Chapter Text
That Saturday, Sansa could feel an odd unpleasantness in the air. A weighty oppressive haze looming over the dulled gold lustre of Baelish's ballroom.
She couldn't put her finger on it.
Around her the people were no different than any other of Petyr's parties - the same exuberance, the same quantity of champagne passed around from tray to tray, hand to hand, mouth to mouth. The music was still as vibrant and vivacious as before, yet Sansa stood at the top of the stairs, feeling like it was all happening in a snow globe. The viscosity of the air in the room was as thick as tar and the people couldn't help but dance in it. The colours were still there, yet faded somehow, as in an old photograph in one of Petyr's albums.
Sansa was garbed in a glittering white and silver gown - the dangling, sparkly tassels jostling with every step and tickling her knees - an intricate design on the bodice that tapered delicately into her lithe waist. She had on a pair of silk white gloves that came all the way past her elbow and a bejewelled band with her pair of doves cinching it into her hair and a white and grey dove feather peeking out the top of her faux bob.
The outfit didn't belong to her, in fact it belonged to Petyr.
"I have just the thing," he had whispered conspiratorially, dragging her up the stairs. "I was saving it for one of my girls, but none had been worthy of its intricate beauty." Petyr pulled her into one of the Georgian state rooms. A dark oak wardrobe stood vigil in the corner - which he opened with a key procured from his vest pocket.
"You, sweetling, were made for this dress."
His girls, as he had told her quite plainly, were an added level to his entertainments. Hired, specifically trained women who were hidden amongst the guests at the party, made to appear as part of the faceless, nameless, hedonistic crowd.
"I deal in secrets, Sansa, more than anything," he whispered lowly to her, pouring her another glass of whiskey.
"It is how I keep the upper hand in all my business. Men are quite simple beasts once you know how to read them," he chewed on a mint leaf from a small bowl on the table. "And they are never so quick to share when they have a glass of champagne in their hand, and a girl on their lap." He chewed some more. "Though I am not just some low-brow brothelkeep. The women are well cared for and are very well paid - all of them chose the profession, and they may leave my service at anytime they wish, so long as their tongues stay tied. Olyvar makes note of every transaction. The Spider's goons keep close watch of every girl that goes into every room, and with whom - every dark corner is known, and my eyes are everywhere."
"That's why you hold these parties?"
"That's one of the reasons, yes."
"And you...have you ever occupied one of these dark corners with one of your girls?"
He stops chewing and looks at her, eyes like steel.
"Never."
Now Sansa stood on the second floor landing, empty champagne glass in hand, watching the sea of bodies, boil and rise in the ballroom below.
It is nearly a quarter to eight and the party is in full swing. The dancing is vigorous, and weighted down by the peculiar quality of oppressiveness shadowing the entire household. More so than any other of Petyr's parties that Sansa had attended...or perhaps she hadn't been aware of it until now. Perhaps she had been numb to it, or too drunk to understand the heavy feeling in her chest and limbs. Perhaps her consciousness had not been alerted to its presence until she saw the first girl, in an exquisite knee length flapper gown, bejewelled in green and black that walked past and offered her a sultry wink before disappearing back into the mass.
She hears the musical tinkling of ice in glass to her left and sees his smooth ringed hand holding a tumbler of whiskey just outside her vision.
"I thought perhaps this was more to your taste," his smoky words shivered against her spine. "You don't seem like much of a champagne kind of girl anymore."
"It's too sweet," she says flatly.
"You prefer the burn, the harshness," he smirks, adjusting his mockingbird pin.
"Whiskey doesn't lie," she shot him a harsh look. "Whiskey doesn't feel the need to hide."
His face was passive, unreadable.
"Champagne is nothing but emptiness and leads to empty-headedness."
"It seems I've turned you into a cynic."
"No, you've turned me into one of your girls," she downs the whiskey in one gulp, choking it back with only a slight flinch in the corner of her mouth. "I honestly can't tell you which is worse."
Sansa hands the tumbler back to him and rests her hands on the railing.
"Sweetling," his voice is soft and she honestly can't take it. Her fists clench over the cool brass and her eyes squeeze shut for barely a second before she opens them again, her body relaxing once more to an unnerving cool.
"Do you want to dance?" She turns to look at him. "I haven't danced all night. It's a party we should be dancing."
"You want to dance?" his eyes narrowed with such tender scrutiny.
"Why wouldn't I? Look at me, look at this dress. Doesn't it just make you want to dance?" She shook the bouncing tassels about her knees to prove her point.
Petyr continued to stare at her in his quiet concerned manner. "Sansa, whatever is troubling you about tonight you have no cause to worry,” he smiled softly, “I don’t intend to...”
"It's not..." Sansa clamped her lip down. "It's nothing, really. All this, it...it doesn't even seem like a party anymore.”
Petyr places her empty glass of whiskey and his own untouched glass on the table behind him. "Come." His tone was kind but firm, his hand grasping hers and gently leading her off the landing on to the grand staircase that spilled out into the ballroom.
"Petyr! What are you doing?"
"You said you wanted to dance."
He pulled her on to the floor, wrapping his arm around her waist. God, she could smell the mint on his breath, the spice of his cologne. The music was fast and electric, the dancing rhythmic and enticing, and Petyr - it was almost too much to have him pressed as close as he was.
Sansa had tried, in earnest, to forget her feelings in regards to the enigmatic Petyr Baelish. She had tried so so hard to turn her thoughts to young Harry - in truth he was charming, and their budding relationship the past few weeks had indeed been a simple and pleasant evolution. But compared to dancing with Petyr; the spice of intrigue, the hint of danger and excitement; the mystery and the man himself - Harry paled.
Petyr tilted her chin up to meet his mossy eyes.
“What are you thinking about, sweetling?” he murmured lowly, the din of the ballroom falling to the background, like a dull thundering roar. Petyr’s eyes were endlessly green this close - as green as the light gleaming across the still lake.
“You seem to be...” he hesitated, his mouth curving upwards in a sad little smile. “Disenchanted.”
Disenchanted. That was a word indeed.
Sansa sighed out a small little laugh, averting her gaze down to her hand resting on his shoulder.
If only that were true.
“Have I pulled back the curtain too far? Revealed too much?”
Sansa met his gaze again, the languid depths piercing her.
“With you?” She shrugged. “I could hardly be disenchanted.”
“Yet your eyes...you don’t look at me the way you once did.”
Sansa detached her gaze once again, feeling her ears burn. Why did he do this to her? She was not who he wanted so why drag her down further. She was already hopelessly besotted.
“Perhaps you are right,” she muttered, fiddling with a wary string on the seam of his otherwise pristine suit jacket. “Perhaps I’m just worried about the outcome of tonight. But it’s not just that, I...” she gulped heavily, the words feeling stuck to the back of her throat. “It’s just that I don’t know where I stand with you anymore.”
“Where you stand...” his brow creased. The hand resting on her back pressed ever so harder into her spine. To keep her from running.
“In the beginning, you had an interest in me because of what I could provide for you...” she swallowed again. God, why was this so hard to say? “And now...well you’ve gotten what you wanted, haven’t you? So what could you possibly need from me anymore.”
The lines around his eyes crinkled in what looked like a restrained twinge of pain. Like she’d hurt him.
“Do you presume to know what I want?” he meant the words teasingly, but there was a tension at the back of his throat; a small break in his usually so steady tone.
“Isn’t that what all this has been about? Her. Here. Tonight. Isn’t that what you’ve been dreaming about for all these years?”
He twirled her around, her back coming to bump against his chest, pulled flush against him. Her heart throbbed to be this close to him, yet her gut roiled with anger. Now was not the time to be indecisive, they had come too far for that.
Sansa lifted her free hand to his face and held him still - two statues, a tableaux against a menagerie of dancing fools.
“You promised me,” she whispered. “You promised this was about her and not your petty revenge. This is still about her, isn’t it? About Cat.”
He looked down at her, his face unreadable except for his eyes which beheld such tenderness Sansa thought she might die. He did not respond immediately, only lifted his hand to rest over hers on his jaw, scratching the inner palm with the toughness of his course facial hair.
“Yes, yes of course,” he finally muttered, pulling away. “Only Cat.”
And just like that her heart plummeted.
A wayward foot was the only thing that reminded Sansa that they should be dancing. It would be difficult for all the myriad of spies watching to pick out anyone in the sea of bodies, but two souls standing stark still in the centre of the ballroom while others danced around them - they would stick out as though they were made out of gold.
They did not speak anymore, only danced. Sansa closed her eyes and pretended this wasn’t their last moment together, though she was determined that it was. Once Cat arrived it would be the end, and she would move on - with Harry, with someone, anyone who would be willing to settle for only half a soul. Her other half she left in the coat pocket of a green-eyed enigma.
And just like that, it ended.
The music died, the band done for the hour, a new entertainment took the stage. A man on the grand piano, playing hopping lyric less jazz. With a bulk of the dancers filtering out of the ballroom and onto the veranda to refill their drinks and peruse the buffet and swim in the pool, Sansa could hear her voice clearly over the crowd.
“Sansa!!”
Sansa dropped Petyr’s hand immediately, turning to see her mother (and Brandon) entering from the foyer.
“Oh my darling girl!” Cat ran over, cupping her daughter’s face in her long, gloved hands. “You look a dream. Where ever did you find this dress?”
Brandon stood a few steps behind, the look in his eyes dark and willowy.
“Petyr leant it to me...it belongs to a friend.”
Petyr smiled, giving an easy shrug. “Sansa is modest. She wouldn’t let me pay for a new one.”
Brandon’s jaw clenched, as well as his fist.
“But it could’ve been made for her! Come now, give us a twirl.”
Sansa felt embarrassment rise up her cheeks, though obliged, giving a small, hesitant turn around, her eyes catching Petyr’s. He looked proud; smug.
Her heart sank.
“You, my darling Cat look just as lovely,” Sansa heard Petyr, though kept her eyes down. She felt cheap and exposed with this infernal gown on. Not like herself at all, but what Petyr wanted her to be.
“Oh this old thing,” Cat shoved Petyr playfully.
If they were trying to play it cool, they were doing a shite job of it. Brandon came around to Sansa, his hand warm at her back. It was a comforting, almost fatherly gesture.
“Dad,” she uttered lowly, touching her hands to his shoulder. She’d never called him dad in her life. Only father or Brandon. It was her way to distinguish him from his predecessor, but right now she needed him to notice her - and he did. The hardness in his eyes melted into awe, the lines in his face softening and warming. “Could you grab me a drink?”
It was an earnest plea - he could sense that, and he nodded.
“Of course. Champagne?”
Sansa shook her head. “Yeah that’s fine.”
“Cat, darling! A drink?”
She sighed dramatically, adoring the prospect, “Oh yes!”
Petyr’s smile was tense, his eyes searching for Sansa’s.
“Petyr, good man. Champagne for the ladies and whiskey for the boys?” Brandon playfully jabbed Petyr in the shoulder as though they were old friends, though Sansa could see the lingering tendrils of hatred behind each tight smile and forced little laugh.
“Absolutely!” Petyr made a show of being the jovial host, leading Brandon off to the bar, leaving Sansa alone with Cat.
Cat was enthralled, standing before the ballroom in a rose gold gown, watching as the pianist continued to play.
“I’m going to dance with him,” Cat sighed, her eyes full of glimmering gold and something that was not quite here. Sansa could not see Petyr’s ballroom reflected in her mother’s eyes.
“Brandon’s gonna know,” Sansa muttered lowly. “If he sees you dance he’s going to know. He may even suspect already the way you and Petyr fall all over each other.”
“Oh...” Cat said no more to that effect. Her concern barely brimming over her excitement.
“Mom,” Sansa shook Cat’s shoulder. “Please, be careful.”
As if the reality of the situation just dawned on her, Cats eyes dimmed slightly. Her smile failing at the corners.
“We used to dance, all the time, we did,” Cat’s eyes stared through the crowd, beyond the room, beyond this time and space.
“You and Petyr?”
Cat blinked, the gold returning. “Hmmm?”
Petyr appeared with a cocktail in his hand, a golden sugary thing with twists of lemon and a maraschino cherry sunk deep into its bowl. He snuck up behind Cat and reached his arm around her holding the drink as though it were a priceless jewel and she the goddess. Cat’s face lit up like a child’s.
“For me?” she smiled and twisted in his arms.
“But of course!” he smiled, enjoying the closeness.
Cat peeked over his shoulder, looking rather conspiratorial. “But where’s Brandon?”
“Caught in a rather intriguing conversation with a well known Olympic rower, I believe. They met at the bar.”
“You know such fascinating people,” Cat leaned even more into him and he smiled even more bashfully. A pang of longing tore through Sansa’s chest. “I know very little, it is them that seem to know me, or at least of me. They want to know me just enough to put a face to the name, but I am truly unremarkable. I think in that way I must disappoint most of them.”
Cat touched his cheek, running her long nails over the skin of his face, the lines of his mouth and bopping him on the end of his nose. “We should dance.”
“The band will be starting again in a moment,” he handed her the cocktail. “Finish your drink and then we will dance.”
Cat drank the whole thing down in three gulps.
“Tosh the band, let us start dancing without them!” She quickly deposited her glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “I am too excited just to stand and wait for music.”
Cat tugged Petyr along by the hand. “It would be rather inconspicuous if we did that, my dear.”
Cat stopped in her tracks, looking from him over to Sansa. Sansa felt red all over. For the first time that evening she wished Harry were here.
“Of course,” Cat’s smile went tight, her laughter forced. “How silly of me. Alcohol always makes me a bit silly, even just a small amount.”
Petyr smiled at her, tightening his hand around hers. “We will dance tonight, we will dance all night if that’s what you wish. We’ll dance the whole night long.”
“I can’t stand it Petyr, having you so close but not being able to touch you or hold you or kiss you, what with all these eyes around.”
Another pang shot through Sansa. God, if only Cat knew.
“Must we go through the whole night like this?”
“No,” he muttered lowly, coming as close as he dared. “I will arrange something. I will find us some way to be alone. I promise.”
Just then the band made their way back to their podiums. The strings testing out a few stray notes. The crowd murmured with excitement and anticipation.
“Oh Petyr look!” Cat cried happily.
Petyr turned to Sansa as if to say something, the beginning of a word just beginning to shape in his mouth when the music drowned it out in one fell swoop. A pumping, rhythmic swing that had all bodies within earshot soon hopping along to the magnetic beat. Sansa quickly darted from the floor of the ball room up the grand staircase to watch the dancing commence.
Not an hour ago it had been her on that floor, her hand on his shoulder, their bodies so close she could smell the mint wafting off his clothes. She’d only recently learned he kept a handful of leaves in his pocket at all times.
“Tricks of the trade,” he’d muttered. “They can’t accuse you of being a bootlegger if they can’t smell the liquor on you.” He offered her a leaf. “In everything, Sansa, you must always have clean hands.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” she had begged more than she had asked. The room had been spinning.
“Because I want you to know. I want you to know everything.”
Sansa could spot them in the crowd, the gold of her mother’s dress acting like a beacon. The way she shimmered in Petyr’s sure arms made her stand out amongst the blue feathers and the green tassels. She had never really taken in the sight of Petyr dancing. He was really quite smooth, though he was not built like a dancer. Yet with Cat he beheld a confidence in his movements, and a surety in his gaze that could rival any ballerino from the Moscow Ballet, some of which were dancing right alongside him.
Did we look like that? Did he dance like that with me?
Brandon came up the stairs with a glass of champagne in one hand and a whiskey in the other. He looked much more at ease now than when he had arrived. He handed her the flute and rested his weight heavily on the bannister.
“I just had the most fascinating talk with one of the Ironborn Rowers. Can you believe that one of them attends this soiree. That Baelish sure knows how to attract certain people.” Brandon looked out over the dancing crowd. “They almost seem drawn to him.”
Sansa looked down at her glass.
“People see what they want to see. That’s all,” Sansa took a tentative sip of the champagne. The taste no longer excited her.
“And what do you see?” Brandon turned to her, his expression tender if a little hard around the edges.
“Petyr is my neighbor. What am I supposed to see?”
“He has an interest,” Brandon took a drink of his whiskey. “In you. And her. I just don’t know what. I will find out though, you can make sure of that.”
“Father?”
He looked up at her again.
“To protect you, of course. It’s what Ned would have done.”
The image of her father flittered at the back of her mind. The weathered dark eyes and his strong chin - Brandon was right, he wouldn’t have trusted Petyr either.
“Well if it isn’t...” Brandon launched himself off the bannister, handing Sansa his whiskey. “Robby Glover you old sod...” he stomped up the stairs and was gone. Lost to the crowd and the bodies, and the glittering gold that was Baelish’s last summer party. The drinks had been sufficiently passed to everyone, and the music, the dancing, the atmosphere became all the more vigorous.
A young woman in a blue dress sat on the railing on the second floor landing, a man between her legs and a drink in her hands. Another man slipped rather comically down the last four steps, his glass breaking on the polished wood flooring. He was too amused to be bothered by the cut on his hand. Another bottle of champagne was sabered open, it’s contents spilling onto the crowd below.
Up the stairs from where Sansa stood she met eyes with the Spider, standing vigil to the chaos. He looked at the woman in the blue dress, the skirt now rucked up to her waist. He made note of the man with the bruised tailbone as he got up and limped over to the bar to get another drink. He even leered rather disdainfully at the man with the saber, happy filling the glasses of all those around him before drinking what was left in the bottle. Then he made note of her. The dress she was wearing, where she was standing, who she was waiting for. He gave her a tight smile and a small nod of his head in acknowledgement. Or perhaps of understanding. She was no longer just the simple girl from next door, she belonged to all of this.
A hand from nowhere grabbed hers, startling her. It was Petyr, his green eyes sparkling and shimmering with flecks of gold in the irises.
“Where’s Brandon?” he asked quickly, coming way too close, his smile just a tad too cunning.
“H-he went upstairs,” Sansa stuttered, more so from his sudden proximity than to his question.
“Good. Come with me,” he tugged her down the stairs, his smile crinkling his long beautiful cheek. He looked so much like a boy at this moment. A boy about to sneak a cookie from the cookie jar.
“I have a plan in place. Brandon should be too busy to even notice we’ve gone. Enough to give us at least a half hour.”
He artfully weaved Sansa and himself through the bodies in the ballroom, avoiding kicking legs and swooshing skirts until they made it to the outside. The outside was just as crazy as the inside. The maze, the pool, the buffet, overrun with raucous party-goers. Petyr effortlessly outmaneuvered each one - darting from one guest who had over imbibed, and fell to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach into a hedge. Two half-naked and soaking wet girls ran past them giggling, a half dressed man in hot pursuit. The occasional guest threw a hand up in greeting to garner Petyr’s attention - the few that could recognize him, and even then, he diverted hoots and hollers with a simple wave of his hand. Like a magician making them all disappear.
“Petyr, where are we going?” Sansa managed to say as they descended into the entrance of the maze. “Where is Cat?”
Petyr pulled her along the tall green hedges banking the lines between her property and his.
“I sent her to hide,” he said simply, stopping his pursuit to turn to her, again, intensely too close. “In your garden.”
His smile was conspiratorial, as though he had committed a heist. Stealing a wife from her husband.
“We only have this brief window of time, preferably uninterrupted. None of my guests will venture beyond my property and your garden is secluded enough I should think.”
He was rambling, to himself. He released her arm and continued to walk a few paces ahead of her. “Some place private for us to talk, just talk, sweetling. I haven’t the faintest what I’m to say, but I can’t let the opportunity pass. I’ve waited for this. You have no idea how long I have waited for this. No one knows.”
He turned to her again, his hand shaking as he clasped her forearm once more. “I need you...”
Sansa gasped at his sudden proximity again, and he flinched, thinking he’d hurt her. He immediately released her arm and backed a step away.
“I need you to stand guard at the gate, in sight. In case Brandon...or our time...” he fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat, producing a simple hour glass, no bigger than pack of cards. “Do you have a watch?”
Sansa shook her head, her words at a loss.
“Take this. It’s for eggs.”
Sansa blinked dumbly. Eggs?
“The sand falls at two minutes instead of an hour. Perfect soft-boiled.” He smoothed his hair down and dug into his left breast pocket for a mint leaf. “Turn it over ten times and then give me a signal. We shall return to the party then.”
All of Petyr’s rambling instructions seemed to make sense now. He had scheduled a rendezvous with Cat and Sansa was to be their minder. Much like when the two of them had been reunited - a chaperone; a witness to their love. Petyr so desperately required another’s eyes for his were blind. All he saw was Cat, the girl he had loved so many years ago.
“Will you? Please say you will,” he begged.
Sansa didn’t trust herself to speak. The words trapped on her tongue only spoke of her own desperate will to be the one that he saw. All she could do was nod, clutching the hour glass to her chest as they made their way to the break in the hedges where the gate to her property lay.
From where she stood vigil at the gate entrance she could see Petyr and Cat in the sanctuary of her little sheltered garden, with its hanging ivy canopy and grinning rosebuds still refusing to bloom even in the late summer warmth. Sansa feared they would never come out, never blossom and grow. Soon it would be too late and they would wither and die in the desolate cold of winter.
One turn.
Petyr held Cat to him inside the little oasis. Kissing her forehead, her eyelids - gentle, chaste little things. Breathing her in as if she were a rare rose herself. The way Cat blushed, it was as though she were a girl once more, the girl she had been when Petyr had fallen in love with her.
“Do you remember?” Sansa swore she could read the words off Petyr’s lips.
“We were so young back then,” her mother sighed, resting her head on his shoulder as he led her in a soft sway. A song that only they remembered.
Three turns.
Petyr kissed her; eyes shut tightly as to memorize every sense, every feeling of this moment.
“I love you.”
Five turns.
Cat broke away, running into the thicket of trees that outlined Sansa’s property. A large weir wood with a wide trunk. She laughed, a young girl in springtime, barefoot in the grass.
Petyr chased after her, darting around the opposite side of the tree to catch her. Her arms flung about his neck as she kissed him with the abandon of a young maiden.
Seven turns.
Cat turned around the trunk of the tree, her hand pressed into the bark.
“Carve our names into the this tree so we’ll never forget.”
P+C Forever.
“I don’t have a knife.”
He caught her hand again and pressed her into the bark.
Nine turns.
“Petyr, tell me this is not the end.”
He kissed her. Deeply, with all the love twenty years of waiting could give.
“I would give it all in a heartbeat for you.”
Sansa felt a hand on her shoulder, startling her, causing her to drop the hourglass before the last few grains of sand could fall.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Sansa,” she recognized the watery accent and stuttery words.
“My goodness, Mr. Hollard, you gave me a fright.”
“I’m so sorry, I really am,” he was already fumbling, trying to lower himself to one knee to help her find the object she’d dropped. “It was not my intention, I swear to you.”
His hands shook from the drink and his face blistered red. A new stain adorned his dinner jacket and there was a hole the size of his finger in the cumberbund.
“It’s alright, Mr, Hollard, please, let me,” she picked up the hour glass, now marred with flecks of dirt.
Dontos struggled to stand, grunting rather unattractively as he attempted to find his footing.
“Please, call me by my first name, Dontos. I have never really lived up to the family name. It was a great name once, I assure you.”
Sansa reached out her arm to him, to hold him steady, as his left leg managed to get underneath him.
“I am fairly certain it is still a great name.”
The poor man’s red face winced in unmistakable anguish.
“I’m afraid that is not true. I’m afraid I have brought a lot of shame on my family. As you know I am quite dull and poor with money.
“You are not dull in the slightest!”
“Oh indeed I am Miss. Incredibly dull, even worse when I’ve been drinking.”
“I don’t find you dull at all. The few times we’ve met I have always enjoyed your company.”
Dontos seemed to smile at that. “You’re too kind Miss.”
“Sansa please.”
“Miss Sansa.”
Sansa smiled warmly. He was a sweet if sad little man.
She looked back at Petyr and Cat, now hidden behind the trunk of the tree, still wrapped in each other. With a delicate hand she gently tugged Dontos into an easy stroll, away from the gate.
“Tell me something, Mr. Hollard,” Sansa began, cut off by his nervous spluttering.
“Dontos, please, if you will Miss Sansa,” he lowered his eyes to the grass at their feet rather bashfully.
“Alright...Dontos,” the name was odd, and hard to wrap her lips around. “How did you meet Mister Baelish?”
Dontos let out a nervous squeal-like kind of sound.
“It is the strangest thing, I tell you,” he laughed, a high, wispy, shrill little noise. “I swear to you Miss, I think he found me. I was up to my ears in debts and problems, but a few months ago, six at the most. I, uh, am ashamed to say I had a problem with the races.”
“The races?” Sansa nestled her arm into the crook of his elbow, hanging off his arm as he told his story. The more he relaxed the easier they fell into step with each other.
“The horses. Oh I love them! I would lose hundreds upon hundreds. Oh, I am helpless at playing the odds though. I haven’t the gift for it, you see. I’m not blessed in any way. I would consistently see myself to be the unluckiest man in the world, if it were not for Littlefinger’s kindness. He may not act it all the time but he is a man of great compassion and understanding. He has let me stay here until I can pay off my debts and get back on my feet. I fear I have taken advantage of his kindness though, I am rather hopeless.”
“I’m sure if there were any kind of abuse Mister Baelish would address it. As it stands, I don’t think he is bothered by your presence in his home. Perhaps he enjoys your company.”
“I do not imagine so, Miss Sansa,” Dontos smiles somewhat sadly. “Not as much as he enjoys the company of yourself.”
Sansa couldn’t help the wave of bitter feeling seeping through her. If only he knew.
“And the other lady of course,” Dontos continued. “I think he finds her most wonderful. I can’t say I share the sentiment. I think you are a hundred times more lovely.”
Sansa smiled, leaning over to kiss the man’s cheek.
“That is very sweet of you to say so.”
The man’s face turned beet red and he spluttered once again, this time with unfettered bewilderment.
“As you say Dontos, some force brought you to Mister Baelish’s home. I am sure you have some undetermined purpose here, and when you find it it will more than make up for your past indiscretions, you must merely stop feeling sorry for yourself, and trust that when the time comes you’ll be ready.”
Dontos smiled, this time without the weight of sadness at the corners of his eyes and mouth. A true smile. He nodded his head in silent thanks, bereft of words.
“Sansa!” Brandon’s voice cut across the walls of the maze, unmistakably.
Sansa froze, her ears pricking, trying to gauge the direction and the proximity of her “father”.
“Dontos, wait here,” Sansa whispered to him. “I’ll be back in a moment. If my father comes this way distract him as best you can. Please?”
Dontos looked warily in the direction of Brandon’s voice, now calling for his wife.
“What shall I say?”
“Anything, just keep him from passing this point. Pretend to be drunk and sick, in need of assistance, tell him a story, anything to keep him occupied. Will you do this for me?”
Dontos’ lower lip quivered, but looking into her eyes, seemed to see the reflection of someone else in her eyes, a man he wanted to become. Summoning whatever courage he had, he tampered down his doubt and gave her a sure nod. Sansa smiled in thanks. She turned to look at the gate separating her property from Petyr’s where he and Cat still lay beyond. She and Dontos hadn’t managed to stray too far during their little stroll.
“Sansa!” She heard Brandon call again.
She ran as fast and as quietly as she could across her lawn to the tree just on the borderline of her garden into the weir wood. She found Petyr and Cat just a few metres beyond it, holding hands.
Petyr looked up when he saw Sansa running towards them.
“Sweetling?”
“Brandon...he’s...looking for us,” she managed to say through large heaving breaths. “You need to get back to the party.”
Petyr turned his face to Cat, a look of some sort of understanding drifting between them. One hand lifting to gently cup her face, a comforting gesture; a familiar one.
He turned back to Sansa.
“Yes, of course,” he walked forwards, his other hand still linked with Cats. He reached Sansa and grabbed her hand as well with his free one, tucking it into his elbow, now with both women on either side.
“Walk calmly, casually. Just three people out for a stroll. Showing Cat and her beautiful daughter the extent of my property. Admiring the night sky from the dock.”
He calmly walked forward with both ladies falling in step beside him.
“I will disperse. Make myself scarce for awhile to avoid his suspicion.”
Cat laughed. “Ooh, Petyr it’s all so exciting.”
Sansa noticed the way she clung to him, the way she almost seemed to lean heavily on his arm as they continued to walk back across Sansa’s lawn and through the gate into the maze once more. It was like she was drunk on his kisses, intoxicated by the nearness of him, high off the girlish fantasy of forbidden love. And he - Petyr still kept the mask of Littlefinger securely over his face, but she could see in the subtle lines of his eyes and corners of him mouth that on the inside he was soaring. It was beautiful, it was heartbreaking.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar slurred stammering of the dear sweet Dontos, helplessly trying to divert Brandon’s attentions.
“Cat!” he frantically barged past the man, nearly knocking him into the hedge. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
Cat smiled, immediately drifting off Petyr’s arm over to Brandon’s. “We needed some air, Sansa and I, that ballroom was so stuffy, and it’s finally cooled down to a bearable temperature.”
The lie simply floated out of her mouth, weightless and feathery, caressing the dark suspicious countenance casted over Brandon’s face. His sharp eyes shot to Sansa, still with her arm entwined with Petyr’s.
“Sansa’s garden is truly a magnificent sight in the moonlight, she was just showing us her roses in bloom,” Petyr’s mask was firmly in place as well, the glint in his eyes like flint near kindling.
“I was looking for you,” Brandon said rather dumbly, though his eyes betrayed the lingering doubts. If he looked at her she was sure he could see the whole truth played out in her face. God, why did she let Petyr drag her into this?
“Well you’ve found us!” Cat laughed airily, leaning her head on Brandon’s shoulder. “We didn’t mean to abandon you, I assure you,” she kissed his cheek, nuzzling her nose into his stubbly neck. “It was only a little stroll.”
Her attentions seemed to ease him, if only slightly, though Sansa couldn’t help but feel a heavy sense of wariness. This was all a bit too easy.
Brandon finally smiled, an uneasy type of grin that made Sansa’s stomach wince.
Brandon took his wife’s hand in his. “You must be famished, darling?”
Cat laughed, “Parched and famished! Positively ravenous. Would you fetch me a drink, my dear?”
Petyr gently removed Sansa’s hand from his elbow, the movement oddly tight and tense.
“I believe I must play the bad host, I have some business to attend to-“
Brandon suddenly clapped Petyr on the shoulder, an unwarranted gesture if Sansa had ever seen one.
“Not just yet, old friend, you must play host just a tad longer,” Brandon’s smile was downright twisted.
What was he playing at?
“I should very much like for you to meet the guests I have invited, it will only take a moment,” he turned his gaze directly to Petyr, his eyes glinting in their own mischievous way. “They would all very much like to meet you. They should be just arriving. You don’t mind do you?”
Petyr cocked his head and lifted is hand in a small concession. Damn him and his ego. “Lead the way.”
Brandon began tugging Cat back towards the house, his hand never leaving hers or the small of her back.
Petyr looked over to Sansa, the unease in his eyes no doubt mirrored in her own.
With a slight shake of his shoulders, he lifted his hand in a gesture for her to walk first and he would follow. Modern chivalry, Sansa thought.
“Is your Golden Falcon joining us?” he asked, hand lightly resting on the small of her back.
“Harry is racing up in High Garden for the Grande Prix qualifiers. He won’t be back till tomorrow evening. If he wins he’ll be the young driver to win it twice in a row.”
“I see,” Petyr continued walking beside her, his gaze up and forward, guiding her with his hand to keep in step. “You like young Harry, I suppose.”
“I do,” Sansa said non-commitally.
“He seems to be a good fellow. Strong, intelligent, witty.”
“He is all those things.”
“But I suspect there is more to him than meets the eye,” Petyr tugged on her elbow as a drunken party guest nearly barrelled into her. Just barely avoiding the collision, his hand on her back gently pushed her steadily into pace.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mister Baelish,” she was not suddenly not enjoying the tone of this conversation at all.
Petyr stopped again, finally turning his face to look at her.
“All I mean is that...” he hesitated, a word held on the tip of his tongue and clamped down hard upon by lips and teeth. “All clever men are birds of prey.”
Sansa blinked, her head tilting in confusion. What was he saying?
“You know I deal in secrets Sansa, everyone one at this part has one, and I know them all. It is the price of admission,” he hesitates as she squares her shoulders to him, confusion furrowing her brows even further. He sighs. “Ask your falcon exactly how he won that great race.”
With that Petyr brushed past her, his shoulder grazing by hers as he passed through the arches of his grand ballroom.
This was all beginning to feel like an egregious mistake. She wished she had never come here; that she never had left the warm summery air of High Garden; never made the trip down to the smallest of the Fingers; never looked upon that tiny cottage nestled between a dream and an enigma. She wished she’d never met him. Wished she had never seen him on that dock, nor accepted his invitation to his party, never allowed him entrance in to her world. If she had she would not be where she was now, her entire life uprooted and chained to a man made of smoke and sad smiles.
All she had wanted was to touch the enigma next door and now she was irreparably infected.
This had to stop, this all had to stop - she had to stop.
Her intention was to leave, to kiss her mother goodbye, get in her dodge and drive. As far away as she could go. Away from Petyr, from Harry, from Cat, from Brandon. So determined was her resolve she did not immediately notice the change in the air the moment she stepped into the ballroom. Something was off, as if the dancing was just a hair off beat, the music a fraction out of time. That peculiar looming haze coming over her, hitting her like a solid knee to the solar plexus.
She saw Petyr refilling his drink at the bar, two whiskies in hand. The ease at which he turned to face her, his face lifting. It momentarily stopped time. One hand lifted to her with the proffered whiskey.
It was almost enough to make her forget it all. Almost.
Cat seemed oblivious to everything, sipping on her cocktail beside him, laughing at the joke the lady next to her must have uttered. Brandon had disappeared.
She approached Petyr, taking the glass of whiskey as he lit a cigarette.
“A truce,” he smiled. “You must forgive me, I am but a fool.”
Sansa couldn’t help the smile, allowing the moment though not completely at ease with the growing discomfort the room presented.
“Where’s Brandon?” she asked.
“I don’t know, he deposited us here as soon as I arrived. I think he’s off to greet his guests. I wonder if he’s trying to get me to invest in a polo team.”
He laughed, a cheeky glint in his eyes. She laughed too, despite herself.
“I have a feeling...” the words died in her mouth as Brandon came into view. Animatedly chatting to a man in a worn grey suit, a familiar man...all too familiar. “Is that...” Uncle Jon. Oh no. Sansa looked to Petyr whose back was to the whole affair playing out behind him, his gaze solely fixed on her.
“Petyr!” Her voice rang clear over the din. Sansa saw it instantly. The ease that was so natural to the man she’d come to know seeped out of him like an emptying drain. The recognition in his eyes forcing the warmth in his smile to harden. “Oh Petyr!”
His eyes drifted to Sansa, the green grey depths betraying a side to her enigma that she had never seen, though could not put a name to.
Cat too, also ceased in her mirth to look over at the new intruder in her little dream world.
She stood there, her fading dull red hair strung up into a high style; the long drape of the gold and green empire-waisted gown glinting off the chandelier. She looked like a faded photograph of a silent film star, glamorous yet out of place somehow.
“Lysa,” Petyr rasped, his throat gone suddenly dry.
“Lysa!” Cat moved first, outstretching her arms towards her sister. “How lovely you look!”
Lysa gave her air kisses over each cheek, embracing her much like a sister would, if not for the way her hand curled slightly over her arms, and the sharp flint in her eyes.
“I’m sorry we’re so late, Robin had a fit just before we were set to leave. Poor thing.”
“The boy’s fine,” muttered Jon.
“You can say that when he collapses from apoplexy!” Lysa hissed, barely shifting her gaze to acknowledge her husband. “I hope you were not worried.”
“Not at all. I didn’t even know you were coming!” Cat took a generous sip of her cocktail.
“Did Brandon not tell you?” Lysa looked back to the man, grinning smugly to himself. Cat’s gaze hardened over the rim of her glass.
“He neglected to mention it.”
“A surprise, my love! A reunion of sorts. Petyr, you must surely remember Lysa?” Brandon shot a challenging glance over to Petyr.
A new mask in place, Petyr whirled around, a smile plastered on his face.
“Of course,” he placed his untouched whiskey on the bar and strode over. Lysa reached out a hand for him to clasp, and he did, placing a quick kiss to the top of it. Lysa beamed at him, the smile on her face quickly melting off the years and lines of bitterness and regret that had weighed her down for so long. She was reborn a new girl.
“And of course Sansa,” Brandon continued. “Come and greet your aunt.”
Sansa would not make the same mistake as Petyr. She gulped down her whiskey in three long swallows.
“My dear!” Lysa’s false tenderness made Sansa’s heart sink into her gut.
“Aunt Lysa.”
Those claw like hand dig into her arms, reminding Sansa of her last encounter with the woman. The ya she a hurled such vicious insults towards her. Seems not all was forgiven. The kiss planted on her cheek was almost cold and a bit too harsh, and goosebumps crawled up Sansa’s arms to her spine, emanating from where Alysa gripped her rather roughly.
“Are these guests you had alluded to so cleverly, my sweet,” Cat strode over to Brandon; airily, unaffected.
“Almost, my darling,” he replied, nonchalant as ever. “I have a surprise for our dear Sansa.”
Sansa looked up at him, her heart sinking ever lower.
“F-for me?” Lysa finally released her grip on Sansa’s arm and eased away, drifting as close as she could towards Petyr.
Petyr kept looking between Sansa and Brandon, his curious nature causing him to be naturally wary of all of Brandon’s “surprises”.
A squeal shattered the mounting tent soon like a brick through glass.
“Where is my GIRRRLL!!!”
Relief washed over Sansa, head to toe, a veritable waterfall.
“Margaery!” Sansa cried, spinning to see her friend.
“Did you miss me?” she cried excitedly, throwing her hand up in welcome invitation. “Because I missed you!”
“Margaery!” Sansa cried, practically running to throw herself in her friends arms.
“All summer, I don’t get a word, not even an invitation to tea. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You were so busy, what with the wedding and all...”
“You don’t think I wouldn’t have made time for you. Is that what you think of me?” Margaery squeezed Sansa so hard her lungs nearly popped. “I have to get an invite from your father at the end of the season. I’m hurt!”
“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Sansa squeezed her back.
“You better be sorry,” Margaery released her. “God you look gorgeous. How’d you ever afford a gown like that, hmm?”
“Oh, uh, it’s a loan.”
Sansa’s eyes drifted once more to Petyr.
“Well what are you waiting for?” Margaery smacked her across the arm. “Quick, get me a drink before Joff finishes up with the coats.”
The momentary joy Sansa had felt at Margaery’s presence quickly evaporated at the mention of that sacred name. Sansa’s blood ran instantly cold.
“Joffrey? He’s here?” she blinked, almost in disbelief.
“Of course I am.”
Sansa froze. That voice. Without looking at his face she could see it even in her minds eyes, his toothy mouth twisted up into a smug little smile. The entitlement in those dark blue beady little eyes.
In her excitement at seeing her old friend after so long apart had almost made her forget the reason for the separation.
Sansa slowly turned to see him, standing there as though he’d corporealized out of nothing. An unwanted genie from a black bitter little bottle Sansa had hoped would stay undisturbed.
“Ello girlie.”