Sansa was able to change back into the clothes she was wearing when she was arrested: a cobalt blue dress with carefully cut panels that made it cling delightfully to her waist and bust. The hem of it fell to the middle of her white thighs, and the skirt was stained with mud. The processing officer had given her back everything she had on her at the time of her arrest: her black leather clutch with her wallet (her ID, a punch card for a local cafe, and seventy-two cents); her black leather flats, similarly caked in dirt from running through the garden party, just trying to get away, away, away; and her black toe-socks, but they had been reduced to ribbons, so she had slipped bare-footed into the shoes. They pinched against her feet in the car, and Petyr had simply had her take them off.

Petyr, he insisted she call him Petyr. "Is it appropriate to call my lawyer that?"

"Sansa, I am always your lawyer, but I hope I am also your friend. Let's not keep secrets and formal names, hm?" And he smiled, he seemed to always smile. Sansa wished she remembered how to do that. Regarding the shoes, however, he had smirked again. "I could carry you into the house, if you're worried about doing injury to your feet."

"N-no, I can walk..." she said, looking down at her bare toes. "I'd hate to track dirt into your home, though."

"Dirt can be cleaned," he assured her, and so Sansa carried her shoes inside and shivered at the autumn breeze that ruffled over her bare shoulders.

Petyr's house was beautiful. She doubted it was more expensive than the Stark family home, and yet it seemed in some way more...luxurious, more ostentatious. The Starks had to have enough room for six boisterous, busy children, and that cost money. Petyr's home was more like a grand palace in miniature, with marble tiles and columns, fixtures in golden brass shined to a mirror quality. It was airy and pleasant smelling, all white, with billowing, gauzy curtains and French windows and doors for a maximum of light. In her dirty clothes, Sansa hardly dared to move.

Petyr shut the door behind her, smiling all the while, and for a moment, he simply observed her taking in his home. At last, though, his fingers gently landed on the black clutch in her hands, and he took it away from her. Sansa faltered for a moment, feeling like her entire world was in that clutch, what little she had, but Petyr smiled insistently at her. "You're looking a little tired, my sweetling. You'll feel much better after a nice, hot shower. Or perhaps you'd rather soak in a tub? I imagine it's been some time."

The girl balked slightly. "P-Petyr, I don't have anything to wea-"

That smile on his lips never once faltered as his thin fingers found her elbow, guiding her toward the winding staircase. "It's all taken care of, dear Sansa, everything's prepared."

The girl's eyes were wide and a bit brighter than they had been. "You got my clothes?"

His mouth pursed and grimaced slightly. "I'm afraid I was unable to get on the Lannister property for that."

"But...then..."

He paused in front of a door, opening it up to a beautiful guest room, and in sharp contrast from the rest of the house: the floor was done in dark wood, and the furnishings matched it, with gold damask curtains. A chaise settee matched the fabric, and the room connected to her own, private washroom, away from the windows. Sansa had missed outside views, it was true, but that gorgeous bathroom – with its dark wood accents and deeply set tub – made her mouth water to be completely alone with herself and to revel in a much-missed luxury. Petyr smiled at her as she admired it, his eyes flashed, but he quickly crossed to the closet and opened that for her as well.

Sansa paused, a little nervously. "...all new clothes?"

"There's socks and other...undergarments in that dresser, over there."

Sansa tiptoed on unsure, cold feet toward the closet, a hand reaching out to brush the collection of dresses, skirts, blouses...they were extremely high quality, she recognized the brands as ones Cersei and Margaery preferred – expensive. "Petyr..." Her tongue peeked out to wet her lower lip. So many questions, she wasn't even sure which to ask first. "Um...how did you get my size?"

"Oh, some of those boutiques have amazing shop girls. I described you, showed a photo...if they're ill fitting, though, we'll get you other things."

"Did you pick these all out...yourself?"

He began to laugh, and she wasn't sure if that made her feel better or not. "I picked out a few things I thought you might like, and they selected based on that. Really, Sansa, I'm amused you think I have so much time while I mount your defense."

The girl blushed to match her hair. "...um...th-the underthings, you didn't...you didn't pick them out..."

If she weren't so busy being incredibly embarrassed, she might have seen the flash of silver in his eyes. "No." His voice was low, rough, even.

The best lies have some truth in them, that is what he had told her. She wondered why it came to mind then? "It was really very kind of you to go to so much trouble for me, Mr. Baelish."

"Petyr. And it wasn't any trouble at all." Before she could stammer out an awkward reply, he motioned toward the open bathroom. "There's fresh towels, soaps, everything. Take all the time you need. I'm ordering in – I didn't think you'd be prepared to go out just yet." She nodded and turned to take stock. "Oh, and Sansa." The girl waited, a hand on the jamb of the washroom door. "Until the trial starts, you're going to want to keep a low profile. Your hair..." He took a few quiet steps toward her, and Sansa breathed sharply in when his lithe, elegant hands ran through one lock by her temple, down to the tips. His thumb stroked the ends before he finally released her. "You draw a lot of attention with hair like that. I purchased some temporary dye in a more...mundane shade."

The Stark girl nodded. "I understand."

He smiled and stepped back, and she breathed a little more easily. "I'll see you downstairs whenever you're ready." Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room. Sansa could hear the even click of his heels on the stairs, and yet when she closed the door behind him, she felt the compunction to lock it. Did Petyr scare her? Or was this leftover from being locked in Lannister rooms, wanting to put as many barriers between herself and her "hosts" as possible. She wasn't sure. She did lock the washroom door, but that didn't seem so unusual to her. And besides...with the door closed, certainly Petyr wouldn't find any reason to bother her? He had said to take her time.

And ohhh, she did...Sansa had forgotten that heaven existed in the months of hell she'd been living through. This bathtub was heaven. She found scented bath salts by the rim of the tub – she dumped the entire jar in and she reveled. They smelled like roses, and she closed her eyes and remembered walks with Margaery through the gardens. That was too painful, so instead she remembered planting flowers with her mother. That was too painful as well, so instead she just imagined herself laying on a bed of roses, and it was strange, but it made her feel slow and sensual and beautiful. Her breasts and belly and thighs and throat all felt like perfection in the water. Mr. Baelish must have also asked around about hair care for ladies, for the shampoo was a much higher quality than she expected, and there was good, creamy conditioner as well. She lathered her hair root to tips, and then found hand-milled soap and scrubbed until it felt like her skin might come off. Briefly, she wished it would. She wanted her old self to slough away and go down the drain, so that a new Sansa would step out of the tub, bright red and with a much harder shell than before. To that effect...her fingers lingered on the bottle of dye, but she eventually let it go, as if it burned slowly. Surely Petyr couldn't object to just one night of being her? One beautiful night? She could go back to hiding everything about herself tomorrow. Right at the moment, she wanted to be Sansa, the best – no, the strongest version of Sansa that had ever been.

The bathroom was surprisingly warm when she stepped out of the tub. Even damp, her skin didn't chill overly much, though her pink nipples budded to a sharper point. Mr. Baelish must have had heated floors, because when she had finished drying on the bathmat, she didn't wince with chill as she crossed to the door. She took her time in drying as well, letting much of the water drip slowly down her skin before toweling it away. In the bedroom, she picked out a dress of silvery grey and pretended it was her armor. Strangely, she felt like Petyr would be proud of her, and even more strangely, she liked that feeling. The underwear drawer, however...Well, these weren't her style. All beautiful and lacy, and no doubt very expensive, but they were made more for beauty than for practical wear. And even as indulged as she had been at home, her mother had always advocated practical wear. Well, she could hardly go without, so she picked out a bra done in a beautiful, peacock teal, with contrasting lighter colors and – good Lord, crystals hung from where the cups joined at her sternum. Sansa blushed to find matching underwear...but, well, the set was shockingly supportive. She plucked at herself nervously, but at last focused on slowly drying her hair by brushing through the thick, red tangle and toweling it in turns.

More than an hour and a half had passed by the time the girl tip-toed noiselessly down the stair, the sun already dipping low on the horizon. The lights that were on were soft and quiet, not like the harsh LED bulbs of the prisons, and it made Sansa breathe that much easier. She didn't have to wander far to find her host; Petyr was waiting in what she supposed was a living room, but it felt too elegant for that – more like a lounge. He was stretched in a leather armchair, a glass of richly red wine held delicately in his lithe fingers, and he was reading through legal documents as casually as a man might read a magazine. He was quite a picture. Sansa didn't dare interrupt him.

She didn't have to. Less than thirty seconds, and he looked up at the girl with a warm smile on his mouth. Sansa found herself smiling back. "You look like you're feeling better." She nodded. "I'm very glad to hear it. Just doing a little work...Are you hungry?"

Sansa's appetite had more or less disappeared since her father's death...the stress, the constant fear of life with the Lannister-Baratheons had left her shy as a bird at meals. The baby fat had melted off her cheeks and left her blue eyes looking sunken. Prison food hadn't improved this any and, in point of fact, she was a little gaunt. "I'm not sure."

Petyr, though, just smiled, and returned his document to its case, rising smoothly and without the wine so much as tipping in the glass. His fingers found her wrist, and she flinched slightly, but the hold was loose and warm and soft. "I have plates set in the dining room. It would make me feel a good deal better if you would at least try to eat." Sansa bit at her lip, but nodded. She had always striven to be obedient and obliging.

Wherever Petyr had ordered out from, it was not a corner Chinese restaurant. No aluminum and cardboard containers, the table was set elegantly for two with crystal water glasses and shining utensils. A choice of a duck breast stuffed with sage and pancetta, or salmon with roasted mushrooms and a wine sauce. The girl's mouth began to water in anticipation, and her host even pulled out her chair for her. Sansa might have blushed for it, were she not so suddenly ravenously hungry. Sansa didn't think about nights at the Lannister table with Cersei needling her about plumping up; she didn't think about the lamb served in the prison cantina that was most definitely mutton. She thought only about each delicious, perfect bite, and how soft Petyr's voice was and the contrast of that to Joffrey, and that she would have been certain she was dead and in heaven, but for the lack of her family members around her.

Petyr actually seemed amused when the girl at last laid her fork down. "Do you want any more?" Sansa shook her head. "Are you sure?" She nodded. "Well, I'd hate for you to go hungry."

"I think I'd pop...Mr. Baelish." Sansa resettled her napkin along her lap, which gave her a moment to collect herself without looking at him. He never seemed to blink when his eyes were on her. "I want to thank you...for everything. Y-you've been so kind to me, and you didn't need to do all this."

"Don't thank me just yet," he assured her, rising from his chair. "There's one more thing."

"I couldn't take anything else from you-" Sansa tried to protest, turning in her chair, but he had already disappeared into the kitchen, and returned nearly as quickly, holding a small plate in his hands.

"I remember hearing you were especially fond of these." A lemon cake. Sansa's eyes bulged. Her lawyer set the plate down in front of her with a dessert fork, and the girl could have drooled. No bigger than her palm, perfectly frosted with a white glaze of sugar and a slice of candied lemon tucked to one side. "Of course, if you're too full, we can just-" He didn't finish, instead going rather wide-eyed himself as the girl enthusiastically tucked in. "Well...never mind, in that case."

Sansa felt like she could have rolled back into the sitting room, and she really did not care. Being this free, this pampered, was like being drunk – the light headed stage, where everything is joyous and lights dance. She flopped onto the soft sofa, laying on her side with her bare legs tucked beside her on the cushions, while Petyr brewed mint tea, and she smiled until her face seemed to hurt; well, it had been some time since the muscles of her face had had the exercise. He sat across from her in that leather armchair of his, lean and handsome in his dark green shirt. Sansa smiled freely at him for the first time since they'd met in that horrible penitentiary... "You're a saint, Mr. Baelish," she almost purred, laying her head on one of the throw pillows. "I can't remember the last time I wasn't afraid. I owe you everything."

"Sansa." His voice was so serious that she sat up a little, blinking. "Whatever else happens, I never want you to be afraid with me."

She worried at her lower lip a little, turning it a darker red as her attorney calmly sipped his tea. "Would I be?"

"The Lannisters are powerful people, Cersei no less so." His face was serious, and yet his eyes still had a glint to them, a certain cleverness that made Sansa stare into their dark, green depths. "When they set their sights on ruining someone, they usually succeed – I think you have ample evidence of that."

Sansa's fingers tightened on the pillow, she slowly slid her legs back down to the ground. "Usually?"

She watched his trim mustache curve with his mouth as he smiled over his cup, and the girl swallowed a little. "Well, usually, their victims don't have me for their legal council."

"Please, Mr. Baelish, don't joke."

"Petyr, Sansa, and I'm not joking. I'm very deathly serious." He set the cup on the coffee table and leaned his elbow against his knee so that the heel of his palm could support his chin, small beard almost disappearing behind his fingers. "My plans for you are entirely serious."

Sansa hesitated. "Plans?

There was a silence – a long, full silence. Miss Stark felt nerves begin to grow in her stomach, but Petyr never blinked once, never gave any indication of unrest at all. He was making careful study of her face, and the girl had to look away, watching the steam rise from his cup and seeing the slight print where his lips had been on it the moment before. "You look tired." His voice was so low, she almost didn't hear it. "Time for little girls to be in bed, I think."

Sansa scoffed, her hands fussing in her lap. "I'm not a little girl, Mr. Bae- Petyr."

His smile slowly widened, and she still did not look at him, could not. "Please, don't remind me." What did that mean? "I'm afraid I need to be up early myself, so." He stood and stretched out his palm to her. Sansa looked from his fingers to his face, to the patient, expectant smile that coated his features – and she took the proffered hand, slowly standing up before him. He kept her hand in his all the way up the stairs and did not release it even when they were standing before the guest door once again. "Remember, Sansa. Caution is good, but fear makes a man blind; a blind man makes stupid mistakes. You're not going to be blind – you're going to see everything. And the Lannisters are going to be afraid of you."

That scarcely seemed possible. "All I want is...is to have this horrible nightmare end, to go home."

"Oh, I already promised you that," he assured her, stepping just slightly closer. Sansa could smell the mint on his breath, and found herself looking at his lower lip and his beard. Before she could say another word, he leaned forward-

And pressed his lips to her soft cheek. Sansa was frozen.

"I wish you nothing but sweet dreams, Miss Stark." Petyr let go of her hand and stepped away. His eyes lingered on her face a moment, but just as quickly, that moment ended, and he turned away and continued walking down the hall. Sansa watched him go and realized she now knew exactly where his bedroom was. That was a very odd thought.

And she didn't feel quite as drunkenly safe as before. It wasn't like with the Lannisters, yet...she felt like Hansel and Gretel, being fattened up only to be consumed.