In all her life, Sansa never thought she had met a man as handsome as he.
How Petyr had found him, she didn't know, but the moment she saw her new fiancé, she didn't very much care. Standing there, looking into his eyes – blue, blue like the sky over the sea – she felt giddiness grow within her stomach, the excitement of a young girl she had thought died long ago.
He looked nervous- he shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to hold eye contact with her for more than a few seconds. Petyr was the first to speak.
"Funny, how these things work out, isn't it?"
Sansa snapped back to reality, and turned to Petyr. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he gestured to the man. "You will marry Robert's son after all,"
He flinched at that last bit, and Sansa saw a little fury in his eyes. She stepped forward, close enough to reach out and grab his hand.
"Would you walk with me?" She asked, gently running her thumb along the top of his hand.
"As m'lady commands," he finally said. Sansa smiled at him – the smile she had learned to wear in uncomfortable situations. Feeling him clutch her hand tighter as they moved past the moon door, Sansa felt her unease fade.
She took him to the battlements atop the castle, and leaned against the stone, looking out into the endless expanse of the sky and mountains. The wind blew her hair into her face – it was almost red again. He stood there, stoic as ever, before speaking up.
"I met your sister," he said. Sansa perked up and turned to him. Her mouth dropping.
"Where?" she asked, with an urgent tone.
"It was on the way to the Wall. She was dressed like a boy – I don't know where she is now. I think the Hound-"
"The Hound has my sister?" she interrupted. A million scenarios flashed through her mind, terrible images- while Arya had been a nuisance in their childhood, Sansa found herself missing her little sister more than ever. At night she would long for the days when she was four and Arya two, and they shared a bed. She never felt as safe as she did then, and regretted the day she declared she was too old to not have her own bed.
"Sans- m'lady, Arya…Arya's strong. She's a fighter, whatever you think may have happened to her-"
"You can call me Sansa," she interrupted, looking back into his eyes. They were so blue- how could eyes be so blue?
His face softened, and for a moment Sansa thought he was going to kiss her. But he continued. "Sansa," he finally said. "I would bet that Arya is safe, fighting her way out of any mess she's caught in. She's tough. And lucky." He smiled, remembering how a few years ago he would have thought it impossible that a high born lady could cause as much chaos but escape with her life.
Sansa turned back to the mountains, and sighed. "I miss her. I was cruel to her, the way sisters are to each other. I wish I could take so much back," She looked down at her gloves, and made a fist with her hand. He moved next to her, resting his elbows on the battlements and looking out into the sky.
"I wish I had never left the forge," he says. "All these lords and ladies talk about claims to the throne, whose blood is royal and whose arse should be on some pointy chair, making decisions for people they don't care about," He ran his hands over his face, the tiny crackle of skin on stubble echoing.
"Politics," Sansa sighed. "How do people not grow tired of the lies and deception? It seems these days that trust is more rare than dragons,"
"I heard there are dragons, in the east," he smiled. Sansa couldn't help by smile back.
The wind blew fast and hard, almost knocking him off his balance. He reached out instinctively for her arm, but immediately pulled away.
"I'm sorry," he said. Sansa felt her chest deflate. It had been so long since her boundaries were respected. So often had she been mishandled, touched against her will. She reached out, and brushed some soot off the top of his eyebrow with her thumb.
"There's no need to apologize," she said, her voice soaked in honey.
He reached up, carefully, and held her hand against his. He hand was so soft, and small against his. He looked up at her, and wondered how this lady could be the sister of the wild wolf girl he had known.
"I don't like heights," he confessed finally. Sansa giggled, and laced her fingers in between his.
"I'll take you to my favorite room then," she said. She hadn't felt this happy in ages. "The library here- it's fantastic," she began to pull him to the door but felt resistance. She looked back at him, confused.
"I…" he looked down at his feet. "I don't know my letters. Bastards don't get an education."
Sansa wanted to hit herself for being so stupid. She just assumed people knew how to read because the only people she had been surrounded by were nobles.
"Sir," she said. "You are talking to the proud bastard of Petyr Baelish."
He smiled at that, and looked up at her. "That's bullshit, Stark."
"Being a bastard is nothing to be ashamed of," she continued with the joke. "I've met some of father's friends who have enough money to buy the Iron Islands who can't read three words. If you want to learn your letters, I'll teach you. Now come along," she gripped his hand tighter, but still felt some resistance. When she turned back around, he was closer. She never noticed how black his hair was – it was beautiful.
"Sansa," he said. Her heart leapt at the sweetness in his voice. "Call me Gendry."
