Petyr's apartment is a lofty penthouse looking down over Silk Street - which Sansa always found strange, because he's never liked the theatre. Mum used tease him over it, over how bad he was at music and how wooden he was on stage when they were kids, and it's always been one of the few things he gets really snotty with her over.

Sansa's been to dinner in Petyr's plenty of times - he's Mum's foster brother, after all, a member of the family, even if he and Dad didn't work so closely on council. She's always loved the big windows that look down onto the Harper's Rest opposite, and the way the music from the Victoria next door sometimes drifted up onto the roof terrace.

This is not Petyr's apartment.

Some part of Sansa had expected Petyr to put her on a train to Winterfell, maybe with a small protective detail. That's what he should have done - she's engaged to the crown prince, she was witness to her father's assassination just yesterday morning, she's important, kind of.

No such luck. She's been called stupid before, hundreds of times, but it's been a while since she's actually felt it.

"Everyone will be looking for you," he says, "and they'll expect you to run home - let me keep you safe, sweetheart."

He brushes her hair back from her face before ushering her into the shitty bathroom in the stinky little one-bed apartment off Satin Street - still near his brothel, but at least not in the brothel - with a box of hair dye. He lets his hand linger too long, thumb sweeping over her cheek and fingers curling around her ear, and the look he gives her when he steps away is nothing she ever wants to see again.

The King looks at Arya the same way - that's part of why he and Dad had stopped talking.

Ty brings Aster with her, when she comes to knock on his door at half past seven in the morning. They obviously drove through the night, because Aster's hazel-green eyes, just like his, are falling out of her head, but she's still struggling valiantly up the path to his front door with their two bags over her shoulders all the same.

It's the better part of nine hours up from Sunspear, of course. What would he do without Tyene?

"The Vipers are at your disposal, Will," Ty says, kissing his cheek and balancing with her left hand to his chest. The bright purple-white of the star spilling down from her shoulder is startling against her dark skin, every single time, and Willas half wishes Lyria had come too - he'd like as many of his friends nearby now as possible. "Trys is already digging, and we've got Neddie asking around his contacts."

Ty's little cousin Trystane and Lyria's little nephew Edric are the best private investigators in the country - Willas still isn't sure how they've managed that, and at such an obscenely young age, too - so it really does comfort him to know they're looking for Sansa.

It doesn't comfort him quite as much as Aster pushing past Ty and throwing her arms around him. Az is like him, like Marg and Loras - she was born Awake, and for all Willas wishes he could spare her, it's not always a bad thing. He doesn't understand how it works, since in those faraway first memories Aster doesn't exist, but she knows, and that does make life a little easier.

"Hello, poppet," Willas says, kissing her bright blonde hair - just like Ty's - until she lifts her head so he can sign for her. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart."

"Always."

Az is seventeen, tall and awkwardly shaped just like Willas was at that age, and she's partially deaf in both ears - and rubbish about wearing her hearing aids, of course. Willas is the same about his, and however much she might look like Ty, she's always been much more like him. Her hearing is worse than his, and deteriorating faster, but it's never seemed to trouble her overmuch so they've taken her lead and never pushed her to pursue surgery - she can hear well enough with her hearing aids to attend a Hearing school, and she's promised to tell them both if that changes. They trust her, and she's never betrayed that trust.

Az chatters away while he shuffles them in the door, into the front sitting room, skinny hands moving so quickly he has to really watch to keep up - even with her hearing aids in, she signs as often as she speaks when she's at home. He regrets that he doesn't see her more, but Ty doesn't move around for work the way he does, and Az loves her school. It wouldn't be fair to force her to move back and forth on an irregular schedule just because Willas missed her, so he's made do with holidays on the promise that she'll live with him for at least her first year of college, when she moves up to King's Landing in the summer.

"Hey, " Ty says to her. "Maybe go throw our bags upstairs?"

Willas' house has three floors, proper, and he mostly lives in the basement below them - he has a kitchen, a sitting room, a study, and an ensuite bedroom, and he doesn't need much else - but the rest of the house is finished just as well as his little apartment. Az's room is the attic, because of course it is, and Ty usually takes the big guest room on the second floor, looking out over the million mile.

"The blue room is occupied," he tells Ty. "Your room very nearly was, but I valiantly defended your territory."

"Sansa's sister?"

"Mm. She's seeing our Alla, you know."

"I heard - she was at college with Trys and Neddie. They both were."

Ty presses her hand over his heart, warm and steady.

"We'll find her, Will," Ty promises. "You helped me and Lyria - let us repay the favour."

KING, PM DEAD

"Seven save us," Willas says, unfolding the shitty redtop Rodge has thrown down on the table. "The King as well?"

"The King as well," Rodge confirms. "Word came in late last night - word is it was another heart attack, but until the autopsy is done we can't be sure. The Lannisters have all but barricaded the palace, anyway. No one in, and hardly anyone out."

Rodge and Willas had spent three months beating the shit out of one another after Rodge started at Summerhall, and then Rodge had given himself away as being Awake during a six-hour Saturday detention. Willas can't even remember what it was he said, but it had surprised them both so much that they forgot to fight, and they've been tight ever since.

"Jon Arryn's not even cold," Willas says, waving Rodge toward the still-hot teapot. "But now Sansa's father and the King - who's next?"

"Renly," Rodge says. "But we've got him more or less on lock, and he's not going to challenge his brother for the throne now."

"And so the might of Highgarden throws in behind Stannis Baratheon," Willas says, shaking his head. "You haven't heard-"

"I'll text you as soon as I do," Rodge promises, stirring milk into his tea with an even more solemn face than usual. Their pasts weigh heavier on Rodge than they seem to weigh on anyone else, and he grows more and more serious as time goes on.

At least this time he lived past twenty. That's rare. This might be the first time he's lived past thirty.

"We've got people searching Baelish's places," Will says. "Well, the high-end ones, to start with - none of my uncles are going to blend in in his shittier establishments."

"My boys are already on the hunt. Theon was… Thrilled to have a chance to do something useful that doesn't involve bookwork."

Rodge's little brother is like Sansa, in that he never quite manages to escape his worst fate entirely. At least this time they got him out with all of his fingers, and almost all of his skin.

Sansa looks like Aunty Lya with her hair dark.

Well, sort of. She's always favoured Mum's side, but she's got Dad's long jaw, and with her hair almost-black and hanging wet and straight around her face, she looks a good deal more Stark than usual. Either the hair dye or the terror is dulling her eyes, and without any concealer or anything she looks… grotty.

Probably won't be enough to put off Petyr's lingering glances or lingering hands, but it might stall him a little.

She pulls on the clothes he left for her - not taken from a prostitute's locker this time, thankfully. A thick dark brown jumper, nondescript jeans, sturdy boots that are going to give her horrific blisters until they're broken in. Dressed, she somehow looks even more like Aunty Lya, despite the way her hair is curling as it dries, despite how tall she is.

"Sweetheart? Ready to come out and say hello?"

Sansa hesitates. Hello to who?

"We're going to find her, Dad," Aster assures him instead of doing her homework - Ty agreed that she could come along, but no power under the heavens will allow her to escape her studying. Her exams are only two months away, and Willas already feels guilty enough that she's having to deal with him being such a useless mess without missing time from her studies.

"I know, love," he says, because he's sitting at the kitchen table with Az for want of anything more useful to do. Ty's gone out to talk to some source of Trys and Neddie's, Arya and Alla are gone to do some "sniffing about," and Rodge is gone to round up some moral support - which means Renly and Edmure, Seven save him. "I just hope it's soon."

Aster pats his hand, in a moment of such stupendous mortification that he can't even react, and then goes back to her studying. Being comforted by his teenage daughter is surely a new low.

The redtops are losing their minds over the deaths. The King's is the less scandalous of the two, and so the Star, the Sun, the Mirror, and the Express have run with long-lens photos of Sansa's father with half his head splattered across the cobbles, surrounded by the bodies of his six-man security team. The cobbles in Ormund Square are pale yellow-white, the same sandstone-colour that everything funded by the Baratheons over the years seems to be, and it shows up the gore and the slate-grey Stark suits in devastatingly high contrast.

The Times, meanwhile, is running in a more tasteful direction - the last official portrait of the King covers most of the upper half of the front page, and an official portrait of Ned Stark covers the lower right quarter.

Willas can't bring himself to read the Continued on page 2 article beside Sansa's father's photograph, because he knows it will mention the appeal for information regarding the whereabouts of Prime Minister Stark's elder daughter, last seen on the CCTV cameras in Ormund Square immediately after her father's death.

Of course the CCTV cut out the moment Sansa's father was shot, and kicked back in to reveal the dead Northmen. Baelish has all kinds of nasty friends, and no doubt at least some of them are in the Met. The police have always been corrupt, and there's nothing that allows Littlefinger to flourish like corruption.

Az's hand covers his, and Willas startles - he hadn't noticed his fingers drumming against the tabletop, but he must have been going mad for Az to notice.

"Sorry."

She shrugs and releases him, and he's embarrassed all over again.

The door rattles, and for a stupid moment Willas almost thinks it's going to be Sansa - he stands up without his crutches, he's so sure, and poor Aster has to catch him before he hits the deck.

"Oh, get up, you great idiot," Edmure says, face creased with worry that has nothing to do with Willas. "Hey, kiddo," he says to Az, once they've settled Willas back into his chair and everyone's hands are free.

"Hey, Ed," Az says cheerfully, gathering her books and things into her bag with a smile. "I'm using your study, Dad, shout if you need me."

He sticks his tongue out at her in response, and she kisses his cheek on her way past. Edmure pointedly doesn't laugh, and so Willas doesn't mention the glitter all over the arse of Edmure's jeans. Bethy's been at the card-making again, obviously.

"No word?"

"Not a thing," Edmure says, sitting down with a thud once he has the kettle on. "Cat's beside herself, of course, but the kids are insisting that we can't wake her."

"What sets her off?"

"Depends. Last time it was Bran breaking his back, time before that it was hearing Sansa was-"

Edmure stops and clears his throat. The time before that, Willas thinks, gorge rising, is unbearable to consider, because the time before last he was too late and it cost Sansa her life.

"It's always to do with the kids, though."

Willas can't imagine what that must be like - not only being told there's something wrong with Aster, but to have all his pasts crashing down on him at once? That's the stuff of true nightmares. He's never so glad to have been born Awake as when he realises just how bloody traumatic waking up is for most people.

"Before you start spiralling," Edmure says, clapping a hand sharply on Willas' shoulder, "I'm going to need you to take out your prayer beads, and I'm going to make you chamomile tea, since, knowing you, you've not slept since word got to you about Ned - have you done any of your physio? No? And you after flying?!"

"It was only a short flight," Willas grumbles, peeved that Edmure knows him well enough to know both that his knee is in agony and that his prayer beads will help. "Ed, come on, there has to be something more useful I can do than lie on my bed with a fucking resistance band-"

"You'll be no use to anyone if you're in bed with the pain," Edmure says, putting a cup of yes, chamomile tea down in front of Willas. "So drink that, sleep for a couple of hours, and do your exercises - I'll be here to keep an eye on Az and coordinate. Sansa won't thank you for running yourself into the ground once she's Awake, Will, and you know it."

Petyr's friends - Shadric with the ugly red hair, Kettleblack-no-first-name in the ill-fitting suit, Brune with his unhappy eyes - are playing cards, and for some reason, none of them are calling Petyr on how he's cheating them.

It's just after lunchtime. There's no telly in this shithole flat, Sansa's phone never made its way back to her, and no one brought a newspaper when they visited. Sansa's fairly sure Petyr should be up on the High Hill, advising council - that's his job - but he seems perfectly at ease here, with these strange men.

"My father'll be here soon, of course," and how has Randa Royce not recognised her? Everyone always said Randa was too selfish to see past the end of her own nose, but Sansa can't understand it. Even with her hair changed, she still looks like herself, and thanks to Joff she's one of the most photographed women in the country.

Randa Royce is one of the most accomplished hangers-on in the country. Her father's a hereditary knight with no real title, and while they're wealthy, it just isn't the same. Dad is-

Sansa's father was Duke of Norham. The oldest title in the country, which has always just delighted the Lannisters. Being the eldest daughter of a duke and thereby Lady Sansa means a lot more than just the Honourable Miss Myranda . The likes of Randa usually do everything they could do get into the kind of social circles Sansa was automatically made part of even before she and Joff got engaged, and they approached it like a military operation. Social climbers know everything about everyone. It's their best weapon. So why hasn't Randa made Sansa?

Unless Randa has recognised her. Unless Randa is going to return Sansa to Joff in return for a free pass into the innermost circle. Oh, gods.

"Your father is always just a moment away," says Mya Stone, who is clearly a Baratheon. There's somewhere just shy of two dozen absolutely-not-a-Baratheons dotted around the country, because the King wouldn't know a condom if it jumped up and bit him, and they've always just been one more thing for Joff to hate about his father. Most of them are unrecognised, except Edric Florent-Baratheon, who's acknowledged but never, ever legitimised. Tywin Lannister threatened war if the King went that far, and Joff always said it was the one clever thing his father ever did.

If he is his father.

Where had that come from? Why would she doubt- what was she even doubting? That Joff was his father's son? How could she doubt something like that, when Joff had his father's disregard for fidelity, his hatred of women as anything but toys, his temper and his fury, and-

And absolutely nothing of him, physically. Sansa's always favoured Mum, they all have except Arya, but she has Dad's jaw and Robb has Brandon's smile and Bran has Benjen's skinny build and Rickon has Lya's silvery eyes. Oh, that would be delicious, if it could be true, that Joff was the by-blow of some of Cersei's brownnosing cronies-

But why is she even thinking that? What put that into her head? Even if it were true, would the same be true for Tommy and Cella? It really would come to war if something like that came out, and then all those very-much-not-the-King's-bastards would suddenly become incredibly important. But why is she thinking this?

And- and what's making her want to text Robin and ask if Randa Royce has ever tried to get her leg over with Harry Hardyng? Who's Harry Hardyng?

She rubs her thumb over the birthmark on the inside of her wrist, pinker and rounder than it's ever been, and ignores the way Petyr's biting his lip every time he looks at her.

She really, really wants to go home.

"Little bird," Shadric growls, leaning against the shitty laminate counter beside her when she goes to make tea. "Has he touched you yet?"

She jerks, spilling the kettle all over her hands - lucky she hasn't boiled it yet.

"I- I don't know what you're talking about."

"Little bird," he says. "Little songbird. Not a mockingbird at all, underneath."

Sansa says nothing. Her hands are shaking.

"You have friends, you know," he says. "There's a… Spiderweb spread all over all of this."

He watches her face carefully, seeking something specific, and seems perturbed when he doesn't find it.

"Ah, well," he says. "There are other ways."

A spiderweb? Why would the Mad Mouse tell her of a spiderweb? Who's the Mad Mouse?

Randa and Mya are bickering about something, and Sansa concentrates so hard on keeping her hands steady while she refills the kettle that she forgets to answer to Alayne. That brings on a round of teasing from Randa, a curious, twisty sort of look from Mya, and a warning glance from Petyr.

Has he touched you yet?

Shadric is the one who snapped her bra just yesterday, who said all those- those things about seeing her dance. But he's the only one who sees this all as being wrong, or at least, he's the only one who said anything about it.

Has he touched you yet? Not quite, but Sansa doesn't think it'll be long.

"Alayne!" Randa calls. "Alayne! Mya and me are going for a coffee - coming?"

She says yes before Petyr can object - won't it look strange if she says no? And it isn't as though she has money to get away, or as if she trusts either of these two strangers to help.

Petyr gives her a twenty pound note, and with Shadric and Lothor and Mya and Randa all looking as he passes it to her, Sansa can't help but wonder just what he's paying for.

Has he touched you yet? No. Not yet.

"We know she's in this area," Trys says, swinging idly on a grubby plastic-topped stool with a half-forgotten milkshake in hand. "It's just a question of where specifically."

"Don't fall," Ned says, not looking up from his phone but catching Trys when he loses his balance all the same. "And look, we've just got to narrow down which aliases are most likely for this gambit - if we do that, we limit the number of places we need to check."

"My money's still on Eagle's Rest," Trys says, leaning over the table just enough to touch the screen of his tablet, so he can check the process of whatever search is running. "But yeah, if we can cut down his false names, that'll help."

"How many false names can one man have?" Robin asks, dreading the answer - he's clingfilmed from his wrist all the way to his shoulder, so he's sweating bullets even without all this anxiety over Sansa. If he'd known this was all about to go down, he would never have gotten his arm tattooed two days ago. "Gods be good, Ned-"

"Baelish has enough names to field an army," Ned says, lifting his phone when it dings. "Well, there's another two doors we don't have to knock on."

Robin waits patiently, well used to Ned and Trys' distracted methods. He's been their chief financier since he turned sixteen and Dad allowed him access to part of his trust, and their friend across a dozen lifetimes. He trusts them, even if they drive him batty on a regular basis.

"How many doors are left, then?" Robin asks, concentrating very hard on not scratching his new ink. "After these two."

"Well, we've crossed off fifteen," Trys says, scrolling through whatever tables are showing up on his tablet - Robin can't see them without his glasses. "That leaves every other door between here and Silk Street."

"Ah."

"You see our problem," Ned says, pulling a second phone with a slightly bigger screen from the inside pocket of his jacket - Robin really must get his tailor's number, because no one else ever has such beautifully cut clothes as Ned's. Today, he has a beautiful inky black suit, the jacket dotted with tiny silver-white polka dots and lined in bright, fantastic purple, the trousers plain but for a stripe of that same purple down the side-seams. Of course, it helps that Ned's probably the best looking man in Westeros, but a good tailor can make anyone look good.

Not the focus here. Not today.

"I see your problem," Robin agrees, leaning back so he can cross his ankles on the edge of the table. "What can we do? We need to get her away from him as soon as possible-"

"We know, Robin," Trys soothes him, patting the toe of Robin's worn boots. "And we're not alone - we've got the full network on this one, we promise."

Yes, the Sand Snakes and what of the Krakens have defected to Rodrick and Asha, and whatever other nebulous networks Ned and Trys have access to, but even with all of that it might not be enough.

"I think-"

"No."

"But he might-"

"No," Ned says sharply, casting Robin an absolutely poisonous glance up through his silver-pale lashes. "He isn't to be trusted, Robin. You know that."

"But he's better at this than anyone," Robin protests, sitting back up again because this is serious . "Ned, please, this isn't about control or debts - let any debts he claims fall on me. This is for Sansa."

"We know that, Robin," Trys says, conciliatory on Ned's behalf again. Trys always has to play peacemaker, and always has - even with their newest venture, Ned's always the one on the hunt, whereas Trys' work has a more humanitarian bent. "We really do have everyone on this one, but bringing in the Spider is too risky. We've seen that, time and time again."

"That's why I'm saying I should take the risk-"

"Enough, Robin," Ned says, and somehow, despite all the ages between then and now, there's still something of a milkglass white sword about Ned. "We go to the Spider only as a last resort - we still have time."

Robin isn't so sure. They've all come up against Littlefinger at some stage, but no one was there at the start save for Sansa and Robin. No one else lost both parents to him and knew it. No one else suffered at his cool, evil hands, not directly.

Robin has. He's more afraid of Littlefinger than of anyone else in the world, and he wishes the others took him seriously enough to trust that.

"I'm so sorry about Ned," Willas says when he answers the door to Jon, who's a Stark and not a Snow and definitely not a Targaryen in this turn of the wheel. "I- I'm sorry, Jon."

Everyone is always sorry for Jon Stark. He's got one of those lives, and one of those faces.

"Yes, well," Jon says, because there's nothing else to say, really. "Arya said she was here - she upstairs?"

Willas offers a sweeping arm of welcome, and Jon claps him on the shoulder as he passes. They've never really been close, but he trusts that Jon will behave sensibly - he always does. Usually.

Willas' house is full to bursting, which is all well and good, except both he and Aster are bad around crowds and there isn't a room in the house that isn't heaving with people except for Aster's attic room, which is no good to Willas, or Willas' bedroom.

So that's where he retreats. It's getting late now anyways, so realistically he can probably get away with abandoning all his visitors for the rest of the evening. They're all being very careful of him anyway, so he has more leeway than usual provided Marg doesn't come downstairs. She never gives him an inch, unless Sansa dies or Aster is hurt.

Right now, Aster is studying at the dressing table with a blanket draped over the triptych mirror, and Willas lies face down on the bed just for a few minutes of peace and quiet. Marg and Loras are upstairs coordinating whatever of the search isn't in the hands of the Sand Snakes and the Krakens and what few dregs of the Watch Jon's got under his control, and for once Loras isn't cataloguing his every move on social media. Wouldn't do for all his thousands of followers to see him and Marg and Ty and half a dozen other famous (or infamous, maybe) faces bent over a series of maps of the cesspit that is the Merchant's Quarter generally and Satin Street specifically.

He takes out his hearing aid and wrestles his glasses out from under his face - this is rewarded by Aster shoving a notebook right under his cheek as a replacement, and poking him with her ruler until he rolls over and sits up.

GOING TO BED. YOU SHOULD TOO.

"Sorry, Mum," he says, which earns him dramatically rolled eyes in return. She still sweeps down to kiss him on the cheek, though, and waves her way out the door. He sits where he is, feeling a bit wretched, and then a bit pathetic for being so melodramatic, and heaves himself to his feet so he can shimmy his trousers off and set to work on his brace.

"Only me," Ty says breezily, coming in before he can object and shutting the door with a firm click. "Do you need me to sign?"

"Nah," he says, sitting down and kicking his trousers aside with his good leg. "Quiet enough down here that I should be fine. Come in, by the way, it isn't as though I'm getting naked."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," she assures him, digging through his drawers for a pair of pyjama bottoms and coming up with the hideous bright red Sunspear Rangers ones Az bought him as a borderline spiteful birthday present last year. "Azzie's stumbling up the stairs as noisily as she can, no doubt in the hope that Loras will take pity on her and carry her to bed."

"He will," Willas says, not looking away from the stupid straps of his stupid brace. "He's a - fuck - a soft touch."

"Yeah, well," Ty says, crouching down and fitting his pyjamas over his feet.

"Yeah."

Ty takes the seat at the dressing table, looking more out of place than Aster had, and Willas is glad of that. This room, this whole house, has been fitted for his family, and while he loves Ty for her own sake as well as for Aster's, she isn't what he imagines when he thinks of the future of this house.

She knows him better than anyone, though. How could she not? She's been his closest confidante since they were sixteen, and he's the person he trusts most in the world. He'd have demanded custody of Aster if he didn't trust the very bones of Tyene Martell.

"So say you find her tomorrow," Ty says. "Say we find her tomorrow. What are you going to do?"

"Send her home," Willas says, not needing to think about it. "Arya's here to bring her home, and that's what I intend on seeing done - the very last thing she's going to need is me letching after her."

"And then?" Ty presses. "I can't imagine she's ever going to want to come back to King's Landing, Will - will you be happy knowing she's safe, if it's not with you?"

"I- well, that's-"

If Sansa's Awake, she'll want to be with him. There's never been a life where she hasn't. There's never been a life where she's had so much of a life of her own before him, though. Never been a time where she was stuck with Joffrey for so long without a child binding them.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe the house was all for nothing.

"I'm not saying this to be a bitch," Ty rushes to assure him. "I promise, Will, I'm not, but I worry about you so much - what if she can't be Awakened?"

"I know how to wake her, Ty."

"But what if you can't, is what I'm asking. What if there's no way to wake her without hurting her? What if what's best for Sansa would be to leave her unaware?"

He's done it before. More than once, he's left Sansa unaware of everything between them, left her once in the care of Jon Umber the Younger, once in the sixth Aegon's - Jon Umber was maybe a better husband than Willas ever has been, no matter how difficult that is to admit, and he can't bear to think of what his trying to be noble inflicted on her under Aegon's reign.

Only the former is worth thinking of, because the first time Sansa married another man was the first time he had Aster.

But he can't- is he supposed to just let Sansa go?

"Think about it, Will," Ty says. "Sleep on it. We still have to find her."

She kisses his cheek before leaving, and he feels like he might be sick.

Sleep on it. As if he's going to sleep a wink tonight.