How long had it been? Two weeks? Three weeks? Time suspended without the reminder of dates and times and the need for punctuality. The thick haze of alcohol – that helped too. The door was unlocked. There was no reason for Baelish to leave his door open save for the simple reason that he was, at some point, expecting her. Oh, it could be attributed to laziness, to a lack of caring, to the confident knowledge that there was little chance he stood to be burgled or bothered with, and it would all certainly be true. Except he was expecting her, waiting for her to come bearing down, looking for answers.
And she had.
Ragged was, perhaps, a generous description. Baelish was downright slovenly; unshaven, worn-out, and without a doubt drunk. This was not his ordinary, comfortable, functioning drunk, where a glass had existed in a place long and well enough to leave rings behind, but the sort of drunk that inspired rumors of a town lush who staggered and ambled and reeked and who sung songs at inappropriate times. It would become obvious to her almost immediately when he regarded her, turning his head with a bit of a bobble and a lean. There was a redness to his eyes that could not be attributed to a lack of sleep. Baelish sniffed, laughter bubbling up and spilling out of a too-dry throat; it sounded raspy, like a winter’s barren breeze. “Did she?” This thought entertained him, but he didn’t expand on it. He knew Sansa was there, hungry for an explanation, and so without fanfare he fed it to her:
“She was already ruined.”
Ruined, in the way that he hadn’t wanted to ruin Sansa on their last night spent together in the Capitol. Johanna hated him, certainly. She hated Sansa, too. She hated everyone and everything. It was the only thing that kept her alive.
She was ruined.
Long before Petyr had sold her to Lapworth she’d been ruined. Since before her family had been butchered all because she’d refused to cooperate with the Capitol’s whims. Johanna had been ruined the instant her name was plucked from that crystal reaping bowl; Petyr still remembered the look in her eyes, that hollow nothingness, and the way her fingers curled, digging half-moon wounds into her palms as she’d walked stiffly up to the podium.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” There was an absent smile on his face, as though he found something privately amusing. “I helped you.” Isn’t that what she’d asked for? His help? Not that sort of help, he imagined. Not the sort of help that meant she was only saved because it condemned someone else. That was the kicker, of course: that’s the only help there was now.
With startlement she realized that however unkempt or disheveled the house had seemed on her first visit, its state paled in comparison to current conditions. A faint whiff of rotten sweetness tinged the air, as though he always took out the garbage a day too late. No food lay scattered across flat surfaces attracting flies, though there were at least half a dozen empty glasses, identical to the one filled and sweating on an adjacent table, littering the room. She suspected that upstairs his bed would be unmade — or worse, unused — while beyond a darkened doorway his refrigerator chilled only air and empty shelves. That laugh pained her. All Sansa wanted, oddly, was to fetch him a glass of water, comb back his hair, and put him to sleep. This was no way in which to talk about debts and secrets, much less demand explanations for something that clearly came at a steep cost. Then Petyr spoke of ruination, his reason for that dastardly switch.
Her first emotion? Guilt. I did this to him, to them both, Sansa thought. No one else was supposed to get hurt. I never wanted someone to take my place; I just wanted them to leave me in peace! Over and over the wheel turned, those who dared climb atop it also fueling the motions which would later crush others so unfortunately in its path. Regardless of how many obstacles, how many bodies one flung before it the great thing kept spinning; Snow’s will — and this, like all other misfortunes, found claimed roots in presidential soil — pounded inexorably forward, more reliable than a rising sun. Victim or Victor, blessed or condemned, one could not, would not exist without the other.
“That was meant to come second,” she murmured. Of course Sansa had a list. An agenda. First, make pithy opening remark. Second, thank your mentor for not prostituting you. Third, inquire after his health…
Nothing so benign as hollowness was to be found in Johanna’s eyes when the two Victors crossed paths. Instead they flared with an apocalyptic fury, surpassed only by the raging string of expletives hurled at a girl reduced to quivering silence beneath their onslaught. Some rumors said it was that explosive meeting which spurred the Stark girl’s flight back home, so fearful of another quarrel she felt it best to bide her time and let Mason’s famous temper ease. Oh, how terribly close to right they were.
“Thank you.” And then she walked across the den, uninvited, to take a seat beside him. Close enough to be considered company, far enough away as to avoid any suspicion of lewd overture. Sansa voiced no reprisals, recited no childish morality into which his actions failed to fit. Instead a hand decidedly smaller and paler than Baelish’s reached out, retrieving his drink, pressing it against her lips for an indulgent swig. There was no clinking of ice when she set it back down. “I’m sorry, if it…” Hurt you? Johanna bore the greatest hurt, not Petyr. “I should have listened. I’m sorry.”