Far from what she believed, Petyr found no advantage in her confession. She held no airs of desperation, gave no indication that it was he who had the upper hand. Only by the scarce threads of one able to ignore emotion. Did she truly not see how much control she had? In her hands, her destiny shifted, like water, seeping through the tiny spaces between fingers, so slowly it would be easy to think it was not escaping at all, until her fingers stared back at her, dry where they ought be wet. Clever, she was, to want for Baelish. With her own eyes she had seen how easy it was to move him, to negotiate terms, to get what she wanted. Finally, she was beginning to learn how to use the weapon perched at her shoulder, beginning to see the usefulness of it, rather than simply feeling the heavy press of its weight.
She had to know that Baelish had no true interest in peace. Chaos is where the Mockingbird thrived, able to sinuously weave between the cleaves of axes and sheaves of arrows, planting seeds in soil fertilized by the ruin of others. Stability was dangerous for one who thrived on entropy and the tumult of the realm. There was much yet to be done before Petyr Baelish would ever agree to the sort of serenity that Sansa Stark dreamed about. He would make her Queen, to be certain, but her lands would bleed. They would call it a red winter, far bloodier than any one wedding. The snow would run ruby beneath her rule, before she saw the verdant shimmer of spring. No, he would not beat her nor keep her in discomfort, but did she, could she, understand what he would do? It was not only her claim which Baelish found so very enticing, but her name. Ah! What a lovely, unexpected garnish the last Stark would prove for her staunch Northern legacy.
“Nothing carries inevitability, my dear,” Petyr corrected, his smile unctuous. “And you will find I am rather adept at handling smallfolk.” Naturally, of course; it was not difficult to remember just how far the Lord had climbed from his spit of rocks and sheep dung. It was not the smallfolk who gave him pause when it came to Harrenhal: confident, he was, that he would be able to sway the Riverlands – and most especially with a Tully in tow. There were other issues with the ruinous keep which kept him at bay – not the least of which were certain superstitions, as unthinkable as it might seem. There was still the matter of procuring heirs that must needs be addressed, before foot was to be set in Harren the Black’s cursed keep.
But all of that would take time.
Less and less, she spoke, and Baelish shifted his eyes enough that it was she he looked at, by way of reflection, rather than the endless abyss of snow and ice pouring down from the Eyrie tower. Even through glass she was a vision, smooth and pale, framed by a halo of shocking red. No, he did not agree, though he failed to see how her simply admitting that she might have entertained the notion of him posing as suitor constituted any sort of pact to be entered into. It merely provided another avenue that might otherwise be explored. To accept would be foolish at such a point. There were people who would need mollifying first, Northern Sers to whom Baelish had planted the seed of Sansa Stark’s hand in marriage. There were at least a dozen affairs which would need to be wrapped up and ushered aside. No, no, he did not agree, could not agree, unless he wished to provoke the insatiable rage of the Vale and the North both.
Even now, there were men who rode astride their steeds Southward with the hopes of catching the fair lady’s eye. They would need to be dealt with, carefully. A situation would need to arise, something which painted the Lord Baelish in a more favorable light, one in which it would be understandable that the young Stark girl would accept him as a husband. A problematic stratagem, for a relationship which had been advertised so heavily as paternal.
“Do you find yourself so awakened by the written word?” he posed, smiling wryly at her through window’s mirror. A rustle of brocade and he faced her directly. “Or something else, perhaps?” At her waist she would feel the brush of his palm before it settled there in the natural dip. “I would be happy to escort you.” Was he so quick to be rid of her? Ah, but there were so many letters which needed to be penned, at once, with such news having only just dawned. Petyr’s mind ran amok with the conversations he would need to have – and conversations he would need to stifle.
“Mayhaps my lady could take a book to keep her company?” Nothing so lurid as accounts of Aegon and his wives, if his tone were to be believed. The subtle stroking of his thumb along her gown’s delicate embroidering, however, told another tale.
Sansa hated to think of a match as using him or taking advantage, no matter what truth the matter held. Prettier terms, like strategy or logic appealed to her more. And such words were not lies: the Lord Protector had ample gold and enviable friendships, as well as a keen mind for the Game she would not hone for years yet. Setting aside whatever strange intimacy of flesh and mind had blossomed between them, Sansa knew ‘twas better to keep the Mockingbird tethered at her side with vows of matrimony than risk his flight elsewhere. Not that wives fared well under Lord Baelish’s care. But she was not her aunt, devoted blindly to the man a slight little boy had become. Oh, Sansa saw his faults, every treacherous pitfall contained therein — or at least enough to be wary.
“Nothing?” Half-raised mouth betrayed her skepticism. “Only very little, perhaps.” Surety of outcome, such as the kind Baelish almost constantly nurtured, could only come from a sense of the inevitable. Petyr could not alter a man’s nature or the fundamental core of him bequeathed at birth; he could, however, rely upon them. Northern pride, a desperate want for stability in the Riverlands, suspicion in the Vale: with the quiet endorsement of Sansa Stark buoying him, Baelish needed little else. “As I never was,” she murmured, teasing smile falling away. Perhaps if she had not been so frightened after the king’s betrayal, Sansa might have known how to sway the commons in her favor. Would it have mattered, all those faceless souls in Fleabottom crying out the Stark girl’s name instead of Margaery’s? Would it have helped her, or Robb?
She wondered also what Baelish saw reflected back at him in ice-blue glass. Though he spoke rarely and often in abstract terms of her time as Joffrey’s plaything, Sansa knew the Lord was not oblivious to vicious treatment by royal and guard alike. In his shadow, with the helpful ruse of bastardy granting her added spirit, the girl strove to grow away from the bruises and disappointments of her past. And yet, of all those around Sansa know, only he could still see them. Indelible marks that sometimes left her shivering in the face of change, that inspired loyalty or disdain with equal vehemence. All signs of a child’s mind and heart, though ones she sought to swiftly smother. Was it that frightened girl Petyr saw reflected back at him, Sansa wondered. Could that be the reason for his ambivalence?
Some part of it surely lay in the knights and lords she knew he had already parleyed with in regards to her hand. Northerners particularly met such offers with enthusiasm. The girl purported to be her sister — Arya! In Winterfell! To think! — had not only fled the keep with one of the Bolton bastard’s pets, but was chased by whispers of deception. If Lord Roose had indeed presented some whore’s whelp as the binding tie between his house and the northern seat then no hope remained unto him; meanwhile, liege lords held captive by vows to Lannister-appointed warden still desired their Stark. Sansa’s wish for familiarity, for comfort, for control only emphasized lingering immaturity.
And no man had need of that.
Little wonder he failed to care or even flinch at her admission. As a girl she was a pawn, a thing to be moved from square to square upon the board; as a woman, however, Petyr might take such matters with more seriousness. Sansa gave him the sort of thankful smile oft bestowed 'pon Harrold; he would know it well. They played the game more directly now, with one another, no less meaningful for a deceptively smaller scale. Atop her bodice, ten slender fingers laced in a lady’s own working of armor. Sansa did not step into the grazing embrace, nor did she make to brush it aside.
“Or something else, perhaps.” Sansa had never played the coy innocent with him before — she simply was. Men expected experience, womanly wiles; their patronage at Baelish’s establishments affirmed as much. Though until now her lack of genuine guile seemed enticement enough, Sansa had no means of knowing whether it was the naif or the vixen he truly desired. Before contemplation could give too great a pause, she leant forward, bridging what little distance remained between them to press her lips in chaste, simple kiss to his.