Warning for foul language and... Littlefinger's creepiness.
Anger is a fuel. When the Hound had said it, Sansa believed he was so drunk he babbled incoherently and she had not paid attention. However, as hours went by, she began to think that his advice was far from being pointless. She certainly needed to gather her courage, now that Baelish's house got back to the daily routine. Customers would ask for a dance in her bedroom and she would have to face Viola's enmity. Sansa dreaded all this – the customers' visits, the arguments with the other girls – even though she knew she couldn't escape it.
She couldn't avoid the conversation Baelish wanted to have with her. All the girls were summoned to the meeting hall to discuss about the show, but that morning, as Sansa was combing her long blond hair, Peitho had casually told her Baelish wanted to talk afterward, in his office. The madam didn't precisely say why he want to see the girl, but Sansa feared the worst. What if he decides to sell me now? The Hound doesn't seem ready to go. The events of the night before had convinced Sansa that her so-called savior had more than one iron in fire. Perhaps he held a grudge against someone and killed that person yesterday; in any case, while fighting in the streets, he was not preparing our escape. She remembered his disheveled look and the cuts on his face, chest and arms, then she shivered. What if the cook told Baelish about what she found in my bedroom?
Sansa sucked in a deep breath and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was paler than usual and her auburn hair seemed dull. If girls beam when they're in love, then I'm not in love. Sansa couldn't tell if the realization made her happy or sad; she sighed and left her room.
Girls showed up by small groups in the meeting hall and sat on the armchairs facing the stage. Sansa's impatience grew as her companions lacked punctuality; in the end, she crossed the space between the first row and the stage to join Peitho who waited for the owner of the house.
"So, did it work?" Sansa inquired. "Do you think there were enough customers last night?"
"You finally ask?" the madam commented, smiling. "You see, Petyr is in his office and he will join us any minute now. He'll give the girls gold stars and dunce caps. I wonder what he will say about you."
Is she teasing me? Sansa smiled back and walked to her seat, vaguely nervous. If she had disappointed Baelish, it would be terrible. If he openly praised her talent, it would be worse; some girls would whisper she was Baelish's favorite and Viola would get back at her. She almost wished he would find her songs and dance routines only average. Without paying attention to the girls sitting next to her, she shook her head in disbelief. Her former self was a stickler, a girl who needed her parents' and her teachers' compliments as much as she needed air. Now she came to think that 'fair only' was better than 'excellent'. What kind of upheaval had produced such a big change in her?
The girls went silent; she cocked her head to the side and saw Baelish coming in, then gesturing at Viola who seemingly wanted to talk to him. He had the infuriated look of someone who says 'No, not now'. Baelish. Viola. The brothel. This is what happened to me, she thought, fluttering her eyes shut in exasperation. She felt her fingers curl into balled fists and remembered the Hound's words about anger. Hope he's right.
With his slicked-back hair, his pinstripe three-piece suit and his patent leather shoes, Baelish seemed to pose as a successful bootlegger. But he's just Cersei's minion. He grinned, sweeping the audience, and he cleared his throat.
"Good afternoon, ladies. Last night was a long night and I hope you enjoyed yourselves because..."
He paused, observing their reaction. Sansa's heart began to beat wildly in her chest. If the show was a failure and he decided he had lost enough money, she would have more customers in her bedroom and more chances to meet again Trant – or the likes of him. If Baelish was satisfied, there would be more shows and it meant more occasions to witness the shocking scenes she had seen the night before. Like the girl kneeling in front of a man.
"Are you quite well?" Edna whispered to her ear, touching her wrist.
Sansa nodded evasively.
"Ladies, I really hope you enjoyed yourselves because we have another show next week!" Baelish announced.
Most of the girls began to shout in excitement and to laugh, some standing up and jumping up and down. Sansa stayed still, looking into the void, trying to decide if it was good news or not. When she finally raised her gaze, she found Baelish's eyes on her; he seemed puzzled. I should be happy, I guess. But I'm not. I'll be happy the day I leave this place. With the Hound.
Her lack of enthusiasm seemingly disturbed Baelish; the man remained silent, staring at her, while the girls finally stopped laughing and sat down. Some of them noticed how he was looking at Sansa and she didn't need to glance around her shoulder to know that Viola glared at her. In the end, Peitho walked to her lover and lightly touched his arm with a motherly smile, as if she wanted to wake him up. Baelish immediately regained his composure and put his hands behind his back – a gesture meant to help him square his shoulders and to make him look taller.
"To make a long story short, ladies, we ran out of beer and whiskey, latecomers didn't find seats and... we made more money yesterday night than any other night since I bought that place!"
The girls erupted into cheers; a quick glance on the last row confirmed Sansa's guess about Viola. The dark-haired girl was not pleased at all, because she had been protesting against the show all along. The fact that she had been a part of it – playing the part of a lightly dressed, wanton Snow-White – didn't change anything to the resentment she felt.
"But..." Baelish added, "there are things I'm really proud of and things I don't want to see anymore. As you all know, I was among the customers. I saw everything. I'll be watching next time and I want improvements. Not efforts, improvements."
Next to Sansa, Edna sighed deeply, wondering if their boss would congratulate her or disapprove of her work. Most of the girls looked at each other and whispered until Baelish shushed them with a glare.
"Jo and Mary, the refreshment area. Good job, but people waited for their drinks during the intermission. We have to solve this problem."
"I'm sorry," Jo protested, "but we were only two girls and there were more customers than what we expected. As you said, we ran out of beer-"
"Enough," he cut her off. "We'll find someone else to help you during the intermission next time, but Mary has to move her pretty ass faster! Edna, you did quite a good job in the wings."
Sansa's neighbor nodded politely, smiling at the compliment. Baelish went on, naming girls and praising their attitude or reproaching them some minor shortcomings. Will he say something about Viola's behavior during my song, when she spoiled everything by laughing out loud? He hardly mentioned Viola, and Sansa wondered on his silence. Baelish never misses anything. If I saw that she did it on purpose, he noticed it as well, so why does he shut his eyes to her bad manners?
"I'm sure he'll say you were perfect," Edna encouraged her, nudging at Sansa.
"A bit shy, as usual," Meg approved, leaning forward so that Sansa could hear her, "but you sang very well."
She smiled at them gratefully; Baelish's review ended without him talking about Sansa. As the girls had all received personal compliments or reproaches, they stayed focused on his comments about them, and even Edna and Meg seemed to forget Baelish's confusing silence concerning the girl who sang three songs, danced and appeared in the last tableau. Baelish smoothed down his dark mustache and told the girls they may leave. Sansa repressed a sigh and pushed herself from her seat, watching with envy the cluster of women who excitedly discussed about next show.
"Sansa," Baelish called. "My office. Now."
He had uttered these words loudly enough and many girls turned to see her reaction. Some of them looked at Sansa scornfully: Viola's unconcealed pleasure brought color to her olive complexion, as she observed the girl retreating from the meeting hall.
Eyes downcast, Sansa followed Baelish, then thanked him when he opened the door of his office and moved aside so that she could come in first. Baelish's ostentatious office had not changed since her last visit; the furniture and the decor still clarioned their owner's social success. Anger is a fuel. If the rumor saying that Baelish's parents belonged to the low middle-class was true, their son had certainly striven to reach his goal and to find his place under the sun. Am I angry enough to do whatever it takes to leave this house? Do I have enough guts to rebel against him?
The jaded look she gave to the mahogany desk, the oriental rug or the green fainting couch didn't solve her problem: Baelish was about to tell her how furious he was, because she had behaved as if she still lived in Saint-Paul and sang in front of her family's friends. I don't belong here, that's a fact. Did I make efforts to fit in with the crowd yesterday night? I would be a liar if I said I did. He knows it.
She wondered what he would do to her as she had disappointed him so much. Nobody had ever told her he was violent, but a man who ruled a brothel full of rebellious girls like Viola had to impose his rules and she was pretty sure he knew exactly what to do to make them obey.
He walked to his desk, his footsteps echoing in the large, pretentious room; Sansa knew he took his time, that he almost encircled her like an animal observing its prey before pouncing on it. She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, repressing a shudder. In the end, after an agonizing wait for her, he sat down behind his desk and watched her. It was more than time to tell the girl she could have a seat, in Sansa's standards, but he seemed to refuse that simple gesture of politeness; she wondered if it was the revenge of a man born in a middle-class family against a girl who was her father's little princess, then rejected that idea. Baelish was mad at her, because she didn't obey when she was told to charm customers and it was enough to make him forget the elementary rules of courtesy.
He rooted his elbows in the polished surface of the desk, leaned forward and bored his eyes into hers.
"What do you want?"
His question was simple, yet it unsettled the girl. A conversation with the Hound, was the first answer she framed for herself, in the depths of her mind. No. Go back home, she suddenly thought. Baelish didn't expect these answers, though. Sansa speculated it could be a trick and remained silent, her blue eyes only conveying her interrogations.
"Come on, Sansa, I'm sure a girl of eighteen dreams of many... items. Clothes, jewels... Tell me now, what do you want?"
She shook her head shyly at first, then with more confidence as his eyes widened in surprise.
"Why would you like to give me some present?" she asked in disbelief.
"All this – the show, the rehearsals, the costumes... – was meant for you. Do you remember how Peitho begged me to let her organize the show?"
Unfortunately, she remembered quite well the way Peitho had taken advantage of his attraction to her.
"I was reluctant, I confess it now. I thought you were talented enough, but a bit too... artistic for my customers. Do you know what happened last night?"
She politely shook her head, still nervous about the outcome of their conversation.
"I was sitting next to an influential congressman. He told me he had come because he has... an interest in Lois and Lois begged him to watch her dance. Never mind... he came for Lois and he stayed for you. This man – and many others – told me how beautiful and gifted you were. They all want to see you again. You'll meet them, one by one, and you'll dance for them. You're fully booked for days, girl. That's what I want to thank you for."
Averting her eyes, Sansa swallowed hard and watched her fingers intertwined in front of her. Booked for days? When will the Hound come back, if I have to dance for a different man every night? When will we prepare our flight, assuming he still wants to help me?
"So, tell me," Baelish insisted, "what do you want?"
She remained silent, as he stood up and walked to her. When he planted himself in front of her, she avoided his gaze and a deep sigh escaping his lips betrayed his frustration. He cupped her chin, giving her the opportunity to examine his hand with slender fingers and filed nails – a woman's hand, she mused.
Understanding she couldn't do otherwise, she held his gaze.
"So you're not mad at me?" she asked.
He shook his head, smiling at her confusion. Sansa found there was some smugness in this broad grin, something revealing he enjoyed these tiny proofs that he intimidated other people – like a man who remembers the bullied child he once was.
"Saying that I'm not mad at you is an understatement," he replied, straightening his back in front of a girl who was a bit taller than him.
"I want a one-way ticket to Saint-Paul. I want to go home."
Baelish almost flinched at her response; his eyes narrowed slightly and she realized that even if he was about to turn her request down flat, his determination could waver someday.
"No, Sansa, no. You're a sensible girl, you know it's impossible."
As her pleading eyes insisted, undermining his resolution, he rolled his eyes and felt the urge to explain himself.
"Do you know what Joffrey intended to do with you, once he decided your presence was not necessary anymore? Do you have the slightest idea of where you would have ended up? And how? I won't tell you because you would have nightmares for the rest of your life... and you would perhaps not believe me... I moved heaven and earth to convince him that you would be better here, because I would keep an eye on you and make sure you're not getting yourself into hot water. I saved your life. That's what I did."
During his tirade, his fingertips began to brush her jaw line, slowly going further and exploring her cheek; he probably felt her tense under his touch, for he stopped and removed his hand.
"Sit down, now," he said in an undertone, shoving his hand in his pocket and casually leaning against the edge of his desk. "If you try to escape and head to Minnesota, you'll never make it. You'll be dead before reaching Westchester County. That's why you can't leave this house: New York is a dangerous city for a girl like you and I can't protect you outside."
"You can't protect me inside," she snapped back. "What happened with Meryn Trant-"
"What happened with Meryn Trant was a regrettable incident. But you're safe now."
His nerve when he kept saying she was safe infuriated her so much she felt tears pooling at the corner of her eyes. The man standing in front of her pretended not to notice and shifted from foot to foot.
"Let's forget what happened with this numbskull and let's focus on serious matters, Sansa. What do you want?"
"I already told you."
"Supposing you reach Saint-Paul, they'll hunt you down and they'll kill you. Killing a girl in New York City or in Minnesota doesn't make a difference for them. This is the only place where you can be safe."
He tilted his head, once he noticed she was staring at the candlestick phone on his desk and lifted his palms in an interrogative gesture.
"A phone call to Robb, then," she said. "To make sure at least one of us is alright."
He chuckled nervously.
"Your brother is fine as long as he stays in his hole and doesn't move nor tries to reach you. You know they keep him under surveillance, don't you? A phone call from my office here in New York and I'm a dead man as well."
She glared at him. His gray-green gaze was the ugliest thing she had seen in a while. He didn't flinch despite the hatred and contempt her eyes expressed and he stiffened a little bit, clenching his jaw.
"After what I did for you, I expected more gratitude, dear. Never mind. I'm sure a visit to the best jewelers and dress designers will make you sober up. Put on a pretty dress and go fetch your coat."
With that, he gestured to the door and she slowly stood up, still staring at him.
"I'll meet you in the entrance hall," he added. "Be quick about it."
Sansa left the office, jutting out her chin and keeping her back straight. Images churned in her head: Robb, alone in Saint-Paul, ignoring where she was and even if she was alive; her future in the brothel if the Hound didn't help her escape. Her thoughts went back to Evie: she could end up like the red-haired girl, secluded under the roof, if she disobeyed. Understanding she was about to cry with rage, she stopped mid-stride in the staircase and tried to compose herself: tears and submission were what Baelish expected from her and even if she felt helpless, she still could deny him this pleasure.
She sighed deeply and went on; in her bedroom, she opened the closet and selected a blue afternoon dress with embroidery. Reaching behind her neck, Sansa undid her dress and let it pool at her feet before stepping forward; as she slipped on the blue dress, her eyes wandered inside the open closet until they found the black woolen fabric she was thinking of. For the first time in weeks, she took the coat Catelyn had chosen herself only days before her death. Sansa had it dyed for her parents' funeral. Since she couldn't leave the Red Mansion, and now Baelish's house, she hadn't wore it ever since. Burying her nose in the collar, she cringed at the acrid smell of dye, before putting it on, then she turned to the cheval mirror.
She looked bad and the knee-long black coat didn't make her thin figure less somber. Shrugging, she put on her hat, walked to the door and opened it, then almost stepped back when she saw Viola among a bunch of girls who stood on the landing, obviously curious about what had happened in Baelish's office.
"Are you packing?" the dark-haired girl asked, puffing herself up.
"I- I don't think so."
Viola laughed, then crossed her arms about her chest in a pointless gesture to bring out her big breasts.
"She doesn't know!" she exclaimed, give a look at her companions. "Can you believe that? So what happened, sweet heart, why did Baelish want to see you? Did he ask you to suck his dick? I bet you couldn't."
The girls began to laugh and as they were in Sansa's way to the flight of stairs, she couldn't simply walk away. At some point, Sansa felt so distraught she thought of going back to her room and throwing herself on the bed to cry, but on an impulse she met Viola's eyes.
"You'd like to know what happened in his office, right?" she asked the dark-haired girl. "I'm not going to tell you. If you will excuse me now, Mr. Baelish is waiting for me."
Ignoring the girls' confusion and their puzzled looks, she reached the staircase and hurried downstairs. Baelish was in the entrance hall, his coat on; he hold his fedora in both hands.
"Is there a problem with the girls?" he inquired. "I heard them...You shouldn't pay much attention to them, Sansa."
"I know. That's what I did."
Perhaps his advice could have cleared the air, if Sansa's anger against him and against the new life he had offered her like a magnanimous present was not as strong. He led her outside and she felt strange when she crossed the threshold, as the sunbeams caressed her cheek, making the cold wind of the end of November less stinging. Walking on the sidewalk in front of the house, even if it was rather filthy, meant the world to her and she couldn't help smiling. I could walk through the city and, even with my high-heels shoes on, I would leave Baelish behind.
His voice dampened her spirits.
"We're not going for a walk, dear. We'll take the Packard and my chauffeur will drop us off."
She reluctantly turned around and saw the Twin Six limo with the chauffeur waiting outside, blowing on his cold hands. Sansa walked to the black car, greeted the chauffeur and got in with a sigh.
Inside, despite the comfortable seats and the rather large passenger compartment, she felt hemmed in by Baelish's presence. Putting as much space between herself and Baelish as possible, she leaned against the car door and turned to watch the city through the thick glass of the car window. The engine roared as the chauffeur started the car and they quickly left the street where Baelish's house was located to reach the nice parts of town.
Melancholy washed over her at the sight of the large streets surrounded by high buildings; in the early afternoon, people came and went on the sidewalks, some hurrying to their office, others walking around and chatting. Suddenly, she gaped when the chauffeur turned right in a broad street, and she recognized their destination.
Fifth Avenue. The central scene of The Age of Innocence. Edith Wharton couldn't choose another place to introduce Newland Archer and Countess Ellen Olenska. She had fancied that street more than any other one, when she still lived in Saint-Paul. Edith Wharton had published The Age of Innocence and won the Pulitzer the last year Sansa had spent in her parents' manor of Winterfell: she remembered her excitement every time she grabbed the book she kept on her bedside table and opened it to read Newland Archer's trials and tribulations. At that time, Sansa thought New York City and Fifth Avenue were the most beautiful places on earth, making every tiny event brighter because it had happened there. I refused to listen to the message though it was pretty clear: it was a warning about this town. No matter how enchanting this place is, it shatters hopes and illusions. I should have listened what the author was telling me, but instead of paying attention, I begged Father and we moved to New York.
The chauffeur, a tall man whose cap and gray overcoat were all she could see of him through the glass window between the passenger compartment and the driver's, pulled over suddenly and Baelish got out of the sedan to walk around and to open the car door for Sansa. On her right, she recognized the glitzy shop sign of a couturier.
"Come," Baelish told her, offering his arm.
She deliberately ignored his gesture, forcing him to let his arm fall on his side, but not before a few seconds of hesitation.
"I've got plenty of dresses in my closet," she stated.
"You certainly don't have dresses like these."
"I'm afraid you're wasting your money."
Her jaded remarks were not enough to question Baelish's plan and, once more, his obstinacy commanded respect. Still, he's wasting his money on me.
Once in the shop, an army of saleswomen surrounded them, helping her remove her coat, inquiring about Mr. Baelish's health and hardly frowning when they noticed Sansa's lack of enthusiasm.
"How can I help you, Miss?" the shop manager, a jovial woman in her forties, asked, clasping her hands.
"I'm afraid you can't unless you sell train tickets," Sansa replied, casting a chill.
The saleswomen looked at each other, wondering if it was some kind of cold humor or if the girl who accompanied Mr. Baelish was mad.
"We'd like to see evening dresses," Baelish said a bit stiffly. "Something to enhance my young friend's beauty."
The shop manager instantly regained her composure and led them in one of the private rooms, dedicated to her wealthiest customers. Baelish and Sansa sat down in comfortable armchairs while the woman gave her orders.
"I don't want anything from you," Sansa whispered, enjoying his unease.
Several large mirrors placed around the room reflected his frustration – and her triumph. Refusing Baelish's present gave her an intense satisfaction, though she was not used to make scenes in elegant shops – nor anywhere else. Suddenly they had switched roles and even if she had had to follow his lead when he had taken her to this shop, she felt stronger than ever when he looked at her with pleading eyes.
"You know any girl in my house would kill to have one of these dresses in her closet? Where's the sweet girl who loved to go shopping?" he asked.
"I'm not any girl. And the person you're talking about died in my parents' car accident. Assuming it was an accident."
Baelish scooted to the edge of his seat and took her hand in his before she could withdraw it.
"Right now, I'm the only one standing between you and the Lannisters, so you'd better cooperate with me."
You're not standing between me and the Lannisters. The Hound is. Baelish's eyes glistened with a cold rage.
"Don't cross the red line, Sansa."
The shop manager came back, followed by one of the saleswomen; the girl, a bit shorter than Sansa, wore a green evening dress with fringes.
"This is one of our new dresses," she announced, addressing Sansa. "Would you like to try it on?"
The girl found her grin so fawning and despicable, it was almost easy to play the part of a spoiled young woman.
"Frankly, I don't have any opinion on this dress."
An awkward silence filled the room and when the poor saleswoman gave the shop manager a doe-eyed stare, Sansa wished she could take back her words.
"I suppose you have other dresses," Baelish said, sitting back in his armchair.
The woman mumbled something and two other girls came in. Sansa didn't really pay attention as the girls walked around, doing their best to bring out the fine fabric and the perfect finish of the clothes they wore.
"Sansa, please," Baelish commanded in an undertone.
"I already told you what I wanted and you refused to listen."
Her pout infuriated him. She locked eyes with the shop manager, who waited for her verdict, hands clasped in front of her, the woman's fixed grin revealing her growing nervousness.
"These dresses are beautiful and so is your shop," Sansa told her. "But... I don't need a dress."
She turned to her neighbor and gave him an insistent look; unless the woman was blind or stupid she would understand Sansa wasn't making a scene but settling the score against Baelish.
"Fine." Baelish said. "I'll choose for you, then. The red dress."
"Mr. Baelish is an expert in fashion!" the shop manager exclaimed. "A red-coral dress. Open-back, the finest silk you can find..."
All of a sudden, Sansa had a look at the young woman wearing the red dress and spinning around with a stupid smile on her face. No. He doesn't want me to wear this... It was see-through and the open-back made the dress unacceptable.
A quick glance at him made her swallow hard. If this afternoon on Fifth Avenue was a game, Baelish certainly intended to win it.
"Put it on," he ordered, narrowing his gaze.
His threatening tone convinced her she couldn't do otherwise; she therefore reluctantly stood up and followed the obsequious woman who showed her a dressing room before closing the door with a knowing smile.
God, he knows exactly what he's doing. Baelish might be the most cunning man she had ever met; he always considered profit and risk before deciding if something was good or bad. The dress: profitable, because it revealed her owner's back and because its vivid color flatter one's complexion. Herself: highly profitable, especially if she wore that dress.
Fighting back the angry tears welling up in her eyes, she removed her afternoon dress and slipped on the red one. I won't yield. I'll be the most temperamental and unpleasant girl who ever lived in this town, but I won't yield, she thought, opening the door and getting back in the private salon where Baelish waited for her.
Sansa rolled her eyes when she heard the cheap cliché the shop manager addressed her. She was amazing, she was exquisite, the dress had been made for her. She hardly glanced at her reflection in the mirrors adorning the walls, yet she saw Baelish's face on it and this vision sent shivers down her spine. He slowly pushed himself from the armchair and somehow the shop manager understood it was time for her to retreat. Baelish stopped right behind Sansa and she clearly felt his breath on her shoulder-blades.
"I know you would be beautiful," he said in an undertone. "In my entire life, I never met a more beautiful girl. Except perhaps your mother."
Sansa had once thought that story about her mother and Baelish being friends – and some said even more – was a tale told by envious people. Catelyn was a lady, whereas Baelish was an insignificant young man. And above all, only her father was worthy of Catelyn's love. The notion that the man standing behind her had harbored hopes about her mother was simply disgusting; his caressing tone sickened her. She abruptly turned around and looked down at him.
"I won't wear that dress, you know."
"Why are you telling me you won't wear it?"
"Because I don't want you to waste your money, nor your time. I don't want anything from you. I'm not a kept woman."
Her nerve disturbed him; she could see it in his gaze.
"I know you like that dress. Consider it's a fair remuneration after the efforts you made."
His eyes roamed over her until she felt again the acid taste of bile at the back of her throat. She folded her arms, trying to meet his expression the large mirror reflected.
"Maybe I'll accept your present if you answer my questions."
His gray-green eyes glistened with curiosity and he licked his lips.
"It depends on the questions you want to ask, dear. I'd say one present for each question. I feel like spoiling you, today."
"My parents' death: accident or murder?"
"Frankly, Sansa, you already know the answer. I'm a good sport, ask me something else."
"Who killed them? And who killed Robert? Why didn't you say anything about Viola's attempt to ruin my song yesterday night? What is your plan about Evie and her baby?"
He chuckled. Sansa felt giddy now that she had released a part of the interrogations she had bottled up for days and even weeks.
"That's a lot of questions," he commented. "Strange questions, by the way. Let me choose another dress for you and I'll answer to the first two questions inside the car. This is not the right place for confidences."
Ten minutes later, they left the shop. Baelish had selected a flimsy white dress in addition to the red-coral one she had tried on. As he was talking with the shop manager, she had heard two saleswomen wondering about the strange duo they formed.
"He's buying her these dresses to make up for something, it's obvious! I'm sure he cheated on her."
"No way. A man cheats on his wife with a girl like her, but he doesn't cheat on her."
"Why would she be so angry at him, then?"
If only they knew the truth.
Once in the passenger's compartment of the limousine, Baelish answered her first question.
"Joffrey," he said steadily. "Joffrey decided your parents had to die. Cersei only wanted to get rid of Eddard, but your her son disagreed. Didn't seem to appreciate his future mother-in-law."
"Did you know?"
"That's another question, Sansa."
"As I suppose they also killed Robert, my second question is pointless now. And you bought me two dresses... so did you know?"
He sighed deeply, tilting his head back and thus betraying his unease.
"Had I knew, I would have saved your mother. I would have found something to convince her not to go with Eddard that day. As you know, I was a friend of hers."
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She did nothing to hide it and shook her head when he offered her his handkerchief.
"But you wouldn't have done anything for my father, right? You didn't care if he got killed!" she exclaimed.
"Unlike many people who surrounded you in the Red Mansion, I don't embellish the truth. No, I wouldn't have done anything for your father. I warned him once, but he didn't listen to my advice."
"I hate you."
"As you wish. You asked me two more questions, so I can drag you to the jeweler's shop, then to the restaurant."
With that, he opened the glass window separating them from the driver's compartment and gave the chauffeur an address. The jeweler's shop was just nearby – the ride didn't allow Sansa to stomach the news nor to collect herself. She was still dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief when the chauffeur pulled over.
"We can stay inside the car until you feel better," he suggested, reaching out to brush her cheek.
She recoiled at once.
"I'm fine," she said, her blue eyes conveying the hatred she felt for the man who had done nothing to save her father and who now humiliated her with his costly presents. "Let's get it over with."
Without waiting for him, she opened the car door and got out shaking. Regain your composure. Think of your father. You're not as strong as he was, but you can do your best to ruin Baelish's afternoon.
The sun was already setting as she stared blankly at the store front. Baelish joined her and offered her his arm again; she glared at him and he didn't insist. Still, his sudden lack of doggedness puzzled her and she feared his reaction once in the shop.
As Baelish came in, the salesmen hurried to him with fake smiles plastered to their faces; Sansa stayed in the background, and the men were so eager to welcome their wealthy customer, they didn't pay attention to the girl who had turned around to give a thoughtful look at the darkening street.
"Did your friend enjoy the necklace and the ring?" the oldest salesman asked Baelish. "I suppose she did, or else you wouldn't be back!"
He laughed at his own joke, his co-workers' giggling echoing his until the man realized his mistake. He thought the tall woman with her back to him was Peitho and his widened when Sansa spun on her heels. His confusion took her out of her drowsiness. She slowly walked to Baelish as the salesmen scattered in the shop to find the jewels they wanted to show them. The thick rug muffled their footsteps.
"You come here often?" she inquired.
Her jaded look made her question irksome and she saw him repressing a nervous smile.
"It depends on what you call 'often'."
"Oh really? I bet she likes your gifts."
She didn't need to utter his mistress' name to evoke Peitho's intriguing presence. Baelish didn't flinch.
"She's grateful, unlike you," he whispered.
"So why are you wasting your time and your money with me? I told you I'm not a kept woman."
"You'll be what I want you to be, Sansa. You already took the dresses I bought you."
"Because I wanted answers," she protested. "Not because I wanted the dresses."
"It doesn't make any difference, now. Give me your coat."
As Baelish helped her remove her coat, she felt his hot gaze on her and her nervousness increased. It was different from Meryn Trant's lustful look, yet it was disturbing. He wouldn't hurt her that day, but his intentions were possibly just as bad. She stepped aside and sighed deeply.
The same little game they had played earlier started again: her feigned boredom infuriated him and cast a chill in the luxurious shop. He insisted on buying her a sapphire necklace and earrings. Like these sets of jewels Peitho stores in her dressing table. The idea that Peitho was not the only woman whom he offered jewels disconcerted her but she buried the thought away.
"That's one more question," she commented with a hint of mischief as Baelish held out the earrings.
The salesman frowned, ignoring what she was talking about. Baelish contemplated her, cocking his head to the side, to admire the sapphire's brilliance standing out against her creamy skin.
"I thought you were not a kept woman," he commented, eying her greedily. "Your stubbornness is both unnerving and beguiling."
"I'll give you some time, if you want," the salesman offered.
"That won't be necessary," Baelish answered, still looking at her. "We'll take the necklace and the earrings."
He stood up abruptly, as if the afternoon purchases now annoyed him. Sansa averted her eyes, always feigning indifference but she felt his stare, expressing his eagerness to be alone with her as soon as possible. Sensing his impatience, the salesmen hurried themselves and Baelish let out a deep sigh when he closed the car door behind him. Sitting back across Sansa, he observed the girl until she decided to break the awkward silence.
"That's three questions, including the restaurant," she announced. "What do you intend to do about Evie and her child?"
"Why are you so friendly with her?"
"Because she is a kind person. You promised me an answer," she reminded him.
He smoothed down his mustache in a casual gesture and leaned forward.
"It's a good deed."
She rolled her eyes.
"All right, it's not because I want to make amends. I don't make amends. You see, a pregnant whore is useless, until you find some desperate couple who wants a baby."
He's not serious! Her senses dull, she tried to realize what he had just said. Evie, already fearing for her baby's future, ignoring he or she would be taken away from her...
"Why?" she managed to ask.
"The girl found out she was pregnant a bit late and suddenly, I understood it would be profitable to let her stay in the house until childbirth, instead of sending her away."
Sansa wanted to tell him what kind of monster he was; she didn't find the right words though. The cold, scheming man who was sitting across her in the confined space of the limousine only deserved her contempt. He saw her reaction and kept on staring at her.
"You asked why I wanted to give her baby to a loving family, so you have only one more question, including the restaurant," he said, as the car slowed down.
"I'm not interested in your game anymore," she replied.
The restaurant was an elegant place where Baelish was a regular customer. She didn't ask if he often came here with Peitho, and sat down silently across him. Sansa was polite with the waiters, even if she didn't have a look at the menu and didn't answer Baelish's questions.
"Are you going to sulk in a corner for the rest of the day?" he asked her.
"I don't sulk. I talk to the waiters. I only don't want to talk to you."
Instead of shouting or threatening, he looked at her with more insistence. Her determination seemingly fascinated him and Sansa wondered if her decision not to yield was right. It's as if the situation irritates him and pleases him at the same time. Does he like people who resist him? Does he like women who resist him? She did not feel strong enough to answer to that question right away and focused on her surroundings. Unbeknownst to her, she probably seduced him and that stupid game could have tremendous consequences for her, for her relationship with Peitho or with the other paneling and the dark-red wallpaper with its palmette motif were less disturbing than her companion's gaze. When one of the waiters noticed she didn't touch her food, he came closer and tilted his head, a concerned look on his face.
"Do you want me to bring something else, Miss? Our chef's lamb chops are very tasty..."
"Thank you," she replied with her best smile. "The food is perfect, but something took away my appetite."
The waiter frowned, worrying about her attitude, until Baelish cleared his throat.
"Leave us alone," he briskly told the young man.
Sansa glared at him as he wiped his mouth with a napkin before emptying his glass of water. His dark mustache didn't hide the smug smile on his face. She knew the other customers looked at them, wondering who they were and why the pretty red-haired girl pouted, but she didn't care.
"Ah, Baelish! It's about time."
A baritone voice made her jump and when she raised her gaze, she saw the thick waisted figure of Kevan Lannister. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit and his skin, usually pale had turned red by places with the cold wind. Behind him, Sansa spotted the Hound, whose mere presence had silenced the customers. He dwarfs anyone, she thought, her eyes going from him to Baelish whose light build suddenly seemed ridiculous. The Hound, silent as ever when he escorted a member of the Lannister family, took in her sullen expression and the untouched food in her plate. I didn't come here of my own free will, he has to understand it.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," Kevan Lannister said, grabbing a chair from another table and sitting next to Baelish, while the Hound stood behind him. "I've been looking for you for hours."
If the Hound's presence reminded her how short Baelish was, Kevan Lannister's intrusion changed the dark-haired man's behavior as well: he became again the Lannister's minion, the man who worked for them and ate their scraps.
"What happened?" Baelish asked, feigning both innocence and anxiousness.
Kevan Lannister pointed at Sansa.
"Can I talk in front of her?"
"Of course, you can. She's with me, she's not going anywhere."
The Hound's eyes narrowed slightly and Sansa swallowed hard.
"It's Meryn Trant," Joffrey's great-uncle explained. "He's missing."
Sansa's heart skipped a beat. Missing? What does it mean?
"Nobody saw him since yesterday night and Joffrey's speach is scheduled for tomorrow. I was hoping you got some news from Trant..."
Baelish's astonished look expressed his ignorance better than any answer. Sansa felt Baelish's eyes on her and looked down at her plate. No. It's nonsense. Things like that only happen in bad novels.
"Is something amiss, with the Stark girl?" Kevan Lannister asked.
"She's upset, that's all," Baelish replied. "She knew Meryn Trant since her stay in the Red Mansion..."
The Hound cracked his knuckles; the two men sitting across her didn't notice it – Kevan Lannister hardly frowned at the annoying sound – but when she locked eyes with the scarred man, she knew. No, try to think straight. He wouldn't have done this. And even if he had killed Trant, there is another reason, a better reason than you...
"But who?" Baelish asked.
"I'd say the Irishmen," Kevan Lannister confessed in an undertone. "Not that we had problems with them so far... I mean... their whiskey is good, but they're becoming greedy. They'd like us to pay for their damn war against the British Army. I think it's a kind of warning, Petyr... That's why I needed to inform you. Anyone who did this crossed the red line and we'll make them pay for their presumption!"
She had not eaten nor drank anything in hours, she felt dizzy. Her head spun and she put both her hands on the table not to fall.
"I think I need some fresh air," she says suddenly, pushing herself from her seat.
Baelish stood up but the Hound was quicker.
"I'll take her outside," he rasped, ignoring the shorter man's helpless gesture and holding her upper arms. Once again, the customers turned to them as they exited the restaurant. The cold air of November made her shiver and he led her to the black limousine parked nearby. She wanted to ask him if he really had murdered Trant and why, but the words were stuck in her throat. As soon as Baelish's chauffeur recognized the Hound he cautiously got back into the driver's compartment.
"No!" the Hound shouted. "Go fetch her coat, she's freezing!"
Too afraid to protest, the chauffeur hurried to the restaurant, leaving them alone. He opened the door for her, then got in. His massive figure filled the passenger's compartment, making her feel small and frail. Her stare irritated him, now that she knew.
"What?" he growled, avoiding her gaze.
"When- When will you come back?"
His expression softened but he glanced around his shoulder to make sure that Baelish and Kevan Lannister were out of reach.
"As soon as I can."
Hugging herself, she watched the chauffeur running to the car, holding her black coat; Baelish and Kevan Lannister were on his heels. The Hound wordlessly opened the car door and got out. Sansa felt like she was floating through a dream: the chauffeur's concerned expression as he gave her the coat, Baelish talking to Kevan Lannister on the sidewalk, next to the car... In the end, Joffrey's great-uncle walked away with the Hound and Baelish sat next to her.
"You seem terrified, dear. Did the Hound threaten you?"
She shook her head as the chauffeur started up the car.
"No need to lie, Sansa. The man is poor company. Still... I can't believe Meryn Trant is missing."
Pig dead, Trant missing... Among five million New Yorkers, there was only one girl able to make the connection between these two events.
