Chapter Text
How quickly life settles into normalcy.
How quickly people, these good, honest hard working folk, want to forget the troubles of their masters. They do not wish for war, or the death and famine that comes on its heels when lords and kings come to blows. A common man, with his common wife and common children, cares only for a good harvest and a bountiful month of labour to keep him and his own in food and cloth. A common man knows nothing of the great game. The same way a fly knows nothing of the life of the corpse it feeds from.
But without the corpse there would be no fly.
~~~
The walls of Winterfell were steadfast once again, adorned with Stark banners on every conceivable surface, the wolves claiming back what was once theirs with pack-like fervour. Grey was such a drab colour, he thought, but befitting the Lord of this ancient pile of stones. The White Wolf himself seemed busy at work, making plans, plotting plots and brooding in dark corners with his monstrous pet. A living, growling sigil of this House forever by his side.
Lord Snow they called him. The King in the North.
Petyr had always admired a self-made man. And this one, this bastard Snow from Eddard Stark's most honourable loins, had made himself not only their fearless Northern warrior, but a legend among the living. If there were such thing as a minstrel at Winterfell – gods forbid anything as cheerful as music were heard within these walls – he would sing his songs day and night of the great and mythical Jon Snow: the tamer of savages, the only man to ever leave the Night's Watch with a head on his shoulders, a man fearless in battle against insurmountable odds and if some were to be believed (although he maintained his right to a healthy dose of Southern scepticism) a man risen from the dead.
So perhaps not even a man? Surely there must be precedent in the Seven Kingdoms, some side note on a by-law declared by a half-mad, half-blind Maester that ruled no dead man could ascend to a throne of power. But the great libraries of Old Town that held such things were far from his grasp, even before the debilitating blizzards had settled over the North like a blinding, white shroud.
Winter had come.
Even if those words of this dour, grey house were not emblazoned on every dour, grey surface, one only had to look outside to know that they were true. The snows were thick and fast, and guards worked day and night to keep the courtyard clear, to ferry in heaps of supplies from the Northern liege lords, all back and warm within the fold. Lest they get buried in their wintry tomb.
And so it had come to pass, he was trapped in this house of wolves and wildlings until a break in the storms granted him passage back to the relative comfort of the Vale. It could be weeks or months or years. He did not mind, as long as it granted him the time he needed to move all of his pieces into place.
~~~
She did not trust him. Not anymore.
He had never been sure that any trust lay between them, not until he had already broken it into the shards of the woman that was now Sansa Stark. So what could he do with her now?
There were times, after he had rescued a shivering girl from the lion's claws and before she witnessed him sending her Aunt Lysa through the moon door, perhaps then she trusted him with the foolishness of a young maid. Then after, she trusted him with the bond of two who share a mutual goal, and her fiery need for revenge only fueled her dependence on him and his skills in manipulation. He coveted her. Sometimes he would fool himself; that those long looks, though tentative, young and unsure, were those of attraction. He would revel in her curiosity. He could have had her then without too much persuasion, he was quite sure.
But the moment he had promised her the North and delivered her into the hands of the Bolton bastard, he lost her trust as she lost the last ragged tatters of her innocence, and she began to see people as only tools in her quest for vengeance, another weapon in her armoury. He had watched her learn to play with that weapon like a Father wary of his heir with his first sharp blade. The young must learn, and to learn they must feel the weight of real steel to build their strength and flex their skills. But it is nerve-wracking nonetheless, as there is every chance that hubris and inexperience will lead to mistakes or to tragedy.
His own tragedy in his own youthful hubris, was now a literal scar that healed jagged and twisted over his heart. It pained him to this day, especially in the cold, but drew the line between the boy he was before and the man he became. That near mortal wound, won from his last attempt to follow the rules of court and congress, reminded him every day that his weapon could not be one that he wore at his hip. His armour had to be stronger than any steel, his army had to be his wits and his title must be a sigil of his own choosing.
He had learned. And so too would Sansa. But like a playful child with a weapon too large to balance and a helm slipping over her eyes, she was too eager to leap into this dangerous world. She thought herself cold but in truth there was still much of the girl who still wished for love. For her own happiness and a gallant saviour. It would be her greatest weakness.
His confession in the Godswood had not drawn that girl out quite as he had hoped, but still gave a glimmer of hope that she could be bended, just enough. It would take more tact. Her pleading missive to march the Knights of the Vale had sounded like forgiveness, and he delivered this gift with a promise that he would be rewarded in kind. A lure - her baited hook - and he had bitten, thinking he would have all he wanted in one reckless move.
He had let his vast imagination run away and neglected to secure what he wanted in return. To think it would be that easy to get her to forgive his betrayals and fall, pliant as river clay, into his arms. Foolish. No, it would not be that easy. But if there was one thing he relished, it was a challenge.
Because of course the most interesting part - of his game and his world and all these pieces that sat, laid out on this tapestry - is that rarely, so very rarely did things go to plan. No one can predict the future, no one can have complete control. Many people before him had tried, thinking power was a tangible thing that could be grasped with force and kept with fear. If only one could hold on long enough, with enough might and strength, the rest would fall into place. It was the way of Tywin Lannister, the way of the Baratheons, and it was a way doomed to failure.
No matter what, no matter how well crafted, well plotted or well enforced, plans would go astray. To succeed was to embrace the chaotic nature of man. The whims of this world.
Do not push a man, know how to move him.
In his embrace of this concept he very rarely made mistakes. But he was not infallible. To be infallible would take away all the fun of never knowing; desiccate the thrill of his victories. Often he would need to think quickly, move his pieces in an instant, sow seeds sooner or tend his plots later but most times these would come back around too. Often there would be times when those interwoven threads, the intricate plans and gentle lies, seemed to settle in a perfect pattern, as if guided by a hand of fate. Some more pious than he would say by the gods themselves, but he hated to give the gods credit for anything.
Lysa's death was arguably a very large miscalculation, as he had not intended her to die quite so soon or at his own hands. 'Keep your hands clean': let there be enough steps between him and the crime for those who sought his guilt to get lost following the trail. However, this had turned unexpectedly on its heel when Sansa had revealed herself and in turn cleared his name in front of the Lords of the Vale. A large problem solved with little maneuvering. And the beginning of a woman he wanted to create in his own image.
Not knowing about Ramsay Bolton, however...
For that, she had been right: he was an idiot, a true fool underestimating a depraved man. And maybe the biggest mistake he had ever made if it meant losing the trust of Sansa Stark forever.
~~~
He dreamt of hair like fire, glistening in the sunlight. Pale skin and eyes so deeply blue that the rivers and seas themselves were envious. She ran down to the bank with her hands in her skirts and he followed like a loyal pup.
She ran too fast, disappearing around a bend in the track, the thick green leaves hiding her beauty from view.
Catelyn .
He tried to cry but the words refused to leave his throat. He tried to run faster but his legs were leaden.
The sky turned grey and the gods roared in thunderous rage, as icy sheets of rain fell from the heavens. The woods grew thick and before he knew it he had lost the safety of the path. Shadows moved between the trees. He could hear them breathing.
Catelyn.
His scream this time, if it had surfaced at all, was drowned out by a clap of thunder.
The shadows moved closer, surrounding him on all sides. He reached for the dagger at his belt but as he pulled it out the fine gilded handle crumbled through his fingertips.
A figure moved from the darkness, striding towards him with a broadsword soaked with blood. The freezing rain turned to snow, piling up around him in drifts to his waist. The knight advanced, growing larger with every step, until he was impossibly tall and towering over his head. Somewhere, on the wind in the distance he could hear a woman's screams of agony, pleading with her captor.
The giant raised his great sword, bringing it down to slice through his chest, a perfect line of red from his collarbone to his navel. For a moment there was no pain and Petyr glanced down to see his heart beating, beating a bloody river out of his chest. The pain came then, and he fell backwards into the snow, darkening the pure white ground in a growing red pool.
The knight threw his sword down and moved over him, and Petyr could hear a low, mocking laughter reverberate inside the silver helm. The visor moved up and he met the shining eyes of Ramsay Bolton. As he bled out on the frozen ground, he could still hear her wrenching cries...
“No...no! Please...”
Sansa .
He woke, with her name on his lips.