No one besides the secret
service, of course.”
She motioned to a few well-hidden individuals along the bridge’s edge, out of
earshot. Spanish men and women. People she could trust.
“Why did you want to meet me here?” Myrcella asked. “It’s awfully… public.”
“I don’t have time to meet anywhere else,” said Littlefinger. “I’m going to
meet Roose Bolton at his home in an hour.”
“Roose Bolton? Why?”
“So I can kill him.”
Myrcella paused. “Did he hurt Sansa? Where is she?”
Explaining everything to a Lannister’s daughter would not be easy. Littlefinger
sighed. “She is being held at MI5,” he said, “in custody by Tywin’s orders. He
and Roose Bolton are trying to pry her inheritance from her.” He cleared his
throat. “Your mother is helping them.”
Myrcella’s light was dampened by her frown. She turned her eyes to the clash of
blues and purples in the sky, and hugged herself. “I thought they were done
with that. I asked them to stop. I told them that Sansa deserved better than
all this.”
“You’re too kind,” said Littlefinger bluntly. “You’re like Sansa that way, but
it makes you blind to certain situations. Your mother knew what Ramsay was
doing to Sansa, and so did your grandfather. It was only a way of gaining the
Stark fortune to them.” At Myrcella’s frown, Littlefinger softened his words.
“If you don’t believe me, Your Majesty, feel free to ask Sansa yourself once
I’ve rescued her.”
“No, I… I believe you,” said Myrcella, though she took no joy in it. “I just
don’t want to.”
“I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.” Littlefinger put a hand on her
shoulder. The words were empty, but he said them nonetheless. “I wish there was
another way.”
“Is that why you called me here?” asked Myrcella, turning to him. “To warn me?”
“And to ask for your assistance. Breaking Sansa out of MI5 will be no easy
task, and neither will killing Roose Bolton in his home.”
“Have you talked to Dany?”
Littlefinger nodded. “She prefers to take them to court. While her method is
honorable, my justice is much more permanent.” Petyr faced her, so she would
see the truth of his words. “I don’t intend harm to fall upon Sansa again.”
“I’m glad of that.” Still, Myrcella hesitated. “What of my mother?”
“Your mother—”
“I know she’s done terrible things,” said the queen. “I’m not asking for you to
forgive her or let her go. But don’t kill her. Please.”
Littlefinger stared at her. What did I just say about being naïve? But he
couldn’t blame her, he supposed, this teenaged girl vouching for the only
mother she’d ever known. Cersei loved her children. It was the only redemptive
trait she had.
“Your Majesty,” Littlefinger began, but he didn’t know what to say. He shook
his head and looked out to the river. “There was a time when I’d lie to you and
promise to spare her, but there are… other forces that prevent me from keeping
such a promise, regardless of my intentions. Cersei’s fate is not up to me.”
“I understand.” Myrcella took a deep breath. “What do you need from me?”
“Men,” said Littlefinger. “And women. Half a dozen of your strongest and most
trusted. The more from Spain, the better. Less affiliated with our politics,
less likely to betray me.”
“No one would betray you if I ordered them to obey.”
Littlefinger grinned, almost proudly. “Spoken like a true queen.”
Myrcella smiled back. It faded after a time. “I’m not, though. A true queen. I
know who my father is, my real father.”
Littlefinger hadn’t expected that. He looked around to the hidden agents, now
certain they couldn’t hear her. “You’ve just admitted to the illegitimacy of
your crown, Your Majesty.”
“I know. But I told someone I trust, just as you told me you’re going to commit
murder. That’s what trust is, isn’t it? An exchange of vulnerabilities, and a
vow to protect them.”
Petyr considered that, bringing it into context with his only example. Sansa
had given him everything, her light, her body, her heart. What right did he
have to ask for her trust when he’d given her pain?
“You’ll have your men,” said Myrcella. “I’ll make a list of my best people and
tell them to meet at whatever location you give me.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Petyr lowered his head in a bow, relief letting him
breathe easy. “Sansa thanks you as well.”
“I hope she makes it out alright. Take care of her, Littlefinger. She deserves
that much.”
Myrcella turned to leave. Petyr watched her go, another girl who worked with
the impossibility of kindness like it was a weapon. He wondered if he would
ever see her again.
“Myrcella,” he called. Her name was dry in his throat.
The queen turned. “Yes?”
“Call me Petyr.”
Myrcella smiled. It could be mercy, if he deserved as much. “Is that your true
name?”
“It is.”
She smiled brighter. “Well, Petyr, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
And she walked away, leaving him alone with the road ahead.
Chapter End Notes
     shit.
     my son :) he's learning :) how to be less of an asshole
     WOW Y'ALL. Let me break down the final five chapters of Bloodguilt
     for you.
     Next two chapters are the physical climax.
     The chapter after that is the emotional climax.
     Then the resolution chapter, and then the epilogue.
     I can't believe there's only five chapters left. And it's the five
     craziest ones. I'm so excited to put this story to bed and tuck it
     in.
     Okay, here's the deal. Give me a week off to write the climax
     chapters. After those two, then I'll take another week off to finish
     the final three chapters, and then publish all three at the same
     time. Yep. You read that right. So the update schedule looks like
     this: chapter 31 - 04/22/17. chapter 32 - 04/29/17. chapter 33-35 -
     05/13/17. but this may change.
     then we're fucking done.
     SEE YOU SOON GUYS, i hope this story has all been worth it for you!!
     BUCKLE UP THOUGH IT'S ABOUT TO GET PAINFUL
***** Exorcism *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
This chapter features a moderately graphic attempted rape scene. Heads up!

                              soundtrack choices:
           [let's_play_a_game;_ramin_djawadi] ◆ [exorcism;_clairity]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 5 APRIL, 2017
Sansa found peace in Sandor Clegane. He was the one thing, aside from Ramsay’s
absence, that was different from her previous imprisonment. She had a friend.
Someone to talk to. When they weren’t sleeping, Sansa and Sandor spent their
time in conversation to distract her from crippling anxiety. His time with Arya
— they called her “Beth” to thwart suspicion — was a topic they visited often.
Sansa was comforted by his recollections of all the things Arya did while
working at the Brotherhood, from breaking beer glasses while training at the
bar to walking in on a customer in the loo. And in turn, Sansa told Sandor how
“Beth” was doing. How Petyr had brought them all together, how happy she was,
even though they’d been separated in the end.
As much as Sansa appreciated Sandor’s company, she didn’t fool herself into
thinking she was safe. She had a small bed and daily meals, and no one had come
to harm her, but the walls had Ramsay’s eyes. Without medicine, without help,
she was at the mercy of his memory, and she felt spiders under her skin.
“I have a question,” said Sansa, rolling over in her bed to face Sandor.
“Ask it.” Sandor, who was much too large for his bed, laid on the floor with
his body outstretched. He nearly filled the entire space.
Sansa stuffed her pillow into a more comfortable ball, trying to stay as calm
as possible. “Why did you leave the Lannisters?”
“Because they were cunts.”
Sansa chuckled. “Besides that.”
“Why does it matter? I left.”
“But they took you in,” she said. “They gave you a position as a bodyguard to
the king. They gave you money, they treated you well.”
Sandor pushed up from the ground to look at her. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re
thinkin’ about Littlefinger.”
Sansa was silent. The fear in Petyr's eyes had haunted her since his visit, and
she couldn't shake her worry for him.
“Are you still thinking he’s gonna save you, girl? Haven’t you learned
anything?”
“Don’t call me girl,” Sansa defended. “And please don’t talk to me like that.”
Sandor shut his mouth. He had a habit of speaking harshly, he always had, but
Sansa wasn’t going to let him talk without conviction.
“I asked about the Lannisters because I was wondering if they started to treat
you badly. That’s all. And he will get me out of here, I know he will.”
“I don’t trust him,” said Sandor.
“Then don’t. Trust me.”
Sansa could see the doubt in his eyes. She was certain others would doubt her
too. No one wanted to let her choose who to rely on, it seemed. No one believed
in Petyr like she did.
The door to their small prison opened. Tywin Lannister entered with grace,
accompanied by a group of armed agents. An escort. Sansa tensed and sat
upright.
“Miss Stark,” said Tywin, voice low and jarring. He stood with his hands
clasped behind his back in a position of authority, just outside her cell.
“Have you given thought to your decision?”
He hadn't come to waste time. Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat and held
her ground while she still could. “Yes.”
“And?”
“You already know the answer.”
Tywin pushed out a long, heavy sigh. He nodded to one of his men. The agent
removed his badge and scanned it, opening Sansa’s cell door. “What are you
doing?” shouted Sandor. The stranger grabbed Sansa harshly by the arm. She
could not fight. Sandor rushed to his feet and started beating on the glass
like a madman. “If you hurt her, I’ll rip your guts out through your neck!”
Tywin ignored his cries. Sansa was shoved forward and forced to walk out of the
prison with her escort. She turned back to see Sandor screaming threats and
profanity, but she couldn’t smile at him before the door closed. A shame. Sansa
wanted her smile to be what he remembered her by, if this was the end.
The elevator opened down the long hall. Tywin motioned for Sansa to enter
first. The others followed behind, and the doors slowly closed.
The lift began to ascend. Back to another interrogation room, Sansa assumed,
but she didn’t know why. It was different this time. She stood in the middle of
a circle of well-dressed men, and felt naked despite her filthy funeral dress.
“Why do you need my signature?” she asked Tywin.
“Pardon?”
“My signature. You could forge it, couldn’t you?”
“You’re seventeen,” he said. “Or, you were. You haven’t signed any legal
documents I could get my hands on, making accurate forgery quite difficult.”
“So you decided to torture me instead?”
“Your submission wasn’t my preferred choice,” Tywin continued. “We had hoped to
acquire the money without a Stark heir, but Ramsay Bolton was insistent that he
could break you. Roose allowed him to act before I was consulted, and by the
time I was made aware of what he’d done, it was too late. I was assured that
your ‘transformation’ would be a viable second option if our first failed.”
Sansa nearly fainted. Iwas just a backup plan. “Why now, then?” she asked,
voice quivering. “Why not just steal the money? Why hurt me?”
“I would prefer not to. You could be a valuable ally, now that Littlefinger has
made you useful.” The lift doors opened. Sansa was pushed forward by the armed
guards, but Tywin stayed at her side, still speaking. “Stealing one of the most
valuable fortunes of the decade is not as easy as you may think. Your father
went to great lengths to ensure that it would be hard for us.”
“But why hurt me?” Sansa asked again. She could feel danger getting close.
Would it be Roose Bolton who’d take her this time? One of Ramsay’s friends,
angered by his death? Or Tywin Lannister himself? Would she have to
choose? No, Sansa thought, they never give me a choice.
They stopped outside an interrogation room. One of the agents opened the door.
Inside, there was nothing but darkness. Sansa was more afraid of it than
anything.
“Ramsay acted on his own accord,” said Tywin sternly. “But the damage was done,
and his effect on you is a suitable weapon, as unpleasant as it may be.” He
stepped closer to her. “Look at me.”
Sansa did, shaking.
“I don’t have time to play games, Miss Stark. I have given you three days to
consider. I gave you food. I let you speak with the Hound. I stopped anyone who
wanted to harm you. I have tried to take a generous path, but still you refuse
to bend, even though your family is dead and Littlefinger has betrayed you. I
am left with only one option.” Tywin pulled paperwork from his suit jacket and
offered it to her. “Sign, or there will be pain.”
Sansa stared at the documents. She didn’t even want to touch them; she’d made
her decision long ago. Even in the face of this, of torture, of Ramsay all over
again, she had to protect the Stark legacy. Her family had died for it. Only
she could make sure they hadn’t died in vain.
Sansa straightened her back, bravely. “I’m sorry. No matter what happens,
you’ll never get my family’s fortune from me.”
Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but his anger was palpable. “If you die, so
be it.”
A hand at her back shoved her forward into the room. The door closed and locked
behind her, and Sansa was swallowed in darkness.
She knew she wasn’t alone. Sansa stayed with her back pressed against the door
and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. If whoever was in the room couldn’t hear her,
they wouldn’t know where she was. But Ramsay always knew, she remembered, he
always found a way.
The lights turned on. Standing in the middle of the room was Gregor Clegane, a
monster in his own right. When he looked at her, it was Ramsay’s smile she saw.
Sansa jumped aside when Gregor reached for her. She stumbled backwards against
the opposite wall. “Please,” she begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Gregor sneered. He didn’t say a word, but she could hear Ramsay mocking her
inside her head: When are you going to learn?
Sansa leapt out of the way again. Gregor’s fist hit the wall and the concrete
cracked under his knuckles. He was strong, but Ramsay was stronger.
I’m going to get very angry if you don’t behave.
Sansa covered her ears and tried not to hyperventilate. She trembled violently.
Ramsay’s voice didn’t get quieter.
I’m part of you now.
Gregor yanked her arm. Sansa attempted to wrench free, hitting and shoving him,
but he was too large. With strength of force, Gregor backhanded Sansa across
the face. She tasted blood. Her ears began to ring as she fell to the floor, on
her back. She heard Ramsay’s laughter as Gregor forced her legs apart.
You’re only making it worse, you know.
Sansa wondered if Ramsay was right, as Gregor knelt between her thighs. If she
should just give in. It’d saved her life before, maybe it would now.
Take it. Take me.
Gregor unbuckled his belt. Sansa stared blankly at the ceiling.
I own you.
What would her life be worth if she was too broken to come back again? What was
the point of recovery if it would all be taken away? She may as well have died
with Ros.
“No fight?” asked Gregor, gray eyes glaring down at her.
I like it when you fight. It means I get to hurt you more.
But through all Ramsay’s actions, Sansa had bravely fought for her life.
Freedom, family and love. None of that would be taken from her. She would die
with her claws out and teeth bared, while there was still some of her left.
Sansa Stark would never be a victim again.
She didn’t move as Gregor waited for an answer. Sansa kept her arms curled
tight against her chest, just like Jon had taught her. “Please don’t hurt me,”
she whimpered, one last time.
Gregor ignored her. He tore her underwear from her hips and leaned his body
over her.
Sansa shoved against his shoulders, arms straight. She twisted to the side to
free her legs and planted her feet on Gregor’s hips. Gregor tried to pull back,
to gain his ground so he could choke her, but she didn’t give him time. Sansa
clutched his wrists, pulled them down, and started kicking him wildly in the
face. Her heels struck his chin and Gregor fell back, shouting. She scrambled
away as soon as his hold was broken.
Sansa’s back hit the wall. She pulled her underwear up from her ankles, chest
heaving with sobs that never broke free.
She searched frantically for a way of escape. Something. Anything. She saw
herself in the one-way mirror, tangled hair and all. Was anyone watching from
the other side?
Wait. That’s it.
Gregor stood up. Sansa positioned herself in front of the mirror and faced him,
still shaking. The fury in his eyes would have frightened her once, but
Ramsay’s influence no longer held her. “I’ll give you a fight,” she declared.
Gregor snarled. He didn’t want to play this game anymore, but Sansa wasn’t
finished. He charged. She waited for him to swing at her, and when he did, she
ducked.
The mirror’s glass shattered under the force of Gregor’s fist and fell over her
like rain.
Gregor screamed and reeled back. Sansa looked up long enough to see shards of
glass jutting out from his bloody knuckles and bones, but quickly turned away.
She shoved the remaining pieces from the base of the mirror and heaved herself
over the edge. Glass scraped and sliced her legs and hands, but she didn’t feel
pain. Only the warmth of blood trickling down her legs when her feet met solid
ground.
An agent scrambled to pull up his pants in the corner of the room. Sansa
clutched a metal flashlight from the desk and struck him over the head,
knocking him out cold. She snatched his badge from his shirt and fled. “Break
the bars,” she muttered to herself.
The interrogation room’s door opened with a crash, so hard the hinges nearly
broke. Sansa was barely down the hall when Gregor, Ramsay, roared in rage.
Sansa bolted for the stairs. She slipped on her own blood and clung to the rail
to keep from tumbling. Gregor's shouts echoed down the staircase as he made to
follow her. Sansa reached the floor where Sandor was being held when alarms
began to blare, high-pitched from every wall. She felt Ramsay’s spiders all
over her skin, saw him out of the corner of her eye where there were only
shadows. But Sansa continued. There was no other choice.
Sansa heard MI5 agents gathering around the corner and scrambled into an empty
office to hide. The carpet would cover her blood trail, at least. She was
halfway down the row of desks when the door at the far end of the office
opened. Fear jolted through her; she was surrounded. Sansa fell to the floor
and crawled into the tiny space under a nearby desk, hugging her legs close to
her body and clasping her mouth shut. She could hear them, teams of men and
their guns. Searching the area. Talking to each other.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Cameras cut out, no one can see her.”
“Spread out. Check everywhere, then we’re movin’ on.”
Sansa tried not to cry. She clenched her eyes shut and gripped the Star of
David around her neck. Her body shook so hard that she feared the desk would
shake with her. She would die with a prayer on her lips, she decided, likely as
her mother had the day they all burned. Hail Mary, full of grace…
Sansa opened her eyes. A man, an agent, knelt down in front of the desk and
stared at her. She clutched her pendant. “Please,” she mouthed, not voicing a
word. “Help me.”
The man looked at her bleeding legs, her bruises, the tears on her cheeks. He
didn’t say anything.
“Hey,” said another agent. “Nothing’s here. Come on.”
The stranger paused. He held her gaze, and his eyes were sad. Please, Sansa
prayed. Please.
“Nothing here,” he finally said. “Let’s go.”
The men gathered and left.
Time seemed to stop. Sansa was struck with a miracle that hit her harder than
Ramsay ever had. She let out a long breath and wept quietly, leaning her head
against the cold metal desk. She’d looked Death in the eyes and was granted
mercy. “Thank you,” she whispered, holding her Star. “Thank you. Thank you.”
Sansa was pulled back in the moment by the sound of gunfire. She crawled from
under the desk, darting out of the room and down the adjacent hallway toward
the prison. The agents guarding the cells had been drawn by the fighting,
clearing her way. Sansa pushed open the doors and ran to Sandor’s cell.
“Sansa,” growled Sandor when he saw her. She knew the snarl on his face was a
smile, no matter how it looked. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Her shaking hands fumbled with the badge she’d stolen. She
swiped it on the reader. 
LORCH, AMORY.
PERMISSION GRANTED.
When the cell door opened, Sansa leapt into Sandor’s arms. He stood stunned,
but only for a moment. Sansa’s kindness was impossible to withstand. He held
her tight against him, stronger than anyone. “Let’s get you out of here, little
bird.”
Sandor’s promise filled her with hope. She pulled away and looked up at him.
“It’s Gregor,” she said. “He triggered the alarms. He’s coming for me, I know
it. Tywin said he could kill me if he wanted to.”
“Over my dead body.” Sandor moved past Sansa and grabbed her hand. “Stay behind
me.”
Sansa kept hold of Sandor as he moved through the small prison, ignoring others
begging for release. There was a time when Sansa would’ve freed all of them out
of the naïve goodness in her heart, but she’d learned the hard way not to trust
so easily.
“I don’t know where a damn exit is,” growled Sandor.
“We should go toward the guns.” Sansa tugged on his arm. “Whoever’s fighting
the agents has to be here for me. I know it.”
“No you don’t.” Sandor squeezed her hand tighter. “This way.” He pulled Sansa
down the left corridor, away from the gunfire. Sansa looked back over her
shoulder. No one was there.
“Sandor, listen to me,” Sansa tried. “Please, would you? They’re here to help.”
“Don’t know that,” he growled again.
Sansa yanked her hand away. “We can’t just wander aimlessly—”
“I told you I would protect you!”
Sansa felt like she was facing Petyr again. “How can you protect me if you
don’t trust me?”
Sandor never got the chance to answer. The door at the end of the hall crashed
open. Gregor Clegane stormed across the threshold, blood dripping down his
knuckles from the mirror’s glass. Sansa knew the wild rage in his eyes.
“Run,” said Sandor. He let go of her hand. “Go to those bloody gunshots if you
want.”
“Sandor—”
“I’ll take care of this.” He gently pushed her behind him. His tone was dark,
almost quiet. He never took his eyes off Gregor. “Go to those people you say
are helpin’ you. Get your sister, get your brother, get home.”
Sansa had seen Petyr in Sandor before, but now there was only Theon. Another
loved one she couldn’t save. She wanted to beg him to come with her, but she
wouldn’t be able to go far with Gregor at her heels. Sansa reached out and
touched Sandor's arm. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
She didn’t wait for his reply, and ran the opposite way.
Gunshots echoed down the corridor. Sansa ran to the source. Guns meant a fight,
and a fight meant two opposing sides. Logically, someone had come to help her,
but the closer she got the more she began to doubt.
Sansa came to a halt when the guns ceased fire. All was quiet; even the alarms
were cut. She didn’t know who waited around the corner, be they friend or
enemy, but Sansa crept forward all the same. She had to know. She had to know
if she was truly alone, or if Petyr had kept his promise.
She heard voices. Three different ones, all speaking Spanish. She pressed her
back to the wall and waited for the strangers to pass, listening.
“¿Dónde está la chica?”
“ No lo sé. Estamos esperando a Jon. ”
Sansa knew that word. “Jon,” she said aloud, and pushed away from the wall.
“Jon?”
Around the corner came three Spanish soldiers. Spain, Sansa
realized. Myrcella. 
Petyr.
A Spanish woman pointed at her. “You are Sansa Stark?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
A rush of footsteps came down the hall, led by Lothor Brune. “Oh, thank God.”
Behind Lothor was Jon. Dressed like a soldier, a man of the Night’s Watch, an
assault rifle strapped around his body. She couldn’t see his face, but she
could hear the crack of emotion in his voice. “Sansa!”
“Jon!”
She ran forward and threw her arms around his neck. Jon held her tight, rifle
forgotten. “Jesus, Sansa, you have no idea how happy I am to see you alive.”
“I have some idea.” Sansa smiled and pulled away. She wanted to say more, but
she was cut off.
“We need to go,” barked Lothor. “Now.”
Sansa noticed a handgun in a holster on Jon’s hip. Acting on impulse, she
snatched it before he could stop her. “I have to do something first.”
“Sansa,” Jon warned, “Olyvar’s outside. We need to go. It’s too dangerous—”
“If I can’t do this, saving me wasn't worth it.” Sansa touched Jon’s hand. “Is
there a way out from the other side of the building?”
“Yes,” said Lothor. “Fire exit. Two floors up.”
“Have your men clear me a path and I’ll meet you there.” Sansa clutched the
gun, her lifeline, and turned around. She ran down the hall towards Sandor’s
voice, towards Gregor’s grunts and taunts. They were farther away than they
were before, but it was a distance Sansa would cross, even under the
circumstances.
She’d killed Ramsay once. She could kill him, and all he represented, again.
When she came to a junction, Jon ran up beside her, firmly gripping her wrist.
“I’m not letting you go alone.”
“Thanks, Jon.” She smiled. Sansa continued onward, her brother at her side, up
the stairs to find where Sandor had been taken. She would not leave without
him.
Sansa and Jon climbed up to the ground level. Bloodstains littered the floor.
“Sandor!” she called. Gregor’s curses came back in reply, and the strikes of
fists on flesh. Jon shouted her name, but Sansa was already running. She would
not lose anyone else she cared about, even if she had to die to make it so.
Sansa found them in a break room. Sandor was in a fatal chokehold, Gregor’s arm
wrapped tight around his neck. Both men were beaten and bloody and raw, but
Gregor was the stronger man. Sandor’s face began to redden and purple.
Sansa raised her gun. She saw the smile on Ramsay’s face, on Gregor’s, and
heard Petyr’s deep voice in her head: steady, my love.
She fired. The bullet shot through Gregor’s skull, and he fell.
Sansa waited until she was certain he was dead before running to Sandor’s side.
He heaved and gagged and gasped. Sansa helped him up. “Easy,” she encouraged.
“Can you walk?”
He couldn’t speak yet. Sansa didn’t wait for a response. She wrapped his arm
around her shoulders and struggled to lift him. Sandor was heavy, muscular and
massive, but he pushed himself up with one hand on a table. “You should be
gone,” he rasped. “You could die here.”
“I told you I’d come back,” said Sansa. “I meant it.”
“Sansa!” Jon called, standing in the hallway and waving to get her attention.
“We need to go!”
Sansa took Sandor by the hand and slipped out of the fire exit. She helped pile
him into the back of the van, waited for Jon and the Spanish soldiers to
follow, and settled in when the doors closed. Olyvar gripped the wheel and sped
off.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
The car ride was a blur. Sansa stayed focused on patching as many of Sandor’s
wounds as she could, ignoring her bleeding legs and Jon’s insistence that she
wrap them. She was free now, but where was everyone else? Sansa only counted
Jon, Lothor and Olyvar. Not even half of her family, not nearly enough.
“Where is Petyr?” Sansa asked frantically. “Arya? Mayana? The others?”
“Killing Roose Bolton,” said Jon. “Don’t worry. They’ll be fine.”
Sansa knew better than to believe that. But she did anyway, because she had to.
Sansa refused to relax until they pulled into the manor driveway. When she saw
the porch lights and the arched front door, the familiar gardens and stonework,
she allowed herself to breathe.
Sansa climbed out the back of the van and stepped through the manor's front
door. It looked the same as it had before her capture, the same wood floor and
plush rugs, same chandelier, same wallpaper. But the people were different.
Sansa saw the faces of strangers, two children and an old man. And
Gendry, Sansa noticed, surprised. Arya must be so glad.
“Hi Sansa,” Gendry said. He looked so similar to her memory of him, but more
grown-up somehow. “Mr. Luwin’s set up in the living room to treat you all. Says
it’s important to stop infection.”
Sandor was rushed in by Olyvar to sit next to the strangers. Sansa didn’t
follow. “I’ll be there in a bit,” she decided. “I want to get clean first.”
No one tried to stop her. Sansa left them in the foyer and ascended the stairs,
tracing her fingertips along the railing as if it were fragile. Even after
everything, this place was still home to her.
Sansa opened the door to hers and Petyr’s bedroom. It smelled like mint, like
cigarettes, like him. She knew Petyr was facing Roose Bolton somewhere unknown,
but a part of her had still hoped he would be here, turning from the balcony as
she entered unannounced. “How did prayer go?” he’d ask. “Did you enjoy spending
time with Ros?”
And then he’d kiss her slow, tell her how they’d get their revenge, lay her
down on the blankets and fill her with his care and compassion. Sansa touched
the footboard and felt the patterns along the edge. How many times had she
kicked it on accident? Or the one time she’d playfully crawled away from
Petyr’s advances, only to hit her head on the wood. Sansa smiled at the memory.
Petyr had laughed at her, then. He’d laughed. That side of him was still there,
just hidden away. It was the only thing in the world she was determined to
save.
Sansa pulled Robb’s Oxford sweater, a pair of leggings and fuzzy socks from her
dresser. She stepped into the bathroom. The mirror brought an uncomfortable
reminder of all that had happened, from Gregor all the way back to Ramsay in
the bruises and blood on her skin. Her eyes began to sting. She dropped her
clean clothes on the counter and peeled off the funeral dress she’d been in for
days. She unclasped her bra, pulled down half-torn underwear, and went naked to
the fireplace. She threw the dirty garments atop the pile of wood and struck a
match. Her clothes went up in flame. She prayed the memories would go with
them, the feeling of Gregor’s hands where Ramsay’s had once been. She stayed to
watch them burn.
When her clothes had turned to ash, Sansa returned to the bathroom and twisted
the nozzle. The water was scalding. She used to take blistering showers
whenever Ramsay took from her, curled up on the floor of the tub, lying still
as the water seared her skin. She’d thought that enough heat and obsessive
scrubbing would cleanse the stain of his hands from her body. She’d thought it
would make her feel better.
Sansa lowered the shower’s temperature before stepping inside.
By the time she was done, Sansa’s hands were wrinkled and her wounds agitated,
stinging from the soap. But she was clean. Sansa dressed in Robb’s sweater and
the rest of her clothes, pulling up her leggings to mid-thigh so the others
could tend to her cuts. She was still bleeding. Even parts of her arms and
hands were sliced. Sansa hurriedly made her way to the living room, where
Olyvar helped her onto the couch and examined her.
“How did this happen?” he asked, carefully dabbing antiseptic on each open
gash.
“A mirror,” said Sansa, wincing from the pain. “I climbed through a broken
interrogation room mirror. The one-way glass, you know.”
“That’s strong material. I’m surprised you weren’t shredded.”
“Yeah.” Sansa didn’t want to think about it. She looked around for the others.
“Where’s Sandor?”
“Hospital,” said Olyvar. “Don’t worry. He’s alright. I suspect that he has a
moderate concussion, on top of several broken ribs. He needed tending neither I
nor Luwin could provide.”
“Oh.” Sansa tried not to worry. Petyr, Arya and Mayana deserved her focus right
now.
Jon came into the living room and offered her a cup of hot tea. Sansa took it
gratefully, sipping as Olyvar wrapped her wounds as best he could. Gendry lit a
fire for her. When Olyvar was finished, Sansa felt cozy and warm, protected, as
if for the first time.
An hour passed. Sandor called from the hospital to tell them he was alright.
Sansa appreciated the notification, but it didn’t ease her in the slightest.
Olyvar took the time to explain the situation since her capture. Myrcella,
Varys, Arya and Mayana, Roose Bolton, the plan. He talked about Petyr’s
behavior the past few days — has it not been weeks?— and by the end, Sansa was
so exhausted and riddled with fear that she could barely keep her eyes open,
yet it was hard to stay still. “Has anyone heard from Petyr and Arya?” Sansa
asked as the second hour went by, her third cup of tea nearly gone. She was
bundled up in blankets, head resting on Jon’s shoulder. “I need to know if
they're alright.”
“You’ll know as soon as I hear anything.” Olyvar tried to stay calm, but Sansa
could see that he was worried, too. “You should get some sleep.”
“I agree,” said Jon. He stood and offered Sansa a pillow so she could stretch
out on the couch. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll come get you when we hear
somethin’.”
“Okay.”
Jon leaned down and kissed her forehead. He and Olyvar left her to sleep,
setting another cup of tea and veggies on the table in case she needed
sustenance.
Another hour passed. Sansa slept through it, but she couldn’t rest any more
than that. She watched the fire in the fireplace burn. Mr. Luwin, the stranger,
was reading in Ros’s chair. He looked up when he noticed she was awake. “How do
you feel, Miss Stark?”
“Fine,” she lied. She wanted her family. Petyr, Arya, Mayana. Ros.
“It is brave of you to say so.” Mr. Luwin closed his book and smiled at her.
Sansa had a feeling that he knew a great deal. “You are tired, though. Perhaps
now is not the time.”
“The time for what?” asked Sansa, sitting up.
“For a discussion.” Luwin set his book on the sidetable and removed his reading
glasses. “Your brother and sister spoke to me at length about the things you’ve
been through. I thought that perhaps I could help you on the journey to
recovery. Whenever you’d like to talk.”
“Thank you,” said Sansa doubtfully, “but I don’t think you could understand how
I feel. Not completely.”
Luwin nodded. “To some degree, that is true. But I hope you know you can come
to me, Miss Stark, if you change your mind. I am no stranger to captivity and
loss.”
Sansa met his gaze. Luwin was kind, genuine. Sansa noticed his yarmulke, his
age, his weary smile. She knew what he meant. It was a sudden and great relief,
to know someone who understood.
She didn’t have time to ask questions. Sansa heard Olyvar’s phone ring from the
next room. He came in, unsmiling, and Sansa’s greatest dreads bubbled in her
chest. He offered the phone to her. She snatched it desperately.
“Hello?”
Mayana was on the other line, sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”
Chapter End Notes
     i was telling this to my beta the other day, but one of the best
     parts of this story for me is the contrast of petyr and sansa's arcs.
     sansa is constantly being built up, healing and growing and becoming
     stronger, while petyr, from the beginning, is slowly being torn down.
     if that doesn't give you insight on what the next chapter's gonna be
     like, you got a whole new thing comin'.
     :)
***** Renegade *****
Chapter Notes
                              soundtrack choices:
                      [renegade;_styx] ◆ [the_war;_syml]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 5 APRIL, 2017
City traffic was agonizingly slow. Petyr sat at every red light for ages, and
no matter how hard he pressed the gas, he never seemed to go fast enough.
Mayana sat in the passenger seat. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the
manor, for neither of them knew what to say. Petyr wished he could tolerate the
silence. He checked his phone for a text from Olyvar, hoping he could at least
know Sansa was safe before he walked into the lion’s den.
No new messages. Nothing.
Thirty minutes down the motorway, Mayana turned to him. “Why did you really
give her up? I don’t wanna hear that shit about getting the Boltons and
Lannisters to trust you. You can tell everyone else that, but they don’t know
you like I do.”
Petyr ground his teeth. “I’ve told you, Mayana. Getting the trust of our
enemies was the primary goal.”
“And what was the secondary?”
He sighed. Finding the right words was impossible. Mayana wouldn’t accept lies,
and why should he give them to her? Petyr knew he could be driving to his
death. If he couldn’t tell Mayana his most unpleasant secret, he couldn’t tell
anyone, even though it would be safer not to. “I had to prove that I didn’t
love her.”
Mayana stayed quiet and listened.
“I don’t do love. I don’t like people, Ilike being Littlefinger. Thirty years
of success couldn’t come crashing down because of some girl.” Petyr held the
wheel tighter. “But in every possible way, I wanted her. Every way. Physically,
mentally, sexually. I wanted her so much that it distracted me. I got careless
with Ramsay, I didn’t listen to Ros, I lied to Margaery and made enemies of my
allies.” Petyr realized he was speaking from a foreign place — a place of
shame. “Giving Sansa away should have killed two birds with one stone. Sedate
Tywin enough to exploit him, and prove to myself and everyone that I had no
weakness.”
Mayana sat still. She didn’t berate him, not directly. “That makes me want to
hit you again.”
“Sansa hit me too.”
Mayana stared at him. Petyr stayed focused on the road to avoid the pity in her
eyes. “What if she finds someone better? Someone who can give her what you
can’t?”
“Fuck that. I’d give her a kingdom if it would make her happy.”
Mayana snorted and looked out the window. “Still a greedy bastard,” she said.
“But for what it’s worth, I hope you two can work it out. If we all get out of
this alive.”
“If,” he agreed.
Petyr pulled down the Bolton driveway, a long, winding road through thick
forest and meadow. It would have been beautiful if not for the threats written
in every blade of grass. Petyr checked his phone again. Still nothing from
Olyvar. He was briefly tempted to call and check in, but even a text message
could foil that operation. Patience was the only way.
When Roose Bolton’s manor came into view, Petyr found a place to park and
unbuckled his seat belt. The air was tense. Mayana didn’t move to get out of
the car, and neither did he.
Petyr took a deep breath. “Mayana—”
“Don’t.” She placed her hand on his arm and gently squeezed. “You don’t have to
give me the ‘in case this goes badly’ speech. Even though I’m pissed, I got
your back. I always do.”
Petyr looked into her determined dark eyes, unable to resist a grin. Her
confidence gave him strength. He reached for the door handle. “Let’s get this
over with, then.”
Petyr and Mayana exited the Bentley and walked side by side to the Boltons’
front door. He knocked. A butler let them inside, and Littlefinger crossed the
threshold.
Roose Bolton was standing in the foyer. He offered his hand in greeting.
“Welcome.”
Littlefinger shook hands with his host. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” he said.
“Have you met my assistant, Mayana Washington?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the honor. Good to meet you, Ms. Washington.”
“And you, Mr. Bolton.” Mayana greeted him pleasantly. She was immaculate at
masking herself. Petyr never told her enough, how proud of her he was.
“I’m surprised you aren’t having us searched,” said Littlefinger as Roose
escorted them to the living room. A long leather sofa and two chairs surrounded
a coffee table. Cersei Lannister sat in one of them, long hair in a thick braid
over her shoulder.
“Searched?” asked Cersei. “Come, now. We all know you’re not fool enough to
kill us here.”
“I am glad that you trust me.” Littlefinger smiled. “Is there a restroom? I
forgot how long the drive can be.”
Roose paused, looked at Cersei, then nodded. “Yes. Down the west hall. Locke
will show you.”
A stranger stepped forward. Petyr recognized him; he was the man driving the
car when Theon Greyjoy’s body was dumped at Sansa’s feet. Locke motioned for
Littlefinger to walk down the hall, which he did, and pointed to the restroom.
“There,” he said. “Take as long as you need.”
Littlefinger waved him off. He entered the restroom, closed the door, and
pulled out his phone.
We’re in the house, he sent to Arya Stark. Are you here?
Almost. Buy us time. Where should we come in at? 
The back. Less likely to be found.
You’ll know when we’re ready.
Petyr leaned back against the papered wall and sighed. He was tired of doing
this, of being without Sansa, playing games with people who were so far beneath
him. It was a strange realization. For the first time in his adult life, Petyr
just wanted to go home.
After pretending to use the restroom, he opened the door to return to Mayana.
The hall was dimly lit, but a room at the end caught his eye. The door was
open. Through it, he could see a bed. Sansa’s bed. Iron bars still sat on the
mattress.
Petyr pushed the door further open. The room was small, half-buried in shadows.
The dresser was covered in clothes from Sansa’s quick escape, and screwdriver
rested on the floor.
Petyr moved carefully into the room. The hair on the back of his neck stood
straight. Break the bars, he could remember Sansa saying. He remembered her
screams, too. The day of her nightmare, drawing a knife when he’d tried to
help. Petyr reached out and touched the iron bars. Cold, like the air. The
haunted hands of Sansa’s past coiled around his throat and choked him. She
deserves to be happy, he thought, grimacing at the memory of her fear. She was
never meant to be caged.
Like fire, Sansa fueled him. Petyr left the room, the monument to her pain, and
reentered the hall to finish what he'd started.
Mayana, Roose and Cersei were sitting around the coffee table. Roose was in one
chair, Cersei in the other, and Mayana had settled in on the couch by herself.
Littlefinger sat beside her.
He scanned the room. Bolton and Lannister men were present. Between Arya, the
Spaniards and Mayana, the odds were equal.
“I haven’t heard anything from Tywin,” said Roose. “Do you think the Stark girl
gave in?”
“Doubtful,” said Mayana. “She’s stubborn. We tried to get her to claim the
money on her birthday, but she wouldn’t go. She doesn’t want anything to do
with it 'til you’re dead.”
Cersei grinned, too pleased for someone being denied a fortune. “That doesn’t
matter. My father has other tools in his arsenal.”
“Forgive me,” said Littlefinger, “but what could Tywin do that Ramsay hasn’t
already done? Sansa has proven herself resilient to torture. Unless he plans on
taking limbs…?”
“We have The Mountain,” said Cersei. “Even if she doesn’t bend, she’ll break.”
Petyr felt like retching. Gregor Clegane had a monstrous reputation, but with
women, it was worse. He’d been rumored to have killed dozens of girls during
the act of assault, and those who survived were never the same. Petyr itched to
call Olyvar immediately. Littlefinger skipped a beat, and Mayana took over for
him.
“You people sure like your violence.” Mayana pulled a pack of cigarettes from
her pocket and handed it to Petyr. Thanks. He took one and retrieved his
lighter. Deep inhales of nicotine centered him again.
“I didn’t say you could smoke in my house,” said Roose.
“I didn’t ask permission.” Littlefinger flicked away his ashes.
“Does anyone have an actual number on this girl’s money?” asked Mayana. “I’ve
heard things, but I wanna see it in writing. It’s hard to trust anyone’s word
these days.”
“I thought you might ask.” Roose nodded to one of his men. The stranger left
momentarily and returned with a tall stack of paperwork, which he placed on the
table with a thud. “There you are,” said Roose. “The Stark assets, in total.”
Mayana was the first to lean forward, taking a modest chunk off the top and
scanning the pages. Littlefinger took some as well. He crossed one leg over the
other to read while Cersei poured wine, but the words were blurred, and he
couldn’t blink them into focus. “Fuck,” Petyr cursed.
“Here. Use mine.” Roose Bolton pulled his reading glasses from his shirt and
handed them to Littlefinger. He put them on, scowling as the text became clear.
The numbers were staggering. The Stark family fortune had accumulated over
generations, reaching as far back as the colonial era. No Stark had cashed it
in. They’d let it sit, contributing their share over the years while living
comfortably modest lives. The list of possessions was impressive: original
pieces from famed artists, shares in half a hundred multi-million-dollar
companies, property in various parts of Europe, antiques, custom furniture,
priceless jewelry and historical artifacts. A fortune, indeed.
“This is what you want?” asked Littlefinger, cocking his brow. “Centuries of
wealth?”
“Immense wealth,” said Roose. “I don’t think the girl realizes what she’s
sitting on.”
“Won’t be sitting for long, though.” Cersei handed out three glasses of wine to
Roose, Mayana and Littlefinger, sipping at her own and smiling. “I wonder if
she’ll still be able to speak when Gregor is finished with her.”
Petyr tried not to react. Come on, Arya, any moment now.
“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Littlefinger, cradling wine and cigarette in
his hands. “Your little torture technique.”
Roose shrugged. “We cut our losses. Cut her throat and move on.”
“We’ve spent far too much time on Sansa Stark,” Cersei agreed. “Would you like
to have her body, Littlefinger? To join your other whore?”
Petyr caught the venom in the queen's stare. He threw it back at her with every
ounce. “That's alright,” said Mayana to cover him. “One body is enough for—”
Explosions boomed from the west wing. Littlefinger shot up from the couch,
Mayana by his side, and ducked when guns began to fire. From the hall charged a
group of armed invaders dressed in black, unrecognizable.
The leader pulled off her ski mask. Arya Stark looked directly at Roose, and
raised her gun.
Another bomb. Splintered wood and shattered glass flew every which way. Petyr
stayed low as Mayana began fake fighting with the Spaniards. They all had their
targets; all Littlefinger had to do was play his part. The most important one.
“Your Grace!” he called above the chaos, moving quickly to where Cersei hid
behind a bookshelf. Her guards had abandoned her to join the fray. Mayana would
make sure they didn’t follow. “Come with me. We need to get you to safety.”
“You didn’t send these people?” she demanded.
“No, I don’t—”
Boom. Smoke drifted in from a distant fire. “We don’t have time,” urged
Littlefinger, “follow me!”
Littlefinger snatched her hand. Cersei followed him without resistance down the
eastern hallway, searching for an empty room to barricade in. He pointed to the
study at the far end. “There,” he said. “Go, Your Grace. I’ll cover you.”
He pulled his gun from his waistband, pointing it the way they came. Cersei ran
for the study. Petyr pretended to fire at some of the Spaniards, shooting
Lannister personnel instead. He could see Mayana exchanging blows with Locke in
the hallway. She bought him time. After making sure they wouldn't be found,
Littlefinger followed Cersei into Roose’s study and slammed the door behind
him.
The gunshots became quieter. Littlefinger paused to catch his breath, and
turned. “Your Grace, I think we should—”
Bang. Petyr fell to the floor as blood burst from his knee. He yelped in pain,
rolling on his back and trying to clasp his leg to stop it. Any of it.
When he looked up, Cersei Lannister lowered her own gun.
“I'm almost offended that you thought bringing in the cavalry would stop us.”
Cersei swept across the room, all grace and poise and hate, picking up Petyr’s
weapon from the floor. “I was going to bury you anyway. Kill you slow, perhaps,
if the mood was right. Maybe I’d make Sansa watch. Maybe I’d make her kill you
instead.”
Petyr groaned. Putting any weight on his leg brought unbearable pain, and he
gripped the arm of a nearby chair to heave himself up. Cersei fired again. Her
bullet lodged into his side, and he collapsed hard to the ground.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” asked Cersei. “After all these
years?” The click of her heels grew louder as she approached, but Petyr’s
vision was too blurred to see her. “The moment you handed Sansa over, you made
a lot of enemies. Including Olenna Tyrell. A girl she’d broken laws to protect
had been betrayed, and she wanted revenge. Something we have in common.” Cersei
pushed her stiletto against Petyr’s chest and laid him flat on his back. “You
poisoned my son, Joffrey. The king. I want you to admit it.”
Olenna's betrayal was impossible to ponder while Petyr’s life seeped away. The
cockier Cersei was, the better, even if his end was in sight. Petyr laughed.
“Killing your vicious boy is one of the only good deeds I’ve done.”
Bang. Cersei’s third bullet ripped through his core, and Petyr cried out.
Cersei pressed her foot harder on his chest.
“I wish she could be here,” snarled the queen. “Sansa. Your little whore. I
wish she could watch you die, and leave you with all the clever ideas of what
I’m going to do to her once you’re dead.” She leaned down to him. “Though I
suppose I can do that anyway, can’t I?”
A shadow moved behind Cersei. Petyr watched it briefly before looking her in
the eye, a grin on his lips. He knew who had come. “Sansa’s not in your
clutches anymore. You played your tricks, but so did I.”
Arya Stark leapt from the darkness onto Cersei’s back, yanking her hair and
dragging her off of Petyr. He tried to sit up, but the holes in his body stung
him with immense pain and he only got far enough to lean against the closed
door.
Petyr lifted his head to the fighting. Arya had ripped out a handful of
Cersei’s blonde hair and tackled her to the floor. Smoke began to fill the
room. Fire, he thought, somewhere nearby. He covered his wounds and stayed
focused on breathing. In, out. In, out.
Arya climbed on top of Cersei and wrapped her hands around her throat. The gun
was forgotten. Arya squeezed tighter and tighter, screaming with a rage long
held back. Cersei's struggles turned to twitches and jerks, and her grasping
hands fell slowly to the floor.
The gunshots outside had ceased, leaving only the crackle of fire. Petyr didn’t
speak. He watched Arya stand, wipe the sweat from her brow, and pick up the
loaded weapon from the floor.
She raised the gun and aimed at him.
This wouldn’t be a terrible end, Petyr decided. Cersei Lannister was dead.
Roose Bolton was likely dead. He didn’t like leaving things half-finished, but
it seemed he didn’t have a choice. He trusted Olyvar and Jon and Lothor to save
Sansa. He trusted Mayana to run his operation with pride. He ached for Sansa,
for her touch, and loathed the idea of another man making her smile if she ever
moved on from him. But Petyr was a smart man. He knew when his battles were
lost. Even if Arya didn’t shoot him, he would surely die from blood loss alone,
much to everyone’s joy.
Petyr Baelish would not beg. He stayed locked with Arya’s stare, prepared to
make his death haunt her, if possible.
Arya glared at him. Smoke surrounded her like an aura, a haze of thickness that
she blended into. Petyr’s eyes stung from it, but he stared at her all the
same.
Her hands trembled. Arya looked like she was going to cry. Half a minute passed
without her pulling the trigger. He wanted to demand what was taking so long,
but so much energy had left him, spilling out of his body to join the rest.
Arya let out an angry sob. She shouted, wept, and lowered the gun. “Can you
walk?”
“I think so,” groaned Petyr.
“Then fucking walk.” Arya stormed past him, out the door.
Walk. A simple request, but barely manageable. Petyr struggled to push himself
up, using the bookshelf beside him for support. Bullets and blood loss crippled
him, but somehow, he stood. He limped out the door. He put little weight on his
left leg, but being cautious wouldn’t get him out of the manor fast enough.
Petyr tried to walk normally. His knee buckled and he collapsed to the floor
with a cry.
“Goddammit!” shouted Arya, running back to him. “I thought you said you could
walk!”
“It’s a bit difficult,” fired Petyr.
Arya cursed, helping him stand again. She slung his arm over her shoulders.
“You’d better not get me killed. I’m not dying for you.”
The walls, the hallways, the living room, everything was engulfed in the orange
glow of flame. Of success. Petyr could barely see it, but he could feel the
blistering heat. “We gotta go!” Mayana exclaimed over the fire. “The car’s
waiting, we have to—”
Mayana saw them staggering toward the front door. She looked at Petyr and
froze. “Oh my God.”
“Mayana,” growled Petyr. “Mayana, focus!”
“Car,” she stuttered. “C-Come on.” Mayana held the door open for Arya and
Petyr, running out to the van filled with Spanish fighters ready to retreat.
Petyr closed his eyes. He couldn’t feel the bullets anymore. Only the cold, the
fresh spring breeze on his face. It reminded him of the Fingers, of all things.
Myrcella’s men cleared out of the middle row of seats so Petyr could lay down.
Mayana helped him into the van. “Hold tight,” she said frantically. “We’re
going to the hospital. Arya, stay with him. Put pressure on all that, okay?
Okay.”
Petyr felt dizzy. A pair of hands lifted his head and placed it on something
higher, reaching across his body to put a bundle of cloth between his hand and
his wounds.
Petyr opened his eyes. Arya Stark frowned down at him. His head was in her lap.
“Don’t die,” she ordered. “I said I wanted to be the one to kill you.”
Petyr weakly laughed.
Mayana sped out onto the road, driving fast. Arya had to hold tight to Petyr to
keep him from falling off the seat, but he helped her as best he could, pushing
against the center console with his arm to stay where he was. Breathing made
him tired. The pain in his body was irrepressible, ripping him apart from the
inside out.
“Sansa,” Petyr muttered. “Did she get out?”
“I don’t know,” said Arya. “We haven’t stopped to ask.”
“Ask. I’m dying anyway, a hospital is pointless.” He coughed and tasted blood.
“I need to know.”
“Don’t say that shit,” barked Mayana from the driver’s seat. “You can ask how
she’s doing yourself when we’re past this. Understand?”
Since when do you give me orders? he wanted to ask. But strength, even enough
to make a joke, had left him.
Petyr fell in and out of consciousness until the van suddenly stopped and
parked. Saint Mary’s Hospital. Petyr could hear Ros laughing at him.
Mayana dashed out of the driver’s seat and into the ER for help. Petyr closed
his eyes. He was so tired, so cold, just a moment’s rest would do him good. He
wasn’t resting for long before Arya smacked his cheek. He jolted awake. “What—”
“Don’t sleep.”
“Hit me again and I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Stop me from trying to keep you alive?” Arya scoffed. “Just shut
up and stay awake.”
Petyr, despite everything, found himself admiring Arya for the first time. It
was a strange admiration. One of sadness, one of jealousy, but it didn’t stop
him from grinning to himself. He closed his eyes. “You really are your mother’s
daughter.”
Arya didn’t strike him again.
Petyr’s consciousness was thin by the time Mayana opened the van door. He heard
nurses, the wheels of a stretcher, a mix of foreign voices. He was fading
quickly. When he opened his eyes, he saw the many stars in the black night sky.
On his back, surrounded by hospital staff. Someone pulled the towel from his
wounds. Petyr didn’t feel a thing.
“Don’t you dare die on me, you asshole,” he heard from his right. Petyr smiled;
Mayana always knew how to show she cared.
Still, someone was missing. “Sansa,” he rasped. “Sansa.”
“Your name is Sansa?” asked a doctor.
“No,” said Mayana. “That’s his girlfriend’s name. His name is—”
“Petyr.” Petyr winced at the white light of the ER. “Petyr Baelish.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Baelish. We’ll take care of you.”
Petyr doubted that greatly. But there was one more thing he needed to do, if
nothing else. “Sansa,” he said again. “My pocket.”
Mayana was at his side in an instant. “Your pocket?”
“Give it back to her,” he whispered. “Tell her. Tell her.”
He felt Mayana’s hand in his pocket. The diamond earring belonged to Sansa, and
Petyr would make sure it was returned to her. Mayana said something to him. He
didn’t hear. He felt a mask on his face, saw light through his closed eyes, and
fell unconscious.
Chapter End Notes
     holy shit i'm so sorry i have to leave you on this cliffhanger while
     i write the ending ahhh, i feel awful. i wish i could publish more
     but it's literally not finished yet, i'm going as fast as i can i
     promise!!
     the next update is the final update. three chapters in one. may 13th.
     i'm so excited to get this baby finished and start on the final edit
     so i can bind this sucker in a hardback. i'm gonna feel so
     accomplished when i can hold it in my hands :')
     thoughts (and screams) in the comments would be super appreciated!
***** Demolish the Old One *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
     [million_reasons;_sapphire] ◆ [heart_like_yours;_willamette_stone] ◆
          [disarm;_the_civil_wars] ◆ [like_knives;_city_and_colour]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                 5 APRIL, 2017
“Sansa, wait! You can’t—”
“Can’t what?” Sansa whirled on Olyvar when he tried to stop her, already
halfway out the door with his keys in her hand. “Don’t stop me, please.”
“We don’t know if it’s safe,” Jon urged from the stairs. “C’mon, Sansa. You
just got back.”
“Mayana said Roose Bolton and Cersei are both dead. Tywin is in the Prime
Minister’s custody. Who’s going to hurt me at a hospital, Jon? Sick people? A
nurse?” Sansa took the door by the handle. “I’m going.”
She closed the door behind her.
Sansa fumbled with Olyvar’s keys. Her hands were shaking. Petyr’s death could
be enough to break her. It was too soon for her to lose anyone else, too cruel
of God to take away the man she loved right when he’d started to understand
what that meant. Sansa mashed the button to unlock Olyvar’s car. Before she
could open the door, Jon ran up to her and touched her arm. “Could you at least
wait for us?” he asked. “We go together or not at all.”
Sansa felt like collapsing. “Okay,” she muttered. “Okay.” She held herself. Jon
pulled her in for a hug to ease her, but it had no effect.
Olyvar left the house with a duffel bag of clothes for everyone at the
hospital. Sansa passed the keys to him and piled into the backseat, leg
bouncing as Olyvar drove the three of them to Saint Mary’s on the other end of
town. Sansa chewed at her nails so hard that Jon had to tell her to stop. “You
could’ve gone there,” she said when Olyvar waited too long on a right turn. She
kept her phone close for updates, but she’d only received one from Arya ten
minutes ago, and nothing else: He’s in surgery. That’s all we know.
Varys was waiting for them at the hospital’s quieter entrance. He’d called
ahead and told Olyvar to park around back to avoid suspicion. “Everything needs
to stay low,” he said. “There’s quite a bit of chaos in the media. We don’t
need to implicate ourselves.” He led Sansa, Jon and Olyvar through the back of
the hospital. Sansa was astoundingly tired. So tired of being dragged from
tragedy to tragedy, caught in a game that had no end. She was tired of constant
survival. A part of her wondered if she should just admit herself and stay
overnight in a bed by Petyr’s side.
The others were in a hidden waiting room out of public eye. The moment Sansa
saw Arya, she burst into tears, and the sisters ran across the distance to
embrace. Mayana was there too. Sansa felt like she’d been crying for ages, but
the tears wouldn’t stop as her family surrounded her. She nearly asked where
Ros was.
“What happened?” Sansa said in a rush.
“I don’t know,” said Mayana. “He tried to take out Cersei, but she got to him
first. He didn’t say what happened. But fuck him. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”
Mayana and Arya both sighed in relief.
“Come on,” said Arya, pointing to two couches by a vending machine. “You can
sit down and relax. Varys says we’re safe here.”
Sansa saw blood all over Arya’s shirt. She knew who it’d come from. She wrung
her hands so hard they turned red and her breath came in shallow, short spurts.
“Is there a doctor I can talk to? I want — I want to ask him about Petyr.”
“Hey,” Jon said calmly, reaching out to touch her shoulders. “Let’s not worry
about Littlefinger right now. We can—”
“Don’t tell me not to worry about him.” Sansa pulled away from her brother. She
looked around the room at Varys, Mayana, Olyvar, Jon, Arya. They were all here
for her, she realized. Not for Petyr. She appreciated their support, but she
would not stand questions of “why do you still love him?” and “why does he
matter so much?” If they cared about her, they’d know.
“Sansa.” Olyvar stood in front of her, holding her arms. “Breathe, in and out
like I showed you. Just breathe.”
Sansa closed her eyes. She remembered the techniques and tried to mimic them as
best she could, breathing deeply for a short minute before opening her eyes.
“I’m scared,” she admitted. “I can’t lose anyone else, Olyvar. I just can’t.”
Tears fell again, much to Sansa’s shame. Mayana pulled her in for a warm hug.
She shushed her and pet her hair the way Petyr would, and it calmed Sansa
considerably, if only for a moment.
Sansa was encouraged to eat while they waited for news. She did so reluctantly.
It was hard to avoid taking care of herself around so many people who cared.
She bundled up in a warm blanket given to her by one of the nurses, ate half of
a bowl of cereal and cuddled up with Jon on the couch. If she closed her eyes,
she could imagine her father holding her, or her mother, or Robb, or Petyr. It
was enough to keep her from bawling. Sansa took little comfort in the presence
of family, but little comfort was better than none, and after two hours of no
report from a surgeon, Sansa drifted to sleep.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                                 6 APRIL, 2017
It was six in the morning before a doctor knocked on the door. Sansa gasped and
shot upright as though she hadn’t been sleeping at all. The surgeon looked
tired when Olyver let him in. His scrubs were fresh and clean, but his face
wore the stress of his job well. So well, it scared her.
“How is he?” Mayana asked.
“The surgery was successful,” said the doctor. “He’s being transferred to the
ICU as we speak.”
Everyone collectively sighed. Sansa knew they were more relieved for her sake
than Petyr’s, but that didn’t matter. He was alive. “How bad is it?” she asked.
“The surgery, what… what did it involve?”
“The first bullet struck his left knee. Not a direct shot, but enough to do
considerable damage. We completely replaced it with a metal alternate.”
“Knee replacement,” Sansa repeated. “What else?”
“His internal organs were very damaged, but with enough time and blood, we were
able to repair what we could. He will likely need to be admitted to a
rehabilitation facility after he leaves the ICU. He’s not out of the clear for
infection, but we were able to remove all the bullet fragments.” The doctor
motioned to the door matter-of-factly. “I’ll be honest. When I saw him, I
didn’t think he would survive. Now I’m a bit more optimistic.”
Thank God, thought Sansa. She held her necklace. “Can I see him?”
“Our policy is that patients can only be visited by—”
“Fuck policy,” blurted Mayana. “You let her see him.”
The surgeon blinked. “He won’t be awake for several hours. His body needs to
recover from surgery, he’ll be on heavy medication until—”
“Please,” Sansa begged. She stepped forward so the doctor could see her more
closely, see the red puffiness in her eyes, how weary she was. Maybe he’d
sympathize. “Please let me see him.”
Jon wrapped his arm around Sansa. The doctor eyed them both, battling with his
moral code until Varys held up his hand. “I will take the fall for it,” he
said. “If anyone comes asking, say that she’s his wife. It wouldn’t take long
to forge a document if needed.”
The surgeon paused, sighed, then nodded.
“I’m staying for the night,” said Sansa. “I’m not leaving until he wakes up.”
“Sansa,” Olyvar began, “as your unofficial psychologist, I don’t think this
is—”
“You just got back,” Arya interrupted. “He’s not going to die. Can’t you leave
him for a day?”
“I’ll be alright,” insisted Sansa. “You should go back to the manor. I can’t
leave. If I’m gone and something happens, I just — I can’t—”
“It’s okay.” Jon rubbed her arm to calm her. “Stay ‘ere. We’ll come get you
tomorrow.” The others reluctantly agreed. Sansa was grateful that no one tried
to talk her out of it. She was exhausted, she wanted rest, but she couldn’t be
still until she knew that her family was safe. All of her family.
After exchanging goodbyes, Sansa was led down the hall by the surgeon, walking
toward the ICU. She picked at her nails on the way. She was afraid of what she
would find, if the doctor’s optimism was poorly placed or there would be some
sudden emergency that would take Petyr away from her. Perhaps both.
The surgeon opened the door to Petyr’s room. Sansa stepped inside and pulled
back the curtain. Petyr was lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed, a breathing
mask over his face. His left knee was wrapped entirely and a heart monitor
beeped with his pulse. Sansa stood frozen, watching, waiting for him to lift
his head and smile and call her “sweetling.” To tell her he was going to be
alright.
“I’ll get you a cot,” said the doctor. Sansa nodded when he left.
Petyr didn’t move at all. He was lethargic, silent — when was he ever this
still? Sansa moved to the side of his bed. The monitor was all she heard, the
only signifier that he was still alive. She touched his cheek and felt the
warmth of his skin, and while it was reassuring, it wasn’t enough to ease her
fear. She wanted to hear his voice. Feel his lips, his hands. She wanted to run
away with him and pretend like none of this ever happened, even though the
horror was how she’d met him in the first place.
A nurse knocked on the door. “Mrs. Baelish?”
“Come in,” said Sansa.
The woman brought in a fold-up cot, a single blanket and a pillow. “They’re not
very comfortable,” she warned, “but they’re better than sleepin’ on the cold
floor. Would you like some water?”
“No thank you.”
“Well, just let me know if you need anythin’.” The nurse turned to leave, but
stopped abruptly. “Oh! Wait. This is for you.” From her pocket, she pulled
Sansa’s missing diamond earring, the one she’d given Petyr, and handed it to
her. “Your friend told me to give this to you before she left. She told me to
tell you that he loves you.”
Sansa was stunned. She offered her hands and held the earring so tight that it
hurt. “Thank you,” she muttered. The woman left, but Sansa kept her eyes fixed
on the blood-crusted diamond, on hers and Petyr’s unspoken promise. She’d
almost forgotten about it. Sansa smiled, swallowed the lump in her throat, and
turned to where Petyr lay still.
“You’re such an idiot,” she told him. Sansa unfastened the earring and pushed
it into his hospital gown, to make sure he wouldn’t lose it. She’d tell the
nurses to keep an eye out for it whenever they changed him. She refastened the
back and smoothed out the wrinkles from his shirt. “I can’t take it back,” she
whispered. “You’re not done fighting yet.”
Sansa stayed by Petyr’s side until she nearly fell over from fatigue, ragged
and broken, but still standing. The sun had risen by the time she unfolded the
cot. She pulled it as close to Petyr’s bedside as she could, planted a kiss to
his forehead, and settled down on the uncomfortable mattress to sleep for as
long as she was able.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Sansa woke to the sound of plastic clattering to the floor. She jolted upright
and turned around.
Petyr was half out of his hospital bed. He clutched his stomach and groaned.
“Petyr!” Sansa rushed from her cot and gently pushed him back. “You can’t move
much, okay? Just lay down, don’t hurt yourself.”
“Sansa,” he breathed, eyes half-closed. The anesthesia made him slow, his
speech slurred, but Sansa knew when he said her name. “Sansa. Sansa.”
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m right here.” She pushed the red button on the wall
to summon a nurse. Petyr reached to touch her face. Sansa leaned into his hand,
keeping it close with her own.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her. She could hear the longing in his voice, and
it made her smile. “Have I told you that today?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Shame on me.” His hand fell from her face to her hair, his other on her waist.
“Are you okay? No one's touched you, have they?”
Sansa didn’t know if he remembered the situation he’d left her in, or if the
anesthesia was talking for him. Either way, the answer was the same. “I’m
okay.”
“Good.” Petyr let her help him settle back into bed. Sansa took his hand and
held it tight. “No one touches my girl.”
The nurse came into the room. When she noticed that Petyr was awake, she had
Sansa help him drink water and feed him small spoonfuls of yogurt. He regained
consciousness slowly, starting with spiteful banter toward the nurse “invading
his privacy” and ending with rants about bad politics. He fell asleep again
when the next round of painkillers took effect. Sansa stayed beside him,
covering him up with a blanket and holding his hand. Every so often, she
prayed.
Olyvar and Mayana didn’t come back until noon. Mayana was thrilled to hear that
Petyr was doing well. She sat next to Sansa with her arm around her shoulders
while Olyvar stood by the window, waiting for Petyr to wake up again. Two hours
ticked by before Petyr opened his eyes. Sansa went to him instantly. He seemed
confused and disoriented, so she let him adjust to consciousness before saying
anything.
Petyr met her eyes. His heart rate spiked on the monitor. “Sansa,” he groaned,
trying to sit up. “Sansa, you—”
“Shh,” Sansa cooed, softly pushing on his chest to ease him down. “I’m here,
I’m right here.”
“Gregor,” he sputtered. “The Mountain, Tywin. Cersei said that—”
“I got away.” Sansa cupped his cheek. “He tried, but I fought him. I’m okay.
We’re all okay.”
Petyr sighed in deep relief. His head fell back to the pillow and he squeezed
her hand tightly. “I’m sorry. I underestimated them, Sansa, I—”
“Shh, please. I don’t want to talk about it right now. I just want things to be
calm.” Sansa smoothed his hair from his forehead. “We can talk about it when
you come home, okay?”
Petyr nodded. He squeezed her hand and kissed it.
“Good afternoon,” said Olyvar, almost coldly. “I can see that you didn’t die.”
“Did you expect me to?” Petyr asked.
“No. I just hope you learned something, is all.” Olyvar moved away from the
window to stand by Petyr’s side. “How do you feel?”
“Everything’s bearable when I’m laying still,” said Petyr. “If I move much,
it’s horrid.”
“The nurses will bring you painkillers,” Sansa said. “Don’t worry. This is a
good hospital. They’ll take care of you.”
Petyr rubbed the back of Sansa’s hand with his thumb. He wouldn’t let her go.
“How is the news?”
“A fucking wreck,” Mayana said. “Terrorism, conspiracy theories, all that
shit’s goin’ around. The Prime Minister is beyond pissed and Myrcella’s
devastated, so we’re trying to stay under the radar right now.”
“Myrcella," said Petyr, pausing for thought. “I’m not upset that Cersei is
dead, but Myrcella deserved better. As for Daenerys, she can chase after
someone else.” He looked up at Sansa, who smiled at him. “I have what I fought
for.”
“That might not be enough to stop Dany from throwing you in prison.” Mayana
folded her hands in her lap. “I managed to cheese my way into making her wait
until you’ve healed enough to talk. Our meeting with her is on the 28th.”
“Fine,” said Petyr.
“The doctor said you’ll be staying here for three days,” Olyvar stated. “After
that, you’ll be sent to a physical rehabilitation facility for roughly ten
days.”
“No I won’t,” Petyr protested. “I’m not leaving Sansa.”
“You don’t get to make that decision.”
Sansa, Mayana and Petyr stared at Olyvar and his boldness. “Excuse me?” Petyr
challenged.
“You hurt her. You got Ros killed.” Olyvar shoved his hands in his pockets. “As
Sansa’s unofficial psychologist, I think she needs time away from you to
consider her options of where to go from here. And you need time in solitude to
do the same.”
Sansa wanted to argue. The romantic in her couldn’t bear being apart from
Petyr, let alone leaving him in a hospital he hated, but those were mostly
foolish thoughts. He was still Littlefinger. She’d made a promise to herself
that there wasn’t room for him, and if she was with Petyr too much, she might
forget that promise.
Petyr sighed. “I’d fire Olyvar right now if I could. But as much as his plan
angers me, I understand the need for it.”
Mayana blinked. “You do?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I’ll call every day,” Sansa offered. “If you want me to.”
“You know I would.” Petyr squeezed her hand again.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “I know you hate hospitals. I don’t want
to make you stay in one.”
Petyr’s eyes softened. “Olyvar has a degree in psychology. If he says you need
time, I can’t argue, and even if I could I’m in poor shape to do it. As for the
hospital, I’ll survive.” He brushed his thumb along her chin. “But I will look
forward to those phone calls, sweetling. And when I’m back home, we’ll talk.”
Sansa nodded. She trusted the change in him, the one she saw in his eyes, and
hoped beyond hope that it was real.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

                                16 APRIL, 2017
Arya didn’t feel sixteen. It didn’t feel like a “golden birthday” either, but
that’s what Mayana said it was when she’d trudged into the kitchen that
morning. Mayana had cheered, put a birthday hat on Arya’s head and pushed her
to a plate of eggs machiavellian. Her favorite. “Sansa remembered what you
like,” said Mayana. “She made it an hour ago, but I can heat it up for you.”
“An hour ago?” asked Arya. “What time is it?”
“Noon,” said Sandor Clegane, leaning on the counter with a big cup of coffee.
He’d healed from his fight with Gregor exceptionally well. His bruises were
almost fading, and his concussion bothered him less than it used to. “You sleep
like a damn rock.”
“Yeah, well, I need it.” Arya stuck out her tongue at Sandor.
“Let me get you some juice.” Mayana moved to Sandor’s side of the kitchen to
reach up into the cabinets. She was tall, near six feet by Arya’s guess, but
Sandor was still taller. He grabbed a cup before she could reach it. “Are you
kidding? I’m not short.”
“I know. Just used to it.” Sandor handed her the cup. Mayana snatched it from
him, but when she turned away, she smirked.
“You’ve been sleeping a lot,” said Mayana, pouring some orange juice and
placing it next to Arya’s plate. “That’s okay, though. We all need our rest.”
“Thanks. I’ve been really tired lately.” Arya sat down at the island. “Jon and
I stayed up until four this morning playing Mortal Kombat.”
“Yeah,” groaned Sandor. “I heard you. Loud noises and laughter coming from your
room. Couldn’t fucking sleep.”
“I bet you’d like loud noises coming out of your room,” said Arya out the side
of her mouth, looking from him to Mayana. Sandor smacked the back of Arya’s
head. She whirled around to strike him back until the door opened, and Ghost
came rushing into the house.
Gendry entered the kitchen, panting, one of Ghost’s toys in his hand. The
canine ran up to Arya and wagged his tail. “Hi, boy!” cooed Arya when she pet
him. “You’re such a good boy! Yes you are!” Ghost barked cheerily at her
praise.
“Happy birthday,” said Gendry. “And nice hat.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you just wake up?”
“Yeah. Here, you want some?” Arya pointed to her plate. Gendry sat beside her
and eagerly stole the bacon, knowing she wouldn’t eat it. Arya looked around
and noted her siblings’ absence. “Where’s Jon and Sansa?”
“Getting ready,” said Mayana. “Jon’s so nervous. Poor kid. I think he might
barf.”
“So it’s really happening today?” Arya perked up, her stomach fluttering with
excitement. “You sure?”
“Really sure. The plane lands in…” Mayana checked the clock. “Two hours?”
“Ah! I’m so excited.” Arya clapped her hands and turned to Gendry. “Are you
gonna come with us?”
“Didn’t plan on it,” he said. “Seems like a family thing, you know.”
“You are family.” Arya took a long drink of orange juice to cover her smile.
“You should come with us.”
Gendry scratched his head. His expression was bashful. “I don’t know. What
about your brother?”
“He wouldn’t care,” said Arya. “Sansa would bring her half-dead rat with her if
she could.”
“Yeah,” Gendry argued, “but Sansa and Littlefinger are… you know. A thing.”
“Well yeah, but so are w—”
Arya bit her tongue. Gendry stared at her. Her stomach fluttered even more, as
if his eyes had something gross and magical about them.
“Oh damn,” Mayana cursed. She left the kitchen in a hurry.
“Will you come with us?” Arya asked, taking Gendry’s hand in hers. His skin was
warm. She felt like she was going to be sick when he brushed his thumb on her
knuckles, but it was a good kind of sickness, one that gave her the energy to
run miles.
Gendry laced his fingers with hers. “Yeah. I’ll go.”
They smiled at each other. Arya pulled her hand away to finish eating, swinging
her legs happily off the edge of the stool.
Two long hours later, Arya was dressed and ready to leave, standing with Gendry
and Sansa by the front door. Jon was pacing restlessly. His hands were clasped
behind his back and he sighed every so often. Arya would’ve laughed if she
didn’t pity him so much.
“Do I look alright?” asked Jon. “Be honest.”
Jon was wearing a button-up shirt, a knit cardigan and jeans. His tie wasn’t
straight and his bun still looked funny to her, but Arya gave her approval
anyway. “You look great,” she offered. “Why are you worrying so much?”
“It’s been so long. I don’t want her to be disappointed.”
“She will love you,” Sansa insisted. “It’s not like you’re making a first
impression.”
“You’ll leave an awful impression overall if you’re late.” Olyvar approached
the siblings from the living room and handed Jon his keys. “Treat my baby
nicely. If you get in a wreck, you’re dead to me.”
“Thank you, Olyvar. I mean it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Olyvar clapped Jon on the shoulder. “We look forward to
meeting the missus.”
Arya followed Jon outside to Olyvar’s Lexus. They all climbed in, even Ghost.
Jon grew progressively nervous as the drive went on, bouncing his leg at every
stoplight and chewing his lip. Arya reached behind the driver’s seat and rubbed
his shoulders to calm him down. By the time they arrived at the private section
of the airport, Jon had calmed. Or he’d gotten so nervous to the point where he
could fake it.
“Christ,” Jon cursed when the Lexus was parked. “I have to get out of the car.”
“Yes you do,” said Sansa. “Can’t greet your wife sitting here by yourself, can
you?”
Arya shook Jon’s shoulders. “Come on!” She threw open the door and hopped out
of the car, Ghost close behind. Arya took Gendry’s hand when he offered it to
her. She ran onto the private tarmac as far as she could, pointing to the
planes taking off and laughing when the wind took her breath away. Arya
couldn’t have been happier. Here with her family, waiting for the final member
to arrive. The one they’d been missing all along.
“There,” said Sansa, pointing to a silver jet that landed on the other side of
the airport. “That’s the one.”
“You sure?” asked Jon. Arya looked at him. Tears were welling in his eyes.
“It matches Petyr’s description, so it must be.” Sansa slipped her arm in Jon’s
and rested her head on his shoulder. Arya did the same on his other side,
making sure he felt surrounded with love.
The private jet pulled around the commercial lanes and over to the secluded
tarmac, coming to a stop. Arya stayed back with Gendry and Sansa as Jon ran
forward, wind blowing his hair every which way and batting it out of its bun.
Arya doubted that he cared much for his looks anymore.
The plane door opened. Stairs extended. Val ran to her husband, and him to her,
Ghost yipping all the way.
Arya smiled so wide that her cheeks hurt. She could hear Jon and Val sobbing
across the distance. They embraced, kissed over and over, and laughed when
Ghost stood on his hind legs to lick Val’s face and nearly knock her over.
Val ran to Arya and Sansa and hugged them both at once. “Alhamdulillah,” she
kept saying. “Alhamdulillah. You are both so beautiful! Look at you, so healthy
and happy. You’re safe, yes? You have food and things?”
“Yes,” chuckled Sansa. “We’re alright. What about you?”
“I’m perfect,” said Val, the personification of peace. “My world is whole
again.”
Arya looked over to Gendry. He was clapping for Jon and Val, beaming as wide as
she was. But when Arya looked at Sansa, she saw only bittersweet joy.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
The party at the manor celebrated both Val’s homecoming and Arya’s sixteenth
birthday. Arya had never seen so many smiles in one place. Everyone greeted Val
with warmth, plates of triple fudge cake were passed around and Jon couldn’t
seem to stop laughing. Arya opened her presents — presents! Clothes, a
skateboard, a better phone, video games and blue hair dye. Arya was so excited
that she begged Mayana to help her dye her hair right then. She mixed the dye
and treatment after Arya changed her clothes, and after a few hours, her hair
was once again its signature electric blue.
Though the guests were many, Petyr’s manor was big enough to house them all.
Mya’s whole family, Sandor, Mr. Luwin, Hot Pie and Lommy, Mayana, Olyvar,
Gendry, Arya, Sansa, Jon, and Val. The group sat around with wine and cake and
pizza — Arya’s dinner of choice — and shared their favorite memories of Arya,
from her work at the Brotherhood to her time at the manor, from her homeless
troll days all the way back to her golden childhood. Jon and Val told stories
of their time in Afghanistan. Everyone listened intently, even Mya’s children.
Arya was never one who enjoyed an overkill of socialization, but she felt
comfortable surrounded by the group of people who’d come to know her so dearly.
Nothing could replace her brothers or her parents, but being around friends
made the memory of home feel nearer.
Unlike Arya, Sansa was distracted throughout the party. She didn’t participate
much and barely ate the food she’d been served. She kept checking the time.
Arya knew what she was waiting for. As always, when nine o’clock came, Sansa’s
cell phone rang. She answered it quickly.
“Hi,” said Sansa, her face lighting up. Arya scowled.
“One hour,” Olyvar reminded her. Sansa nodded and left the living room without
a goodbye, climbing the stairs to talk to him. Petyr wasn’t even in the house
and he’d still found a way to make Arya mad.
“She’s so stupid,” blurted Arya when Sansa left. “Why can’t she just tell him
to get off some other way?”
“I doubt that’s what they’re doing,” said Mya. “He can barely walk right now.”
Arya almost said that she hoped he never walked again, but deep down she knew
that wasn’t right. Bran would be upset to hear her say something like that.
Instead, she pushed Littlefinger as far from her mind as she could and tried to
enjoy the night.
The party didn’t last much longer. About an hour later, Mya was corralling the
kids to bed and Val was yawning from jet lag. Everyone said their goodnights —
everyone except for Mayana and Olyvar, of course, who were tipsy and playing
darts in the library. They asked if Arya would join them. “Be there in a bit,”
she said. “I wanna get pajamas on.”
They wouldn’t notice her lie. Arya climbed up the stairs to find Sansa instead.
There was only one place she would be, and Arya found her there, curled up by
the window in Littlefinger’s room. She entered and closed the door behind her.
“You didn’t tell him that, did you?” Sansa asked into the phone, her free hand
twirling the end of her hair. Arya jumped up on the bed and stretched out. She
had the brief realization that nasty things had happened where she was laying,
and quickly scrambled off.
Sansa laughed at something Petyr said to her. Arya huffed and plopped down on
the sofa by the fireplace. I bet nasty things have happened here, too. She
wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“You should try getting along with people,” said Sansa. “It’s not impossible to
make friends if you try.” Moments later, she was laughing again. Arya groaned
in annoyance. Her leg began to twitch.
“Did you finish the book I sent you? Is the print big enough?” Another pause
and a girlish giggle. “We’ll have to get you some glasses when you’re home. But
tell me about the book, I want to hear your opinion.”
Does she even know I’m here? Arya thought, but if Sansa wasn’t aware of her
presence before, she would be now. A cooking timer began to buzz. Sansa got up
from her seat by the window and turned it off. “Sorry. That’s the timer.” She
sounded upset, but Arya didn't pity her. “I know. You’ll have to share your
thoughts with me tomorrow.” She sighed. “Okay. Goodnight, Petyr.” Sansa hung up
the phone.
“Finally,” Arya complained. She sat up on the couch, arms folded.
Sansa picked up the plastic timer and stared at it. “I hate this thing.”
“Why?”
“I don't like being told how long I can talk to him.” She set the timer back
down on Littlefinger's desk.
“You know why Olyvar does it, though.” Arya stood from the couch, arms still
crossed. Defensive. “You need time away from him so you can figure out what you
wanna do.”
“I already know what I want to do,” said Sansa. “Cutting off time with him
isn’t going to change my mind. But it’s only temporary, so…” Sansa looked to
the distance. Her eyes were sad. It made Arya more frustrated than she was
before.
“What if nobody wants you to choose him?” she blurted.
Sansa turned to her sister. “Excuse me?”
“He made you unhappy. If you hadn’t escaped Gregor when you did, Jon would’ve
been too late and you—”
“Stop,” ordered Sansa. But Arya continued, louder.
“You do this all the time. You did it for Joffrey too, remember? ‘But he’s a
prince, he’ll be nice to me soon, I’m supposed to be his queen and have his
babies.’”
“Arya—”
“You know how this works, right? How girls who've been hurt get in this cycle
of abuse over and over again because it’s all they know and no one helps them.
I don’t want that to happen to you, but it’s going to if you stay with that
pervert!” Arya jabbed her finger at Sansa’s phone. “It’s a pattern! First
Joffrey happened, then Ramsay came along and now—”
“Enough!” Sansa lunged forward so suddenly that Arya jerked away. Sansa never
raised her hand, never gave any notion of violence. But Arya would’ve preferred
a slap to the face over her sister’s tears.
“What’s going on in here?” asked Jon when he came into the room. He looked
between Sansa and Arya, turning on the youngest. “What did you say to her?”
“Why is it always my fault?” spat Arya. “Talk some sense into her, Jon! She’s
gonna go back to that lying arse, and then we’ll have to go through this all
over again!”
“Calm down,” urged Jon. He looked exhausted. Arya felt bad for dragging him
away from Val, but they had to intervene. “Do we have to do this, here? Today?”
“When can we? Littlefinger comes back in a few days, and by then it could be
too late.”
“Sansa said she was gonna give ‘im a chance,” said Jon. “That doesn’t mean
she’s gonna jump back into ‘is arms like nothin’ happened.”
“Don’t you hear her on the phone?” barked Arya. “She’s all happy and laughing
and stuff! She's making plans for when he gets back! He’s already got his slimy
grip on her again and—”
“Look at you.” Sansa’s fists and teeth were held tight. “Both of you, standing
there talking about me like I’m not in the room.”
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sansa, we didn’t—”
“Why can’t I make my own choices?” Sansa rubbed her arms, showing anxiety
whether she meant to or not. “Why is it so hard for you to accept what I want
just because you don’t want the same?”
“San—”
“I’m not finished yet.” She stepped closer to them, filled with anger. “Ever
since Petyr and I reunited, you’ve been trying to talk me out of love. Yes,
Petyr’s inappropriate and vocal and he’s done terrible things, but still I
chose to see the good in him. Why can’t you?”
“He sold you out,” Arya asserted. “He hurt you. That’s unforgivable.”
“But it worked, didn’t it?” Sansa held out her arms. “Didn’t it? Am I not here?
Roose and Cersei are dead, Tywin’s behind bars, you’re both here with me. Even
Val is here! Gendry and your friends, and Sandor, nobody told Petyr to let them
all into his home.”
“A few rights don’t correct the wrongs,” said Jon.
“I never said that they did! And I’m not trying to correct them, all I want is
to give him a chance!” Sansa was begging, her voice so broken that Arya
flinched. “I haven’t given up on him. Whether I stay by his side is not your
decision. I’m not going to change my mind just because loving Petyr doesn’t
agree with what you want for me.”
Jon had no response. Arya tried to think of something, but Sansa was speaking
again before she could counter her.
“And your comment about the cycle of abuse? Comparing Petyr to Joffrey and
Ramsay? You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve been in fights and
you’ve struggled to survive, and you’ve suffered, I know, but you’ve never been
through the things I went through. Do you think I would give Petyr a second
chance if I didn’t truly believe he could change?” Sansa began to cry. “Why
don’t you trust me?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” defended Arya. “I just—”
“You know what? No. You’ve said enough.” Sansa turned away from them and sat by
the window, knees curled up to her chest, eyes cast out to the pattering rain
on the window. “If neither of you will let me make my own choices, after
everything that’s happened to me, then you don’t care as much as you say you
do.”
Arya felt completely defeated. Like she’d fought Sansa in one of Jaqen’s cages,
and lost. Jon tapped her shoulder. “C’mon. We should go to bed.” He turned and
headed for the door. Arya wanted to follow him, but her feet stayed rooted to
the spot. She had more to say.
“I could’ve killed Petyr, you know.” Arya spoke with authority; she had the
comeback now. “I had the gun pointed right at his head. I wanted to kill him. I
would’ve lied and said it was Cersei.”
Sansa turned. Her eyes were wounded, horrified.
“Do you know why I didn’t?” Arya snapped. “Because of you. I looked at his
stupid face and I knew I couldn’t lie to you forever, because I know how you
feel about him.” She pointed to the center of her chest. “I saved
him. I dragged his bloody arse up off the ground when he couldn’t walk. I
helped Mayana shove him into that van and I kept his bleeding down on the ride
to the hospital. And I did that for you!” Sansa became a blur and Arya’s voice
broke. “You and Jon were the only things that kept me going after the crash!
Now I’m here, and I let your freak boyfriend live so you wouldn’t be hurt. So
don’t tell me I don’t care. Not ever.”
Arya stormed out without another word.
She slammed the door to her room and threw herself facedown on the bed,
screaming into a pillow. She hated Petyr Baelish, hated all he represented and
hated that Sansa loved him so much. She hated that she didn’t have her family
with her. Mum would’ve talked Sansa out of this, and Arya wanted her father’s
hugs. That was always how it worked when they fought; Mum would go for Sansa,
and Father for her. But that wasn’t the way of the world anymore. Wishing for
things wouldn’t make them happen.
Someone knocked on her door. “Go away, Jon,” she groaned, but the door opened
anyway. Arya pushed up from the bed and rounded on him. “I told you to—”
Gendry stood in the doorway with two cups of tea. “I, uh. I heard shoutin’, so
I thought you’d want to talk.”
Arya was still angry, but Gendry’s presence took off a considerable edge. She
accepted the drink and let him sit next to her while she ranted about Sansa and
Petyr and her own helplessness. When she was done, they laid back on her bed
and played “I Spy” until they fell asleep, side by side.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                                17 APRIL, 2017
Arya woke in an empty bed, facedown and drooling. “Ew,” she said, wiping her
mouth. I must’ve been tired.She sat up. Gendry had left, but he’d put a blanket
over her before doing so. She smiled to herself before kicking it off.
The fight with Sansa was fresh on Arya’s mind when she stepped into a morning
shower. She washed her face and scrubbed her skin, being careful with her
freshly-dyed hair, ignoring how the color bled into the base of the tub. She
would clean it later. She didn’t have the energy just then.
Arya dressed herself and dried her hair. She sat on her bed and surrendered to
memory, the joy of finding Jon alive, the warmth of hugging Sansa again after
being apart for so long. Those were good feelings, weren’t they? Why did they
feel so distant?
Arya pulled her old journal from her backpack. The one she’d kept as a homeless
girl. It’d been months since she’d written an entry, since Hanukkah, since
Varys had taken them in. She stared blankly at the colorless cover before
flipping through her entries. Each one had the number of days since her
father’s death listed in the upper corner, followed by a short statement of the
day’s events, and every entry had the same two words: still alive. Arya didn’t
know why she’d stopped writing. Was it because she’d been promised safety?
Found family? Found something more? She traced her fingers over her written
words, trying to figure how the fire in her had changed.
A knock came at the door. “Come in,” she said, not bothering to see who was
there.
The person who knocked entered and closed the door. Arya lifted her head. Sansa
was holding a tray of breakfast, two plates of pancakes and cups of milk.
Neither sister said anything. Sansa moved to Arya’s bed and sat next to her
legs, placing the tray down beside her. “I brought breakfast,” she said shyly.
“I know you like pancakes.”
Arya felt like the worst sister in the world. She didn’t apologize, though. Not
yet. “Thanks.”
Sansa handed her a plate and a glass of milk. The sisters ate together in
silence, both locked away in their own minds, reflecting on everything that had
happened. Halfway through the meal, Arya set down her fork. “Sansa?”
“No,” said her sister. “Can I go first?”
“Okay.” Arya put her plate aside to listen.
“I know you’re worried about me. And I appreciate that, I do.” Sansa bit her
lip as she worked out her words. “You’re trying to help. You care. I’m sorry
that I said you don’t, I was just angry.”
“I’m sorry I brought up Ramsay,” said Arya in return. “I should never throw him
in your face like that.”
“It’s okay.” Arya knew it wasn’t, but Sansa had forgiven her. “I know you mean
well. But I love Petyr. What he did to me was painful, so painful that I can’t
even bring it to words, but… I’m not angry. I think that’s because I know it
came from a part of him that had never been challenged before, never had a
pressure point.”
Arya wanted to tell Sansa that his “different side” was no excuse, but she
could tell that Sansa wasn’t finished yet.
“I’m not saying that I’m running back into his arms,” said Sansa. “I never said
that. And he knows that, I think. I just want to give him another chance. When
he gets home, I’m going to talk to him about what happened and make a choice
then. I don’t want to do this fighting anymore.” There were tears in Sansa’s
eyes. “I want going to the store and petting Ghost to be the highlights of my
day. I want to go to sleep and not worry about nightmares, about who’s going to
die or what I’m gonna see on the news. I want to be happy, Arya. I want it so
bad that I feel broken without it.” Sansa reached for Arya’s hand and squeezed
it, sniffling. She paused to collect herself before she continued. “If Petyr
wants to keep being Littlefinger, then I’ll leave with you and Jon for
Scotland. But if he wants to put this all behind him, then he becomes a part of
our family. You don’t have to stay by his side if you don’t want to, but I’m
begging you, please,” she cried. “Please stay by mine.”
An easier request could not have been made. Hot tears spilled down Arya’s
cheeks as she clutched Sansa’s hand. “I'm not going anywhere.”
Sansa smiled, and sobbed. Arya crawled forward and embraced her sister tightly.
They wept and held each other, connecting as if for the first time on a basis
of unconditional trust. Arya could put her faith in Sansa’s judgment; she owed
her that much.
Arya’s eyes shot open. She may have stopped writing in her journal, but that
didn’t mean she’d lost the hard will that had filled it with words. The fire in
her had changed. With its light, she knew the way forward at last.
Arya leapt up from the bed. She pulled an object from her backpack and grabbed
Sansa’s hand. “Come on.”
“Why?” asked Sansa, following her. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Arya pulled Sansa downstairs to find a hammer and nail. She walked into Petyr’s
office and rummaged through drawers, much to Sansa’s protest, but before long
she found what she needed. All that was left was Jon. They found their brother
playing with Lothor’s daughter and Val in the back gardens, but Arya didn’t
stop to ask him to join them. She didn’t say anything. She let go of Sansa’s
hand to grab Jon’s and drag him away. He stuttered words of confusion, offering
apologies to his wife, but he didn’t fight as Arya led her siblings through the
house, the memories, to the manor’s front door.
Arya unwrapped the little object from a piece of cloth. “This was Mr. Luwin’s
mezuzahthat he gave me,” she explained, “before we left his house during
Hanukkah. He gave it to me so I would always have a place to call home.” She
looked around the manor’s interior, the walls, the floors, the luxury, but none
of it really mattered. With Jon and Sansa, there could be three sleeping bags
under a bridge and it would still be home to her. “We should hang it here.”
“We might not be here for long,” said Jon.
“I know. But for now, it’s where we’re at. And home is where the three of us
are. Together.” Arya felt their father’s spirit making her strong. “Can we say
the words?”
Sansa wiped her tears. “I think that’s a perfect idea.”
Together, the three Starks recited the Hebrew blessing like their father had
taught them. When they were done, Arya stood on the tips of her toes and hung
the mezuzah on the right side of the front doorway. Jon wrapped his arms around
his sisters as they admired the symbol of home, and together, holding each
other close, they walked back inside.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

                                18 APRIL, 2017
“You got a light?”
Petyr looked up from his reading. One could barely call it reading if they knew
he could hardly see the words, but Sansa had sent him a book — Wuthering
Heights, to be exact — and wanted his thoughts. He’d promised her he’d try. But
God, had his vision slipped.
“What do you want a light for?” asked Petyr. Grisel, an old woman in the rehab
center for a hip replacement, sat beside him on the bench. Petyr was outside in
the garden after curfew, but he’d taught the nurses early on that he would have
his smoke before bed. “You’re not having any more of my menthols. Buy your
own.”
“With what money?” Grisel held out her wrinkled hand. “Pass one over, boy.”
Petyr sighed. He closed Sansa’s book, dug into his pocket and retrieved his
lighter and two cigarettes. He passed one to Grisel and lit it for her before
lighting his own. The two patients breathed in and exhaled smoke that lingered
in the night air.
“You’re getting out tomorrow,” said Grisel.
“I am.”
“I’m gonna miss having someone intelligent to talk to.”
Petyr grinned. He liked a good compliment. “You flatter me.”
“You have interesting stories.” Grisel coughed up smoke. “What was the one
about Spain again? With the married politician your friends slept with.”
“Olyvar and Mayana,” said Petyr. “They fucked a senator. Would have caused a
political crisis if the wrong people found out.”
Grisel cackled. “That’s one I’ll remember till the day I die,” she said. “Won’t
be too long from now, I imagine.”
Petyr scoffed. “You’re such a morbid woman. Talk about something happier.”
“Like what? Not all of us have a perky-titted ginger waiting for us when we get
out of here.”
“No, I guess not.” Petyr found himself thinking of Sansa’s breasts, not for the
first time since his admittance to the facility. “I’d let them take my legs if
I could touch her right now.”
Grisel leaned in. “What would you do first?”
Petyr saw the twinkle in her eye, reflecting his own. He faced her with a
perverse grin. “I’d start with her collarbones. Sansa has beautiful
collarbones. I’d kiss them slow, make her moan a little bit, and work my way
down to her—”
“Hey!” shouted another elderly patient. “Shut yer mouths! Not everyone wants to
hear that shite!”
“Piss off,” Grisel called back. “Let the boy love sex while he’s still young.”
Petyr enjoyed Grisel’s vulgarity, as well her odd maternal side. She was always
calling him “boy” and “kid” and “young lad.” He was 43, his life half over, but
Grisel never seemed to care. She was nearing 80. To her, he was a fountain of
youth.
“I like the way you think, Grisel.” Petyr blew smoke from his lips. “I will
cherish your memory when I’m gone from this place, and never see you again.”
Grisel lifted her cigarette. “I’d drink to that.”
The door opened behind them. Petyr was content to smoke and ignore everyone
until he heard the voice of the newcomer. “I believe hell is freezing before my
very eyes,” said Varys. “Petyr Baelish, making friends.”
Petyr let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Do you hear that, Grisel? There’s a
spider in the garden.”
“A spider?” Grisel didn’t realize he was talking about Varys until the bald man
stood before them. “Oh! A friend of yours. Does he have stories too?”
“Yes, but they’re not as good as mine.” Petyr blew smoke in Varys’s direction.
“He doesn’t have a cock.”
“No cock?” Grisel eyed Varys. “Where did it go? Have you lost it?”
Petyr didn’t elaborate. He was low, but not so low as to out men like Varys.
Not in public, anyway. “Why are you here?”
“Can’t I visit my oldest friend?” Varys asked, faking innocence. “I even
brought you a present.”
“Unless it’s Sansa so I can kiss her or Olyvar so I can hit him, I’m not
interested.” Petyr leaned back on the bench. “Goodnight, Varys.”
“This particular present comes from a mutual ally. A certain woman who lives in
Paris, whom you are very closely acquainted with.”
Petyr furrowed his brow. Margaery. He glared up at Varys, reading him for a lie
before resigning. “Make it quick,” he said. “I have a phone call to make at
nine.”
“That’s more than enough time.”
Petyr reached for his cane. Twisting his body hurt more than he liked to admit,
but he was no stranger to pain. He positioned himself on the edge of the bench
and prepared to stand.
“Should I call for a nurse?” asked Varys.
“No. I’ve got it.” Petyr didn’t let anyone help him, not even the staff who
were paid to do so. He planted his cane on the ground and slowly pushed himself
to a standing position. “Finish this,” he told Grisel, handing her his half-
finished cigarette. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” she replied cheerily. “G’night, lad.”
Petyr was slow-moving. It was a struggle to walk more than fifty steps without
his new knee bothering him or his wounds making him sore. Varys walked by his
side. He didn’t mock Petyr for his speed or his struggles; he merely stayed
quiet until they reached Petyr’s room. Petyr flipped on the lights when he
entered. He went to the edge of his bed, set the cane aside, and lowered
himself down on the mattress.
“Ah,” groaned Petyr when he was sitting again. He carefully laid back on his
pillow and straightened his left leg, trying to ignore how nervous and nauseous
being in a hospital bed made him feel. Old memories.
Varys closed the door to Petyr’s room. “Seems like a cozy place,” he said,
motioning to the colorless walls and single painting of a beach in France.
“It’s a rich facility, so I’ve heard.”
“Yes,” said Petyr sarcastically. “It’s wonderful. It’ll be a shame to return to
my prettier, much more comfortable home.”
“It can’t be all that bad. Is the medication working, at least?”
“For the pain, yes. The doctors also diagnosed me with insomnia and insist I
take sleeping pills every night.” Petyr scoffed. “I haven’t slept this much
since I was a boy.”
Varys didn’t respond to that. He kept his hands behind his back and moved to
the window, looking out to the gardens where they’d just been. Grisel waved at
them. He waved back. “I spoke with Margaery,” Varys said.
“And?”
From his coat, Varys pulled a piece of paper and crossed the room to hand it to
Petyr. “A plane ticket for you,” he said. “To Marseilles.”
Petyr took the ticket and read the date. Scheduled two weeks from today, single
passenger. One-way.
“There’s a house there,” said Varys. “Margaery is willing to sell it to you. A
pretty little villa, on the beach near town. The sea breeze is lovely. The
townsfolk don’t ask questions, either. You should be relatively at peace.”
Petyr glared up at Varys, insulted. “Who do you take me for?”
“A smart man.”
“Clearly not.” He took the ticket and tore it in half. “Margaery’s grandmother
nearly got me killed. Why would she care about where I retire, if I retire?
Does she think I would leave Sansa so easily?”
“Margaery and I purchased the ticket and made all the arrangements on your
behalf,” said Varys. “Out of mutual respect for—”
“Fuck Marseilles.” Petyr threw the remnants of the plane ticket in the rubbish
bin by his bed. “You can’t cart me off like a cow.”
Varys’s calm patience agitated Petyr even more. “Now you’re just being
stubborn.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Petyr insisted. “Tell me, Varys. Did you
know that Olenna was going to betray me?”
Varys raised his brow. “Yes. In fact, it was my idea. You betrayed Sansa Stark
and broke your own contract that you made the rest of us sign. Why should any
of us have been loyal to you?”
“Be honest,” spat Petyr. “You were never loyal. You could have gotten me
killed.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. When have a few bullets ever stopped Littlefinger?”
Petyr shook his head. “It won’t be bullets that stop me this time. This could
ruin me.” He gestured vaguely. “All of me.”
Varys pulled up a chair and sat by Petyr’s bedside, folding his hands in his
lap. “For what it’s worth, every game comes to an end. There’s no shame in
bowing out.”
“Not in Marseilles,” said Petyr. He cleared his throat. “Has Sansa talked to
you?”
“Not about you, no. But Arya and Jon have expressed… concern.”
Petyr laughed bitterly.
“They are worried for their sister’s happiness.”
“And you’re here to convince me to leave,” said Petyr. “How convenient for you.
Let me deal with Cersei, Tywin and Roose Bolton, and dethrone me afterward. All
your enemies in one fell swoop.”
“Contrary to popular belief, I think quite highly of you. Who else would I
enjoy pestering?”
“Words,” Petyr replied. “You’re good with them. But that doesn’t mean what I
said isn’t the truth. You and the Starks want me gone. I’ve no intention of
leaving.”
“That’s your decision,” said Varys. “But if you’re going to talk about truth,
perhaps I can educate you on what the real truth is.” Varys straightened his
back, expression stern, like he was scolding Petyr for bad behavior. “That girl
loves you. As a concerned party, I think it’s best that you keep her heart in
mind before you make any permanent plans.”
Petyr scowled. He didn’t need life advice from someone who’d condemned him to
death. “Since when are you so keen on protecting her?” asked Petyr. “You don’t
have a say in what she wants.”
“Neither do you.”
“Mr. Baelish?” came a call at the door. A nurse.
“Come in,” Petyr said. He checked his watch: 8:57. The nurse handed him a
cordless phone, asked if he needed anything, and left when he declined her.
“What is the phone for?” asked Varys.
“Do yourself a favor and get the fuck out of my room,” Petyr spat. “I’m going
to talk to my girl. Make sure you’re gone by the time I dial her number, or
I’ll have security escort you out.”
Varys pushed out a long sigh. He left without another word.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                                19 APRIL, 2017
Petyr’s release day had finally come. He’d waited long enough to be freed from
this godforsaken place, from uncomfortable feelings of stress and fear.
Memories of waking up to Lysa beside him. Petyr washed the thoughts away with a
chair-assisted shower and dressed himself despite the pain. He refused to let
the nurses help him. Being physically helpless was humiliating enough on its
own.
It was difficult to stay bitter when he was only hours away from seeing Sansa.
She was all Petyr could think about. Since the day they met, he’d never been
separated from her for so long, and not even rehabilitation could purge his
addiction to her.
Grisel was waiting for him at breakfast. Petyr hobbled his way into the
cafeteria, already hurting from getting dressed but too proud to say so. He
slowly sat down in a chair across from the old woman and winced, not moving
until he felt good enough to do so.
“You alright?” Grisel asked. “You look like you’re having a pretty hard time.”
“I’m fine,” said Petyr. He faked a smile to a nurse who was eyeing him with
concern. “Don’t draw attention to it.”
“You shouldn’t leave today if you can barely stand and sit.”
Petyr glared at Grisel. She dropped the subject entirely. An assistant served
him a plate of french toast — again he heard Ros’s laughter — and a glass of
milk. He thanked her before she left them.
Petyr and Grisel ate and chatted about different things, from politics to the
weather to how they’d slept that night. Staff took their plates away when they
were finished eating. He appreciated Grisel’s company, but the conversation was
hardly fulfilling. The thought of Sansa left him distracted.
“So,” said Grisel. “You ready to see this girl of yours?”
“Beyond ready,” grumbled Petyr. “Ready to leave this filthy place.”
“It could be worse. Could be a nursing home.”
The thought made him shudder. “I’d rather Sansa smother me with a pillow than
wind up in one of those.”
Grisel chuckled. “You’re still young. When is she gonna be here?”
“Noon.” Petyr anxiously checked his watch: 11:31. He rubbed the stubble on his
cheeks, wishing he’d had the energy to stand and shave. “I should start getting
ready.”
“So this is goodbye, then?”
Petyr blinked. Grisel was smiling, as if she’d actually miss him when he was
gone. “I suppose it is.”
“Can I ask you something before you go?” Grisel leaned forward over the table.
“Real quick.”
“Go on.”
“If you don’t want to die in some nursing home, where do you wanna go?” Grisel
shrugged. “I’m old. I don’t got much time left, but you’ve got a while to
decide. Where do you want to be when you die?”
Petyr blinked. He didn’t have an answer; he was always more concerned with life
than death. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“You should.” Grisel motioned to the cafeteria around them. “Most of us here
are war veterans, old people or unfortunate souls. In here, you’re young. Rich.
Full of life and promise. But out there, in the real world?” She pointed to the
door. “It’s anybody’s guess. Pick a spot where you want to die, find a list of
things you want done by then, and aim for it.”
“Aim for it?” Petyr repeated.
“Yes. Aim with your best shot.”
“Hm.” He stroked his beard. “And what about you? Where do you want to die?”
“In my husband’s arms,” she said wistfully. “My children waiting just outside,
playin’ with my grandbabies in the yard. A hot meal on the table to feed them.
Could be raining, could be sunny, I don’t care. But if I die with my happy
family around me, I’ll be alright.”
Petyr couldn’t picture it. Grisel had never talked about a husband before. She
had no children, no family. She only wanted cigarettes and filthy stories about
Sansa. He quirked his brow at her. After a few seconds, Grisel burst into loud,
impolite laughter. “Who am I kidding!” she cackled. “There’s no happy ending
for people like us.”
“You’re an interesting woman, Grisel,” said Petyr with a grin. But the image
she’d given him was haunting somehow.
“Anyway,” she continued, “that’s my advice to you. From one fucked up person to
another.” Grisel reached across the table and touched his hand. “It was good to
meet you, Petyr. Good luck.”
“And to you.” Petyr shook her hand. He took his cane, pushed himself up, and
left the cafeteria more confused than he was before.
When Petyr returned to his room, a nurse was already packing his things. He
hadn’t brought much to the facility, just some clothes and books. A wheelchair
sat in the center of the room. “Mr. Baelish,” said the woman with a smile. “You
look nice! Are you ready to check out?”
“More than ready,” he replied. He winced from his aching wounds; he’d been
standing for too long.
“Here. Come sit in the chair, Mr. Baelish. I’ll give you your last dose of
medicine.”
“No,” Petyr protested, leaning heavily on his cane. “I’m not sitting in that
thing.”
“It’s protocol,” said the nurse. “Everyone has to sit in a wheelchair on their
way out. I know it might not make much sense, but—”
“I said no.” Petyr ground his teeth. He lifted his hand to hold his stomach.
The nurse sighed. “I’m sorry, but legally we can’t have you—”
“Just forget it,” he spat. He would fall over if he didn’t sit down. Petyr
refused to let the nurse help him into the wheelchair, and bending was almost
unbearable, but he managed. Sitting down relieved some of the pain. He draped
his cane across his lap and accepted the final dose of medication gratefully,
leaning his head back to swallow it dry.
The nurse wheeled him out into the hallway. Petyr could suffer embarrassment
for a short while. It wasn’t like these people would ever see him again,
anyway.
Petyr tried to hold his dignity together, but the closer he got to the facility
entrance, the more nervous he felt. Would Sansa come to pick him up? She’d said
she would, but Petyr had the sudden realization that she didn’t owe him
anything. Sansa could abandon him and disappear entirely. No matter what
Littlefinger might think, Petyr would know he deserved it.
The nurse pushed his chair around the corner. Petyr saw her there, Sansa, his
Sansa, going over paperwork with the doctor. She was ready for spring in a blue
dress with white patterned flowers, and a cardigan of the same length. He felt
like a fool for doubting her.
Sansa turned around. She smiled when she saw him. For a moment, Petyr had some
idea of the kind of death Grisel was talking about.
The doctor said some final words to Sansa about Petyr’s care, but he didn’t
hear them. He was focused on her eyes, her Irish hair, her mouth when she
spoke. Petyr didn’t come out of his trance until the doctor and the nurse had
left. Did they say goodbye to him? He couldn’t remember.
“Hi,” said Sansa shyly, when it was just the two of them.
Petyr didn’t respond. He reached out and kissed her hand.
With help from Sansa, Petyr stood with his cane and walked out of the facility.
The air was fresh with the smell of spring rain and budding flowers, new
beginnings. Sansa helped him across the car park while holding his small bag of
belongings. Thankfully, the distance from the facility’s entrance to his
Bentley wasn’t a long one.
“My car,” Petyr said in recognition. “I thought it would’ve been burned in the
fire.”
“One of the Spanish men drove it to the hospital after everything happened,”
said Sansa. “Would’ve been bad to find your car at the scene of a crime,
wouldn’t it?”
“Perhaps, yes.”
Sansa placed his things on the backseat. She moved to open the passenger door,
but Petyr reached for her arm to stop her. Sansa blinked. “Humor me,” he said.
Sansa paused. Petyr watched her eyes melt when he caressed her cheek. He leaned
forward, brushing his nose against hers. His skin remembered her softness, the
way his chest felt when their foreheads touched, the greed of a man holding a
treasure he didn’t deserve.
Petyr leaned down and pressed a kiss to her collarbone. Just one.
The drive back to the manor went too quickly. Petyr wanted privacy with Sansa.
He wanted to talk to her, hold her, hear her laugh, hear her cry. He kept hold
of her hand through the ride, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be.
Mayana let out a happy cry when Petyr walked through the door. She threw her
arms around him so fast that he had to warn her to be gentle, and Olyvar
cracked jokes about Petyr’s cane. They were all there: Lothor and his family,
Sandor Clegane, Val, and Arya’s homeless friends. All present for the Starks
themselves, of course. Not for him. But it was pleasant to see such a large
group enjoying the home he was fond of.
Petyr was too tired to walk upstairs to his room, so he sat in the living room
to rest. Sansa and Mya were busy cooking. Lothor, Jon and everyone else were
playing football outside. Petyr stayed on the couch by the fireplace, telling
Mayana and Olyvar about his rehabilitation and physical therapy, about his
diagnoses and Grisel and the irritating nursing staff. After a quarter hour,
Mya announced that lunch was finally served. Everyone went to the kitchen for
the meal. Petyr, not wanting to be alone, walked as best as he could down the
hallway to follow them.
He pushed open the door. Everyone was there, the entire household, grabbing
plates and talking and laughing. Sandor and Mayana poured drinks. Sansa and Mya
cut up sandwiches for the little ones. Arya and her friends were teaching the
dog a new trick, Jon and his wife teased Olyvar for his windswept hair, and the
old man was sitting alone in the corner, smiling over them all.
I don’t belong here, Petyr realized. When had he ever felt unworthy of
anything? He always took what he wanted and gave no apology, but these happy
faces under his roof made him feel out of place.
“You gonna join us, Pete?” asked Mayana. Everyone fell quiet when she pointed
him out.
With a shaking sigh, Petyr shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” He turned from the
kitchen and left.
Petyr had never seen so much joy in one place. Even when his three companions
would drink or go out, they were never happy, tangled in some extortion plot or
scandal a day later. Petyr didn’t seem to recognize happiness. The people in
his kitchen were at peace in each other’s company, carefree, and it was foreign
to him.
Petyr leaned on the rail and heaved himself up the first few stairs. His body
ached in complaint. Before he made it halfway, he felt a hand at his back,
looping around him to help him steady.
Sansa frowned when he looked at her. “You need help.”
Petyr didn’t fight; he was grateful just to be close to her. He leaned on Sansa
as she helped him climb the steps, and walked into his bedroom at last. Sansa
had been sleeping here. A glass of water sat on the nightstand and the bed
wasn’t made. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, kicked off his shoes and
let Sansa help him settle in, putting pillows behind his back. “There,” she
said when he was comfortable. “How’s that?”
“Good,” said Petyr. Lay with me.
Sansa half-smiled. “I’m going to eat now, but I’ll come up after.”
She turned. Sansa hadn’t made it to the door before he called out to her.
“Sansa,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to wait. Please.”
Sansa knew his meaning. She chewed her lip in thought. For a moment Petyr
thought she would leave, but she crossed the room and returned to him, pulling
up an ottoman to sit at his bedside. “Let’s talk, then.”
Anxiety gnawed at Petyr’s confidence. He wished he could stand and hold her,
assure her, but he’d moved too much already and his body was sore. Helpless.
“Why… why did you give me to…” Sansa didn’t have to finish her sentence. Petyr
had answered Mayana when she’d asked the same thing, but telling Sansa to her
face was impossible.
“I told you about needing Lannister and Bolton loyalty,” said Petyr. His mouth
was dry. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”
Sansa didn’t look convinced. She trembled when she sighed. “Gregor Clegane
almost raped me.”
“I know.”
“No you don’t,” she snapped. “He had me on my back, Petyr, he was so close. It
would’ve happened if I hadn’t escaped on my own. Jon and Lothor were too late.
You were too late.”
Petyr was speechless. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No apology
would be enough.
“I cried for so long in that cell. I felt like you’d abandoned me, like Ramsay
had come all over again. He was everywhere. Haunting me.” Sansa shivered and
held herself. “But I can’t — I can’t blame you for Gregor’s actions. You made a
mistake and you hurt me, but you were right in the end. Cersei and Roose are
dead, Tywin will go to prison, Jon and Arya are safe. Everything you promised
came true.”
“No,” he rasped. “It wasn’t worth it. I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so sorry.” He
watched her fidget nervously. Every move was a nail in his hands. “If there is
anything in my power to undo what was done, say the word. Anything at all.”
To Petyr’s surprise, a tear fell down her face. Sansa whimpered and it broke
him. “Falling in love is so scary,” she admitted. “Letting someone in as deep
as you are, to see everything I have behind me. Who else would want to do that?
Who else could ever know what scares me, what touches I like, how to hold me
when I have a nightmare? Even if there is someone crazy enough to want to, I
could never trust anyone the way I trusted you.” Sansa wiped her tears with her
wrists, never looking at him. “I should hate you. No one understands it, I
don’t either. But I don’t want to lose you, Petyr. Not ever.”
Sansa’s devotion crushed him as equally as his shame. Crushed him, unmade him,
leaving him splintered. “You will lose me someday,” he said. “I’m much older
than you. I’ll turn 80 the year you turn 55. Time will take its course.”
“I never cared about your age. It's just a number.”
“Will you still be saying that when I can barely get out of bed?”
“You can barely get out of bed now,” she countered.
Petyr sighed. “That’s not the same.”
Sansa’s eyes flashed with anger. “How could you think that after everything
we’ve been through I would change my mind because you’re too old? Do you—” Her
words caught in her throat. “Do you really think that low of me?”
“No,” he said softly, carefully. “I want you to be aware of what you’re asking
for.”
“I am aware. I’ve been aware. I made you dinner on your 43rd birthday without
hesitation, if you remember.”
“Sansa—”
“You’re trying to open my eyes to a truth I already know.” Sansa’s insistence
fell to tenderness. “Your age doesn’t bother me. It’s Littlefinger that bothers
me. Age, the past, our history, none of it matters. If you can put your mask
aside, I’ll take you as you are. Now and always.”
Petyr wanted to reprimand her, to tell her she was wrong. But her words spoke
to him across decades, to a child who’d ached to hear them. He cleared his
throat. Clenched his fists, his jaw. Sansa was watching him, worried, but her
worry turned to confusion when he gave her a command. “Bottom drawer,” Petyr
said. “The bottom drawer of my nightstand. There’s a box.” He ground his teeth.
“I want you to find it.”
Sansa looked down at the drawer in question. She opened it, fishing through
journals and year-old paperwork until she found the item in question. Petyr
didn’t look at Sansa, but he could feel her eyes on him when she turned her
head.
“I did a lot of thinking in that godforsaken facility,” said Petyr, staring at
his blanket. He sighed. Shifted uncomfortably. What were the right words?
“Switzerland is beautiful this time of year. The Fingers are dull, but with our
money combined, we could make something of it. Build a town. Support local
farmers, bring in trade and business. Build roads. Cell towers. Make Lucerne
and the Fingers more mutually accessible to each other. My family estate isn’t
much, but we could tear it down and build a new one. Something bigger, better.
Something we like.”
He heard her crying again. Petyr still couldn’t look at her, and he didn’t know
why. His throat felt very tight.
“What about Littlefinger?” Sansa asked.
“Mayana will take over. I’ll help her whenever she needs me. She’s been ready
for this for a long time, but I haven’t been.” Petyr looked at Sansa’s shaking
hands. “I am now.”
Sansa wipe tears from her cheeks. “How can I know you really mean it? How do I
know you won’t change your mind?”
Petyr couldn’t avoid her forever. He met Sansa’s gaze. Her fear showed so
strongly that it pained him, but he was determined to soothe her. “I’ve been
devoted to myself for a long time,” he said gently, “and I was satisfied with
that. But I was never happy. With you, I could be. This is how I can prove my
devotion.” Petyr cleared his raw throat. “I could never love anything as madly
as I love you.”
Sansa’s giggle broke into a sob. She covered her mouth to hide it, looking down
to the small box in her hand. She hadn’t opened it yet. Petyr pushed himself
upright. Sansa tried to stop him, but Petyr waved her away, sitting up to face
her fully.
“Sansa.”
“Wait, wait, before you ask.” Sansa pressed a hand to his chest. “What about
Jon and Arya?”
“They can come if they wish,” said Petyr. “But Arya can’t live with us. She can
consider that repayment for almost killing me.”
Sansa chuckled before taking a moment to process. She looked at the box again,
rolling it over in her palm. “You know what I want, don’t you? It’s not just
about being safe. It’s more than that.” She sighed. “I know you don’t like
children…”
“You want a family,” he said.
“I always have. Mum and Father inspired me. They were such good parents. I want
to make them proud.”
“I don’t hate children,” Petyr clarified. “But you know me. I would be a
terrible father.”
“In a few years, that might not be true.” Sansa sniffled. “I don’t know. It’s
just what I want…”
Gone were the days where he disappointed her. Unable to keep to himself, Petyr
traced her jawline with his thumb. “Don’t let my disdain for Lothor’s kids make
you worry, Sansa. If a family is what you want, I will adapt.” Petyr lifted her
chin. “I told you that whatever was in my power, I would do to help you. You
are my cause.”
“I appreciate that,” said Sansa, “but that’s not how this works.” She took his
hand from her chin and held it tight. “You have to stop seeing me as something
to take care of. We’re equal, Petyr. I provide for you as much as you provide
for me.”
Petyr furrowed his brow. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“It should be. It needs to be.” She kissed his knuckles. “If you want to love
me, you have to be vulnerable. We need to take care of each other.”
Petyr had promised her everything. Already he was being tested. Knowing it
would take time to unlearn decades of brokenness, he offered what he could;
“I’ll work on it.”
Sansa smiled. She leaned forward to press her forehead against his. “Together
is the only way we move forward.”
Aim for it,Grisel had said. “Together.”
Petyr took the box from Sansa’s hand and pulled it open. The ring hadn't moved
from where it’d been left, an antique oval diamond with smaller diamonds around
the perimeter. “This was my mother’s,” he said, pulling the ring from its
place. “Now it belongs to you.” Petyr held her left hand delicately and slipped
the ring on her finger. A perfect fit.
Sansa sobbed only a moment before wrapping her arms around him, kissing him
fervently, a kiss he returned with gratitude. They didn’t stop when Petyr
settled carefully back into bed, when Sansa straddled him, when he held her so
close that it became hard to breathe. Their lips stayed locked between smiles.
He kissed her tears and she kissed his. Petyr wasn’t certain what the near
future held, but he felt he could conquer any obstacle. There was only one
truth that mattered: Petyr would devote himself to Sansa for the rest of his
days, no matter how long that may be.
Chapter End Notes
     DON'T LOOK AT ME I'M CRYING
***** Warriors *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
              [all night; beyoncé] ◆ [the_tower;_ramin_djawadi]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                                28 APRIL, 2017
With time, husband and wife to-be settled into a daily routine. Wake at eight
for antibiotics and medicine, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, wake Arya.
Brief Mayana and Olyvar on their tasks. Walk Ghost. Lunch. Physical therapy,
and the rest of the day was theirs. Petyr and Sansa spent every waking and
sleeping moment within reach of one another to rebuild what was broken. They
started with their friendship, which had never died at all, and built upward.
He surprised her with a candlelit dinner in the garden. She massaged his back
when he was sore from recovery. They exchanged their favorite books and movies,
and together they discovered a mutual love of birdwatching.
It had become clear to Sansa from the moment he’d given her his mother’s ring;
Petyr Baelish was a changed man.
The healing process for the rest of the group was just as sweetly slow. They
visited Ros every evening, placing flowers on her grave and talking late into
the night about the good times. Sandor and Mayana went on a date. Jon and Val
taught Ghost six new commands, including how to fetch Petyr’s cane and bring it
to him. Lommy and Hot Pie were enrolled in school, and Olyvar had taken on the
task of teaching Arya what she was missing in her education; she was learning,
despite arguments. Gendry’s mother had taken him back home. Petyr gave her the
funds to take Lommy and Hot Pie too, and Arya stayed close with them, visiting
every few days. The house became calmer when Lothor and Mya left with the
children. Before long, it was just the few of them: Petyr, Sansa, Mayana,
Olyvar, Jon, Val, Arya and Mr. Luwin. And Ghost, who wasn’t like to be
forgotten.
Sansa was at peace until judgment day came. Daenerys Targaryen would give her
verdict on their crimes, for everything that had happened. Sansa wanted to
believe that what she’d found with her family was strong enough to withstand
whatever fate could throw at them, but she knew better. Anything — anything —
could break.
Sansa helped Petyr into the elevator of the Parliament building, alongside
Mayana, Olyvar and Arya. She pressed the button to ascend. Petyr leaned against
the rail to take a break from standing. Moving too much was still hard for him,
but his stubbornness wouldn’t let him use a wheelchair. Even asking him to
bring his cane was a battle. Sansa slipped her arm around his torso to steady
his balance, and her worry. He pulled her close and kissed her head.
“I wish Jon was here,” said Arya, folding her arms.
“It wasn’t safe,” said Mayana. “He’s still wanted by the Night’s Watch. We
don’t know what they’d do if they found him alive.”
“I know. But if he were here, I wouldn’t have to watch them.” Arya threw a
glare at Petyr and Sansa. Petyr smirked, pressing another long kiss to Sansa’s
cheek, making her giggle. Arya shook her head in disgust, but her tiny grin
didn’t go unnoticed. If nothing else, Arya appreciated how Petyr could make
Sansa smile.
When they reached the top floor, Sansa helped Petyr into a chair in the small
lobby. The building was elaborate, old paintings and furniture and marble
floors, but luxury meant nothing to Sansa when her happiness was on the line.
Daenerys’s assistant smiled as she passed. Her name tag read MISSANDEI. “The
Prime Minister will be with you shortly,” she told them. Missandei entered the
office and closed the door, leaving the group alone.
Sansa’s leg couldn’t stop bouncing. She checked the time obsessively, sighing
when it was still ten to noon.
“Relax, my love.” Petyr reached over the arm of the chair and took her hand,
kissing her knuckles. “Have faith in my ability to negotiate.”
“I do,” said Sansa. “Just not hers.” She looked nervously to the door. “I won’t
let her take any of you away.”
He directed her chin toward him. “Nothing will separate us,” Petyr said. “They
know what happens to people who try.”
“Are they always like this?” Arya asked Olyvar. He only groaned.
Fifteen long minutes passed before the office door opened. Daenerys’s assistant
greeted them once more, and if Sansa weren’t so scared, she would’ve fallen for
the assurance. “Prime Minister Targaryen is ready to see you now.”
Sansa took a slow breath. She helped Petyr stand, and walked with him into the
office.
Daenerys Targaryen was sitting behind an oak wood desk, hands folded, looking
stern and regal. Queen Myrcella stood beside her.
“Your Majesty,” said Petyr in surprise. “I didn’t know you would be here as
well.”
Myrcella didn’t respond. She looked like she wanted to snap at him, but her
eyes softened when she noticed how wounded he was. Sansa helped Petyr sit in
one of the chairs. He draped his cane over his lap, and Sansa stood behind him,
her hand on his shoulder. Arya sat in the chair opposite him, Olyvar and Mayana
at her side.
Silence. Sansa didn’t know what to focus on. She smiled at Myrcella, and to her
relief, the queen smiled back. But it was a smile of sadness. She misses her
mother.
Daenerys picked up a piece of paper. Out loud, read a list of over a dozen
names. Everyone who had died, whose blood was on Petyr and Arya’s hands, and
Sansa’s. Ramsay Bolton and Gregor Clegane were the names Daenerys ended with.
“Those deaths should not be held against Sansa,” Petyr insisted. “Your claim to
fairness is admirable, Prime Minister, but the system did not deliver for her.
She can’t be blamed for making her own justice.”
“I agree,” said Myrcella. “Ramsay and Gregor would do more damage if they were
alive than they do. I’m willing to overlook it.”
Daenerys paused, considered, then nodded. “Very well.”
A small victory. Sansa took no joy in it.
“I killed people because I had to,” Arya blurted. “Why does it count for
Sansa’s justice and not for mine?”
“Because you killed Walder Frey’s two sons,” said Daenerys. “There was no
evidence that they had anything to do with the sex trafficking ring or the
murder of your family. They were innocent.”
“Were not! They were friends with the Boltons and Cersei’s men. They knew what
was happening.”
“Does that mark them for death? Merely associating with their father’s
accomplices?”
“I—” Arya huffed. “No, but—”
“So you admit that you murdered them without cause.”
“Prime Minister,” said Petyr, “I don’t think it’s fair of you to interrogate a
sixteen-year-old. She did what she had to do to survive in a world that did
nothing to help her.”
“You want us to bypass those deaths too?” Daenerys tested. “Why should I listen
to what you want? You’re the most guilty of anyone here.”
Petyr folded his hands in his lap. “What’s done is done. I have no desire to
bicker over the dead, all of whom deserved their graves. Washing the slate
clean saves everyone time and money.”
Daenerys was unconvinced. “If I really cared about saving time and money, I
would have had you arrested a long time ago. Do you have any idea how much
damage you’ve done?”
Petyr shrugged. “We had business to take care of.”
“You specifically went against my orders.”
“I’ve never been one for orders. Any that aren’t mine, at least.”
“You’re going to cost us millions in repairs to the Thames house. The queen
lost her mother.”
“And Tywin Lannister is in a cell,” Petyr shot back. “As much as it pains me to
think of our queen in mourning, the Lannisters would have jeopardized this
country. At least I was never a threat to national security. Anyone who would
hurt Sansa is out of the picture, just as I planned.”
Daenerys’s eyes flared. “Your plans are not my plans.”
“Yet everyone benefits from them.”
Sansa felt like she was going to vomit. Nothing good would come of Petyr and
Daenerys butting heads, batting insults back and forth at each other with no
end in sight. She had to do something. “Please,” Sansa pleaded. “Let me speak
in his defense.”
Slowly, all eyes turned to her.
“Sansa?” said Myrcella. “After everything he’s put you through…?”
“I don’t want to be questioned on why I’m still here,” she asserted. “I want my
decision to be respected, Your Majesty, just as you would defend your love for
Prince Trystane if anyone insulted him.”
“Trystane is my husband,” Myrcella countered.
“And Petyr will be mine.” Sansa squeezed her fiancé’s shoulder. “We’re getting
married. The date’s already set.”
Myrcella and Daenerys shared a look of surprise. “Really?” asked the queen.
“You’re serious?”
“January 1st,” Sansa confirmed. “New Year’s Day. A fresh start. That’s all I’m
asking for, Myrcella. Prime Minister. We just… we just want a fresh start.”
Daenerys sighed, leaning back in her chair. “I can’t just hand out ‘fresh
starts’ to anyone who asks for them. Unless you can prove to me why you all
deserve one?”
Sansa straightened her back. She was prepared for this. “No one got justice for
me, Arya or Jon. For my murdered family. The Boltons and Lannisters were
monsters. They would have hurt more than just me if they were allowed to carry
on.”
“You think that justifies all that was done?” asked Daenerys.
“Of course not. But it justifies any means necessary to protect me and my
family, and that’s exactly what Petyr, Jon and Arya did.”
More silence. Sansa had control of the room, and she intended to keep it.
“I’m not asking you to let us walk free,” said Sansa. “We’ll leave the country.
All of us.”
“Including your brother Jon?” asked Daenerys. “I thought he might have a part
in this. I didn’t mention it to the Night’s Watch for… personal reasons. I’m
sure you understand.”
Sansa did. “He’s been with us the whole time,” she said. “He’s safe. He’s
already planned on leaving the country with my sister and his wife.”
Daenerys worked her jaw, drumming her fingers on the back of her hand. “I
believe I can grant your request to leave. But he won’t be coming back.”
Daenerys motioned to Petyr with her chin. “Littlefinger has done enough to this
country. I’ll have him arrested the next time he steps on British soil.”
“If that’s what you want.” Sansa rubbed Petyr’s shoulder for grounding.
“Do you agree, Littlefinger?” asked the Prime Minister.
Petyr nodded. “Prison doesn’t suit me.”
“I personally beg to differ.”
One victory had been earned, but there was more to say. Sansa shifted
nervously. She looked at Arya, then back to Daenerys, knowing she had to speak
before the opportunity was gone. “I have… I have one more thing to add, if
that’s alright. Just one.”
Daenerys cocked her brow. Her patience was thin. “What is it?”
Sansa swallowed her nausea. She hated how strength came and went, feeble like
the tide. “After my mother and brothers died, I was taken. Ramsay kept me for
three months starting the night of the funeral, so I never got to sit shiva.”
“I didn’t even think about that,” said Arya. “Sansa’s right. We need to sit
shiva and visit our family’s graves before we go.”
Daenerys looked to the sisters. “Shiva lasts a week, doesn’t it?”
“Only one,” Sansa replied. “That’s all I ask for. It’ll be hard enough on our
own. I don’t want to do it without Petyr near, if you’ll allow him to stay.
Just for that week, please.” Petyr reached up and took Sansa’s hand, holding it
tight.
Daenerys and Myrcella took a moment to discuss. Sansa didn’t say anything in
fear that her breakfast would come up instead. She gripped Petyr’s hand and
prayed. Please, she begged, a fresh start for all of us. Please. Please.
Daenerys turned directly to Petyr. “You will stay only for Sansa,” she said.
“Then you leave.”
“Then I leave,” Petyr repeated.
“You will pay for all the damages inflicted on the Thames House.”
“Fine.”
“All your stolen goods will be left behind.”
“I already have what I need,” said Petyr.
Daenerys seemed satisfied. “I will give you two weeks. One for shiva, and
another to pack and prepare. But only out of good faith with the Stark family
who, for some reason, have decided to take you in.”
Sansa sighed in such heavy relief that she nearly choked. She covered her mouth
with her free hand and moved away, summoning all her willpower to swallow her
tears.
“Thank you,” said Mayana to the two dignitaries. “This means the world to us.”
“You’re welcome.”
No, Sansa cursed, stop crying, you always cry. But her tears spilled anyway.
Petyr stood from his chair and pulled her into his arms, rubbing her back.
“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s alright, my love. Everything will be alright.” Even
Arya came to her, holding her hand to help her through.
Finally, finally, Sansa had a future to look forward to.
She was almost free.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                                  7 MAY, 2017
Shiva began with no small amount of sorrow. Sansa told herself she was ready.
She’d prayed and prepared as strictly as needed. She wouldn’t dishonor her
family by not sitting shiva according to law, and she wouldn’t let Ramsay’s
memory take her mourning from her a second time. The stress ate at Sansa more
than it should, but she ignored it for the same reason she brought it upon
herself in the first place.
Sansa, Jon and Arya had dozens of visitors on the first day. People from their
father’s temple and mother’s parish, old friends and colleagues, neighbors,
coworkers, members of Parliament. Even Olenna and Margaery came for a visit.
Sansa forgave Olenna for her well-intended betrayal of Petyr, but she wouldn’t
let Margaery hug her, shying away from a potential embrace and barely speaking
when spoken to. Greeting people was forbidden. Even with friends, even for
comfort. She would sit shiva the right way, or not at all.
Sansa sat on a low crate by herself. She didn’t wear makeup, didn’t change into
fresh clothes, didn’t share a bed with Petyr. Didn’t read, didn’t smile. Her
diligence worked for the first few hours, until everyone who came to visit fell
into a blur of faces she couldn’t recognize. Her energy was channeled solely to
misery, forcing herself to feel it all at once. That was the point, wasn’t it?
On the second day of shiva, Sansa didn’t speak a single word. On the third, she
became hollow. She sat low to the ground in a black dress and socks every night
until midnight, and then crawled into one of the guest beds to sleep alone,
without pillows. This is the right way, she kept telling herself. This is how
it has to be done. I can’t let him take it from me again, not again.
Jon and Arya confronted her on the fourth night.
“What’re you doin’, Sansa?” asked Jon gently. It was eleven at night. All the
visitors had left. Only Sansa still sat in the living room, by herself. “We’re
worried about you. Go upstairs, go be with Petyr or something.”
“Or not,” said Arya. “But at least get fresh clothes?”
Sansa felt tears in her eyes, and she hated them. “I can’t. I have to do it
right. According to the law, I have to—”
“This is insane,” Arya spat. “Since when are we this Orthodox? You’re
miserable, Sansa. Everyone’s noticed.”
“Everyone,” Jon agreed. “Even the visitors.”
Sansa held her arms. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “Ramsay took this
from me. I have to do it right this time, I have to.”
“Just because you were hurt before doesn’t mean you ever mourned wrong,” said
Jon, crouching down to Sansa’s level. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.”
“But it has to be.” Sansa felt a tear fall. “I can’t let anything ruin it.”
“Don’t you think that hurting yourself is just another way Ramsay’s ruining
it?” asked Arya. “It doesn’t—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sansa sniffled and hugged her
knees. “Just go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Jon sighed in defeat. He stood and motioned for Arya to follow him, and Sansa’s
siblings left her alone.
Sansa wiped her tears as they continued to fall. What if they’re right? she
panicked, what if Ramsay still has a hold on me? What if I’m like this because
of him? She felt revolting, torn away from her healing and falling victim to
what had already been done. Grief was cruel that way. It came for the castle
she’d built, chipping away at the stones.
Someone sat on the edge of the table in front of her. Sansa thought it was Jon,
but when she looked up, she saw the kindly face of Mr. Luwin. “Shh,” cooed the
old man before she could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s alright. Let it out.”
Sansa broke into shaking sobs. Ugly tears, full of drool and snot and hiccups
and despair. Her skull was near to bursting. She took the tissues Luwin
offered. He didn’t say anything as she wept, staying right where he was,
silently beside her as she fought through the darkness.
Sansa didn’t know how much time had passed when she’d finally calmed. She felt
meek and little and shy. Luwin smiled sadly when she looked up at him. “What
are you doing out here?” Sansa asked.
“Helping you,” he said. “I think it’s time we had our discussion, don’t you
think? It pains me to see you so unhappy.”
“I guess.” Sansa fumbled with the Kleenex in her hands, trying to think of what
to say. “You’re a victim of violence too, then?”
Luwin nodded.
“You’ve been through so much worse than I have. I’m such an idiot, crying like
this. All I ever do is cry.” She sobbed again. “What I went through is nothing
next to what you suffered.”
“You should avoid making comparisons,” he said. “Our grief is one. I mourn for
you and your family, just as you mourn for me. We Jews are unique in that way.
If anything, let what I’ve learned help you.”
Sansa wiped her nose. “What happened to you?”
Luwin, sighing, shook his head. “That is another story for another time. This
conversation is about you. I fear that no one under this roof has been able to
reach the part of you that needs tending the most.”
“I don’t know what that part is.”
Luwin pointed to the center of her chest. “Your spirit, here. The essence of
who you are. You have survived so much terror, my dear, but being a survivor is
not the finish line. Your path to healing doesn’t end there, despite what you
may have been told.”
Sansa was confused. “Where does it end?”
“It ends when you become a warrior.” He held out his hands. Sansa placed hers
in his, softly. “I thought I was a survivor as the years went on. Everyone
wanted to put that title on me. Survivor this, survivor that. But do you know
what I realized? Labelling yourself as a survivor means you’re still surviving
something. It’s not a title of triumph. The cloud still hangs over you.
Warriors, though, they have already won their battles. Survived past them to
earn their title, leaving their war behind.”
“I can’t be that,” said Sansa. “It’s all still inside me. Ramsay, my family,
everything. I thought it was gone.” Her shoulders slumped. “You’re stronger
than I’ve ever been.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much. It may be years before you are able to look back
on these experiences and no longer feel the pain that plagues you now. But
these tears, here—” Luwin wiped one from her cheek. “—they are your strength.
Combined with your words, they have healing power. You can’t soak tears back
into your eyes, can you? Can you shove words back in your mouth?”
“No,” said Sansa.
“Neither can you relive the past. With every tear, every word, what happened to
you becomes further and further away until it’s so far in the distance you can
barely see it. That is what makes a warrior.”
Sansa sniffled. “Do you really believe that?”
“With all my heart.” He squeezed her hands. “And I believe in you.”
Sansa couldn’t hide her smile.
“Now. Not to be blunt, but this isn’t working for you.” Luwin motioned to her
crate. “Sitting shiva is not supposed to make you suffer like this. It’s a time
of remembrance and reflection. A time for comfort. And I don’t think the old
laws were written with mental illness in mind.” He ran his thumb over her ring.
“Does being with your intended make you happy?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Do reading and greeting people and laughing make you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Does taking a bath make you happy?”
“Yes,” she chuckled.
“Then be happy. God does not wish for your pain.” Luwin cupped her face. Sansa
clung to his arms desperately, like he was a lifeline.
“But how will I know when I’ve become a warrior?” she asked.
“Oh, child. You’re already there.”
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
                                 10 MAY, 2017
The fifth day of shiva was better than the first four combined. Sansa allowed
herself to relax. She greeted those who visited, hugged them, talked with them,
laughed and cried with them. It was just as Luwin said it would be. There were
tears, too, but with tears came recovery. Because of it, Jon, Sansa and Arya
bonded closer to each other and those around them.
There were many visitors over the course of the week. Loras Tyrell and Prince
Renly, Officer Brienne, Varys, even Jeyne, who had flown all the way from
California before finals week to be by Sansa’s side. A minyan came to the manor
so the Starks could say Kaddish. Myrcella stopped by for tea. Daenerys
Targaryen sent a heartfelt card, addressed only to Sansa. The days meshed
together, but every night when Sansa fell asleep in Petyr's arms, she felt
lighter and freer than the day before.
The final visitor was the only one who’d made an appointment. On the last day
of shiva, when the doorbell rang after sunset, Sansa swallowed her nerves and
opened the front door.
Tyrion Lannister stood on the threshold with Shae and their little daughter.
“Miss Stark,” he said politely.
“Mr. Lannister,” she replied. Sansa took his offered hand and squeezed it in
greeting. She hugged Shae and fawned over the babbling Florence, a little
blonde-haired angel barely five months old. Sansa couldn’t wait to have
children, in a few years when things were calm, in a place of her own. Will
Shae mind if I live through her until then?
Together, Lannisters and Starks talked over cookies and tea. Sansa told Tyrion
about her engagement and Val and Shae bonded through their common ground. All
the while, Petyr sat in the background barely saying a word, his nose buried in
another book Sansa was making him read. He looked at her across the room. Sansa
smiled, not withholding her affection — she loved how his reading glasses
looked on him — and he smiled back. Knowing he was there kept her anchored and
calm.
“Shall we get to business, then?” asked Tyrion when two hours had passed. “I
don’t want to keep Florence out too late. We’re finally getting her into a
schedule.”
“Sure,” said Jon. “In the living room?”
“Please.”
The group moved to the sitting area by the hearth. Tyrion entered with a
briefcase. Sansa made sure Petyr was comfortably situated before smoothing out
her skirt and sitting between Arya and Jon on the couch. She wondered if
everyone could hear how quickly her heart was beating.
From the briefcase, Tyrion retrieved a manila file, just like the one Tywin
once had. He offered Sansa a pen. “Sign on the highlighted lines,” he said,
“and your inheritance is yours.”
The room fell quiet. Sansa held the paperwork carefully, as if it might go up
in flames. Her family, her assets, all laid out in black and white. She read
over everything with Jon and Arya, but when the time came for her signature,
her hand hovered over the dotted line. She couldn’t bring pen to paper. “How
many people died for this?” she asked quietly. “How many lives were changed for
the worse…?”
“Don’t think about that,” said Jon. “Think about the lives we can save
instead.”
Good point. Without hesitation, Sansa signed.
“Olyvar,” said Tyrion, “there’s a box in the trunk of my car. Could you get it
for me?”
“Sure.” Olyvar caught Tyrion’s keys when he tossed them, and left.
“While your friend gets the final piece, can I ask what do you plan on doing
with this fortune of yours?” Tyrion leaned back in his chair. “Surely you’ve
put some thought into it.”
“We have. Petyr and I want to build a town on the Fingers,” Sansa explained.
“It’s where he was born, in Switzerland. But before that, I want to build
sexual violence shelters across the UK and fund free counseling programs. It
would be nice to build a temple where my family died, too. Arya and Jon are
going to Scotland. My sister wants to build homes for the homeless and Jon
wants to move the refugees of Val’s village somewhere safe. We’re going to be
living in Marseilles until the houses we’re building are finished, about six
months from now, so we’ll have time to do some things before we settle down. On
top of wedding plans and all that.”
Tyrion whistled. “Wow. Those are incredible ideas. Ambitious, but incredible.”
“Thank you,” said Sansa, with pride. “I want to write a book too, and once I’ve
raised a family I’ll start public speaking and doing more activism…” Sansa
cleared her throat. “But you probably don’t care to know all that. Sorry.”
“No, it’s good. I’m glad you have goals. That’s important.”
“We have goals,” Sansa corrected. “But thank you, really. It means a lot to
know that we have support.”
Tyrion nodded in respect. “You’re most welcome. And for what it’s worth, you’re
going to be a beautiful bride.”
Olyvar reentered the room with a massive box that he barely kept hold of. He
set it down as gently as he could on the table.
“What is all this?” Sansa asked.
“The contents of your parents’ safe,” Tyrion replied. “Everything in that box
was protected from the fire, or found intact at the scene.”
“No,” said Arya. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Time stopped for the Starks. Sansa shared a look of disbelief with Arya and
Jon. Who wants to open it? she asked with her eyes, and Jon took the liberty.
The first item was their father’s menorah, fashioned in the shape of an elegant
tree branch. Jon carefully pulled it from the box. Ash and soot had tarnished
the silver, but it could be cleaned. Sansa felt closer to their father just
touching the object than she had since their last embrace. “God,” said Jon,
voice thick with emotion. “It’s just as I remember it.”
“Minus the stains,” said Sansa.
“We’ll have it clean before next Hanukkah.” Arya peeked into the box. “Here,
let’s get the rest.”
Most of the remaining items were fireproof things that had been left behind.
Their mother’s jewelry and silverware, some of their father’s tools. Old silver
coins, knickknacks. But the bottom of the box held something worth more than
any fortune. A large book, with the words “FAMILY ALBUM” typed on the front.
Tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes. She thought about what Luwin had said, and
decided to let them flow. She picked up the album and opened it across her lap
as Arya placed the box on the floor, and the siblings leaned in close to look
through the memories together.
The first pages held photos of their parents’ wedding. The rabbi prayed over
them, standing between the four pillars as their father cried. Her mother
looked so happy, and Jon’s mother, Lyanna, was seen clapping when they kissed.
“They’re so young,” said Sansa, running her fingertips over the pictures as if
she could pull her parents from history and bring them back into the world. Her
engagement ring glittered under the ceiling light.
Arya turned to the next page. “It’s Robb!” she chuckled. “When he was just
born.” The picture next to Robb’s birth captured the infants Robb and Jon, with
their mothers. Sansa squeezed Jon’s hand under the book. He squeezed back.
The scrapbook went on through every significant Stark memory. The birth of the
rest of the children and their birthdays every year, Aunt Lyanna’s funeral,
family vacations, bar and bat mitzvahs and Sansa’s First Communion, Christmas
parties, Father’s nomination for Parliament, Robb’s graduation, his wedding
with Talisa and Little Ned’s only ultrasound.
The rest of the pages were blank.
Sansa wanted to keep crying, but her energy was gone. She was too heartbroken
at the absence of more memories to look back on.
“I don’t want the pictures to stop,” said Arya.
Sansa closed the book, running her fingers over the cover. She, Arya and Jon
were all that remained of their family. Her optimism ached to shine, to promise
that they would all have families of their own, but the sadness of reality made
her doubt. Scotland and Switzerland were so far apart.
“Maybe they don’t have to stop,” Jon said. Arya and Sansa both looked at him.
“We can take more pictures. Finish the book.”
“But we’ll be so far from each other,” Sansa replied.
“I dunno. I heard Switzerland is beautiful this time of year.”
“Yeah,” said Arya. “Even if my sister’s marrying a freak show, I want to be
there for her.” She met Sansa’s eyes. “I promised.”
“Are you sure?” asked Sansa. “You’re willing to give up Scotland? You’ve been
wanting to go there this whole time.”
“There’s nothin’ for us there, really. Nothin’ more important than you.” Jon
kissed Sansa’s hand. “We’re family. Where you go, we go.”
Sansa saw the determination in Arya’s eyes, the compassion in Jon’s. She looked
around the room. Everyone was watching them, Mayana and Olyvar, Val, Luwin,
Tyrion, Shae, people who cared.
And finally, Petyr. He looked at her with love.
Sansa held her siblings’ hands and smiled.
She was happy, at long last.
Chapter End Notes
     i'm so fuckin EMO right now
     um. so okay this happened??? w o w
     I made a post about this on tumblr, but for those who didn't see,
     I'll reiterate below:
     the epilogue isn't ready yet. i just have too much to do right now
     with school and work and stuff (i've been working on this so much and
     not doing enough ACTUAL WORK for my job uhhh), and rushing it would
     be a total disservice to sansa and the journeys these characters have
     been on.
     so, what i’m going to do is withhold the epilogue until the final
     edit of the entire fic is complete, and the book’s about to drop.
     then i’ll post the epilogue around the time that the book goes off
     for printing. so, about…eh, 2-3 weeks from now? if i'm diligent.
     probably. but the main story has ended, this is it. the epilogue is
     just a final follow-up on how everyone's doing. it's emotional, still
     an important chapter if you've cared about the story at all thus far
     so i encourage you to stick around and read it when i finish
     everything. but yeah. i'm sorry, i just didn't have time to get it
     done before now :'(
     some of you are probably asking, BOOK?? WHAT BOOK. yes, a book. for
     every big fic i write, i get them printed and bound in a hardcover. i
     didn't plan on releasing it to the readers because they're just for
     me, but people on tumblr saw me mention it and suddenly i have at
     least five different people who want a bloodguilt book. fucking
     crazy. so, i'm doing one final edit of the entire thing, making a
     cover and sending it off to a publisher. i'm hoping it'll be ready by
     the end of the month. :) i'll post all the info on how you can
     purchase a book when i post the epilogue. and no, i don't get any
     proceeds from the selling of the book; you only pay for the cost to
     bind and ship it (it ships worldwide!). it's an estimated $22 USD as
     of right now, but that could fluctuate a little bit.
     thank you for sticking with me on this journey. we're not quite done
     yet, i promise the epilogue will be worth waiting for. but for what
     it's worth, i really love and appreciate your devotion to the story.
     thank you. from the bottom of my heart.
     i welcome any and all comments, criticisms, praises, whatever. you
     can message me on tumblr @petyrbaelish or comment below. and you can
     tip me via paypal: altairismyhomeboy@gmail.com (but i'm only putting
     this here because some of y'all INSIST on a tip, and while it isn't
     necessary i super appreciate it asdlgjalkg i've worked so hard on
     this thing lol)
     WELL. Ready for one last go, guys? See you soon. xx
     (oh, and for those who don't know about my next fic, i'll be posting
     a summary along with bloodguilt's epilogue. so if you wanna see more
     from me, stick around. <3)
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
                             soundtrack choices:
           [make_you_feel_my_love;_adele] ◆ [die_with_you;_beyoncé]
See the end of the chapter for more notes

                              10 SEPTEMBER, 2027
Sansa was too restless to sleep. She’d been trying since ten, but when she
looked over at the clock it was two in the morning and she hadn’t slept at all.
She rubbed her eyes. Laying there was pointless. Carefully, Sansa pulled
herself from her husband’s arms and crawled out of bed, slipping from the room
as quietly as she could.
Sansa padded down the stairs, rubbing her aching back. She flipped on the
kitchen lights to make a cup of tea. She nearly spilled the hot water from her
shaking hands, so she took a deep breath to steady herself. It worked enough
for her to mix milk and sugar without making a mess. Sansa walked to the floor-
to-ceiling windows in the living room and sipped her drink, looking out at the
horizon.
The Alps never lost their beauty. Great mountains stretched in every direction,
smothered in rock and grass and flecks of snow. The moon reflected off the
surface of Lake Lucerne and cast a sparkling glow through the valley. She could
see the buildings on the other end of The Fingers, the growing town of Petyr
and Sansa's making, still asleep at this hour. Sansa tried to let the sights
keep her calm. Just a few more hours, she thought. God, I don’t know if I can
do this.
Sansa felt a sudden jolt and tumble in her womb, so hard she nearly dropped her
tea. “Hey,” she chuckled. “You should be sleeping.” Only five months grown,
Alayne was already giving her mother grief. Sansa rubbed her belly with
affection. “Maybe I’m setting a bad example.”
Someone turned off the kitchen light. Petyr entered the living room, reading
her face before she said a word. She offered a smile. He didn’t fall for it,
and took the tea from her hands to place it atop the piano.
Petyr moved behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. Sansa’s tension
evaporated to nothing. She closed her eyes when he breathed in the smell of her
hair, kissed her neck, her cheek. He held her until she was so relaxed that she
could fall asleep on her feet. “You’re nervous,” he said.
Sansa just sighed.
“You shouldn’t be.”
“How can I not? I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”
“You are far too modest.” He kissed her shoulder. “Your book sold millions of
copies. It was only a matter of time before this happened, and it will continue
to happen.”
“That’s what worries me.” Sansa turned in Petyr’s arms. “I didn’t want to do
this now. I wanted to wait until…”
“I know, my love.” He raised one hand to hold her cheek. “There will be plenty
of time then, too. Consider this a trial run.”
Sansa slipped her arms around his neck and hugged him. Petyr held her just as
tight. They’d agreed that she wouldn’t throw herself into full-time activism
until their family had been raised, and Petyr had aged and gone. She’d use her
time as a widow to travel and speak publicly when it wouldn’t cost her precious
time with her family. But her autobiography’s success had made Sansa Stark a
household name. Queen Myrcella’s request that Sansa speak to the United Nations
was just a starting point; how much would she be expected to do now that fame
had crept into the picture?
“You will be magnificent,” Petyr told her. “They will be astounded by you.
They’ve all read your book, I’m sure.”
“Do you think so?”
“Mm.” Petyr pulled back to cradle her face in his hands. “And if they haven’t,
fuck them. You’ll charm them anyway. Every country in the world will be begging
you for your counsel.”
Sansa had to smile. Petyr never hesitated with his flattery, but she didn’t
care so much about the UN’s approval just yet. She had her priorities: family
first. For a long time, Sansa had thought her choice made her selfish, but she
felt assured that she’d earned the right to carve her own path. “Are you going
to help me take over all these countries?” Sansa teased. “You want to. Admit
it.”
“Only if I’m in the mood,” said Petyr. “As you’ve pointed out, I’m getting
old.”
“Not that old.”
To prove her point, Sansa leaned in and kissed him. His hands slid into her
hair, massaging her scalp in the way that ignited her. Petyr opened her mouth
with his tongue. It felt just as good, just as fulfilling as the first time,
and it drove her just as wild.
Sansa slipped her hands under his shirt. His chest shook when he laughed. “My
needy wife.”
“You started it.” She kissed him again.
“You’re going to have to be quiet if we do this now.” He grabbed her hard at
the waist; there was no “if” about it. “We can’t wake the boys.”
“I can be quiet,” she protested.
“Only if I hold back.” He nibbled at her neck. “I never hold back.”
In a tangle of giggles and sighs, husband and wife fell together on the couch.
Petyr kissed down Sansa’s body, paying special attention to her belly where
their child was growing, before burying his face between her thighs. He pleased
her with fingers and tongue before pleasing her again with the rest of him. In
and out at the pace she liked. Never once in eleven years had they left each
other unsatisfied, and Petyr never failed to perform. Sansa was selfishly
pleased that such was true. His days of dysfunction were very far ahead of him.
Their early morning passion left them both a panting mess. Petyr lay atop his
wife, still inside her, pressing kiss after kiss to the slope of her neck.
“Come back to bed,” he told her. “It’s cold without you.”
Sansa couldn’t say no. She and Petyr grabbed their clothes from the floor and
crept back upstairs, crawling into bed, into each other’s arms. Sansa fell
quickly asleep.
It was six in the morning when she woke up again. Edmond, their eighteen-month-
old, was babbling through the baby monitor. Sansa groaned. “He’s your son.”
“I got them up last time.”
“I got three hours of sleep and I’m pregnant.”
Petyr sighed in submission. He kissed the back of her head and left the room.
Sansa closed her eyes again.
“You woke up your mother, you little shit,” Petyr said to Edmond. Sansa glared
at the monitor. Really? “Let’s get you changed into something presentable.”
Petyr made a point to talk casually with their children, no baby talk, even
when they were too young to reply. He claimed that real conversation helped
infants learn how to speak faster and become more charismatic as they grew.
While his reasoning made sense to Sansa, she enjoyed Petyr’s topics of choice
most of all. She listened to him tell Edmond all about the sex he’d slept
through and ask what color socks he wanted to wear. Edmond replied in squeals.
Sansa grinned, rolled over and fell asleep once more.
She wasn’t out for long.
“Mummy,” came a soft whisper. “Mum. Mummy. Wake up.”
Sansa cracked open her eyes. Four-year-old Robb, their oldest, stood at the
edge of the bed with his dimples and his glasses and dinosaur pajamas. “Papa
says it’s time to get up.”
“Did he?” Sansa checked the clock: 9:03.
“Yep. C’mon! It’s your big day!”
Sansa couldn’t be irritated when Robb’s innocence shined. She touched his cheek
and smiled when he did. “I don’t smell anything. Your father made breakfast,
didn’t he?”
“He put waffles in the toaster.”
Sansa figured. They’d been parents for years, and Petyr still didn’t know how
to cook very well. “I guess that’s better than nothing. Did you let Lady in?”
“Uh-huh. She’s—”
The door burst open. Lady, the family Husky, bounded up onto the bed and shoved
her face into Sansa’s to sniff her and lick her cheek. “Lady!” Sansa laughed,
playfully pushing her away. “Lady, stop!”
Robb crawled up on the bed and pulled the dog off of his mother. “Don’t crush
Alayne, Lady! You’ll squish her!”
Sansa managed to crawl out of bed while Robb held the happy dog. “Lady,” she
commanded. “Get down. Petyr hates it when you’re on the bed, you know better.”
Lady hopped to the ground and ran excitedly out of the room. Robb slid off of
the mattress and took his mother’s hand. “You and Alayne need to eat breakfast.
I’m gonna take care of everything.”
“Are you?” chuckled Sansa. Robb led her slowly down the hall, past the framed
photographs of hers and Petyr’s wedding day. She spared them a happy glance.
“Papa said I couldn’t give you breakfast in bed, but I can at the table.” Robb
held her hand tighter as they walked down the stairs. “Are you scared to talk
in front of all the people, Mummy?”
“A little,” said Sansa. Honesty with her children was a core moral of hers.
“There’s going to be so many.”
“Don’t worry. You’re gonna be really good. You’re gonna be the best speaker
ever.”
Sansa pet the top of her son’s head. His mane of red curls was wild, untamed.
“You’re so sweet. My sweet boy.”
Robb beamed under his mother’s praise.
When they made it to the dining room, Robb pulled out a chair for Sansa and
brought her breakfast with a glass of milk. Sansa thanked him as he ran off
into the living room to turn on the telly. His favorite educational program was
on. Robb couldn’t remember his own birthday, but he knew the exact time and day
that his favorite show aired. Typical.
Petyr walked into the room, his phone at his ear. He came to his wife for a
morning kiss. “Who is that?” Sansa asked. Petyr pointed to the phone and
mouthed, “Mayana.” Sansa nodded and kept eating.
“He disrespected you like that?” asked Petyr. He sat by Sansa at the table and
held her hand. “Send Sandor on him. He won’t be disrespecting you again any
time soon.”
Sansa gave him a look.
“What about that Tanner fellow? The one with the knives. Is he still giving you
trouble?” Petyr paused for Mayana’s response. “No. Better to kill him and be
done with it.”
Sansa rolled her eyes. Every other morning, Mayana would call and talk through
Littlefinger-related things with Petyr. Sometimes Sansa would join them just to
chat, but she didn’t feel like dealing with murder at the moment. She had other
things on her mind.
“Mayana says you need to watch the Beyoncé video she sent you,” said Petyr.
Sansa laughed. “Tell her I’ll do it tonight, I promise.”
“Edmoooond,” whined Robb from the other room. “Edmond, stop, I can’t see!” The
baby squealed.
“I got it,” Sansa said, waving Petyr off. “Tell Mayana I love her.”
“I will,” mouthed Petyr.
Sansa brought her dishes to the sink and walked into the living room to check
on her sons. Edmond was crawling all over Robb, pulling his hair. Robb wailed
in distress. Sansa put her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you’re
doing, little man?”
Edmond, at the sound of his mother’s voice, sat down on the couch in an
instant. A devilish smile grew on his tiny face. He was certainly his father’s
son.
Sansa picked up the child, whooshing him in the air before sitting on the couch
next to Robb. Lady curled up on the floor at her feet. Sansa snuggled with her
children, so comfortable and content that she nearly fell asleep again until
Petyr came into the room, still on the phone. He stroked her cheek. “I’m going
to get ready.”
“Papaaaa,” Robb complained. “I can’t seeeeee.”
Sansa grinned and stroked her son’s hair. “Don’t take too long. We have to
leave by eleven.”
“I know.” Petyr leaned down and gave Sansa a long, slow kiss. When he’ left the
room, she could hear him giving Olyvar extensive advice about blackmailing
politicians. Some things never changed.
Sansa enjoyed a peacefully quiet morning, aside from Edmond’s babbles as he
played. Sansa crawled on the floor to join him while Robb watched his dinosaur
show. Sansa did anything she could to keep her mind off anxiety. Why didn’t I
decide to stay home? she thought. I don’t want to leave the boys, even for a
weekend.
The doorbell rang. Robb gasped, a big, toothy beam on his face. “Mummy! She’s
here!”
Sansa used the coffee table to heave herself up off the floor. Lady barked and
bolted toward the front of the house. She could see Ghost through the window,
and when Sansa stepped into the entryway, Lady yipped, begging her to hurry up.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Sansa unlocked the door, an eager dog and an equally
eager child at her side.
Ghost burst through the door when it opened. He and Lady fell all over each
other despite his old age, growling and playing in the foyer as if they were
puppies.
Arya and Gendry walked into the house, side by side. “Hi, Robb!” Arya chimed.
Robb was so excited to see his favorite aunt that he leapt into her open arms.
Sansa greeted Gendry with a hug — he was her brother-in-law, as of three weeks
past — and she embraced Jon and Val with equal love. Hugging Val was difficult,
though. She was a month from her due date and pregnant with twins, and with
Sansa’s pregnancy, there was barely enough room between them. They’d made it a
running joke. “It’s like we’re watermelons,” Val had teased, and since then Jon
had insisted on naming each twin “watermelon” in different languages.
“How are you sleeping?” Sansa asked Val as she escorted everyone into the
living room. “Your back must ache something awful.”
“It’s not comfortable, no,” said Val. “Jon got me one of those big pillows from
the new store in town. A body pillow, I think. It helps. But he’s sad because I
stopped snuggling with him. I only want the pillow now.”
Sansa laughed. Petyr didn’t want her to use a body pillow for that exact
reason, but she’d never been in enough pain to need one anyway. “Things will
get easier once the babies are born.”
“Oh,” said Jon, “I doubt that very much.”
“Edmoooooond!” Arya shouted when she saw the toddler. Edmond giggled so loud
that Sansa had to cover her ears. Arya scooped him up and blew raspberries on
his stomach, and he squealed nonsense. Robb tugged on Jon’s sleeve to show him
the dinosaur show, and after Sansa made a fresh pot of tea, the family sat down
together.
The adults chatted about the days ahead while the children played. Arya and
Gendry would babysit at home while Jon, Val, Sansa and Petyr attended the
United Nations conference in Berlin. Val and Jon planned on mingling with
politicians to promote the stabilization of Afghanistan, and Sansa would make a
speech to the entire conference about sexual violence. Just talking about it
made her frightened. “You should relax,” said Jon, “you’ve wanted to do this
for years.” But that didn’t make the fear go away.
“I thought I heard voices.” Petyr stood in the living room archway, adjusting
his patterned tie. Sansa recognized it; it was the one she’d gotten him for his
53rd birthday, nearly a year ago. He looks so good in business clothes. He
looked good without them, too.
“Hey Petyr,” said Arya with a wave. “I see you’re still lurking.”
“Hello, Arya. Thank you for coming. Robb has talked about nothing else other
than seeing his aunt for the weekend.”
“Sure thing. It’ll be fun without you here.”
A tease. Petyr took it with grace, and reached out to his wife. “You need to
get ready, sweetling. We should leave in an hour.”
Sansa didn’t mind that no one greeted Petyr with the warmth they’d received her
with. Their relationship with her husband was mostly neutral, and she could
count the number of times they’d actually gotten along on both hands. But there
were no arguments, no snide remarks. Just mutual respect. It was good enough
for Sansa.
Petyr took her hand and led her upstairs, to their bedroom. Sansa opened the
door to the closet. She knew exactly what she wanted to wear: a black floor-
length dress and a cardigan Petyr had bought for her the week before, with a
long necklace and her favorite diamond earrings. She found the items and showed
them to him. “Do you think this is good enough?” she asked. “I want to be
comfortable, but I don’t want to underdress.”
Petyr leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “You could wear a plastic bag
and still be the most stunning person in the room.”
Sansa smiled. “I’m not talking about beauty. I want to look nice.”
“You will, my love. You always do.” He motioned to her with his chin. “How do
you want your hair?”
“I was thinking a braided bun. Do you remember how to do that?”
“With the twist on top?”
“Mhm.”
“Then yes, I remember.” Petyr was insistent on learning how to style a girl’s
hair. Ever since they’d learned Alayne’s gender, he wanted to practice all
sorts of designs on Sansa, so by the time their daughter was old enough he
could do her hair for her. The thought gave him great pride. Sansa didn’t dare
discourage him.
After she was showered, dry and dressed, Petyr took Sansa into the bathroom and
sat her down. He picked up a brush from the countertop. “I know how you are
about my hair,” said Sansa, “but we don’t have time right now. Don’t get any
ideas.”
Petyr smirked. He took a small portion of her red hair and brushed through it
gently. “You don’t think I could fuck you fast? We have plenty of practice in
time-sensitive situations.”
Sansa laughed, closing her eyes and leaning back. She loved it when Petyr
brushed her hair, and he always found a way to make it as erotic for her as it
was for him. But she hadn’t lied; there truly wasn’t time. “I don’t want to sit
on the counter right now. My back is sore and I didn’t sleep as much as I
should have.”
“You’ll sleep well tonight, sweetling. The hotel we’re staying in is one of
Margaery’s.”
“God, I’m looking forward to it.”
Petyr continued to brush her hair, pressing the occasional kiss to her head. He
was so affectionate with her. Even when their passion was rough, fast or
greedy, there was an underlying tenderness that made Sansa fall in love with
him a little more every time. His kiss still felt like home.
“Knock knock,” said Arya from the doorway. “You decent?”
“Yes,” said Sansa. “No,” said Petyr. She eyed him with mischief.
Arya came into the bathroom anyway, hopping up on the counter between the two
sinks. She bit into an apple and crossed one leg over the other. The sisters
looked less and less related as the years passed. Ripped jeans and choppy hair
contrasted Sansa considerably. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” said Sansa. “Petyr’s practicing on my hair.”
“Alayne will be the most beautiful girl alive,” Petyr boasted. “As is her
mother, and any other daughters we have.”
“And you’re gonna dote on them 24/7,” mocked Arya. “Glad I’m around to keep
them sane.”
“How’s the academy going?” Sansa asked as Petyr began braiding. “I heard you’ve
got over fifty students now.”
“Yeah! It’s great. I love working with kids. I show them a move and they get it
right away, they’re smart. I’ve had to split up the classes though, because no
way am I teaching Jujitsu to fifty kids at one time. Especially since most of
them aren’t great at English.”
Sansa understood. Arya had never quite gotten the hang of Swiss German, and she
was too stubborn to let Petyr give her lessons. Perhaps that was for the best.
Petyr finished Sansa’s bun with a few barrettes and a kiss on the cheek.
“Good?”
“I love it,” praised Sansa, examining herself in the mirror. Petyr always had
an eye for style, but others usually did the work for him. Doing things himself
was something Petyr had to relearn since they’d been married. He took pleasure
in it. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome, my love.” Sansa turned her head and kissed him. “I’m going to
bring our bags to the front door. Don’t take too long.”
“I won’t.”
They kissed again. Petyr left, passing Arya without a word.
“Finally,” said Arya when he was gone.
“Be nice.” Sansa pulled out her makeup and started applying it to her cheeks.
She didn’t need very much, but she wanted to look her best for the pictures
people would undoubtedly take. “Ugh. Arya, I’m so nervous.”
“Why?”
“It’s just a lot to take in.” Sansa rubbed foundation on her face with a brush.
“And like, I want to speak out. I always have. But I’ve gotten so many requests
for interviews and things since the book was released, and I’m kind of
overwhelmed.”
“Well, yeah. Duh. It was a super successful book. Did you think it wouldn’t
be?”
Sansa sighed. She’d written Break the Bars as a filterless retelling of her
abuse from Ramsay. If she was going to tell her story, she would tell it right,
no details excluded. No censorship for the light-hearted. She never expected
the praise, the international attention, the respect of celebrities and
politicians and religious figures, the awards. Writing the book brought more
nightmares than Sansa could count, but all she’d wanted was to write a guide
for victims of violence to heal by. The results were an equal curse as they
were a blessing. “I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly thinking about fame when I
wrote it.”
“Why not do all these interviews, though? Get the word out. Be active. I know
the deal you and Petyr have, but the momentum is gonna die by the time he
does.”
“No,” said Sansa, “I don’t think it will.” She set down her brush, frowning.
“The more interviews I do, the more I travel, the more I’m away from my family.
The children won’t be little forever and Petyr gets older every day. It’s a
ticking clock at this point…”
Arya rolled her eyes. “You’re overthinking this again. You’ve got loads of
time.”
“I thought that ten years ago, too,” said Sansa. “Now we’re here. His time
could be halfway over and I don’t even—”
“Ugh,” groaned Arya loudly. “I love you, Sansa, and I know you’re scared. But
you did this ‘what if he dies tomorrow’ stuff when you were pregnant with
Edmond and Robb, too. Your gross baby daddy is healthy, especially since he
quit smoking. Relax and enjoy the moment.”
Sansa couldn’t help but sigh. She and Arya butted heads, but it was her
pragmatic approach that kept a dreamer like Sansa from spiraling too far.
“You’re right, Arya. I think I’m just emotional.”
“When are you not?”
Sansa jokingly smacked Arya’s leg. Arya pretended to be hurt, and the two were
happy again. Arya changed the topic while Sansa finished her makeup. When she
was done, the sisters came downstairs to gather with Jon and Val by the front
door, ready to leave. “Alright,” Sansa said to Robb. “Come give me a kiss.”
Petyr picked up their son from the ground. Robb hugged his father tight. “I
don’t want you to go, Papa.”
“We’ll be back late on Monday,” said Petyr, rubbing Robb’s back. Sansa’s heart
warmed at the sight. “You’ll have fun with your aunt, and you get to play with
Ghost and Lady. Would you like that?”
“Mhm.”
Petyr kissed his son and moved close to Sansa. “Say goodbye to your mother.”
“Bye Mummy,” said Robb. He leaned over and hugged Sansa tight. She squeezed him
as hard as she could, and kissed him. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Robb. Be nice to your brother, okay?”
Petyr set Robb down. He ran off to play with the dogs. Petyr and Sansa kissed
an oblivious Edmond on the cheek, left instructions for Arya and Gendry
regarding the care of their children, and grabbed their bags.
Before she left, Sansa touched the mezuzah in the doorway.
                            ◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆
Sansa slept through both the train ride to Zurich and the flight to Berlin. She
stayed cuddled up in Petyr’s arms as close as the seats would allow them. She
could feel the vibration of his voice as he talked with Jon and Val, and it
soothed her. His heartbeat and breathing patterns had become Sansa’s lullaby
over the years. They reminded her he was still safe.
Petyr’s German fluency and an escort from the UN saw the family from the
airport to the conference hall. Rows of long, curved desks had been placed
around the room, like a senate floor. There were foreign dignitaries at every
turn, seating for hundreds, journalists from dozens of countries taking
pictures and asking for interviews. Sansa had learned long ago to avoid the
intrusions of the press, but it was a sobering reminder of how important this
speech really was.
Jon and Val were led to their seats at the eastern end of the room. They would
speak at a few of the smaller panels, but Sansa would have the attention of the
whole floor. She was guided to a small room down the hall to wait. Petyr
entered the room with her. She was given a moment’s peace, though it didn’t
feel like peace at all, not with a million things on her mind that could
possibly go wrong.
Sansa wrung her hands. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”
“You’re not going to vomit.” Petyr held out his arms and pulled her into an
embrace. “You haven’t come this far to be thwarted by a group of old
politicians.”
“I don’t know how you can be so calm.”
“What do I have to fear from these people? They can’t take you or our children
away. They are small, my love, they don’t matter.”
“You’re right,” Sansa agreed. “This is why I need you.” She gave him a kiss and
walked over to the hanging mirror, making sure she was still presentable. Her
maternal glow dwarfed whatever makeup she’d put on, but Sansa decided that she
still looked nice. She pushed back a few flyaways.
“You don’t need me,” said Petyr.
Sansa turned. Petyr looked up at her when she didn’t reply. “You don’t need me,
Sansa.”
She stared at him, confused. He moved closer to her.
“You only needed me once. I gave you a place to stay after you escaped, but the
rest, everything you’ve done since you met me, all of it was because of your
unbreakable will.” He touched her hair and smiled proudly. “You’ll have the
world’s eyes on you today. And you will be strong without me, as you always
have.”
Sansa beamed despite the growing tears in her eyes. Petyr pulled her so close
that she could feel his heart beat in tandem with hers. Ten years and three
children meant twenty years and more, Sansa could feel it. And she was
grateful, so grateful to be alive and fulfilled with family and love and peace
and togetherness, just like she’d prayed for all those years ago.
“Ms. Stark?” came a call at the door. “The conference is ready.”
“Okay,” said Sansa. “I’ll be there.” She pulled away from Petyr and wiped her
tears. She took a deep breath. “Do I look okay?”
“Beautiful.” He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “So beautiful.”
Sansa wiped her tears, hoping her makeup didn’t smudge. “We’re getting lemon
cake after this.”
“That’s fine.” He leaned in close, mouth to her ear. “But you’ll have to wait
until I’m done fucking you through the floor.”
Sansa giggled. He always knew how to make her smile ridiculous though he was.
Petyr planted his lips to hers in long, slow kisses, and she felt the love on
his tongue before he ever said a word. “I love you, Sansa.”
“And I love you,” she replied.
Husband and wife parted ways. Sansa was led from the room and around the main
floor, behind the platform. She toyed with her wedding ring and bounced on her
heels. Alayne fluttered around inside her, making her nauseous — or was that
just fear? She couldn’t tell anymore.
Queen Myrcella was speaking at the podium. She greeted the conference attendees
with grace and confidence, and gave a long, heartfelt introduction for Sansa.
She introduced her as a woman of strength, kindness and wisdom, far more
admiration than Sansa thought she deserved. With nothing to be ashamed of,
Sansa walked to the center podium. She gave her dear friend a hug and blinked
her eyes to adjust to the spotlight.
Every world leader was on their feet. A standing ovation. Sansa was stunned by
disbelief, the sound of thunderous applause echoing throughout the room. “Thank
you,” she said humbly. “Thank you so much.”
They continued on. Faces of strangers, of men and women and different
nationalities, all praising her. Cheering for her. The applause was a chorus of
changed lives, of lives she had changed. All because she’d had the courage to
write a few words.
Sansa touched her Star and smiled. When the foreign leaders took their seats,
Sansa took a deep breath, and spoke.
Chapter End Notes
     <3
     wow. here we are. the end.
     i really hope you guys enjoyed this story. it means the world to me.
     i feel like i've accomplished so much, like i've grown so much as a
     person from the beginning of this until now. a lot of tears and time
     went into this and i can say with confidence that i'm proud of what
     i've accomplished here. even if i come back in a few years and find
     some cringey lines, even if i learn a lot about storytelling and
     realize i did something wrong in hindsight, even if i stop shipping
     petyr and sansa in the years to come. i learned so much about myself
     on this journey and i wouldn't trade it for anything. this story
     means a lot to me. it always will. i hope it means a lot to you, too.
     all sap aside, you can see the previous chapter's endnotes for info
     on how to donate to me if you'd like! there's information there on
     the hardcover version of bloodguilt, too. i'm nowhere near done
     editing it, but i didn't feel it right to withhold the epilogue from
     you when it could take me another month to get through the final edit
     and bind this thing. for those of you interested in picking up the
     hardcover copy, stay tuned. i'll likely post about it with my next
     fic.
     ...speaking of my next fic, for those who don't know, i'm writing a
     teacher/student au that will begin on sunday, june 25th. you can read
     all about it here. keep an eye out for it if you want to see more
     from me! you can follow_me_on_tumblr for updates, too. maybe i'll
     drop a teaser before release day. ;)
     ah. happy sigh. i'm so glad to be able to put bloodguilt to rest, at
     long last.
     as always, your feedback/reviews would be much appreciated. they'll
     help me grow, and i can see what elements of my storytelling are most
     effective and what aren't. if you could spare a few moments, i'd be
     super grateful. <3
     see you on june 25th, if you're gonna read my next story! and if not,
     i love you! stay strong in your lives! xoxo
     --nat
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