Sansa Stark's eyes drooped dangerously as she stared blankly at the professor rambling in Spanish at the head of her class. The stifling room, overheated in compensation for the howling wind whipping early winter slush against the window pane, providing the perfect atmosphere to slip into a nap. A cough across the room startled her enough to drop the pencil dangling from her peach tipped fingers and she glanced up nervously in time to catch the quick flit of disapproval from the eagle eyed teacher. Quietly she reached down to grab her pen and slid back into her chair, straightening her back, she focused on her notebook, intent to start paying closer attention. With a frown that dragged a crease between her eyebrows, she crossed out the name littering the page. A flick of her red hair and she flipped to a new page, dismissing him from her mind if only for a moment. Petyr Baelish was a mystery reserved for midnight.
Within thick black leather gloves her fingers stung. The cold seeped into her bones but she reveled in the feeling. Once upon a time, Sansa felt more at home in the warmth of summer, when she was always in danger of burning her porcelain skin. But the heat of long days outside was intrinsically tied to being dragged into water balloon fights with her brothers and younger sister. It brought up memories of their carefree smiles and crazy antics as they antagonized each other to the point of insanity, her mother looking on fondly while her father disguised an amused twinkle in his eye behind his disapproving frown. And those memories, they hurt. Now she embraced her true nature as a child of winter, of darkness and secrets and icey justice.
She sat perched above the alley behind the back of Blackfyre, the club's deep base providing an undercurrent to the night. Crouched in the shadows, she waited patiently. The press of the rusted metal bar against her back and the creak of the loosely attached fire escape shuddering in the breeze had long faded into the back ground as she zeroed in on the door at the rear of the building. Painted black, it blended in with the surrounding wall, until someone would emerge and let the dim green glow from inside escape. She had been watching and waiting for four hours, quickly assessing every individual that came out. No one of true importance ever showed their face, but knowing the small men The Mockingbird had in his pocket was just as important. She memorized every one, cataloging them so she could quickly spot them in a crowd, just in case.
Two years ago the Starks, American Sweethearts, were brutally murdered one by one until the remaining children vanished. Eddard Stark, Senator and confidant to the President of Westeros, was found murdered in his hotel room. During the investigation, top secret information was found on his laptop and he was labeled a traitor post mortem, his death an inevitability of subterfuge. Catelyn Stark was attending the baby shower for her daughter in law in a popular restaurant when the building was attacked by terrorists. Her son, Robb Stark, was going to meet them and was caught in the blast that killed 81 people. Rumors circulated that he was responsible, but had miscalculated the time. Brandon, Arya, and Rickon Stark were all underage and placed into foster homes, split up. They were never heard of again.
Sansa Stark had just turned 19, she had been dating the son of the President while attending King's Southern University with top marks, when her father's death and subsequent scandal broke. Joffrey had unceremoniously dumped her and she had just picked up the pieces when just two months later her mother, brother, sister-in-law, and future nephew were also killed. Unable to survive the pain, she became a different person.
In the time Before, trained as the perfect lady, Sansa could tell you exactly which fork to use in what order. She could sew, crochet, knit, paint, and draw. She had a list of volunteer organizations ready to praise the very ground she walked on. Her skirts were never shorter than fingertip length, her ankles crossed, and her back perfectly straight. Her true weapon, though, was the genuine smile she would flash. It lit up her bright blue eyes and charmed the stiffest dignitaries.
In the time After, grief disguised itself beneath charcoal lined lids and slinky gold dresses that reflected the fire in her hair. Her laugh was bells and expensive whisky that her friends wrinkled their noses at. Everything required more effort, daylight and sunshine feeling foreign and unnecessary. She wore a mask and went to classes and answered the questions with bored disinterest, never failing to get them wrong but never really engaging enough for the professors to think she actually got them right. At night she drank, she danced, and she started paying attention. Ladies didn't sneak around and lead men on, but she had a reason. She had altruistic intentions, she never hurt anyone and that was the thin thread holding her together when she began to question her own motives.
After two shots of whiskey she could relax, she could stop seeing her father's head hanging limply off the back of a non-descript office chair with his throat slit and his eyes blank, staring out from the front of every newspaper stand across campus. When men asked her name, desperate to know the dazzling princess that moved through the crowd like flowers grew from her fingertips, she'd giggle and say Lauren, Megan, Samantha, anything except her real name. Sometimes they knew she was lying, they never actually cared. She refused to go home with them, refused to let them touch her, she'd smirk deviously and whisper "I'm a good girl" before disappearing into the night.
Sansa Stark didn't get drunk anymore, though, not after stumbling into Petyr Baelish and looking into his grey eyes. She had never really given the man any thought, until she ran into the Secretary of the Treasury within that club. When she woke up with a killer hangover the next day,though, she started to put puzzle pieces together while gingerly sipping her coffee. He had been her mother's friend and her father had trusted him. As close as he was to her family, he should have been ridiculed and forced out of office after her family's illustrious downfall. However, he continued to rise, one of the wealthiest Senators in Westeros History.
Drunk and dizzy she had gripped his fine suit, close enough to smell the mint on his breath. He felt solid beneath her, but tensed in needle point sharpness. She understood why this man was powerful. He was in control.
He'd leaned forward, gripping her arms to steady her swaying body, hot breath at her ear and whispered in a low growl "Careful little dove, lions aren't the only animal with a taste for innocence." Backing away with a smirk he'd slid by her, his hands having burned her skin where they touched. His eyes conveyed knowledge, such horrible knowledge.
She tried not to throw up again as she reached the inevitable conclusion.
Petyr Baelish may have killed her family.
She hadn't been able to rest since the knowledge dawned. Every night she went looking for him, looking for information, gradually becoming a part of the night. Whores, corruption, and most importantly-money, followed in The Mockingbird's wake. Sansa Stark was a good girl, and Mr. Baelish was a very bad man she intended to bring crashing down.
Three men she recognized as police officers slipped out of the back door, she raised her camera and snapped a picture.