Far from rebuke; Petyr did not have empathy for the blind. Bodies carelessly cast to the slaughter, for his means, their means. If a man chose to fight for matters of duty or honor, for another man’s glory, then it was his choice to do so. In a time of war, a time of unrest, matters of loyalty could and did continuously shift from one to another. Perhaps it was what Petyr Baelish found so insufferable about the North; they would hold strong to their designs even if it meant their entire country would bleed and burn for it. Yet they were not so strong, so enduring as they liked to believe. One Lannister decree naming Bolton the Warden of the North, and not a single cry of uprising was heard from the houses self-named proud and honorable. No, Petyr did not rebuke Sansa for neglecting to feel pity or sorrow towards those who fought and died. Perhaps what she heard lurking under his voice was her own, fleeting feelings of guilt. Then that was what ambition was in this game, the game of thrones. One rarely gained anything at all without it coming at the cost of another. Certainly nothing so grand as a royal title. Each step one took was plodded on the broken backs of others. The good would, inevitably, suffer guilt.
So long as Sansa could stomach it, she would do very well.
Petyr stood to risk much by shifting the focus to Sansa. Petyr stood to risk all. A great deal of his plans would remain, temporarily, out of his control. Both a frightening and oddly thrilling premise. As clever and shrewd as she was, Petyr knew that what Sansa wanted would always come before anything he might hope to gain. Petyr knew, if fate brought her to him in opposition, he would be unable to cut her down. In that, he had perhaps found his ultimate adversary. A piece he was unwilling to best or cast aside.
As great a danger as she was an ally.
“No, I do not think I have.” Petyr’s smile was quiet, but sharp. “You knew it would not come without cost. Blood is a slippery currency, but it is currency all the same. No great house and its power is handed over for free, Lady Stark.” Petyr enunciated her name clearly, with a pointed emphasis on the consonant stop. “The Boltons paid a hefty sum for it, and there will be some to whom a claim is not enough. A claim is only worth as much as those who support it. What is one Stark for another? The realm is tired of houses squabbling amongst themselves; there was nothing to gain from Renley and Stannis standing divided when an alliance would have driven the lions from their den.”
Petyr paused, reconnoitering Sansa’s countenance, arranging the next words on his tongue.
"You are a woman.” Far from blunted. “You know as well as I the North respects tradition above all. Strength, loyalty, physicality. They will not be quick to bend the knee to you, no matter whose daughter you are, whose name you trail behind you, how kind you are.” It went unspoken: it would be prudent to align yourself with a familiar name. With a man.
"Would you prefer I consign this letter to the flames?” A curious arch of brow. Petyr fingered the edge of the missive. Should Sansa prefer Hardyng to Karstark, Umber, or Manderly, then it would, at least, ensure the support of the Vale remained on their side.
Jaw worked from one side to the other, the only outward proof of her rather childish inclination to chew upon the nubbed and spongy surface of her tongue whilst thinking. To believe herself empowered, a young woman with any measure of true influence, was the height of folly. Sansa knew her role at such a juncture, that of a banner with pulse and breath and charm. No one conquered from nothing, no one save Petyr. Robert Baratheon boasted the might of several great houses at his back, and before him the Targaryens flew on mighty creatures no army could best. She, by contrast, had only a newly forged marriage soon to be severed. The Vale lords may feel some stirrings of pity for a young woman mistreated and misplaced, but even with the growing distractions seizing the capital, the daughter of an executed traitor once fostered in their midst did not demand great hosts of soldiers as the weight of Winter settled in.
With news of Harrold’s death, their support would waver on a knife’s edge and eventually be lost. It was the North to whom Sansa must turn for strength, for support, for victory. Men who had not seen the girl in years, and who may yet believe preposterous tales of poison and bat wings. The self-doubt that so oft threatened to distract had to vanish, and swiftly. Without Harry, without the Vale, only Petyr remained.
As capable of raising her high as bringing her low. A risk unavoidable, so firmly twined were their paths now.
“There is a difference,” she articulated, “between understanding the cost of one’s choices and relishing the payment. I may consider these tidings good, yet sill mourn what was suffered to bring them to pass.” Sorrow, however, would not settle on her features. Contemplation, serenity, edged with the latent frustration of dealing with one less saccharine in disposition than herself, but no tears or flesh pinked by grief. “You know as well as I there is no other, Petyr.” Sansa inherited a kingdom, and a castle whose halls paid host to wraiths. Better a woman, the last of an ancient line, than men who proved their disregard for divine law. “They paid nothing. They have no claim.” Words remained calm, a chill of dissent playing against a rising heat in her veins. “Were Robb…”
Sansa looked away, to the knot of fingers twisting in her lap. Were Robb alive, you might never have stolen me away. Conjecture was useless and wasteful, she reminded herself. “My choices would follow a different course, were he alive.” Winterfell was her duty now, not a whim or avaricious grasp at power. Mulling his words, she pushed aside any retort born of disappointment or dissent. What did the North esteem more, sex or sigil? Were it the former, only one course of action stood open. A husband, unfortunately, complicated things: the balance of power, questions of control…the strange, unaddressed shift in how Baelish and Sansa might communicate.
“No.” Her chin jerked up, eyes turned back to his. Hardyng had already perished in her thoughts; to resurrect him would shake Sansa profoundly. Nonetheless, thoughts alone of a third marriage set her stomach to rocking as it had upon the Merling King. “You say the North is proud. Assistance, any wise man would stomach; occupation…” With Harrold, the North would amount to little more than an acquisition of the Vale, rather than a kingdom in its own right. “I wish to be included. I am a woman twice-wedded, after all: that ought afford me some measure of choice in the matter.” One Sansa would much prefer not to make at all.