Sansa tried to remember how it had led to this, memory sluggish in current state. Keep-away. She had stolen a tie as he packed, finely woven silk of thread which gleamed jade, then silver, dependent upon the light; when she remarked on it Baelish explained that their dear escort often bid him wear it, a dashing accessory meant to bring out his eyes. In all their time together he rarely deemed any item essential to his packing — whatever one needed, the Capitol could supply it as readily, and far more fashionably, than any counterpart acquired within district boundaries. With a juvenile cry of glee she snatched it away, racing halfway down the stairs before realizing Petyr did not pursue.
His fur was dark, a rarity among their kind. He was big too, though most of it came from a coat sleek and thick, rather than ungainly fat. She crouched low among weeds turned grey and dun at winter’s height, forgetting how a bottlebrush tail peeked jauntily above their prickles, a coppery banner ill-suited to their white world. One her age would have pounced, nipped playfully, attempted to pin the young vixen on her back; he circled around, vanishing behind a snow bank only to appear several feet away at her side. From his haunches the grey stranger watched her, tail swishing across the topmost layer of frost, eyes gleaming an eerie shade of green as twilight fell.
He followed her. When she ran with her litter mates, or slipped between the trees, snuffling in search of burrowing mice. Her shadow, always. At times the wind betrayed him, carrying the barest whisper of his scent; other times she found impressions of his paws beside hers, fresher, though after another freeze it might look as though they had run together. Others trailed after her as well, younger, bolder, more obvious with their intentions. Scuffles broke out, teeth flashing amidst red swirls of fur, yips and howls driving her away before any victor was crowned. That was where he found her, curled beneath a shrub, its spindly branches barely camouflaging the shock of fur huddled around its roots. A field mouse dangled by the tail from his mouth, dropped before he circled away, settling to watch from a distance. She approached the gift slowly, creeping forward with her belly coasting over crisp flakes. It was still warm, freshly caught; she finished it with two quick bites.
This time when he turned away she trailed behind, loping through snow and over stone until he came to a gap between the rocks: his den. More frightened than before, the vixen darted off, nails scrabbling on frozen ground until more familiar woods emerged.
She did not see him for several risings and settings of the sun. Fights became more frequent, and she knew one of them would prove impressive enough to win her companionship. A group of them had clustered beside a stream turned to ice, the boldest leaping to and fro across its surface. Up on the edge of that shallow ravine she saw him, verdurous eyes winking against a backdrop of grey and black and grey. Not once had she seen the reynard with another, nor smelled him on those she ran with, strange for one his size. Climbing up to meet him, confronted with ambivalence, she jumped into a crouch, front paws splayed out before her with back legs stretched up, tail aloft. An invitation — play! He stared back, impassive. She pounced, leaping into him only to fall aside; over, around, behind, she ran and jumped and swished, anything to coax him into movement. On her next lunge forward he caught her, mouth lightly clasping her throat and easing her towards the ground. In hazy memory she knew her father did this to unruly kits; submissive, the vixen curled in on herself, paws tucked beneath her belly, ivory-tipped tail wound around one flank. He released her. No snarl bared his teeth, nor did he stalk away, victorious. Instead he settled down beside her, ribs pressed to ribs, charcoal tail looped towards hers.
When she rose at last he did not follow, and with hesitant steps did she pad away.
Another day passed, then another. Light lingered less, her littermates disappearing two by two as snow fell heavier in their wood. Though several still vied for her attention their numbers had diminished, many settling for a more approving mate. She found him in the shelter of an ancient spruce, dense needles capturing drifting crystals before they could touch his coat. He would have heard the crunch of frost beneath her paws, smelled her on the crisp and constant wind, yet still she crept forward as with the mouse, circling its trunk until they faced one another. She leaned forward slowly, nose outstretched; with only a few hairs between them he twitched, noses pressed together in a warm, humid kiss.
Then over her nose did his chin sweep, easing her head against greyish chest. The vixen remained quite still, transfixed by a steady thumping in pricked ear that sounded so much like a rhythm of her own. Again he slipped away, again she followed, those once-strange stones crawling past them as the pair loped along in dusky light. When he paused again at gaping blackness she no longer felt afraid, admiring now the den’s sturdiness, its clever disguise, the isolation from others of their kind. The reynard slipped inside and she bounded after him, frigid soil giving way to a cushion of leaves and grasses and him.
Inside was warm, and safe, and home.
It should have frightened her. No matter how often it happened or how familiar it felt, Sansa knew her instincts had dulled, reactions slowed, a sense of trust developing that might prove detrimental to them both should it strengthen. In daylight it rarely mattered: she could see Petyr, Petyr could see her. Every move telegraphed a moment before, restraint’s origins frankly known. It was in the night she trusted too readily, first thoughts when born back to that indigo plain turning to Baelish, not a foe. His hands were large, or else her face was small, clamped palm and squeezing thumb sometimes threatening to suffocate her by accident, the girl growing dizzy before pressure eased, air filling her lungs like water.
That night he took first watch, an arrangement Sansa often tried to reverse; some mornings she would awaken having missed her duty, the man gruffly muttering how he hadn’t seen a need to raise her. Maybe it was just pity, or misguided affection, but in the wasteland through which they trod nothing came without a price. This uncertain, sporadic debt discomfited her, leaving nagging questions as to what he expected in return. Such doubts chased after Petyr’s generosity, a pack of creophagous scavengers.
Except now, jolted awake by a callused hand, only faint stars and a milky filtering of moonlight greeted Sansa. Not morning, not even dawn. Trouble, then. Two days ago they had stumbled upon an abandoned den shallowly dug among a tree’s roots. After crawling inside, his belly sloughing dirt and crumbling leaves when he emerged, Baelish declared it long abandoned, suitable for a few days’ shelter. It offered a narrow view of the surrounding forest when inside, though such limited sight also meant a passing stranger was far less likely to investigate, or even spot their hideaway.
Happy, she scolded herself. You are supposed to look happy. Many of the men complained at their lack of transfer. They wanted to walk the streets of Paris, send expensive perfumes back to wives and girlfriends before they gorged on every delicacy on offer. Poland had no such luxuries, not that appealed to such discerning tastes. It was a country of grey and black, its people hard-pressed to conjure smiles under even the simplest of imperatives. Baelish, too, would remain in Krakow, an invaluable asset who had already wrought such impressive changes within its borders. Sansa felt relief, then a terrible welling of guilt, when he told her.
traveler’s woes
Another inn, another meal of tepid stew and sour wine. A slender girl already, Sansa’s frame only diminished since their journey’s beginning. No amount of jovial cajoling from her husband could make her appetite any greater, nor could it ease the vague unsubtle worries which gnawed upon her thoughts, kept her wakeful until the dawn. Harrenhal. A cursed keep for a cursed lady — what else could she be? Father murdered, siblings and mother scattered to the winds, an ancient family name garnering the eldest daughter a whoremonger for her mate. Now this peddler of flesh carried Sansa northward, though not far enough, to dwell amongst ghosts.
