Title: Cough Syrup
Character(s): Petyr, Sansa
Rating: K+
Word Count: 487

I'm losing my mind losing my mind losing control
These fishes in the sea they're staring at me oh oh
Oh oh oh oh
A wet world aches for a beat of a drum
Oh
If I could find a way to see this straight
I'd run away
To some fortune that I should have found by now
I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down, come down


"Now, now," she murmurs, when he attempts to turn his head away from the little bottle she holds to his lips.

He is certain that the medicine she gives him with her own delicate white hand makes him groggy, fogs his brain so that he cannot recall how long ago it was he watched her sit the Iron Throne, her shoulders draped in Stark grey, her red tresses crowned in gold.

"I would have you well, my love," she says with a soft smile, smoothing her hand over his brow, which he realizes is covered in a fine sheen of sweat even though he is cold right through to his bones.

Winter.

"With you here abed, Petyr, there is no one to whisper in my ear, to whisper instructions."

Of course, he has trained her well, so that she barely needs him. Her coronation was his triumph as much as hers, but he looked on with a measure of concern, thinking how assured she looked sitting the throne. Too assured. Did he not? It is hard to recall. The images of that day dance before his vision. Was he sick that very night? Did he manage to last through the dancing that marked the occasion? Did he touch a single item on his trencher, as he sat at her right hand?

What kind of sickness is this that he feels afloat and lost in his own mind?

"There," she says with a tone of satisfied accomplishment, as his lips part and the viscous liquid coats his tongue.

Her blue eyes swim hazy before his gaze, when she leans close enough that he can feel her breath against his lips. He wonders if she means to kiss him.

"Cat?" he says, his voice cracking from disuse. How long has he been closed behind sick doors?

"No, Petyr: Sansa. Your own Alayne. You must know me. I am your own creation."

Yes, of course. Sansa, he thinks with relief, blinking away the little fish that swims into his vision. His relief is brief, because it occurs to him that Sansa should be too busy to see to his care. There is a kingdom to rule, one recently torn by war and besieged by the ravages of winter, which must require a queen's attention. A queen so newly minted could easily be torn from her throne, and she must take the greatest care to preserve his accomplishments.

He must have voiced his concerns, warned her against spending too much time at his sick bed, although he cannot recall speaking, because she whispers in his ear a gentle assurance, "I vowed long ago to take care of you first, Petyr. Since my mother is not here to do it herself."

His thoughts scatter, reform, and taunt him. Little fishes swim through his veins, painfully snapping with sharpened teeth. He thrashes, as the glass bottle is pressed to his lips once more.