Disclaimer: All the characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
This fic wouldn't exist without the support and help of my fantastic beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, that's why this work is dedicated to her.
In this story, Sansa is eighteen and she has only one brother: Robb.
For this first chapter, there's a warning for suicidal thoughts and violence against women. Don't read this if you're not comfortable with these themes.
The void tempted her; the white-stone guardrail wouldn't be an obstacle, and thirty feet below, asphalt would welcome her, give her the quick death she yearned for. She would have black pillows on her deathbed. Sansa Stark didn't know people who had committed suicide and she was sure it was a sin, yet her faith had been put to the test, lately. She didn't pray anymore, she didn't go to the church. She didn't go anywhere, actually. The large balcony overlooking the busy street, the other one with a view of the back alley and the gorgeous room she had been given were the only places she would visit. She couldn't even lock herself in: bolts don't exist in brothels. So there she was, forced to stay in the large, beautiful bedroom with silk wall hangings of peach and cream-white and a massive four-poster bed, reminding her of her new social status.
Two years ago, things were quite different though and she had convinced herself she would taste the perfect life Edith Wharton's heroines lived in New York; she would have a big outstanding mansion opening onto Central Park, wear the finest clothes and go to receptions and garden-parties. She would belong to the best circles.
For a sixteen-year-old girl born and raised in Saint Paul, Minnesota, the prospect of moving to New York City had been thrilling. New York meant all she had ever dreamed of: hustle and bustle in the streets, incredible parties and a different way of life. Even if her family was prominent in Saint Paul, with her father's bank and her elder brother's hydroelectric power plant, living in New York would propel her in a new and exciting world.
The day Robert Baratheon had come to visit Eddard, her father, his reputation as a successful banker preceded him: he suggested that Eddard and the group he ruled make an alliance. No one would resist them, he had said. It was the only way for Eddard's bank to become more than the most popular bank in Minnesota: their future group would have customers from the Canadian border to the Atlantic. However, Eddard had to move to New York City, because banks couldn't ignore the stock exchange anymore and because everything would be more convenient.
Her father needed to be persuaded, but Robert Baratheon was good at convincing people. Sansa remembered him sitting in their blue dining room at the end of the dinner, putting aside her mother's precious china plates of blue and gold and gesturing over the white starched tablecloth. Robert Baratheon, with his tall and massive figure had something so reassuring Sansa couldn't help smiling when he was around. He knew how to make her father laugh and she immediately loved him for that reason.
Robert Baratheon had other plans: brokering a marriage between Sansa and his son Joffrey, who coveted the seat of governor of New York state. Joffrey needed a wife and she had just made her debut in Saint-Paul; Robert suggested all the Stark family – except her brother Robb who had to stay to manage his power plant – moved to New York. He promised Sansa and her mother Catelyn that his wife Cersei and his daughter Myrcella would take them to their friends' houses.
He promised the girl a new life, much more exciting that what she had known so far and, in the end, it was Sansa who persuaded her parents, begging and coaxing them like she did when she was eight and asked them for a new doll. Her father was always weak when she made her 'pretty please' face; he yielded, closing his eyes and puckering up as if he had eaten a sour cherry. At that moment, Sansa was hopping up and down with impatience, without understanding why he was so reluctant and what Eddard Stark, a well-known banker, feared so much.
The expression she had read on his face still haunted her, two years later. Her heart in her throat, she observed the urban landscape plunged into semi-darkness as the sun went down; over there, on the left, there was a large red brick house she wished she could forget.
At first, their stay in New York was in accordance with her expectations: she visited the city with Cersei and Myrcella, her eyes widening in front of the large avenues and the theaters. She flirted with Joffrey. She spent hours in the Red Mansion, the large and lavish house the Baratheons possessed on 5th Avenue. At that time, the fact that Joffrey Baratheon was not the charming prince she had imagined and sometimes treated her with an unexpected rudeness didn't matter, even after their engagement; when she was sad, she just had to stride along the large streets and to watch the passers-by hurrying in Grand Central Station or down any subway entrance to regain her composure.
Whenever she came back home, she would stop at her father's office to tell him what she had done or to show him the new dress she had bought, but Eddard Stark looked anxious; with a furrowed brow, he contemplated the papers displayed on his desk. He began to talk about the local mafia and the bootleggers. Month after month, the creases on his forehead deepened, until Robert Baratheon died.
The rich banker ate and drank too much: everyone knew he couldn't live to be a hundred and, in Sansa's eyes, he was old enough to die, yet there was something that made her uncomfortable with Robert's death, especially when her parents began to whisper about it at night, when they were alone in the dining room and thought she didn't listen. When they talked about bootlegging, election fraud and corruption, she understood Robert's death was nowhere near natural.
Catelyn and Eddard Stark were on their way to the police precinct when they had a car accident. People reported that their chauffeur, Henry, was drunk but she didn't believe it; Henry worked for her family since Robb's birth and he didn't drink alcohol because his own father was a drunkard. Only someone who doesn't know Henry can make up such a story.
Immediately after her parents' death, Cersei Baratheon told Sansa she could live with them all in the Red Mansion, but it sounded like an order rather than an invitation. Catelyn and Eddard Stark's funeral took place in Robb's absence and no one told her where her brother was nor why he couldn't make it. Sansa cried her eyes out but she didn't know yet what kind of ordeal awaited her.
Since her arrival, on a sunny afternoon of May, two years before, what she enjoyed most were her wanderings in New York: she had explored one area after another, she had raised her gaze to watch the buildings, her gloved hand holding her hat. Cersei made it clear the day she moved in the Red Mansion: Sansa couldn't leave the house without her or Joffrey and it would be better if she stayed in her room; thus the gorgeous house on 5th Avenue became her jail.
Her daily routine was either gloomy or terrifying; the good days, when Joffrey and Cersei ignored her, she shut herself away in her room, listening to Allegri's Miserere. Her father's phonograph and his collection of 78 rpm were all she had left. This sound recording was Eddard's favorite and whenever she listened to the two choirs answering each other, she felt like he was still by her side. On the bad days, Joffrey deployed a wealth of imagination to humiliate her and sometimes asked one of his men to beat her.
Leaving the balcony where she stood, she slowly walked to the phonograph, gingerly took the shellac 78 rpm her father loved so much then placed it on the turntable before lowering the tonearm so that the stylus brushed the glossy surface of the record. Once she heard the singers' voices, plaintive and serene at the same time, the ugly world she lived in disappeared. Closing her eyes, she fancied herself in Saint Paul, in the library where her father used to relax after a hard day. She had been happy there, even if she had ignored it at the time. Happy and loved and free to do what I wanted.
As soon as they had flooded in the room, the voices shushed and she opened her eyes again. Nothing had changed: she was stuck in the splendid bedroom Petyr Baelish had given her, one week ago.
After her parents' funeral, when she realized she was trapped with Cersei and Joffrey, she wondered why they didn't just let her go. She got her answer when Cersei, supported by a bunch of lawyers, asked her to sign documentation. It said Sansa renounced her parents' inheritance; she understood Cersei was taking over the bank Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark had created, in all likelihood to pay for Joffrey's election campaign.
She refused to sign anything and Cersei asked the lawyers to leave them alone. She then showed Sansa a newspaper cutting from the Saint Paul Dispatch; the snippet related how a large part of Robb's power plant had been damaged by fire, five days ago.
"It could happen in your parents' estate, next time," Cersei warned her. "I've heard your brother still lives there."
"I want to talk to him," Sansa begged. "Please, let me talk to Robb."
The blond woman she once thought to be her friend looked down at her, silent.
"If I sign this documentation, I want to go back to Minnesota."
"I'm afraid you're not in a position to ask anything," Robert's widow replied coldly. "Sign this, and your dear brother will live."
Cersei gave her the documentation with a fountain pen and she had no other choice than to comply.
In the Red Mansion, she had an overview of the Baratheon activities: now she understood that the numerous men Robert had presented her as body guards who took care of his family's safety were in fact hatchet men. Blackmailing people, like she had done with Sansa, was only one of Cersei's many ways to make sure her son would be the next governor. Her family, the Lannisters, moved in and Sansa soon understood that their wealth was based on numerous fields, bootlegging being the most profitable of all.
In Saint Paul, many people – including Eddard – said that the federal government did little to enforce the Volstead Act which prohibited the sale of alcohol, but to Cersei's great displeasure, her own brother-in-law, Stannis Baratheon, was a member of the Coast Guard Office. A few days after Sansa renounced to her inheritance, an uncommon nervousness took hold of the men who worked for the Red Mansion. The morning after, she heard a shootout had happened on a beach, in New Jersey, between bootleggers and police force. Bootleggers had managed to escape, but they had lost most of their shipment.
Sansa was reading the newspaper, trying to give meaning to what she witnessed in the Red Mansion when Joffrey told her her presence wasn't necessary anymore. He was now engaged to Margaery Tyrell, the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, and he explained to Sansa she would be welcome in one of the brothels his treasurer, Petyr Baelish, owned in Manhattan.
When she thought about it a week later, she recalled few details of her last meeting with Joffrey; she cried so much that it was all a blur. She begged, knelt in front of him, she even believed for a while it was some trick Joffrey had made up to torture her, before telling her it was a jape. But it was no jape: a housemaid was filling a trunk with her belongings and two of the Kettleblack brothers escorted her out of the Red Mansion. The thought of Catelyn's reaction if she could see her at that moment overwhelmed Sansa. Shame or sorrow weren't enough to express what she felt: becoming a whore meant decay. All her mother's efforts to raise her as a well-bred young lady would be wrecked and her family's honor shattered.
Thus, she was on her balcony, as the night fell on New York, filling the air with a mix of odors: onions, grease and smoke. Disgusting. Later on, there would be men singing and shouting in the streets. Hoarse or high-pitched, she wouldn't enjoy their voices, however: she had a guest, tonight, a customer who was about to arrive. She shivered in her flimsy dress and the contact of the smooth fabric brought back the pain.
When she had arrived in the four-stories building where two dozens ladies entertained men, Petyr Baelish had told her she wouldn't work as a prostitute to begin with. She would be a private dancer for a month or two, until he found some patron to whom he could sell her maidenhood. By then, she was supposed to welcome her customers in her bedroom and to dance for them between her large bed and the balcony.
Two nights before, a fat man had been her first customer. At first, the fear he read in her eyes pleased the man. "A true maiden" he said. Then, when she adamantly refused to dance for him, he became mad. He beat her back with his leather belt, before forcing her to perform what he had paid for. Once he was gone, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed; she didn't know one could feel so desperate. She decided to call him 'Pig' as a pointless revenge, but it didn't soothe her.
The madam, a Russian woman in her thirties named Peitho, came to her room, tried to comfort her and applied ointment on her sore back. Peitho ruled the brothel when Baelish was not there; and though she was the one who had opened the door to the fat man, Sansa had no one to turn to, and she felt grateful for the comfort the woman gave her.
The next day brought another customer and this one was different. Or perhaps Sansa was different already; what she had endured had made her submissive. He came from Russia, was an acquaintance of Peitho and his activities remained secret. He was talkative, though, praised her beauty and called her "my sweet sister". The Russian man was almost kind, compared to the fat man, but when he left, she realized the end of the following day would only bring another customer and she had no way out. There was only the brothel and more customers on the horizon.
She went back to the balcony, grabbed the guardrail and sat on it, looking at the city. Far away, there was the Red Mansion, almost invisible in the first hours of night. She had escaped from Joffrey's clutches, but every night, there was a different Joffrey knocking at her door.
When she was younger, back in Saint Paul, her friend Jeyne Poole had told her once there were whores in a certain area of the town and she had explained Sansa what they were supposed to do. She remembered the shock she had felt. Whores would most likely go to Hell after their death, because of their behavior. But this is Hell. Hell can't be worse than that. So where am I to go when I die? When Sansa had arrived in Grand Central Station two years ago, she had marveled at the sight of the station her favorite novel, The House of Mirth, described in the opening scene. She had just forgotten that, Lily Bart, like most of Edith Wharton's heroines, ended up alone and unhappy. So unhappy she only found relief in her own death. Should I jump before it is too late?
A soft knock on her door made her shiver; she tried to regain her composure and quickly came back inside the room. When the door opened, she saw a frightened Peitho glancing at her and she feared the worst. The tall and slim madam was almost shaking in front of Sansa's customer. Peitho gave her a faint smile and let the man in.
As an imposing figure obscured the light coming from the landing, Sansa's heart skipped a beat: she knew this huge man, with his face half-hidden by dark hair. He wore a large overcoat; an attempt to go through the streets unnoticed, as if a man as tall and as taciturn as the Hound could be inconspicuous. And he knows me, she thought. He talked to me, frightened me, laughed at me, but that's not enough: now he wants this to happen. Or maybe Joffrey sent him to humiliate me.
As Peitho shut the door, Sansa mumbled 'Good evening' and her voice sounded like the squeak of a mouse. The Hound didn't answer and kept staring at her. Then he moved, as if he had changed his mind and, turning his back to her, he began to look for something. Wordlessly, he observed the walls of the room as if they could hide some treasure.
"It must be somewhere," he whispered to himself. "There is always..."
He gave a sigh of relief and pointed at the wall: on the left side of the door, there was a small hole she had never noticed before, because it was hidden by a bronze statuette displayed on the console table. The Hound seemed almost triumphant when he looked at her. Then he removed his overcoat and put it there, to make sure nobody could see what was to happen in Sansa's bedroom.
Terrified, she realized at the same time somebody could have been observing her the nights before and no one could help her if the Hound meant to hurt her. A fit of rage was very likely. He's always drunk. He likes to frighten me. And he's a killer; he never tried to hide it.
When he stopped in front of her, she was shaking like a leaf. He towered above Sansa and scrutinized her. Perhaps he was taking his time. She wondered if men took as much pleasure eyeing women greedily as sleeping with them. Pig had looked at her for a long time, as well. But Pig, as heavy as he was, wasn't a war veteran like the Hound; he didn't make a living out of beating up people who were in debt to the Lannister family. The Hound's big hands could crush her if he decided to. And the pain she had been through with Pig, when he had beaten her, would seem a flick in comparison. She clung to Peitho's advices, despite her fear, and tried to stay still, her back straight, like a soldier ready for the parade.
"Forget about modesty," Peitho had said with a hint of foreign accent. "Men want to see you. Sight is the most important sense in our trade. So let them have a look at you and keep your back straight. You're a beautiful girl and that's why they're here."
Instead of feeling beautiful, she was miserable and desperate. She had had this opportunity to jump, a short while ago and she had not seized it. At least she was sure this night would gave her the strength to leap into the void. Before long, she would be lying on the asphalt, thirty feet below.
"Please sit down," she stammered, shakily gesturing to the armchair placed between the four-poster bed and the balcony.
The large, brand-new leather armchair was typical of the fashionable style of the moment; one could imagine its amber-colored leather and its soft curves in the offices of the last floor of a skyscraper. Sansa felt like it revealed the excesses of the era: the armchair was far too big, and its leathery scent lingered in the air, no matter how often she opened the French door leading to the balcony.
In three long strides, he reached the armchair, sat down casually and fixed his eyes on her again. Ill-at-ease, she turned and walked to the phonograph, replaced Allegri's Miserere in its sleeve and chose You'd be surprised, by Irving Berlin. A joyful tune: I need it. I need to listen to the music and to forget who's in front of me.
As the first notes flooded in the large bedroom, his raspy voice made her shiver.
"What is it? What happened to your back?"
He has seen the cuts. She wasn't sure she could explain to a customer what another customer had done to her. Baelish and Peitho wouldn't be pleased.
"It's nothing. Nothing at all."
"Come here and tell me who did that to you," he commanded.
She left the phonograph and went back to the place where he was sitting; she kept her distance though and, following Peitho's advice, she stopped two yards before the armchair, so that he couldn't touch her.
"What happened?" he asked again, narrowing his eyes.
He was tall enough to make the oversized armchair look strangely small; this realization didn't comfort her and she wished she could disappear. She took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry. I'm going to stop the phonograph and put the needle back-"
"Forget about it," he rasped. "You have gashes on your back. What happened?"
Losing patience, he stood up and she flinched at once. Before she could react, he grabbed her shoulders, made her spin on her heels and held her upper arms firmly.
"You can't touch me," she protested. "Peitho said-"
"I don't care what the blond whore said. Obviously someone did touch you. Now tell me what happened."
He was staring at the long gashes Pig's belt had made on the top of her back. I should have put another dress on, instead of some stupid fancy dress with straps. At the same time, she knew she couldn't wear any dress when she was supposed to dance. All the clothes she had for that purpose were more or less like the old rose dress she had chosen that night: they revealed her shoulders, the top of her back and they had a low neckline. Feeling his breath on her neck, she decided she would gave him the piece of information he required and she hoped he would be satisfied enough to let her go.
"Someone beat me," she said plainly.
"Who did that to you?"
"I- I didn't obey and he beat me," she explained. "I deserved it."
Slightly turning her head, she saw his large shoulder and a part of his hideous scars.
"I didn't ask you what you did. Look at me and tell me who did that to you."
The pressure on her upper arms vanished and she turned around. He was towering above her again; she backed away and he immediately stepped forward, until he was flush with her.
"This is a strange kind of dance we're dancing, girl. Who?" he insisted. "His name."
"I think his name is Gerald Halder. He has a restaurant on 8th Avenue."
"As if I didn't know who Gerald Halder is," he said briskly. He walked to the console table where he had left his coat and when he came back to her, he was carrying a small pot.
"Ointment," he said. "From Pycelle. Thought it could be useful. What did you mean when you said you didn't obey?"
He cupped her chin and forced her to lock eyes with him. Her eyes flickered on his face, trying to avoid the burns disfiguring the Hound so that she could focus on his grey eyes instead.
"He was my first customer and he had paid a lot of money to see me dancing and singing, so when I refused to dance... he got mad at me."
"The little bird rebelling... What a topsy-turvy world we live in," he commented, chuckling darkly.
His familiarity didn't please her, nor did his ironic tone; Sansa tried to wriggle away from him, but he tightened his grip.
"I didn't rebel," she explained, furious. "I just didn't want to wiggle in front of him."
"Good. I don't give a shit about your dancing skills. Hold the jar for me, will you?"
With that, he put the ointment in her hand, grabbed her shoulders, made her turn around and began to button-down her dress.
"What are you doing?" she protested.
"I'm tending to your cuts, girl. Hold your dress."
One hand clutching to the front of her dress and the other one holding the small jar, she waited as he applied the ointment on her back. All this was nonsense: her Russian customer had seen the top of her back but he had decided to ignore it. Things were supposed to happen this way. Her customers paid to watch her dance until they could use her as a plaything, not to take care of her wounded back. Or maybe it's a trick and it's worse than I thought. He tries to gain my confidence before hurting me. His gesture was surprisingly more delicate and more careful than she expected, but she forbid herself to think about it.
When it was over, he buttoned up her dress. He fumbled with the buttons, whispering expletives right in her shoulder-blades. He pulled the flimsy fabric in such a way she thought he would tear it. Good God, what is he doing? He sighed deeply, then he went back to the armchair and extended his arm to pat the edge of the bed. She sat down, an interrogative look in her eyes. His scars are less frightening than his behavior.
"You don't want me to dance?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Frankly, I don't give a fuck about it."
Sansa felt slightly vexed by his remark and she stared at her hands resting in her lap, before raising her gaze to him. The Hound had ensconced himself in the large armchair, his legs open and one elbow digging into the armrest. For the first time since he had come in, she noticed an amount of details her fear had relegated to the background: his shoes needed a good polish and he wore a pair of woolen grey trousers with a matching waistcoat. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt he didn't take the trouble to button up. From his clothes emanated a smell of light tobacco and whiskey that overcame the heady scent of leather. He was now observing her, his scars partly hidden by his long dark thin hair. He most likely didn't cut his hair since his demobilization.
Suddenly, she realized the phonograph was silent and she stood up abruptly.
"I- I have to- If they don't hear music coming from my room..." she explained, hurrying to the phonograph.
When she turned around, after the brass wind of Yes! We have no bananas! began to play, he was pushing himself from his seat.
"Do you have something to eat?"
Her eyes widened in surprise, as she watched him wrapping his left arm around one of the columns of the bed and leaning against it. His question left her speechless, until she remembered the box of chocolates her Russian customer had given her. Mimicking the movements of a caged bird, she came and went in the room, trying to remember where she had put the present brought by her previous guest. It was not on the console table, nor in the closet; she finally remembered she had put it away in the shelve above the desk and let out a sigh. The box came from a confectioner where her mother used to buy candied chestnuts for Christmas; the sight of the baby-blue ribbon and the coat of arms adorning the wrapping paper had been a shock for Sansa and she had decided to save the chocolates in order to savor them later.
"I have these sweets," she offered, holding out the box.
He took the box, opened it and shoved a chocolate candy in his mouth without further ado, before going back to his seat. She followed him after a while and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Did Joffrey send you?" she asked as he gobbled another chocolate.
"Fuck Joffrey," he mumbled.
"I thought you had come to... keep a close eye on me and make a report."
He snorted, then thrust his hand in the box of chocolates again.
"You don't want me to dance, you say you're not here to spy on me, so why did you come?" she asked again.
Her high-pitched voice revealed her exasperation; he looked straight in her eyes and, forgetting about the chocolates, he leaned forward so that his head was at arm's length of her knees.
"I'm your way out, girl."
He had uttered these words in such a way it sounded more like a threat. Sansa must have watched her with suspicion for he added soon after: "You don't trust me, do you?"
"You work for them", she replied. "I'm not very experienced but I've come to learn that most of the time, your loyalty lies with the person who pays you."
"Littlefinger gave you this beautiful room and this expensive dress you wear, but unless you have a vocation for fucking doddering old farts, you can't be loyal to him."
His mocking tone and his bad manners infuriated her. Maybe he took it upon himself and came here to humiliate me without telling Joffrey. The phonograph went silent again and she jumped at the chance to put some distance between her and the Hound. Is it possible that he's sincere? No, don't be so naïve.
She chose All by myself before realizing he could take it badly or just laugh at her.
I'm so unhappy
What'll I do?
I long for somebody who
Will sympathize with me
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she turned around to face the Hound and she found him so close behind her she could have bumped into him. Was his attitude threatening or did he leer at her? She couldn't decide and therefore she averted her eyes, feeling a sudden and unpleasant warmth on her cheeks.
"Is this life what you want?" he asked with rudeness. "Locked in this place among a bunch of sluts who are either stupid or mad, or maybe both... with men eyeballing you..."
He didn't seem to realize that he was himself ogling her. Sansa swallowed hard, eyes downcast, observing his shadow that engulfed her feet and her ankles.
"Look at me and tell me this is the life you want. Being their plaything and all that shit," he spat. "Are you so foolish you didn't understand what they're going to do to you?"
Sensing he was losing his temper, she raised her gaze and realized how serious his grey eyes had become.
"Why would you help me?" she whispered.
The Hound probably didn't expect her to ask him about his motivations for his self-confidence vanished and he shrugged like a little boy who didn't learn his lesson.
"I want to leave," he confessed. "Start a new life."
For the first time since he had passed the threshold, he looked ill-at-ease.
"And it's a fucking good deed," he added with a shrug.
"Will you... take me back to Minnesota?" she asked, hesitating.
"Minnesota is a very bad idea. The Lannisters have connections out there: they'll find you in no time at all, bring you back here... and they would kill me. We should go to Europe. South America, perhaps."
Thoughtfully, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the intricate pattern of the oriental rug at his feet.
"But how?" Sansa inquired. "I don't have anything."
If he thinks I can pay his one-way ticket to Europe by selling my mother's jewels, he's wrong. Cersei had made sure Sansa had nothing left except her own clothes.
"I know. I'll try to find enough money to buy tickets. That's the biggest problem. Until then, you play your part and I play mine."
His seriousness didn't disperse her doubts, though: leaning back against the small table where the phonograph had been placed, she felt the urge to question his offer again.
"How can I be sure you're not fooling me?"
Hands still in his pockets, he snorted and stepped forward so that when he turned slightly, his elbow nudged her arm in an attempt to make her react. Her back stiffened.
"How can I be sure you're not going to tell Baelish I plan to leave my employers but not before stealing from them, once I'll walk away?" he said in echo. "I'm taking more risks than you in this, girl. And I remember you're bad at keeping secrets."
His reproach felt like a stab and she bit her lip, wishing that the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes would not – not now – roll down her cheeks. Right after Robert's death, Sansa had been the first to draw Cersei's attention on her parents' suspicion and on their plan to go back to Saint Paul. She had confided in Cersei like a silly little girl who didn't want to leave the lifestyle she had in New York. And three weeks later, they were dead.
I'd love to rest my weary head on somebody's shoulder I hate to grow older
All by myself
The last verse of the song invited her to trust him, but she remained silent.
"Very well," he said, "this is the life you want. I'm done here, girl."
"No," she replied. "When- When can we leave?"
"I don't know yet. This is the end of the song, little bird."
Turning around again, she replaced the 78 rpm, rolling her eyes. She hated that stupid nickname he had given her when she lived in the Red Mansion. As derogatory as Joffrey's tone when he calls him 'Dog'.
"Show me that window," he ordered. "I have to know if we can use it."
He followed her on the balcony and he shook his head when he realized it was located on the facade.
"There's another balcony," she explained, leading him to the adjoining bathroom.
He whistled when he saw the claw-footed tub and the ornamental tiling, then he felt the silken fabric of her négligé hanging on a hook. God, he's so rude. She kept her chin up and showed him the other french window, much more narrow than the other one. He opened it and inspected the balcony overlooking the back-alley.
"This one is better," he commented. "You can sneak out this way."
"I'm scared of heights," she protested.
Leaning back against the window frame, he cursed, seemingly as exasperated by her manners as she was by his.
"Look at me," he rasped, his palms turned to the ceiling like two weighing scales. "Here is your fear of heights and here are the nights with dirty old men that await you. What do you choose?"
"Why are you so rude?"
The song's end exempted him from answering and he motioned her towards the bedroom with an incline of his head.
"We should stay here," he suggested, once they were standing by the phonograph."You're skinny. Do they give you enough food?"
She said yes, then picked another sleeve.
"Did they beat you? I mean this bastard, Littlefinger, and the blond whore ruling this place."
"No, they didn't."
"Are you sure?" he insisted. "You'd better tell me the truth."
"No, they didn't. The fat man beat me, that's all."
He laughed softly at her answer and it sounded contemptuous, almost saturnine.
"What happened, exactly?"
"I'm not sure I have a right to tell you," she answered.
Discretion about the customers was another of Peitho's advices. A whore is like a doctor, she had said. You can't reveal the other people's secrets.
"You'd better tell me," he growled.
"I told you I refused to dance. I was crying and I didn't please him. So he took his belt and beat me."
She spoke with such a detachment one could have said it was not her story but someone else's.
"Did he took your maidenhood?"
"No, he didn't."
As he stayed silent for a while, she understood this information was what he precisely wanted. Why were men so obsessed with virginity, she couldn't tell. It seemed to her that men wanted to sleep with every woman and even paid for it, but the idea of maidenhood – how to make sure your daughter or sister keeps it, how to take it from a girl – drove them mad. This was absurd, as well.
The rest of the hour he had paid for went by almost silently, until she looked at the clock.
"It's over," she said coldly.
Without looking at her, he walked to the console table and put on his overcoat.
"Will you come back?" she asked, while he stood with his back to her.
She didn't really mean it: it was more some sort of curiosity, yet she couldn't take it back. He turned around and stared at her for a while, puzzled, weighing the pros and the cons. She wanted to add something, to tell him it didn't matter, but words were stuck in her throat. His expression was unreadable, but finally his grey eyes met hers.
"I'll come back soon. Now go to bed."
Sansa stood in his way but he stepped forward, imagining she would move aside so that he could reach the door; she stayed still and he stopped in front of her.
"What?" he growled.
She locked eyes with him.
"Your offer is not a lie or trick, is it?" she asked.
"No, it's not," he sighed.
She nodded and let her eyes fall away. Noticing the crease on his waistcoat, she mechanically tugged at the seam. It was nothing but the mindless gesture of a girl who liked to put things in order but she saw him stiffening. Not frowning or grumbling like he used to, but stiffening as if her touch made him uncomfortable. Nobody has kind thoughts for him, she realized and that idea aroused her compassion.
She moved aside and let him walk to the door.
"Go to bed, now," he insisted, glancing at her before leaving the bedroom.
The noise of the door closing behind him made her shiver. She was so tired she could have fallen asleep in ordinary circumstances, but this wasn't ordinary; disobeying, she ran to the balcony overlooking the street. She needed fresh air and the raw light of the street lamps to realize what had just happen was true.
Sansa heard a creaking noise below, then the front door slammed and she saw him getting out of the brothel and walking in the street. A vagrant went after the Hound but his long strides allowed him to outdistance the old man.
At the end of the street, he turned right and disappeared. She looked at the street, rather quiet in the first hours of the night. Later on, next morning, it would be crowded with passers-by. There would be children playing and screaming, but right now the street was hers, as the vagrant was huddled in some corner. She jumped at the soft knock she heard on the door, then she turned around: Peitho appeared on the threshold and joined her on the balcony. The madam, wearing a green taffeta dress, had sleepy eyes.
"I was worried," the Russian woman confessed, grabbing her lower arm. "This man scares me. I asked him if everything was all right when I met him downstairs. Do you know what he answered? He said 'The girl was docile' and he left. I thought American veterans were more... chivalrous."
"How do you know he's a veteran?" Sansa inquired.
"His horrible burns on his face, of course! And there's something about him-"
Sansa shook her head.
"It's true he fought in Europe, Peitho, but he didn't got his scars during the Great War."
"Oh really? I thought he was like these men French people call 'gueule cassée'. There were so many men like him when I lived in Paris, at the end of the Great War. What's the English word for 'gueule cassée' by the way?"
Since she knew Sansa had learned French when she was in Saint Paul, Peitho always asked her that sort of questions.
"I've heard that expression once," Sansa answered, sighing deeply. "One of my brother's friends, a man we called the GreatJon used it... I don't think we have an equivalent in English. We simply say 'disfigured war veteran'."
"How did he got his scars?" Peitho insisted, elbowing her in a familiar way.
"When he was a child, his older brother burnt his face."
"You know him well," the madam commented.
"No, not that much. He works for the Lannisters; that's how I met him. He's one of their henchmen."
That was how she would describe him, though it didn't satisfy her. Her guest kept a shadowy side she couldn't characterize, nor understand.
"So how was it?" Peitho asked. "He scared me when he said you had been docile."
Be careful, now. As kind as she was with her, the madam was sly and well-versed in falsehood; she could tell if someone was sincere or not. But Sansa's stay in the Red Mansion had taught her how to lie.
"As he said, I was docile," she explained. "I danced, that's all."
"Welcome in to Baelish's kingdom of absurd," Peitho commented. "This man is so weird... So he didn't hurt you?"
She shook her head. "He is frightening, that's true, but... I'm fine."
Peitho's gaze was full of concern.
"Poor child," she said. "Baelish will come tomorrow morning. I'll talk to him. Perhaps I have a plan for us. We're the same, you and I."
She hugged her and Sansa smelt a fragrance of bergamot and oakmoss. The madam usually drenched herself in perfumes.
"I'm going to take good care of you, you'll see," Peitho promised. "What's this smell?"
Peitho was sniffing, a suspicious look on her beautiful face.
"His smell, I guess," she sighed.
It was camphor; she hadn't noticed it when he had applied the ointment on her back, because she was so frightened, but now she was sure. Peitho shrugged and mumbled something about American men and hygiene.
"You love this balcony, right?" the woman suddenly asked, smiling at her.
Not for the reasons you imagine.
"I'll talk to Baelish," she repeated. "He'll love my plan for us."
She left Sansa's room, the rustle of her skirts showing how thrilled she was.
At dawn, realizing she couldn't go back to sleep, Sansa got up and looked at the street again. Everything was silent, in the first hours of the day. A few hours ago, she had decided to leap into the void. Eyes closed, she listened to the calm, then opened her eyes again and gazed at the asphalt. Thirty feet below. A quick death. Someday perhaps, but not now. She wanted to know more about this man who had come to visit her. Before leaving the balcony, she noticed how the sky was red on the horizon and she suddenly remembered what her nanny told her when she was a child:
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning;
Red sky at night, sailors' delight
A storm was approaching. Sansa went back to her huge bed and huddled under the blankets. Play your part and I'll play mine, he had said.
Among his numerous habits – getting up at dawn, eating spare ribs for dinner, visiting a brothel once a week – there was one Gerald Halder especially loved. Every night, he would go to the warehouse filled with casks of spirits he possessed. There were some beer barrels too, though beer wasn't one of his specialties. The restaurant his father had left to him twenty-six years ago was thriving and allowed him to put money into what was the most profitable activity: selling alcohol.
Gerald Halder was proud to offer his customers the largest range of spirits one could find in New York, on his unofficial wine list: you could drink in the backroom of his restaurant that incredible Irish whiskey the Lannisters imported, Italian wines or moonshine coming from Tenessee, of course, like in every decent speakeasy, but what made him so proud were the rare alcohols he possessed and stored in his warehouse. You couldn't taste the spirits Norwegian and Ukrainian immigrants made in the bathtub of their insanitary one-bedroom flat of the Lower East Side – some beverages so strong they burned your throat and left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue – unless you bought them from Gerald Halder. Every damn community seems to have its own recipe to distil strong and cheap alcohol, he thought, smiling a lopsided smile.
In Manhattan, as far as these strange and exotic homemade spirits were concerned, he had no serious rival. It didn't mean he had no worries, of course not. The war between the different bootleggers had devastated his trade: with an increased presence of the coastguards and the police operation Stannis Baratheon had carried out in New Jersey, getting imported whiskey was more and more uncertain. And there were the police officers: Gerald was sometimes ashamed to admit it was difficult to know which palm he could grease and which officers were useless. To top it all off, the New Yorkers were rather anxious about their future. That is to say the workers, the clerks who lived from hand to mouth... The upper class, the businessmen have never been that rich and they were eager to live life to the full. These rich customers were the ones Gerald Holder tried to seduce: they wanted to mix with the riffraff when they passed the threshold of his restaurant and booze was the secret ingredient of an unforgettable evening.
Despite the lacklustre context, he harbored the hope of better days with the coastguards' underachievement in New Jersey – they had seized a large part of the whiskey the Lannisters imported but their henchmen had managed to escape. The support of Mace Tyrell, the successful manufacturer of the South, to the Lannisters would certainly help: if the young Joffrey Baratheon became the next governor thanks to his father-in-law's support, Gerald doubted of the police's ability to enforce the Volstead Act.
Such a prospect made him smirk, as he moved his paunchy figure between the rows of barrels. Making more money meant indulge himself in going back to the brothel and seeing again that pretentious young lady who had refused to dance for him at first. The memory of her screams, when his belt had hit the smooth skin of her back was enough to make his cock harden. Next time he saw her, he wouldn't ask for a dance. Oh no.
Above his head, rain drummed against the tin roof, but in the deserted warehouse, his footsteps echoed, amplifying his self-confidence. Joffrey Baratheon would soon dampen the zealous policemen's spirits and let people like him work in peace. And he would himself crush his rivals such as the Moore and the old Francis Tucket, those shitheads unable to tell gin from apple brandy: it was just a matter of time before he had them working for him and licking his boots.
In the quiet warehouse, he suddenly heard something: it didn't sound like a wind draft but like a rattle. There were mice sometimes and even rats, though he gave a bottle of cheap brandy for each dead rat or mouse his employees brought him. He went on, wanting to make sure everything was in order. A flashlight in his hand, he walked slowly, paying attention to the casks – the storm had damaged the electric lightning, plunging the warehouse into total darkness. He had enough Irish whiskey, but he was almost out of Italian wines and Joffrey Baratheon would demand some rare Italian wines if he got married...
The sound of a barrel rolling on the plain dirt floor made him jump. What kind of mouse was it?
"Emmett!" he shouted. "Is that you? Do you want to scare your boss to death, you scum bag?"
Gerald didn't get any answer, except from a gust of wind that lifted the metallic sheets above his head. He lifted his flashlight, getting closer to the barrel. The damn thing had stopped in the middle of a row, leaving a trail of red wine. Sangiovese, most likely. How could someone laugh at him and waste such a good wine?
"Who are you?" Gerald Halder growled. "Show me your face!"
His yell echoed under the tin roof but no answer came. The flashlight lit up the spot where Gerald stood, his chest heaving, but darkness engulfed the rest of the warehouse. Spinning on his heels, he frantically brandished his flashlight in all directions, but everything seemed quiet. He recorked the barrel and put it the right way round with a grunt, then he heard a cat meowing.
That stupid animal. There were alley cats hanging around these days. The cook, that old fool, had seen fit to leave some scraps for the cats and now it was almost impossible to get rid of them.
A black cat appeared in the reassuring circle of light: it was one these skinny animals that spent nights in the streets, fighting with its fellow creatures. One of its ears was torn-down but behind its long whiskers, Gerald could have sworn on his mother's life that it had a smug smile. When the damn beast came to rub itself against his legs, Gerald rewarded its affection with a kick. The cat hissed and ran away as Gerald walked briskly to the warehouse's door. He hated cats and he hated even more the sensation of playing to be scared.
Fortunately, nobody saw me making a fool of myself... Everything seems perfectly quiet in this corner of the warehouse, he mused, wiping the beads of sweat rolling down his temples. It must be that storm raging outside that got on my nerves. Gerald sighed deeply as he put his hand on the doorknob. Everything is in order. Everything-
An iron grip on his shoulder made him squeak, then a forceful arm thrust him out against the metallic door. Gerald grunted in pain, mechanically bringing his hands to his knee. As he lay on the ground, he felt the cold wind on his back. He had dropped his flashlight and whoever his assailant was, that bastard made sure Gerald couldn't reach the electric device. A deft kick sent the flashlight further and it ended up lighting the casks of Irish whiskey.
"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"
A kick in his ribs answered to his question. Gerald screamed, his protestations echoing the howling wind.
"Jimmy, is that you?" he tried again, on a ragged breath. "I know I shouldn't have fired you, not like that, but I couldn't-"
A blow to the genitals cut him off. Despite the excruciating pain he felt and the sensation that he was about to shit his pants, Gerald shielded his face with his arm and raised his eyes nonetheless. He didn't really see his attacker in the darkness, but this huge, threatening figure was not Jimmy's. It couldn't be one of the men who held something against him either. So who is he? I don't know that man. The realization scared him even more.
"What do you want?" he begged.
The man remained silent but squatted in front of him, grabbed his chin and shoved a rag inside his mouth. Gerald tried to protest, shook his head and flailed but resistance was useless. Seemingly losing interest for his victim's face, the man grasped his ankle and dragged him towards the other end of the warehouse.
Far from the door, somewhere nobody can hear my screams.