Sansa caught him by surprise. Maybe he wasn’t prepared to be called out on his drunken bullshit or maybe he hadn’t expected her to be so frank. No. He hadn’t expected repayment; he hadn’t even figured he’d earned any.
That hadn’t been why he’d helped her, although the real reason behind
it was far worse to admit than existing under the expectation of not getting something for nothing. It was the same reason he’d not looked the other way and faded into the apathetic role of bystander during her Games as he had for so many years prior. It was who she was, or, rather more accurately, whose daughter she was.
Petyr still thought of Catelyn often; very likely he’d thought of her
during those moments when he was slicked with sweat and rutting with her
daughter.
Sansa wondered how Baelish had been before? Not
so clever, at least not in the way she would have appreciated. He’d
been small for his age, weak, relegated to simpler, softer duties than
hefting axes and carrying bundles of logs. But he’d been a kind boy,
friendly, perhaps unusually bright and inquisitive. Truth be told he
didn’t remember much of himself or how he existed before the Games, the
boy that he had been having long ago faded away. What he did remember
was the intensity of his feelings he’d felt for a red-headed girl. Not a Stark,
but a Tully. She’d had the same red hair as Sansa, if not a little
duller, and the same pale skin. More importantly she’d had the same blue
eyes, more brilliantly blue than the streams cutting and weaving their
way through Seven’s forests. They were more like the blue of a clear
summer sky, and just as warm. Catelyn had been equal parts sweet and
cruel to Petyr, teasing him, leading him on, beckoning with one slender
finger only to shut the door at the last moment. She’d let him kiss her a
few times, on the cheek and on the lips, always laughing in a way that
sounded beautiful even in its playful mockery.
Petyr had been besotted.
He’d been in love, he was certain, and though the true complexities of
love could never be entirely revealed to a boy of his age it did not
diminish what he’d felt. He had loved Catelyn so much that even when
she’d rejected him after his return and victory from his Hunger Games,
he’d never stopped wondering. He’d stood by and watched as she
fell into the arms of Eddark Stark, and nursed the ache in his gut when
she gave him children. Petyr spent more time in the Capitol than he did
in the district, but he never stopped wanting the same things
he’d wanted as a boy. Simpleness. Affection. Companionship. Comfort. And
so when Sansa Stark’s name had been called out on that fateful morning
nearly a year ago, it would have been easy for him to succumb to the
spiteful wrath which had filled him for so many years. It was the memory
of his affinity for her mother which goaded him into action. He’d saved
her because of Catelyn. Both the first time, and the second.
Petyr frowned somewhat, taking abject offense to the notion that he expected her to prostitute herself – for him.
But he didn’t care so much as to say anything in his defense. He’d been
letting her do it – trade her flesh for favors – since that night in
Snow’s mansion. Why should she believe he intended for anything
different now? Though his name had not been intricately stamped on some
official dossier with detailed instructions on how best to tantalize
him, he still let her open her legs and serve as a buffer for the less
savory business happenings between them. “Yeah,” he both agreed and
deflected in the same syllable.
With less pleasure than he
thought he might have, he watched her swallow the alcohol. There was
never any certainty about her. Baelish was always left with the distinct
impression that she did what she did because of someone else’s
expectation, and never her own. He suspected this was a symptom of
winning the Games, but he could not be certain, having never known her
or spoken to her before them. Why did she have such a need to please?
The light glinted copper and red against the amber liquid, and Petyr
felt suddenly seedy, as though he’d lured her into his den of iniquity
and forced her to dampen her sensibilities with liquor. “For me,” he
replied, a sharpness to his tone. He reached across her, curling his
fingers about the glass and sliding it from her grasp. “You know. Misery loves company.
That sort of thing.” He held up the glass. “Anyway you’re only as drunk
as the most sober person in the room.” With a bitingly false smile he
emptied the remainder of the alcohol; a hiss through his teeth told her
that it burned. With a tap he set the glass back down, rising to his
feet, surprisingly steady for the amount of booze he must have consumed
over the last few hours, days, weeks.
“I wish you would
have called,” he drawled in retort. “I might have penciled in a shower.”
A hand lifted to rub over his face, scratching at the thick layer of
stubble, hooking idly into the top of his shirt and stretching it down.
“You can come back tomorrow.” His hair, messed and untended, seemed
inordinately thick and lush, wavy and with a bit of curl to it that
caught the light as he stepped into the sun, squinting miserably as
though he’d been living in a cave. For a moment he stared across the
gravel sea, looking towards Sansa’s house. It seemed empty, but how was
he to know? Petyr’s hand settled on the door knob, ready to open the
door and usher Sansa on her way. “Or…” he paused, sweeping his gaze
back towards her, heavy with drink and a lack of morality. “You can join
me.” And then his gaze turned and flicked suggestively up the stairs
(his home’s layout the very same as hers), towards his bedroom and the
bathroom and the shower.
Yeah.
Why flee the Capitol then, if gratitude dictated Sansa come to him with her body willingly offered? Doubt teased at her, nearly urged the girl to speak, yet finally she let his sentiment stand uncontested. Before that list their encounters had progressed simply, predictably; though everything that ran beneath each meeting — dark undercurrents of memory, need, loneliness — swirled into an unrecognizable miasma, its force seemed easily ignored, never threatening to sweep away impassioned lovers. Now she felt the weight of expectations, unvoiced and unfulfilled, suffocating whatever ease the pair had cultivated before venturing back to Snow’s domain.
Perhaps that faint unbalancing made her so compliant, swallowing down bronzed liquid as though it was the Elixir of Life. Anything to recall how they first coupled, once violent desperation ebbed and familiarity took hold. This…expression of distress, made plain by dirtied glasses, empty bottles, a cloying whiff of rotted food, matched poorly with Baelish’s prior aloofness. She didn’t immediately know how to accommodate it. So fumble Sansa did, unguided by those helpful instructions some lackey had typed up for every other man she was meant to bed, swerving wildly at each suggestion. She couldn’t lose him. Lose him, as though Petyr had once laid in her possession. Was that how she thought of him? Hers? Alcohol billowed through her mind in a thickening fog, making fruitful introspection difficult. Instead she merely sat there, slumped on an overstuffed sofa, tilting her drink this way and that, contemplating how the colors shifted in murky sunlight.
A few droplets threatened to slop over when Baelish snatched it away, though once again all remained miraculously in crystalline prison. Copper brows furrowed, trying to retrace where she must have gone wrong, to earn such censure; drinking between them was not out of place, nor was a bit of repartee before intimate acts. Damn it, why must he make things so difficult. Even the barest motive would have satisfied her curiosity, much less the man’s grave declaration of ruin. Afterwards, spurred by shared guilt, they could rut until it all mattered just a little less. Yet now Sansa wallowed in her own misery, albeit far shallower than his, satisfaction prickling to hear him hiss in protest at an uncooperative swallow.
Confusion deepened when Petyr rose, moving towards the entryway as if in dismissal. Commingling with desire already voiced it wove knots into her belly, made worse by what must have amounted to unintentional preening on his part. No stylist’s mousse or rounded brush could create such curls, nor was he likely to muss it with abandon had they tried. His movements came so naturally, so unguarded, for a moment Sansa found herself wholly distracted from the plain attempt at banishment. That was who she had come to speak with, sit with, rut with. A man unfettered by expectation or convention, antithetical to those crowds amongst whose number Sansa must linger for years. Upon the couch she shifted, barely straightening. If he worried one of her siblings might spot their sister departing from Baelish’s abode and question why she smelled of whiskey, then Petyr’s fears were completely without foundation. Jon reported to the mill daily, taking on new duties each time an elder became too slow or suffered injury; every other Starkling sat woefully in school or, if they played hooky, were not foolish enough to wander back towards home.
Much like every other Tuesday in Seven, this one threatened to pass uneventfully.
Until he extended an invitation. Blue followed green, Sansa looking up along the banister to what tiny sliver of carpeting and wall she could see of the second floor. Showering meant they would both remove their clothes. All of them. Though it had been months since that night in Snow’s mansion, not once had the pair both divested themselves entirely before the act. Sober, she might have hesitated before answering — and no different would the answer be — but with his pilfered liquor coursing warm and sweet through welcoming veins, Sansa moved without delay. “Alright.” From the couch she rose, smile playing at her gaze but not her lips, sullen introspection lost at first mention of reconciliation. “I’d like that.” By the stairs Sansa paused, hand extended to take his, and with fingers tangled began ascending. Every step or two the girl glanced back, scared he might stop or reconsider, grip pulling him closer with each repetition.
Had Petyr ruined her? Certainly the man on the couch suffering from a
deal too many sips of alcohol hadn’t thought of it like that. He hadn’t
thought of it at all. Perhaps if he knew the truth of it, of her, of what she had been before that evening when she’d accosted him in Snow’s mansion – perhaps then he would have taken different steps. Everything, in fact, would have been different. None of it would have happened.
And so the innocuous flutter of an unintentional lie had spun out of
control and changed the course of a great many things. The value of purity, even its perception, was quite high. Men would pay for it. Men would sacrifice for it. Men would go to war
for it. Even Petyr had taken measures to secure something he believed
Sansa’s to possess, though it was not purity of the flesh which he
fought for, but perhaps an ever more rare purity of the heart and mind.
Something uncorrupted in a world of ultimate corruption seemed worth
saving, though its rescue and preservation would, in the end, be as
futile as rescuing a kitten from a busy road only to place it back in
its home within a garbage filled alley. Petyr hadn’t saved her;
he’d simply delayed the inevitable. For she was right: no stay of
execution was indefinite, and he would not be able to intervene each
time a powerful member of the Capitol’s upper echelons wished to spend a
private evening with Seven’s latest victor.
So what was it then? A show of good will? A metaphorical olive branch
which he hoped might mend some of the quarrel between them? It seemed
too extravagant to be that when a simple apology would have sufficed. It
was impossible, then, to know what Baelish had been thinking or what he
thought of sitting there beside her.
She wouldn’t look at him
and Petyr didn’t quite know what to make of it. He didn’t quite know
what to make of the fact that she was there at all, pouring drinks and
helping herself to them. He’d not been so out of sorts in a while, he
realized, and this was further confirmed by the way he struggled to read
the time. He squinted towards the same dusty clock on the wall which
had once told him he was in danger of missing his train. The same clock
he’d ignored in favor of finding physical satisfaction with the girl
beside him on the couch. The numbers were blurred, the second hand
moving too fast or too slow for him to focus. He gave up and decided it
must be somewhere near midday based on the way the light was filtering
in through the curtains. What actual day it was eluded him entirely. Sometime during the week, he surmised, or else Sansa wouldn’t be there. She’d be with her family, doing domestic things like playing board games or laughing jovially about this and that around the dinner table. Is that what he imagined went on in the house across the courtyard?
The
crooked smile he’d worn fell away like some discarded paper mask. The
corners of his eyes pinched with thought, with the inability to process a
thought. Sansa pushed the newly-filled tumbler towards him. Its amber
contents swirled and sloshed, swaying dangerously close to spilling over
the rounded lip, but always turning back the other way at just the last
second. The reflection of Sansa through the glass was distorted, a
fun-house mirror with which to view his fellow victor bulge and bow and
seem entirely too red through the distilled hue of fermented fruit mash.
“Why?” There he looked away from the freakish reflection,
turning only his head to look at her. Was it some sort of a memento she
wished to keep? The day I was almost sold to Lapworth! The gown
had been stunning. It had fit her perfectly from head to toe. It was the
sort of gown she could do anything and beguile anyone in. It was the
sort of gown she could pretend in. But what point was there in bringing it to Seven where she had no need of a dress to achieve any of it? In Seven she
was already something of a mythical creature, looked at as more of a
character from some fable than an actual human being. They didn’t
idolize her in the same way they did in the Capitol, but she would never
be one of them ever again. Sequestered away in some forgotten
luxury village, bringing rations and reward to her district by simple
existence, shuttled to and fro from the Capitol without cause – and most
importantly, sitting atop that wretched dais and forever being a face
associated with condemning two new children year after year to the
Capitol’s bloodsport. That was all done intentionally. The Capitol never wanted its victors to be viewed as one of the people,
as someone for the citizens of the districts to rally around and
celebrate in the sort of meaningful way that a true-born hero would have
inspired. The victors of the Hunger Games were sentenced to a life in
limbo, never quite being part of the Capitol’s fold, but neither being
entirely part of their home district again either.
A slow blink came in reply to Sansa’s fumbling answer. She didn’t know either. She wanted to see him.
So she’d brought it back. For him. To wear for him. Which meant she
wanted to continue whatever it was they’d abandoned in that Capitol
hotel room. So his sacrifice – if that’s what it was – had worked in the
sense that she’d clearly forgiven him. “Oh.” It sounded more
apathetic than his stare appeared; his stare held a glimmer of interest,
though it was more of a passing thought than a solid idea. Petyr’s gaze
dropped to where her fingers worried over each other. He couldn’t
decide if she was nervous or uncomfortable. “Is this my repayment?” Ever
aware of the exchange of currency, Petyr understood that Sansa sitting
next to him had nothing to do with the idea of recompense. It was far worse than that: Baelish now represented normalcy to Sansa. Solace. A haven. A place to decompress and recuperate the things she’d lost. And what had she lost?
Save for some fragments of innocence she shouldn’t have still been
holding onto, or some trumped up ideas about chivalry and humanity. The
arm behind Petyr’s head slowly unfolded; the lines of muscle that subtly
shifted told her that he may be lean, but he was far from weak. “I
helped you, so I get to have you?” It was difficult to tell whether he
was speaking seriously or wryly, and the tilt to his head did nothing to
help. Further difficult was what he meant by the words ‘have you’. Was he speaking to her company? Her companionship? Her body?
“I
think maybe you’re not drunk enough.” With that, Baelish leaned slowly
forward, two fingers touching to the side of the glass and easing it
back towards Sansa’s side of the table. Not once did his gaze waver from
her face, as though he delighted in taking in every twitch of
uncertainty or discomfort. The entire motion seemed somehow like a
taunt, a dare, an unspoken challenge he urged her to meet.
Blue far clearer than Baelish’s fuzzed mossy stare followed its hazy track to also contemplate the clock hanging placidly on distant wall. Tick—tick—tick. Sansa discerned no profound meaning to a pulse regulated by tiny metal cogs, no statement on life’s foibles purveyed through what minuscule grains of sand were forgotten by teeth poorly meshed, and how their immeasurable errors eventually grew into entire minutes, hours of lost time. Yet how like an eye did ivory face seem. Did Petyr feel the weight of its stare? Sad, perhaps, that neither could draw parallels to those symbols so prized by civilizations of the Fertile Crescent, long since turned to dust and forgotten. Only Snow’s all-seeing-eye looked down upon the districts and their victors, an unblinking stare of inky black threatening to burn through what flimsy shelter one could find. Was he thinking of the president now? His power? What he might do were Lapworth, or any other sponsor, to complain?
Such worry washed over her but did not cling; like a brine-kissed tide it left unmistakable impressions on her thoughts, though Sansa would not think on them until much later, after they had dried and festered to an irritating, demanding itch. Instead of judgment perhaps Baelish found a certain steadiness in the predictable loops of triplicate hands, a sobering hold into which intoxicated fingers might dig. For her part Sansa saw nothing, only the time. A few minutes after eleven in the morning; not too early, not too late. She had hoped to arrange her visit in those tempting doldrums between breakfast and lunch, never guessing that Petyr would begin a liquid diet so early. Rather than speak with him and leave, she now sat well-ensconced on those familiar cushions, cheeks and tongue and throat all humming, recognizing the pattern of her actions yet somehow incapable of reversing it.
At last she watched Petyr, fingers still twiddling in her lap. Even drunk there was a certain sharpness to him, that final defense nearly unassailable by liquor or trust. Deep within that intoxicating fog lay razor-thin wit, the magnetic persuasion that had unknowingly drawn Sansa in. Slowed by whiskey she could better recognize its tells and sly mechanisms, an academic exercise instead of one that granted any true advantage. Strip away the finery, the cynicism, the aloof distance, and she found a clever boy. How terrible it must have been, to see games and politics so clearly as a child, using them to one’s advantage, to survive, only for such drive to be used as an excuse to vilify. Sansa wondered what he must have been like, before. The fantasy built itself easily: quick-witted and eager to prove himself, perhaps a little grating, but ultimately possessed of an ambition no different from the hundreds of other children born into a virtual guarantee of poverty and toil. Or maybe he was nothing like that. A glance could never tell her, and certainly neither would Baelish.
Was that what she wanted, to wear a spangled dress for him and him alone? Not an egregious leap of logic by any means, for no one else resided in Seven that she would seek to entertain in such a way. Yet that night in a Capitol hotel room had left things between them painfully clear — Petyr wanted nothing of his ruby-haired Victor. To succumb, then, to whatever impulse might compel Sansa into such a flagrant display — of what? Desperation? Desire? — led only toward humiliation. No prideful Stark would ever place themselves in the way of such harm. She spoke the truth, then, uncertain as to why or how her hands worked to fold bejeweled fabric into a little square, packing it away to ostensibly gather dust in Seven rather than the Capitol. She simply didn’t know. In their world ignorance was a dangerous indulgence, surprises born from it far more likely to harm than delight.
But she made no effort to correct Petyr. He thought Sansa wanted to wear it for him; that he had earned it, even. A gaze unfocused, vaguely contemplating the drunken mess of Baelish, resettled on that hazy green stare.
“Was that what you hoped for?” she asked in turn. “Repayment?” So many of their encounters happily swathed themselves in convenient lies; now was perhaps the closest either had come to unfettered honesty regarding their own expectations, their own desires. Movement distracted her. The limb he shifted was not as well-muscled as those of mill workers, yet neither did it have even a whisper of the doughy softness most men in the Capitol found in style. It was real. Simply the way Baelish had been designed by fate, unaltered by forced labor or outlandish fashion. And looking to his arm recalled long fingers, firm and steady, guiding her, caressing…
A blink cleared her thoughts, but not the faint pinkish blush dotting both cheeks.
“I think the past few weeks have proven that isn’t how I want to do things.” Sex, in exchange for aid. Glass raced across wood grain with a low, rattling hiss; again its contents threatened to slop over, yet Baelish had used a gentle hand. She didn’t want to get drunk, didn’t want to further confuse whatever they were or were not doing with one another, but she wanted to go back across the courtyard even less. “Drunk enough for me?” Amber caught the late morning glow seeping through shuttered windows, casting a yellow-orange glow over her face as Sansa raised it to her lips. She took one sip, then another, swallowing methodically until half the liquid had vanished. Partway through her eyes fluttered shut, all the better to disguise a faint prickling of tears brought on by its burn. When they reopened, focusing slowly on Petyr, not a trace remained. “Or for you?” For a little while she sat there in contemplative silence, Tully blue gradually narrowing with the same drugged focus that Baelish’s eyes had before. “I wish you had washed up,” Sansa declared. “I’d rather enjoy kissing, I think.”
Ah! The chill of his touch. The chill of his hands and his nose and his
lips. Whatever tactile sensations might boast otherwise, the reality was
that Petyr Baelish was not, in fact, cold. Far from it, for
whatever preternatural vitae swam just beneath his skin was hot,
boiling, and such was proven to her each time he allowed her to sup from
pale blue veins. The human shell of him – that was dead. Cold.
Corpse-like, even. But the innards of the beast were as bubbling and
thriving as any living creature, though his blood did not gush nor flow
from his wounds and it was no beating heart which kept his essence
pumping through him. Is that why she was drawn to him? There was
something magical about him, wasn’t there? A deep, dark fairy
tale, and she the intrepid heroine. Did she ever think about it, as she
stumbled further and further into the labyrinth?
The crust of
ice crunched beneath their footfalls, and Baelish smirked at Sansa’s
suggestion that he best be prepared to carry her. “When ever have I
failed in that, my dear?” It was mildly insulting, but the way he
glanced down at her told her she had no reason to take offense. “If you
twist your ankle I will take the greatest of care in mending it.” And the greatest of pleasure.
Any injury inflicted upon Sansa was always seen to by Baelish with a
zealot-like interest, from the smallest of paper cuts to the horrible
gash in her head she had once sustained in a car crash. It was always
her flaws which he seemed to focus on, delight in, have a vested stake in.
At
her next words, Petyr paused in his step, turning his head fully to
look at her. “Do you find me cold?” The glint in his gaze did nothing to
hide his mirth. “A cold lover?” One brow twitched upward. By the hand
he guided her again, turning sharply into a narrow alley between two old
buildings; it was occupied by soggy cardboard boxes and the snow had
not been cleared. Undoubtedly she would find it wretched, a horrible idea, and voice her consternation with no small amount of fervor. But before she could, Baelish had swept her off of her daintily-heeled feet, though it was far from how a lady would be carried, and more indeed how one would arrange a whore preparing to be fucked.
Through layers of cloth finery their abdomens kissed, and in such a
position it would be more than natural for Sansa to wrap her legs about
her carrier. Certainly it would come with ease when she felt the old
stone of one of the alley’s walls rough against her back. Petyr kissed
her, ardently, his mouth a possessive crush against her own, his
hands sure in their support of her body. It was a lover’s kiss, through
and through, hot and full of need. There was nothing cold about it, and
below she could even feel the press of his passion which told her it was
not some simple charade forged in order to prove her ideas wrong.
A heroine, Sansa did not fancy herself. Protagonist to her story, the central figure amidst a swirl of color and light, certainly. Yet what otherworldly lover taught was that perhaps good and evil, right and wrong, existed in a state altogether more fluid than childhood tales suggested. Though Baelish likened her to a stream, slowly eroding what was once immovable, she entertained no such delusions. In time the girl could make him privy to her wants, her needs, those small peculiarities which marked one human being as separate from the rest; indeed, he had already taken into account a great many, yet such attention to detail did not — to Sansa’s eye — change his nature, nor how he indulged feral instinct.
In every story, heroines tamed beasts. In hers, Sansa sought to join them.
“I know.” Gentle smile peeked out from beneath snowy tufts of fox. It ought have irked her, she who bucked at nearly every demonstration of control. There were moments where Sansa did wonder: was it that he believed her so utterly fragile, his care an equivalent of kid gloves and soft words meant to soothe? Then Petyr’s breath, warm, would fall upon ivory skin, his tongue sweeping slow and long across opened wounds; pulse quickened, thoughts fogged, a faint, inexorable pull calling to her through a conduit purer than loyalty or love. Blood. In those moments knowing came, a shallow understanding of what drove him, and the deeper, vital urge to follow.
Until now Baelish made such following easy. Luxury hotels, fine wines, designer clothes… oftentimes she felt just like those porcelain dolls Eddard Stark brought back from his jaunts down to London. Sansa floated through her days and nights upon a luxurious cloud, untouched by any true hardship; even violent moments — ones punctuated by teeth and tongue and pulse — found her comfortably ensconced amongst brocade cushions, enveloped in linen sheets. So did she find him cold? “Only when you wish me to,” Sansa teased, arm stretched taut as for a moment the girl made to continue on along their well-paved, well-lit path. To step into the alley’s darkened maw fingers twitched with distress, her first thought absurdly rooted in a fear of robbers. Painted lips opened with unvoiced questions, jumbled together into a faint, shocked gasp when Petyr swept her up and out of puddles glistening with an oiled sheen to wrap both legs loosely about his waist. “What— ?” Flesh understood well before mind. Even as confused query echoed down unswept cobblestones her arms looped firmly behind his nape, hips tilting forward to better feel amorous swell. Mouths worked together, her passion stoked by that first anxious quiver in her belly. When at last they broke apart, noses brushing, breath commingling, a gleam not reflected from any yellowed streetlamp flashed in sapphire rings. “Here?” Nails dug further into Baelish’s shoulders. More kisses trailed from lips to jaw, brushing at his throat where it disappeared into a collar impeccably pressed. “We might be seen,” she warned, heat coursing beneath whispered words.
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.”
He had promised her, once, that there was great pleasure to be found in submission. For too long Baelish had been alive – at least so far as one such as Baelish could be considered alive. Without a beating heart or the need to draw breath into his lungs he was almost certainly not, and yet he existed, moved, spoke, felt, and all such things meant he was at least not dead.
In being so, he had become firmly set in his ways, a mountain, a great
pillar of granite, immovable, and more importantly, not interested in
moving. As such, having the sudden, sprightly energy of a girl who
thought herself all-knowing in all things (as young girls were wont to
do) constantly surrounding him became something of a bother. Like
a stream, she was, winding and swooping and intent on seeking out the
furthest reaches of the world with watery fingers. Too, like a stream,
she flowed over him, eroding him, etching out a furrow to which she
might forever travel, reshaping him.
Such was his delight with mortality. Such was his delight with her.
Outside,
the flakes of snow found shelter in her hair; tiny white crystals
winked at him from within copper waves. Baelish liked her like that,
clad in the elements, far more than any expensive swath of silk or wrap
of fur. It transformed her into something ancient, as though she were
part of the earth itself, a goddess which predated man and his
clumsy ways. She leaned into him, the fibers of her fox brushing his
face where she trailed her nose along his skin. Her confession prompted
him to turn against her, their cheeks brushing. Across her throat his
fingers lifted in covetous brush, propping his thumb beneath her chin,
hovering his mouth just over hers. In satisfaction he hummed. He met her
gaze, and it was no man who looked down to behold his lady.
Milos stepped outside, the car all shiny wet black salted by snow, but
Baelish held a hand out to him before he could round the vehicle to open
the door.
“Let us walk home.” An absurd notion, for the manor
was several miles away, along far off fields and twisted roads. The snow
grew ever deeper by the minute. Sansa’s shoes were fit for the innards
of a posh soiree, not for tramping about through the icy cold. Surely he could not mean to walk back?
But Milos disappeared back into the car, and Baelish wove his fingers
more tightly with Sansa’s, turning to lead her down the sidewalk.
On Petyr, the snow failed to melt. Where his coat harbored vestiges of warmth, held in by black woolen fibers which lingered under the steady hum of modern heating, it slowly turned to watery droplets, staining the fabric an impossibly deeper shade. But on his lashes, his cheeks, his hands? The crystals remained intact, making it seem to Sansa as though she viewed him through a crystalline lens, slightly unfocused but imminently flattering. As her time with him continued she eventually took notice of how Baelish fitted into the natural order — or rather, how the natural order refused him. Beyond the numerous obvious matters, ones of eating and breathing and resting, Sansa had begun to see how nearly everything of natural origin granted him a certain berth, as though distance itself from that which it did not fully understand.
Except humans. Prey. They were not repelled. Sansa least of all, turning into him, against him, seeking shelter from the wind. When she did not shiver at his touch a queer thought took root — perhaps you shivered at a cold hand not because of its temperature, but from an expectation of warmth gone unfulfilled. Baelish sometimes indulged her with flushes of heat, manufactured, temporary; those illusions never convinced her, not entirely, and so she rarely shuddered to feel his bare flesh on hers.
She did blush, however, blood rushing in lurid display to both cheeks. It was not the chill breeze which made it so, but Petyr, looking down at her more like a wolf than a man. His suggestion to walk offered no pleasure — Sansa enjoyed the snow and cold well enough, though not when navigating them in an evening’s finery — yet in the spirit of cooperation she raised no complaint. A creature centuries old, Baelish made no suggestion without forethought; if he meant to stroll back to their abode, then surely some ulterior motive lurked unseen. “And if I twist my ankle?” A distinct possibility, considering the terrain and her charmingly mortal fragility. “You had best stand ready to carry me,” she warned, smiling, “unless a lover as cold as you is your preference.”
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.”
There had been a line or two about Sansa’s sudden ailment, allusions towards some problematic infection. But it wasn’t about what Lapworth couldn’t
have. Baelish knew how to pitch; he’d been doing it long enough that he
understood how things worked. No one wanted to hear about the problems –
they wanted solutions. How could Lapworth benefit from not
spending that evening – or any other – with Sansa Stark? There were a
dozen things Petyr could offer him, but nothing that Lapworth didn’t
already have or couldn’t already bargain for himself.
Except for one thing.
There
were a few names on Lapworth’s list who hadn’t been crossed off due to
varying circumstances. Some were beyond even his reach, providing more
use to the Capitol than that of a simple companion to be bought.
Others had nothing to lose and therefore no leverage with which to be
bargained for. Threats meant little to those who didn’t care. Even more
so when the person in question had won their Games with nothing more
than a stroke of luck and pure, unfettered strategy which required no outside intervention. Such a person happened to be well within Baelish’s
reach, though stood decidedly outside of the purview of others. This
person had required no parachutes to win, no sizable donations to seize
her crown, and had won quite by surprise by capitalizing on her own
perceived weaknesses to the masses and her fellow competitors alike.
This person now did primarily what she wanted and little else simply
because she had no attachments, no cares, no concerns for anyone other
than herself. This person intrigued Lapworth immensely, and on more than
one occasion he had told Petyr so.
But Johanna Mason would not be easily swayed.
Petyr
knew it was a gamble, but he knew also that he had enough of a rapport
with the stubborn, independent girl from his home district that there
might be a chance. Already Johanna was known to be wild, promiscuous, although these conquests of hers were by her choice
rather than the forced hand of the Capitol, and Horatius Lapworth was
certainly not the sort of creature she would deign to spend an evening
with. But Johanna was filled with hate, self-loathing, a terrible rage
that all but consumed her. Such a rage was easily provoked, and rage
itself was a dreadful mire of irrationality. That, Baelish
posited, was something he could exploit. Though it would neither be easy
nor simple, and he would not come out of the exchange a better man
whose conscience was clear. Saving Sansa from the deed only meant that
someone else had to take her place. Help was never free. Favors were not
simple matters of convenience. In the Capitol, all actions or inactions had a price, most of which were grave. As such, convincing Lapworth that Johanna Mason would prove a far more entertaining liaison than Sansa Stark was the easy part. Securing the participation of the other victor from Seven was decidedly more difficult, and did not come without its tolls.
No
one came looking for Sansa in her hotel room that evening. Petyr
Baelish did not arrive at her door with the soft rapping of one who had
done neither good nor bad, but something abruptly in-between. No
explanation came for anything which had transpired. The next morning,
when breakfast was delivered to her suite, there was no note from her
mentor to be found amongst the spread of freshly-squeezed juices and
decadently buttered croissants. At least…there was no note written in his hand.
Found inside of the news column delivered with her meal were several
different stories – replete with photographs – detailing Johanna’s Night on the Town. At her side was one familiarly paunchy Lapworth. And so it became obvious: Baelish had facilitated a trade. From Stark to Mason. From red to brown.
It was Tatty who came to her later the same day suffering a blustering confusion as
to why Sansa’s overfilled itinerary had, overnight, seemingly been
erased. Oh, there were still parties and appearances to make, naturally (Tatty assured with a recuperating gusto), but the private bookings had all been canceled. Was it something she had done? Was it that gown Sansa had worn? Too much, too soon? Had
it spoiled her innocent facade? One’s presentation was always a delicate balance. Sansa’s prep team were nearly beside themselves with grief. Even Lapworth had rejected her! And his appetite was insatiable! Tatty was quick to assure Sansa, with a hand over a mouth rounded by scandal, that her comment had not been a double entendre. Everyone was upset. Even Petyr had gone back to Seven on the morning train, clearly unable to take the shame. No one knew what to do!
She
continued on in a like manner until her lip stain needed reapplying.
Glancing into a pocket mirror, she bemoaned her own sloppiness, and
apologized, sincerely, to Sansa for her obvious social failings
and unintentional missteps. For an escort, nothing more traumatizing
could happen than to have her prized victor be suddenly worth nothing.
On
the train, Petyr recalled the forlorn little smile with which Sansa had
dutifully accepted Lapworth’s advances, and decided it was that
minuscule gesture which had convinced him not to stay his hand. She’d accepted it. She was ready to do as she was told, ready to pay her dues. Perhaps that was all he’d wanted.
Sansa awoke — for the first time — long after midnight. She had tumbled to one side, sleep and gravity tugging her limp body from its shallow, dozing angle into a precipitous drop. For a moment the girl had no notion as to where she was. Seven? The Training Center? Lapworth’s? Memories trickled back into focus, first the start of her evening, then the end. Petyr’s rescue. His disappearance. When last she saw him the silver-winged mentor had been speaking quite charismatically to her duped sponsor; his rushed instructions gave no hint at what lie she ought maintain, how long her exile should continue. Blearily she noted the time from a dimly illuminated clock beside the bed. Late. Very late. If Baelish had come to explain then only silence met his knocks. Half-stumbling Sansa made herself properly ready for sleep; jewels sparkled in a heap on the floor, water ran down her face in shades of peach and black and beige, the tingle of mint replaced alcohol’s stale nuisance on her palate.
She slept like the dead.
Except…Petyr did not call that morning, either. Instead an Avox awakened her; rather, what sumptuous feast he bore on silvered trays, a dozen steamy tendrils wafting towards an empty belly, awoke her. Sansa still marveled at what plenty the Capitol knew. A tureen overflowing with scrambled eggs — at least a dozen, cooked to impossibly fluffy heights — stood next to platters of plump sausages and bacon dotted with fresh black specks of pepper. She nearly burned her fingers prying open a roll which coughed out another puff of steam, its brothers and sisters stacked in a pyramid beside neatly sliced pats of butter, jams in varying shades of amethyst, ruby, citrine. There were even fruits, carved with the same delicate precision as those Baelish had ordered; she gravitated towards them first, idly shifting that day’s paper into view.
Lapworth stood out at once, his portliness impossible to overlook. Indeed he filled nearly the entire front-page photograph, crowding out whatever slender thing had substituted for Sansa in her absence. It took several moments for her to recognize the face, a faint shadow of anger lingering beneath all the cosmetics; though she was old enough to have watched that year’s Games and remember them, the difference between a child and a young woman savaged by Snow’s demands sufficed to make the other girl almost completely unfamiliar.
Johanna.
The utter opposite of Sansa, such an exchange made little sense. No wonder Petyr had been speaking so animatedly last night, making his pitch. She had to talk to him, had to understand…what about paying her dues? Yet when Tatty and the others arrived, the man did not count amongst their number. Preoccupied with what had become, to her mind, an unmitigated disaster, the escort could offer no insight into his actions. Not that Sansa asked. Everything conspired to make her believe that whatever had occurred at the party, whatever he had done, constituted a great secret. And so she donned a regretful frown, playing along with ignorance and dismay alike, though she was careful not to suggest any attempt at reconciliation. Her facade faltered only at the news: Petyr had left. Left the Capitol, left her, left behind the entire mess of Sansa’s shattered worth.
Reality, however, proved somewhat less dire. Guests still clambered to meet her, to touch her, and men of all ages attempted to ply her with drinks and gifts to end the night in their beds. None so wealthy as Lapworth, whom she blessedly failed to see again, but such fortune was relative to a girl from the districts. She rejected every offer. Hope lingered on in many of them, though, enough left with the impression of an impending decision that Sansa took on an almost mythical, if imminently frustrating, reputation. This Victor required more than the usual temptations, a puzzle none so far had managed to solve. But try they did.
Over the next fortnight only one encounter soured her mood, so severely that when a vacant evening at last appeared on her calendar Sansa declared the next week off. Her family missed her, the girl declared, and would miss her even more when summer arrived. It was an excuse sufficient to earn her a ticket home.
Her train reached Seven late in the evening, much to Sansa’s pleasure. Despite spending most of the ride deep in thought she still required time before setting out to fulfill the true purpose of her visit. A night with family helped; she had even missed Arya, whose sharp tongue and shifting moods sometimes grated terribly. Bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through her bedroom’s curtains, it was almost possible to think of the Capitol as merely a bad dream.
Almost.
This time she came to Baelish’s empty-handed, assuming pretense all but abandoned between them. Except Sansa hadn’t journeyed all the way back to Seven in search of a quick rut on an old couch; she wanted answers, an explanation, or at least some context for what had happened. When Petyr failed to answer her knock she simply pushed on the door. Open, just as before. She found him on that sofa, awake but more ragged than his polished self of two weeks prior. “I saw Johanna,” Sansa told him without preamble. “She said I should tell you to go fuck yourself, after I kindly did the same.”
Petyr did appreciate the dress. The hem. The neckline. The suggestion.
However, his appreciation did not manifest in lingering stares or
expanding pupils; Petyr, in fact, seemed to hardly even notice what she
was wearing despite always taking great pains to have some
comment or another – be it mocking or complimentary – on her stylists’
choices. He understood, then, what the previous night meant in terms of
their relationship. In terms of their dynamics. Mentor and victor, and little else.
Spry.
Sansa spoke and a ghost of a smile flickered across Baelish’s visage. Into his pockets both of his hands slid. She was angry. Of course
she was angry, though he resented the notion; it was her persistence
which had forced his hand. Gentle let downs were, perhaps, not the way
of the Stark clan. It was all or nothing, with great big heads filled by
swollen pride and a misguided sense of entitlement. In that moment,
Petyr recalled images of Eddark Stark, and he actually laughed. Though
it was neither a sound of amusement nor mirth, and instead laden with
derision, with embitterment, with irritation. His gaze dropped to the
same mirrored pool, looked at their rippling reflections. In the water,
the light of the crystals dotting her body did, indeed, look like stars,
gleaming and shifting, twinkling in facets of blinding white light;
Petyr thought of the dossier he’d given her, of line after line of dates
stamped in type-face, of absurdly detailed instructions that
transformed Sansa into little more than a doll. She would be popular. It would go on for a long time. Maybe forever.
Throughout
those trials she would need a friend, though she would not find one in
him. This night would mark the end of their rapport, signifying a
severance that was perhaps long overdue. Sansa would find the strength
to carry on and she would replace him as a mentor to District Seven’s
tributes during the Games. An observer of it all might suggest that this
had been Baelish’s plan all along: to manipulate Sansa into no longer
needing or wanting his presence beside her. Isn’t that what he’d wanted?
To be left alone? To be done with the obligation to the Hunger Games in any capacity, but most especially as that of a mentor?
“No,” he replied. “Nothing else.”
To
the grotto’s simulacrum he left her, the sound of water trickling
echoing in his wake. Baelish thought to leave the gala. There was
nothing more to be done. Sansa was prepared, she would take the hand of
the sponsor who’d bought her success and do as she was expected to. And that would be that.
The beginning of the end. The loss of her person. Cutting through the
crowds and heading towards the exit, it was Lapworth who stumbled into
his path, grabbing Baelish by the shoulder with a freshly-powdered palm.
“You’re not leaving, are you? I require an introduction.”
“I assure you, Horatius, she remembers you,” Baelish drawled. How
possibly could she forget? Your odor is unlike any other, the shine of
your face, the mesmerizing rippling of your chins as you speak, the
absurd way you part your well-oiled hair.
A modest chuckle.
“Natural that she would,” Lapworth flattered himself. “She certainty
shan’t forget after tonight. I am taking her to Jasmine’s.”
A
terrible sinking feeling overcame Petyr. Not only would Sansa be
subjected to each and every one of Lapworth’s sordid whims, but there
would be an audience present to witness it all. Jasmine’s
was a club unlike any other; Sansa would be on display, used
voraciously, and the entirely of the Capitol underworld would be privy
to it. Those who weren’t would hear about it soon after. Whatever
reputation Sansa had as being pure was about to be thoroughly
erased. It was that thought which churned through his mind as Lapworth
set off across the room to sidle up beside his fiery purchase.
“The stars weep with
envy,” he schmoozed, collecting Sansa’s hand up in his to place a wet
kiss upon her dainty knuckles. The aviary around her tittered quietly
behind laced gloves and feathered bangles, pretending to avert their
gazes as though they beheld something somehow scandalous. “Just look at
you…” And look Lapworth did. His gaze dropped from head to toe,
slowly, taking in every well-tailored inch of her. Rising back up, it
lingered on the faint outline of her nipples, being so bold as to reach
out and tweak one. More tittering erupted. “I can see how eager you are; you are not alone in your excitement. Go freshen up, my dear. I have arranged quite the evening for us and I am most ready to begin.” The tittering continued.
From across the room Baelish watched. Rarely had he seen such blatant cajoling
when not in the privacy of some exclusive establishment. Only one
possessed of a reputation such as Lapworth’s would be able to get away
with it. Money bought a great deal in the Capitol, but power bought the
rest. For many years Lapworth had provided key parachutes which had
influenced the outcome of the Hunger Games, and for many years he had
reaped the rewards of doing so. Some rumors suggested that Lapworth’s
donations had a far less altruistic bent towards them; some believed he
was nothing more than a front, a pawn, used only at the behest of
Gamemakers or, indeed, of Snow himself. Nothing about the Games seemed
incidental – certainly not its winner.
Sansa removed herself
from Lapworth’s presence, excusing herself to the restroom at the fat
man’s behest. A minute passed. Then two. Then three. Baelish’s mind
worked. There was no reason for him to intervene – not really. What did
he care if overnight her reputation was transformed into that of a rented whore? If anything, it showed that Seven made good
on its promises. During his time in the Capitol Baelish had turned a
blind eye to hundreds, if not thousands, of disgusting injustices; none
had rendered him with a solid weight in his stomach, or a tingle at the
back of his throat…
“Get out,” Baelish snapped at the
poor woman at the sink who delicately painted a silvery smear onto her
lips. Aghast, she did at she was so rudely bid, though not without an
indignant series of huffs and puffs. Baelish pressed a hand to the
women’s door behind her, preventing anyone else from entering. His eyes
found Sansa. “I want you to do as I say. No questions. No hows or whys.
Just listen to me and do as I say.” A pause, as though he was gauging
her understanding of such simpleton instructions. “You’re going to
leave, quietly, through the side entrance. Speak to no one, say no
goodbyes, don’t collect your coat, just leave. You’re going to go
straight back to your hotel room and stay there the rest of the night.”
There
was a flash of pink where Baelish’s tongue darted out to wet his lips,
and then he was gone, leaving the restroom as suddenly as he’d come.
When she eventually followed suit, she’d observe Baelish’s hand upon
Lapworth’s arm, guiding him across the room engaged in a hushed, private
conversation.
Perhaps her resentment fell unfairly. Sansa’s worldview still allowed for the merits of trying: she had tried to seduce him, he had tried to succumb. Someone more temperate in nature would acknowledge the effort and move on, seek out a partner better suited to their appetites. But she had felt his cheek along her thigh, twined her tongue with his in a desperate hunt for solace; so lacking in romantic experience, the girl balked to think such intimacy could vanish over the course of a single night. There had to be more, she reasoned, than a final, callous banishment.
Ignorance did grant one kindness, however. Where the elder Victor looked down across the years, saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of faceless suitors all promised an evening with Seven’s rubied prize, she had no real notion of what future trials awaited. Talk of months or years remained an abstraction; that neat little list alone preoccupied her thoughts, reducing Sansa’s world down to the immediate weeks in which her company was required. Incapable of even conceiving such a fate, she never once veered toward panic or despair.
There was no goodbye, no thanks. As Petyr walked away she too slipped back into the crowd. Meeting Lapworth seemed an event best undertaken with witnesses as subtle buffer. No one noticed her subdued manner, how smiles came just a moment to slowly, or if they did then all were kind enough to blame a mentor’s interruption for her reticence. Meanwhile Sansa fought to rearrange what would now constitute normalcy in her days — there would be Tatty and the team, of course, alongside luncheons and suppers and galas…and the ever-present list. But no friends. No familiar faces from home with whom she could enjoy a few silent moments, no respite from the constant strangeness which permeated the Capitol. Would it ever feel passe? Could you ever shift so smoothly from poverty to plenty, chips of wood to chips of glass, without going mad? Without turning cold?
She smelled him before he ever spoke. A veritable smog of cologne enveloped Lapworth, necessary to mask the faint whiff of lavatory — antiseptic and rotten, both — one could not help but note when standing right beside him. All around her the crowd parted, in deference to the man’s station as much as his girth, though none saw any need for privacy once he had waddled up. “I spent hours sifting through dresses,” Sansa espoused with a doe-like fluttering of lashes. There had only been the one. “My team thought I would faint from worry.” Over his attentions. She took on the very picture of innocence, smiling close-lipped but broad, eyes downcast, shoulder bowed slightly forward as Lapworth invited all in attendance to delight in his good fortune. The girl reasoned that he might not amount to so terrible a person as those impartial black letters would suggest. Flattery and consideration benefited even the least attractive men, their physical shortcomings compensated for with a measure of chivalry found superfluous in handsomer suitors.
I could find something here, something to hold to…
Brief pain stung at her chest, a wasp’s bite smothered in laughter. Then her smile was truly strained. Lapworth, then, did not delude himself into believing his quarry’s mutual affection. Where others indulged their fantasy of willing seduction, promising themselves that they stood apart from the raucous crowd enough to catch the Stark girl’s genuine rapport, this man admitted to himself — and everyone else present — that here stood a living, breathing service. Bought and paid for, collection time now due. “Of course. I need only a moment.” In a rustle of jewels, she vanished.
His claim staked, no one waylaid her on the brief journey, even those of comparable wealth and influence submitting to Lapworth’s blatant assertion of ownership. Several spacious stalls ran along one wall of the restroom; at the far end stood the largest, wordlessly placed there for the use of only the most esteemed guests. Sansa locked herself inside. It was a miniature lounge unto itself, large enough for a small sofa beside the sink and countertop stacked high with fluffy white towels. Sitting heavily amongst overstuffed cushions she felt the familiar, unwelcome press of tears in her throat. Their burning, prickling insistence reminded her of Petyr’s whiskey, the sofa of his own; then a veritable flood of unrelated memories, all tied to Seven, to home, washed over Sansa. A flush bloomed across her chest, her breathing turned heavier and ragged. But she did not cry.
Sansa guessed that she had five, perhaps ten minutes of privacy allowed. No one here spent moments in the lavatory, and a Victor primping herself for a night of astronomical value would want to ensure nary a hair had slipped out of place. Women shuffled in and out, the door swishing on well-oiled hinges. When Petyr stepped inside there was no mistaking his voice. At first she thought Lapworth had complained of her delay, sent an emissary to fetch her. All the squawking of a captured bird suggested he spoke to someone in the common area instead, though Sansa still waited until the door shut with a far more testy finality before slipping out from her sanctuary.
Catching Petyr’s stare, she felt queerly proud of her dry, unreddened eyes.
Shock held her tongue, not even a nod indicating that yes, she understood. Baelish wanted her to leave, to sneak out, ostensibly leaving behind her corpulent sponsor. It made so little sense that gratitude did not even register, yet he spoke so authoritatively Sansa offered no bleating resistance. She did open her mouth as he left, managing no more than a sharp pull of breath before the door swung shut again, leaving her to stand, flabbergasted, in an empty washroom.
But she did as she was told, shaking free from the fog of confusion to slink along silk-draped walls and duck out through a small door clearly meant for waitstaff and other undistinguished attendees. Her driver looked thoroughly surprised at his fare’s return; no doubt the man had been provided a list similar to hers, although every intimate detail would be replaced with expectations regarding her movements throughout the city. Nonetheless he coaxed the engine to life with a gentle purr, polite enough to not even inquire after her missing coat. Though Baelish made no mention of her hotel she entered that secretly as well. At last, in a suite’s expansive privacy, questions began to materialize.
Had Lapworth changed his mind? Had she made some fatal error? Or had Petyr somehow, miraculously, intervened? Were her duties now alleviated? Sansa’s stomach growled. She had eaten no more than the night previous but dared not call down to the kitchens. Baelish had spoken to her with such urgency, such heat, the girl felt any deviation from his thin instructions might somehow result in disaster. Instead she resolved to wait, still clad in that glittering frock so coveted by Lapworth, perched on one corner of her sickeningly large bed. For after so abrupt a meeting, Petyr had to return and explain.
Petyr popped his thumb into his mouth, sucking off the remnants of whatever crumb or juice had been left behind after making up Sansa’s goodie bag. In an instant, his appetite had shifted from the peach between Sansa’s legs to the spread of food he’d ordered in her interest. He didn’t feel guilty. Not when he heard her slip from the bed onto the floor, not when her footsteps padded across the plush carpet to stand behind him, not when her hands smoothed up his back and around his midsection in an affectation of a lover’s intimate embrace. The bag crinkled in his grasp as he rolled it up, plopping it atop the cart, and shifting just in time to waylay roving hands as they sought to pry beneath the waistband of his pants. For half a second he thought about letting her continue. She felt warm and soft pressed against him. She was pliant and willing – more than willing. He knew how good she would feel, all of the little sounds she would make. He knew she’d pour herself into him, he knew that her desperation to forget would make her perform even better. He knew she would be wild, unbridled, different than all the other times. Part of him, oh, part of him wanted very much to let her seek sanctuary in him. But he knew better.
“Stop.”
That was clear enough, wasn’t it? It left little to be deciphered, little to be interpreted. Stop. Her grasp on him loosened as he turned, navigating her arms as though he were some dancer caught in a pirouette, one of her wrists shackled in his fingers. “You’re not staying here.” It wasn’t angry, it was simply firm, concise, no hidden warnings concealed by a tone that told her I’m no longer interested. All clichés and tropes of men fleeing from anything even remotely resembling something meaningful aside, what had changed in the last handful of seconds that had put him so suddenly off of her? Fingers uncurled from her wrist, freeing her, and a too-amiable smile appeared on his face. “I hate sharing a bed.” Hadn’t they shared a bed before? In the train coming back from the Capitol? Without event that evening had passed, no tossing and turning, no fits of snoring, no night terrors shrieking out to awake one or the other. They had coexisted in that cabin just fine. More than fine. It was a poor excuse, then, though perhaps merciful all the same. All the more irritating to a girl who loathed the idea of mercy.
“Anyway,” he continued, “that’s not rest.” The smile veered wry. “Getting fucked isn’t resting. And you do need to rest. Because tomorrow you’ll be doing a lot of that – getting fucked. And he’s not gonna want some tired old nag with dark circles under her eyes. He’s gonna want some spry spring filly all ready to go, again…and again…and again.” Petyr lifted a hand, captured her chin between the pads of thumb and fore. He made her look at him, his gaze taking on a condescending tilt as it washed over her face. “You can come see me after if you want.” It wandered down the slope of her nose, settling on her lips. “You can tell me all about it. Every vulgar detail. And maybe if you’re not too sore…” There, he released her chin, the tip of his pointer finger dragging down her jawline.
“Nah. I’m not much for sloppy seconds.”
She didn’t want kindness. She didn’t want mercy. Nor did she desire cruelty – but it was cruelty which the mentor knew would scatter the rabble from his porch and send the flame-haired girl back to her own room. They were all the same. Easy to provoke, easy to bait and control with one emotion or another; it was just a matter of finding out which emotion was best to use. Sansa Stark: pride, anger, attachment.
She left, as any reasonable girl would have done. Petyr scavenged through the remnants of the food, more than scavenged the contents of his mini bar, and wrapped himself up in that bed she’d wanted to share. The next day was more of the same, although he knew it would be prudent of him to make some sort of an appearance at the gala which had been set aside for Sansa to make good on her debt to Lapworth. Not for Sansa’s sake, but for the client; it was he who’d struck the bargain, after all, and he who would make certain the encounter was worth every ounce of riches Lapworth had liquidated in order to purchase his auburn prize a life-saving parachute.
* * * * *
“Is she a virgin, do you think?” Lapworth slowly stirred a neon pink cocktail with a decadently spiraled swizzle stick.
Baelish shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his mouth taking on the curve of a frown as he followed Lapworth’s gaze across the room to where Sansa stood, surrounded by a throng of sycophants, dressed in nude-colored fabric that made her look as though she was clad in nothing but glittering stars – just as Lapworth’s dossier had requested. “Maybe.”
Lapworth’s mouth began to purse before stretching into a grisly smile, his jowls rippling as he broke into a deep, throaty chuckle, laughing as though Baelish had just told a good joke. “It’s no true matter, but I am curious,” the word lilts through the air like some sort of song. “She seems so fragile. How much will she be able to take? I am quite robust, you know.”
Baelish smiled a thin smile.
The fat sod continued for the better part of an hour, regaling Petyr with tales of his former conquests, gesticulating ever more flamboyantly with each new woman. Lapworth’s hands were utterly bereft of any sort of wrinkle, replaced instead by that sort of queasy stretched-out look one gets after too many surgeries; Baelish found himself wondering why he had bothered to give himself child-like hands while leaving his face a sagging mess. After Lapworth had slurped down four or five of the candied drinks, he excused himself to the lavatory, and Baelish took the opportunity to find Sansa.
“A word?” It was a smile too charming for one of Baelish’s ilk, but it was enough to cut through the fog of crooning. At the small of Sansa’s back she’d be able to feel the pressure of his touch. “Very quick, I promise.” The group surrounding her tittered and flapped, more like a gaggle of birds than a cluster of people, and Baelish led Sansa away, towards a corner of the room which had been carved out to resemble some tropical grotto, a shimmer of water gliding elegantly down a rocky wall surrounded by waxy fronds.
“He’s about primed,” Baelish said, skimming a finger through the stream of water, sending little droplets flying every which way. She knew who he meant. “How do you feel?”
Like a candle flame caught up in a torrential downpour, the remnants of her arousal guttered out with that single, staccato syllable. Stop. Sansa unwound her arms, stepped back in concert with his turn, gathering up every tendril of proffered intimacy and packing it away. For one terrible moment a girl’s mind intervened: Baelish never gave you that key. He only wanted you here to talk. You’ve changed. You’re different. Terrible. One of them now. Nothing less fantastic could explain that vacillation between consent and denial, desire and disdain. Pain twisted delicate features into a mask of hurt so impenetrable that surely for a breath Petyr would fear an outburst of tears. To her credit, however, Sansa plumbed the depths of her pride; brushing aside his refusal as though it were a reasonable possibility, she carefully smoothed every line, rearranging her expression back to something resembling ambivalence.
Baelish’s directive would have served well enough to banish the girl. It was a choice she sought and a choice he refused to make. She had never forced him into the act, though certainly she had cajoled; nothing in their prior encounters warranted how callously he reminded Sansa of her mistake. Yet sometime between her arrival and her final proposition she had left a sensitive underbelly exposed, one painfully suited to the sharpened talons of a man all too aware of his advantage. Fingers capture her before she could back away, wishing only to leave, to flee, a wounded animal who must wait for the sanctuary of its den to lick inflicted wounds. If they failed to suffice then Petyr would neither find satisfaction in their salting. As he spoke Sansa retreated, in mind if not in the flesh, her eyes glazing over, faceted sapphire losing its remarkable depth. A similar look predominated the later hours of parties on her victory tour; when the guests lingered overlong and her thoughts turned to another pair of families, another district that would teeter on starvation’s edge because of her success, her attentions slowly lost their youthful gleam.
Now it vanished in one pulse of her heart, punctuated by the subtle twitch of her chin away from covetous fingers. Gathering her coat took but a moment. Petyr’s key remained pointedly upon the desk where she had set it. So too did the bundle of food, any pretense of kindness ignored under the weight of more recent sentiments. If Baelish expected a farewell, even of the most cursory nature, he would find himself disappointed. Waiting at the door long enough to assure herself no one roamed the halls nearby, Sansa slipped out as wordlessly as she had come, with nary a glance behind.
Her team arrived promptly the next morning, just as an Avox cleared away a scattering of breakfast dishes. Though Tatty said nothing her appraising stare was clear; she took in the bed sheets rumpled only on one side, a pillow arranged vertically amongst the mess as if in her sleep Sansa desired a companion. The Victor had slept without interruption, her room perfectly dark, perfectly silent unless one arranged otherwise, but there lingered about her a faintly haggard air. Her team tutted for a moment yet seemed content to ascribe such a state to last night’s raucous gathering. You’ll get used to it, they crowed. Give yourself a few more days, then you’ll never know how you managed without it!
Unlike her first soiree Baelish never stopped in. Neither would have the team, if not for Lapworth’s promised attendance that evening. Where with any other a minor slip here or there could be overlooked, her date with the ludicrously wealthy — and ludicrously corpulent — donor required flawless execution. It seemed a shame, she thought, to waste such a stunning gown on him. Then again Sansa knew of no one who might appreciate it in the way she desired; after the encounter in his suite, she doubted that Baelish would ever again feature as a sexual figure in her life. Even as she admitted to herself that fact, Sansa evaluated her reflection; six hands fluttered about like drunken magpies, glittering trinkets placed here and there in rapid succession. He would like its hem and neckline, she decided, and the way it clung to every blossoming curve. Yet she suspected that most of all he would enjoy its suggestion, the promise of nudity without actually providing naked flesh for the casual observer’s pleasure.
The perfect dress for a voyeur.
It came as no surprise, then, that Sansa fought her way through more than an hour of compliments and questions, dozens of voices crying out at the brilliance of her stylists before she could reach that coveted central placement in the room. Her host had taken a frenzied approach to their theme — one corner resembled a fairy tale grotto, replete with frolicking mermaids in a pool; another hosted an exotic desert scene painted in jeweled tones; a third recalled an arctic tundra, its snow a tumbling avalanche of diamonds guarded over by petite sprites. Sansa caught no more than glimpses of decor, forever hemmed in by admirers. Hands unclaimed by bodies extended drinks towards her; remembering Baelish’s advice, she took no more than a sip or two before setting them back on a passing tray.
Lapworth remained nowhere to be seen. Petyr, however…
In marked opposition to that last party she would appear notably unimpressed with his arrival. But how could he tell? An exclamation of great warmth greeted him, the girl beaming with grateful acknowledgement, her lips pressing an affectionate kiss to the air several inches beside one cheek. With a sly wink she named him a liar, prone to keeping his poor tribute bogged down in trivialities half the night if she couldn’t escape. Everyone laughed heartily, though never before had Petyr carried a reputation of bureaucratic monotony. It was enough for them to slip away, Sansa mindful of his touch, angling herself away from it, promising a timely flight from his hold to those behind her.
Beside a gurgling waterfall, all that slipped away.
“Spry.” No shimmer in cobalt depths suggested his comments from before had overnight transformed themselves into a private jape. One arm crossed over the other. Sansa had bargained for him to come along, to help. Her need to socialize, however, had dropped precipitously. “Is there something else?” she prompted. “I read over every page, just like you said.” A water droplet arched from the display to one forearm, where the girl flicked it away, back into the pool. Her eyes remained fixated on that faint, crystalline sheen. “I’m sorry Petyr, but unless there’s something new, discussion really isn’t going to make matters go any more smoothly…”
Around his back from his midsection a tearing ache rippled through him. Teeth clamped together. Breath hissed out. In, out, in, out. The last droplets of piss left him just as beads of sweat began to bead upon his brow. The toilet was filled with a muddy red, blood and oversaturated urine. Petyr shut the lid, a slight tremor to his hand. He sat atop it, stared towards the wall. There was a picture of a landscape, some mass produced kitsch piece of shit, all cherry trees and their pink blossoms littering the ground as a couple strolled idly by, hand in hand. He hadn’t seen those colors in a long time, he thought, and the pain in his gut dissolved, gave way to a sort of pensive rumination that flooded his entire being.
When he left the room, he hadn’t considered how he might have looked: hair mussed, clothing awry, face flushed with a gleam of sweat drying on his forehead. And so soon after abandoning their bed. Well, he no longer had an erection; what was she to make of that? Had he escaped into the washroom to take care of the imperative need which had pressed itself against her throughout the night? There was little time to think on it. She was there. Waiting for him. Perhaps waiting to confront him on his uninvited vulgarity. Without warning, Sansa’s arms threw themselves about him, tightly. The gesture caught him by surprise, and his response was little more than a stiffened frame, arms held to his sides in a crude hover of what could only be uncertainty, existing neither at his service nor hers. How possibly could he understand what she meant to say with such a familiar motion? The thought that she forgave him for his slumbering violations did not even cross his mind. That she didn’t speak of it, however, appeased his sense of guilt. She craned her head to kiss his cheek in a wordless farewell, and Baelish slanted a narrowed gaze towards her, watching her slip away and disappear back into the sanctuary of a bedroom which had gone mostly unused.
Petyr said nothing.
He spent the remainder of the morning gathering up what other sundries he wished to take along, setting the filled pack beside the door. Then he trekked back outside, returning to the pump and topping off a bucket so that they might wash their faces and fill their canteens. The skies overhead were a clear gray with no clouds looming in the distance to promise a return of violent storms. It meant they needed to leave. It seemed a shame to go, though, and especially when there were so many houses left unsearched. But their packs would only carry so much; no matter what stores of food or medicine they might find, none of it mattered if it could not be taken with. And why not stay to regain even a fraction of the strength which had been sapped away? The hamlet was on a road, unconcealed by wooded overbrush or mountainous hills. Others had undoubtedly stumbled upon the place well before them, and other would come still. Others always came. It was only a matter of when. Possessing little means to defend themselves with, remaining any longer than was absolutely necessary became a liability.
Searching for weapons, though…
Petyr returned, setting the filled bucket of water on the porch as he had done before. Bending over it, he splashed his face, ran hands over his head, swiped them across the back of his neck.
He called her name, standing in the doorway, listening for the sounds of her footsteps.
Behind a closed yet unlocked door, away from any curious gaze, she could contemplate the state in which Baelish had emerged from the washroom. During those few minutes of deliberate privacy Sansa didn’t consider that he might find his erection troublesome, or in need of remedy. Now, of course, she realized he might have risen seeking relief, but rather than disgust, the notion gave her a queer sense of calm. To sate his desires —no matter how particular they veered — privately, with no further overtures towards her meant that such base concerns mattered less than the partnership they managed to forge. And if Petyr’s arousal dissipated of its own accord then all the better, she reasoned, for that could only lend credence to her drowsy suspicion that the previous night boasted unconscious origins.
In truth, though she could not pinpoint precisely when the conviction first took root, Sansa had some time ago resolved herself to the eventuality of a carnal encounter. Whether it be accidental, consensual, or forced, it seemed inevitable that two creatures whom circumstance had forced away from civility, toward those simple, animalistic drives, would that sexual undercurrent which hardship could diminish, but never defeat. Last night might have been both beginning and end to such exploration. It might have been just the start. The reality of her situation necessitated that Sansa operate largely on assumption; none of Baelish’s motives or wants or plans were truly explained. What he did speak to — the city, the sea — the girl had no way to prove false. She clung to grains of sand, incapable of knowing their significance or lack thereof, instead assigning it in a way that would enable her to continue on with as little fear or pain as possible. Time and again Sansa chose to think of him as kind, benevolent, an ally. Did her optimism set a bar? Hold Petyr to a standard of conduct otherwise unthinkable? In her faith, had she at least temporarily nudged him towards goodness?
A world of greys and blacks, smog and fire, allowed for little in the way of philosophizing. Petyr touched her, then stopped. On that cessation she focused, rather than why he started, why she lay still, or how, hours later, warmth lingered where callused hands once covered her belly.
Regret similar to his worried at her thoughts as Sansa packed. Both the little girl’s bed and the one taken by Petyr far exceeded the comfort of a forest floor, and even after their careful looting, plenty of food remained. Faced with their impending loss, each house in the hamlet shook off its foreboding shroud. Instead the dusty and moss-stained facades best resembled a pirate’s chest, filled to the brim with gold and jewels, all manner of wealth, if only one bothered to crack it open. But much like material treasure, additional troves of food or clothes or any other supplies deemed helpful were rendered useless by the travelers’ limited ability to carry. Sansa reached her companion’s same mindset — resolved to leave, only a little saddened by it — independently, though there was no doubt she arrived at it much later. When Baelish called she was still fiddling with her pack. Footsteps would first lead away from the porch, towards the bathroom. Dehydrated, she gave no thought to darkened urine, nor to the reddish tint that might have come from either of them. Sansa did try flushing, funnily enough, jiggling the handle until reality reasserted its grim hold. Only then did she trail towards his voice, steps heavy with the weight of her pack, dumped beside Baelish’s at the door.
The water felt good on her face, tasted sweet on her tongue. If she thought of bovine corpses just out of sight, Sansa gave no hint as to her worry. Too soon it was time to leave, resume their aimless march towards something better. Wherever that might be. Stepping down off the porch she nearly reached for his hand, yet a moment’s hesitation served well enough to decimate her resolve, the girl instead just edging closer, more wary of the world than of the man with whom she walked it.
Discipline kept their pilfered rations intact far longer than Sansa would have hoped. Yet they still ran empty. For a fortnight the pair had managed in relative comfort: two small meals each day, a night’s rest warmed by blankets and new clothes. Sometimes they slept together, sometimes they set watches, but Petyr’s behavior in the house never reasserted itself. That made her feel less guilty when they would curl against one another, perfectly fitted, and she could relish the full stretch of man at her back. Sleep came less readily to the hungry, however, and after nearly a month their days were colored with renewed tension as well. Sansa began fearing abandonment. Leaving her behind offered no guarantee of better game or more frequent discoveries of living vegetation, though it would halve the number of stomachs to fill. Once or twice they bickered, over nothing, but more often man and girl simply resolved themselves to painful, dissatisfied silences.
When Sansa first sighted it through the brush, she thought hunger had finally tipped over into starvation, lucidity to insanity. Already her dreams — what few she had — veered hallucinogenic in nature. But she had to be sure. Fingers lightly brushed, then poked at Baelish’s arm until he turned. They pointed to a gap in the canopy several hundred yards ahead; weak sunlight gave the forest a greyish, rotting sheen…and reflected off what could only be large spirals of concertina wire. A fence. For friends, or enemies. Perhaps for no one at all, a compound long abandoned, yet she nudged Petyr all the same, wanting his judgement, his opinion, trusting him. All at once swamp water clogged her lungs, sense memory recalling a different fortress, along with its bloody collapse.
It would come full circle. One day in the future she would again find
the mortal body and soul far greater than that of its immortal
counterpart. It would be counterintuitive to perhaps believe that God’s
brittle son was the gilded bark which covered the cankered trunk of a
luxuriant tree and not the lasting shades of night which lived on and on
and on – yet it would be correct. It was man and his flaws, his
futility, his death, his aging, which would beguile her once she was no
longer possessed of those abilities. She would change and change again,
hate what she could not have, and then hate herself for not having it.
All in due time.
For
now, they bored her, like the feline possessed of a hunter’s foreteeth
who does naught but lazily bat at the mouse. She thought herself above them, by simple proximity to one who she believed was.
“Are you accusing me of neglect?” Petyr’s fingers trickled into the dip
of her back, guiding her towards the exit with the slow, meandering
gait of one in no rush to leave. He smirked, quietly, delighting in the
rare flash of her candor. It was not often she allowed him the upper
hand without the ruse of a fight. She wanted it, then. She wanted him.
Wanted him to show her who she truly belonged to. “Mm,” he agreed in
thoughtful sound. “And I would share your satisfaction.” At the door he
stopped, handing over a small ticket for the host to fetch their coats.
Outside, there was a glittering blanket of snow covering the ground, and
more coming down in thick, wafery flakes. “Gloves, my dear.” It was a
long wool coat, that familiar shade of black, which enveloped him. “I’ll
not have you catch a chill.” But it was Baelish’s chilled hand which
again was held out to her, ready to escort her into winter’s bite.
Ah, but how haughty the auburn nymph might become! Imbued with the unflappable self-assurance bred into higher classes, a conviction that life and all its players somehow conspired to better an already fortuitous life, Sansa could only hone such attitudes when faced with the great expanse of eternity. It was as much a part of her as that crimson waterfall of hair, those wide pools of rarest sapphire, porcelain skin so pale, so perfect, one might fear to break the girl with a misplaced touch; obfuscated by lettered quartet, hidden deep within whorled strands of elements perhaps not even named when the man so-named Baelish drew breath, there lurked certain traits neither blood nor time’s passage could alter.
Yet tonight such pointed wiles she directed towards unfortunate strangers alone. With Petyr the girl slipped into a docile shroud; mayhaps she tired of gnashing teeth, hungering instead for submission’s liberating hold.
“So serious a crime? Never.” Her heels — whose soles would boast of an Italian origin — tapped out a cadence pointedly authoritative, despite their lackadaisical pace. Narrowed to an almost threatening point, they elevated Sansa until she stood nearly eye-to-eye with her shadowed escort. Baelish never cared. Though oftentimes far quieter, his own aplomb never failed to ensure that demarcation between man and girl remained unshaken. Blue stare toyed with it then, cutting across a collar of snowy white fox; the same fur encircled both wrists, a fitting accent to her coat, cut from creamy dove grey wool. “Do you promise?” Such blatant invitation rarely graced innocent tongue, least of all accompanied by a coy smile devoid of venomous challenge. Obedient, she retrieved a matching set of gloves from one pocket, donning them without complaint. Once outside Sansa laced their fingers together, as lovers were often wont to do. So too did she clasp an unoccupied hand over both of theirs, a gesture often undergone in pursuit of warmth, now a simple means of bringing them close. “I’ve waited for you all night.” Her whisper carried with it an aching mortality: anticipation, desire, willingness, all alongside the peculiar delight of warm breath and a chilly nose pressing upon one temple as if to remind Petyr just how very susceptible she was.
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
