Gunfire of the worst sort at her door.
Not today, please God, not today.
Another rapid succession of knuckles meeting wood.
“ —- Sansa?” A pause, even though the older boy knew she would not answer. “Sansa. You know they’ll drag you out of bed.” I’ve killed people for less. Or did you forget, brother? More silence. She thought he had left, when – “Don’t give them that satisfaction.” Two steps groaned on plush carpet, tacked down to the oaken floors a few short weeks ago. A creak, and they advanced back upon the closed door. “Baelish is downstairs, I reckon he has tea going by now.” What little of her head remained uncovered was promptly shoved beneath a pillow. “…A cup might help…” drifted through mahogany and cotton and goose-down, words lingering where Jon did not, likely already risking a tardy appearance at the lumberyard.
She had spilled blood to return home, to provide a home, yet he insisted on continuing at the factory. At least until this season is over, he declared. If I leave, its more work for the boys. What harm does a few months do? To which the girl had no answer, for what was a meager bruise upon her pride compared to all the other wounds?
If only her mother were there. Or father, or Robb even, though none of them could have prevented what had happened in any meaningful way. Volunteering. But Ed Stark was dead and his son followed some months later; the Capitol claimed her mother had broken the barrier of Peacekeepers, storming in front of the firing line as triggers squeezed, sharing the lead meant for the auburn-haired boy alone. Most nights, Sansa believed they just pushed her, even if the behavior was fitting.
Ghostly memories only made the ache in her head spread to joints and tendons and soul. Baelish had told her that would happen, the first night she had been weaned off morphling after the arena. Not for any grievous injuries - she was one of the prettiest victors to emerge in years - but for the simple fact that the screaming would not stop. Too considerate to let it disrupt her family, Sansa kept the pained shrieking to her dreams now, though the restraint that made it possible simply had not existed in those early days. Baelish had told her it would come, then it did.
He had told her quite a lot, actually, not much of it pleasant and most of it true. Nightmares manifesting in physical pain; loved ones resented for the plain fact of not being there; debilitating loneliness. Sansa had thought the last would never affect her - the tactics he used to win the game far more underhanded than any she employed - yet in the end, every happiness tasted of ash, each smile appeared a knife, and every kind word was designated as a Capitol lie meant to soothe and conceal, much like the cosmetic balms they prized so highly.
At least he had turned his status as victor to his advantage. All Sansa could do was hate. And sleep. And hurt.
Mint drifted under the door, sharp tendrils wafting an herbal tang into her nostrils. Sansa hated mint. Two days in the arena without food, left with nothing but pointed leaves to chew on and convince her stomach it was sated. There was perhaps some chamomile to be filched, however, and clearly Jon’s assumption about her darling mentor was correct. I would rather face them with a mug of something hot. At least it gives me something to throw. Groaning, Sansa blindly kicked her sheets into a crumpled heap against the footboard, even though it was only one more mess to care for. Like a fox unwinding from its den, auburn tangles emerged from beneath their feathery home; by the time she was upright, most of the sleep had been rubbed from riverine eyes and the worst of her tangles had been finger-combed away. With an angry tug the sheets were set to rights; a sweeping of terry cloth and a nightgown so wrinkled one would hardly guess at its fine origins was aptly disguised. With no effort at all, then, she stood at the threshold of their kitchen. Her kitchen, really.
“Baelish.” What else was there to say? She was not particularly pleased to see him, and it was not a particularly good morning. “I hope Arya wasn’t a brat to you.” With hardly a glance towards the older man, she set about making a more palatable brew. The sentiment about her younger sister was true at least; the girl acted out more than ever now that Sansa had returned home, as if having a victor for a relative gave her more free reign. Preposterous - it gave her less.
An aromatic dunking of leaves and the bite of his own drink was replaced with something warmer, safer. “I guess they’ll be here soon,” she offered by way of conversation, assuming he held the prep team in as high regard as she, only joining him at the table when it was clear the tea had steeped.
God, but did she hate this. It would have been easier to just die.
Was it then the stab of a knife she felt when Baelish’s mouth curved into a smile? The sort of gesture inspirational to nothing - save desolation. Mint wafted in wisps of steam from a cup not yet sampled; perhaps it was for show. He knew how much she loathed the spice. Not that it was his goal to agitate her, or else agitation was simply the weapon of choice for the morning. One in an endless line where impetus became harder and harder to find. Spite was a good motivator in the face of an act where personal purpose was difficult to ascertain.
The point was there was no point.
Sansa still had family. That was the point. Baelish was always quick to remind her of the fact.
Baelish had no family; his existence was tied to something else entirely. Sitting across from her, his face was clean-shaven and his hair was well-groomed, but that rarely was the case in-between visits to the Capitol. Those were more frequent than anyone might have guessed. Baelish left District 7 for more than tours and games; perhaps five times a year his cottage was emptied of person and sat collecting dust for three weeks at a time. He neither announced departure nor arrival - it was only indicated by a lack of footsteps leading from stoop to perimeter. Although Baelish rarely left his home even when he was there. For being one of its only victors, the district spared him little love - he didn’t spare it any either.
Sansa had asked him once— ‘Why do you go back there?’ The reply was a sere smile. It was none of her business. Loyalty to her mother did not extend to personal trivialities - or profundities. Catelyn was dead, Sansa was alive; Petyr considered his obligation well taken care of.
Even if life seemed a punishment.
Even if it would have been merciful to let her die.
Even if she hated him for it.
Baelish never had been regarded as a mentor to be held in high regard. His advice to previous tributes was limited if given at all. That was compassion. Or pure greed. Rarely was the spotlight wide enough for a person younger, handsomer, of better stock. Petyr Baelish had won out of luck. No one cared for luck. Especially not when it was bought. Youth had been his only defining trait; he didn’t have that anymore.
Green eyes slanted towards her. Took her in. Disheveled and rumpled. Petyr leaned back in his seat as if to get a more distanced and nuanced perspective. It didn’t help.
“I’ve not seen her.” True. Arya. Baelish had even less affection towards the girl than he did towards Sansa - though it wasn’t to be said that he didn’t hold Sansa in high regard. He did. Or he had.
His one victory. His one success.
His one victory. His one success.
She was a blessing and a curse.
“Tatty won’t be pleased with you.” A surprisingly gentle observation - gentle for Baelish. “You look terrible.” —Ah, there it was. By compare, Baelish was at his best. Sheared of stubble that was a constant presence in-between disappearances to the Capitol, sleek and smooth clothing where it might otherwise be creased without thought. Petyr played their games - those which extended far beyond the arena walls - and they rewarded him for it— so far as rewards might extend to any one individual. Though it need not be said that it was almost a certainty that Baelish didn’t truly care. Despite his forays into the Capitol which came more often than absolutely necessary, it was no secret that he loathed everything about the games and their circus acts in their entirety.
The piping mug tipped back to his mouth. His eyes crinkled briefly at the edges. Perhaps the tea had still been too hot. It was placed back to the table with a quiet tap. One long pointer drew aimless circles beside it. His attention was no longer on the drink. Baelish’s specific brand of scrutiny burned like hot coals.
“It would do you well to smile,” he offered, sounding sickeningly like Tatty, even though he knew the tour they were about to embark on would bring little to smile about. A few months recovery was scarcely enough, a few years, a few decades, but they still expected their red-headed prize to jump and skip and twirl, for her cheeks to grow sore from mirth, and her laughter to embody all traits of goodwill the Capitol had so magnanimously bestowed upon her. The games were just a preface; it didn’t get better. Petyr never told her that it did. Sparing her the lies was both a kindness and a cruelty. Not that it mattered; they would feed them to her and force her to swallow until she was near-bursting, until a din of sweat trickled down her brow and she begged for an end that wouldn’t come.
“Give them what they want. It will be easier.” No, that wasn’t true. He quickly amended. “It will be faster.”
It was all business, then. Pleasantries or a semblance of friendship - no, there had never been a friendship - would be shunted aside in favor of whatever Baelish felt was most conducive to the situation. After her victory, he had been sympathetic to Sansa. Almost tender. He had done what he could to heal her wounds - both physical and mental.
For Cat, he’d told himself.
Now, it was as though he expected her to have the proper carriage of a seasoned victor. Unrealistic expectations, though she was far from the first - and would not be the last - held to them. Better to be detached. Better to keep emotion out of it. Say the words they want you to say. Wear what they want you to wear. Kill who they want you to kill. Sansa had won for a reason. Everyone did. The fire-kissed, ivory-skinned, doe-eyed orphan from District 7 had a story to tell. The citizens of the Capitol were ready to gorge themselves on it.
Staring at her, almost as if sensing, no, understanding, the tremors of sickness trilling inside her, like worms wriggling just beneath the skin, Petyr’s gaze shifted, softened, became more human.
"Are you ready for it?”
“For the best, probably,” she muttered, close-trimmed nails trilling against the mug in a tinny beat as thoughts momentarily flitted to the younger girl. Apt at disappearing, Arya’s current absence was likely thanks to their elder half-brother, always so wordlessly politic after the Stark brood was orphaned. Her sister made friends but rarely, Baelish even less; combined with a brooding victor, and the morning would have been a dire affair indeed.
With a measured breath, Sansa’s drink was lifted, the tangy warmth filling her olfactories for several long, blissful seconds before it was sampled. Her lips rebounded with a wet smack. Hot. Lacking any other distraction, blue eyes cut a sharp slant across the table. She was clean enough, taking care during the evening’s shower, and had eaten as instructed the past several weeks - one must appear slim, yet well-fed. A delicate balance, as the case turned out to be. Tangles could be combed away, bruised undereyes buried under a veritable mound of fleshy paste. She looked tired, no doubt, but she had seen him appear far worse. “She’ll live,” came the dismissive statement. Tatty was a resilient escort, if nothing else. “I have to be prepped anyway.”
Baelish’s further advice drew forth a well-practice sneer; with a subtle working of jaw, it was smoothed to a taut line of disapproval, settling to ambivalence after a handful of chamomile-tinged breaths. “The cameras aren’t here.” And what do you care?, was the unspoken addendum. Gaze flicked towards her guest, warning him. Not that it would be taken as anything other than the irritation of a sleep-deprived girl, yet still she tried, sapphire meeting his own steely stare before dropping lightly down to the swirling patterns marked out beside his cup.
Sansa had never noticed how long his fingers were.
As if it was now a common thing - and it was - the trivial fact floated in her mind’s eye for a moment, before being carefully tucked away; information, of any sort, was power, the difference between survival and a cannon boom, who knewwhen it might prove useful…
But this was her home, in the Victor’s Village of District 7. Baelish wielded mint tea instead of a knife, looking at her with an expression that might have once passed for concern, though now it barely rose to the level of professional appraisal. At least he looked, really looked at her. Most only gaped. Whether it was for Sansa’s status as a victor, her misfortune as an orphan, or the gift of beauty so kindly bestowed by her mother, blatant stares were not a foreign experience for the girl, even if they remained an unpleasant weight between her shoulder blades.
Thinking on the attentions of others reminded her that glassy blue continued to fix itself on Baelish’s cuticles. With an embarrassed blink, as if she had been caught, Sansa amended her line of sight to the tea no longer quite so steaming. Experimentally, the brew was raised again, this time far more palatable. Relishing in its warm cascade down a throat already dry with anxiety, she still failed to smile when porcelain met wood once again, though her back straightened and neck popped as the night’s kinks were twisted away. Pleasure was not an emotion yet expected of her, though willingnesswould ease her time with the jabbering prep team before a frenzied departure.
Faster? It is the rest of my life, forever and ever. I cannot even take a coward’s escape for what it would cost my family.
Death was a luxury afforded to all. All except those who avoided it in the arena. Refuse it then, and the rejection would inevitably linger far past what was desired. Sansa was above it all, apparently, and her mentor too, though he carried the burden more admirably than she. In the offhanded criticism and prodding advice, however, she saw an effort to help. For whatever reason - the childhood friendship with her mother, no doubt - Baelish was willing to place a gentle palm at her elbow through the ordeal, even if he would not go so far as to lace his fingers with hers and pull.
Perhaps a soft press was all that was required.
“I know,” she conceded in a murmur. “When the cameras are here. Not before.” Instead of a firm instruction, Sansa’s words took on a pleading note, vision at last holding to his face while she spoke. There was enough strength to carry her through the districts, the parties and speeches, each gauche celebration of being the most savage child in the country. But not in her home, not on the train, and not with the only soul that might understand why it would always be a struggle. Fortitude existed, but not in excess.
She scoffed, a dusty, pitiful sound. “Were you?” The words could have been barbed, flung with a precise aim intended to prick and draw blood. Not so. They were bitter, but not towards her fellow victor or his achievements. Merely those who forced both man and girl to cultivate such a dark creature in their breast. Apologetic - while Baelish had certainly offered advice, his duties as mentor could hardly be said to veer personal - Sansa dismissed her own question with a shrug of shoulders and wry turn to her lips. It didn’t matter, in the end. “As ready as I was for the reaping. The games.” At last he received a smile, watery though it was. When she looked at him, it was with a mournful fear, dismayed anew that winning did not garner more than a fresh set of tribulations.
“I won’t screw it up. I promise.”
Arya Stark would have made a finer tribute than Sansa Stark. The younger girl was stronger, brasher, more violent. More at home with boys than with girls. The sort of attitude which could not be taught.
Not that Baelish taught his tributes much.
Knives had been Baelish’s talent. He’d been quick of the hand and possessing an innate skill for small blades. Where the boy had learned, no one could say. As a youth, much time had been spent carving wooden trinkets and figurines out of discarded bits of wood from the lumberyards. Rarely was the dark-haired boy seen without a blade in hand or on his person, but never had it been used for any sort of violence. Not that inexperience had hindered him. Agile fingers had transferred the art well; apparently there was not much difference between carving wood and carving flesh. The only reason he’d survived the games was because he had been successful in the latter.
“The more enthusiastic you seem the less attention they will pay to you,” Baelish retorted. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t hear the words until she wanted to. Sansa wasn’t ready. He regarded her sneering contempt with an apathetic stare, and, after a time, a long, deep breath released slowly. Blue faltered first from green, but Baelish knew better than to suspect submission. Not from her.
There were no benefits to creating a survivor. The district would reap the benefits, for a time, and there was one more person filled the woefully under-occupied Victor’s Village. Beyond the superficial, there was nothing. Snarling glares, guilt, resentment. Petyr and Sansa had only engaged in a handful of conversations since the games had reached their conclusion. She hated him for the space he gave her, she hated him for the words he offered. One would think, by now, Petyr would be used to hateful glares, or lashings of the tongue.
One side of Petyr’s mouth cocked wryly at her question. Had he been ready?
When he’d come home, after winning, everyone hated him. They wished him dead in place of his female counterpart, whose life he’d taken in order to save his own. Petyr didn’t blame them. She’d been strong, she’d been beautiful, she’d put on a good show. Petyr had slit her throat in the dead of the night after she’d suggested they work together - until they no longer could. There was no excuse. None save instinct. Everyone believes they are steadfast, everything thinks honor will save them. In the arena, the only thought Petyr had in his mind was to live. Even if he’d wished, often, since being crowned victor, that he hadn’t been so weak. He hadn’t meant to do it - to live. He simply had. Even if he’d only done what his counterpart would have done - he’d simply done it before she’d had the opportunity. The Capitol praised his ruthlessness, they lauded his outrageous wickedness, they sensationalized his depravity (made ever-more pronounced by a constant replay of his blade rushing against skin). But the Capitol was not Petyr’s home - Petyr still had to return to District 7.
By the time the victor’s tour had rolled around, he’d taken enough abuse that he’d leapt at the chance to leave the district, thinking he’d be able to shine a better light upon himself, his methods, his district. What a foolish boy he’d been. Petyr Baelish was not a creature whose sins could be atoned for. Petyr Baelish was a villain. The Capitol did not want a story of redemption; they wanted a boy who reveled in the deeds he had committed. Anything to achieve victory.And so he was.
Afterwards, for three years he’d stupidly tried to repent. What the Capitol gave to him, he gave to the District. It wasn’t enough. When Catelyn Stark married, Baelish simply…stopped. A decade swirled away into a bottle. When he crawled his way out of it, pale-skinned and sunken-eyed, everything had changed, and yet nothing was different.
That’s when he began spending more and more time within the gleaming halo of the Capitol. Though few noticed. Less cared. Petyr adopted the role his overlords wished him to have.
As they cheered Sansa’s innocence, her radiant beauty, so too did they cheer Baelish’s villainy. Sansa’s victory made all the more spectacular in that she had avoided the underhanded tactics her mentor had surely urged her to employ. She had emerged glittering and pure, killing only out of necessity, only because she had to. It was, of course, beside the fact that everyone killed because they had to - but that wasn’t part of the story. That didn’t bolster the entertainment value of it all.
And they would be entertained. Above all, they would have their entertainment.
“I know.” Petyr said, grimly. They wouldn’t let her screw it up. The Capitol had their insurance: the smiling faces of her siblings, still alive, and wanting to be alive.
Sansa had too much to lose to not play the games they wanted her to play.
Petyr’s eyes slanted away, towards the door, as the sound of a convoy’s tires rumbled to a stop just outside. Doors slammed, voices chattered, metal clanked in warped symphony as large production lights were set and held in place by creature-like tripods.Then came a chipper, sharp knock at the door.
“Bullshit.”
Sansa rarely cursed, though the stress of the arena had made her vocabulary go somewhat lax. It was an uncouth habit, reserved for those who had little or nothing to contribute to a conversation. Or for a conversation that was not worthy of contribution. There was no such thing as less attention, particularly where a newly-minted victor was concerned. Enthusiasm would only lead to more fawning, grinning citizens of the Capitol who thought her well and truly one of them. Brooding might serve her conscience best, though not requiring sponsors any longer did not release the girl from her dependence on the most fortunate. This was not a matter of attention or anonymity, merely greasing the cogs of a machine she would be trapped in the remainder of her days.
That Petyr would attempt such a lie disappointed her. They were not friends, casual observers might even hesitate to call them civil, but it was early on that they agreed to conduct themselves truthfully.
When his victory train purred along the tracks towards the Capitol, the Stark girl was still several years from her birth. Such did not keep the infamy of his year at the Games from her ears, though. Betraying an ally, transforming from prey to hunter overnight - what Sansa hated most about the tale was how it affected her. The night before a hovercraft would whisk her away to the great unknown, bitter tears of envy graced her pillow. Would that she knew how to wield a single weapon, not the skill, but the determination to steal another’s life so her own might continue a little longer. Were an attack to come, Sansa knew it would be met with force, but to initiate an onslaught? Crawling into a hole and waiting for the storm to pass hardly provided a show, yet it did grant survival.
Nonetheless, that night, she hated Petyr for his talent, no matter the cost to the soul. Such matters were concerns for the living, after all, and Sansa had been little more than a walking corpse until that final cannon sounded.
What a sad story he had become those years following his victory; a penitent, an alcoholic, a Capitol darling. None seemed to endear his District back to the boy that once was, disgust too rampant over the man he had become. The Stark girl counted among their number, righteously indignant at the sacrifice of dignity in the interest of living a while longer. No more. There was an unquenchable anger in Sansa’s breast, fostering the belief that if she awoke in the arena again tomorrow, she could kill them all.
Petyr wasn’t a monster. He was a product, packaged and sold, just as she would be in a handful of hours.
Good. He could offer all the advice he pleased, with whatever expectations it would be followed that felt most suitable, so long as Baelish did not abandon the basic belief that she could carry it off. Two weeks, over a dozen parties, and they would be done with each other. His responsibility ended. It was hardly an exciting prospect, though any reduction in the reminder of what she was now soothed Sansa’s mind. Then there would be other tributes, other children to care for, keeping her too preoccupied to think on when it had been he who mentored her.
Another report of knuckles on wood made her hand jerk, a survivor’s instinct yanking the mug to eye level as if to throw or bash. Tea sloshed across the gleaming tabletop, stinging on her legs and creeping towards Baelish in an ominous tide. A pained sound left her mouth, not at the warm liquid seeping through her robe, but embarrassment over the reaction and deeper still, resentment that it had been cultivated at all. “I’m sorry, I — Mind your knees,” she whispered, refusing to meet Petyr’s eyes and rising to fetch a towel before her team could see the inexplicable mess.
Throwing a kitchen rag, woven from finer cotton than Sansa had ever slept on before the Games, on the puddle, she moved to admit their guests. A glimmering flood erupted about the Victor, noise and fur and sequins carried on a cresting wave of expensive perfume. Tatty expected a kiss, the rest of the team full hugs she rarely granted her own family now. Once her face emerged from the continuous line of cheeks and shoulders, Sansa was a beaming, albeit bed-raggled, specimen. Hopefully the cameras were not sharp enough to catch the dullness in sapphire irises. As hair and skin were poked at and pulled away for inspection, the sound of Tatty and Baelish’s voices drifted into the corridor. No doubt he had earned a greeting as well. She moved to rejoin them in the kitchen as the crowd around her began chattering about gowns.
For all his faults, at least her first visitor of the day made no demands she could not meet.
Context was key.
The people, the masses, they were foaming at the maw to see every inch of her, to hear every detail, to exploit her and wring her out for every last drop of entertainment. They were not the people to whom Baelish referred. There was no chance to explain himself further - and odds are he wouldn’t have regardless - an excitable splash of spilled amber tea slithered gravely towards the edge of the table and his well-tailored pants. Mind your knees, Sansa warned, but Baelish seemed not to take any note of it. Fat droplets, like early-summer rain, fell from table to floor, seeping in a puddle until the fluffy cotton rag soaked up the piping liquid and concealed Sansa’s aimless mistake. The rag grew sodden and Petyr moved not an inch.
A spray of glittered confetti would have best prefaced the arrival of the Capitol’s crew. Tatty, flanked by Sansa’s dedicated entourage of stylists, fluttered in as extravagantly as the flock of birds she’d slaughtered to make her dress. Like a peppermint-striped avian, she was fitted head-to-toe in pink and white feathers set in an alternating ribboned pattern.
Baelish felt the urge to drink.
Tatty swanned about, little hands covered in dainty white lace, flapping her fingers and cooing breathy compliments as Sansa was whisked away to be primped and preened. Outside, mechanized cameras were set up on tracks that looked like mini versions of the sleek rails which carried fare to and from the Capitol. Trains which they would all be loaded onto in a handful of hours to embark on their victor’s voyage. A tour made ever-more laughable each year 23 innocents were brutally slaughtered to the delight of the privileged.
For all her unnecessary frill and pomp (and utterly embodied Capitol-flavored absurdity), Tatty and Baelish seemed to get on quite well. This could be attributed to Baelish’s willingness to exercise manners and maintain a well-groomed image whenever in the Escort’s presence. Additionally, Baelish was something of an expert in providing fodder and gossip for the Capitol to feast upon; though he’d not been a victor in twenty-five years, and had been miserably unsuccessful as a mentor until Sansa Stark was dutifully plucked from the reaping bowl, he actively participated in the Games when it came to chatting up sponsors (though he rarely pushed to secure benefits for his tributes) and keeping contact with important Capitol figures. This made him a familiar-enough face to be worth something. As such, Tatty had not made an obvious effort to move away from what otherwise might have been an unappealing district to work with, and had been District 7’s escort for six (going on seven) years. Baelish had stressed to Sansa that a successful working relationship with the ‘team’ was essential - that included Tatty, the stylists, the game trainers, and even the Avoxes who might be stationed inside their quarters. Anyone and everyone that they might come into contact with.
And so when Sansa meandered towards the pair, she would hear the lilting trill of Tatty’s practice laugh, and Baelish’s own polite version of a chuckle. Pleasantries and falsehoods, everything manufactured for the benefit of the process. Both sets of eyes swept towards the Victor as she stepped into the room, and Tatty made some squealing comment about how wonderful Sansa’s cheekbones looked. Sansa wasn’t even smiling. Fancy that.
“Wonderful, come! Come come come! They’re all ready to record you. Have you practiced?” Tatty swooped down beside Sansa, ushering her towards a part of the house which had been set up for Sansa’s talent: singing.
Baelish watched the entire charade. Something about his gaze was somehow different, unfamiliar, more vague and indistinct. Unsettling. Sansa would be used to an air of detached apathy, but this wasn’t the same. It was as though he was appraising her. He looked at her, stared at her, swathed in Capitol finery, and saw less of a run-down girl from District 7, and more of a creature worth noticing.
As the threshold yawned open before her, a sharp yank timed perfectly to one of Tatty’s cries redirected Sansa towards the stairs. There were preparations to make. Sapphire found the caramel-skinned Shanara, a stylist, quieter than the rest of the team, though no less entrenched in the culture of the Capitol. With wide brown eyes and hair like a raven’s wing, she claimed to be descended from a line of ancestors hailing from a country once called India, though the land had long ago been claimed by the sea. Truthfully, the woman had been born dishwater blonde, with blue eyes so light the line between iris and sclera blurred. Miracles of cosmetology. Though her appearance remained decidedly human, surgeons had gifted her with knife’s-edge cheekbones, the perfect nasal slope, and a jaw of commanding femininity. Perhaps Shanara was not even the name bestowed upon her by mother and father, merely another affectation to lend interest where none was gifted. It didn’t matter. It was a name, and while the others turned shades of red and blue as they blustered on with stories of people Sansa would never meet, Shanara worked in diligent quiet.
Such did not go unappreciated.
Several arguments delayed the process. First, the matter of her hair: one member of the prep team, whom Sansa thought was a man, insisted upon the latest coiled arrangement whilst the others prattled on about braids and twists, until it was decided that a flowing cascade served their tribute best. Auburn was how the crowds recognized the new darling, it would be a shame to pile it away. Then her cosmetics - blue for her eyes or green for her district? The girl attempted to intercede, softly suggesting that perhaps it would be best to coordinate with her garment. A third argument, as the wardrobe was not even agreed upon, or at the very least, there was civil disagreement over Shanara’s choices. Desperate glances from Sansa, whose scalp throbbed and skin tingled with the treatments inflicted, pushed the stylist to restore order, shoving a pot of emerald powder into another’s hands as she moved to fetch a garment bag lurking in the corner.
“A gown will be best for your talent,” she explained, pulling the zipper away with a metallic hum. “But it won’t serve for the train.” Black embroidery came flooding out of its plastic shroud, the green of Seven’s forests winking out between the threads. It was a stunning gown, with a skirt clearly designed to sweep across the floor with every step, matched above with a simple corseted bodice in the same gemstone silk overlain with an ebony screen. Sansa reached out, forgetting for a moment that this was all a bloodstained show, a girl presented with a beautiful dress that was all hers. Songbirds swooped through the black stitching, from slender branches and sturdy trunks. A beautiful reminder of what she soon would be. Looking up to offer her compliments on the work, Shanara cut them off. “The skirts tie at the waist - here…” Deftly, the garment was turned over to reveal cleverly hidden bows. “…After you board, there are black leggings beneath, more comfortable for sitting." Or wandering aimlessly. Breathing out a thank you, Sansa accepted the final flourishes of her crafted appearance, forced her muscles into pliability as first the promised slacks, then the bodice, and finally the voluminous layers were all fastened about her figure. Thankfully, the gown’s length would hide any efforts put into the girl’s shoes, and so heels of a modest height were allowed; tall for her age, stilettos of excessive size would not be thought of as required until they traveled closer to the Capitol.
The stairs presented little issue in negotiating, though the freshly waxed woodgrain of her front hall threatened to sheer fresh soles sideways with every step. Sansa’s knuckles turned a faint shade of pink, then white, on her stylist’s arm. Tatty and Baelish still seemed to be talking - how long could that have possibly taken? Pushing at the small of her back, Shanara forced her ward away from the pack to be inspected. Fingers interlaced above her stomach, a brief smile urged forth by nerves that returned in the wake of her appreciation for the fabric now draped over her. "Of course I did Tatty, I couldn’t embarrass the district. Or you,” Sansa added graciously, words practiced in the past weeks, tone and arrangement all carefully crafted to sound unfailingly polite…and not much else.
Prepared to show Baelish just how well trained she might act, the Victor sucked in well-filtered air, mouth tensed to offer a broad display ofacquiescence when she faltered. He had stared before, always critical, always detached, as a man might evaluate some new piece of machinery to be purchased. Ascertaining its value, its utility. And it made Sansa feel as if every thread, each speck of powder were somehow misplaced. Tatty forgotten, the attention was returned, daring the mentor to find fault in the picture presented. “Should I have chosen the blue instead, Petyr?” she challenged quietly. “This seemed more apropos, considering…” Lacquered nails brushed over the freshly steamed creation, setting birds to flight.
Tatty showered Sansa with breathy praise, declaring her the most beautiful she’d ever looked, as she hovered hands over shoulders and elbows, as if hesitant to actually touch any of the decorous fabric in fear that something might become unsettled.
Baelish didn’t disagree with the assertions – even if Tatty had announced the very same with every costume Sansa had been poured into. During the games, however, the costumes were far more traditional of District 7. Bland browns and textured patterns meant to resemble bark or veined leafs. Sansa’s comeliness had shined through the ensembles all the same, but an uglier girl would have been doomed.
This, however…was no opprobrious mimicry of log or bush. The gown was beautiful. The audience would gape and gush, and perhaps even sob into their hands if she sang well enough.
“Did they give you a choice?” The blue would have matched your eyes. “Birds. How droll.” Songbirds for their little songbird. A corner of his mouth barely twitched in some semblance of amusement. For all his subtle jeering, Petyr found it oddly difficult to look away. It proved unnecessary; Sansa’s prep team swooped in before his gaze could be registered as unbefitting. They ushered her into the study where cameras were ready to capture her performance and broadcast it in all its staged glory to the barely bated citizens of the Capitol.
After his victory, Petyr’s talent had been carving. No one was surprised that a boy from District 7 had a talent for wood-working, and yet, the level of skill and craftsmanship had been so surprising, especially for one of his age. Tiny, oddly intricate trinkets and totems: birds and dogs and frogs and little pairs of shoes, all of which had sold at an exorbitant sum in the Capitol. Petyr hadn’t whittled wood since. Even if, fairly regularly, he still received parcels containing nothing more than rare and expensive blocks of wood with a request to create. The Games had a way of sucking every iota of joy from something which had once offered calming respite.
Idly, Petyr wondered if Sansa would come to hate singing. Melodies, notes, rhymes – every bit of it, once it came to represent yet another way for the Capitol to exploit her.
Tatty crowded herself into the doorway with the rest of Sansa’s team, clasping her hands together, wide-eyed and dewy. Baelish, if he’d had any intention of watching, was denied audience to Sansa’s warbling as he was instead whisked outside to give impromptu commentary on the performance of his tribute. An interview to be run and parsed between clips of her victory tour as well as footage from the games.
It was the same rehearsed sentences. I wasn’t shocked for a moment. She always had my full confidence. It was all perseverance and a strong will to survive.
He spoke nothing of the grief, of the regret, of a longing for penance. Of a longing for death. Nor did he speak of the hatred. The seething, writhing tendrils of loathing which twisted in her belly and rendered her unable to live the life the Capitol so pretended she did.
Baelish’s smiles, his mannerisms, were so practiced, so precise, that even after the taping had ceased, he could hear murmurs of what a delight it was that he’d not lost his panache. How fortunate it was that his victor had made him relevant again.
His was a deadpan silence.
“As much as anyone else in the room.” Baelish but rarely interloped on the prep team’s attentions to his Tribute, the only opinion being offered following their extensive efforts. Unless the gossip of Tatty and her ilk ever registered, there was little chance of his knowing about the sartorial divisions amongst the girl’s companions. Oddly, she wanted to smile, as if the chattering disagreement of earlier could only turn amusing when shared with the dry man before her. “Better than bark,” Sansa retorted, lips beginning to offer the pleasure she had pondered before the escort dipped between them with crowing worries about how delayed their timeline had become. One craning attempt to regain his eyes, and then the flood of Capitol denizens was too heavy, ushering the girl forward into a spotlight never meant to be shared.
How lonely it was.
Before the grand show could begin, Caesar asked the requisite questions. How long have you sung? Would you help put the younger children to bed? Is there a choir in your school? What would you like to sing for us first? On cue, the autumnal victor flashed ivory amusement and laughed with genial goodwill, all smiling sincerity for the adoring public whilst inside there was only a passing interest in the proceedings. Pandering in the most blatant manner, her audience was first treated to a selection of the most popular current melodies. Any other year, they would not reach District Seven for months. Sansa had wanted to sing a hymn; Tatty insisted on something operatic from centuries ago. They compromised on a lullaby for her final selection, though it rankled that what had once eased her little brothers to their dreams now made the Capitol’s dip-dyed emcee heave theatrical sobs into his microphone.
How repugnant it was.
No sooner had the stolid red light flickered to its death than Tatty led the charge of her flock, loud spoken compliments flowing freely over how lovely, how talented, how delightful her charge had been. Another false smile and assurances that it was for the benefit of her home gave the escort enough fodder to allow Sansa a time of silence. Her throat was dry. She missed the tea Baelish had brewed a few hours earlier, long consumed by now. Feet carrying the girl back towards the interior of the home, to seek out any siblings who had not been told farewell, were quickly redirected towards the front door. “No, no, no, darling, we are far too far behind. Your bags are packed, the lights switched off, they will see you in two weeks! No time at all!” With that, the door snapped shut, sealing Sansa within the cool damp air of the Victor’s Village. Some distance away, Petyr stood near another cluster of cameras, though they were clearly not filming.
As the group ushered her down the stoop and across the lawn, she remembered the fine skirts brushing her ankles. With an absent consideration, fingers clutched at the fabric, hiking it to a respectable height above the dew. How pleasant it would be, to shed them on the train. To sit cross-legged in some rear corner of the gliding monstrosity with a steaming mug of tea - or perhaps that chocolaty concoction - and simply watch the countryside flash by. Silent. Alone. At peace. Drawing even with her mentor, Sansa’s hand stuck out, a brief tapping at his elbow brought to an end by her perpetual forward motion. “The station,” she explained. “Tatty says we’re late.” The man seemed preoccupied, outside himself - the Capitol could have that effect, she had learned all too quickly. She reached again, backwards this time, for good measure. “Petyr. We’re leaving. Now.” In her voice, there lingered a pleading note. He didn’t have to talk, Baelish neverhad to talk. But god if another step had to be taken with only the team as company, Sansa did not know if she would make it to the platform with her sanity intact.
Is that not what all else had been reduced to: a glancing touch to an elbow, hand, face, in brief recognition or reminder of something not yet lost?
The districts whipped by. 12, 11, 10 – hollowed faces and tired eyes. Tired of the games, tired of the emotions they were expected to conjure. The lazy applause, the stretched and withered smiles that never reached their eyes. Two more of their children were dead. Life went on.
Giant screens projected shots of Sansa’s victory on a never-ending reel of replay. Shots of her darting through the woods, autumnal leaves like camouflage for her fiery hair— and blood. On her hands. On her tattered clothing. On her white skin. Hers and theirs, in some crass juxtaposition meant to signify that we are all one. Even when there was a constant division of us and them. What did that make Sansa? What did that make Baelish? Some crude amalgamation of the two, as twisted and defiled as the mutts created in Capitol laboratories.
9, 8, 6. More of the same. Less of the brouhaha. Tatty kept schedules tight. To the minute. Hardly there seemed a second to spare, unless they were on the train, sequestered into ornate and luxurious staterooms, or seated about tables polished to a gleaming shine and lined with steaming plates of gluttonous, wasteful, ambrosial delights.
Baelish kept to himself. As much as one on a public tour could keep to themselves. While Sansa gave speeches hand-crafted to the letter by Tatty, Baelish stood politely behind as expected. As support. A piece fashioned and designed specifically to make the real centerpiece look ever grander. A lace doily upon which the gilded chalice could rest upon. Sansa was the victor. It was Sansa whom the Capitol hungered for. Every detail, every smile, every coy lowering of her perfectly combed lashes, tinted and highlighted to look even more perfectly ruby-red in the neon-white lights of the stage.
As the countryside trailed by through the glass windows of the sleek metallic train leading them ever-closer to the din of the Capitol, Baelish slept. Baelish drank.
“Petyr!” Tatty’s voice shrieked, echoing in high pitch through the sealed tomb of their assigned cars. “We have five minutes!” Baelish was nothing if not punctual. If anything, he was too invested in timeliness, ofttimes arriving earlier than necessary. “Five. Minutes.” Tatty repeated, in a voice somewhere between aghast and infuriated. Like a mother speaking to her wee babe. Condescending. Patronizing. Infuriating.
Endearing.
Baelish never did show for District 5’s victory speech. Not that his dusky presence mostly concealed by the shadows was especially missed. Except by Tatty, who was positively fuming by the time the group returned to the train. Wherein Baelish was caught in nothing more than sleepwear pilfering a tall mug of rich coffee. Or else he wanted people to think it was coffee.
Tatty huffed, sputtering out angry-sounding syllables but no actual words, before storming away in a cloud of indignation, leaving District 7’s victors – old and new alike – alone together in the dining car.
“Surely all that vitriol can’t be for me?“ Baelish asked, rhetorically, slumping down into a chair, plucking various bits of bread and berries onto a plate.
"Don’t you look nice.” He noted, absently. The outfit designed for Five was a mixture of dark orange fabrics cinched and pulled together tightly, with veins of bright white shooting down her body in lines which accentuated what little curves she had. For power. Electricity. Baelish’s sardonic look as he slowly chewed a lump of bread said it all: isn’t that cute. Not that he had much room to say anything; he still reeked faintly of what could only have been an all-night bender, and had yet to shower. It was perhaps the most disheveled Sansa had ever seen him. When Baelish did leave his house, even when his hair was longer or his face covered in layers of thick stubble, he was at the very least dressed.
There was no polite conversation. Baelish didn’t ask how the speech went because he didn’t care. Because he knew Sansa didn’t care either. And because there were no chaperones flitting around to decide whether or not their manners were on par.
“Four more,” Baelish breathed, more to himself than to Sansa. As if this entire trip was a huge inconvenience to him and his important lifestyle of being a perpetual recluse. As if he was the one who should be bothered. As if he was the person facing the families of the children he’d helped to bury.
Sansa was not ready. Not ready for the lack of sleep, the rich food, the faces staring back at sparkling platforms with more dirt and thinner cheeks than even District 7. She had thought recounting her own hardships would make the required smiles crack, yet nothing had prepared the victor for what effect the people would have on her. Gratitude, then, was what she felt as the town halls and banquet tables flashed by, thankfully void of those who had raised the children she killed. So many had, again, died in the slaughter of those first precious minutes, whilst Sansa turned tail and ran for high ground. A costly mistake, at first – water doesn’t run uphill – yet at least the inevitable cuts and bruises were delayed.
In Nine, however, that flimsy shield crumbled away. He had been a year younger, and leapt out at her from behind. Somehow, it was the boy who found himself on his back, fingers lacing around Sansa’s throat when she gripped his collar. Truly, her thoughts had not even centered on killing him, only making him stop. Several times, bone was slammed against the hard-packed ground as she tried to usher him to unconsciousness. Except for the rock beneath his head.
What could she say to those parents staring back so hatefully across the auditorium? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to? She had seen the replays, and it certainly looked as if she had. Careers relished the killing, the sport of it all; every other child simply cherished their life. That couldn’t be explained in canned speeches honoring sacrifice and valor. None of them were valorous; some were sadistic, others unlucky, the rest desperate. More than anything, she felt the stirrings of apology rise up in her breast; not for surviving – Sansa wouldnever regret that – only that such an outcome required so many others to be scooped up and delivered home after some final, cosmetic attentions.
It was not a solitary incident, when she wondered if the wooden boxes were shaped from trees felled in her own district.
The boy’s parents never did come any closer than they had in the audience, so plainly visible from the platform. Tatty’s acrobatics no doubt, keeping her victor from any potential unpleasantness. Or perhaps they knew there was nothing to be said. As the districts continued to roll past on glinting tracks, Sansa paid hardly any attention to her entourage; only so much, at least, as was required to be presentable and punctual. There were times, however, when slack fingers itched to reach out to Baelish, threading through his until knuckles bruised. It made no sense, the impulse for contact; he supported her as all the rest did – playing a part, fulfilling the duty, pushing her closer to the cameras. No stretch of the imagination could credit the man with offering comfort, though Sansa teased it out from the cracks between his permissive nods and derisive snorts of laughter. Invented it, more like. Or harvested. In that man she saw an ability that seemed nonexistent in herself – survival.
Not of the grasping, frantic sort that was bred in the arenas, but a far more conscious effort of breathing and eating and being. Pushing aside the blankets another morning and allowing the strings at every joint to be tweaked and pulled. Sansa did not admire him, per se; she envied him.
As the more impoverished districts vanished behind glimmering steel tracks, she felt an anger rise up in her breast with each successive improvement seen. How was her team not indignant, insulted, at the plain dichotomy in their nation? Those who worked the hardest ate the least, and risked losing a child each year as well. It seemed impossible that Tatty could conduct herself with such chipper grace, that Petyr could stare out over the crowds with cool, glassy eyes. They should be railing, against the Games, the hunger, the lack of empathy from any who had the power to enact change.
It was disgusting. It was immovable.
Her rage was flamboyantly mirrored in the escort’s indignation at Baelish’s most notable absence at the city hall. Thinking back, Sansa had no memory of the man amongst the assembly, yet as her memory stretched further, she could not recall his presence at any of the other ceremonies either. She intended to bar herself in the spacious cabin that made up her temporary home, but Tatty’s noises of displeasure were following her down that particular hallway, and so she delayed. Stuck, then, with a very unpresentable Petyr. Slim fingers rattled about the sideboard, until the herbs and water necessary for tea were uncovered between the creams and sugars. Something black, without mint.
“I didn’t play hooky.” Blue slanted to one corner, though the glance contained as much reprobation as his tone did regret.
A gentle scoff gusted out between her lips. “You too. New cologne?” The cup was beginning to sting hotly against her palms. Changing would have been desirable, but she could still hear the rattlings of Tatty, faint scrapings of beetle wings down the corridor. Sansa took the seat opposite, feet lifted and tucked under her after the brew was safely deposited on the table between them. She didn’t bother looking to see if was watching her or not – a common habit, she had discovered – so the girl had no way of knowing Petyr’s words were a private benediction.
“Five,” she corrected in a soft, clipped tone. “Six, if you count home. It only gets worse.” Her victory would provide Seven with grain and fuel for a year – a welcome boon – yet soon those gifts would disappear, and most would be as cold and hungry as before. Outside the train, the countryside was rapidly becoming a green smear upon the windows, the occasional flash of brown or grey divulging where the land had been scorched. For a long while, Sansa only stared at the verdant undulations, seeking out patterns and details that simply didn’t exist from the perspective of the Capitol’s gleaming transport. In generality, she sought meaning.
“Or are you not going home?” Everyone knew Baelish spent a respectable portion of his year in the Capitol. “Tatty wouldn’t like that,” she warned, finally turning to him. But I don’t blame you. Were it not for the siblings that truly benefited from her victory, Sansa too might be inclined to disappear into the bright plumage of the city. If such a thing were possible for a victor. Another moment’s contemplation, staring across at him, before her mouth opened of its own accord. “Did you kill someone from Five? Is that why you stayed here?”
Petyr shrugged. Half-heartedly, at that. One hand reached back behind his head, running his fingers over his scalp, half-scratching, half-massaging, mussing his hair, even though for the time it was still short and well-kempt. A dainty sniff was her only reply as she inquired after his stench. He didn’t stink— did he? Petyr found that the idea didn’t bother him in the slightest.
Her need to correct him grated at him. Needled. Petyr’s scratch-hand rubbed at his brow for a few moments, and then fell limply back into his lap. He was in no mood for her priggish rectification. Little cunt.
“It doesn’t get worse. It gets better. We’re nearly finished. The districts left…they aren’t dying. The faces won’t be dirtied and gaunt, they won’t stare at you like they hate you. Not as much, anyway.” Petyr sipped from his mug, eyes falling closed as the steam worked up over his face. Sansa knew what the Capitol was like, he didn’t need to explain that; while it wasn’t her idea of a good time, at least there was good food— and good booze. In her case, she might even get some individual tours, although those weren’t likely to be much fun. Certainly not for her.
The realization that she was right was enough to make him set his cup of whatever down to the table. It did get worse. Well, for her it did. Petyr stared at her. Debated telling her just how many sponsors were expecting a private compensation for their generous donations. One in specific had spent a small fortune on her and had been explicitly promised some time spent between her legs. Petyr had been desperate, Sansa’s mortality had been at stake, what did she expect? That salve had closed the wound and saved her life. What was a measly roll in the hay with some Capitol benefactor.
Nothing. It was nothing.
Conscience smoothed, Petyr picked up his cup again.
In silence they sat. Together but not together. That was how Baelish liked it. A warm body, the idea that someone else was there, but no superficial need to engage in trite conversation. It wasn’t what one would call a comfortable silence, as there was no real reason for mentor or victor to feel particularly comfortable with the other. Though it did grant a certain modicum of respite, and for that, Baelish was grateful.
Until Sansa felt the need to open her mouth, to rip open his flesh, to fish out fleshy tendons and ropey veins and chunks of fat and spill it all to the table as though she was well-practiced in the art of torture. Underestimation was a fool’s venture. Petyr narrowed his eyes at her, and didn’t bother to conceal the acrimony rapidly breeding in them. Everyone knew Petyr had killed his fellow tribute from Seven. That was the clip they showed every year whenever he was shown on television. Most people had forgotten the others, or if there even were others. Sansa was too young to know. But not too young to know better.
“Now now, Sansa, it’s impolite to talk about people we’ve killed.” He leaned back into the chair, enough that the front two legs barely lifted from the floor. “If you thought Nine was bad…” a smile lazily, cruelly, curved his mouth. “—just you wait for Four. Or Two. Pretty little thing like you— who do you think you are, killing their brave, trained warriors? Their tributes are heroes down there. Revered. Like Gods. You killed one of their Gods, Sansa. You killed Hercules. What a terrible thing to do.”
A sip, small and measured.“What a terrible thing you’ve done.”
“It gets worse.” Rare were the moments where Sansa felt he didn’t understand, yet this one snapped up in her face with a gnash of teeth. For what was poverty without wealth? If empty stomachs and cold baths were all humanity knew, then there were few complaints to be had. That was life. Brief, uncomfortable, unremarkable. Yet each new district was a revelation of comfort. The clothes were cut a little finer, the crowd’s cheeks a little plumper and faces a little more neutral at her presentation. By the time the Capitol was reached, there would be cheers and streamers in celebration of state-sanctioned murder. How was that better?
To settle her churning stomach, she leaned forward and reclaimed the mug of tea. The leaves had soaked too long, bitter dark herbs turning the water into a faintly acrid solution. Sansa liked it. How her tongue stung without the unpleasantness that came with alcohol. Maybe she would pilfer some bags, or at least an empty tin, so that the cabinets at home could grow a little fuller. Craning to catch sight of the container, Baelish’s stare cut across her peripheral. Auburn brows drew down, lips pressed together, chin tilted, all in the universal, wordless translation of What?
Then he looked down and she looked away, the mystery unsolved. If it were important, she reasoned, he would tell her. That was his job.
It was an innocent question she asked, bordering on considerate. Who else would understand what it was to visit the homes of the dead, the slaughtered? The venom of his gaze, then, paired with the deliberately sugared tone, took Sansa aback. She knew he killed Seven’s other tribute and never breathed a word of it. Whose life you took in that arena, and why, was something deeply personal, akin to the faith one subscribed to. But this was a factual question, asked because his stint in the Games came well before she was born. Had he killed a tribute from Five or not? Petyr could have said no and garnered a shrug. Or yes, and a knowing nod.
“That’s all we do,” she said warily, the ball of her limbs constricting. If he had stopped there, Sansa would have apologized. Let it go. But he pressed on.
“Don’t. Don’t lecture me.” Her breath came a little heavier, pupils dilated and fixed on Baelish. How dare he. She didn’t give one shit, in that moment, for the twenty-three other children cold beneath the ground. If they were gods, what did that make her, the girl who beat them all? And if honor existed in that hellhole, Sansa managed to cling to it for as long as possible; more than any of their divinities. Survival wasn’t a sin, it was a curse, and now her mentor flung it back at her like a pot of scalding water.
Angrily, her mug met the surface of the table, tea sloshing over the rim as she uncurled, leaning forward. “You have no right.” One hand jabbed across the open space, a finger extended in accusation. “At least I didn’t kill my fucking friend!” Tribute, ally, friend. The word didn’t matter; he had as inviolable a relationship as one could form there, then he violated it. Not wanting to garner Tatty’s attention with a voice that had steadily risen, Sansa retook her seat, still poised to jump up at further provocation. “That’s a terrible thing to do, Baelish,” she hissed. “You did a terrible thing.”
The hand that prodded his atmosphere swept back, smoothing errant wisps of fiery hair, a calm stroking along her scalp as the fit passed. Suddenly, she was ashamed. Enough nights were spent counting the mistakes and injuries made under that dome. Petyr had been gifted with hundreds more than her, but there she sat. Punishing him. For doing, ultimately, the same as her.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, eyes falling to yet another puddle of spilled tea. “I’m sorry, Petyr,” she repeated, louder, chancing to look at the man across the table. This was uncomfortable for Sansa, apology. Ever since returning, the idea wormed its way into her mind that no one deserved to hear that phrase from her again. After all she had been through, a few rough words or sullen silences were a small price to pay, the way she figured it. When dealing with someone as damaged as her, however, that flagrant apathy had no place. It would infuriate her, too.
“That’s all we do. Terrible things.” There was no grey in the arena, only pricks of white in a field of black. “That wasn’t fair of me. I’m sorry.”
It had used to bother Baelish like it bothered Sansa: the celebration of brutality. As the years glided by the sensation of it progressively wore off. Even if the idea of it remained reprehensible, the effects became easier to ignore. Perhaps because, for Baelish, until now, there had been no further victory tours, no juxtaposition of poverty to riches, no sliding scale of hatred to festivity. Petyr experienced only the conviviality of the Capitol; while its precocious joviality and shallow mannerisms were certainly enough to disgust any non-resident, it did become simpler to brush off. As rote did with so many other things, it reduced the task to menial convention.
Petyr hadn’t expected Sansa to talk back or upbraid him. To question his barb, the obvious attempt to send her retreating back to her room. The way he stared at her as she voiced her contemptuous reproof was somewhere at a point between surprised and impressed. Then she mentioned his fellow tribute. Baelish was used to that, of course. It was his selling point; the only reason people remembered him at all. But usually it was mentioned in a sensationalized way – a way which certainly cheapened her death, but made it not real, almost as if it were some cartoon, some paper figure folded and stop-motioned across the screen. To think of it in any other way, even after all those years had passed, was prodding the infected, festering wound he kept carefully concealed inside of him. His mouth twisted in the start of disdain, but he let her finish. Her outburst of anger followed by rattling apologies. It was exactly as Petyr had done, when he was her age, still figuring out how best to cope. Before he had reached the stage of absolute numbness. Petyr could have laughed, then. At her. At himself. At the entire farce of it all.
But he didn’t. Instead, one of his shoulders lifted in a half-measured shrug.
“No. You’re right.”
Words that hung in the air like a fusty damp. Truths that never became any less difficult to swallow. “You’re right,” he repeated. “I did. You did. We all did.” There was no frown on Baelish’s features, no tone of sorrow clinging to his words, yet somehow Sansa could see there was much more to what he said than the detached objectivity he pretended to project.
“Don’t apologize,” he warned. Baelish certainly wasn’t about to. Apology didn’t make any of it better. The only people whose forgiveness mattered were already gone. For a few moments he sat there with her, saying nothing more. Then, without ceremony, he stood and left, leaving her and his cup of mud-water alone.
He was there, though, the next day, in Four. Standing dutifully behind in the shadowed wings as she delivered her victor’s speech to the hateful masses whose glares might have been white-hot brands for all the friendliness they offered. Sansa had killed one of their own, a person who – in their eyes – was worth far more than the waif-like redhead standing upon the podium preaching self-righteous nonsense to them. They didn’t clap, and it wasn’t out of exhaustion or a lack of caring like it had been in the distracts of Twelve and Eleven. They hated her for what she had done. Even understanding the games, understanding what they were and what they meant, they hated Sansa for taking something, someone, they loved away from them. The tribute’s family, raised aloft on a dais in the crowd, looked to her with equal measure of disgust and loathing. How could this have happened? Luck. That was all it was. The boy had stumbled by sheer happenstance and Sansa had claimed his life and saved her own in the same instant. Four found this flagrant display, this flagrant error, to be against the nature of the games entirely. It was the strong who deserved to win. Not the lucky.
After the speech, Tatty, clearly uncomfortable with the entire display, had ushered Sansa swiftly back to the train, spouting out words of encouragement, blaming the weather for Four’s surliness, insisting that Sansa not be bothered by their poor manners.
It was Baelish who interjected, grabbing Sansa by the arm, pulling her out of Tatty’s protective motherly snug and taking her in the opposite direction. When Tatty started to object, Baelish waved her away with enough casual apathy to send the escort into a flurry of huffs.
“Come on.” He slung a heavy arm over Sansa’s shoulder. “Let’s have a drink, you and I.” It was the best form of medication Sansa would get on the train; the booze car was always well-stocked.
Looking up sharply from the contemplation of her spilled beverage, Sansa would have demanded he repeat himself if Baelish didn’t do so of his own accord. There was a deflating sensation beneath her ribs, the expectation that he would gentle her with words of how she had not behaved like a beast, how survival had not tainted her. That hope trickled away, leaving the girl — relieved.
Everyone else pretended that the Games had not wrought any change in their auburn darling, excusing away any unpleasant behavior with illness or lack of sleep. She was ill, from the arena. Nightmares did come, sometimes disrupting her slumber. But the Capitol had reaped Sansa Stark and returned a Victor, that rare, flighty creature who was as unpredictable as the conditions that bred it. Look at Petyr, then look at her - clearly the same species, with vastly different plumage.
They shouldn’t have made us do it. Treasonous words that, ultimately, didn’t matter in the slightest. That paper unfolded to reveal neat black lines which allegedly formed a rigid arrow pointing first at him, then her so many years later. Then they got blood on their hands and went back home, winners. And who was she to say which death was more heinous? Perhaps Baelish was less deserving of criticism - he meant to kill. There was a plan, a conscious desire to make it out alive. For all her clever avoidance, Sansa had merely stumbled across other tributes, running when the Game Makers allowed it, fighting when the other children didn’t.
“I didn’t mean to shout.” Whether he heard, or cared, was not readily apparent to Sansa, who watched his departure with half a mind to follow. Apology only served as an oblique way to mention his divisive choice again though, so she took the mentor at his word and stayed seated. For a long while - they had to come looking for her to join the evening meal - she selected different objects to stare at. Baelish’s mug, the dip of his seat that slowly puffed back up, the corner of the car’s window that rattled slightly every time the car took a curve.
Sansa didn’t speak at dinner and didn’t sleep that night.
Four’s dress was the blue gown passed over for her talent, hemmed to a less formal length and miraculously paired with cosmetics that did not border on cartoonish. That was not enough to cheer her, however, when the crowd grew before the platform. So full of it herself, Sansa never stopped to imagine, to truly appreciate the level of enmity that could greet her in the further districts. True, there were always fluke years where a Career failed to follow through, although the tribute who bested them was often wildly impressive. Justified in their victory, through strength or viciousness.
Not so with the slender girl who, for the first time, hesitated before stepping to the microphone. These people did not care about her fortitude, her gratitude. It was a palpable wall of hatred that stayed her feet and forced a sharp intake of breath before Sansa could carry on with the speech. I slit his throat. He lunged and I swiped at him, except the knife was still there and suddenly I was drenched. That had been her first thought, that the Game Makers had summoned a sudden rainstorm. Not so. She couldn’t begin to postulate the comparisons that began to fly out of Flickerman’s mouth afterwards - Petyr had used a knife as well. Little matter that his was a learned skill with a deliberately acquired tool, while hers was happenstance. Unplanned, unintentional.
Choking out the final sentences honoring the dead, thanking District Four for its sacrifices on behalf of the Capitol, she finally dared to look at the boy’s family so many feet away. Their stares were the worst of all. Not that Sansa could saddle them with any blame; it had been their child slaughtered, while the rest of the district had lost a symbol. She wondered what her siblings would have looked like, sitting there while another youth delivered another canned speech about their sister, who had probably never even been spoken to.
The hatred lost its edge then, though it was still enough to force Sansa to practically flee the stage as the anthem began to blare. A hand at her elbow - Baelish? - wobbled slightly when Tatty’s heel caught at a crack in the walk, steering her ward on a narrow path back to their transport. Her high-pitched excuses over the weather stoked hurt and fear back into anger, the girl’s mouth opening to offer a barrage of more believable reasons for the reception when her opposite arm was yanked.
“ – Petyr!” One ankle twisted precariously in her own stilettos, the seized arm quickly looping around his waist for momentary support. It dropped with just as much speed, wedged between them as her mentor drug Sansa away from the blustering Tatty. “I don’t drink,” she muttered once they were out of earshot, though she kept walking all the same. Cheap liquor was no better than medicinal rubbing alcohol; good liquor was a luxury. Ed Stark had a bottle of Capitol scotch once, only pulled out for the sealing of deals or for a small, shared helping with his wife on special occasions. She had smelled it, creamy vanilla ruined with the tang of sharp fumes, but nothing more.
Looking askance at Baelish, she spoke carefully. “I don’t want to get drunk…” Measured words, deliberately cleared of judgement. If that was how he coped, so be it. Sansa wasn’t particularly interested. “…But thanks.” Sitting and staring at an untouched snifter would be much more soothing than the escort’s apologies. Or sitting and staring at the wall of her compartment, alone. Sitting heavily once they reached the bar car, toeing the backs of her shoes from her heels, she dared another question. “Its going to be harder in Two, isn’t it?” Sansa already knew the answer. “Everyone hates me.” I hate myself. “And none of them believe those canned speeches anyway. What’s the point?”
Petyr’s hold on Sansa’s arm didn’t lessen; he guided her – no – pulled her, towards the bar car. The train began to move, a smooth ripple of acceleration and then nothing. No jostling movements, no lurching groans. Everything was the efficient mechanized system of the well-greased Capitol engineers. Or, more likely, engineers from District 3. There would be bruises left behind where his fingerpads remorselessly clamped. Sansa’s team would shriek if their ensemble for Three, Two, or One included a sleeveless gown.
At her bold proclamation that not only did she not drink, but she did not wish to imbibe excessively, Baelish laughed. A real laugh. A laugh that was sharp and rich and blatantly had entirely at her expense. “Honey,” he flattered. “Do yourself a favor: start.”
Once inside the bar car he released her and let her take a seat. No apology for the man-handling. It was necessary. Baelish, through the years, had mentored a great deal of tributes. Not all of them were stubborn, but most of them were. Something about the air in Seven raised a bunch of obdurate mules. As such, he’d dragged more than his fair share of man and woman through the innards of trains and other buildings. Sansa wasn’t the first; she wouldn’t be the last. Turning his back to her, he made for one of the well-stocked bars. Ice clanked into glasses, amber liquid poured atop of it. Baelish didn’t measure. Such fripperies were reserved for the elite. Or for those who drank for taste.
“Probably,” he drawled, low and apathetic, postulating only briefly on whether or not Two would be worse. “Probably,” he repeated, to her assertion that everyone hated her. Did it matter? The only people who thought the Hunger Games were actual games were the simpletons living in the lap of the Capitol. To everyone else, they were very real, very horrible, and very traumatizing. Sansa had killed people who existed to others not as images of entertainment or idols of blood-lust and rage, but as other people. Individuals. Humans who lived and breathed and loved and laughed. Sansa had taken that from them. It was the Capitol, yes, and everyone knew that, but there would always be some part of a certain set of people who would never forgive Sansa for drawing the knife, wielding the rock, hurling the spear. For surviving where their loved ones perished.
Turning back towards her with two mostly filled, uneven glasses pinched together in one hand, he crossed the room and set them down on the table before her. Then he slumped into the chair opposite.
“The point, Sansa, is to glorify the Capitol, to keep them on your side. To do what they ask, and fly under the radar. None of these speeches, or anything else, are for the people living in the districts.” Baelish had heard rumors of what happened to the Victors who refused to participate in the Capitol’s song and dance. Sansa had experienced first-hand what it meant to show defiance. Her family had paid the ultimate price. Was still paying it. Would likely be paying it for years to come. It would surprise no one if, once her siblings came of age, their names were plucked from the reaping ball just as Sansa’s had been. Petyr grabbed his glass, drank from it. Drank. No dainty sips. Like water. When he put it back down, it was half emptied.
“Find something to distract yourself with. You don’t have to drink,” he gestured to her glass, almost dismissively. “But do something. That’s the only way. If you try to rationalize it, or god forbid, empathize…you’ll lose your mind.” Like so many others had before them. Like so many would after. “Get through this tour, and…” Baelish’s mouth pursed. He paused, tilting his head slowly to one side, and then the other, looking like a set of scales precariously balancing itself. “—then all you have to do is mentor two sorry fucks every year for the rest of your life.” The thoughtful countenance was broken with a saccharine smile.
“Piece of cake.”
Sansa’s bristling was a visible reaction, auburn hairs prickling along arms and neck, spine drawn straight against the chair’s plush backing. “Don’t. Call me ’honey’,” she warned in a low rumble, far more perturbed over his mirth than his hypocorism. It was a convenient excuse for telling him off, though, and certainly not a habit she wanted to see Baelish fall into either. Her arm ached from where he had snatched her, hurting all the more for the unexpected quality of his strength. Not that she saw her mentor as physically weak, simply one who was too disinterested to wield whatever force he possessed.
She watched with growing alarm as drinks were poured, the level rising from a taste, to a helping, to a generous pour, to a pool that easily overwhelmed what ice had been deposited first. No wonder he rarely left his house in the Victor’s Village, except to steal away to the train station and the Capitol.
It wasn’t fair. Sansa wasn’t a Career; she hadn’t even volunteered to take another girl’s place, whether out of honor or eagerness. To be a tribute was to be a victim, regardless of one’s survival. There were those who saw glory in the exercise, children from One, or Two, or Four. Hunters. Warriors. Picking off the weak and relishing in battling the strong. Sansa hadn’t done that. The arena only represented postponement until that last confrontation, when there was no more running to be done. With home a true possibility, suddenly remaining timid and nonthreatening became matters of little concern. Sansa fought. Sansa won. The vitriol of Two was understandable, to have a customary victory snatched away by some girl who should have, by all rights, perished that first day in front of the Cornucopia. Four and Nine were accidents of fate, the rest of the districts untouched by the Stark beauty.
They had no right to hate her, when it wasn’t her choice.
“I don’t need them on my side.” They killed my father, my mother. “I don’t want them on my side. Look at where its gotten me.” A bar car, curled up across from a middle-aged drunk, staring at a glass of whiskey that looked more appetizing with each passing moment. Scarred, though their cosmeticians had polished the exterior well enough. Alone, though she was never without the company of family or her team. “No offense,” Sansa added dryly, not sounding terribly concerned over his feelings.
Unlike Baelish, she possessed hobbies not yet requisitioned by the elite. Singing had not completely soured, though now her indulgence came from private humming, rather than lullabies or, god forbid, school choir. She could dance, except that would require a partner; sewing and baking were not distractions, only excuses to continue the silence that was so unwanted. At least drinking replaced your thoughts with a wordless buzzing.
Sansa reached for the drink, staring down her nose in indecision for a moment before taking a long pull of the coppery liquid. It was strong. She didn’t sputter, and managed to choke it all down, but not without a wet rasping noise coming from her throat when it cleared. “That’s disgusting,” came the declaration, a lightness settling behind her brow. Yet she made no motion to unhand the beverage.
“With you. I have to mentor two sorry fucks for the rest of my life with you.” She would be seeing quite a lot of Baelish. And Tatty, and the prep team. Every year she would sit in comfort with those who had thrown her into the arena, watching twenty-three more children scream and bleed and die. “This isn’t enough,” she declared, jostling the glass. A noose might be, or one of the Peacekeeper’s guns if it could be wrestled away. But liquor was a paltry coping mechanism in comparison. How were any of the Victors still alive, facing down that fate?
Finally he captured her attention, riverine irises taking in the man who oscillated so impressively between urbane and shabby. “We should try to get along.” Not to say that she and Baelish butted heads; theirs was a distant working relationship, sprinkled over with a healthy dose of cynicism. What functioned for two individuals not concerned with intimacy or friendship, however, would not always serve the two sorry fucks they would have to advocate for. “At least during the Games. They go through enough.” We should know.
Baelish wondered – had spent a great deal of time wondering – why the Gamemakers had allowed Sansa to live. Given her family’s history, there had only been minute hope that she wouldn’t die painfully. It hadn’t stopped him from petitioning sponsors on her behalf – on Cat’s behalf – but he’d never actually believed she would survive. Yet she had. While she had been a favorite to keep around simply for her beauty, she did not have the makings of a Victor. Then, neither had he. At times, the Games were capable of surprising everyone.
A dismissive attitude could be expected. To any Victor, the realization that the Games did not end once the last tribute was slain and the arena was left behind often came as a hard blow. Still, Sansa wasn’t that callous, that foolish. “Exactly. Look where it’s gotten you.” She was alive, wasn’t she? A fact that had not been overlooked by the Capitol – of that Baelish was certain. If she decided to be defiant at any point, there was no reason for them not to dispose of her. Or worse: of her remaining family. Sansa had too much to live for, too many people depending on her compliance.
A frown marred his features as he watched her drink, rumble, and then declare disgust towards the icy spirits. For a moment, his gaze cast down to his own drink, one shoulder lifting in a lazy shrug. “Yeah.” Came his agreement, but he, too, made no motion to unhand his glass.
A laugh escaped him, low and grave. “Only if you’re lucky.” Baelish mentored because someone had to. Johanna Mason had no interest in the charade, and because Baelish remained in her stead after her victory, she was not required to participate. Although it had not come without personal cost to her. For Johanna, there was no one left. Baelish had no one either, and now that Sansa was available to mentor, in theory that meant Baelish no longed needed to participate either. Although that would undoubtedly mean his trips to the Capitol would be stopped – a shunned Victor had no place within the perimeter of Panem’s regal center. “It might be time to pass the torch.” Twenty-five years was a long time to be District 7’s sole mentor of Panem’s death sport. What might he fill those months with were he not busy training people to die? Even nothing was better than that. It would not be difficult, then, to think of something.
“I wasn’t aware we didn’t,” Petyr raised his brows at her, tipping the glass back to his lips for another gluttonous sampling. Baelish’s manner was brash, but he was rarely entirely unpleasant. Sansa could easily be accused of being more difficult than he had been. The addendum was punctuated by a sharp snap of an ice-cube being crunched between two molars. “Ah. Right. During the Games.” Petyr’s eyes widened for effect. The liquor glass, emptied of its prized amber contents, slid across the table, stopping precariously near to an edge. “Of course,” words muffled between the sounds of grinding ice. “I’m always an earnest advocate for my tributes.” There he flashed her a lively smile, rising back to a stand. In all his years of mentoring, Baelish had managed only two victors: Johanna Mason and Sansa Stark. It was no secret that he was not the best proponent for his tributes. It hadn’t always been that way; in the beginning, Baelish had done as he was supposed to— to no avail. It was unspeakably dispiriting watching two people you grew to know be slaughtered year after year. Baelish had simply…stopped. Not caring. Feeling. Still, the words stung.
“Anyway,” he pushed his chair in. The motion seemed oddly out of place. “One day at a time. No need to think that far ahead.” To try and envision even into next week seemed a daunting task for Baelish. One day at a time was not only sound advice, but a necessary strategy for a person whose daily struggle was so advanced it was nearly laughable.
“You’ll do okay,” he encouraged, stepping back to the bar, getting a new glass and filling it the same as before. “Get a distraction though.” A single pointer finger tapped at his temple. To signify what? Going mad? “Get a distraction.”
There was a terrible moment where she wanted to ask if he had ever contemplated something more drastic. Whiskey and sleeping pills, a knotted bed sheet. To inquire was an admission of her own thought-experiments, however, inviting scrutiny Sansa dreaded. And even in the stillness when something so macabe was analyzed with academic precision, she failed to see the point. Not that she lacked the stomach, only that her death could barely be said to end a problem. Her troubles were not solved, they simply ceased to be, while her siblings remained to make sense of an even greater disaster than before.
She’d never do it, and it was a clammy sort of sympathy to be found in discovering that kinship, so Sansa’s head only wobbled with understanding before what had to be a joke.
“No — no, you can’t make me do it alone.” Those poor kids from Twelve had to make do with their own lush, the only Victor the district could muster in over seventy years, and then there was the unspoken arrangement in Seven. All the other tributes, however, were privy to several insights as they navigated the Reaping and the Games, even if only one face was ever slathered in cosmetics and propped before a camera as a Mentor. “I don’t know anyone in the Capitol, I don’t even know any of the Victors besides you. You can’t just – abandon them!” As though Baelish was obliged by some higher calling to deliver a child from the fate inflicted on himself, despite the aid being thoroughly tardy before they had even shaken hands on the train.
“Please. Don’t do that to me my first year.” It was an unfair request and she knew it - Baelish mentored alone for years before there was even a chance to back away. “Not the first one,” she stipulated again. The process would not be any easier on its second, fifth, or fiftieth approach, but at least it would lack the unique sting of a first time. Sansa tried the beverage again, this time without nearly the bravado of her companion, and was pleased to find it at least vaguely tolerable.
At first she couldn’t hear him over the crunch of ice, wincing delicately at the lack of etiquette. Not that guzzling whiskey on a train in the middle of the afternoon was particularly dignified. “We do.” Sansa protested far more after winning than before. Nor was it out of hatred for her team - they had, as he said, gotten her to this point in one piece. Exhaustion settled in, however, making just one more directive worthy of a tongue lashing. “Like you were for me?” Seven’s tributes hadn’t gotten a parachute in years. Sansa received three before the final canon sounded. “I never said thanks for that, by the way.” Sansa twisted in her seat, feeling the bones of her lower back crackle. “Thanks.”
To say it meant a great deal was an understatement that somehow managed to also condescend, so she let the single word linger on its own.
Sansa took another pull from her glass, then nudged it towards him with a silent request as he moved for a refill. The process might be rather distasteful, yet she couldn’t say she minded the effect. A warm chest and fuzzy tongue, not to mention she could almost feel that airy gap between brain and skull. A lightweight, certainly, though the girl was not bothered by the notion.
You’ll do okay.
No one had said that to her before, not since the Reaping.
Granted, this was an assessment coming from the man who broke one of the rare unspoken rules to the Games, then spent a decade locked away with shadows and liquor until he finally emerged. Shutters stayed closed across his house in the Village, and he clearly still drank, but Baelish functioned. He was, by her sight, still sound enough in body and mind to trod through three hundred and sixty five days, then another set, then another without too great of a stumble. Yet where he said distraction, Sansa heard crutch.
Everyone left the Arena limping.
“I don’t have anything.” All her hobbies had the aim of encouraging silence. Not very desirable now. Arms crossing over one another in a childish pillow, Sansa put her temple down on one forearm, watching as he rummaged. An empty house, with no interest in the other boys and girls her age - Sansa hadn’t a clue what sort of distraction might arise, short of turning into a younger, prettier version of her mentor. What a story that would be. “Maybe Two will eat me alive, and it’ll be a moot point.”
A lone brow arched at her, turning around just enough to thoroughly judge her from the bar. “I assure you, I can.” Just as they made me do it alone. What did Petyr care? He didn’t. As far as he was concerned, his obligation to her – to her mother – had more than been filled. He’d kept her alive. The thin thread that was his sense of decency, of humanity, was already fraying; after the tour it would no doubt sever.
Lips pursed towards her in utter apathy, both shoulders hunching upward in a twisted shrug. It’s not my problem – not anymore. “You’ll get to know them. Rather, I’m quite certain plenty will make a point to get to know you.” A young, beautiful, female victor? Sansa would not be short offers of company – from victors and potential sponsors alike. It was a grim prospect, depending on one’s views of harlotry. It was entirely likely that Sansa would do better without Baelish as a partner. While her attitude could certainly use some refining – and that would come with practice – hers was a face that could launch a thousand ships— or parachutes.
A heavy sigh echoed through the room, and a disgruntled Baelish swirled around his amber-colored liquor, gaze swept away from the red-headed guilt trip imploring him to show a semblance of – what? Pity? Decorum? Kindness? He had long since abandoned the need for any of them.
“We’ll see.” Was the only ominous promise he could offer, as he watched the landscape gust by, faraway trees seeming as though they barely moved.
Baelish had taken her glass, meant to refill it – probably – but had only deposited it to the bar-top. Too distracted with the premise of retirement, or else quietly choking on the bitter slime of guilt. A word of thanks from her solicited no reaction at all. Almost as if he didn’t hear her. Just a tightening of his jaw. A pulse there. Silent bruxism. Nothing she would hear across the room, anyway. Petyr looked down at his drink, tapped a finger idly on the glass, and then set it down next to Sansa’s emptied one.
“None of us do,” he drawled. Was he still speaking about hobbies? Was she? “Pretend you do. Or else you’re in for a long ride, my dear.” At least it wasn’t honey. Before she could even protest his newest moniker he had exited the bar-car.
“I’d rather they not.” Above all, she sounded tired. Weary of the pandering that would only grow to a roaring flood of attention in the Capitol, exhausted from pretending that it was welcome, even cherished. At least in the arena, you didn’t have to pretend. Sansa had already decided that her mentor’s behavior would not be mimicked; the less time spent with those who deemed her worthy for the slaughter, the better. Her home was in Seven, with what family remained, not some apartment dripping in crystals or feathers or whatever else was deemed fashionable that month.
Like a parent putting off a child’s plea, so too did Baelish wave off her request. Perhaps he would at least bother with introductions of some meaning before bolting the door to his house one final time - or shuttering it in favor of permanent residence in the Capitol. Not wanting to spoil what scant concession had been given, Sansa kept silent, watching his hands as he watched the countryside. Lithe, with a clear strength to them - his talent was carving, came the sudden memory. Caesar had caught her off-guard in the interview, asking if the former Victor had given advice in that regard. The boy had asked, on the train; pointers on how best to fight with a blade. Don’t fall on it yourself, Baelish had drawled. There’s a start.
Sansa, to her credit, had managed as much as that.
The ring of glass on wood broke her reverie, eyes flitting up to where his jaw flexed as he spoke. Mouth opening to dissent, not even the sound of air pulled in could be completed before he was halfway across the room. By the time her indignant stare had fully formed, Baelish was gone. For a long while the girl stared at her abandoned glass on the bar, wondering if the sensation of drunkenness was worthy of pursuit. Ultimately she chose the path abandoned by her mentor - sobriety - and departed for her rooms. Neither spoke a word of their conversation at dinner, nor the following day.
Two was, in fact, worse than Four. Surficially speaking, at least. The looks of hatred in the fishing district had been a fist to her gut, as much a shock as the crippling poverty witnessed in some of the most distant regions. To experience it once was an opportunity to numb oneself, however, and so while a being beyond Sansa might say that yes, the vitriol was more concentrated, the hurt of parents and friends vastly overwhelming their grief, but the girl on the stage hardly took note. Not that she was callous or uncaring; only expectant, making the bite of their disdain pass her over.
As they drew closer to the Capitol, she slipped further into an empty quietude. District One was vaguely tolerable thanks to the happy fact that Sansa had been nowhere in the vicinity when their two Herculean offerings had perished; she shouldn’t be there, and they resented her presence, yet the seething hatred of before was absent. There were even cheers which sounded to be something more than planned, and the mayor’s son had insisted on sitting beside her at the dinner following. Not that Sansa cared, smiling no more than was required and extracting herself from an unwanted farewell embrace with excuses as to a tight schedule.
For once, Tatty’s shrill reminders came just as they were needed.
The pomp had steadily increased as the train worked its way to the nation’s seat, wealth and interest both fueling more impressive celebrations in the lower districts. In the Capitol, it was mayhem. The autumnal beauty who bloodied her hands just enough; not so much that she might be regarded as unappealingly vicious, though not so little that the crowds wondered at her victory. Sansa Stark was their newest darling, and from the platform onward, everyone wanted a share.
Thankfully, her appearance for the president’s ball required a day’s worth of attention, and a chattering prep team was far preferable to a sea of shrieking strangers. Auburn hair was coaxed to an unnatural sheen, left flowing freely as the girl’s signature shade. Everyone would notice. Another navy creation had been produced for the gala, again inspiring the question of an emerald nod to her district, or pandering to the Victor’s natural colors. It shone in imitation of the night sky and held snugly to every curve it could find, until the fabric’s stranglehold was relieved with a slit to one side that verged on scandalous in its altitude. At her questioning glance, Sansa’s stylist had but one suggestion: “Take small steps.” Easily abided, considering the heels slipped over manicured toes.
The colors and noise and smells were an assault to her senses, so much so that any reply to the enthusiastic compliments of her admirers was distracted at best. Tatty and her team had long since scurried away to gain what favor they could among the elite, and every glance towards the numerous bars failed to produce a sighting of Baelish. Perhaps he was clever enough to have hidden away. She envied him.
Then the music began and a soft hand cupped her elbow. “A dance, dear girl?” Plastering her kindest smile over a weary face - would the party truly go until dawn? - Sansa turned to find a rotund stranger peering at her with more interest than was entirely comfortable. “Of course, it would be my honor.” Hollow words which led them to the floor, where uncomfortably damp palms drew her fast. He was holding her closer than Tatty had in any of their lessons, but then they were gliding and she could do no more than follow the sweeping steps.
“The screens do not do you justice.” He had leaned close, his breath condensing on her ear. Sansa thought she might regurgitate the wealth of food sampled that evening. She kept dancing. “And though I never doubted…it is a sight much better appreciated in the flesh.” The man’s touch drifted down her back in a deliberate line, a lecher’s gaze met with fright until it reached the swell of her bottom. Then she shuddered - in disgust, not arousal - and pushed away from his hold. “I’m sorry – my stomach…I must find one of those drinks…” With no more excuse than that, she fled.
Not quite sure of her final destination, the sight of her mentor, at last, on the dance floor’s perimeter gave her direction. Cutting a rigid line through waltzers and conversationalists alike, Sansa didn’t bother to even take heed of whether he clutched a drink or not before she seized him. “Dance with me, now.” Urgent, and just as lacking in desire as when the stranger had made her tremble. Such was all the warning he had before she dragged Petyr to an empty patch of floor, arranging their postures herself before starting to sway. Only then did blue meet green.
“There’s this man…” He touched me. The complaint would surely be met with scorn by her new partner. “Just dance with me until he leaves. I’ll owe you,” Sansa promised, turning them until his back was pointed towards where the stranger had been abandoned. “Are those the only people who make the guest list? The ones who want to be me - or fuck me?”
Baelish spent a majority of his time – in between sampling the Capitol’s absurd wealth of neon-colored liquors – speaking to a man Sansa would later recognize as Plutarch Heavensbee. A Gamemaker. It seemed odd, even disgusting, at first glance; a mentor speaking with one of the fellows who helped design death. After brief reflection, anyone might then think the motive was clear. Have an ‘in’ with a Gamemaker and maybe, just maybe, that rabid bear muttation might decide at last minute to veer in the other direction, or possibly a stream might appear conveniently close to a tribute close to perishing from thirst. What was the old adage? Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer?
Petyr paid no attention to Sansa as she swanned about the room in proper Victor fashion – just like Tatty had instructed her. The Capitol citizens lucky enough to be invited to the lavish soiree were cowed and awed, nay, humbled to be graced with her presence. Such beauty. Such fierceness. A true creation of the Games. Weren’t they proud. Weren’t they all proud.
So when Sansa found him, slicing through the crowds as sharply as a blade, and demanded he accompany her to the dance floor, his expression was one of pure irritation. Droplets of bright green spirits sloshed out of the thin fluted glass he’d been holding; he barely had enough time to deposit the drink to a passing tray before he spilled it in its entirety. There were no words needed. Hands and feet arranged themselves out of habit – Baelish wasn’t as uncouth as he might otherwise have people believe – but the man’s face left no room for mistake: he was not pleased. Her explanation did nothing to change matters. At her complaint over an ominous man his only response was to raise both brows in expectation. And? The seething sigh he loosed was as biting as it was long.
“We’re in the Capitol.” A teeming hive of sycophants whose lives revolved around the excitement of the Games. Part of Sansa’s duties was to be interesting enough to be idolized. She’d succeeded. “What were you expecting? You are a work of art to them. A goddess. When he leaves there’s only going to be someone else waiting. You need to learn how to handle it.” Baelish’s breath faintly reeked of liquor, although it was a sweeter foulness than might be expected. “Which one was it?” A slight concession. When she pointed out the portly gentleman with a subtle tilt of her chin, Baelish’s mouth stretched into a thin line.
“That’s…Horus? No, Horatio,” he strained, narrowing his eyes towards the behemoth, clearly not remembering the man’s name. “Lapworth. Horatius Lapworth.” Shifting his eyes back to her, his mouth pursed to one side, looking somewhat sly. “He saved your life.” It was the third parachute she’d received, the only one that had truly mattered. When there had been a festering gash in her side that undoubtedly would have proved fatal – if not from infection, then by hindering her ability to move with any speed or precision – had it not been tended to. That tiny silver tin of medicinal salve which had found her concealed within a dense thicket of nettles had saved her life. It wasn’t hyperbole Baelish spouted. Without Lapworth’s willingness to spend a small fortune – no, not a small fortune; at that stage in the game, that salve had no doubt cost the man a real fortune – then Sansa more than likely wouldn’t have left the arena as a Victor, but carried away in the metal claws of a hovercraft.
Of course, Lapworth’s generosity hadn’t been entirely altruistic.
“He’s…not going to leave, Sansa.” Baelish said, his eyes suddenly averting once more. This time it wasn’t because he was searching for someone in the crowd, but rather because he couldn’t look at her. Something like guilt. For an instant, almost imperceptibly, Baelish’s fingers seemed to press more firmly against her hip.
“Not unless it’s with you.”
“He wasn’t acting like the rest,” she snapped, blue flashing over his shoulder again. “Everyone else is…nice enough.” A high compliment, coming from one who looked on the proceedings with such disdain. The guests were complimentary and gracious; if Sansa could only move past the indignation of them considering the Games entertainment, she might even deem the vast majority likable. Certainly more endearing than her mentor at the present time, hissing like a cat whose sunbeam had abruptly vanished. Sansa bit her lip, a habit Tatty despised, before rapidly tucking her teeth back away. She toyed with the idea of apology, depositing him where he had been collected and disappearing back into the crowd. But then the girl’s chin needed only to follow the path of her eyes, a bare gesture towards the rotund gentleman who admired far more than her evening gown.
Her fingers curled deeper into Baelish’s shoulder, his hand, as though she suspected the stranger - Horatio - would saunter over and snatch her away.
“You could have told me.” Slightly plaintive; she knew he spoke of sponsors, parachutes, gifts. Petyr had garnered those offerings, bartered for them god knows how, but it wasn’t his money funneling her out of the arena. The groping still made her shudder, but perhaps she could have managed a strangled grateful comment before scrambling away. “I would have thanked him.” Sincerity would be apparent in her gaze, no longer flitting nervously in the direction of Lapworth, settling instead on her dancing partner. He does this well. It would be nice, she thought, to continue through another song. Not arguing, or even talking.
Just dancing.
They turned; she almost smiled, directly at him, when celadon angled away over her shoulder. Discomfort fed her own unease, muscles tensing to bring them another breath closer. Sansa’s eyes, however, were fixed on where his should be. “What do you mean, Petyr - with me?” Her voice was low, rough with the demand of an explanation. The ones who want to be me - or fuck me.
Perhaps she understood more than she credited herself with.
“He can’t possibly expect - !” Her mouth snapped shut, preventing the loud protest from continuing. A huff of breath restored a modicum of control; another relaxed her shoulders, loosened the squeezing grip on her partner. “He can’t possibly expect me to sleep with him,” she hissed, stare imploring Baelish to agree. “Sponsoring a Tribute, its like…its like gambling! If you win, the dealer doesn’t get you off.” Sansa’s fingers dug into his back again, head tilting in a bid to catch his eye. Men and women alike had admired her, even reached out for a grazing touch as though she were another piece of livestock. None as lecherously as this Lapworth, all heaving breaths and eager looks. The others plucked at gown and hair and jewels, admiring the presentation more than the canvas on which it had been painted.
Horatio’s appreciation clearly went far deeper.
“That isn’t the deal,” she insisted. “No one had to sponsor me, and I certainly don’t have to leave with any of them.” Sansa could feel her control slipping, disgust and resentment warming ribs already cinched close in the confines of her dress. The Capitol already owned her, could tweak and mold its precious flame-haired Victor as often as it pleased. She would cooperate, for the sake of her family. Baelish’s solitude was enviable in that moment. “You’re stuck with me then,” she declared unequivocally. “I’m not leaving with him, and I’m not giving him another chance to think so.”
“Must have slipped my mind,” he lied. Was there any point in discussing it beforehand? Before now? Promises were made, deals were struck – everything without the knowledge of the red-headed siren only barely containing her indignity. As a Victor, and one who looked the way she did, it was something she would need to get used to. Something she would be foolish not to leverage. A certain sect of Capitol citizens would pay a great deal for her company. And more than her company. Just as Horatius had done, others were likely to follow suit, though the matters were now in Sansa’s hands, rather than her mentor’s.
“You will thank him,” he corrected. “Several times, I imagine.” If the rumors were to be believed, Horatius had an infinite supply of Capitol concoctions meant specifically to bolster his virility, which was needed to engage in the wide span of…unique sexual proclivities he had. Certainly, there was no lack of interest.
Petyr’s eyes flicked back to hers. More green than gray beneath the fine array of lights which had likely taken planners at least two months to arrange and test. Lights designed to make everyone look beautiful, ethereal, attractive. Lights designed to bring out the garish hues of drinks and foods and dresses. Everything on display as if for sale behind a glass window pane.
“He can expect,” Petyr’s voice grew sharper, and his eyes narrowed. “Who do you think promised him?” A condescending tilt of his head. Petyr’s hand tightened around hers, almost as if he anticipated her to take flight. No, you’re not going anywhere. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” It was difficult to stomach – Petyr got that. Horatius was far from the most attractive man in the room, but the fact of the matter was that his donation had allowed Sansa to live. That donation was only given with the expectation that, if Sansa were to win the games (at that point, she’d had a 33% chance – the odds weren’t terrible), that she would submit to a certain sort of repayment. Of the intimate variety. On that, terms were quite clear. Baelish had agreed. What else was he to do? Let Sansa die of infection? Let her be butchered? There had been no one else willing to pay the exorbitant sum required to heal her wounds. Petyr did what was necessary. Now Sansa would need to.
“That is the deal,” his voice was quiet, then, and he looked her right in the eye. “It will be over before you know it. One night. That’s all.” As if he spoke to eating an unsavory dish, or weathering a particularly nasty bout of rain. Casual things. But as she continued to argue, as she continued to flail resentful syllables, Baelish’s jaw grew tight with irritation. Foolish girl.
Before she could protest another sound, he was removing her from the dance floor. Towards Snow’s mansion. Inside. Each step secured with a prominent, unrelenting hold on her wrist. She wasn’t going anywhere, not unless she wanted to cause a scene. Even she wasn’t that stupid. Through doors, down hallways, up a small flight of stairs and into a small sitting room he led her, releasing her only after he’d shut the door behind them. Only after he’d placed himself as a barrier between her and the only exit, lest she were to get any bright ideas about running out on him. Locked away with her, alone, Baelish was afforded the opportunity to speak candidly.
“No one had to sponsor you. That’s the point, isn’t it?” He looked at her questioningly, but it was clearly rhetorical. “But someone did. And you’re alive right now because of it. You’re going to do your part, like so many others before you have. This is how things are. This is how it works. Nothing is free, Sansa. Nothing.” If he felt any sympathy for her, he was doing a poor job of showing it. “If you don’t – if you refuse to do this, do you understand that you are condemning every future District Seven tribute for the rest of our days? No one will sponsor Seven if they think any future victors are going to renege on any deals made. They won’t touch us with a hundred foot pole. We will be shunned. We will be dead to them. And so will our tributes.” Guilt was a powerful motivator. Heartless, it might have been, to invoke it, but Baelish had a point. A good one.
“Now,” he said, voice slightly soothed. “You’re going to go back out there. You’re going to find Lapworth, you’re going to go home with him, and you’re going to make him very happy he decided to sponsor a girl from Seven. Are we clear?” He spoke in slow measures, as if she were a child who needed careful, deliberate instruction.
Did Baelish even know what had been bartered? The man was repugnant, unquestioningly, but regardless of how attractive she found a sponsor, this was far more complicated than closing her eyes and spreading her legs. He couldn’t know. There was no reason or precedent for her mentor to possess facts beyond those which would have helped in the arena - or on the tour. Anything of a more personal nature, anything with an intimate quality, was irrelevant to their relationship. Sansa was pretty, well-spoken, and, on the rare occasion, possessed of great cleverness. That was what he knew. Nothing more.
“Not me.” A very important point, in the girl’s mind. Petyr had promised what was not his to give; survival returned her agency, death rendering it all a moot point. The caustic look boring into him suggested precisely who she felt deserved to repay the debt. “And that isn’t all.” A feeling absent for months - six, to be precise - crept through her stomach like noxious sludge. Fear. Vulnerability. Isolation. The man entrusted with her deliverance had only secured a temporary delay in the humiliation - and at what a price it came.
Then a bony shackle clamped down on her wrist and it was all Sansa could do to keep up, shoulders and hips swiveling to avoid bowling over random guests as she was dragged away. Like a child protesting a lack of sweets, to be disciplined in private. One tug revealed he wouldn’t be releasing her, that any further attempts could even result in bruises or her sprawled on the floor. Though she was hardly a fighter, the Victor was still capable of recognizing when a battle was better left alone.
Huffing breaths were her only protest then, as they traversed what felt to be miles of carpeted halls; despite her anger, glints of expensive trinkets winked out from walls and spindly tables. Ten steps might cover more wealth than an entire neighborhood in Seven possessed. Sickening. Greeting her release with a pained hiss, free hand working over the cramped joints below her palm, Sansa wasted little time in turning to face him, though she advanced not a single step. The point was seclusion, any idiot could see that; running out, if possible, would only worsen an already detestable situation.
“But I didn’t make that deal.” A detail to be circled around. “You did!” This was theft, a sale of possessions never in Petyr’s grip to begin with. Her jaw tightened, perhaps in anger, perhaps to hold back indignant tears. It wouldn’t do to have her make-up smear. “And I won’t…I won’t be whored out because you can’t do your job properly!” An accusing finger jabbed towards his face, crystal-dotted nails glinting in the low light. Sansa wanted to shriek that she could have procured a parachute under far less demanding terms, even if the conviction was questionable.
Nodding, lips set in a hard line rivaled only by the frost in her eyes, the extended hand lowered, slowly fisting in his dress shirt. A blue, oddly enough, that matched her gown. Sansa had never noticed. “You’ve been extraordinarily clear.” She began to push, a force meant to compel Baelish backwards until his spine met the wall at his back, not ungently. “In reward for winning, I get to fuck strangers that you picked.” What it lacked in veracity was easily compensated with venom. “Tell me, Petyr - should I pretend I don’t know? Or keep it strictly business?” Like a whore. She was pressed fully against him, voice low and sharp. Suddenly he was yanked down, her lips coming to his in a rough embrace. Passionate with fury, rather than want. The point of her tongue drew a line along his mouth, more in lewd demonstration than entreaty.
Then she pushed, propelling herself away, still tethered to midnight silk. “Is that what I do?” Sansa sneered. I hate you. “Go on, do your job.” Another jostle accompanied her goading. Nearly shaking with fury, she unhanded him, arms folding protectively across her ribs.
“Mentor me.”
“And who did I make it for? I’d say I did my job better than, oh, I don’t know, eleven other districts. You’re alive, aren’t you?” Eyes narrowed on acrid sentiments. That was his job. To keep her alive. At all costs. Not to ensure that the person who bought her was attractive. Petyr hadn’t been afforded the luxury of time. Shopping around for a buyer meant more blood lost, a deeper infection. Every minute, every second that she had holed away with that wound was one closer to death. It wasn’t ideal, but what was? Nothing about the Games was ideal. It was all sick, cruel, sadistic. Fitting, then, that Sansa should be obligated to bed a bloated fiend as reward for living.
Petyr’s feet stepped backwards; he didn’t even bother regarding the tiny manicured fist gripping his shirt. When his shoulder-blades bumped the wall, he leaned into it. There was something absently amusing about Sansa’s fury. She didn’t know what to do with it. She knew the anger was misplaced, but she was still angry. Welcome to life, he thought of saying. Instead, he gave her a lazy shrug. “I did what I could.” It hadn’t been out of spite. If she believed anything, she had to believe that.
When she leaned into him, pressing herself against him, her breasts pushed upward, Petyr’s brows merged. The kiss, the lazy, deliberate trace of her tongue, caused eyes to widen. Shock, surprise, confusion – all of it easily milling in oily pupils. There was a scrape against the wall as she propelled herself backwards, using him as leverage.
Mentor me.
For a long while, there was silence. He studied her, like he would study any adversary he suddenly had a new-found respect for. It wasn’t easy to surprise Baelish. He thought he’d seen it all from her. That, he had not been expecting. Ire manifested in many ways; after enough thought, it seemed obvious that she would lash out at him. As if a display of promiscuity would change his mind. A hand reached up, the tip of his index finger dabbing at the line of saliva she’d left. Briefly, he regarded the digit, a puff of air escaping his nostrils – something like laughter. A smile slowly unfurled, curving his mouth.
“Okay. You want some pointers, sweetie?” He stepped towards her, invading her space. Well, she’d asked for it, in the most literal of terms. His hands found and gripped her hips. Even there, he could feel her skin – that ridiculous dress and its obscene slit. For someone who protested so loudly about being whored out, she certainly looked the part.
“First, you might be a whore for the night, but don’t act like one. He’s going to want the sweet, innocent girl from Seven that he paid for. So that trick of the tongue? Save it for after you’ve had a few drinks. Ease into it. Let him think he’s opening you up.” All the while, his eyes were narrowed. It was all bitter, all sarcasm. Nothing was real. Not his advice, because he knew she wasn’t actually asking. Now he was just trying to disgust her. And wasn’t that just so unfair? One more sour cherry for her fucked up sundae.
“Second…you’re real pretty,” he drawled, slowly, tilting his head to one side in an affectation of interest. “But it’s not your face he’s interested in,” moving at a sluggish pace, he rotated her, turned her around, until her bottom was pressed to his groin. “—he’s gonna want you like this. Catch my drift?” Lapworth was nothing if not hedonistic. He’d want to sample every one of Sansa’s orifices – twice. For effect, one of Petyr’s hands slid beneath the slit of her dress, gripping her bare thigh, pulling her back flush against him. But there was no rigid press of heated flesh to meet her – he wasn’t hard. Just antagonizing. His lips pressed to the back of her ear in a smoker’s whisper. “And after he’s finished with that, he’ll want to use his tongue.”
In the quiet that followed, with knuckles aching from the strain, she bid them to creak open and release Baelish’s shirt. That had been out of line, a grievous misstep in a relationship barely out of its infancy. He had saved her life, yes; this was a situation of his design, yes; but shouts and shoves solved nothing outside the arena. She wasn’t in it anymore. Anger, like dreams, lingered too long. It wearied Sansa, even as the conflagration in her eyes was allowed to smolder and spark at her victim. Add his name to the list, it certainly would not lack for company.
Oh no. She hadn’t meant it, the words that were simply the most convenient, the most succinct dismissal of what he demanded she do. Though stilettos stayed rooted to the carpet, her spine curved at the waist, letting her sway back from the prowling mentor. ”No.“ There was a slap of flesh, her hands clamping to Petyr’s wrists as fingers dug through the thin material to bone and skin below. One man’s bruises, another man’s bed - what else would he declare she ought to endure?
Lips painted a picturesque pink pulled together, tightening at the corners. She could imitate her wilder sister, spit in his face and hope he stopped. It was the ire beneath her sternum, the redness licking along the edges of her thoughts, however, that magnified both pain and embarrassment. Above all, Sansa wanted them both to stop. For the man and the rage and the pointers to all vanish; for him to be drunk in a corner while she smiled at another stranger, and blushed away any compliments on her fortitude. For them to board a train and go home.
Her eyes fell shut under the sheer weight of that desire, unable to witness another condescending twitch of his face.
Turning her had to be a precursor to leaving, one final jab before abandoning the girl to a bargain struck. It wouldn’t have been difficult, then, to cajole limp joints into rearranging themselves. A numbness was replacing the fury of before, and Sansa could not be stirred to care. Until he mentioned details that were too detestable to be fiction. "That’s disgusting,” she hissed, a renewed attempt to disengage reduced to fruitless wriggling by the warm hand about her leg. “He isn’t going to use anything! – You should have just let me die.”
And would it have pained any save the family that remained? Even then, they would not find themselves any worse than before that fateful Reaping. Sansa consumed more resources than she produced, the role of mother falling to her after Catelyn Stark’s death making a job nearly impossible to hold. Her death, then, would amount to the ripples brought forth by a grain of sand on the surface of the sea.
“ – But you didn’t.” An inescapable fact. As inescapable as the fact that she wouldn’t sleep with Lapworth. His breath was warm against her ear, mirroring the hold on porcelain thigh. It was comforting; how pathetic, the level of self-loathing required to find sarcastic instruction equivalent to a tender embrace. But not quite. Where Sansa’s body acknowledged the proximity, entreatied her mind to find pleasure in it, everything else was empty. Not comfort then, merely a masochistic itch being scratched.
Angling away, one shoulder sliding and catching against his chest, gaze slanting back to him, she confessed the unpleasant truth. “I’d sooner fuck you.” That didn’t quite cover it. “I’d sooner fuck you a dozen times before I let that cretin touch me.” Better. Better than explaining that more than pride - which had most certainly been wounded - it was a matter of familiarity. He couldn’t know his Victor had never let a boy more than kiss her, and after the Starks’ deaths even that was a hard-fought prize. He couldn’t know the only touch she’d felt was from her own experimentation.
He couldn’t know she was a virgin. Horatio Lapworth’s coin clearly went further than initially believed.
“I’m not doing that with a stranger.” Spoken in a tone that invited no opposition, yet remained tinged with apology. Baelish’s earlier remarks still rang in her ears; this selfishness could come with dire consequences. Ones she might be willing to address come the next Games. Or not. Blue dropped not even an inch. His mouth was close again, painfully so. “Don’t make me do that with a stranger.”
A tilt of chin brought their mouths together once more, softer than before. Sansa didn’t dare move until the need for air burned inside her ribs - she had ceased breathing. Then her jaw began to flex, a subtle working creating considerate motions, not demanding participation until Petyr’s lower lip was captured between her teeth in a soft tug. Her tongue darted out, a salve upon the hurt, and she was kissing him a third time, harder, fingered shackles notching tighter around his wrists in a solitary demonstration of restraint.
