“Why would I tell you that?” Brows furrowed with genuine dismay. Only the completely displaced, or those who seemed to take a queer pride in their station – such as one Finnick Odair – spoke at length or boasted about their Capitol exploits. “I told you that I’d paid my dues. That should have been enough. I told you we all have to pay our dues. Do you understand now?” Brows then rose up in pointed emphasis. “You shouldn’t need personal recollections to make something real. You aren’t stupid. You act like it, but you’re not. You know what happens.” And she did, to a point. Even under the leafy, canopied shelter of Seven there were rumors enough of just what happened in the Capitol. Johanna’s wild, often promiscuous behavior ought have been confirmation plenty, but perhaps Baelish gave Sansa too much credit. It was easy to be naive when one lived the life of the privileged.
His gaze affixed to her slender fingers as they tapered about the glass of juice. There was dirt beneath her nails, not excessive, but enough to tell she’d been away from the Capitol for a while. They would scold her for it – her prep team. He could hear their self-indignant tutting, the swishes and scrapes as they searched for the myriad of tools with which to fix the tragic and uncouth mess Sansa Stark had become. They would strip her of all body hair; they would buff away layers of skin until she was pink and raw and shiny and new; they would straighten her hair only to curl it back up. Then they would swath her in an array of dazzling colors, string her with jewels like an ornamented tree for some festival, and spray her with sugary fragrances until she best resembled the season’s sweetest prize. They would do it night after night, until she was weak from a lack of sleep – and then they would give her a cocktail of energizing vitamins to keep her standing and injections to keep the whites of her eyes from going red.
Petyr pitied her.
“A promise?” he drawled, leaning forward as though suddenly interested; both his smirk and tone were entirely amused, immediately sardonic. The throaty chuckle he gave her once she’d finished explaining herself was far from comforting. “That’s not what I’m here for. I don’t owe you anything, Stark.” Promises? Honesty? Trust? Clearly, Sansa had gotten the wrong idea about whatever it was had transpired between them. Petyr seemed almost delighted by the notion that she believed them to be friends. “I told you what I can give you. Take it or leave it.” In one smooth movement he leaned back and rose to a graceful stand, almost cat-like in execution. It was strange, the sudden change in demeanor. There were no other guests in the dining car, no servants, not even an Avox to be found, and yet Petyr had very decisively made the shift from a resident of Seven to a citizen of the Capitol. “Either way…enjoy the ride.” The smile he gave her, all sharp edges and pinched eyes, was self-satisfied and cruel. The wink was unnecessary.
He didn’t see her again until after they arrived, although that same evening a letter was delivered to her cabin. Inside were the summarized details, sparing no vulgarity, as to how best to service Lapworth. It was not merely limited to acts of a sexual nature, but extended to drinks, suggested conversation topics, and ways to distract. Despite everything that had transpired, it seemed well-meant.
As Baelish had suspected, it was the prep team, along with Tatty, who’d swooped in to pick her up from the train the next morning. Petyr was nowhere to be found, either having disembarked well before or after her. No matter. In a flurry Sansa was carted away to be scrubbed and buffed and primped. There was to be a gala most grand. This very night, Tatty crooned, excitedly, a waft of lace kerchief (dyed an all-too fashionable fuchsia) dusted across her face. The Escort was breathless, filling Sansa in with all of the latest gossip and recent faux pas that were buzzing about the Capitol. This went on all day and extended well into and past dinner, as well as after-dinner drinks. All the while, her prep team fluttered about her, making adjustments, adding a gemstone or taking one away, right up until their apartment door chimed with the arrival of a guest.
Baelish, predictably.
Tatty fawned over his suit. Something different than the train, all trim lines and shades of black. How dapper you look!, she gushed. He leaned in, brushed his lips against the apple of her cheek, and spoke something, very low, unheard, into the shell of her ear. Whatever it was he said made the Escort’s eyes momentarily widen, before a dramatic flutter of over-extended lashes set her back to rights. A waggle of her powder puff skirt brought her back to Sansa. “Darling, I know you must be exhausted, but it will only be a brief appearance. I promise.” Her smile was so sincere that it was almost believable. Unfortunately, ‘a brief appearance’ to Tatty was wont to stretch throughout the night and well into the next morning. A debut appearance after a long absence, especially, would be anything but brief. If there was one respite it was, perhaps, that the itinerary Baelish had before given her had not had the evening slated. No expectations, no obligation, just smiles and songs.
Behind the sudden uprising of the team struggling for absolute last minute perfection, Petyr Baelish stood in the doorway, hands in pockets, a long, appraising gaze settling over the newly-made Sansa Stark.
Sansa remained at the table for quite some time after he left, mulling over what had so quickly transpired. She hadn’t meant his story specifically when bemoaning the man’s silence; that he shared it even then surprised her, a lingering taste of something — intimacy? trust? — hanging dense in the air. Personal anecdotes aside, he could have told her in explicit terms what generally happened. Nothing in her brief encounter with Lapworth benefited from the shock of Baelish’s last minute admission, nor did the ensuing weeks of silence better prepare her for the inevitable. No need to burden her when newly crowned, weak of body and spirit alike; but what of the weeks and months which followed, distance easily bridged by a phone call or short walk? What stayed his hand then — embarrassment, anxiety, pity? They had nearly split him in two, alienated Petyr from the only home he had known, then shuffled him off into the hands of a licentious crone, yet how quickly he settled into that chilling Capitol aloofness.
A death lurked within him. Though smile cut and wink insulted, it was the shift in his eyes that so disturbed Sansa. Gone were the faceted shades of silver-green, variegating with light or mood, replaced instead by a snake’s flat stare. What she once found the most expressive part of him, subtle and — in a way — unguarded, the flex of pupil or change in shade impossible to manipulate, had now fallen under rigid control. Appetite ruined, Sansa made her way towards the rear of the train. Its last car was comprised mostly of windows, filled with sofas and chairs meant for socializing, or simply watching the countryside pass. She hadn’t discovered it until well into her Victory Tour; a shame, considering how well it might have served as respite from her team’s prattling.
Not even Avoxes checked it often, though once one found her staring aimlessly at the blur of trees and mountains she would periodically hear the soft tread of feet past the closed door. You aren’t stupid. You act like it, but you’re not. Those words gnawed at her, the way they exposed a certain willful blindness quickly turning cumbersome. Perhaps she had thought that the picture of innocence and youth would protect her from the Capitol’s worst debaucheries, though there stood no reason for its citizens to acknowledge, nor even recognize their hypocrisy. Each year they forced children onto trains at gunpoint, threatened them with death if at any point they failed to comply, then wept over involuntary participation amounted to the utmost bravery. A virginal girl from Seven who not-so-secretly rutted with their esteemed peers would fail to ruffle a single feather out of place.
Sansa only left the back carriage once night had fallen, taking supper alone in her quarters. At first she thought the letter, delivered with an evening cup of tea, contained an apology. It took only a few sentences to dispel such romanticized notions. Disgusted, infuriated, she wadded up the note and threw it against the opposite wall, yet before it came to a wobbly halt along silvery carpet, Sansa had already begun moving to pick it back up. Vulgar, with no detail spared nor even a hint of sympathy written between lewd suggestions, she could tell that Baelish had tried, with no hint of his earlier malice. Sansa folded it away, tucked between the covers of a book in her luggage.
She meant to thank him the following morning, but no sooner had she emerged from her room than Tatty materialized, shooing her back inside to dress, to disembark, to depart for the city’s center in anticipation of her grand return. Baelish was nowhere in sight. His absence was the only notable difference between now and her last visit: Sansa’s prep team had no shortage of gossip to relay and, were her escort’s exuberance any indication, her previous engagements had introduced the girl to only a fraction of those worth knowing. By lunchtime porcelain skin tingled and stung from waxing, scalp throbbed from a vigorous wash and brushing; the process had only begun, however, a brief respite for dinner giving the group time to debate the relative merits of particular blushes and their coordination with her gown — concocted from pale silk light as clouds, narrow tendrils sweeping across her breasts as though two doves meant to poorly preserve her modesty, ending in a diaphanous swirl well above both knees — a dress selected via a protracted, two hour process.
By the time someone pressed a flute of champagne into a slackened hand, Sansa all but dozed on her feet, dimly aware that, should they ever arrive at this gala, she would surely pass out after the first dance. Petyr’s appearance served as a shocking palliative. Tired and aching, the moment her eyes met his Sansa realized she wanted him. Not when they returned to Seven, nor even later that night — she wanted him that very moment, a balm against the day’s stresses. Yet before the girl could offer a sly remark, nor even a simple greeting, they were whisked away to this party of mythical proportions. Sansa rode with her team, Tatty and Petyr in a second car. Decorations escaped her, the theme and aura of her host’s soiree lost in a crush of faces, endless introductions facilitated by an escort magically returned. It took her an hour to reach one of the well-appointed bars; Baelish stood in the gathered crowd, conversing. As she squeezed past Sansa ran her hand across the back of his, a gesture lost to any casual observer in the press of legs and waists. She waited, heart racing as she gave her order to the barkeep, certain he would turn to her, terrified that he would not. At last, with a look askance, Sansa found him at her side.
“I didn’t see a name for tonight,” she led, voice trailing upwards with a half-question. “After your note, I didn’t know…I thought, perhaps…” Lapworth. So far, no appearance. Her drink came, a turquoise concoction topped with lavender foam that fizzed exuberantly. It smelled of strawberries. “You look quite handsome,” Sansa continued, blush nearly hidden beneath her cosmetics. “I never got the chance to tell you before.“
To say he was surprised to see her enter the dining car would be accurate. She’d see it there in his gaze, that slight furrow of brows followed by a discerning gaze as she walked across the room to take a seat opposite of him. A wry quip about her bothering to show up formed and died on his tongue. Instead he sipped whatever warm, honey-colored liquid was giving life to little pipes of steam that had been resting before him. Was it tea? The very notion seemed absurd, yet were she to look she would indeed see the tell-tale baggie stuffed with dark herbs floating inside the porcelain. It smelled almost exactly like the tea he’d been drinking that morning he’d come to her house to collect her for the Victor’s tour: mint. Scent was the sense that was most strongly tied to memory. Would it upset her, this familiar aroma linked to decidedly unpleasant events? It seemed somehow cruel; first, Lapworth had been introduced to her and subsequently abandoned, now she would be forced to make good on her mentor’s promise.
From over the edge of a cup daintily poised in one hand he watched her as she dressed her biscuit, smearing creamy butter and mashing blobs of jam. There were no greetings between them because pleasantries did not exist in their world. Even so, Baelish was waiting for her to speak, and she must have picked up on that, although judging by the downward tilt of his mouth her words did not produce the desired effect. To one side his eyes rolled, and he did not even bother to hide the motion. With a lurching groan the train began to move. A metallic heave, and then nothing. The track was smooth and swift and aside from starting and stopping it was easy to forget you were even inside a moving vehicle. The dining car was empty save for the two guests from Seven, and even though there had been a suitable spread of food available, there was far less fanfare than the last time they’d found themselves on a train together. How swiftly irrelevancy arose. They’ll forget you in a minute, Tatty had warned, if you aren’t determined to remind them of who you are.
Being forgotten wasn’t a problem for someone like Baelish, whose track record prior to Johanna Mason had been quite grim. For someone who cared for the tributes of their District, however, fading into obscurity was all but ensuring death for the two names plucked from the crystal reaping bowl each summer. Currying favor was a full time job and not one that stopped with the season’s lull that came between Games. The parties, the appearances, the canoodling – it all served to forge alliances and friendships that would help win over sponsors and purchase parachutes when the crucial time came. As it always came, year after year. Rare it was that a tribute could survive without outside intervention. It did happen, as was the case with Johanna, but it put one at a drastic disadvantage. As much as Sansa fancied the idea that her soon-to-be contributions to the Capitol’s sponsor pool seemed like a punishment, it was something that stood as very necessary not only for Seven’s future tributes, but for her own well-being and that of her family’s.
“You are incredibly annoying.” With a delicate tap the cup was set to its saucer. Baelish leaned back and settled into his chair. He looked at her, squarely. “Let me tell you something about my Games.” A hand lifted to rub briefly at his chin; his face was freshly shorn and smooth. “As you know I was given this–” That same hand fell to draw a vertical line down his torso. “It would have been fatal. This was near the end of it all…that parachute was absurd in cost. Most Capitol citizens would have gone bankrupt; only the extraordinarily wealthy could have afforded it. I’d not received a thing the entire time. At first I thought I was hallucinating – I wasn’t even sure what it was. It took me a while to realize…well, that’s beside the point.” For a moment there was silence; Petyr’s gaze veered towards one of the windows, fixating on the blur of scenery as it passed by. “After the Games were over I was introduced to my…savior. It was a woman, an older woman. Old enough to have been my mother. Grandmother, really.” A pause, and his mouth pursed. “Her name was Lysa.”
He looked back.
“At first she was a kindly sort: she showered me with gifts, she gave me all that a boy might wish for, she showed me around the Capitol, parading me about like a little prized dog. Each time I returned it was at her behest. At some point she began to show me a great deal more than Capitol revelry. Now, even though engaging with her was rather horrible, it was made quite clear to me by outside individuals that if I did not do as I was bid that I would be punished. I’d seen what being punished looked like, and so will you at some point, although it is of course different for everyone. In any case, not particularly wishing to be punished, I did as I was told. For years. Right up until the day she died.” Petyr smiled, picking his tea back up. “And so you see, if I was unable to weasel my way out of my own disgusting obligations, I’m not certain how you expect me to do it for you. Unless you are asking me to kill Lapworth. In which case the answer is no.” He sipped at the hot liquid with a quiet slurp. “We’re not really on the level of murder-favor yet.”
Another sip, and it shifted to a drink, until the cup was tilted back enough that the liquid was emptied into his mouth. “I can help you: I can tell you what he likes, how to get through it quickly, how to leverage your encounter into something more meaningful. If that’s the sort help you would like…by all means. If not, then I kindly ask you to take your nonsense to another table so that I can eat in peace.” The plate beside Baelish’s teacup had a pattern of crumbs scattered across it, indicating he already had eaten, but the point was clear enough.
Sansa twitched backward in her chair as though slapped. Had she expected praise for her acquiescence? Her noble sacrifice of self? Surely he could have guessed that she would struggle, explaining a lengthy absence to those who relied on her, packing alone in the dim lavender of twilight, trying to remember what it felt like not to be owned. While yesterday’s honesty had spurred her into motion she couldn’t continue moving forward out of fear alone. Sympathy was not inappropriate. His own suffering, and that of all those who came before, did not make the path she walked any less horrific, nor did it lend any brightness to a darkened future. Were she able to look past the sting of Baelish’s impatience, Sansa might have given voice to its absurdity. In all his time as mentor the man had brought two tributes home: of those, one eschewed any further entertainment of Capitol demands. Where, then, had all his emapthy gone? Who had consumed it?
She meant to argue, pulse quickening with familiar frustration when Petyr made mention of his Games. Sansa knew the story. Everyone in Seven did. What made that boy a celebrity worthy of champagne toasts and confetti showers had rendered him a pariah in the district. Killing the child you came with, no matter what alliances were formed and broken, violated one of the few unspoken rules observed by those unfortunate enough not to be Careers. In technicolor glory he seemed to succumb fully to what those powdered ponces hundreds of miles distant demanded of him, gaining life and little else. She had never watched his Games, they came well before her birth, but the tale sufficed to lower Baelish in her mind; after her reaping, Sansa even worried that his advice would merely be to kill her fellow tribute. He never suggested anything of the sort. Even after winning the girl failed to revisit his year; there was no need, she would never see the Arena again. But what had once been a fully formed picture in her mind disintegrated, the man she fucked more an enigma than the one who pulled her from that swamp.
Like that scar. Seen again during several of their trysts, always skirted around, never addressed. It had to come from the Games, of course, yet Sansa assumed if it was a mark he wished to speak of then Petyr would. Now was the first time he acknowledge that she knew of it, and she in return, a slow blink preceding her glance downwards to where the hidden pinkish ridge bisected his chest. Sansa went rigid. She hadn’t told a soul, what she saw before Lapworth’s gift… Robb, telling part of her favorite fairy tale; Arya, confessing she’d broken a doll; mother, offering to brush her hair and Oh! Isn’t it a filthy, tangled mess… Her father was the last of them, holding out a present for her to take, except it wasn’t in his hands yet. Instead it started very small, very high above his head; he must have thrown it up for her to catch, the way he sometimes did with the boys. At least that was what her feverish, exhausted mind had thought, before Sansa remembered. She wondered how often Petyr thought about dying, if it was a good memory, or bad.
When he spoke the woman’s name she already knew how the story ended; he wouldn’t have bothered telling it otherwise. But the girl listened. Sapphire dutifully affixed to those freshly shorn cheeks, those two beryl rings that seemed to shine with a defensive amusement, as though she owed him the courtesy of not flinching. Might it be that simple, waiting for Lapworth to die? Surely such things took much longer in the Capitol, all that wealth, all those doctors who perfected their craft in counteracting every indulgence that came into fashion. But the way he said it: Right up until the day she died. Could he have…? No, impossible. Impossible. “I didn’t know…” And how could she have? How could she? Sansa’s hand tightened around the rest of her chair, breakfast forgotten. “You could have told me. Before the tour, before you just dumped me back in Seven without a word.” Though much of her anger stemmed from Baelish’s pointed omissions, some of it lay rooted in her own choices. Was Sansa no better than the old woman, demanding what he might not want to give? Had fear and loneliness achieved the same ends as greed, driving her to selfish exploitation?
“I’m asking you — ” Sansa cut herself off, tone veering heated. Instead she reached for a tall glass of juice, its watery sweat coating palm and fingers. Nothing so sweet existed in Seven; even the candies wealthy families could sometimes afford tasted flavorless in compare. It coated her mouth in sugar, leaving a tacky sensation, one which immediately made her want to scrub it away. It made her think of Lapworth’s hands, Lapworth’s breath, a sticky coating you could never clean off. “ —I’m asking you to make me a promise,” she resumed, much more sedate. “To be honest, to not hide things from me. To…to tell me things.” Sansa tried, and failed, to hide her grimace before her expression softened. “To give me what you might have wanted back then. When you were stuck with her. And in return, no more nonsense. I’ll trust you, and do what you say.” Though she hardly looked cheered by the notion, a kind of resignation would show; it would seem she had been defeated, and now all that remained was to formalize the surrender.
“Haven’t I?” A claim he knew she would have no way of knowing. Sansa knew nothing about Petyr. She knew nothing of the many, horrible years he’d spent in the Capitol leading by example and repaying the gesture which had kept him alive in the arena. He’d never tell her, but she’d never ask, because that simply was not the nature of their relationship and it never would be. But he was not completely uninvolved. Sansa continued on and Petyr’s mouth creased into a disapproving frown. That he had entertained her company, that he had told her in person rather than the impersonal slip of a letter into its slot did imply empathy. It did show that he was sympathetic. What she failed to understand is that he had no control over any of it. He could help her through it, but he could not erase it. Reneging on a deal was not something that he had the power to do – most especially deals that he had not even made.
“There are plenty of ways to off yourself if you’re truly so ungrateful. Especially in Seven. Wander down to one of those mills. Accidents happen every day, don’t they?” Petyr’s smile was unforgiving, cutting, somehow as sharp as it was dull. Oh, everyone knew exactly how the revered Eddard Stark had perished; at least, everyone knew what the story had been. Tragic, it was, those snapped chains and the following avalanche of logs. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything except selfish egocentrism from a Stark. Natural that you assume the entire world revolves around you. And why shouldn’t it?” The smile veered more unctuous. “You’re young and beautiful and you’ve just survived the Games. You’re a celebrity. You’re a goddess. Oh, but, beyond that…you’re a Stark. You were a queen even before you were crowned, weren’t you? Sucking at the teat of other’s misfortune would come as second nature to someone who’s never wanted for anything even when everyone around them did. Understandable that you would now find it so unsavory that you might actually have to repay some of that goodwill.”
It was quite clear that Petyr was tolerating none of her self-pitying temper tantrum. Whether he actually believed the bullshit he was spouting or if he was simply serving her a bitter lesson was less clear. From his place on the couch he rose, bending momentarily to scoop up her undergarments: a little scrap of panties that he’d all but torn off in a frenzy to push up her skirt and have her. “And you’ve got some practice in fucking strangers.” He had the audacity to twirl the bit of cloth about his pointer finger before tossing it back to her. “You fuck me just fine.” The present participle denoting that he believed them still to be strangers – and was he wrong? Nothing between them had been exchanged aside from banal pleasantries and bodily fluids. The occasional profundity had worked its way in here and there, usually between sips of amber-colored liquid and too-little sleep, but they did not serve to bring them any closer as individuals so much as they cemented their connection as mentor and victor.
If he pitied her at all then his demeanor did not reflect a single iota of it. If anything, Petyr seemed rather disgusted by her. “I’m not sure where you got the idea that I have the ability to let anyone do anything. I’m not their master. Rather I’m afraid it’s quite the opposite.” A laugh, brief and dismal. “You think it’s over, Sansa? You think because you came out of that arena alive that all of your worries are gone? That you’ll be able to while away the rest of your years with false smiles and pretty dances?” Another laugh, softer, seemingly at her expense. “Oh, honey,” he flattered, “this hell is only just beginning. And this?” With a gesture he motioned to the papers in her hand and the discarded train key in one smooth loop. “This is but a taste of what they’re going to have you do.”
Maybe honesty was the antagonist of sympathy. Maybe ripping off the blinders was as far from empathetic as one could get. Perhaps that is where that old adage about the truth hurting came from.
Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting me? Childish questions, but then Sansa felt child-like, standing in another’s house, tears a faint, burning threat at the back of her throat, angry and confused and disheveled from their rut. Strangely Petyr’s accusations only helped the man, for with every sneering word she saw more clearly a difference between two attacks — demands for her body, her false laugh, her favor, drifted into the middle distance. As shadows they lurked, ever-present yet diminished by the mentor’s attempt to shame. One hurt displaced by another, and would it not benefit him? To have a few moments of discord laid at his feet, rather than months or years of exploitation? What he suggested was horrible, though. More than that, it was selfish. And perhaps he knew, had thought even before speaking how her winnings would vanish, her siblings turned out, fates uncertain and grim after that final rejection of Capitol control. A cost she couldn’t bear to pay.
Calling her a stranger, that stung most of all. Entitlement, self-absorption, callous disregard: Baelish accused her of all that and more, yet when she turned her gaze within she knew only the drives of fear and anger remained. Some souls became so lost one could lie about their own contents and be met with belief. Sansa had not found such despair, not yet. But she knew little of her mentor’s inner workings, relying on fumbling instinct and what scraps he revealed to piece together a picture of his tepid regard. She did know how his eyes darkened, then flashed silver before the end. She knew his taste. Blindfolded, she would know his touch, smooth, with only a memory of calluses beneath the flesh. How could they be strangers, when she came to feel his sweat drying on her skin? Sansa twisted the undergarment in her hand, tempted to fling it back, to hiss that he was an uncaring bastard.
Rather I’m afraid it’s quite the opposite.
Petyr was powerful, invincible; he had won their Games in the most delectable way and cemented their affection for life. But the schedule wasn’t his. The parties weren’t his. He made a point in introducing her to one man — Lapworth, his only personal contribution to her survival. Someone had delivered that itinerary to him just as he delivered it to her, except Baelish understood the unspoken language of the elite, that suggestions and invitations were offered with the explicit knowledge of their acceptance, not their mere consideration. And if she did refuse…would they punish him as well? Did she have any reason to care, after his callous treatment? With intimate fabric balled in one fist, Sansa gathered up the remaining papers, the tickets and passes, eyes downcast to avoid whatever look he might give. She glanced up only at the end, ready to go, brows slightly furrowed, face a light shade of pink from their argument. “We’re not strangers.” And then, Sansa left.
She gave no assurance of her participation, though carrying off those papers should have spoken well enough on its own. The Stark household, unsurprisingly, met the news of her impending trip with dismay. Can they do that? Jon asked. But you promised to take me to school! Rickon complained. Sansa told them about the parties, the necessity to keep Seven at the forefront of sponsors’ minds as summer approached. And she told them again the next morning, up early to meet her chauffeur, a small suitcase of familiarities set beside her feet. They offered to come along, see her off, but she had no interest in Baelish confirming what a sick joke that was the moment they left, and so she rode to the platform alone.
He sat in the dining car, relaxed and composed, possibly in the same suit he had worn for her ill-timed seduction. Sansa’s memory of that morning held a grey-green tint, the details foggy. Taking a chair across from him, the girl spent several minutes quietly arranging for her breakfast; she had wanted to eat first, but her belly refused to cooperate, persistent nausea roiling in her stomach. Instead she spent an inordinate amount of time buttering a roll, arranging jam just so. Finally, knuckles white along knife’s handle, Sansa spoke up. “You said you would…help, if I asked.” Asking meant cooperation, agreement, consent. It meant selling herself, in the vilest sense. And it was her only recourse. “And I hoped, Petyr…that you would— help me.” She looked to him, bottom lip worried between her teeth and released. “ — Please.”
Not every man or woman on that list demanding an appearance from Sansa Stark had aided her in some way while she was in the arena. Rather, most of them hadn’t given her a thought at all, let alone spent resources on her, until after she’d donned her crown. Then it was about status, wealth, having the newest Victor show up at your party – or slip between the sheets with you. Those were favors humbly bestowed – or repaid – by President Snow and other high-ranking Capitol officials. It had nothing to do with Petyr. Only a single appointment on that list had anything to do with Petyr Baelish: Lapworth. Would she rather be dead than fulfill her obligation, unsavory as it was?
It could be arranged.
“I don’t think Lapworth wants to fuck me.” There would be no shutting him up. The longer Sansa took to fill her end of the deal the more sullied her – and by proxy, Seven’s – reputation became. By the time the next Games rolled around no sponsor would touch any of Seven’s tributes. “Even if he did – I paid my dues.” It was nasty, vicious, the way he hissed it out, and it was obvious that he was tired of listening to her spout indignities. Did Sansa truly think she was the only Victor to ever suffer terms of recompense? Every last one of them did, some far worse than others. “You will do what is expected of you, as we all did, as every new victor will until all of us are dead.” The ticket and key were tossed to the table, and Petyr’s mouth stretched into a grim line.
He wasn’t entirely certain what had her in such uproar; Sansa clearly had no issue opening her legs to strange older men. She was loose enough in moral and act that bedding down for a few nights should prove an inconvenience at best. He wouldn’t outright accuse her of being a whore – he wasn’t stupid – but the charade was growing tired. From beneath a darkened brow he watched her as she recited one of the evening’s concise dossiers. Sounds like one of Snow’s, he thought, Every detail considered. “If you want the help I will give it to you.” How did Petyr know the lurid preferences and details of the Capitol’s sponsor crowd? Because it was his job to know them. Petyr had known during Sansa’s games that he would be able to pry Lapworth’s incredible sum from him because he’d known the man had a strong predilection for pale skin and red hair; he’d also known to dangle fruits of a posterior-flavored variety for extra temptation; in the end, what had won the fat sod over had been an offhand note that Sansa was an accomplished cook. A fact Petyr had no way of knowing, but what more did a corpulent egoist love more than pastries and pudding to accompany his sultry romp?
An apathetic gaze followed her across the room. “If you don’t do this, do you know what they’re going to do to you? To your family?” A tilt of his head, and he was idly surveying the stems of her skirt-clad legs. You see? You can follow direction. “You don’t have to do it.” A pause. “…so long as you are prepared to deal with the fallout.” And there would be fallout. Insult or indignity was not an acceptable excuse to feed to the Capitol gods.
“And have you asked him? Go on, give it a try, lead by example.” Frustration so thoroughly overwhelmed her that Sansa fell back into her last recourse: insult. This conversation — or argument, as it was rapidly transpiring — had an end before Petyr ever opened his mouth. She need not have come over at all, such information conveyed well enough through a telephone conversation, an envelope dropped into an obliging mail slot. “Oh? How awful it must have been, bedding down with all those rich women.” To her, the possession of a cock implied some degree of choice. Where these papers all demanded of Sansa to lie back, spread her legs, and smile with vapid pleasure as a dozen men lined up to take their turn, for Baelish she envision far more. Flocks of bejeweled callers, all of them jockeying as from their midst he chose a single bed mate. Pharmaceuticals had advanced so far, however, that the sexes now stood equally susceptible to encouragement, or coercion, whenever the occasion required.
In this Baelish’s poise betrayed him. Sansa could not reconcile the worldly, experienced mentor who navigated that world so easily with a boy as subject to Snow’s whims as she. By asking for his help she sought sympathy, empathy. Perhaps the man believed his advice compensation for the duties forced upon her, but the girl could see only facilitation. “Then don’t make me do this!” History mattered not. Framed by the muted light of a mid-morning sun, hair mussed from their rut, dress wrinkled and tight across her chest, Sansa knew she was alone. Company did not ease suffering, nor did the knowledge that others had emerged from such trials before. When faceless men unknotted ties, latched their doors with a muted click, no one would stand next to her in those rooms.
And no one, it seemed, would pull her from them either.
A touch, a solitary murmur of consolation might have made the inevitable easier to swallow. Her lungs worked with ragged breaths, as strained as when they coupled. “Did it ever occur to you,” she asked, enunciating as if speaking to a child, “that some of us might not want to pay the price of getting out?” Win, and they own you. Though Tully looks had blessed her, the streak of Stark pride dared not pass over Eddard’s eldest daughter. A fatal flaw, one which had perhaps already cost her both parents and a brother, now refusing to bow before the insatiable demands of pampered fools. “That maybe I didn’t want you to sell me off. Did I ever even ask? And—And now…” One hand rubbed at her temple, swept across her eyes as though it could banish what future unfurled before them. “And now you put all of them in danger too?”
Why else did I come home, if not for them?
The train key card glinted in a shifting sunbeam. “No. No. They won’t touch me, and you won’t let them, Petyr.” Walking back, she straightened the papers back into their original stack. “Especially not Lapworth. I’ll go to any dinner and dance with any partner; I won’t stop smiling, not even when I sleep. But I’m not fucking strangers, and I never want to hear you talk about it like something normal again.” Gaze slanted towards him, lingered on a shoulder, calling to mind what comfort came from resting one’s head there. We don’t do that, Sansa reminded herself. Never look for that here. “That’s the help you can give.”
Sansa’s offering – of herself – became something of a routine. She would come over, rap her knuckles against the door, he would let her inside and they would rut. Between those events there might sometimes be food or drink or even a semblance of conversation, but the meetings were not to celebrate simple revelry. Theirs was a case of the jaded prevaricator being met at his own game by the beautiful and broken Victor who knew not how to cope. They spouted lies like gilded fountains, as absurd or barren as could be mustered – but neither cared to hear the words, because the words meant nothing in the wake of nails and teeth and tongues. Each time she crossed the threshold into his domicile Baelish knew she was wading herself in just a little bit deeper, and that soon enough she would be entirely entrenched in the bog of a bacchanalian lifestyle where her soul meant nothing, and her future even less.
Petyr stared towards the tidy stack of papers. For half a second, his mouth pursed in consideration. “We need to discuss matters of…compensation.” Before, in Snow’s mansion, Baelish had broached the issue. Such a conversation had led to them rutting against a wall in a desperate bid for her to distract him from it. It had worked, until now. “There is a certain gentleman of the Capitol who is very vocally demanding redress from one auburn haired lady from District Seven.” She knew who he meant, in both cases. Lapworth had paid an exorbitant sum to provide Sansa with her life-saving parachute, and he expected restitution.
Across the room Petyr walked, taking a seat aside Sansa on the couch and reaching for the bundle. Removing the top page he leaned back into the cushions, peeling away a ticket and keycard. “You’ll be going back to the Capitol. A month or so, enough time for you to settle your affairs.” Your affairs, not his, despite it having been his hand which struck the bargain. That was all semantics as far as Petyr was concerned; he’d done what he needed to do to save her life, and now it was her turn to do what she needed to do in order to save the life of future tributes. He handed both the ticket and the gleaming metallic train card to Sansa – typical to any recent Victor’s status, she had been booked a luxury cabin. Another page in the bunch of papers was turned back, and there listed in raised black ink was a definite itinerary: page after page of appearances ranging from lavish soirees to private parties. Some listed only a residence along with a detailed request as to what Sansa should wear – those dates were given a time-frame that encompassed overnight hours.
“You’ll be busy. There’s a lot of people who wish to celebrate you.” Now he was sounding like Tatty. Celebrate her? They wished to use her. Petyr handed her the packet of dates as well. “I can help you, of course, give you tips. I know most of the people who have requested your presence well enough to give you a leg-up.” Not that Petyr had anything to do with it; Tatty had pieced the schedule together, but the events, the requests, the demands – those had come from people far above Mentor or Escort. Perhaps the reason that Petyr was being so blunt, so matter of fact, was because he knew there was nothing to be done about it. There was no refusal. Sansa would do what the Capitol demanded of her or she – and her district – would be punished for it. “You’ll have a chance to come back and rest some before the next reaping, and by next season demand for you should die down.” Although for some victors the interest never died down. Sansa was young, beautiful, fresh: all things patrons of the Capitol wished to possess. Petyr knew that they would not tire of her so soon, but there was no point in conjecture.
“Anyway it’s all there. You’ll want to start packing, although they’ll provide most everything.” Sentimentality they could not: photographs, trinkets, comforts of home. “Tatty has arranged for you a hotel. You’ll have somewhere nice to stay. Somewhere luxurious.” More smoke blowing, more parroted cue cards. Baelish sounded not like the man she had spent the last month with, but some robotic walking, talking advertisement for Capitol pleasures.
One of the many things Sansa had grown more comfortable with in the passing weeks was her own nakedness. Never terribly insecure over looks — until prodding stylists managed to pinpoint every flaw, every imperfection that imparted humanity rather than deformity — she came to relish Baelish’s appreciation of breasts and belly, even after their labors ended. No fool, the girl knew such regard hardly signaled any measure of devotion; he worshiped at no altar, left no oblation, lit no flame in reverence. Yet when celadon gaze swept over exposed flesh in clear appraisal, she swore he looked for features to savor, instead of shortcomings worthy of discussion. That first instinct towards covering herself had ebbed, helped perhaps by the occasional eagerness — or laziness — which left Sansa’s dresses largely in place.
As it was, buttons remained lewdly undone, bosom spilling out where Petyr had freed it from cotton and wire confines; one mention of that foul man, sour of breath, comprised merely of a series of fat rolls stacked one after another in some lumpy, masculine imitation, unleashed an insectile crawling along her skin. “You made the deal,” Sansa reminded him, grimacing as she straightened, fumbling with the small fastenings. “You shut him up.” Formal betting on the Games existed, and was heavily used by those both within and without the Capitol, but sponsoring carried just as much risk, for if you backed a losing tribute, what recompense could a poor child’s corpse provide? Sansa doubted her corpulent benefactor would seek out his repayment, no matter its form, quite so vociferously had she perished. Besides, there had been one or two smaller gifts before, when parachutes cost their donors less; no one else had yet braved the uncertain matter of reward, unless…
“Affairs? There’s more than one of him?!” Wide-eyed, Sansa took the proffered bundle only to throw ticket and cabin key down to his table with a pointed smack. “I’m not screwing my way through an entire city, all because you couldn’t do your job!” How so few papers could comprise so many impositions astounded her. All peaceful pleasure gained from their coupling had vanished, bled into the mid-morning air like smoke from a dying fire. Jet black letters marched across crisp pages, line after line which forced upon her not only responsibility for her own survival, but the possible success of future tributes as well, effectively absolving Baelish of the very duties he had agreed to share. Parties, dinners, flirtations — all that she could abide, a glossy veneer as insincere as the love her public claimed to bear. A smile hurt nothing, no one, but this? This signed away whatever sliver of life Sansa once thought to preserve: Faust with pen in hand, ink threatening to spill over onto the parchment below.
Her eyes narrowed upon an entry at random. “Nine in the evening until,” she read aloud. “Hair unbound with minimal cosmetics. Cobalt gown, floor length, all embellishment save gemstones acceptable. Jewelry to be sent ahead that day.” No cause was given for the meeting, nor did the papers note precisely what this citizen had given or done to merit such an extended time alone with Seven’s latest Victor. “And I suppose that’s where you come in.” Venom dripped from every word, her lips pulled back in a delicate sneer. “Giving me tips on how to fuck them.” Merely speaking of it sullied her; Sansa wanted nothing more than to shower, scrub away the implications and expectations, return to that blissful post-coital state in which Baelish never stacked papers on his coffee table. Pushing aside those instructions as well she stalked away, towards the window, before whirling back.
“I’m not —— doing this, Petyr! I told you. I told you.” It wasn’t all his doing — Tatty and Snow would both have their own agendas regarding the nation’s recently crowned hero. But he was sitting there, talking about these things so matter-of-factly, as though he neither knew nor cared what this train and hotel and calendar demanded of her. “I won’t.” Why won’t you protect me? A weak question, naive, but one so desperately felt that for a moment her throat caught, painfully, ending the tirade. No one could protect Sansa, just as no one could protect Petyr. Even together they stood alone, subject to the same whims which threw them into battle and then performed a glorious rescue, expecting endless gratitude in return.
How had Petyr lied? What made Sansa think he hadn’t considered it? Hadn’t he? Briefly, perhaps, but what it all amounted to was that it wasn’t his problem. Sansa wasn’t his problem, not anymore. Out of the arena, she was free to do as she wished. The twittering of her prep team would ensure that she didn’t make any mistakes too grave, or if not, then Sansa was free to make them. The Capitol loved a good scandal, especially when it revolved around a fresh, young, desirable victor. A tale of fright or woe would ignite the Capitol, tongues wagging, claws fighting for every detail. They would rip her apart and piece her back together for their amusement. Such was the fate of one who looked the way Sansa did, who had won the Games, whose greatest sell was that of purity. Petyr would reap some of those benefits. Of course he would. But it wasn’t about him. Sansa’s coattails would be ridden until they frayed and broke apart, and Baelish took no shame in that. Not even if Sansa needed him. Baelish had been around long enough to know that no one really needed anyone. It was just a malignant side-effect of winning.
If Sansa had no interest in honing her techniques, in playing the game that extended far beyond the arena, then he had nothing else to teach her. Their interactions had no reason to continue. A family, friends, comrades: Sansa had all of those things in addition to the admiration that came from winning. Gratitude, too, had been showered upon her. An entire district would live better for another year because of her. Company need not be sought out in the Mentor who had none of those things.
Sansa’s rage was palpable. Not even enough shame or decency was had to try and conceal it. She wasn’t afraid to show him how she felt; not in that regard. It was so startlingly familiar to him that Baelish almost laughed. Recognizing the adverse affects it would achieve, however, he stopped himself. Watching her turn and walk back out of the kitchen allowed him to at least crack a smile at her expense. It was still there, when she resolved herself to turn around and take what she’d come for in the first place.
Hands captured his face and drew him down into a kiss that was far from seductive, far from sensual, yet still well and enough to pluck nerves of Baelish’s want and set them to vibrate. Lean into her he did, looping his arms around her waist where she looped hers around his neck. Lower, and his hands found her ass, smoothing over the denim, groping at her as though they had been through this same dance a thousand times before. The crinkling sound of the condom caused Baelish’s mouth to curve against hers. With a simple hoist he picked her up, spun her around, settled her bottom to the counter and guided her legs to wrap around him. The kiss broke with a self-satisfied chuckle. “That didn’t take much.”
Beneath the hem of her shirt his hands invaded. The fabric was gathered and pushed up, up, until he was pulling it over her head, her arms stretched high. The sweater was plopped to the floor in an unceremonious heap. Eyes more green than gray tilted down to her breasts. Though they were well concealed behind a simple cotton undergarment, it didn’t stop him from giving them an appreciative once-over. It was even brighter than it had been in the train car. With all of the sun’s natural rays spilling in through the kitchen window, and none of the soft, flattering light glowing from Capitol bulbs. Did she feel self-conscious?
“I have ten minutes, give or take,” he said, hands walking up her back, moving to toy with the fastener to her brassiere. “Maybe five.” A short enough time that hardly made undressing conducive to anything, and yet with a practiced skill the elastic straps of her shoulders sagged as Petyr released the clasp. Immediately his hands smoothed over the bare skin where the garment had been in place, as though he meant to sooth it. “You’re very soft,” he noted, absently, leaning in to nibble at her neck.
What urge drove Sansa towards furious entreaties for partnership and vehement reminders of Baelish’s perceived duty rooted itself as much in a desire to see one of Seven’s tributes home alive, as it was the fear that she might have to watch them die alone. Not in actuality — the entire nation watched each Games, thousands witnessing a child’s last breath — but in the spirit of one who might have prevented it. Friends, parents, teachers: all powerless before the inexorable, perpetual forward motion of a machine crafted to perfection over decades. As selfish, then, as she was altruistic — the girl wanted someone to share the blame with, a partner equally culpable when they disembarked from the train beside two pine boxes built years before their true time.
Did they bother styling the corpses before sending them on, just like single, precious Victor? Somehow, Sansa thought not.
Petyr carried the blame, justly or no, for dozens of murdered children. His most recent achievement failed to see what difference a few more could make, in anyone’s mind. But Sansa…Sansa was fresh, innocent, as untainted by the Games as a survivor might hope for, darkness pawing along the edges of her mind without yet gaining any true foothold there. Serving as Seven’s only mentor endangered all of it, the tenuous balance and fleeting happiness she still managed to find. Baelish cared enough to pull her out, then he must care enough to keep her afloat.
Her first kiss was for courage alone, to prove she could touch him and move him and arouse him, as little compelling as that rough press of lips might be. Sansa hadn’t expected him to hold her, pick her up and deposit her on the counter like the plate of confections before. Sansa hadn’t expected him to do anything. Simple astonishment pushed her closer, arms wrapped tighter, kiss softening as lips parted with surprise at how readily Petyr capitulated. Words, however, caused her to prickle; the girl’s spine straightened, helping her to balance in her seat, accompanied by an infinitesimal narrowing of cobalt gaze. She was in control. Her! Sansa! Not the disingenuous creature smirking down as though he had won. Won what? They weren’t playing a game.
“Hardly more than the mansion,” she quipped, pulling both hands around to Petyr’s chest. There fingers meddled in buttons of cloudy white enamel, exposing the first dark hairs before urged upwards by his own efforts. Sansa wriggled free, just then aware of how terribly dull a plain, black cotton bra must look in the light of her expectant solicitation. Did he find her dowdy? A disappointment, after those long days studded in diamonds and drowning in embroidered gowns? She should have worn lipstick, a little blush, something that might bring back to mind the painted doll he’d fucked in Snow’s mansion. No one wanted a plain, broken girl. Where was the fun in that?
When Sansa looked back to him, tossing her head and blowing errant copper strands off her face, Tully eyes were alight with a more weightless mischief than the determined glare she had greeted him with. It hadn’t even taken them ten minutes the first time — aided, perhaps, by a lack of sensation-dulling latex. Neither Baelish nor Stark had bothered much with savoring the act. Now she did, unfastening the final buttons of his shirt until it hung open; much like her partner, Sansa brushed at the garment in an unmistakable bid for him to shrug it free. That pitiful, boring bra received similar treatment.
An experimental kiss placed itself to the hollow of Petyr’s throat, a gesture intimate yet chaste. No immediate motion was made towards his groin, nor even to ascertain if her behavior had made the man hard. Her palms smoothed a broad line along the base of his ribs, tracing back until fingers might curl into the slight dip of his spine. "You aren’t,“ Sansa mumbled, chin tilting up to kiss the underside of his jaw. A muffled gasp, then hitch of her hips, encouraged Baelish to maintain his post at her throat. "Rough.” Like the hair abrading her breasts. “Firm.” Like the muscles moving in subtle flex under her hands. “Not soft, though.”
Baelish was no Capitol acolyte. If she expected him to swoon and fawn in her presence simply because she was who she was, she was in for a rough partnership. Was he supposed to clap in delight because she’d brought him muffins? Squeal with glee at her unexpected appearance at his doorstep? Worship her for winning the Games like the rest of them did? Who did she think he was? That she would think for even a second that he would put on airs for her was to do him a great disservice; Petyr had never sugar coated any of their interactions, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. Did she think he owed her?
“Appearance?” he scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, giving her a cursory glance halfway over one shoulder. “What?” It occurred to him she must have seen the stack of bags. “Oh. There’s no appearance.” It didn’t occur to him that she might take offense to him leaving, as if it had anything at all to do with her. It wasn’t her imposition. It was his routine. For decades he’d followed the same weathered pattern, existing and not existing, disappearing and reappearing. It suited him, for what he was, and for what he wasn’t. Johanna Mason hadn’t changed matters – why would Sansa Stark?
Sansa Stark was not Johanna Mason.
She snarled at him, the indignant words hissing out of her, and it surprised Petyr, enough to turn him around and face her, take her in, as though searching for some over-dramatic bluff that would explain her sudden outrage. None came. “Tell you —?” One brow slow slowly rose in questioning assurance. “Was I supposed to?” Never before had he disclosed his itinerary to…anyone. So long as he made every scheduled appearance, did as he was bid, kept up every proper expectation, then he was free to do as he wished in the days not owned by the Capitol. Was it callous of him to assume that Sansa would assume her own independent agency as Johanna did? Was it his duty to provide comfort beyond the Games? “I go to the Capitol. Every year I go.” Why would Sansa know that? She wouldn’t. She didn’t. Obviously. There was no reason for her to know. Propping his hands up on the counter, he leaned back against it. Then he looked at her. Scrutinized her. The twisted scowl on her face, the downcast eyes, the tenseness of her muscles. It was easy for him to forget how it felt – the feelings of anger and despair and helplessness. Petyr would have done anything for some sort of an anchor, some sense of normalcy and routine. Perhaps it’s why he’d first fled to the Capitol. Why he’d continue to flee. Why he did so even now. Sansa was looking for something to hold onto in the maelstrom of the aftermath. Baelish was familiar, Baelish was convenient, but more than that, Baelish understood.
He was about to open his mouth to say something when she fished out the foil square from her pocket and flung it across the counter. Without even having to look at it, Petyr knew what it was. Were she not so angry with him, the implications of it would have been enough to make his cock throb. Sansa Stark, seeking out means of protection where Baelish had admitted to having none. It was on her mind then, had been on her mind. Fucking him again. So much so that she’d went out of her way to secure a condom so that she could do it again. It wasn’t necessarily flattery or ego that caused a corner of his mouth to twitch, but it was part of it.
Reaching across the counter, he pinched the packet between thumb and fore. There was a faint crinkling sound as he fingered it. Mercurial green never left her.
"There’s…time now.” Not so much arrogant as it was presumptive. Idly, his gaze flicked towards an old and weathered clock hung on the wall that ran ten minutes fast.
Petyr had lied, no better than the rest of them, scurrying through streets and buildings of spun glass like termites, eating away at another’s shelter, another’s home, for the construction of their own. When she left him, it had been under the terms of an agreement. That Baelish reconsider, that he think back to those months following his own emergence from the Arena, bloodied and defeated in spite of his crown. Sansa needed him, a distinct disadvantage compared to the Mentor who seemed to have need of no one at all. Whatever the man gained in delivering her back to Seven alive, if not unscathed, served well enough; she would always be a Victor, always be a child who didn’t die, would for years act a symbol of Petyr’s wily success.
Through her survival, he secured clear conscience and relief of duty all at once. Any more children that perished fell before the altar of Sansa Stark, clever enough to save herself and no others. Not Petyr Baelish. Petyr Baelish, apparently, had paid his dues.
"Of course you do,” she snarled, and there was hatred in her tone then. He picked them, the people who perpetrated crimes upon two dozen children every year. Too young to remember the rebellion, too young, even, to have parents or grandparents who did. Especially in the outlying districts — Eleven, Twelve — where life amounted to a short, brutal, joyless experience. No sane person entered those oversized bell jars, teeming with foes, and came out bearing amiable intentions towards the demigods which set them there. It made more sense, looking at the Victors from One and Two, nestled up against the Capitol, happily pursuing industry that never forced them beneath the earth or to toil for hours beneath a boiling summer’s sun. But with a home, an account which could never be overdrawn, even the most acrimonious Victors fell silent.
And Petyr was no downtrodden soul, begrudgingly lurking at the fringe of every engagement. Those Mentors existed, consumed by liquor or morphling, sickly creatures cameras never lingered on. But Baelish charmed, a consummate gentlemen before a public that glutted itself on the transition from monster to bachelor. Would she charm them too? Not with the painted smile and flat blue stare of her tour, but genuinely? In a way that begged inclusion, rather than acting as bland placation?
The thought sent a thousand ants skittering over Sansa’s skin. She would never.
Breath had deepened, turned slightly labored with indignation; there she stood, fists clenched and nostrils flaring with each inhale, interested not at all in rutting with someone she’d dare think of as an ally. Until Petyr spoke. Her rage failed to make sex an impossibility, or at least less desirable than its lack. “You have a train to catch, remember?” Stormy gaze pulled away, boring through the wall to where luggage patiently waited. The sound of foil between his fingers raised hairs along her neck, a warning.
One Sansa ignored.
“If you say so.” Turning on her heel, shoulders dropping out of an indifferent shrug, the girl slipped back into an empty living room. There’s time now. To go upstairs? To undress him? To strip? Sansa hadn’t wanted it to be like the mansion or the train, a jarring shift from talking to fucking, masks shattering on the floor to cut open bare feet as they stumbled towards a bed. She’d wanted it to feel natural, when in truth it remained naught but an artifice. A flimsy barrier, erected to keep maelstroms at bay.
Sansa turned back, recrossed the threshold to where Petyr lounged by the sink. If he still held the condom, she failed to see it. With a palm on either cheek she pulled Baelish down, brought his mouth level with hers and kissed him. That’s what you were supposed to do, right? Lovers kissed. But they weren’t lovers. Just desperate. Raised up on her toes, Sansa arched into him, arms looping behind his neck to bind them close. An embrace that simple still managed to unwind muscles drawn taut, clear a mind fogged with disappointment, and restore the warm hum of possibility that started after a covert pharmacy purchase.
There’s time now.
He hadn’t considered it.
What he had thought about, as he had year after year, had been the possibility of never having to face the Games again. The time when finally someone else would be able to take up the helm and he would be allowed to retreat into blessed obscurity. No Games. No pomp. No choosing who got to live or die. There was nothing the Stark girl could say or do to convince him otherwise. Baelish wanted to forget it all. Leave it behind, set it alight like a great pile of refuse left to smoke and smolder in the darkness. Baelish had fulfilled his role as mentor for Sansa Stark; it was not a position which extended beyond into life. Whatever obligation she felt she was owed did not extend to the veteran’s mind. Getting out out of the arena alive was more than most other tributes were afforded. Baelish had paid his penance. To Catelyn Stark. To Seven. To the Capitol.
To Sansa.
It was about that time of year, as it happened every year, when a train bound for the Capitol would arrive, and a victor’s cottage would sit quietly empty. There was no fanfare, for there was never anyone to ask questions or even care whether or not the boy victor with green eyes, now a man, was here or there. More often than not, the answer was there. The Capitol. Disappearing into the throng of eager sycophants and vice. Returning on a train filled with foaming prep teams, legions of robotic cameras, and one whimsical escort all-too ready to pluck two names from a hollowed crystal ball.
When the knock echoed, there was no hesitation as there had been before. There was only the sort of pause that comes with readiness – had he somehow been expecting her? – passed with the short, clipped footsteps of the house’s owner. Baelish opened the door. He looked nothing like he had on Sansa’s previous visit. A smooth face, freshly shaved, hair recently trimmed and neatly combed. His attire did not reek of recent slumber nor hint to being unwashed. Everything was fresh, pressed. The look he gave her dispelled immediately the notion that he’d suspected her arrival. “Sansa,” he spoke, half question, half accusation. “Ah…” He looked past her, to the sea of chipped shale that separated his house from hers, to the large stone fountain which had long grown over with ivy and crawled with rust-colored stains. Had Sansa ever seen it flow with water? Petyr remembered when it used to bubble and run off, a crystalline splash that he would sometimes dip his fingers into, letting the artificial current run over his hands. Then one winter the pipes beneath the ground froze and burst; no one ever came to fix it.
Fingers tapped along the door-frame, Baelish propping himself between it and the door, gaze a slow drag back to the red-headed visitor invading his stoop. He noted the plate of muffins. Their buttery scent warmed the air. “How neighborly of you.” Words came in a cynical drawl. Baelish knew a bribe when he saw one. “This can’t be your best idea.” Out of everything Sansa might have come to convince him with, the decision had fallen on baked goods? Perhaps not so foolish as the Mentor made it out to be, because not a moment later he stepped aside, the door opening in wide invitation. Sansa would be able to see a stack of luggage just inside.
He’d made up his mind, then. There would be no assistance granted to the freshly minted Victor. Victor-made-Mentor. She would be left to make decisions that would kill people, again and again, alone, without the comfort of a partner or anyone else. Thrust into the world she’d never asked to be a part of. Was Baelish truly so callous? During the Games, her Games, and after, on the tour, she’d seen glimpses of him that suggested – no. Yet there he stood, ready to slink away to the Capitol without so much as a farewell nod. Like a rat.
The plate was helpfully lifted from Sansa’s grasp, and spun away towards the kitchen. Baelish did not even bother retrieving another, smaller serving plate, or so much as a napkin; a hand hovering beneath the baked delight to catch any crumbs served just as well for the man who stood beside the sink to eat like some sort of feral. He’d never acted like that on tour, or maybe Sansa had never seen him eat. Only drink. Even so, it was with some semblance of decorum, a deal more civilized than a barnyard animal crunching feed from a trough. “Did you make them?” he inquired, in-between buttery bites. “They’re not bad.” A poor replacement for thanks. “You can take the rest back, I’m leaving shortly. I thought you were…someone else, actually.” Which explained his ready willingness to answer the door.
“What else do you have?” There wasn’t a gesture towards the lump in her pocket, there didn’t need to be. Petyr noticed everything, inexplicably, even when he didn’t seem to be paying any attention at all. One of those run-off talents from the Games, perhaps, in which missing key details meant death, or worse. There was a series of quiet tinking noises as Baelish brushed the crumbs from his hands into the sink. “I suppose I should ask how you are, mm?” But he didn’t – not really.
Without pretense or calculation, Sansa’s jaw dropped open. A wide, momentary gape of astonishment preceded the swift press bringing lips back together, yet the slip had already given away the game. Every day on the tour, and before, when only his advice tethered the little Tribute through an unceasing maelstrom of attention and blood-lust and vice, Baelish presented himself stubble-free, clad in tasteful motley. “Petyr.” Who else? Dumbly, fingers tightened then unfurled along the plate’s edges, contemplating the possibility of a hasty, invisible retreat. Or perhaps hurl it at the man’s face instead, for no crime other than damnable unpredictability. She didn’t know what to do with this bushy-tailed presentation, one which erased all prior hints of apathetic neglect from her Mentor.
“You look…” Good. Handsome. “ –– nice,” the girl finished blandly, wary of offering complements to a man so plainly disappointed in her apparition. Instinct turned her head, taking in the crumbling grandeur of the village’s fountain. In its highest tier, a robin nested; some afternoons you could look out and see the flaming peak of the male’s head, or else watch as the crimson-chested mother dutifully returned with food for her growing chicks. Sansa liked that much better than some pointless, wasteful display: life, where it ought never have taken root. Not dissimilar to the Stark house across the way, steadily lit and humming with possibility, rather than perpetually draped in the black shrouds of mourning.
Coppery brows drew down into a deep, offended vee. Those pastries hadn’t been thought of as a bribe, at least not one sufficient to coax him into a loathsome duty. Just enough to push her past the threshold. “Clearly you’ve never tried my baking,” she quipped, frustrated he wouldn’t at least pretend to be wooed. Even Capitol acolytes, however obsequious, played their part well. Both feet stuttered over his nondescript mat, beginning to scrape backwards until the door, inexplicably, opened. A gust of wind? But no, Petyr was ushering her into a hall sunlit and smelling faintly of lemons or pine, that sharp, antiseptic tang which lingered after a thorough cleaning.
Baelish preceded her by many steps through the common area and into the kitchen, arrested as she was by the sight of neatly stacked suitcases and satchels, a couple of garment bags draped over the pile. Sansa hadn’t thought he even owned luggage; for everything that followed the Games, Seven’s tittering prep team simply provided anything their Victor required. Gowns, baubles, cosmetics, perfume, toiletries, undergarments, robes, shoes, lounge wear – a cosmopolitan assortment of fabrics and gems beyond imagining. Though most found their way into her district closet, nothing approached suitable wear in her home, and one never wore a fashion twice. And so they languished, cooed over and discarded until a train came bearing replacements.
As meaningless as the tributes who donned them.
Sansa found him hovering over the sink, just like her brothers did when they hadn’t the time to sit and eat before a morning shift. It was…familiar. As though they lived together, as though she too would scoop up several packages and bear them away as both traveled…where? “Tatty never called me about any appearance,” she offered as a lead. “Neither did you.” The true meaning of polished appearance and bulging luggage had yet to be discerned, then. So far as the girl knew – so far as she trusted him – Baelish’s activity amounted to forgetfulness, rather than willful avoidance and deceit. A nod, one corner of her nose crinkling with the beginnings of an unimpressed sneer. Did they taste store-bought?
“Where are you going?” she pressed. The veritable pile in his hall suggested Petyr would not return for some time. Comprehension dawned, a slow, terrible creeping revelation of betrayal twisting her features into a scowl. “You didn’t even tell me.” Hissed out on a snake’s tongue, furious she had ever been so stupid as to think it mattered. Their conversation, those fleeting scraps of understanding, his delivering her. Why had she wanted comfort, companionship with him? A piece of scum, fleeing at the first shadowed opportunity. Sansa hadn’t even wanted to sleep with him as persuasion; that was just the pleasure that followed business, smeared now with the rising bile of being abandoned. In the arena, his Tribute had remained silent, impassively accepting of her isolation. On the tour, any advice came obliquely, through observation or implication. This, the first time she dared impose on Baelish, and he meant to vanish.
Sansa’s fingers rubbed over the little square bulge, doubly embarrassed. If he thought the muffins were a bribe, he couldn’t possibly take a rubber any other way. “Nothing.” Extracting the foil packet, she flicked it onto the counter where it slid in a dry scrape until it met the plate’s edge. “Something else to take back. Or leave,” the girl added with mocking consideration. “It’ll keep until you come home, I’m sure.” For the Reaping. An inescapable bit of pageantry that every Victor endured; even Johanna sat, stony-faced and silent, beside the mayor’s podium as Seven’s children gathered for the slaughter. But after the drawing, she could go back to the Village and forget, just as Petyr could continue running. It would be Sansa who faced untold horrors and near-certain failure. Alone.
Not for the first time, she wished he’d never bothered getting her out at all.
