Chapter 1: These Games We Play

"Sansa Stark is the key to the North. And if Littlefinger marries her, he'll have the key in his pocket."

He sits at his desk. The crackle of the scrolls and paper and ink under his hands. There is the soft mewing heard from his girls in the background, and pungent smell of incense creeps into his nostrils. He crumples a letter in his fist, his fingernails drawing blood in his palm. He gazes at his cup of wine; it is illuminated and glowing from the embers of the fire. The reflection of light casting blind-spots in his vision, and sometimes he wishes he could dive deep into the black nothingness...then there would be no more need for games.

A knock at his door stirs him and he recomposes himself, buttoning his doublet and re-pinning his mockingbird that perches on his collarbone.

"Who is it?"

"The Queen Reagent." a cold, muffled voice of a guard answers from the other side of the massive oak doors.

Petyr straightens. In a hurry he gathers his papers and stacks them as neat as possible, holding a small cloth to his hand trying to stop the blood. He swiftly returns to his seat, always the expert at composure.

She enters, surrounded by her usual gaggle of guards.

"Leave us." She motions them to the door. Needless to say, he is very surprised to see her.

"You are the last person I'd imagined visiting my chambers so late in the evening." he says, a hint of a flirtation on his lips, his green-grey eyes gleaming at her, the reflection of the candles in his irises.

She remains standing, asserting her power and gazing down at him. Her features display her mild appreciation of his comment.

"While that notion rather repels me, Lord Baelish, this was the only way I knew of having the most privacy."

He raises his eyebrows in question.

"I have a proposition for you. Remember, it seems like ages ago now, when Ned Stark and his daughters first game to King's Landing, you asked me a certain question about his eldest?"

"Which you made very clear would never happen in my lifetime...or the next." He replies, remembering the embarrassment of that encounter. It was not one of his most intelligent inquiries, and he can feel the hotness creeping up his collar, but he refuses it to be shown in his face.

"It seems my father has lost his interest in her. With Robb Stark dead, Winterfell burned to ashes, and your marriage to Lysa Arryn so abruptly ended," She pauses and her steel blue eyes glance at him knowingly, "Sansa Stark needs to be gotten rid of, wouldn't you agree?"

"You wish to see her married to a Lord of meager substance."

She sits, boredom creeping into her eyes.

"It would require you to leave King's Landing when the wedding is over. You would renounce your position as master of coin and your seat at the small council, and go live out the rest of your days in the Vale, or throwing your coin away at Haarenhaal..."

She puffs in annoyance, "Gods, I don't really care. As long as you and Sansa Stark are as far away from court as possible."

He understands "court" to mean Joffrey. There can be no other reason for Cersei coming to him in the middle of the night, so eager to secretly hatch this plan after so thoroughly letting her feelings known on the subject only a few months got to her, Varys perhaps or the Tyrells. Maybe he had missed a bird hiding in the darkness. It could be Cersei just sniffing him out. Either way, it didn't matter. This was a tainted proposition that stunk something foul. It was bound to haunt him in the future, but those intelligent blue eyes and Tully hair came to mind and somehow he couldn't refuse.

"Done." He said, the candlelight glimmering in his eyes, but they held no expression.

She was watching him. Her lips were pushed down hard into a disgusted frown, her brow creased, the slight start of her face aging. The expression made her look older than her nine and twenty years.

But her eyes gave her away. They danced with triumph.

"Aha! You know that we thought about marrying her off to my Imp brother. Thought to keep her in the family, but you know how young boys can be when they tire of their ladies in court. He couldn't bear to have his used goods spoiling his chances with Margaery Tyrell, yet the idea of her in union with the Uncle he despises he disliked even more."

She means this to hurt and embarrass him. She wants him to feel degraded, having to be married to a ruined woman, and by an infantile, wormy Lannister no less, only to be outchosen by an Imp. It's only a brief moment. His eyes turn dark, and he drops his head gazing at his papers on his desk. His mouth twitches in discomfort. It is his best attempt at looking hurt,

"I am grateful, your grace." He says earnestly.

She smiles at his discomfort, her mouth resembling Joffrey's in the most unpleasant way,

"I must say, your response was much more eager than Lady Sansa's. I told her the wedding would take place tomorrow, and she was choking back tears. Pity... those big blue eyes of hers were set on Loras." A hearty laugh escapes her.

He is surprised by this. He was the last to know. He's never the last to know. He let's the disappointment crawl across his features. She revels in it.

"Again, I am truly grateful, Your Grace. I am in your debt." He says, acknowledging her obvious pleasure.

"That is the idea, Lord Baelish."

She leaves without another word, her skirts softly moving about her. The clash of the guards armor following her down the hall and out into the courtyard. When all is quiet he relaxes in his chair, sighing a deep breath of satisfaction. There is always satisfaction in being relieved of Cersei's company. Removing the mockingbird from its perch and unbuttoning his doublet he can no longer contain the chuckle that escapes his lips. It is just too fun sometimes, these games that we play.