Chapter Text
SANSA
The world is never as you expect . It was an old saying her mother used to tell her frequently, almost as much as her father kept reminding her that winter was coming. But just like she would only understand her house words when the summer came to an end, the true meaning of her mother's proverb would only become clear when the world revealed itself to her: black and white, with all its shades and colors. Because, right now, she could recit her mother's words with the exact same cadence and kindness, and still wouldn't change the fact that when she pictured her future, the image that presented itself before her eyes was mere copies of her favorite fairy tales.
A knight in shining armor — young, dashing with golden hair. Noble, honorable, kind; a great fighter. Just like King Arthur and his knights of the round table. Her Florian. That's what she dreamt about: to live what the songs promised her. But life was not a song, and she would soon learn that harsh truth about the world. Because she would fall head over heels, and after him, her life would never be the same again. But the boy who would sweep her off her feet wouldn't be anything like she had imagined — he wouldn't even be a boy, to begin with. He would be shady, cunning, dark; and the one time he tried to duel he nearly died. But he would be clever too, and funny, and he would protect her fiercely. He would be the one to show her that life, in all its devastating beauty and collateral misfortunes, has the ineffable ability to surprise you. And, sometimes, surprises could be wonderful.
Petyr was.
...
"Arya!" Sansa exclaimed as she caught her young sister with an ear against the oak and iron door of the Great Hall. "What have I told you about listening at doors? It's rude ."
Arya pierced her with squinting eyes. "Keep your voice down, I want to learn more about Lord Baelish."
"Who's Lord Baelish?" Sansa found herself asking against her better judgment, because she might scold Arya for all it is worth, but deep down she was just as curious.
"Father received a raven from the capital," the girl explained, whispering. "Apparently he's the Master of Coin and an old friend of our mother. Oh, and he is to arrive shortly in two weeks."
Sansa tried to resist, she really did, but before Arya could have asked for silence one more time, she was leaning in to eavesdrop as well. Arya had to suppress a laugh, because while they might not agree on most things and have very different hobbies and interests, when it came down to gossip they were willing to be the best friends her mother had always dreamed.
That was, when they weren't arguing about that as well.
As it seemed, Lord Baelish also went by the nickname of Littlefinger — and yes, Arya did laugh when she heard her father saying it out loud. He came from a noble house from the Vale, located on a small land called the Fingers. And he was coming to collect taxes for the crown.
However, what surprised the girls was the clear displeasure in their father's voice whenever Robb asked questions about him. They had never heard Ned talk about anyone like that before, which only made them even more curious.
Unfortunately, the reason behind Ned's feelings towards the gentlemen weren't clarified by the conversation, because as soon as Catelyn saw two shadows creeping behind the door, she silently asked Robb to open it — and they almost tumbled to the ground when he did.
Robb had his arms crossed, but they both saw he was holding back a laugh. Jon, on the other hand, wasn't even trying to hide how amusing the whole situation seemed to be.
"I expected this behavior from Arya, but you …" Her mother stared at her with disapproval. Sansa blushed, instantly. This is what you get for letting Arya get inside your head , she reminded herself, voting to never give in to such temptations again, even if she knew her vows would break with the arrival of the next gossip.
"I'm sorry," she said; ocean-blue eyes looking away from her mother's gaze.
Arya was bolder, as usual.
"Well, none of you will tell us about Lord Baelish," she complained. "He's going to be our guest for the next few months, we have the right to know."
Ned narrowed his eyes at his little wolf. "Yes; and yet it seems like you have already learned a great deal about your mother's friend." The girl looked down at her feet. Ned smiled — that fatherly smile that was reserved only for his children — then patted her head. "Since you are both here, take your seats at the table. I was just about to ask the servants to bring our breakfast."
"And we will answer all your questions about Petyr," Catelyn added, as Ned sighed heavily.
Arya let her father guided her to her place at one of the cold stone seats. And once Ned had settled at the head of the trestle table, she inquired, "Is that why you don't like him, father? Because he's a friend of our mother?"
"Nonsense," Ned answered, shielding his already stoic expression in a way that only highlighted the feelings he was trying to mask. "I have nothing against Lord Baelish."
By the end of breakfast, the eavesdropping proved to be a lot more revealing since their mother didn't really answer any of Arya's questions. Sansa was still embarrassed about getting caught, therefore she stayed silent during the whole meal. Which, of course, didn't mean she wasn't paying close attention to the way her father reacted every time her mother called Lord Baelish by his Christian name, fondly referring to him as an "old friend."
He's jealous , Sansa concluded, as that seemed to be the only logical explanation. Although, surely, the causes of such emotions could only be speculated.
Eventually, the topic of their new guest died off, much to her father's relief— quickly, as the opportunity presented itself, he engaged in a conversation with Robb about the improvements that needed to be made at the Great Keep cellars and the closest bridge.
At this point, only Arya and Bran were interested, Sansa had simply tuned out their voices to focus on the songs she kept humming to herself while daydreaming about her knights in shining armor.
...
Once her sewing lesson was finished, Sansa decided to take an aimless stroll around the castle. She loved to hand-sew clothes and create embroidery patches, but after siting so long in one atitude, it was refreshing to walk a little.
Lady was following her closely, ever so elegant, even when her natural instincts made her stop to sniff every now and then. Sansa didn't mind, it was nice to explore. It reminded her of her childhood, when Lady was just a whelp and she was missing a tooth.
It was curious how the direwolves seemed to reassemble their owner's personality.
Grey Wind was arguably the most disciplined of them all and seemed to have a natural talent for sensing friends from foes; he was a leader, just like Robb. Ghost was as quiet and as observant as Jon, being also the one who preferred to be on his own, even when all the siblings were reunited. Nymeria was exuberant, playful, and fiercely defensive of Arya; which, more than often, proved to be a challenge to Ned and Catelyn who couldn't discipline their daughter without receiving a huff from the direwolf. Summer was by far the most energized: the perfect companion for a boy like Bran, who liked adventures as much as he did; although his childish behavior didn't make him any less fierce than the others. Shaggydog, like Rickon, was still shaping his traits, even if his wild nature had already become quite clear. And her dear Lady was the gentlest and most trusting one, as well as the smallest, ever since she was a puppy. She was the split image of Sansa: beautiful and delicate, but raging powerful when she needed to be. And Sansa loved her, with all her heart.
Once Sansa reached the backyard of the castle, she sat alongside Lady to watch Arya and Bran shoot arrows in a lighthearted contest — a contest in which her brother was clearly losing. Her hands went to her direwolf's furrs and she patted her lovingly, while her mind drifted back to the events of that afternoon.
She was stitching a new embroidery when the strangest image was shaped before her eyes: a mockingbird. It hadn't even occurred to her what she had been needling, most days she didn't think too much about it to be honest, it always ended up being flowers, from all shapes and sizes. But not that afternoon. No, that afternoon, for some reason she couldn't quite put her finger on, Sansa had stitched a mockingbird.
Septa Mordane simply read it as a fresh change, but her heart knew better. Because not only Sansa had worked on that mockingbird, out of nowhere, she had also taken it with her and kept it on her drawers, above her favorite summer gows; and she had treasured it, without even knowing why that embroidery spoke so intimately with her. She just knew that it did, that it meant something . And that was more than enough for a girl who still believed in fairy tales. So she traced the green-blue pattern with her fingertips, touching it softly, and sighed to herself, wondering what the gods had reserved for her.
The cheers coming from her siblings made Sansa look up. Jon was twirling around with Bran in his arms while Arya and Robb celebrated his first point. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father smiling; and even her mother didn't seem to mind, for that one moment, that her baby boy was in the arms of Ned's bastard.
Sansa exchanged a look with Rickon, who had just joined her with Shaggydog, and smiled at him. She extended a hand and ruffled his dark-haired curls. "Do you want to shoot an arrow as well?"
Rickon shook his head, and her smile widened.
"Ok, well … I'm going to see if there's lemon cake in the kitchen. Do you want to come with me, then?" He nodded eagerly, and she stood up, taking his hand and guiding him inside, followed by their direwolves.
She helped Rickon sit at the large dining table and served him with two slices of lemon cake and got one to herself. As he ate, the cream above his upper lip acquired the funny shape of a mustache; and no matter how many times she wiped clean with her thumb, it kept coming back to color his face. At the end, she decided it didn't matter and let her little brother behave like the child he was.
"It's good, isn't it?"
He agreed, licking the cream out of his small fingers. "Lemony lemony lemon cake."
She smiled, touching the tip of his nose playfully. "Yes, Rickon," she said. "Lemony lemony lemon cake."
Lady and Shaggydog wanted their share of cake as well, and while she tried to play the responsible child, once Rickon had thrown a treat to his direwolf she felt compelled to throw one to hers as well. It wasn't like she could ignore it, was it? They might not be dogs, but they were absolutely cherished as ones.
"Oh, there you are," said the gentle voice of Catelyn Stark as she smiled at her children. She was wearing a dark-blue summer gown that outlighted her blue eyes: they were the same colors as Sansa's, only darker.
She sat next to them, whipping the cream off Rickon's chin. Sansa laughed. "Yeah, I tried that at least five times."
Catelyn smiled back.
"He eats just like Arya when she was little," she said, getting lost in all the memories her mind seemed to be evoking. "Bran tried, at least. And you and Robb were always so well-behaved. But Arya…" She shook her head with a laugh. "Oh, she made a mess every time."
Sansa pondered. "She still does, does she not?"
"Yeah, I supposed she does," Catelyn agreed. She took Sansa's place, helping Rickon with the rest of his dessert as she observed her daughter's calming exterior. Sansa was a true lady, the perfect one. It saddened her to think that soon she ought to be married, given she had already turned sixteen. "I've been meaning to ask… How would you feel about having classes on politics, literature and religion?"
Sansa got herself one last slice of lemon cake. "I would love to get a chance to understand more about the history of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as to learn what's behind the stories of my favorite chivalric romances."
"You know you don't have to give me the expected answer if that's not what you want to, don't you?" Catelyn made sure to tell her.
Sansa nodded.
"Yes, mother. But I do enjoy reading about knights, so it would be no sacrifice." She paused, looking at Catelyn through her eyelashes. "Although I cannot say the same about history. It might be important, and I do value such knowledge, but the truth is that I couldn't find it any more boring."
Catelyn laughed. There , she thought, the honesty I'm sure she's getting it from spending too much time with Arya .
"I dare say you won't find it so boring. Petyr has a way of talking that always kept me listening, no matter how boring the subject might be. He's a natural storyteller."
Sansa frowned. "I thought he was just coming to collect taxes."
"Yes, but he's also one of the most intelligent men I've ever met. He's very educated and has been living in the capital for quite some time, so he's far more informed than any other tutor I could've found," she explained, sliding Rickon's empty plate to the side and adjusting him so he could rest his head on her shoulder. "I'm sure he will agree to it, if that's what you girls want."
Sansa smiled at her youngest brother, he was already drifting off to sleep. "Yes, I would like that. Although I'm not sure father will like the idea…" And because she wasn't Arya, she thought twice before adding, shyly, "He doesn't seem to be very fond of him."
Catelyn sensed what her daughter was trying to ask.
"Petyr was in love with me when we were younger, just about your age actually," she told her with a fond smile. "But I've only seen him as a brother. So no matter what your father's opinion might be, he won't be against his daughters' education just because Petyr and I have a past."
"Will it just be me and Arya? Because I know Bran would've loved to read chivalric romances as well."
Catelyn smiled, knowing she was right. Bran slept so much better after listening to Old Nan's horror tales. That was the difference between Sansa and Bran: while she liked to read such romances to admire the knights' beauty and nobility, her brother liked them because of the bloody fights, the darker the better. Arya was a lot like Bran in that respect, although she would much rather be practicing with Needle instead of reading about fictional duels.
"If I'm able to convince your father that Bran is old enough to learn such matters, he will be most welcomed to join the two of you," she said. And Sansa knew it was a mere formality. If Bran was old enough to follow her father when he beheaded deserters, reading books and studying history wouldn't be a problem at all.
Catelyn looked down at Rickon who was now snoring softly. "I will take this one to bed," she said, placing her youngest in her arms, and then mointoned to the empty plates. "Will you take care of those?"
"Yes, mother. And I'm genuinely looking forward to Lord Baelish's classes," she said, wondering if she might have to call him master.
...
All the servants were running around Winterfell's castle in a rush. Lord Petyr Baelish was going to arrive at any moment, and as a guest who was not only an old friend of Lady Stark but also represented the King, everything needed to be perfect to his welcoming. That means no running , Catelyn had said to Arya, who obviously didn't listen and had just passed through them in a flash, with Nymeria following her. And no climbing , she had added to Bran, but she might as well have instructed him to wait at the top of the castle. Poor Robb, who had been left with the mission of reuniting his younger siblings, was screaming at the top of his lungs as he tried to convince Bran to climb out of the walls, now .
Sansa and Rickon were the only ones they didn't have to worry about — the first one because, as a lady, she knew her duties; and the last one because he had been too sleepy to run around with Shaggydog like her sister was doing with her direwolf.
So while the eldest Stark tried to help their parents to set everything (and every child) in its right place, Sansa was holding her little brother's hand and telling him jokes in an attempt to keep him awake.
She felt her auburn locks gently touch her cheeks as the wind kissed her face; and she inhaled the scent of the winter that lingered in the air. It was still summer, but the days had gotten colder ever since Arya and Bran's last contest at the backyard of the castle; and that day in particular was colder than usual.
All of sudden, Sansa began to sing-song to herself, without even realizing that her voice was working as a lullaby to Rickon. But it wasn't to Rickon she was singing, not really. Like the day she made that embroidery, the verses just came out of nowhere and found their way out of her mouth, floating in the cold air and reaching her heart.
Burning in a firm born heart!
Crying for beautiful shed eyes!
Fire in seas of water in disguise!
River of snow in converted fire!
You, who secretly burns in your chest,
You, who in your fury burns hidden,
Like fire, in imprisoned crystals.
Like crystals, in melted flames.
It was scandalous, to say the least; a tale about a forbidden love that ran untied in a lady's heart. But it was beautiful. Although, truth to be told, she had no idea where that came from, she barely recognized the verses. And yet she couldn't stop herself from reciting them, sweetening the words on her tongue, as if her half-whispered voice had the power to transform them into a valuable nectar, only because she was the one saying it.
It didn't make any sense.
And still, she kept signing.
Until she heard the horses, pulling a black carriage as its wheels traced a consistent path of parallel lines on the mud. Her mother was adjusting the children: Robb had just arrived with Bran and Arya, who weren't at all ready for the presentation since his clothes were smudgy and she was wearing a silver helmet she had taken from God's know where. Jon was there too, as Ned had insisted that given the fact Lord Baelish was an old friend he wouldn't have found his presence insulting, as Catelyn usually claimed to be the case.
But Sansa's eyes were focused on the carriage and on the carriage alone, as if the whole world had turned gold all of the sudden, as if she was watching the Knight of Flowers riding on a tourney. It was a silly anticipation, she knew so. You're waiting for your future tutor, not Ser Loras . Which was proven to be correct as the coachman went to open the doors.
Lord Petyr Baelish was a short man of slender build. He had sharp features, a small pointer bear on his chin, and dark hair with threads of grey running through it. As he smiled at Catelyn, taking her hands in his and kissing her knuckles, Sansa noticed his laughing grey-green eyes that reminded her of a cats'.
He was nothing like the knights of her songs, but he had been the one who took her breath away with just one look, as he bowed to kiss her hand above her dark gloves. Ocean blue eyes meeting his grey green ones. Sansa held her breath, hiding her fingers to the side of her body as he moved towards Arya, and flexing them in a cautious motion. Her skin was tingling, and she couldn't take her eyes off him.
Then, she saw it. The silver mockingbird that fastened his heavy cloak.