He does not turn to her when she bursts into the room. His eyes are fixed out the window, reflecting cold pale blue light. His mouth is a hard line. His back is straight and his collar is stiff.
"Have you heard the news?" She has allowed herself exuberance for the first time she can remember since she was a child leaving Winterfell. That was so, so long ago. If she'd stopped to think about it, she would have thought she'd forgot how to experience excitement. But in spite of that vast, joyless desert of time- or perhaps because of it- she is all agrin. Oblivious to the face of stone she cannot see. When he does not answer, she approaches and asks again. "Have you heard?" He is still silent. Now her brow knits slightly. If she is honest, she can feel that something is wrong. She's been able to for some time now, since they've been living at the Eyrie- she can feel his moods. She can feel him.
But she is not honest. Like a small child, determined to hold on to her glee against the weight of the world around her. And so she wills the worry out of herself and presses on: "Harry's family is going to host a tourney for the wedding! A whole tourney, just for us, with a joust and everything! He said there'll be a fest for five days, with knights from the Vale and the Reach and the Keep, and even some from Dorne, and across the Narrow Sea, and-"
"I've heard." The words are flat. They hang in the air for too many beats.
"Isn't… isn't that exciting?"
"It will be, yes." It is an obligation to say. Off balance, she creeps forward again toward the malachite grey of his longcoat. Her joyful words do not match the worried instability of her tone.
"There will be mummers, and feasts, and the great houses will bring us gifts just like-" She has nearly reached his back when he turns. It is sudden, and although she is taller than he, his presence dwarfs her. His eyes blaze. She shrinks back.
"What did you tell him about Lysa?"
"What? I don't know what you're-"
"Yes, you do."
She does.
"I didn't say anythi-"
"I've just spent a day cleaning up your mess, Sansa." The use of her true name startles her. No one has called her that in months. "What did you tell him about Lysa?"
She briefly considers lying to him, but thinks better of it. She's learned to fool any of them- all the players in this tower, in this kingdom, in this whole game. Any except him.
"I just… I told him that… that she would have pushed me through the Moondoor if she… if she could have."
"If she could have." There is silence.
"I only meant that-"
"Oh, I know what you meant." His grey-green stare finally releases her and he pushes past her shoulder, striding to the desk on the far side of the room. He faces away from her again and picks up a quill to write something. She discovers that it is even more painful to be dismissed by him than it is to be confronted.
"I'm sorry," her voice is small as she turns to follow him with her eyes.
"What does that sound like?"
"I'm sure he wouldn't say anythi-"
"What does that sound like?"
"... Like… like you…" She can barely whisper it. The weight of speaking the truth, even if no one but them knows it's the truth, frightens her. "...like you pushed her." The pen stops moving and he looks up at the wall in front of him.
"No. No, that's what a guilty mind would think. But what it sounds like, my dear-" He lets out a sigh of what sounds like anger, "is that you pushed her."
"Me? But I-"
"And, indeed, that is exactly how Lord Royce took it when your betrothed ran to tell on you like whining babe to his mother." The fact that Harry, the man she is set to wed herself to, would tattle on her about something so dire, so easily, does not sit well. But she will need to deal with that later on. The more pressing matter is this reprimand which she understands less and less.
"So… they didn't accuse you again?"
"No." He sounds impatient. She should have already got past this point.
"You defended me to them?" Now he wheels on her.
"Yes!" She's never seen this particular look of exasperation on his face before. His incredulity seems to say, 'how could you ask me such a thing?' But his mouth does not.
"Well, if it was such a burden, why didn't you just let me talk to them?" She is bordering indignance. What right has he to be so upset with her for something he'd chosen to do on her behalf?
"You think this is some sort of game?" He stalks toward her. "Do you think these people play at loyalty and honor?" She shakes her head.
"No, I know their words." As High as Honor. Everyone knows that.
"Do you know what they could have done to you if the idea that you pushed their beloved Lady of the Vale to her death had been allowed to fester?" It seems fairly obvious to her. She answers dryly, with the irreverence befitting a lectured teenage girl.
"I know, I know, the Moondoor." He is still. His eyes bore into her. She is petulant. "If it bothers you so much, why didn't just tell me to go deal with them?" Now his words are condescension: slow and deliberate, so that the stupid girl can follow them.
"Do you think I would take that chance?"
"What chance?"
"That you would fail. That they would not believe you. That you would misstep again."
"Oh, and then what? Your honor would be in question? You'd have to go find another imaginary child? What do you care whether I live or-"
He slaps her. It is quick as a whip, and sharp as one too. It takes her a moment to register what he's done, as an involuntary wetness springs into her eyes, followed by a burn on her cheek. She touches the place his hand touched with a finger and looks down at it, to see whether it has bled. It has not.
"Shut up," he hisses. She keeps her eyes lowered. "You thoughtless child. Do not presume to tell me the worth of things. And never speak to me like that."
Her gaze shoots back to him, ready to be angry, or victimized, or- anything but what she is when she sees him: stunned.
She had expected his eyes to be narrowed with accusation, but they are wide. Intense, and with no contempt therein. There is, instead, a look of desperation. As if he struggles with something inside himself, pleads with it, and loses. He doesn't mean never speak to him disrespectfully, she realizes. He means…. "You have seen some hardships, and now you think you know how the game is played. You think you can play it carelessly with no consequence. That you can dance on the line and not fall over the edge. But you are only being foolish, and reckless."
She starts to speak, to argue, but he does not let her begin a word. "You happen to be in possession of something very precious to me. Do not jeopardize it again." This perplexes her. She searches him.
"In possession? ...Of what?"
"Your life."
She does not understand at first. She thinks her vision must be swimming from the slap. But after a moment, she realizes: He is shaking. It is slight enough that it is almost imperceptible, but he is.
She blinks at him, as things begin to swim toward clarity. He is angry, yes. Insulted. Frustrated. But these are all secondary to the truth he is terrible at hiding. He had been frightened. It is very strange to see- she has never witnessed fear in him before. But frightened of what?
Does he really stand to gain so much from her that the scheming lord would be more rattled at the prospect of her loss than he was at his own trial? And why this strange show of mangled emotion?
"I didn't mean to-"
"Do not jeopardize it again." When he repeats himself this time, his voice falters a hair. His sternness breaks and she notices how glassy his eyes are. Dilated. Moist.
Oh.
It isn't a show. She realizes, as she stares at him, exactly what is so strange: The mask is lifted. Littlefinger is completely absent, forgotten. Something- maybe this place, maybe her company, maybe her mother's death, who knows?- has changed something in him. She thought she'd seen the man beneath before, but now she knows those were only glimpses. For perhaps the first time, she is speaking only to Petyr. No tricks, no shadows, no other presence. It is as if she is meeting him for the first time.
The child in Winterfell would not have understood what she was witnessing. The girl at King's Landing wouldn't have cared. But what she's become, having learned the truth of the world, of cruelty, of loyalty, of what it means to be strong or kind or dangerous or weak- she knows. And she knows that she must tell him she does. He must know that she is here with him, in this moment, or Petyr will be lost forever.
"I won't," she intones softly, barely a whisper. "I'm sorry." His pupils train on her, widening slightly. He was not expecting her to apologize. She has his focus.
She reaches out two fingers of her right hand, slowly. It is as if in a dream. They light on his face and he is still. "I promise." She carefully brushes his skin once, with tentative caution, like a child reaching out to stroke a wild, unbroken stallion. When he does not flinch away, the pads of her fingers press, so lightly, on the swell of his cheek. The indentation causes the pool of moisture in the corner of his eye to swell. A small drop finds the edge, tumbling over and gliding down his face. She watches it fall, pulling her fingers back from its path. Then she moves. She leans forward effortlessly, and catches the droplet in soft pink as she presses the slightest kiss there on his cheek. His tear is a tepid moment of salt. She lets it saturate on her lips for a heartbeat before abandoning his warm skin.
When her eyes flick to his, she finds an indescribable emotion in them. She cannot tell fear from shame from adoration- she guesses that neither can he. There is a twisting cacophony of pain for him in her chest, and a stone in her throat she cannot swallow away. He reluctantly admits twenty years of crushing loneliness in a long, ragged breath.
With less measured distance than she'd planned on, she leans forward again- this time to a different destination. His lips are slightly open when she finds them, and at first he does not respond at all. She closes her mouth over his, and lets the simple contact linger. Then she takes a breath against him, and presses in. It is not the ravenous, sudden kiss he'd given her the day he'd killed Lysa. It is not the lusting grasps he's stolen since. This is a closeness of two deep scars, both exposed far too quickly and harshly to ugly life, but still virginal children to the caring touch.
When he does stir against her, it is as slowly as she had done. It feels as though they are under water. Unbidden, the rush of her own pain- of grief and hopelessness and fear pushed down and shut up for so long- grips her lungs. It is the swell of remembering what trust, home or love feel like- and how deprived of these she has been. His is the first honest touch she has felt since she was with her family, three lifetimes ago. She trembles as she inhales the moist air he exhales, the simple humanity of it a sacred exchange. Humanity. That is something she's forgotten to remember. It isn't until she feels the burning heat on her cheeks that she realizes she is weeping.
The slow dance of their mouths together becomes fuller and stronger with each pull and sweep. She isn't sure whether he's even noticed her tears, or what he thinks of them if he has. He is remarkably gentle, more so than he has ever been before- he does not push or demand. He does not rush, he does not take. He simply offers, responds, receives with a kind of quiet rapture.
There is no sound but the movement of fabric, the drag of his beard on her tender skin, the swallow of saltwater, the gasp of breathlessness. She wants to stay in this moment forever. She's not sure how she'll survive when it's over. But with each passing beat, a passion builds which she knows she cannot take back. If she lets the scale tip into lust, it cannot be returned. The magic will be lost. And so, with much effort, she stills her lips. He obeys. Her last press against him is chaste, closed, stoic.
As she removes herself from the treasured heat of his honesty, she watches his still face, his eyes closed. It is caught between peace and agony- his eyelashes are heavy with wetness. His cheeks are flushed, his breath fights him. He looks like a child, she thinks. He is perfect like this.
Then his eyes flash open and his gaze goes dark. It is clear what he wants. There is arousal and greed and craft. The moment is passed; Littlefinger has re-entered the room. That old discomfort and fear of him returns, and she knows she is right to feel it- he is profoundly dangerous and cannot be trusted.
Sansa bows her head just slightly, turns wordlessly and takes her leave. As she puts the room behind her and descends the staircase outside, she can't help a small smile. She has met Petyr, and if it takes a day, or a week, or a month, he will come back. She knows he will. When he does step outside again, she will be here, waiting. She will show him such tenderness and kindness that he will not be able to stay away for long. And good thing, too- after all, he's the only one who can save her from Littlefinger.