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Sansa’s road ended at Winterfell.

Were she to speak the words aloud, what would the Mockingbird think of such a song? Finality; the grim reality of it. Where he had always, in his mind, revered the Stark girl for having a certain cleverness, a natural curiosity and instinct so indicative of an intelligent mind, a part of him knew, of course, that her ambition stretched only so far. In truth, she had little at all. What aspirations she had centered only around regaining a broken house, not so much as a right but so that she could best remember and honor her family, whose bones were scattered throughout Winterfell, their legacy now resting in the pale hands of a girl. A girl and her mentor.

Why did he do it? There were no notions of romance to consider; Petyr Baelish was far too pragmatic for that. Even if she had an undeniable hold on him, a sort of control he’d not granted anyone since he’d succumbed to the foolishness and innocence of boyhood. Sansa was not blind; Baelish used her for her claim, to advance his own cause, though what that was still remained cloaked in shadow. Petyr knew that she knew. The dance, then, was one of equal parts trust and manipulation, each skating a fine line of using and allowing to be used. Time would tell who stood to lose the most, or if the gains would be equal for both.

It was a certainty that Petyr’s road did not end with the Northern keep Sansa so cherished and named home.

Perhaps this was why she said yes. Only entwining the pair further could truly ensure that their path would be of unvarying value for both. Though it assumed that Sansa had a confidence that Petyr was not prepared to dispose of her as he had Lysa. As he had Harrold. As he had any number of people whose worth had simply…expired. Did the hunger slumbering in that gray-green gaze of his mean she was protected from his shifting wiles? Desire was a fickle thing, changing as often as the winds in their frantic direction. Love…ah! Did the Lord Baelish love Sansa Stark? Could she take the risk that he didn’t?

Petyr watched her blush flare hotly with a detached amusement. He knew what she meant, of course. Obliquity was the style, and Sansa Stark was not one who took well to vulgarity besides. How possibly could he tell her how many hours he would spend between her legs, ensuring her deepest satisfaction, if allowed? Conducive to nothing. They were thoughts like breath, at once formed and expelled to the great vastness, serving no one. But she was lovely, in her modesty, in her shyness. Caught in her own tangle of indiscretion. No words came from the Lord who took a great satisfaction in simply beholding the rosy hue of her face, her averted gaze, the natural instincts of a girl who still knew not quite how to bandy words of scandal. She turned away, feigning interest in some dusty tome, and Petyr felt a queer sense of pride. He could not tell if the entire thing had been a ruse. Something meant to bait him.

“Avoiding conflict entirely would be ideal,” he replied, neither addressing nor avoiding the statement. How many lives had Petyr Baelish saved with a twist of his tongue? How many had he ruined? Words were a potent weapon, and one he had historically been quite skilled at wielding. There were those still in the North to whom he might call upon should he need; he had not spent so much time collecting wards and buying up debts for nothing. If only Sansa were able to see the amassed horde of galleys and triremes sitting in the crystal harbors of Braavos. If only she knew under whose fingers they had been plucked from Northern houses. If only she knew how truly ill-equipped for war the North was as a whole, and how large a part Petyr Baelish had intentionally played in it. Under siege the North would fall with very little effort. Who better might that serve than a man with no armies at his back to command?

Sansa spoke no. A simple word, without so much as a breath’s hesitation. No. She would not have welcomed Baelish as a suitor. Why would she? Petyr’s mouth slanted crooked. At the very least she spared him the condescending laugh Catelyn might have paired with such a statement, as if to further inure him to the folly of his feelings. She stared at him; she stood a marble figure, firelight shimmering over carved cheeks and hollowed eyes, far too dark for his liking. A shoulder lifted, as though what would follow was something flippant, no more than a lyrical note in some silly song. Yes.

It was a game, of course. Everything between them was. Sansa either baited him or she willingly sacrificed an important piece. Looking back at her, he found his thoughts were jumbled. His greatest weakness, perhaps, being that he seemed perpetually unable to have clarity in his thoughts when so near to her, when tempted by the vision of Sansa Stark. Of course he seemed a preferable match when one looked to strangers she had never meant. Petyr did not take her confession as indication that she held any measure of affection for him; Sansa, too, was a pragmatic creature, able to shunt away emotions in favor of doing what best benefited her. For a long time, Baelish had watched her do it, marveled, even, at her self realization and control, at the ability to tune everything out and settle on the straightest path towards success.

A laugh, soft, no more than a breath truly, escaped him as he neared her, closing the distance between them, lifting a hand to take loose hold of auburn waves spilling over her shoulder. It was her hair he was looking at, much like that day so long ago at the King’s Tournament, seemingly transfixed by its color. Indeed, his mouth grew tighter, and Sansa could almost bear witness to the thoughts running amok in his head as Petyr shuffled about ideas, pieces, schemes and knowledges. Plans formulating and scattering in the space of a breath. The pad of his thumb shifted over the strands of her hair, moving them about.

For a long while, he was quiet.

“Your mother’s mother was a Whent.”

Silvery-green shifted to meet shadowed blue; in them the roguish glint of fortuity gleamed with each wending waver of candlelight. Then, as though remembering himself, he unhanded ruby tresses, and stepped aside her, gazing out of one of the library’s beveled windows, a private smile unintentionally reflected through the glass.

“Do you find yourself any more amenable towards retiring, my lady?”

A thousand thousand outcomes could spring out of that single, quiet confession. Sansa, in truth, had considered very few. Yes, I should like you to ask for my hand. Sealing their alliance in so permanent, so public a manner eliminated a great many of the possibilities which at one time or another must have whirled through the Mockingbird’s mind. And for a time chaos served him well; her too, though the girl entered into it far less willingly, blind to the path on which she walked. Yet the building of a castle, the founding of a kingdom which had long ago knelt in recognition of another, greater throne, spoke to the development of order. Inevitably such progress demanded the abandonment of many promising avenues in favor of pursuing those few deemed most worthy.

It was no bait, though. Petyr would not beat her, would not keep her in discomfort, understood acutely the value in blood and spirit alike that a daughter of the Riverlands and the North held. Hardly a love match, a marriage between Stark and Baelish could easily benefit them both. Him more than her, perhaps; Sansa knew that the suspicions of certain Lords Declarant would be echoed, even amplified, were she to bring Petyr to her home as more than a valued friend. 

“Peace and war alike carry a certain inevitability with them.” Could they forge a peace, together? Would he want to?

Sansa was not mad, as Lysa had seemed those final days; nor was she filled with a boastful sense of immortality, as Hardyng had been. She spoke of bedding down beside a man personally known to exhibit fleeting, deadly favoritism, but steadfastly believed herself beyond such inconstancy. Their lessons, such as they were, convinced her. No man so clever as Petyr gifted disposable pieces with time and knowledge wasted in death. One did not build with brick and mortar when cheap lumber would suffice for a time. In cultivating her wit, her independence, Baelish satisfied an ego she had yet to discover bounds for, but created in Sansa a possible downfall as well. 

Over time she grew more and more aware of the dichotomy, the risk he took, in a way, by equipping his prized piece for queendom. Whether born from an affection towards the mother, or an interest wholly independent of parentage, Sansa nonetheless felt that it had come time for her to take an equally ambitious gamble of devotion. Most worrying were the impulses untied to pragmatism; lingering touches when he renewed a chestnut stain, intrepid advances in his solar, the inescapable intimacy of two souls bound in lies and blood. A gory net to be sure, that which ensnared so red a bird, yet Sansa caught herself wearing it as a cloak.

She could not fathom a cause for refusal, making his ponderous silence all the more troublesome. Had Sansa misjudged him, the ties which kept them close? Was he now thinking of poisoned stones or open doors upon a mountaintop, rather than a septon, a marriage bed, a crown? Had sentiment, however weak, proven her undesirable? My mother. Riverine eyes drifted from his face, downward to where copper vines tumbled over rings of office. He thinks of my mother, nothing more. Would he call me Cat as well? Lysa’s words could still echo in an empty bedchamber, jolting the girl from sleep.

“Smallfolk oft feel warmly towards names long known. The Whents were kinder to the Riverlands than any Slynt or Lannister.” Unbidden, a fear of curses gnawed at her belly. Give it to Walder Frey, Sansa told him once. Petyr could give it to him yet…then let the keep rot.

She smiled though, swift and soft, before he stepped away. An excuse. A connection. A thread, however tenuous, that might strengthen both their claims. Sometimes Sansa marveled that he still put any weight to childish suspicions and signs; mayhaps he only spoke of them to tempt her own whimsical tendencies.

“Less and less, I must admit.” Did he agree? Had he accepted? What was to come next? In her mind a hundred thoughts stumbled over one another in a haste to be considered. Petyr’s enigmatic statement of fact did nothing to resolve the matter. Where once she might have pressed, Sansa held her tongue. In that single word she asked of Baelish more than he had ever thought to give, perhaps, and surrendered her lofty perch of detachment. To seem eager, or even anxious, gave him more leverage than she wished.

Walking as she spoke, Sansa drew up behind Petyr, peering over one shoulder at the white expanse below. “But, if there remain labors which demand your attention…I would accept an escort to my chambers gratefully.”