What Is Dead May Never Die

"Power is a curious thing. Power resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick, a shadow on the wall. And, a very small man can cast a very large shadow."

Rose picks at her food, but finds herself unable to eat a thing. Sansa, at the opposite end of the table, compliantly finishes her plate, drinking her wine with a small grimace.

"When will Joffrey and Sansa be married?" Myrcella asks, breaking the silence.

Cersei smiles. "Soon, darling. When the war is over."

Myrcella turns to Sansa, who has looked up, startled by the sound of her name. "Mother says I'll have a new gown for the ceremony," she says, cheerily, cutting into her pork. "And another for the feast. But, yours will be ivory, since you're the bride."

Sansa stares at her, speechless. Rose frowns at her from across the table, taking a much-needed sip of her wine.

"The princess just spoke to you," Cersei says, sharply.

Sansa blinks, startled again. "Pardon, Your Grace." She forces a smile. "I'm sure your dress will be beautiful, Myrcella. I'm counting the days until the fighting is done, and I can pledge my love to the King in sight of the gods." Although she smiles, her eyes start to shimmer, her bottom lip quivering.

Tommen looks up. "Is Joffrey going to kill Rose and Sansa's brother?"

Rose almost drops her fork.

"He might," Cersei says. She casts two pointed looks at both ends of the table, meeting Rose's stare with something resembling contempt. Sansa takes a large gulp of her wine, flinching at the taste. "Would you like that?"

Tommen thinks, a frown on his face. "No," he decides. "I don't think so."

Cersei nods, her composure never wavering. "Even if he does, Sansa will do her duty," she insists. "Won't you, little dove?"

Sansa says nothing.

"You did well."

"She can see right through me," Sansa mutters, furiously. "I was so stupid, sitting there, not saying anything."

Rose closes the door and takes her by the shoulders. "Breathe, Sansa. You're doing the best you can." Compliantly, she takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. A knock on the door makes both of them jump. "Yes?" Rose calls. A woman, foreign and beautiful with a head of dark curls, enters in a polite stance. "Who are you?"

She smiles. "I'm Shae, My Lady. Your sister's new handmaiden."

"I didn't know I needed a new handmaiden," Sansa mutters. She looks her, up and down, taking in her strange clothing. "You're not from here."

"No."

An awkward silence lingers in the air, in which Rose, and Sansa, and Shae stare at one another, waiting for someone to speak, or move, or do something. Eventually, Sansa asks, "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to tell me what to do."

Sansa glares. "I shouldn't have to tell you to do things. You should just do them."

Rose elbows her. "Sansa. Be kind."

"It's alright, My Lady," Shae insists, tersely. "What things would you like me to do?"

Sansa shakes her head, baffled. "Change my linens, wash my clothing, scrub the floor, empty my chamber pot, brush my hair."

A thick silence lingers in the air. Rose sucks in a breath. "I should go to bed."

She heads for the door, but Sansa grips her wrist. "You're not staying?" Alarm fills her face and voice.

"No, not tonight." Rose rubs her, comfortingly on the arm. "As much as I'd like to, we can't spend every minute at each other's side." Giving her a reassuring smile, she leans over and kisses her cheek. "Goodnight."

Without waiting for a response, she hurries out of the room, letting out a sigh of relief as the door closes behind her.

Rose lies on her bed, reading, with Hope snoring gently at her side. It's late into the night when she lifts her head a little, with a sudden snarl. Rose frowns, gently ruffling her fur, trying to pacify her. A soft knock at the door makes her jump. "Yes?"

It eases open, revealing Littlefinger, with his billowing clothes and mockingbird pin. "Forgive the intrusion, My Lady," he says, stepping into the room. "I hoped we might have a word."

Rose shuts her book and sits up. "Of course, Lord Baelish."

"Call me Petyr, please." He gives her a warm smile and perches on the end of her bed, rubbing his hands together in his lap. "I was wondering if you'd given much thought to our conversation the other day." At the frown on her face, he explains, "I asked you whether you'd be content with returning to Winterfell. You said you weren't sure where you'd like to go."

Rose sighs, sadly. "It's wishful thinking. I doubt I could ever leave King's Landing now. Not with my head, at least."

Littlefinger studies her, then leans in a little closer. "What if I told you there was a way?" he whispers. Rose blinks, confused. He takes this as a pass to continue, with a small twitch of his lips. "Your sister will be Queen someday, but you . . . right now, you're a prisoner here, in the South. A hostage. Your mother and brother are enemies of the throne, in open rebellion. I fear the moment the King's war is won, he'll have no further use of you."

Rose's eyes narrow. "You're trying to scare me, again." It's working.

"I'm trying to help you," he insists. Littlefinger pauses to weigh his next words in his head. Cautiously, he takes her hands in his. "A marriage could ensure your safety. Should you marry someone loyal to the realm, as Sansa will wed the King, you'll be out of harm's reach."

Rose chuckles, in spite of herself. "And who will I marry?" she sighs. "You?"

A small smile tugs at his mouth. "I care very deeply for your mother. If there's something I can do to warrant the protection of her daughters, I shall do it."

Rose feels a surge of emotions rising in her chest. She gives his hands a squeeze. "It's kind of you to offer, Lord Baelish, but—"

"Say no more," he interrupts. "Not tonight." Slowly, he reaches out and grazes his fingers, gently down the side of her face, his thumb brushing over her lip in a way that puts her stomach in knots. He grins, as though he knows the effect it has on her. "Think on it, at least. Give me an answer when your head is clear."

Rose remains rooted to her spot. Littlefinger leans in and kisses her cheek. She can feel his beard scratching against her skin, his warm breath on her. He draws apart slowly, so their eyes are connected, the blueness of hers and the green pit of his. She can hardly hear Hope growling at her side any longer.

Then, he's risen from the bed, and swept out of the room, leaving a breeze in his wake. Rose waits until the door is shut, then she falls backwards against the pillows, staring up at the canopy.

Did Littlefinger just propose to me?