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I should have been told sooner. Sansa mulled about this while heading to check on her father. She had been dealing with Robert and his pouting and sulking for the last hour when he finally fell asleep and she could escape to her chambers. It was not an easy task to take care of Sweetrobin, even the minimum disagreement could send him into a fit of anger and he would constantly wake up in the middle of the night saying he could still hear Marillion sing. Sansa had to smile and coax him back to sleep even when she had found herself awakened by that same nightmare a few times. But she was a woman now and he was still a child after all, afraid and alone so Sansa did her best to be gentle.
However she didn't make it to her chambers because the news of Petyr’s sudden illness had reached her first. Maybe nobody had wanted to disturb her when she was taking care of Lord Robert just in case.
She hadn’t seen Lord Baelish since they broke their fast together. Robert had complained once again about how bland the porridge was and almost threw it at the floor but Alayne had convinced him that he would become a strong Lord that could protect her if he ate it all, so he begrudgingly did. Petyr had more important matters so he ate quickly and asked Alayne for a kiss. She gave him a quick peck upon the cheek but before she could step away he had held her by the waist, insisting in a longer kiss on the mouth. He kept his hand on Alayne’s back, not digging his finger into it but not quite soft either. Alayne doesn't try to pull away nor move her lips. Her father peels his lips off of her and she takes her leave, just like most breakfasts since Lysa died.
It wasn’t really that she didn’t like her father, she just couldn’t understand how he could look at her like he really wanted her and still call her daughter. It was like a puzzle for her. What was she to Lord Baelish? She couldn’t seem to find an answer in his eyes nor in his actions.
She shook her head and focused on what she had been told about his sudden illness. Maester Colemon had said it was nothing more than a fever, once it broke it would be troublesome but nothing his medicine couldn’t take care of. The Lord Protector would quickly go back to his matters concerning the Vale and the Eyrie.
She'd taken a little detour to the kitchen and was carrying a pitcher and a clean cloth. Alayne was a dutiful daughter . Sansa was a dutiful daughter. It was the only right thing to do. If she had to put on the mask of her bastard daughter and act like a good daughter she would, if that meant a safe place for her.
It was a tricky task opening the door, but she did it with care, not dropping the pitcher. She walked quietly into the room, placing both things at Petyr's bedside. There was no actual purpose being so silent while Petyr's eyes were closed, chest rising and falling evenly. She sighed, a part of her relieved he was asleep so she wouldn’t have to kiss him goodnight.
Sansa stood there, her gaze fixed on her father. It still seemed strange calling Petyr by that term, even more when he sometimes treated her nothing like a daughter but she didn't have the opportunity to think about the intricacy of the mask she had to maintain at such time. She didn’t want to question his motives, he had saved her when nobody else had and that was good enough for now. However, rather than Sansa, he had saved Alayne, his daughter. Nonetheless, Alayne was Sansa. Sometimes she didn't know how much of her mask she had become. She couldn't forget who she was.
But now, Alayne was a good daughter, Alayne took care of her father first. The smoother it was to call Petyr father, the easier it would be to maintain the facade in front of others even when she was always Sansa in private.
She couldn’t help but notice Petyr's chambers were uncomfortably hot, hot enough to suffocate you, hot enough to cause you to start sweating even while sitting. She wished she could open a window and experience the chilly breeze of the Eyrie, but she didn't permit herself to even think about it when Petyr appeared so feverish that his sheets were damp. They were wet but clean. The pillow beneath his head was thick, fluffy, and the colour of it was nearly as pale as he was.
Sansa dampened and wrung out the rag in cold water, her figure projected across the room by the candlelight. Under the sheets, he appeared to be shivering and burning at the same time, his skin ashen. She brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear, her touch featherly light and so careful not to wake him up.
She repeated the process of dampening the cloth a few more times. Time passes, the candle smaller than it was when she stepped into the room and she can't help but lean against the bed, tired after a long day of convincing Robert to do things he didn’t want to do, and think. Petyr had never been unwell in the months she had spent on the Eyrie or at King's Landing. Perhaps he was always like this, avoiding disease after disease until one particular illness was too strong to be ignored. It wasn’t unheard of, people straining themselves so hard they suddenly became ill. It wouldn’t be too surprising if Petyr was one of them. After Lysa’s death he had become the only ruler of the Eyrie and it was not an undisputed place. The natural defences of the place had made the war feel far away but the political dispute for the throne and the Eyrie was more present than ever.
She knew her father was working himself out, setting out the affairs that were unattended when Lysa was in charge and the ones that had surged from her death too.
And there was the matter of her death too… it still haunted Sansa’s nightmare and she wasn’t sure if it plagued Petyr’s mind too but it was no easy task doing what Petyr had done — she refused to call it by what it was.
And over that there was also Robert’s temper and his illness…
She was anxious. It was already difficult to calm Sweetrobin, and if Petyr became ill for an extended period of time, it would be up to her to care for the Eyrie, a place she hardly understood. She wondered if this was how her mother felt when caring for Bran. She knew she was exaggerating, but recently she had been preparing herself for the worst, for Marillion to accuse her of murder, for the Imp to find her, for Joffrey to return and take her with him, for Ilyn Payne to step into her room at night to cut off her head, for someone to recognize her…
When Sansa found her thoughts becoming too worrisome, she pulled herself together and looked over Petyr, his brow suddenly scrunching with pain and the bridge of his nose wrinkling. Of course, this moved Alayne's heart — was he okay? Was he having a dream? Should Sansa try to shake him up or drag him out of it? She felt like a weird combination of worried mother and dutiful daughter, her thoughts similar to the ones she has when Robert’s body starts shaking.
Suddenly something appeared to break over Petyr's face, however his eyes remained closed for a few moments before slowly blinking. Sansa was so silent that she could hear the rise and fall of her own chest as she watched Petyr's nose twitch. His grey-green eyes opened after a single sharp gasped breath.
For what may have been a minute, or an hour, there was silence.
He was sitting upright now, with wide eyes he seemed to blink away the last of his sleep, gazed into the dimming room, and saw her half sitting half standing there. Yet he doesn’t really see her, his gaze was drawn to something far away in the corner of the room rather than Sansa or Alayne. His hair was damp, as were his eyes, and Sansa could tell he wasn't really awake by the way they looked. In that light, his face appeared peaceful, with simply a serene smile frozen in place. It was not the kind of smile Petyr gave Sansa after she kissed him good morning nor the smirk Littlefinger would use at King’s Landing. Especially when Littlefinger was not one of her friends. When Joff had beaten her, he hadn’t moved a single finger. When the mob at King’s Landing had tried to rape her, the Hound, not Littlefinger, took her to safety. And she had no idea when she'd encounter Petyr or Littlefinger in her father's chambers.
But at that moment he was looking neither with Littlefinger’s eyes nor Lord Baelish’s eyes. Those looked like the eyes Sweetrobin would make at her when the little lord wanted Alayne to sleep with him, holding him through the nightmares. Pleading.
And then Petyr’s wretched voice broke through the silence, “Cat”.
Candlelight danced across his face, which was relaxed but still straining, with restless eyes. Even in the height of sickness, bordered by a sudden feverish delusion or so Sansa believes, he wore that same shrewd, lavish look.
Sansa stayed very quiet. She sat still on the bed and watched over Petyr.
“Are you here? Are you always here?”
Sansa breathed sharply but he seemed deaf to the world around him.
“I need to tell you everything I've done for- I don't understand what you're saying Cat, I can't hear your voice. Cat-"
For a brief moment, a remembrance or the illusion of Catelyn's warmth constantly watching over him appeared to soothe Petyr; he was the embodiment of contentment, half sitting with a half-lidded gaze. She tried to see whatever he was seeing, she wished she could see her mother too.
He opened his mouth again and Sansa didn’t try to wonder what he might say, stamping out the errant thought. His gaze shifted away once more, attempting to return to the blurry vision he was perceiving, back to the empty blackness. But he couldn't hold it, and the visions of her mother disappear as Petyr tightens his clutch on his sheet. He settled down eventually, laying down again and Sansa noticed she hadn’t stopped gripping the wet cloth in her hand. She knew, of course she knew that Petyr had once known Catelyn. She had heard her mother casually mention her years of maidenhood and the people that were close to her but the thought of her only hurt her now. She was Alayne, she wasn’t supposed to know, to feel so saddened by Lady Catelyn’s death but when her mask is shattered by grief it seems hard to put on it again.
Sansa gathered herself, slipped back into Alayne's body and mind and sar next to her father, rinsed and replaced the rag, and rubbed it against his heated face once again.
"Father-" she began, but Petyr abruptly groaned and reached up, touching the cold cloth with the tips of his fingers before moving them to touch Alayne's hand. She clutched one of her father's hands. A true daughter would not refuse the touch of her father , so Alayne held him back. She hoped he couldn’t notice the surprise yet relief that he had returned to his senses. "How do you feel?"
“Cat?"
Sansa’s eyes felt wet and her throat felt tight. She was no longer Alayne for a minute but she was holding onto her mask not to cry, not to let herself lose it now when her father needed her. But Petyr was looking at her with longing and she’s looking back at him with a deep need to take care of him. He looked so open now. Usually it would have taken all her attention to know what Petyr was thinking and even so it was impossible to really know what his real intentions were.
She even had the impression that the Lord Protector was two people at times. Petyr, her guardian, was warm, witty, and generous, but he was also Littlefinger, the lord she'd met at King's Landing, smiling slyly and scheming besides Cersei and the Council. For him, everything was hidden between layers and layers of smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
But at that moment, his face was so exposed, so unguarded . It made her shiver.
She wasn’t sure if it was the sudden sickness or the feverish visions of Catelyn that had cut right through the layers of masks he had put on over the years but it made Sansa feel a sudden urge to keep Petyr helpless, attending him like she did with Robert. Take away all the problems that were plaguing his mind and throw them away, convince both him and herself that everything will be okay again. If only she could focus her mind only in dampening the cloth and keeping it on his forehead, if only she could stop worrying about Robert’s temper or the war or whatever man might want to marry her, if only she could lose herself in taking care of others who needed it more, if she could stop worrying Littlefinger might do to her the same thing he did to Lysa…
She felt a queer sense of pride when he smiled at her again, the same smile he had put on for her Catelyn vision. He wouldn’t. Right? His father wouldn't do that to Alayne. Nor Sansa, Cat’s daughter.
He could never do it if she kept him looking at her like this.
Right at that moment she decided she couldn’t let him overwork himself anymore, she couldn’t lose him. She had lost too many people already.
She wanted to take care of him. She wanted to take care from him.
•---------•
As a child, Sansa had adored spring. At Winterfell, the season brought longer days, and while the weather remained cold outside, she appreciated the slight improvement in temperature. When the sun shone on rare occasions, it would draw everyone out of the castle, crowding the gardens with commotion. Inside Winterfell it was always warm, even when it snowed but spring made even the outside better.
In her dreams, she fantasized about arriving to Wintefell and finding a wonderful bright day, ideal for sitting beneath a tree with Jeyne and talking for hours. Some places were difficult to recall, yet others came back to her as if she had been there only yesterday. Winterfell was one of those places.
But this wasn’t Winterfell. And if the things she had heard were true then Winterfell was nothing but burnt rocks now. And the people, even her brothers, dead. Even the people who had arrived at King's Landing with her were dead. There was nothing to come back to.
The Eyrie was not her home. It didn’t have the size of a big castle and the only thing beyond its sheer white walls was the mountain and the long dangerous cliff. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. Sansa's sole friend, other than her maid, was little Robert.
It had been two weeks since Petyr had regained his full health. He seemed to spend more time at the mountain's foot than above it, and he had waited just the bare minimum of time before returning to his tasks. He'd been gone for a few days, meeting with Robert's bannermen who despised Petyr's position as Lord Protector of the Vale. The Vale of Arryn had escaped the worst of the battle, but it was far from the peaceful place that Lady Lysa had described. Her aunt had recently been on her mind as Sansa had been wondering what side of Petyr Lysa had seen.
Was it the nearly gentle side she saw when he was sick? Or was he always Littlefinger to her?
Maybe he was Petyr all along. Perhaps Littlefinger was just a mask he had to wear.
Look around you, and take a good whiff. They’re all liars here . . . and every one better than you, someone had told her. Could it be that Petyr was just mask behind a mask and there was no honest man left behind it?
Sansa realised she couldn't go back to sleep, her head was a mess. She pushed her pillow aside, flung back the sheets, went to the window, and opened the shutters.
Her rooms in the Maiden's Tower were far larger and more luxurious now. She even had a balcony with a view of the Vale now. She could see the snow, a perfect white mantle.
It was a bright day, although it was freezing outside and the stone felt chilly beneath her feet as she dressed, the wind blowing through the window.
The towers of the Eyrie surrounded the garden, shielding it from the worst of the mountain gusts. She put on a cozy grey lambswool dress. Boots that tied up to her knees, thick leather gloves, and a hooded cloak of soft white fox fur completed the outfit.
She wasn't interested in building a snow castle this time, she had other plans.
She wasn’t planning on breaking her fast but she went to the kitchen to grab a few tools to accomplish what she was planning: a short knife and her handkerchief.
Sansa descended the winding stairs.The yard outside was hauntingly calm, and even though snow lay unbroken on the ground, she could see some green beneath it. It wasn't any livelier than the previous time she came here, when everything was blanketed in heavy snow and no colour appeared to exist.
She strode out nonetheless, over iced bushes and narrow black trees, and walked right into the higher trees. She could feel the cold on her face, which made her cheeks and nose flush.
After Petyr’s two feverish days, she had been spending more time with Maester Colemon. He didn’t seem to mind the questions about Petyr nor the questions about Robert’s shaking spells though those were asked just not to seem suspicious. The man had even given her a few books to read and it was then when she stumbled upon her plan. Sansa thought the Maester had given the book to her just because of the drawings of plants and flowers, not because he had really thought she could read the descriptions. After all, would a bastard like Alayne know her letters?
Unknowingly, Maester Colemon had given her a chance to experience again what she thought was the real Petyr which was nothing more than sick Petyr. It was a small mercy to him too, taking off his shoulders the hard work he had to do every day for Alayne and Robert’s safety. And it was nothing more than a way of protecting herself too. She'd struggle to discern where the man ended and the mask began, but when he was sick, it was as obvious as water. Littlefinger and Lord Petyr had a striking resemblance, yet she appeared to see the truth in his feverish gaze. And if she could make him stay so clear as to see him, really see him…
Maester Colemon was a wise man but he couldn’t be at two places at the same time and Robert’s illness required one to be alert and next to him most of the day. So if she could keep Littlefinger away and just have Petyr in her hands, feeble enough not to push her through the Moon Door and weak enough not to marry her off to Robert or to anyone else then… it was a risk worth taking.
But it took her a few days of deliberation. It wasn't simple to follow through. She had carefully examined her alternatives and had come to the conclusion that if it didn't work out, she would never do it again. But, being outside on such a lovely day had made her feel brave. Much like the time she took a handful of snow and threw it in Petyr's face. She had even voiced her annoyance with him bringing her here instead of home. Sansa had pondered where she had gotten the strength to talk to him so freely, and just like that time, she knew it had come from Winterfell. She hadn't built Winterfell in the snow today, but she carried it everywhere she went. It didn't matter if she was called Alayne now or if her hair was another colour, she was still heir of Winterfell, she was still Sansa Stark.
She ventured into the small patch of high trees, certain of her objective, to try locating any of the mushrooms that resemble the pictures in Maester Colemon's medicinal book.
She kneeled on the soft snow patch beneath the trees and set the knife aside.
Suddenly, a crack in the snow behind her made her head snap towards the sound. Her heart pounded against the handkerchief she held to her breast.
For a split second, she thought it was Lady. For a split second, she saw the direwolf approaching to kiss her face and settle next to her.
Instead, it was her elder maid approaching her and asking if she wanted to break her fast.
Sansa shook her head and sighed softly.
She sighed, kept the paranoid thoughts of being discovered at bay and went back to her search.
She bent down and noticed something sprouting in the shade of a tree a few steps to her left, pretty much completely blanketed by snow but the bright colour red of the fungi makes it easier to spot.
She rummaged through the images in her head, mentally flipping over the book's pictures. It was difficult to recollect, but conveniently for her, even if she grabbed the wrong ones, she only needed to make sure not to add such a large quantity and everything would be good. Just enough to make him throw up and stay in bed a few days. Unlike someone hunting for edible mushrooms, her search was for any mushroom that might make somebody sick, though not dead. Yet if there were safe, edible ones, it would be easier to pretend to really be innocent if she was caught.
The mushroom's stem was sturdy but thick, giving it a flat, disc-like appearance. She'd never seen anything like that before. Her hand twitched and her stomach flipped, as if her subconscious believed it was important to remind him of the consequences of poisoning someone. Her father, her savior.
She continued ahead, praying to the Mother for protection while she cut it.
Her knife divided the mushroom top and stem. Her swift fingertips touched the fungi's smooth skin.The plant was covered with mud and wet with melting snow, but that wouldn't be an issue once Sansa has a chance to wash it.
She didn’t bother to take more than necessary because she didn't want to be found with incriminating evidence but she notices there’s a few more hidden in the shadow of the trees in her left. She made a mental note of that.
As she got back inside, she headed straight to her room, the mushrooms and knife hidden in her pocket.
She double-checked and triple-checked the book. The ones she chose were toxic, albeit not fatal. Fortunately for her, only when ingested. Now came the second phase of her scheme. How was she going to hide the mushroom in Petyr's food? Should she dry the mushroom? According to the book, this would reduce the poison's harm, thus it didn't seem appropriate. Should she insist on bringing Petyr's supper to his chambers and then sprinkling the mushroom on her way there?
She resolved right then and there that she must cook the mushrooms herself.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
She'd have to cook the food herself if she wanted to do it well, if she wanted to keep her father’s words true. She had to be the one to drop the mushroom into the oil and bring it to Petyr and look into his eyes when she offered him the plate. It wouldn't be difficult to persuade Robert not to have them; he didn't like them anyway. She couldn't avoid doing what she needed to do to protect herself. She must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must she look away from what had to be done.
Still, she was, after all, going to repair any harm she had produced, and Petyr owed her this in any case for not returning her home.
•---------•
Sansa had never cooked before. Accustomed to waiting for the courses to come and go without even batting an eye. She had seen women kneading bread, even their faces full of flour and she could distinctly remember the smell of Winterfell’s kitchen but she had never quite tried it herself.
She remembered the thick soups and the salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums in King’s Landing, the fresh trout and the lamb skewers. She remembered painfully well the way Joffrey had taught her how to eat snails. It all had seemed so easy back then until she discovered life was not a song, and even the prettiest roses had the sharpest thorns.
She remembered a stew with onions and mushrooms she had eaten at Winterfell, the meat soft and savoury, the type of meal that would warm anyone's heart. And the freshly made bread to dip it in had been so good that Sansa had asked for more.
They didn't have any peppers or garlic, though. They had lots of barley, which Sansa felt she might use but if it wasn’t for Mya Stone they wouldn’t have any fresh supplies.
She didn’t have much time though, she knew the cook would probably shy her away when it was time to cook supper. And her father was on his way up. It was in Alayne's hands to give him a warm welcome indeed.
While she let the pan get hot in the fire she had just started, which had been harder than it looked, she did her best to chop the last onions she found hidden in the kitchen. The knife was heavy and sharp and it reminded Sansa of the dream she had last night.
She was cooking, slicing vegetables until she looked away for a minute and when she looked back she was chopping her own hand in tiny pieces, the blood staining her clothes but no scream would come out of her mouth. Suddenly she would hear Robert’s voice complaining about now enough eggs and Petyr’s voice saying there was only porridge left. But when she tried to tell them to help her she would find herself fixed in place, no sound would leave her lips. And then Petyr would urge Alayne to finish cooking faster. An elderly woman, the cook, would come into the kitchen, not paying attention to Sansa’s bloody stump and she would cook the pieces of her chopped hand. She sobbed but no tears would come out and the smell of her flesh burning would cling to her nose, filling her with nausea. The last image she could grasp before waking up in a cold sweat was the look on Littlefinger’s face when the maids served Sansa, his smile as he savoured the taste.
She found herself trembling with the knife still in her hand as she recalled the nightmare.
She chopped into the mushroom quietly and calmly, telling herself this is for her own safety. She selected only the ripest and biggest ones she collected. One, two, three, and four bits rested atop her cutting board while she reconsidered the risk, the consequences this could have. In the back of her mind, she saw Littlefinger's smile in her nightmare. The smirk, the relish, the cruelty in his eyes. Finally, Sansa added the mushrooms to the hot pan and covered them with the leftover butter she found.
Sansa hoped he was hungry.
•---------•
Petyr came back sooner than she expected.
"Our little Lord Robert is loved by his bannermen, the mountains protect us, and the Eyrie is impenetrable." Littlefinger had stated as soon as he reached the Eyrie. Because Robert was being washed and dressed, Alayne was the only one to greet him by stripping off his heavy cloak. His hands were cold when he took one of her, bowing slightly to kiss her fingers. Suddenly he looked at her as he was seeing Sansa for the first time, “You smell very nice, Alayne.”
But as soon as Sansa opened her mouth to make up an excuse he was gone, and rushed immediately to the Solar, saying he still had urgent matters to attend to.
Sansa knew he was lying. He'd been at the foot of the mountain for many days and he didn’t have the face of a man who had had any fruitful meetings. But his sweet words were soothing delusions, though, and she assumed they were well-intended. If only she could make herself believe she was safe up here…
•---------•
The silence of the Eyrie was a queer silence. The servants here were few and old, which made it simpler to cover up her trails, but it also gave the castle a haunted feeling. Walking up the stairs she had always felt if something were to happen to her, it would take ages until someone came to her rescue.
Her footsteps felt muted as she crossed the pale stone corridors, the warm mushroom stew in her hands. She could smell it and it made her proud of herself. She had cooked something that looked not only edible but pretty good, good enough to pass as food from one of the cooks.
She could hear the strong wind outside around the towers. And her heart, racing in her chest.
Once she stepped in there was no coming back. She would be accused of patricide, a kinslayer. And it would be even worse if they discovered who she really was, a traitor and a killer. Who will ever know me, she thought. I hardly know myself.
She prayed to the Maid to give her courage and to keep her safe in her kindness. She prayed to the Father and Warrior for strength and confidence. Finally, she prayed for wisdom to the Crone. To show her the way she must go. Please , she implored, don't let me fall in the dark depths ahead.
Littlefinger sat at the trestle table, sipping wine and studying over maps and parchment. He was clad in a black velvet doublet with grey sleeves that accented his grey-green eyes. As Alayne entered, he looked up. "What brings you here, Alayne, my sweet?"
"You haven't eaten anything, and it must have been a chilly journey up the mountain. You’ve recently sick father, you must not overwork yourself." Her voice was strained and thin, guilty. Her plan's major moment, though, was now.
She was relieved to find that the candles and the fire had been lit. She hurriedly left the dish on the table and went to get the flagon of wine.
"How I appreciate it," Petyr murmured, voice low. As Alayne poured more wine, his gaze trailed from Sansa’s mouth and up to meet her eyes. It caused fire to tickle her skin, she felt he could see straight through her.
He wasn't a tall man, but he was taller than she was. Sitting, he could easily cup her chin. And so he did, almost examining her face. For a split second, she swore he could even smell her crimes.
Petyr let go of her.
“Has Robert caused you much trouble?,” He absentmindedly asked.
As Robert's matter was brought up, her wariness faded; she could easily talk about the long days of encouraging him to wake up, dress, and later in the day coaxing him back into bed with the hollow promise of staying with him through the night. His attitude had recently improved, but eating had become a struggle. “He’s still having nightmares, it’s hard to calm those.”
Petyr was soon eating the poisoned stew and carefully listening to her. He nibbled on one of the buttered mushrooms while staring at her as though he knew. But he doesn't , Sansa noted. The poisoning is just meant to tear him off his mask, revealing the Petyr that no one else alive knows exists.
"How about you, Alayne?" He leaned against the table with his elbows. “Have you been a good girl while I was away?”
"Yes, father." She said the last word with more force, reminding him what they're supposed to act like. But she didn't like the glint of his eyes. She hoped the poison would take it away. "How were the meetings down the mountain?" she asked. She always asked. Just in case he might tell her half the truth. She wanted to talk about anything but how much of good girl she had been.
"Why don't you come sit on my lap, sweet?" Littlefinger asked, calmly enough, but Sansa wasn’t dumb enough to disregard the order. He sighed before replying to her question. "Some of the Lords want me to march down the mountain and out of their sight, heading to Harrenhal and looking the other way as they take hold of the Vale. But how could I manage it when you need me?"
"Lord Robert needs you as well."
"He does, but he is only my stepson, and you are my daughter. And when Robert, a fragile child, dies then there will only be you. Isn't that right, Alayne?" Littlefinger's voice had become icy. "And Sansa still needs me to take her home."
Her stomach sank a bit more; she didn’t want to break now, and she couldn't. "When will that happen?"
"Soon, you must be patient. Even the humblest of pieces can have a significant impact in the game of thrones. You must sometimes persuade them to move and make the exact moves you have arranged for them. Take note of that, Alayne." His eyes were gleaming in the candlelight. He swallowed his last spoonful of stew and pushed the bowl aside. "Now, come here”
Alayne takes a step towards the table, till she believes she was being dragged down to sit on his lap by her own weight. She hoped he didn't kiss her, it would be terrible if she were to get poisoned for touching his lips.
She was lithe enough to fit, if not a little tightly in his lap. As fingers started carding through her hair, Alayne didn’t flinch, his nails scraped lightly on her scalp like a reminder that she had to stay there, still. She wished she could go back to her hair the way she liked it, sometimes she wouldn’t recognize herself in the mirror with her hair so dark. She used to look so much like her mother, people would say. Now she was just Alayne, whoever she was.
She tried to move away from him, sensing that he could feel her guilt biting through her, but one of his arms hooked around her waist, keeping her firmly in place. She wanted the poison to take effect faster but she didn't want to be present when it does.
Petyr pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and Alayne tensed, not wanting her father to be too close. At times like these, she was relieved he won't have the energy to do this all again tomorrow. She hoped the poison left him in bed for days, too tired to do anything but keep quiet and let Sansa take care of him.
Littlefinger's hand ran up and down her back for what may have been a minute or an hour, not dipping too low but staying dangerously close. Littlefinger didn't get hard as she sat on him; the only time he touched her bare skin was when he moved forward and grabbed her hand on his own, delicately rubbing his finger along the inside of her palm.
She shuts her eyes to pretend it's not Littlefinger stroking her hair, but... someone else. She thinks of a man, larger and stronger than Littlefinger, who could keep her safe but he was gone, escaped and there was only Petyr now. She may not trust Littlefinger but she would trust the feverish Petyr she saw that day who looked at her so lovingly. She had to remember that she was doing everything she could to get him back. Someone who cared so strongly about Cat that he would defend her daughter, someone without a mask.
"You should sleep, Alayne," he said quietly. He swept her hair to one side, exposing the back of her neck, and kissed her softly there. "We'll have a long day tomorrow."
"Yes, father," she responded in the ensuing silence, when it was evident he was expecting a response.
He ran her fingers through her hair once again. They didn’t snag on any knots, but Sansa had the impression that Littlefinger’s hands are like concealed claws, inoffensive when hidden but constantly present. Sansa didn't realise her body was moving, but in an instant she was bowing her head and heading for the door. Her fingers stroked the door's solid wood before Littlefinger cleared his throat, prompting her to stop and look back at him. The candlelight only illuminated his face partially and she couldn't discern his expression. "The stew was exquisite darling."
•---------•
She's lost count of how many times she has done it. She was afraid at first of doing it too many times in a row but she had come up with a schedule for Petyr to recover just enough so it was safe to do it again.
She initially lied to the maids; perhaps it's only a symptom of sadness for Lysa, they only had so much time together before the horror .
He's simply so fatigued , she told the cook.
She suggested to Gretchel that he could have acquired a cold that won't go away .
He has overworked himself, and his fragile nature has taken our Lord Protector away , she lamented to Ser Lothor.
Don't worry, Maester; Robert requires your help and attention more than Lord Petyr.
She became an expert liar. There were still liars everywhere but she was getting better herself.
•---------•
"Father", she prodded, quietly, as if not to disturb him. She had waited sufficient time for the poison to take effect. This time she had mixed it on his porridge. She was getting more and more adventurous on the way she could use her mushrooms, her sweet poisonous saviours. "Are you sure you feel alright?"
Petyr's glassy eyes looked at her. Uncertain, tired, unfocused. His fingers had grown clumsy, and when he put the cup away, it made a gentle clatter.
Sansa did her best not to smile. She was incredibly fond of him in this state, the witty remarks and the schemes gone and there was just Petyr left. When he was so sick there was no energy left in him to maintain a facade, that was how Sansa liked it. And he seemed particularly sick this time, Sansa even feared that she might have overdone it. He was pale with a reddish tinge under the eyes. And when he reached out his hand to the parchment he was half-reading his fingers seemed clumsy in their movements. Alayne moved in closer and placed her hand on his, that was her request for him to stop. "I'll take care of it," Alayne promised, as if she hadn't already.
"I need some rest", Petyr sighed. His breath came in with the trembling of someone about to cry. Sansa wanted him to cry even though that would undoubtedly make her feel guilty but it would also mean he had let himself be vulnerable in front of her. "Will you summon Maester Colemon for me, Alayne?"
He stumbled when he attempted to stand up. If he was previously pale then now he was practically translucent, Sansa felt as though she could look right through him. Alayne kept him standing by wrapping her arm around his waist.
"Father, that won't be needed." They move cautiously and gently, with Petyr placing half of his weight on Sansa. "I will make you feel better."
“Cancel my meeting with Ser Corbray." he said, which Sansa had hoped to hear. The closer she could keep Petyr to her, the more he would have nothing to hide from her. If she could control the bad things that might happen to him then she could keep Petyr safe. At least safe from the harm of others. And if Petyr was safe, so was his promise to take her to Winterfell. She wanted him helpless, tender, open with only her to help. And then she wanted Petyr strong again. He was not going to die. He might wish he was going to die, but he's not going to. Sansa needed to settle him down a little.
"I seem to have come down with a fever."
•---------•
Sansa was in high spirits as she walked with a pitcher of cold water and a washcloth in her hand. She offered a brief bow to the guards stationed outside her father's chambers and entered, balancing everything on top of the bedside table. There was a parchment left there, probably half read. Usually as Littlefinger became ill, he continued to do his best to keep working despite his trembling hands and sweat-soaked forehead.
She carefully removed her shoes and sat on Petyr's bed.
Petyr was now familiar to her in a manner that no one else could ever be. Littlefinger was clever, but maybe more importantly, he was proud. He was as charming as he was astute, but with no army of his own, he was too lowborn to challenge any of the great lords. And that makes this easier, his illness went unnoticed if not just a small matter to people who might need him.
Only his pride kept him going and when he finally gave up, something innocent and vulnerable crawled through the cracks. Sansa had figured out how to keep him at her mercy by making him grateful for it. She poisoned him and he thanked her for being such a dutiful daughter.
Petyr awoke with a gentle sigh and wiped his eyes. He made no attempt to sit up.
"How are you feeling?" Sansa inquired quietly. She sat on the side of his bed, rubbing a smooth, cool linen against Petyr's brow.
She rose from her seat and gently rearranged the cushions. Petyr's hand found hers and gently dragged her down, even though his eyes were still half closed. Sansa beamed.
In this state, he was nearly pathetic. His typically diligent and graceful demeanour had deteriorated into something fragile, evident in his immediate need to be moved further in on the bed when Sansa joined him, sitting with her back braced up against the headboard. He rested his head heavily against Sansa's lap. When he was sick, he became touchy in a different way. More kind, more innocent. She typically let him since fighting him would be simpler if she actually tried. She wouldn't, since she had a new way of fighting.
Even yet, the touches of a sick Petyr were often pleasant.
Sansa could hear Petyr's breathing when he was lying this way. His exhales remained weak and raspy.
She couldn't believe it was the same man who shoved Lysa down the mountain. Just the soft parts of him remained when he was sick. He was a quieter sick man than Robert, and less of a sniveller.
"Your hair is getting long," Sansa observed as her fingers delve into the longer strands, softly caressing the sides. She had asked Maester Colemon to help Petyr shave but she hadn’t considered his hair. It was damp, he was still feverish and the room was stuffy but he sank into the contact, unlike Sansa's distress when he had touched her hair before. This was different, she believed, since she has control over the situation. She hadn't felt in charge in a long time, always doing what was required of her, always doing what she had to do. And for a brief period of time, she did want to do the things that were expected from her.
She had begged her mother to let her go to King's Landing till she reached it and discovered herself among liars. She had wanted to marry Joffrey until he proved to be a cruel small boy. She aspired to be like Queen Cersei until she discovered she was just as ruthless as her son. But she was already trapped when she realized. There were little moments of serenity inside the misery of being alone in such a horrible place. Ser Loras handing her a flower at the tournament, laughing with Margaery, her first kiss…
Yet they were few and insignificant in comparison to the suffering she had experienced. She, too, had found herself stuck here, trapped by Petyr's broken promises, trapped by her own mask.
Before she buried her fingers in Petyr's unkempt hair, she delicately brushed the hair away from his face. She continued until Petyr exhaled in relief.
Petyr murmured, almost in a whisper, "Sansa." He said it slowly, as if she could miss the significance of the name if she wasn't careful.
She softly kissed Petyr's sweat-dotted temple. "I've already taken care of everything."
•---------•
Sansa was paralyzed. She was unable to even blink. She made an effort to adjust her breathing, but her lungs refused to cooperate. Her chest continued to rise and fall. she just couldn't feel her. Her legs involuntarily moved under her and she was raised to her feet. As she saw herself through a stranger's eyes, she had a moment of utter fear. Sansa saw herself in the mirror but it wasn't her. It was like someone hiding behind her skin. She tried to scream. It was useless. She also was naked. She could feel the wind, but the cold didn't bother her. Her body felt like a carcass as it made its way down the Eyrie's stairs. Her mind was spinning. She had no power over anything. Despite her best attempts to regain her own motion. She resembles a puppet. She witnessed her own hands extending to unlock a door. Suddenly, the path was clear to her. When her own feet brought her to the Moon Door, she tried her hardest to crawl off her skin but not even her mouth would open to scream.
“A nightmare.” She woke up, making sure she could move and talk in her own body. She said it aloud just in case. “Just a nightmare.”
Her morning was chaotic from the start. Robert's weeping jolted her out of sleep. He was missing his mom and had been having nightmares of Marilion’s singing again. While telling him how much she missed her too, Alayne forced a smile. She told him that Lysa was watching him and Robert had to make her proud as the Lord he would become. But she was making herself afraid just thinking about Lysa haunting her and monitoring her every move. She tried telling him a story about knights and dragons and even when those were Sweetrobin’s favourites, the young Lord wouldn't listen.
It was better at breakfast. Petyr joined them, patting Robert's head unenthusiastically and kissing Alayne's temple. Petyr kept the boy at a distance, and Robert's temperament would moderate when his step-father was nearby, but more out of fear than out of respect. And then, while Alayne was in the middle taking a spoon of mild porridge to her mouth, Littlefinger informed them of his visit with Lady Waynwood. She almost dropped the spoon. She hadn't expected Petyr to feel good enough to receive anyone in at least three or four days.
Sansa worried, Alayne just nodded.
The meeting today appeared to be rather conventional in many ways. Well, mostly. Sansa and Robert would typically have received Lady Waynwood first before taking her to the solar, where Littlefinger would be waiting. Nevertheless, given that nobody had even informed her of Lady Waynwood's arrival, she thought that perhaps this was an urgent matter.
The Solar's doors were closed, that meant there was nothing to do but wait. Technically, Sansa could do anything she pleased as long as she kept an eye out for trouble. She preferred to stand close to the solar. Hands silently dangling at her sides, she waited. She could hear the rising and falling of voices through the thick wooden doors but she was unable to understand the words. She could imagine Littlefinger's charm as he talked followed by the swift response from Lady Waynwood.
She decided to do something else, she knew it wouldn't be good if she was caught listening behind closed doors. Despite the fact that it was snowing severely, she decided to walk outside.
She went unseen as she strolled with her head lowered toward the garden. After all, as a bastard, it was her desired goal to seamlessly meld with her surroundings.
Snowflakes fell to the ground quickly because of the wind's blowing. Many of them would fall into Sansa's hair, but some would melt and others would cling to her clothes too. She moved, leaving tiny footprints. She didn't want to go back despite the cold shaking her bones.
She wished she could recreate the snow castle she had built when she first arrived. A small version of Winterfell. Yet that brought back unpleasant flashbacks of Lysa's accident and the kiss that started it all.
Her gloves were causing her hands to sweat. Arya had once placed a worm inside her gloves at Winterfell, she recalled. Arya laughed so hard she nearly started crying, while Sansa yelled and nearly broke down in tears too. She once tried making an angel in the snow, but when she got up, the snow had all melted over her clothes, leaving her soaked and looking like an icicle. Arya had offered her her much smaller cloak so it only reached half of her back. She smiled at her, a little surprised. And then Arya yelled that it looked as though she had peed herself.
She had thought it was the worst thing that could have happened to her at the time, but now she wished she could go back. She would touch as many worms as she had too to come back to Winterfell and find her brothers and sister playing in the snow. She would put up with Arya's teasing for years if it meant Sansa might see her once again. Or her mother. Her counsel, the way she would smile when Sansa embroidered something for her, she just missed her. And she missed her father too. When Joffrey had made her look at his severed head she had never thought of that head as her father. Her father had been a warm but very serious man, rightful and honest and so very dear to her. She would never forgive herself for being so naive and thinking Cersei was going to protect her and her family. Some days she still felt her hands stained by blood.
She didn't want her tears to freeze on her cheeks so she made herself stop reflecting on what had been lost.
She couldn't go back, there was only ahead.
•---------•
Before supper, she visited Petyr's rooms.
She knocked softly. “Enter,” Littlefinger called out.
As she heard the door close behind her, she turned around slightly. Something was amiss and she couldn’t pinpoint what.
She could feel the weight of the silence, making her jaw clench as she prepared for something she couldn't quite place. While she couldn't articulate it, it seemed like a turning point.
Does Lady Waynwood's appearance earlier suggest something she was not quite seeing? Was she too paranoid? Has someone found out? She was curious but was unable to ask it so plainly.
Petyr's fingers and the way they hold the letter he was reading caught Sansa's attention.
The freshly brewed tea she made was placed neatly next to the leather-bound books and other parchments on top of the desk. As Littlefinger turned it around, the chair made a gentle creaking sound. Sansa was embarrassed to discover that she had been staring. Waiting for anything to happen—for him to acknowledge her or to take some other action that would indicate the nature of this transaction. Littlefinger was merely silently observing her. She felt she was missing something important. “If you want to have a staring contest with me, you will lose, Alayne.”
She laughed, "I just figured maybe you wanted something warm to drink, father." Sansa gave him a cup as she spoke. "I thought Lady Waynwood's visit was fairly long" Sansa explained, carefully. "And you're not fully recovered yet."
"Was it?" Littlefinger questioned while crossing his elbows on the desk.
"What?" Sansa was uneasy.
“The meeting.” Littlefinger’s eyes glittered when he held the cup in his hand, not taking a sip. “I heard you were quite anxious about it, waiting for me outside.”
Sansa should have known not to seem too surprised, he had eyes everywhere. “I was just worried.”
“It was a long meeting though, that much is true. It was more of a proposition actually.” Littlefinger smiled slyly. “About you, Alayne.”
Alayne could hardly believe it. “Why would she… ”
“You’re not any bastard, you’re Lord Protector’s bastard. It’s not a surprise she would come up with such an idea. It wouldn’t be a bad match, if you were promised to Harrold Hardyng, sweetling, would in fact greatly benefit you.” Littlefinger’s grey-green eyes glittered with amusement. He traced a finger along the brim of his cup.
“Did you accept the proposition, father?” Sansa asked, timid.
“I would have done it gladly,” he said. “It is friends I want, not foes. But you didn’t quite hear me. I said if you were promised to him.”
Sansa didn’t quite understand. “If?”
“Well, first we would have to make sure Cersei is done and Sansa’s safely widowed.” He explained. “And then we would have to make sure nobody notices how I suddenly recover from this patch of sudden sickness once you’re married and away.”
“I- I don’t quite know what-”
“My dear smart daughter, my Sansa.” He took a sip of the tea now. Sansa didn’t know what was happening. She felt like crying. This felt like an ambush. “Do you really think Maester Colemon giving you that exact book to read was a coincidence?”
She wanted to run away. She wanted to kill him. “How do you know I didn’t put any on the tea?”
“Do you take me for a fool? It would certainly displease your sick father if you thought I wouldn’t taste what you’re giving me.” He faked offence. “You did, in fact, put some on the tea.” Littlefinger smiled, he looked smug. He took another, longer sip. “But you wouldn’t kill me. In fact, you can’t. You need me to take you to Winterfell and I need you to stay here with me.”
“You promised.” She was almost screaming now, her voice was half shrill. Petyr's purpose, she knew all at once, was to lure her into her crimes for long enough that Sansa would have no means of escaping her own guilt. As she believed she was learning more about Petyr, she was actually providing her with more and more material to blackmail her. She despised herself for ever thinking she could be as good as he was as a liar.
“Oh I did. In fact, I plan to fulfil that promise. And your little secret is safe with me.” Littlefinger’s cup was empty now, left on the table. He reached to touch her but Sansa backed away. Petyr acted unfazed, exuding a calm composure that made Sansa's blood boil. “I’ve found the direwolf quite suits me.”
She froze in fear and disgust.
“You can’t do that. I’m your daughter.”
“Are you?” Littlefinger’s voice had grown cold. “Though I like calling you daughter, don’t get me wrong.”
“I’m already married.” Sansa’s excused sounded feeble in her ears. “And the Lannisters wouldn’t let you. They would kill me first.”
“Are you threatening me?” Petyr did not sound the least afraid. He was standing now, waiting for a response. She wished she would have put all the mushroom powder in the tea. She wished she would have drunk it herself.
Finally, he slowly approached her. Slowly as to avoid having Sansa fleeing if he moved too quickly. She anticipated his fingers grabbing her face, but as his hand slid between her shoulder blades before circling to the front of her neck, she trembled. He was paying close attention to every movement her face made, whether it was deliberate or not.
“But you know, I would always protect my daughter,” He leant in toward Sansa. “I would never let anyone else accuse you of trying to kill me.” What he was saying between lines was I won’t let anyone else tell on you but me, if that’s what I have to do .
His other hand grabbed hers, he took it to his lips.“What displeases me the most is not the poison”, he kissed her fingers, one by one, “it’s when you give me too much and I can’t feel you taking care of me.”
His hand on Sansa’s neck felt like it burned right through her. “I will stop. I promise. Let me marry whoever you want, but just let me go.” She closed her eyes, afraid a tear would fall.
“Oh darling.” The hand on Sansa’s neck travelled to hold her face, both his eyes opened in surprise. For a second he sounded almost sweet, the sudden change only made her more afraid. “I don’t want you to stop. In fact, I want you to continue.”
Sansa didn't like this, she didn’t know what he was planning anymore. She wanted to be a little bird to fly away. She was crying now.
“But,” He dried one of her tears with his thumb, his look changed to one of regret for a split second, but then he smiled. “Keeping me like this has a price my darling, and you have no other option but to pay it. Or kill me, if you feel like you can control Robert’s bannermen, the accounts of the Erye and those who would accuse you of patricide at bay. If there’s anyone else that can take you to Winterfell, then you can try.”
She realised suddenly what he was talking about, he not only wanted Sansa to have Winterfell for him, he wanted her too. “I can’t.” she said weakly.
“Oh, but you have to.” Littlefinger said as he softly stroked Sansa's cheekbone with his thumb and looked into her terrified eyes. “Everyone already thinks the Imp bedded you, so what do you have to lose? I’m not asking much for the price of keeping me weak and feeble.”
Even as Sansa attempted to distance herself from all of this, her thoughts straying, she was unable to do so. Littlefinger's warm fingers on her cheeks kept her grounded.
“You can keep me here, at your mercy, but you can’t fight Ser Lothor, can you?”
Her teary eyes flicked up to met his gaze. She drew in a short breath as his thumbs brushed against her lips. Anxiety started to climb up her chest.
He hummed, "How could I send you away?" Sansa's stomach flipped in an unpleasant way when he spoke to her as though she was an injured animal. She thought she had him helpless but turns out it was always the other way around.
“My sweet Sansa, don’t make me force you.”
Sansa wanted to scream he was already doing that. Even the Sky cells would be better than this, at least she would have the chance to escape those. But she couldn’t escape this. The Petyr she thought she had known was just a bait for her. He had never stopped acting, he had never let go.
“I'm assuming you are aware of what happens in a marriage bed.”
Sansa was tempted to resist, to force this man out of the room, to lock himself within, and to scream. She intended to murder Littlefinger and Petyr and the man she had thought he was. Perhaps there had only ever been one nasty greedy man hiding behind those eyes.
Instead, she turned around and let Petyr unlace her dress.
She took a deep breath before he pulled it off completely. The cool air brushes against her delicate skin. He caught her off-guard, forcing her backwards onto the bed to fall into the pillows, cradling her body to soften the blow.
Petyr moved away, leaving her on the bed, and began untying and tearing away at his own robes. Sansa glanced away, but she could hear the fabric rustling.
She felt ashamed, exposed, and humiliated. She opened her mouth to protest, but her ability to speak was taken away when Petyr's hand travelled up her thigh. He only touched her with the tips of his fingers, she felt like his fingers left a dirty stain over her skin.
Petyr then kissed her deeply, yet there was no sign of desperation. It was as though he knew that because Sansa was already trapped, he had all the time in the world to slowly rip her apart. Sansa was outraged by his confidence, which pervades every gesture and touch. He had a faint minty flavour, but the sweetness of the tea made her dizzy and she was helpless when she made a small resigned whimper before falling into the kiss. She wished the sweetness would choke his sour heart.
He caressed Sansa's waist; his fingers aren't quite long enough to entirely encircle it, but they're long enough to make Sansa feel small. His hands are like long claws pulling blood.
Then he touched her in places where no one has ever touched her before, which caught Sansa off guard. Her throat let out a pitiful whine, and she tried to conceal it by putting her palm over her lips but it was too late.
Petyr sighed into Sansa's mouth, sliding his hand across her jaw to cup her chin and pull her in closer. He pressed forward until she was on her back, permitting him to run his hand up her side and touch her breasts. Sansa's grip on his neck tightened, her fingers digging into the firm flesh. She wished she could choke him.
She begged him to stop with sad eyes from beneath her lashes, her eyes teary as she squirmed, but Petyr seized the opportunity to spread her thighs wider. She clenched her teeth, but she was kept in place by his hands, one of which circled into her hip bones while the other squirmed lower down.
She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her moan so she bit down her tongue when he rubbed his long fingers into her.
But Petyr noticed. “I want to hear you,” he said. She despised the way he said it, as if he was asking her to do something rather than forcing her to. She didn't let go of her tongue even when she was almost drawing blood so he had no option but to let go of the hand in her hip. He pushed the pad of his thumb down on Sansa's lower lip.
“Monster,” she mumbled around the fingers in her mouth. She bit down hard. Petyr hissed.
“Tell me, dear Sansa,” he pressed on her tongue harder to make her open her eyes. "Where would you go?" he mocked, pressing his fingers deeper into Sansa's body, forcing her to whimper. She could feel herself getting wetter, it was getting harder for her not to enjoy the unwelcomed intrusion. "You have no family to flee to. There is no home or kingdom you can return to. They’re all burnt or dead."
The distress was quickly replaced by bitterness and then sadness.
"You're far too spoiled to be a commoner, and even if you were, you'd be quickly captured by any outlaw. They would do much worse things than me. And if you were captured by a Lannister ally…”
She knew that was true so she shifted uncomfortably under him.
“You can't hold a sword, let alone fight.”
She forced herself to endure his mocking.
“You might be able to sell your body at one of my brothels, but none of those men could take you to Winterfell." He whispered into her ear, the heat of his breath curdling her brain. "None of them as Queen, at the very least."
Sansa set her jaw and did not answer. Actually, she hadn’t considered her possibilities if she somehow escaped his grasp, she hadn't thought about how alone she truly was.
Petyr was right, she really had nothing.
“You only have me,” Petyr whispered and kissed her cheek. “And soon, when the poison takes effect you can have relief. But now, let me have my part of the agreement.”
He called it agreement but it was just a way of coaxing her into becoming pliant under his claws.
Petyr smiled down at her, seconds before he pulled her up and twirled them around. Now he was on his back and Sansa was straddling him. She could feel his length and it made her sick.
She tried to force the words out, but it was as if her tongue didn't want to say them. "I can't…" She swallowed hard, hoping Petyr would hear them.
"Take your time," urged Petyr. Even though his words were kind, they proved dangerous, and the rough edges left a nasty taste in her mouth as she bitterly swallowed them. Not all the time in the world would make this any easier.
She swallowed hard once more until her nausea subsided sufficiently for her to move.
She carefully lifted herself by supporting her hands on Petyr's chest, her legs trembling. Petyr's hand slipped between her legs to rub at her. She tried not to pay attention to the wet sounds he was drawing off her body. Afterwards she was completely guided by Petyr's hand on her hip. Gravity did half the work for her.
The sensations were all off. Too hot, too wet, her body stretched taut to the point of breaking if she moved. Petyr's hand had returned to her thigh. His chest rose and fell quickly, his gaze fixed on Sansa's face.
She looked down at how their bodies were connected. It was odd to see it, causing an unpleasant, nauseating sensation in her stomach. This was not supposed to happen.
Sansa could not tolerate how composed Petyr still appeared to be. She was unable to stand the man anymore. She wanted to rip at Petyr's calmly cruel look to reveal the monster hidden inside and let everyone see the bastard below. But she was only a hostage in a place away from home and her own honour hangs on the thin thread of Petyr not revealing the truth about the poisonings.
Petyr hissed as she scratched at her chest. To feel Petyr almost bleeding underneath her fingernails is a mercy. While she would like to murder him, she can merely really hurt him either with her nails or the poison.
He was a coward even now, not even staining her hands to commit his own crimes and thinking that giving her some control and agency of her own abuse would feel like comfort.
It was not comfort, but it was better than nothing, she thought as she began to move. This time, she made no attempt to suppress her sobs. She almost fell on him after taking too much too quickly, and the hand that wasn’t clinging to Petyr's chest was now desperately clinging to the bedsheets.
Sansa already felt like she was about to lose it.
She was uncertain of how long she moved, every second dragging too long for her but as Petyr's fingers brushed against her again, a sense of release overtook her. She felt as though she would likely fall backwards if Petyr's hands weren't firm on her hips. She whimpered when Petyr drew her hips closer down, burying himself inside her.
She felt it trickle down her legs and she wanted to scream.
When Petyr kissed her temple she imagined cutting open his throat.
She pictured the blood that would flow as being crimson and as vividly coloured as the mushroom. She tried her best to picture the wonderful sound he would make upon collapsing. Perhaps she could push him down the mountain as he did with Lysa. She wanted to cut through his throat with her father's —her real father—sword.
She wished she still had Lady, Lord Petyr would be a nice supper for the direwolf.
•---------•
Sansa pulled the curtains of her window further open while squinting to reveal the dazzling stripe that the morning sun has painted over the blankets. Even when she stood half naked in the sunlight she doesn’t feel any warmer.
She didn’t know how she came back. She didn’t know who brought her back. She was glad she was back in her room.
It looked like nothing had changed. The Eyrie was silent.
The gods themselves were silent. She often considered praying, and on certain days when she felt very alone, she tried. She had learned, however, that no prayers were answered.