He dined as frequently as he could with the high lords and ladies of King's Landing. It wouldn't do to miss the gossip, dry as it was, nor would it do to make gossip of his own with his absence. Not that he minded the wagging of tongues; he'd rather the court ladies speak of his scandalous brothel dalliances – which were hardly shocking, considering their frequency - than of his true activities.

King Robert did so enjoy his feasts, his rich, sweet summer wines, and even moreso enjoyed the beautiful ladies who dressed in their finest to attend his splendid suppers. Littlefinger could care less what they wore; a title and a plot of land required no lace and corset.

Truth be told, the feasts bored him. The company was poor, the gossip a cold serving of yesterday's hash. He was typically seated with the King's Council, and he tired of seeing them day in and out and then again at mealtimes, especially this particular feast. It marked the arrival of King Robert and his new Hand, Eddard Stark. Petyr grimmaced at the man's name, but was determined to not let him spoil his supper. The company would do that well enough itself.

Pycelle was always a terrible bore, Renly was in one of his moods. And Varys picked at his food with white powdered fingers like some kind of albino carrion bird. It was enough to make a man lose his appetite.

The courses passed, heavily spiced mutton after flaky plum pastries, rich parsnip soups and salads of sweetgrass and dried fruits from the east. He barely touched them and only pretended to listen to the others' chattering. He let his eyes wander the halls as the dessert course was served. Fresh Dornish cherries, red and plump as a young brideling's cheeks. At last, a dish he could relish.

His gaze fell on the Stark table. Yes, there was Ned, dull and determinedly stupid as ever. Members of his personal guard surrounded him, as well as two children. Was that his son? Bran, was it? No, it was the youngest girl, Arya. Such a shame, the girl possessed none of her mother's graces.

But there, pale as a saucer of fresh cream, innocent as a spring lamb, copper hair more vibrant than even his most vivid of dreams could conjure, was Sansa. It was as if a mirror were reflecting an image of her mother twenty years past, yet far more beautiful. His mouth quirked in appreciation, his fingers longing to stroke her perfect pink lips.

Petyr knew his gaze was quite forward, and still no one paid him any mind. They were so busy with their own trifling conversations, whose keeps were flourishing, whose beds were filled with whom, that they didn't notice as he plucked one very ripe cherry from his dish. Holding the plump fruit between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled it delicately back and forth as he continued to watch Sansa Stark from across the room.

And just then, as if sensing his gaze, Sansa looked up from her plate and right at him, her eyes a deep blue, bluer than a Qarthian wizard's lips. He raised an eyebrow to her in greeting, bringing the cherry to his lips, letting his tongue flick out to give it a long, languid lick. She quickly looked away, but not before the slightest flush prettied her cheeks.

He devoured the fruit with a small, satisfied smile. Her mother, too, had tasted of cherries.