Warning for foul language, violence and non con.
Greeting everyone so that nobody could miss his swaggering gaze and his new checkered overcoat whose collar he had popped in a sudden wish to seem more mysterious, Marillion crossed the meeting hall, seemingly enjoying how Jo whistled at him.
"You know how he got his fancy clothes?" Meg asked Sansa in an undertone. "People say he's a lounge lizard. He seduces rich women and takes advantage of them. He's so crafty."
Sansa rolled her eyes as discretely as she could in the crowded room. Craftiness was not the first thing the smug piano player reminded her of. He's self-important. He thinks nobody can resist him and he's over-confident about his musical skills. That's the kind of person he is. The vain musician shot Sansa his best seductive look as he sat down behind his piano. Does he realize I'm not interested in him? Is that why he stares at me?
The rest of Marillion's band was already tuning their instruments, laughing and chatting about the girls. The five men who played with Marillion looked like street musicians, like people who had been living hand to mouth for years and still had trouble making ends meet. A sort of disbelief emanated from the trumpet player, for instance, as if the man – a short-legged, red-haired man in his thirties – couldn't realize how lucky he was to have a roof over his head while playing; his cheerful smile moved Sansa deeply and she thought people like him deserved much more attention than the arrogant Marillion.
The rehearsal began in the meeting hall, despite the comings and goings of four men who replaced the old furniture by small tables and chairs; Baelish had decided he wanted the place to look like the Cotton Club, not like a cheap theater. Sansa tried to ignore the feeling of annoyance and disgust that took hold of her every time she saw some of the dance acts and pantomimes the girls had been working on. Peitho had said there had to be some risqué acts, that it was why half the customers still came in Baelish's house.
"But you're the other reason why they come," she had coaxed Sansa. "Your songs dramatically raise the standard."
When the girl saw Viola half-naked at the end of her dance act, she understood what Peitho meant; after such an amount of flesh on display, it wasn't very difficult to raise the level and to answer the customers' expectations.
"Sansa!" Marillion called after a while, as Viola left the stage, reddening and perspiring. "Your turn, now."
Marillion's musicians gave her an encouraging smile, the trumpet player nodding in approval while she moved past him. She smiled back at them, didn't pay attention to Marillion's lustful gaze, and she climbed the three steps leading to the stage with a determined look. Marillion's laughter infuriated Sansa but she focused instead, on the item that disturbed her because it was new and she didn't really know how to use it: a microphone.
Baelish had said the microphone would make a difference between them and the petty shows some brothels had decided to organize, following Baelish's example. Like the new furniture in the meeting hall, it was the key to make their customers feel comfortable – and to retain them. She shyly walked to the free-standing microphone and observed it: the long silvery straight stand and the egg-shaped device. Sansa had never used something like this before. The trumpet player noticed it and asked her if she needed help but Marillion preempted him. Leaping on stage as if it was a matter of life or death, the smug musician grinned at her.
"Microphones are like men, sweet girl: they don't bite."
He took advantage of the situation by wrapping his arm around her waist.
"Alright, I got it," she protested, glaring at him.
"You sing like you usually do: just come closer. Your pretty mouth has to be next to the microphone, that's all."
"Let go off me," she insisted, looking daggers at him.
Marillion complied and opened his arms wide in an innocent gesture, visibly surprised by her reaction, then he let his eyes fall to the floor.
"Come on, girl, you can do it. Your voice is golden. Even your shoes are golden," he commented, giving an appreciative look at her shiny high-heeled Mary Janes. "When you climbed the stairs, I noticed the soles were golden."
"So what?" she said, hitting the high note. "Can't we just practice like we were supposed to?"
"I was thinking of another sort of practice," he laughed.
Appalled, she shook her head, as the musicians whistled.
"Stop bothering the girl, you stupid prick!" one of the men told him, chuckling all the same.
"We're late!" Peitho shouted. "Hurry up, Marillion!"
Sansa had never been so happy to hear Peitho yelling at someone and she cracked a smile. Marillion reluctantly left the stage and sat back behind his upright piano, regaining his outward seriousness. Sansa's first try with the microphone wasn't satisfactory, but she soon understood what she had to do to make good use of the device. She didn't know how her voice sounded so far and the first songs she sang that day were like a discovery.
"Good!" Peitho said in the end. "Very good. Petyr will be pleased. Whose turn is it, now?"
Relief flooded Sansa as she retreated from the stage. Marillion began to play a tune she didn't know when she walked past the musicians.
"What is it?" the drummer mumbled.
"That tune?" Marillion replied, arching his eyebrow. His false modesty irked Sansa. "I don't know, it just popped in my head... I'm going to call it 'The Girl Who's Got Gold On The Soles Of Her Shoes'."
He's so stupid I shouldn't even listen to him. Once among the other girls, she gave a look at the last part of the rehearsal, while Viola flirted with Marillion. They make a great couple, she mused, watching the black-haired girl leaning in to whisper something in the piano player's ear. Edna chided her for disturbing the musicians and, in the end, Viola left the meeting hall, cut to the quick.
"She's pathetic," Edna observed, as Viola stormed out. "Do you know why Marillion was late?"
Sansa shook her head. The tall brunette with bobbed hair gave her an inquiring look, seemingly wavering. Could she tell Sansa the naked truth or should she keep her thoughts for herself? After a few seconds, Edna wrapped a protective arm around Sansa's shoulders.
"Viola was... keeping him company," she said under her breath, watching Sansa's reaction.
"You mean she was sleeping with him?" Sansa asked in disbelief. "How did he sneak in?"
Suddenly, Marillion deserved all her attention: if he ever knew a way to come in the brothel without being noticed, he was indeed crafty.
"She wasn't 'sleeping with him', as you put it. He arrived a few minutes before entering the meeting hall and I guess they found some dark corner. You didn't notice Viola was wiping her mouth when she came in?"
This is gross. Sansa rolled her eyes, exhaling all the irritation and distaste she felt. There would be another show that night and more customers to come until Christmas. Sandor had been clear about that: they wouldn't escape before Christmas. In all likelihood, he needed a few more weeks to find enough money for their flight.
The first Christmas without my parents. Without Robb. Everyday, she borrowed and thumbed through the newspapers, her heart beating wildly in her chest, clutching to the hope that her brother was safe. She never found his name in the New York Times. Her thoughts went back to Berdokhovski and to the letter she had given him. Did he post the message? Did Robb receive it? I wish I had news from him. Anything, just a few reassuring words telling me he's fine. Since her Russian customer's last visit, Sansa expected news from Saint-Paul and her anxiousness increased with each passing day.
Baelish appeared in the door frame, his slender and rather short silhouette dwarfed by the dimensions of the meeting hall.
"Ladies," he said, grinning. "You'd better surpass your usual level tonight. We'll have an important guest."
The girls who were not on stage rushed towards the dark-haired man, asking who was coming and why it was so determining; one cut off the other, to Baelish's great amusement. Their boss stubbornly refused to say who was coming to watch the show; he teased the girls, apparently taking a perverse pleasure in keeping the guest's identity secret. No matter how the girls who surrounded him stamped their feet and begged him, he remained silent. At some point, he raised his gaze and noticed Sansa's unease.
She stayed in the background, paying attention to Baelish's attitude and trying to guess who he expected to welcome that night. If Joffrey shows up, I'd rather leap into the void. I don't want to see him. And he'll probably seize the opportunity to hurt me again. Despite the fear numbing her senses, she felt like Baelish wouldn't be that relaxed if Joffrey planned to come and watch the show. A lump in her throat, she looked back at Baelish and noticed that, once more, he ignored the girls' questions to stare at her. The girls bothered him with their pleading eyes and their high-pitched voices; he finally gestured with impatience, as if they were flies he wanted to get rid of, before making his way through the simpering girls.
"A word, Sansa. In my office."
She nodded politely and followed the dark-haired man out of the meeting hall, mentally going over all the influential men she had met since her arrival in New York. Among them, who could choose to spend his night in a place like this one? A few weeks ago, she still believed respectable men didn't visit such places, and she would have shrugged off the question. Baelish shut the door behind him and motioned her to a seat while he walked to his armchair.
"You're upset," he stated. "What's wrong?"
At first, she didn't reply out of wariness. She let her eyes fall away, chewing her lip, but even though she didn't look at him, she sensed Baelish's gaze on her and guessed he was leaning forward on his desk.
"What happened? Are you not happy here?" he insisted, his last words making her purse her lips.
Jumping to his feet, he walked around his desk and planted himself in front of her. She noticed his black and off-white spectator shoes. Flamboyant and tasteless, she thought, staring at the black leather on the toe.
"Who's coming tonight?" she asked, suddenly looking up at him.
As she met his eyes, she saw how her question surprised him. He briefly gaped, then he wavered, observing her.
"I can't tell you who's coming, Sansa."
"Is Joffrey Baratheon coming tonight?" she inquired.
He shook his head and relief washed over her.
"Are you sure? I mean... whose visit could be more important? We already had Congressmen and influential people..."
"Joffrey has a meeting tonight, so I'm sure he won't come. However, his uncle said he's coming, so we can say the Lannisters will grace us with their presence. See? I didn't want to tell you who's our special guest, but you undermine my resolution. I'm too kind with you."
A smug smile on his lips, he let his eyes roam over her, taking in the cardigan she wore over her silken blouse, her gray woolen skirt she demurely smoothed to make sure he couldn't see her knees.
"Is Jaime Lannister coming?" she asked.
"No, dear, I'm talking about Joffrey's other uncle. Tyrion."
Her eyes widened and she frowned deeply, provoking Baelish's mirth.
"Tyrion has a taste for brothels, Sansa," he explained her, still chuckling. "That's the way he is. I wouldn't be surprised if he decided to buy your first night."
Eyes downcast, she waited, wishing Baelish would have some work to do and send her away. The prospect of losing her virginity to Tyrion Lannister was shocking. Sickening, she told herself. His family murdered my parents. And he's a dwarf. Catelyn would have chided her for being so cruel to a man who suffered from his appearance, but Catelyn didn't know what the man could do to her little girl. Sansa repressed a shudder. I need Sandor here. I need him to take me out of this place.
"See," Baelish taunted her. "You've got nothing to be afraid of. Tyrion Lannister just comes to watch you – and he'll probably end up upstairs with two of your companions. You should be proud to bring customers such as Tyrion Lannister in my house. You have more success with these songs you sing than I ever thought."
He paused and she realized something was amiss; Baelish positioned himself behind her, hands gripping the back of her seat. Don't move, she urged herself. Keep your back straight and don't show him you're afraid.
She nevertheless had good reasons to be scared when Baelish bent forward until she felt his breathing against her cheek.
"Lothor Brune told me the strangest story," he whispered, sending shivers down her spine. "He said he found you on the front steps, with the mute. What were you doing outside?"
She cocked her head to the side, looking at him.
"We were taking some fresh air," she offered.
"That's a big lie for a pretty little thing like you. Spare me, Sansa. You were trying to escape. With Evie, for that matter. I won't let the goose that laid the golden egg go, my dear."
She wondered if he was referring to Evie or to herself; it didn't make a big difference, though.
"Let's get things straight, Sansa. You don't escape. You don't help anyone escape, or you'll be sorry for that."
"What would you do to me?" she heard herself ask him. The hint of provocation Baelish detected in her voice infuriated him and he brusquely stood up, glaring at her.
"I don't intend to flog you until you bleed or to hurt you the way your former fiancé did. It would be stupid to leave marks on your flawless skin." He crossed his arms tightly, looking down at the girl. "However, after almost two years running shoulders with the Starks, I finally figured out what your biggest weaknesses are. Your father couldn't stand the idea of failing his duty. Your dear mother had a gentle heart: she was hurt whenever she saw people suffering. You most likely inherited both defects and you consider helping this poor Evie is your duty. What if I prevent you from doing your duty and make Evie suffer instead of punishing you? I could send her to another brothel where you won't be able help her and where people would not treat her kindly."
Sansa hugged herself, seeking a derisory comfort in the warm mohair of her cardigan. I just wanted to help Evie escape, how could I imagine things would turn this way? Tears pricked her eyes.
"If you want your friend to stay by your side, you know what you have to do: sing and smile pretty," Baelish added coldly.
He walked to his armchair behind his desk and when he sat down with a sigh she thought their conversation was over. She was wrong. While shifting on her seat, ready to get up and to leave the office she hated so much, she heard his voice again.
"This man, Berdokhovski... He's been visiting you again, I was told."
She raised her eyes and watched him carefully: the handsome features seemed relaxed, as if savoring her hesitation and his pointed beard gave him a devilish look. As she usually did when his gaze made her skin crawl, Sansa remained silent.
"According to Peitho, he's fond of you," Baelish went on. "No, wait. That's not some big secret Peitho discovered. Anyone who noticed his frequent visits here can see he has a crush on you. He could make an offer soon. Would you be happy if he made an offer?"
"I don't know," she muttered.
"Let's make a deal, Sansa. We both know the mute girl's child will grow up in a wealthy and loving family I chose. You can't do anything about it. However, there's something you can do for your dear Evie: keep her safe in this house after the baby is gone. A decent room, hand-picked customers... If you really want to help her, stop thinking of leaving this place. Dance, sing, smile for your customers. Make sure they'll splash out when the time comes. Do whatever you want: sit on their knees, let them kiss you... I don't care. Maybe I'll think of giving Evie a nice bedroom if you're a good girl."
The acid taste of bile hit the back of her throat. Berdokhovski said it would be like an auction sale. He was right. Baelish wants me to seduce Tyrion Lannister to raise the stakes. She didn't know how much Berdokhovski was ready to put on the table to be sure she would become his mistress and she was at a loss concerning the liquid assets Tyrion Lannister could gather. As a member of the wealthiest family in town, whose money partly came from bootlegging, Tyrion Lannister was a competitor Berdokhovski should not underestimate. And he's stubborn: competition can be fierce if he ever decides he wants me. All this seemed completely crazy. I just wanted to visit New York, she thought, as a tear rolled down her cheek. I just wanted to visit New York, how is it possible that things got out of hand?
"Go upstairs, now," Baelish told her. "Tonight's show is important if you're still eager to help Evie."
Cologne hardly hid the odor of stale cigarettes and alcohol in the meeting hall. Baelish had demanded Sansa's presence among the viewers before the show began, so that he could introduce her to wealthy clients he knew; thus, she stood between the small tables and waited, a strained smile plastered on her face, as men leered at her. Some tried to make conversation, others just looked hard at the girl, who felt as blue as the shiny sleeveless dress that covered her lithe form. Long white gloves, a blue headband with seed-beads and matching shoes completed her outfit.
A customer walked past her and brushed her arm; Sansa instinctively stepped aside and mumbled her apologies, but when she looked at him out of curiosity, she noticed his cruel smile. He's watching my reaction: he wants to know if he can go any further. She swept the room until she found Lothor Brune. His stocky figure was barely visible in the darkest corner of the meeting hall, next to the new counter where two barmen served whiskey and gin-based cocktails. Unlike the customers and the barmen who wore an uniform, Brune had kept his everyday clothes: brownish velvet trousers and waistcoat over a white shirt. He looked like a huntsman, especially when he scanned the room, clenching his square jaw. Despite his stern expression, the man Baelish had hired to keep a close eye on the girls didn't miss anything; he crossed the meeting hall as soon as he recognized fear in the girl's eyes.
"What's wrong, Miss?" he asked in an undertone.
"Stay with me, will you? The man who's sitting behind us, he..."
"I saw him. Nothing serious, though. I'll stay here until Mr Baelish arrives with his guest."
A table for two front-and-center to the stage had been saved for Tyrion Lannister and the other customers exchanged conspiratorial glances whenever they looked at it. Sansa sighed deeply as she let her eyes wander on the scorched tablecloth and the red carnations in their crystal vase. I shouldn't look at Tyrion Lannister when I'll sing, or I'll probably faint.
Nervous expectation made her throat dry and sent shivers down her spine every time someone crossed the threshold of the meeting hall, Lothor Brune's quiet presence being cold comfort. She finally spotted Baelish in the doorway and although she couldn't see Tyrion Lannister, hidden by the other customers, the hush falling on the room confirmed he was here. Lothor Brune wordlessly retreated to the corner where he would spend the night, as Baelish and Tyrion Lannister made their way through the small tables.
The Imp. His blond hair partly hiding his forehead, Joffrey's uncle greeted her. She immediately noticed the deep scars across his face. What happened to his nose? Even if she admonished herself for staring, even if she quickly looked at him straight in the eyes, he saw her slight frown and he repressed a chuckle. All around them customers whispered and Sansa convinced herself the girls peeping out through the curtains did the same. Baelish talked but she couldn't hear his words, focused on the consequences that night could have for her.
"Sansa?" Baelish insisted, a bit louder this time. "It's time, girl, go on stage."
She politely nodded and hurried to the stage, careless of the customers' roaring laughter, then she positioned herself on the foreground while the girls prepared their dance act behind the velvet curtain. As the band began to play, Sansa squinted against the spotlight and brushed the stand straight. Her first song was 'What I'll do', by Irving Berlin. The lyrics strangely resonated in the girl's mind.
What'll I do
When you are far away
And I am blue
What'll I do?
Her misty blue eyes avoided the front-and-center table, as she thought of the scarred ugly man who wanted to escape with her.
When I'm alone
With only dreams of you
That won't come true
What'll I do?
I wish he could be here. I wish he would protect me. I miss him. The reverential silence in the meeting hall was her best reward; all eyes were on her and she couldn't help looking at the large door, wishing the Hound would show up before the end of her song, and finally half expecting him to appear on the threshold because she wanted it so madly. Edna or Peitho would later blame her because she wasn't focused on the song, but Sansa, absorbed by her fervor, didn't care: Irving Berlin's music filled her ears and her heart.
A round of applause broke the spell: the huge figure of Sandor Clegane was nowhere to be found among the customers. At the same time, the clapping made her breathe easier. Perhaps daydream wasn't that terrible when singing a romantic ballad. Sansa took a bow at the front of the stage before slipping away in the wings.
The rest of the opening act was rather successful. Sansa's rendition of 'The Sheik of Araby' filled the audience with enthusiasm just before the intermission. She obliged Baelish by pointing at Tyrion Lannister during the song, a questionable choice that made the customers laugh. Joffrey's uncle himself chuckled before drowning his embarrassment in a glass of whiskey.
He's the Sheik of Araby,
As you can plainly see
At night when I'm asleep
Into my tent he'll creep
In the end, Sansa wasn't sure the comparison flattered or delighted Tyrion Lannister; she even felt sorry for him, when she noticed the mocking of the other customers. It was already too late and the best she could do was explain the man why she had pointed at him in this way, if she ever had a chance.
The girls who danced behind her during the song, jumped for joy when the band stopped playing, contrasting with Sansa's own bitterness. During the intermission, as Baelish's employees chatted and flirted with the customers, she felt so depressed by the Hound's absence, she only wanted to think of her flight. She talked for a while with some wealthy customers, under Lothor Brune's watchful gaze, but as soon as she saw him walking away – because Baelish needed him elsewhere – she took her leave and sneaked out.
Once the heavy door closed, the entrance hall's silence struck her. Head bouncing against the wooden panel as she leaned back, Sansa relished the quietness for a few seconds before remembering why she had come there. Lothor Brune is in the meeting hall. I'm alone and they're so busy nobody will notice my absence. That's it, I should leave during the intermission of a show, while Baelish and Peitho are talking with the customers. Nobody will pay attention.
Stepping forward, she cautiously glanced in the direction of Baelish's office, but she couldn't see light under the door: the realization raise a smile on her lips. The entrance door, now. Assuming we try to escape during one of the next shows, it will be easy if Sandor is waiting for me outside, she told herself, impressed by her own boldness.
Now that she had left the warm atmosphere of the meeting hall, she shivered in her flimsy white dress. If I can escape, a bad cold will be the least of my worries. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she walked to the front door, holding the hem of her dress. Behind, the slamming of a door startled her.
"Hey, Sansa!" a masculine voice called behind her.
She froze, wondering how she could explain her presence in the entrance hall, a bit too close from the main door, twice in a week. Taking a sharp intake of breath, she turned around and smiled to the intruder, though she doubted he could see her face in the dim light. The man slowly walked to her and as he moved past the wall lamp – an eccentric lamp in the shape of a wine grape – she recognized Marillion.
It's alright. Just walk and get back to the meeting hall.
"What were you doing?" he drawled.
Oh my God, he's drunk. The arrogant piano player had been drinking more than he should have, indeed, if his reddish face and his unsteady walk were any indication. He smirked, watching the abrupt rise and fall of her chest.
"I... needed to be alone. To focus on my next song."
"I remember," he said, gesturing and finally pointing at Sansa. "'Do It Again', that's a fine song. Romantic, and all that."
"No, it's not 'Do It Again'," she replied curtly, moving past the young man.
Before she could avoid him, Marillion grabbed her waist and pulled her close.
"Very romantic," he added, his slurred tone confirming his inebriation.
"Leave me be," she protested, wriggling. "I have to go back-"
"No, you're not going anywhere."
Marillion's strength was surprising for a man of average height and built, who had had his fill of booze. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape his embrace. Panic overwhelmed her when she felt his wormy lips on her cheeks.
"Help!" she cried, thrashing about.
"Forget about that," he spat, dragging her across the hall. "They're too busy to hear you."
Tears pricked her eyes as she flailed, elbowing him forcefully. She heard him curse under his breath and he almost threw her on a couch. At that moment, the slamming of the meeting hall door gave her some hope and she tried to shout before feeling Marillion's hand on her mouth. A couple was whispering and as Sansa listened to them laughing by the staircase, she understood they were looking for what Edna called a dark corner.
"Is everything alright?" the man's voice nevertheless asked.
Sansa flailed even more, but Marillion held her tightly.
"We're fine," the musician retorted, "as long as we can have some privacy."
Footsteps echoed in the staircase, warning the girl she had just lost her chance to escape her assailant. He began to kiss and lick her face and neck, pressing his body against hers despite her resistance. Careless of her protestations now that they were alone, he removed his hand from her mouth and tried to hike up her skirt, ruing the layers of tulle that complicated his task.
"Let go of me," she begged, feeling his hand on her bare knee.
"No, darling. You wanted this. I saw your little game. I saw how you looked at me."
"I don't want-"
"Of course, you wanted all this."
Straddling Sansa to prevent her from going away, he got rid of his jacket, then he fumbled with suspenders. He can't balance well, she told herself, clutching to the idea he had drunk too much; she shoved him violently. Marillion fell flat on his back, shouting and cursing as she ran to the meeting hall.
Before she could reach the crowded room, the door slammed open and she saw a tall figure against the light. For a fleeting moment, she believed it was Sandor, but as soon as her eyes adjusted themselves to the light of the meeting hall, she identified Lothor Brune and her heart sank. Behind him, a dumbfounded Baelish appeared in the doorway.
"He tried..." she told them, "Marillion tried-"
Brune took in her disheveled look, her tears and pushed her aside before throwing himself on Marillion. After closing the door, Baelish seized her upper arms, not unkindly, but any contact made her sick: she recoiled.
"I swear I didn't-" she whispered, unable to explain herself.
For a change, Baelish didn't insist, seemingly understanding what had happened. Sansa heard Marillion squeal; turning her back to the man who had tried to assault her, she squeezed her eyes shut with a pained expression, eager to forget her dreadful night.
"The kid had his fly unbuttoned,"Lothor Brune growled, eliciting a gasp from Marillion. "You should fire him, Mr Baelish. For what it's worth..."
"Kick him out," Baelish coldly answered, still staring at Sansa.
"I'm fine," she said, fighting back tears. "Just give me a moment, and I'll go back on stage."
Behind her, Lothor Brune dragged Marillion on the inlaid tiles of the entrance hall and threw him out. She still waited for Baelish's answer, hoping his frown was directed at Marillion and not at her, when the door opened again. Peitho gaped at the sight of her tangled hair while the trumpet player who accompanied the madam glanced at Baelish.
"What happened?" Peitho almost shouted.
"Later, dear. Bring her to her room, help her change clothes and be ready in ten minutes. We'll have a longer intermission." Then he turned to the musician. "Do you know where I can find another piano player?"
Despite a late beginning and a few wrong notes coming from the piano – a musician Lothor Brune had found in the nearest restaurant had agreed on replacing Marillion without prior notice – the audience applauded the last part of the show. Sansa did her best to conceal her emotions; Tyrion Lannister stared at her every time he got a chance and she felt terribly ill-at-ease. He had met her before, he was a familiar face of her past and for some reason she couldn't explain, it seemed to Sansa her mortification would be even worse if someone who had met her older self learned of her aggression.
The audience finally retreated, some of the customers already leaving the brothel while others stayed in the entrance hall, waiting for one of Sansa's companions. She shyly left the wings and got back to the meeting hall, looking around to make sure Marillion wasn't there. But Lothor Brune kicked him out, she tried to reassure herself. Then, the idea of what Sandor could do to the piano player flustered her. Thank God, he wasn't there and I won't tell him. I won't. No matter how I hate Marillion, no matter how scared I am, if Sandor learns what he tried to do to me, he'll be dead. Sandor needs to help me escape, instead of having a personal vendetta against the men who-
Some customers still talked with Baelish's protegees in the meeting hall, but she froze when she spotted Tyrion Lannister, next to the musicians. All of the members of the band were putting away their instruments, except for the piano player who had covered for Marillion and the red-haired trumpet player Sansa found nice. The man was deep in conversation with Tyrion Lannister, though Sansa didn't understand what common ground these two could have. The Imp went silent as soon as he caught sight of her.
Baelish said I had to talk to Tyrion before he leaves. Let's get it over with. She resolutely walked to the Imp, a polite smile on her lips.
"May I have a word with you, Miss?" Tyrion courteously asked her. "After the performance you gave us, I assume you're thirsty."
She frowned, but the Imp wouldn't take no for an answer. Thus, she followed him docilely, as he waddled to the bar. They visibly disturbed the barmen who were already cleaning the counter.
"A Bloodhound for the lady, and whiskey for me. Top shelf," he said, looking up at the jaded barman.
The man sighed and obeyed the late and unwelcome customer.
"Do you know what is a Bloodhound, Sansa?"
"Should I?"
The peculiar name made her shiver, but she steeled herself instantly. Crossing her arms about her chest, she observed Tyrion climbing on the nearest stool, then turning to her with the exaggerated, ironic smile that annoyed everyone – the smile that inevitably maddened Cersei. What does he mean?
"I suppose it's a sort of liquor," she replied as he arched his eyebrow, his mocking expression bringing out his fresh scars.
"You're a darling. A Bloodhound is a gin-based cocktail. Sweet vermouth, dry vermouth, gin and crushed strawberries. Strong, violent, somewhat bitter but becoming very... sentimental in the end."
He's not talking about a cocktail anymore, she realized, biting her lip. The Imp stared at her, enjoying her confusion, until the barman brought back two glasses – one with whiskey and a stemmed glass filled with a red liquid. Noticing her unease, Tyrion Lannister patted her gloved forearm with his short hand.
"We have a mutual friend, though I never imagined I would call him that someday," he whispered. "The Hound says hello. I guess 'hello' is not what he'd like to tell you and I doubt he comes here to make conversation with his little bird, as he calls you, but whatever..."
"Why are you here? I thought-"
"You thought I'd come to watch your humiliation and to get an eyeful of you before buying your virginity. Well, that's what I gave Littlefinger to understand. Drink, now."
She raised the glass to her lips and the strong cocktail burned her throat; she shut her eyes, wincing, and heard the Imp's laughter.
"The heaviest drinker I know and the sober little girl from the North. You make a strange couple, really."
She glared at him.
"We're not-"
"We should talk upstairs," he suggested, cutting her off. "We can't have any privacy here, obviously. Don't worry, dear. The Hound swore I would die a painful death if I ever touched you."
"That's not funny," she retorted, shaking her head to remove the thought.
Thank God, the Imp doesn't know what happened during the intermission. He could tell Sandor otherwise, and then... Sansa wasn't able to finish her cocktail; she assumed drinking what remained of her Bloodhound wouldn't inconvenience one of the barmen and she led Tyrion Lannister upstairs. She swallowed hard when hearing couples on the landing and on the third floor: some customers had decided to draw out their night in the brothel. Stopping in front of her bedroom, she pushed the door open.
"So that's where Baelish keeps you, huh?" Tyrion commented, sweeping the room. "Nice jail. You didn't have a four-poster bed in the Red Mansion, as far as I know."
"What do you want?" she asked, shutting the door behind them.
"I want to know more about the investment I just made."
Sansa wished she could slap him in the face. Was there somebody who didn't see her as an investment? Sandor wants me for myself. And Evie could take advantage from me, but she doesn't.
"Listen, dear. The Hound came to me, told me he needed a lot of money and suggested he could do anything to repay the favor. I'm curious so I wanted to know what this money was for; I tried to worm the information out of him, to no avail. In the end, I said I wanted his help to escape and to leave no trace in case my dearest family looked for me. He snorted and answered he was preparing his flight. With you."
The Imp paused, watching her closely. She gestured to the big armchair, bidding him to sit down; Tyrion hesitated, seemingly finding the armchair oversized for a man of his height and he took a chair instead. She gingerly sat on the edge of her bed.
"Believe it or not, dear, I'm concerned. You, flying away with the fearsome Hound? I don't like that idea."
"Sandor is good to me."
His reaction was not long in coming.
"Sandor?" he repeated, eyes widening in disbelief. "How interesting... The Hound's attack of sentimentalism left me dumbfounded but I never suspected you'd... fall for a man like him."
"I didn't-" she protested, feeling an unpleasant warmth on her cheeks.
"You barely knew him before," Tyrion went on, scooting to the edge of his seat. "Does it mean he knows you in the biblical sense now?"
Sansa gaped at his boldness and she had to steel herself before offering an answer.
"Elegant as ever," she observed coldly. "Why don't you ask Sandor?"
Hearing Sansa call Sandor by his first name apparently disturbed Tyrion; she cracked a smile at the realization and enjoyed his bewilderment.
"My dear, there are questions dwarfs never ask to a man who's nearly seven feet tall. Guess why," he smirked. "Maybe some questions are best avoided. Anyway, I promised the Hound I would give him money, so that he can visit you and I suggested we could escape the day your virginity will be sold."
"Can't we leave before?"
"I have private matters to deal with. And we need to cover ourselves."
"What do you mean?"
"My beloved sister had you sign some papers and I think we can prove her stranglehold on your father's fortune is illegal. I need to find that documentation you signed before we leave."
He reached his feet to the floor and walked around the bedroom, examining Sansa's gilded cage. After rummaging through the records she kept by the phonograph, he waddled to the bedside table, then he snorted. Sansa didn't pay much attention to Tyrion until he turned to her, a triumphant look on his face.
"Is it from the Red Mansion's library?" he asked, brandishing one of the books Sandor had stolen for her.
The golden lion on the spine left Sansa no other choice than to nod sheepishly.
"I don't remember Cersei giving you books," he added, curiosity sparkling in his mismatched eyes. "I don't picture her giving books to anyone, besides. And you're not the kind of girl who borrows things and forgets to bring them back, so how did you get this?"
Slowly walking to her, he held the red binding of the History of Navigation. She shrugged.
"Come on, Sansa, you can do better than that. How did you get this book? You don't even care about boats!"
"Well, it's- it's a long story," she stammered. "He... I mean... Sandor brought some books one day. So that I could read instead of gossiping with the other girls. His words, not mine."
Wide-eyed, Tyrion Lannister stared at her before chuckling.
"He stole books for you? What is he going to bring you next time? A spiritual adviser?"
"Sandor just wanted to be kind," she countered, infuriated by his jeering tone. "Why do you need to criticize everything he does?"
"Why do you need to explain every damn thing your knight in shining armor does? No, wait, I already know why you're so eager to defend the fierce soldier who turns into a hopeless romantic when he talks about you."
Sansa doubted Sandor had confided in Tyrion Lannister, first of all because he wasn't fond of the Imp, and moreover because he was all but incommunicable. Tyrion had guessed what information he had. He's pushing me to the edge, probably out of curiosity.
"Are you going to help us?" she asked him, ignoring his previous remark.
"I'm going to leave New York with you and your unlikely companion. I guess you can say I'll help you. If you want books, I can bring you some, next time. I can find something better than the... History of Navigation by Taylor and MacGraw."
His mocking tone hardly surprised her and she didn't show the signs of irritation he was looking for on her face; she remained silent for a while. Oddly enough and unbeknownst to Sandor, the three books stolen in the Red Mansion's library had become much more than a collection of stories and information. These books had been his first gift to her and therefore, their value had nothing to do with the topic they dealt with – even if the History of Navigation was deadly boring. Sansa associated them with the beginning of their epic relationship. Sandor had troubles with intimacy, she knew it, and he had perhaps chosen to offer Sansa some books because these items had no romantic connotation. What had happened between since then had made the books priceless. If some other man offered her a book now, she wasn't sure the Hound would be pleased and it would feel like a betrayal. Choosing books had become an intimate gesture for Sandor – and for her.
"I thank you, but Sandor will give me more books the next time he comes," she explained politely.
"Very well. Any message for the Hound?"
Sansa let her eyes fall on her lap, chewing her lip. The night had been nerve-wracking and there were things she couldn't tell Tyrion. Even if he's our ally. Looking up, she met his gaze.
"Just tell Sandor I need him here."
A thick fog wrapped the banks at daybreak, shattering the morning sun's efforts to illuminate the East River. Addam Marbrand cracked a smile at the sight of the young police officer blowing on his hands. The kid wore a brand new uniform and he was most likely a rookie on his first crime scene. Assuming this is a crime scene. Addam wondered how the young man standing on his left and staring at the misty riverbank envisioned the discovery of a corpse. How did I react the first time? He couldn't remember the details of the case, but he had never forgotten the sprawled body of the woman on the glazed tiles of her kitchen. A crime of passion, quickly solved: they had arrested her husband the day after and he had confessed the murder in an off-hand manner that still disturbed Addam years later.
This case on the riverbank was different, though: a car thrown in the East River, but barely covered with water, so much so a tramp had seen it, adding there was a corpse inside the car. The man, an informer of the Homicide Bureau, was often drunk and Addam knew more reliable finks than him, but his information was right: the black roof of a car was visible despite the murky waters and the vehicle was so close to the riverbank, removing it from the East River wouldn't be very difficult.
What kind of amateurish job is this? This could have been done by a person who read cheap detective novels and wanted to get rid of his wife, for instance. At least, it wouldn't be another settling of score between bootleggers.
As the crane operator from the nearest building site started his improvised mission, Addam sighed, remembering the murder of a restaurant owner named Gerald Halder. No one in the Homicide Bureau had been able to unravel the mystery and the tiresome Halder family kept coming to the police precinct, asking what was the point in paying taxes if the police didn't do its job. Addam knew that kind of two-faced people; the victim had spent the last years storing and selling liquor, greasing corrupt prohibition agents' palms and his family had grown richer thanks to bootlegging, but now the patriarch was dead, they demanded justice.
And there was Meryn Trant, a well-known henchman of the Lannisters, who had vanished into thin air. A good fellow, that one: extortion, grievous bodily harm, sexual assault. He had even been suspected for two murders, but his connections protected him. Addam sometimes believed Gerald Halder's case was related to Meryn Trant's disappearing, though most of his men disagreed. What could be the link? Rumor had it that Gerald Halder sold the Lannisters' whiskey, but that wasn't enough to explain who had butchered the restaurant owner and probably killed Trant. Addam admitted he had failed to discover what connected these men – if there was a connection; he nevertheless kept the details of their cases at the back of his mind and he told himself the things would someday fall into place, if his sudden flash of intuition was correct.
Seemingly unenthusiastic, the young police officer blew on his hands again and turned to him as the crane operator cursed: his attempt to lift the car and remove it from the river had come to nothing.
"Are you married, Sir?" the young man asked him bluntly.
"Does boredom make you nosy?" Addam retorted, amused by his sudden confusion.
Despite the fog, he could tell his young companion was blushing.
"I investigate murder cases everyday," Addam offered. "Crimes of passion, perfect housewives poisoning their husband, husbands slitting the throat of their dear wife... I'm not married. What about you?"
"I'm getting married next month," the kid mumbled, avoiding his gaze and staring at the ghostly frame of the Brooklyn Bridge, somewhere behind Addam. "In my hometown. Then Frances and I will move to New York." The mere mention of his fiancee's name put the smile back on his chubby face.
"Good for you."
The front of a black car briefly emerged from the East River before falling again, splashing cloudy water and eliciting a torrent of swear words from the crane operator.
"You never miss a female presence, once your day is over?" the young man insisted.
Dumbass, Addam thought, mentally face palming. What in hell was he doing with a nosy young officer like this one? All this was ridiculous: the way the car had been thrown into the East River, the crane operator's pathetic efforts to remove the car from the water, this conversation...
"Brothels exist, kid," he said. Addam himself didn't believe in his paternalistic tone.
"I was just saying," the kid scowled, shrugging and shoving his hands in his pockets.
His vexed silence allowed Addam to remember his last visit to the brothel and his discussion with Petyr Baelish, who urged him to see his new protegee. Sansa Stark. A sweet girl whose dead eyes made him feel guilty. Locked in Baelish's house, doomed to sell her body and to never enjoy the money she made – Littlefinger would see to it. Poor girl. Addam had sensed that day she blamed him for something – for being there? For being there despite his police badge? For giving up the investigation on her parents' death?
He squinted his eyes, observing the car body as it emerged from the river, its front damaged, water flowing out of the car from the opened windows. Cursing and shouting, the crane operator managed to drop the wreck on the bank. It had been an Oldsmobile 45A and Addam told himself it was a pity such a car ended in the East River.
"There's a body, inside!" the crane operator yelled, leaving the driver's seat of his vehicle and walking away as if the car could explode anytime.
While the young prick watched the scene, mesmerized by the sight of a car which had spent some time underwater, Addam came closer and peeked into the passenger compartment. There was the swollen body of a man, lying across the front seat. Behind him, he felt the young officer's presence. Curiosity had overpowered apprehension and he was pressing his face against a half open window.
"I can't see his head," the kid exclaimed.
Addam sucked in a deep breath.
"That's because someone beheaded him."
His tone was cold, matter-of-fact; maybe he overdid the role of the indifferent, world-weary detective, eager to offend the young officer. Addam didn't need to look at him to be sure he was gaping, eyes roaming over the swollen corpse clad in black. It can't be something ordinary, though. What kind of person beheads his victim?
He opened the car door, and more water flowed out before he could remove the body and drag it on the ground. The young officer helped him, nausea making him purse his lips. You'll get used to it. And the smell will be far worse in a couple of hours. Addam scrutinized the victim, then squatted to search the man's pockets and to find a wallet or anything useful to identify him. Nothing at all, but he's got a shoulder holster, so he most likely belongs to the underworld.
"Look inside the car," he ordered, raising his gaze and locking eyes with the young officer.
Despite the feeble light of the morning, Addam noticed the shoulder holster was empty: the murderer had taken whatever gun his victim carried on him, and there were marks on the neck, several deep cuts indicating the suspect had taken it out on the man.
"There's a knife under the front seat!" the young officer announced.
"So what?" Addam replied a bit stiffly. "Do you find something else? Did you check the back seat?"
The car doors grated while Addam observed the gashes on the man's swollen hands. All this looked like a settlement of scores between mobsters, except mobsters were usually more careful. What happened? Whoever had cut the man's head off knew exactly what he was doing, but the amateurish way the car had been thrown in the East River disturbed him.
"No!" the young officer whispered. "Can't be true..."
The detective stood up in time to see the kid hurrying out of the car, slamming the door as if it could help him forget what he had seen; sighing, he watched the rookie leaning against some utility pole throwing up. Addam opened the car door and looked at the back seat: the kid had indeed found something that would help them identify their victim. In all likelihood, the young officer had unwrapped a dark blanket caked with mud and discovered inside a head, swollen like the mortal remains he had already examined. Despite the mud, pallid, distorted features were familiar. The droopy eyes and the reddish hair belonged to someone whose file he had read lately, and even met, years ago, thanks to his old friend Jaime Lannister.
Meryn Trant.
Thanks a lot to Underthenorthernlights who beta reads this story!
Thanks to you, who read and review this fic! Your words always inspire me!
To Guest: Thanks! I really enjoy writing this and it's good to know people enjoy reading it too.