What could Baelish possibly have said to Johanna to make her agree? Years ago she had let her family die in taking a stand against the Capitol, in her refusal to sell her body as they had wanted her and so many others to do. As they had wanted Sansa to do. What could be more precious to Johanna than her family? What would have made her bend and break? Probably Sansa would never know, never find out, for neither Petyr nor Johanna would tell her. Did it give Sansa any pause? It should. Whatever it was Petyr had done, he had done it succinctly and without compunction. If he could do it to Johanna, certainly he could do it to Sansa.
Or could he?
Why had he helped her? Because Johanna was already ruined? Did that mean by opposition that Sansa wasn’t? That he saw her through the same muted white light that the Capitol did and he absurdly fancied her to be somehow pure? Or was it something else? There had been so many adamant refusals – even that evening he had clearly expected her to capitulate and spend the evening with Lapworth. Something in that corner with the water trickling down all around them had made him change his mind. Did it matter anymore? She said thank you and the smile on his face actually faltered; she could see it wither away. Petyr said nothing.
The couch beside him bowed beneath her weight, the cushion sagging. He could smell her, although she wasn’t spritzed with designer mist or the Capitol’s latest, most favorite perfume. She smelled clean; it made him realize, absently, that he almost certainly wasn’t, and that by contrast his odor was likely quite foul. He didn’t care. Shame had never been an emotion he’d allowed Sansa to see, he wasn’t going to start now. Either too drunk to form a rebuttal or uncaring of the fact, he watched her down the remainder of his drink. “You should have.” Whatever generosity he’d felt before, it had obviously evaporated along with his sobriety. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good lesson. You don’t get something for nothing.” And what did Petyr get? Not in a million years would anyone suspect Petyr of being purely altruistic. What had Petyr gotten out of rescuing her?
“She’ll get over it.” Petyr stretched an arm back behind his head, using his hand as a makeshift pillow as he leaned back against the couch. “Or she won’t.” A smile, too slanted to be brought on by amusement. “She’s been doing it for a while…screwing those Capitol fucks. It doesn’t mean anything to her.” Except if that were true, if he believed that, then he almost certainly wouldn’t be enveloped in a fog of alcoholic fumes, holed away in his home in Seven which he’d professed to Sansa before as it being somewhere he actively disliked. Petyr had left the relative comfort of the Capitol because he hadn’t wanted to see it. He hadn’t wanted to see Johanna cavorting around with that lecherous pig who he’d sold her to. And for what? Baelish’s gaze turned to Sansa, idling on her face.
“A shame you had to waste that dress, though.“
Amber sustenance burned its way along her throat like unshed tears, collecting in a warm pool just behind her navel. She had not drunk so much, so quickly, since that first evening in the Capitol. Then, alcohol resembled a familiar friend, bubbly, sweet, spreading tendrils so delicate one hardly noticed how firmly entrenched they had become; now every droplet seemed intent on punishment, as though it could burn away each vile, selfish cell and leave her clean. Pure. How Petyr saw her. Why else would he give Johanna’s ruination as the cause for his abrupt switch? And was Sansa not already ruined, by him? Possessiveness fitted poorly with past reticence, at odds with her own efforts to wheedle the man into a state resembling enthusiasm; from the start it was Baelish who emphasized her communal qualities, driving firm his assurance of future obligations.
Besides, such a stay of execution could not last indefinitely…could it?
Closer now, Sansa could see just how far the man’s decrepitude extended. What before had been a subtle shadow of stubble — perhaps more conscientiously tended than he let on — formed the beginnings of a proper beard. Petyr’s shirt sagged from consecutive days of wear, its lack of stains not commending his neatness, rather speaking to a lack of meals. Too polite, too infuriatingly concerned to wrinkle her nose, the girl still could not help but notice how he smelled faintly similar to Jon when he returned home from a long shift…without having performed hours of back-breaking labor in the mills and forests.
And it seemed as though Petyr had it backwards: what Johanna got for bedding Lapworth, what Sansa got for her social whoring, what Baelish got for his moment of weakness. Nothing. Benefits came yet others reaped them; as it was with the Games, those born beyond Capitol borders fumbled for scraps after their labors ended. Guilt, fury, self-loathing — the prizes of exercising choice and rescuing an innocent from ruin. “I thought you’d already taught me that one,” she told him quietly. With Lapworth. A half-empty bottle sat amidst dirty glasses on the table. Sansa reached for it, the cork unstoppering with a protesting squeak, and poured them a generous double serving. Fetching herself a glass hardly seemed worthy of the effort. Rather than take another drink, though, she just pushed it back towards Baelish.
She’s been doing it for a while… Would he say that about her one day, to another, younger tribute? "I brought it back.” One could hardly wear the same frock twice — too little time gone and everyone would know, too much and half a dozen fashions would have come and and gone. Still, sheer fabric and delicate gems had no place in Seven either, amongst the sawdust and pine needles. Why then would Sansa pack it away in her case, instead of simply returning it into her team’s hands? Though all present had moaned and shrieked over how possibly they could have misinterpreted the sponsor’s requests, none paid any mind to what actually happened to his desired affectations. “I don’t know why, I just…” Sansa trailed off, unable to meet his stare, hands fidgeting in her lap. “I just wanted to come back and— and…see you.”