Sansa ought not underestimate the greed of men. Lords of the Vale, Lords of the North, all sought the same coveted seat, the same coveted power, the same auburn girl who held a legacy on her dainty shoulders. Baelish, far from altruistic, was exactly as the rest, only his methods were far more oblique. The only difference being that he seemed to want her, as much as he wanted for himself. Wintefell was no gift to be given. It was a tool, as all else was in the realm of games and schemes and victories not yet won. Petyr cared not at all for the Northern keep of Sansa’s upbringing, only for what it represented. She knew that; he knew she knew that. Tenuous, then, their alliance remained. Bound by mutual wants, but to what end? What happened after Winterfell? What happened after Petyr placed a crown on a newly-made Queen’s head? None of them were favors. None of them. Did she believe it was his affection which so drove every endowment or promise?
“And in such ways I see the makings of one entirely capable of making difficult decisions.” Petyr smiled. Whatever Sansa needed to swallow to justify the means, it mattered not. What mattered was her ability to do so.
“No. There is no other.” The smile waned. Fool creature to have skated so near a line. Too much wine, not enough sleep. Baelish grew comfortable, and in his comfort he grew careless. A rather grim reality when negotiating anything related to one Sansa Stark. It was for the best that he had relegated her to the far reaches of his dealings. There was little she could do now to spoil or thwart. All that mattered was that he remain in her good graces. Of that, Petyr was confident in his ability. “Only you. Only you, my lady. It has proven a tremendous effort for several armies. You are but one.”
Yet she was a phoenix. Brilliant embers raining from her wings like tiny red gems as she surged from the ashes wrought by Lannister, by Bolton, by every person who so decried the name Stark and sought to erase it from the tomes of Westerosi lore and history. Every star had aligned to illuminate her in the darkness. There would be few whose face, whose name, whose story would be enough to win over a broken realm, a broken kingdom. Baelish could not have hoped for better luck. Before him, wearing her ambitions and hopes like a cloak of the finest silks and gems, sat a woman deserving of the station she would be granted. And how they would love her. How they would all love her.
Petyr did not address the premise of the fallen Robb Stark, nor how her path might be different were the Young Wolf still alive. Had Robb Stark not been slain then none of Petyr’s current plans would have seen fruition. Perhaps Sansa would never have been spirited away from King’s Landing to be given a pretender’s name and identity. Speculating on the past, on impossible possibilities, was a waste of time; Baelish did not make a habit of doing so. Not anymore.
The glint of emerald tilted downward, lips curved in easy smile, as Sansa voiced her decision. No. One word condemned the Eyrie heir to his death, and with it, granted permission for a new husband to be sought. Baelish carefully, precisely, folded the missive in half, running pinched nails along the crease. The wooden legs of his chair groaned as it was pushed back, Petyr rising to a stand. “Then you shall be included.” A concession? Or simply a ruse of cooperation? “A woman twice-wedded should indeed have say. I am hardly your father, after all.” A wry smirk was cast her way as he moved towards the door, missive still in hand.
“Remember, my lady: the right decision is rarely the simplest.” The door opened in dismissal.
Winterfell blinded the girl. Home blinded her. A strange happening, for many others might charge forward with slavering mouths, war cries upon their lips, to claim one of the largest swaths of land across the continent. Contained within the North were countless resources, rivers and harbors and long stretches of fields, dotted by woods which teemed over with predator and prey alike. A kingdom, for true. To men that land could be valued by farms which might spring up, golden dragons and argentate stags quickly filling a castle’s coffers; to Sansa, however, thoughts of what must be given predominated. Slowly deserted as her brother’s war marched southward, incinerated by traitorous Krakens, profaned by that contingent of flayed men so graciously bequeathed by the Lannisters, Winterfell required a great deal. As did its people, smallfolk and high borns alike driven to paucity or death by King Robb’s campaign.
Retaking the keep and its lands – her claim – represented fulfillment of duty, rather than ambition. Marriage, power, risk: all endeavors better avoided by the red wolf long wearied of the ploys which had already cost her family so much. In that, she and Baelish lacked anymutual wants, save the surficial motivation to stand upon the wintry castle’s threshold in victory. Whatever she must tell herself? Oh yes, Sansa told herself love of the mother, love of the daughter, guided Petyr down a brambled path cast in shadow, swallowed in mist, patrolled by all manner of avaricious beasts. Far more palatable to believe the efforts expended sprung out from the fabled power of devotion, rather than ruminate on what design could sprawl so large as to make him ally with her out of greed alone.
What Sansa told herself mattered not, only the repetition.
Azurine gaze, once steady, faltered then fell away. Calculated advances discomforted the girl before: Joffrey’s false offerings of jewels and sweet nothings, Tyrion’s cautious, failed attempts to better endear his child-bride to her punishment, her humiliation. Even attempts most skilled divulged an agenda, sometimes plain, sometimes concealed. Yet each one always unfolded too smoothly, as though the suitor had knowingly honeyed his tongue before deigning to speak. There were none of the shy stumbles or brash declarations which vouchsafed sincerity; songs still held sway within maidenly heart, yet Sansa now knew far better than to trust any courtship so cleanly wrought. While Petyr’s mask remained nigh indecipherable, such minuscule fissures in the carven facade granted pause.
A snow-kissed embrace. Agreements sealed with blood…and seed. Honesty at once troubling and emboldening, a continued string of revelations lacking all efficacy so long as their fates remained closely bound. Destroying Petyr would only cripple her own hopes; for self-interest alone, possible weaknesses passed noted and nothing more. Just as speculation on Robb Stark’s victory served nothing and no one, ruminating upon what glimpses Baelish accidentally allowed wasted effort better spent on the Northern Problem.
“Hardly,” she agreed, meeting a twist of lips with blue dulled by losses past. Ned Stark was honorable. Ned Stark was dead. Sansa did not smile. Watching with mild interest, of the sort politely bestowed by courtiers involved and yet removed from the action unfolding before them, she made no gesture of departure until Baelish had moved well beyond his seat. The girl looked down to her hands, neatly clasped atop folds of brocade. All illusion of choice, of partnership, of equality, was ground out beneath the soft tap - tap - tap of boots across stone floors. Dismissal. No. The Lord could not be permitted to bring every meeting to such a singularly satisfied end, placating his ward into silence then shuffling her away having gained hardly anything of consequence. She waited a moment, pressing frustration and pride to the rear until only an amiable composure remained. Standing then, Sansa swept across to the proffered exit, pausing across the threshold with one hand braced just above his along the door’s edge.
“No, my lord: the right decision is always simple. What men often forget is that simplicity rarely negates adversity.” A smile, at last, and she departed.