Author's Note: Hey, this is my first GOT fanfic. I've never really written any kind of romance drama before, so I thought I'd give it a shot featuring Sansa and Petyr Baelish. The story begins at the Eyrie, but will deviate from the original novels soon in. I hope you all enjoy; writing introductory chapters are always the hardest, so I hope you bear with me! Thanks, and any feedback will be appreciated.
Sansa Stark suddenly woke up in a cold sweat, the frosty air of the Eyrie clinging to her face. It had been happening frequently of late; plagued by dreams of Winterfell and the nightmares of King's Landing, Sansa usually struggled to get a full night of sleep. Tonight was no exception, but the nightmare of the early hours had taken on a new form.
Just days ago, Sansa had watched in horror as her deranged aunt, Lysa Arryn, had finally succumbed to manic depression, tossing herself out of the Moon Door in a fit of madness and misplaced jealousy over the object of her husband's new affections.
At least, thought Sansa, that's the official story.
In reality, Lysa had been murdered by that same husband, keen to rid himself of his demented wife, whom he'd married only for political reasons. Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, whatever you'd care to call him, had murdered another human being without so much as a second thought. The look on his face as he'd pushed Lysa…
No. She deserved it. She tried to kill me. It could just as easily have been me lying in bits on the mountainside right now.
Sansa genuinely thought she'd been a goner. As Lysa had held her over the precipice, facing down into the abyss, raging maniacal thoughts into her ear, Sansa knew there was no way she could have escaped, she knew she was about to die. Until Petyr came in to save her, that is. Since then, in Sansa's nightmares, she'd been the one falling, the one about to die. Plummeting through open space into the great beyond, waking up just before she met her makers.
If the Gods exist, that is.
Sansa found herself becoming less religious as she grew older; cynicism and scepticism now ran deep in her veins – though this wasn't necessarily a bad thing, she considered. The slaughter of her family, bethrothal to the sadistic Joffrey, tortured by his repulsive mother, sold off like livestock…marriage to Tyrion Lannister had been a highlight in comparison. In fact, she found herself missing the Imp somewhat. Certainly, nobody could accuse him of manipulating her, using her, humiliating her. Sansa felt ashamed that she'd been so ashamed to be married to him, that there'd been a time – not too long ago – when she'd considered him an embarrassment to the House of Lannister. How sad it was that the beautiful Queen Cersei had to put up with such a whoremongering, stunted cripple for a brother.
How stupid I was.
Through the slit windows in her room, Sansa – or "Alayne Stone", as she now had to think of herself – could still vaguely make out the moon, though the darkness of the night had given way to a dark pink horizon. In spite of everything, she felt a little elated. It was a new day; nothing had gone wrong yet, nobody and nothing was there to disturb her, to remind her of the further trials that she would most certainly have to endure. She was not entirely sure what Lord "Protector of the Vale" Baelish had in mind for her, but it seemed a safe bet to say that she wasn't going to be skulking around the Eyrie posing as his illegitimate daughter for the rest of her life.
She dressed quickly, pulling on a simple grey gown with a pale blue sash, and tying up her hair with a ribbon of the same colour. She'd had to dye her hair a very dark brown which did not suit her at all, but under the circumstances Sansa found herself surprisingly at ease playing the unassuming part of a nobleman's bastard. Her room was sparsely furnished, but Petyr has kindly arranged for a table and chair to be brought in, along with a number of books which she'd been encouraged to hide under her bed; perhaps he didn't want the servants getting the wrong (or right) idea about his newly-discovered "daughter".
Sansa had never been much of a reader back at Winterfell; fiction in her eyes was for children, and she'd seen no point in cultivating her knowledge of history, politics or whatever. Her future was going to involve bearing children for some lord or other, and not a lot else. In fact, the other girls around her had actively discouraged reading, saying that a young man would not want a wife who appeared more learned than he. Back in the days where pleasing a "young man" was Sansa's main occupation, she had needed no convincing. However, during her time as a prisoner of Joffrey, Cersei and King's Landing, Sansa began to find that books could have an extraordinary way of making the world less painful, if only for a little while. It was a lesson she'd taken from her husband, of all people.
She was currently reading a tome entitled A History of the North, which she'd so far found rather enlightening. It had been written several years ago by a nobleman named Hother Umber, who had subsequently served in the rebellion of King Robert Baratheon. Sansa recognised the surname as belonging to one of the Noble Houses of the North, so the book was clearly written with some bias. It nonetheless caused a bit of a stir in her belly whenever a member of her own family – always depicted as "gracious", "humble", "mighty" etc. – was referred to (one line – "the current ruler, Lord Rickard, and his two delightful infant sons, Brandon and Eddard" brought quite a few tears in particular).
I doubt the epilogue will be accurate, when I get to it.
But she'd been surprised by how much she learned. To her, the North had always been more of a concept; a wild expanse of people her family had ruled over from her own little cloistered world, Winterfell. The people, the customs, the heritage…she just hadn't known any of that. She found herself thinking what a shame it was that the kingdoms had all been united, and that they'd probably have been better off left alone. She found herself wondering why Petyr had specifically encouraged her to read all this.
Engrossed in the book, she only realised that the castle started to come alive when she heard a number of footsteps directly outside her door, probably a servant's. A good thing too, as she suddenly felt rather hungry; nightmares were frightening, but they also seemed to take up a lot of energy.
Sansa stepped into the corridor to find it empty, the sound of footsteps fading away. She hurried to descend the nearest spiral staircase on her way to the dining hall, knowing Petyr would be waiting for her (curiously, whatever time or occasion it was, he always seemed to be there first). Crossing the atrium – she was always dismayed by how utterly bare it was, in comparison to Winterfell – Sansa thrust open the doors to the dining hall and sure enough, sitting poised and elegant at the end of the table was Lord Baelish, looking awfully smarmy for a recent widower.
"Alayne", he beckoned to her, "you look lovely this morning." He gave her a knowing wink and a smirk, which used to irritate Sansa but which she now found strangely endearing.
"Father," she replied, "Sorry to have kept you waiting, I was reading."
"Reading?" Petyr's pinched, dark face broke out into what seemed to be a (rare) genuine smile. "My dear, I'm glad you're taking notice of me at last."
Sansa sat down on at the table, adjacent to Petyr, grinning in spite of herself. "I always take notice of you, Father. Where would I be without you?"
Well, that's true enough.
"Quite. Bread and cheese?" He offered Sansa a plate of steaming rye bread and freshly cut cheese, along with a mug of warm milk. Sansa glanced at one of the kitchen maids crossing the room, a stout girl not much older than herself, who eyeballed her back rather reproachfully. Apparently this maid wasn't used to going out of her way to keep food warm, not for bastards at any rate.
"You do spoil me, you devil." This came out rather more flirtatiously than she'd intended, and she found herself flushing, going even more crimson as Petyr raised an eyebrow to her. She could have died on the spot.
I do NOT have a fancy for Petyr Baelish!
He was so manipulative, so coy and…frustrating. She always looked forward to seeing him, but felt always relieved when he was gone. He was used to messing with young girls' feelings, she reminded herself. Her mind suddenly went back to Lysa's outburst before her "fall"; to the child of Petyr that Lysa claimed to have been carrying as a teenager, only to have been tricked into aborting by her father (Sansa's own grandfather), Hoster Tully.
Any nascent feelings for Lord Baelish were immediately buried, and she found herself with a diminished appetite. Her rosy-cheeked embarrassment turned into a red rush of anger.
"Alayne, are you alright?" he asked, peering at her curiously and leaning in to touch her arm, which she instinctively jerked back.
"Fine, I'm just…fine."
"Good, because," he inhaled importantly, before reclining back in his chair, "I have a proposition for you." He smirked at her, a greedy look in his eye.
Oh. Shit. Oh God.
"W-what is it?"
Petyr frowned, reading her mind perfectly. He lowered his voice, to make sure none of the staff could hear. "Is that what you think of me, Sansa? Is that what you think I'm here for?" He sounded genuinely offended. "Because if it is, let me tell you – I've run a brothel. Far more beautiful and experienced women than you are available for those kind of services. The daughter of Catelyn Tully will not be used as any kind of whore as long as I'm here, especially not by me."
Rather moved, but ever so slightly stung by the 'more beautiful' part, Sansa could only reply quietly, "Thank you, Petyr, I'm…very sorry."
Her use of his first name seemed to cheer him up. "Excellent. Anyway, finish your toast and we'll be out of here. Out of the way of prying eyes…even walls have ears, you know." He wiggled his own, without touching them, for comedic effect, and Sansa laughed at the sight.
"I never knew you had such a talent."
"I have many that I hope you never learn of." A pause followed.
Hmm. Well. Awkward.
"Take my arm," Lord Baelish extended his elbow to Sansa, as she lifted herself from her seat. Arm in arm, the two left the dining hall, and walked through the atrium to a pair of double doors which opened up onto an outside courtyard. Stationed at the doors were two guards, draped in armour and carrying a shield of the crest of House Arryn, a diving falcon and a moon.
Symbolic, when you think of Aunt Lysa.
The guards opened the doors at one glance from their new master, and Sansa and Petyr took the open air gladly. It was cold, but a "nice cold" that clutched at Sansa's face and made her feel somehow cleaned of the stuffiness of the Eyrie. They walked for a while down the barely cultivated pathways, beyond the snow-topped hedges and plants until they reached a curved white bench – the shape of a crescent moon – dead in the centre. The two sat down, utterly alone for the first time in many weeks.
"Stunningly beautiful, isn't it?" Petyr asked, "Like a winter wonderland."
"Winterfell is a winter wonderland," Sansa replied curtly, "here it's just…eerie and strange. No life at all. Like a haunted house."
Petyr laughed and patted Sansa on the knee, rather unnecessarily. "Yes," he turned to face her, "the Eyrie is eerie…." He stared off into the distance for a few seconds, before seeming to snap back to his senses. "Anyway, down to business."
Sansa sighed. "What business is this?"
Petyr raised his eyebrows. "My dear, you sound almost disappointed."
"Well," she snapped, "tell me what it is you want from me." The irritation of a few minutes ago had returned. "I'm tired of being a pawn in some game, I-"
"Shh," Petyr cut her off by placing his finger on her lips. "Don't worry, it's only for a little while longer. You're right; you've been a pawn long enough. This is not what I wanted for you, none of it. But this is the situation we find ourselves in, and there are some times when…we just have to be grateful to still be alive, do we not?"
Laying on the survivor's guilt. And it's working.
"What," said Sansa, "is the 'business' this time? Whatever is it, I'm sure it's not so terrible I can't handle it."
In an instant, Petyr's wistful look had disappeared, to be replaced with one of undisguised triumph.
"The business," he replied, linking his fingers through hers, "is marriage."