"...and did you visit the investment firm on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh?"

"Don't hesitate," Petyr had counseled her. "Juries see hesitation and they think you're unsure, they think they can't trust you."

"But I am unsure."

"You're as sure as you need to be." Mr Baratheon was nodding while Mr. Seaworth showed her the calendar again, each date of her appearance at the office carefully circled in black ink. "These are the dates you were there. It's more important that you know what you saw."

"No hesitations, Sansa." Petyr's eyes flashed at her, certain, proud. She thought maybe he wanted to take her hand, she wanted him to take her hand – but he was too careful for that. So was she.

"Yes." Sansa nodded, her low ponytail brushing against the nape of her neck. Sansa's hair was red again, copper and gold in the strong light of the courtroom. Twelve faces watched her from the jury box, to her right the judge glanced at her occasionally, as necessary. The court reporter did not, typing quietly away as District Attorney Baratheon paced the floorboards. He cut a dashing figure in the court, Sansa had to admit, she could see why he had won his position so handily; the dour Baratheon son was dressed in charcoal grey with a stark, black tie, but he had antler cufflinks tipped with silver that his broad hands fiddled with. It was something he did when he thought, she had noticed; she once mentioned it to Petyr, before she'd left the house, and he'd laughed, his palm pressing to her cheek. "My clever girl. Nothing escapes you, does it?"

"Was the defendant there that afternoon?"

Sansa's eyes scanned to Cersei Lannister at her table, her lawyer, Mr. Trant, whispering steadily in her ear. She wished she hadn't looked, because every time she did, she was forced to see those green eyes hating her, willing a life of misery and horror upon her – but that had already happened, thanks to this woman. Cersei scowled when it was Sansa she looked at, and looked the bereaved widow and mourning mother otherwise, hair impeccable, expensive wardrobe flawless. Sansa was almost plain by comparison, her black skirt to the length of her knees and with only a white blouse. Petyr had advised simplicity, it was he who insisted she merely tie her hair back and keep to the bare minimum of makeup. "They want to see an innocent, trust-worthy face. You'll win them completely, my sweetling."

"Yes, sir. In Mr. Baratheon's – that is, Robert's old office."

"And what was she doing?"

"Mrs. Baratheon was behind the desk, at his computer; the room's shaped kind of like an arch – like a bowl? So that the person behind the desk can look out the window at the view and when someone walks in, they see the computer screen first."

"And could you see the screen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell the court what was on the screen, Ms. Stark?"

Sansa took a deep breath, but quickly. No hesitations. "They were stock figures, reports on the firm's earnings in the last quarter. She closed the window as soon as Joffrey and I walked in, so it felt like maybe she wasn't supposed to be looking at them."

Trant raised an arm, glaring with his droopy, glossy eyes. "Objection, Your Honor, the witness isn't here to comment on what the defendant should or should not have been looking at."

Stannis turned to the judge's chair, blue eyes firm and stance assured. "It speaks to guilt, Your Honor, whether the defendant had enough classified information to be considered an inside trader."

The judge paused only momentarily, considering the matter with a drum of his fingers. "Sustained. The jury will disregard the witness' feelings on the subject."

Sansa's eyes quickly sought out Petyr's in the courtroom, found him behind the rail, seated behind the prosecutor's desk, Mr. Seaworth just before him as he furiously scribbled notes. Was that wrong, had she done it wrong? Petyr's face was his smiling mask, his usual self, unmoving and un-revealing. But she could see his eyes, could see their greenery even from this distance, and could see the quick tick of his brow and the infinitesimal shake of his head; no, not to worry. This wasn't on her. It was Stannis' job to make the case or not. She was doing fine. The girl breathed.

Sansa had been so focused upon this she missed Mr. Baratheon addressing the defense attorney with, "Your witness," had almost failed to notice Meryn Trant standing up. This was the part that frightened her; she swallowed, but she hoped she did so discretely. Sansa remembered Mr. Trant, remembered the meetings he had with Cersei at the house, their hushed discussions and his cruel eyes. She hadn't liked him then and she did not like him now. The girl raised her chin, not about to cower. Not now, not ever again.

Trant smiled, and to her it was ugly and oily and awful. "Ms. Stark." There was a pause. Was she supposed to answer that? "You have a fantastic memory of the afternoon of the twenty-seventh."

Sansa blinked a little, wanted to look at Petyr – but thought she had better not. "I don't know if it's fantastic."

"I wonder – do you remember other things about that day?"

"Some, yes."

"Perhaps..." The man turned slowly to smile at the jury, stroking the red point of his beard. "What you had for breakfast that day?"

Sansa's red brow furrowed. "I could guess."

"Guess."

Stannis raised an arm from his seat at the table. "Your Honor." His voice was put upon and disbelieving.

"A point, Mr. Trant," the Judge drawled, fingers drumming again. "Make it quick."

"I'm getting there, Your Honor, I assure you." And he smiled at Sansa, and it made her feel sick in the pit of her stomach. "Suppose you guessed."

The girl shrugged, thinking back to hot summer days at the Baratheon kitchen table. Long ago, so long ago it was now – the fall behind bars, the winter in Petyr's home, and now buds of green were forming on the trees in the city. She could see bare branches with just hints of life scraping the windows from her seat in the courtroom. Sansa thought back, she remembered sitting next to Myrcella and Tommen, eating breakfast quietly, as if this were all merely an extended vacation, a bit of youthful summertime pleasure in the early-dawning heat. And all the while, did they know that she wanted to scream? "Cereal."

"And would you have to guess what you did with Joffrey Baratheon that day?"

"No, I remember that."

"What about what you wore?"

"I...I suppose I'd be guessing there."

"And what was on the computer screen? Would you be guessing then, Miss Stark?"

Stannis was on his feet, palms flat on the table. "Your Honor!"

Mr. Trant pressed on; a bit ballsy, perhaps, but even a jury instructed to disregard could have a difficult time following that order. "It's a little convenient that you remember what you saw so clearly, isn't it, Miss Stark? Do you remember the numbers, too? The title of the reports?"

The judge had already struck his gavel, voice scratchy and serious. "Don't test me, Mr. Trant. The objection is sustained!" To the girl below him, he said more gently, "You don't have to answer that."

Oh, but Sansa wanted to answer. She felt the burning tension behind blue eyes; she wanted to spit it out at that wretched man, always so eager to do that horrible woman's bidding. She wanted to snarl that yes, she remembered, that the document said quite handily in bold, black print, "EARNINGS: FOURTH QTR," and she could see how the values went down, down, down with Robert Baratheon's death. She wanted to crow how she was far smarter than they ever gave her credit for, that she knew when earnings reports were made public and it was not before the twenty-seventh. She wanted to rip Cersei apart the way she'd done to her-

But the bailiff was suddenly there in his pressed, brown uniform, a hand extended to help her from the witness stand. Masks. Masks. Tamp it all down, look demure and harmless and people will want to believe anything you tell them. Let the rage out later, not now – later, with someone who understands. Let her kisses be full of teeth and her fingers tearing, and she wouldn't care if his buttons popped when she ripped Petyr's shirt from him, because he would understand it.

Davos was standing by the aisle to the spectators' benches, and there was Petyr. Mr. Seaworth patted her shoulder, whispering quietly, and Sansa's hands shook; he would think it would be nerves from such a sweet, innocent little thing. He must have, for he was all assurances. "It was very well done, very well done. Don't worry. It's going to be alright, don't worry."

And Petyr did the same thing, taking her hands between his own. "Oh, dear Sansa," he purred, but she met his grey-green eyes and he knew. He knew why her hands were shaking.

And it was not from fright. Not this time.


He had ushered her quickly and quietly from the courtroom and found an empty bench at the end of the quiet hall. The place was almost empty save for court clerks and interns shuffling between doors, journalists and nosy spectators packed into different sessions of court – and all mainly to watch the crime of the year, the trial of the elegant Cersei Lannister.

The inner sanctum of the courthouse was all laid out in marble with brass fixtures, a remnant of WPA efforts in the thirties. It was elegant and classical, and the clack of shoes on the floor echoed throughout – but whispers didn't carry all that well. Petyr could murmur in her ear as she gulped quietly from her water bottle, and no one would be any the wiser. And it was hardly unusual here, an attorney talking lowly with their client. Sansa shivered a bit from the coolness of the water and the feeling of Petyr's breath at her ear.

She had missed this. No one would ever believe her, but she had missed it. Sansa had left the house several days ago, had not seen nor spoken with her lawyer in several days. They had agreed to it, she and Baelish and Baratheon all – not that Stannis knew the particular reasons for her lonesomeness. But it was all quite regular, Sansa needed to stay close at hand leading up to the trial, and at the hotel she could have a police guard; there had been notes left, disturbing little snippets warning against her testimony. Davos had thought to comfort her, but Sansa took it all stoically. She'd had much worse than this.

Petyr called – once. She knew that's what would happen, they had talked it over in hushed tones in bed that last night, sleepless with hands wandering in lazy caress. That they needed to be careful now, the spotlight would be turning on. Anything untoward, and there could be talk, words to jeopardize all that they had planned, the carefully wrought vengeance against the Lannisters. One call, strictly business, just him making sure she had what she needed and assurances he would be there the day of her testimony, and was she doing alright with Mr. Baratheon? She wasn't sure if she appreciated how stoic he could be or if she wanted him to blabber about missing her like a drunkard. He stopped by the District Attorney's office on only one afternoon, dropping off papers that were related to another case entirely, and he checked in on their progress, all his usual, oily smiles. Sansa had to work not to beam at him.

"Not working my client too hard, are you, Stannis?"

"She's doing fine," the gruff Baratheon scowled. "Did you bring me those time stamps?"

"In triplicate."

Davos had laid his good hand on her arm. "Are you doing alright, Miss Stark? Would you like a water break?"

She smiled that sweet way that Mr. Seaworth seemed to appreciate and nodded. "Alright. I'll make sure Mr. Baelish isn't worrying about me."

Stannis rolled his eyes. "So sweet."

By the water cooler, nothing happened but the pleasantries one might expect between two people with a comfortable working relationship – and nothing else. Was she liking her hotel? Not going crazy with the D.A.? Anything he could bring her? And while he talked in his even voice, so mundane a conversation that absolutely no one looked in their direction, his hand slid to hers and a note was palmed there, hardly bigger than a post-it. How it had burned in Sansa's pocket until she was alone in the hotel room that evening, hardly able to focus on the discussion with Mr. Baratheon as the star witness. Her mind had gone wild with imaginings of what it might say, words of devotion or filthy promises of what he would do to her once this was all over.

She only unfolded it when alone, seated on her bed with legs crisscrossed. His elegant, looping scrawl was enough to make her nerves tingle. "I am burning to have you again." Sansa's breath hitched. "Behave until I do." She didn't sit over the thing, pondering it or covering it with kisses or sighing wistfully. Instead, she slid from the chemically-cleaned duvet and strode calmly to the bathroom, ripping the tiny note into pieces in her hand. She tilted her palm over the toilet bowl and watched the scraps float down like cherry blossoms in the spring breeze, and she flushed it all away without hesitation. Sansa was too smart to hang on to something like that – and anyway, she didn't need to. She could remember the words without seeing them before her.

She remembered them when she turned out the lights and slid beneath the well-worn sheets and let her hands roam over her form in a quiet imitation of the way Petyr did, and coaxed from herself the sounds he so enjoyed swallowing from her mouth. All for him, and she thought, strangely, he must know that. And while men in the throes of self-satisfaction had always been a vulgar and disturbing thought to her before, she hoped Petyr was doing this across the city limits, alone in the massive bed with its black sheets and missing the scent of her hair on his pillow.

But that was before. They were alone again, and yet so very not alone. Was Petyr working to restrain himself beside her? She wanted to smack him, that he could be so cool. "You were beautiful." His voice was husky in her ear as he said it. Perhaps he wasn't quite so cool after all? Sansa smiled as she closed the cap on her bottle. "And Trant was an idiot. He's only tightening the noose with antics like that."

She just barely turned her head to him, blue eyes flashing. "It was alright?"

His thumb brushed over her knuckles – and then drew away again. Sansa repressed a smile inside herself. She could make him break, but later. "Perfection." The girl tilted her head back against the cool plaster of the courthouse walls, tired eyes closing, and Petyr watched her in his discrete, penetrating way. "Davos said you should be alright to leave the hotel now; they're getting ready to conclude and the defense can't afford to drag this out, however much Trant might like to. Even Cersei's not that stupid."

Sansa nodded, sitting up straight again. "Uh huh, he told me. I checked out this morning, he let me keep my bag in Mr. Baratheon's office."

"Did he?" Petyr stood easily, his dry hand offered to her. Sansa watched his face for a moment, that wily look through his green and silver eyes that always signaled some form of amusement. She took the hand, he helped her to stand. "Shall we go get your things, then?"

The girl nodded, and it was a solid moment before her lawyer released her hand. Was it reluctance there, the way the pad of his thumb drew over the back of her hand? A reminder of who had marked her oh-so permanently? Or was it merely a split second of weakness in the shark-ish man? They walked mostly quietly to the D.A.'s office door, but not entirely so. "Well? Do you feel relieved, now that your performance is over?"

"No." There wasn't even any real hesitation there. Sansa fixed the pins that kept her hair from falling in her eyes, but flyaway strands of copper still escaped anyway. Petyr smoothed one lock behind her ear, and she looked away. "I knew what to do when they wanted me on the stand – what to say, how to act. It was easy. What do I do now?"

"Quite anything you like, I suspect. What did you do before?"

"I feel like I don't know anymore – or like the girl that I was...that she doesn't exist anymore."

Petyr paused, his fingers still lingering by the shell of her ear. "Perhaps she doesn't."

Sansa nodded, inching her way forward in low heels, so that Petyr had to lower his hand in response. "All these months, I've been the girl trying to get back at the Lannisters. Before that, I was the girl who was just trying to survive them. And before that..." She sighed, turning at the head of the stairs toward the all-too-familiar office of the District Attorney. "Before that, I was Sansa Stark. I had a mother and a father, a sister and far too many brothers...And if they're gone, who is Sansa? I've hid so long, I feel like I've lost who I was."

Petyr stopped her before she could reach the door, his hand on her upper arm, pulling her back. This part of the hall was empty enough he dared to bring her closer, voice low and husky. "Who does Sansa want to be?"

The frightening part of that question was, she half knew the answer. That something in her was eager to go back, to be the girl – the woman – that leaned over him in the bed, broke down his defenses, took control and gave it back. Oh, she wanted that again, the ache between her hips, deep in her belly attested to that. But was that even nearly enough? She answered anyway. "...Somebody that someone wants – really wants. For me."

Baelish was staring at her; he seemed half mad in his looks, green eyes wide, mouth firm. He stared and stared and Sansa grew increasingly more uncomfortable. "Anyone who wants anything else is an idiot." The girl looked up at him again at last, blue eyes bright with confusion. With only the barest glance to assess their company, his fingers wound into her red hair at the temple, the stroking motion near-rapturous. "Who do you think it was I wanted, hm?" His voice was low and gravelly, and they stepped closer to the office door, sheltered by the overhanging shadow of it. "Dark haired Alayne? A shadow of your mother? Do I seem that delusional to you?"

Sansa dropped her gaze down to his chest, to his dark green tie, and she thought of the scar that hid beneath his shirt, the mark she had run her fingers over in the darkness. "I-I..."

He leaned forward to kiss her – and stopped himself, just barely stopped himself. It made Sansa proud to know that, for a moment, he could not resist, but also happy to know he wasn't a love-drunk fool. His breath was a puff against her mouth, still waiting for that kiss. "It was you, horrible girl. The part you've played up till now, it was brilliance itself, it only makes you better – but it was always you I wanted. Who could settle for any less? Who would want that mask when you are perfection," his fingers left her hair to trail along her cheek, down her throat, to the collar of her blouse. He paused. "...beneath all that?"

She met him eye for eye – but only for a moment. After that, her hand fixed on the handle of the door, turned, and pushed the door open. She could see Petyr's eye twitch at the corner. "We should go in," was all she said, and he nodded, something of a growl in his throat. The girl went first and her attorney followed – but not too close behind. Perhaps he needed a moment to rein in that oh-so-critical control. Sansa raised her voice in a manner that was completely conspicuous, but would not have alerted the attention of any passers-by. Baelish was fixing his tie as he entered Mr. Baratheon's office. "I was actually able to get quite a bit done while I was away!" Sansa was chirping in that too loud of voice, collecting her suitcase while Petyr picked up her jacket for her.

"Did you..." His voice was much cooler, the reserved manner of a distinguished attorney, so that that was all anyone would see as they left and shut the door behind them, walking back down the stairs toward the court entrance. "What business, exactly, did you have that was so pressing?"

"Well, if there's only one thing I learned from my time with the Lannister's, it's the importance of paying one's debts."

"I would hope you learned a great deal more than that. But what debts did you have to pay?"

"My debts to you."

Petyr scoffed, not noticing her stopping in the hallway at first, not seeing the girl unzipping the outer pocket of her case. "Sansa-"

"Here." She held, in her outstretched hand, an inconspicuous manilla envelope, though she'd written "To Mr. Baelish, All My Thanks – Sansa," on the front in that perfect hand of hers, a swirl for the dot of the I.

The attorney did not take it at first. "What is that."

"It's a present."

"I thought you said you were paying back debts."

"I was."

"That's not the same thing as a present."

"Will you just take it?" That irritated V had appeared between her two eyebrows, that thing that always made him smile just slightly – that mannerism of hers that charmed, as so very many did. Smirking in that armoring way of his, Baelish did, hesitantly, slowly, as if afraid it might bite him at any moment. Still, he made no other move than that. Sansa blinked and the irritation disappeared from her round face. "Aren't you going to open it?"

"What, here?"

"Yes."

"I hadn't planned it."

"Petyr." She said it lowly, but in just the right way to make the man sigh, to slide his thumb beneath the seal and acquiesce. In another moment, he was pulling a heavy piece of card-stock from the folder and examining it closely. Sansa smiled. "Do you like it?"

Petyr said nothing. He stared at the thing between his fingers. All of the watercolors Sansa had dabbled with all those months, his gifts of the paper and the brushes – and she had painted that wild patch of his backyard, where the blackberry bushes grew, and the creek tumbled by. "You..." He was otherwise totally speechless.

Sansa smiled, zippered her case, and touched his elbow. "Let's go, Mr. Baelish."


"-of course I'm very sad about Mr. Lannister's death," and here Sansa was answering a question about the recent passing of Tywin Lannister, halfway down the steps of the courthouse. She was thronged with reporters, microphones all pointed in her direction, cameras hungrily drinking in her every movement. Petyr stood some few paces back, the man out of the spotlight, as he always was. "My heart goes out to Myrcella and Tommen during this very difficult time for them, they're as dear to me as ever. I know how horrible it is to lose family members, and I want them to be able to find peace for their grandfather – and, of course, for Joffrey."

"Can you tell us your thoughts on Tyrion Lannister, Ms. Stark?"

"Do you think your testimony will assist the DA?"

"Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen." Petyr stepped in with that ingratiating smile, that air of little nonsense as he took Sansa by the elbow and pulled her away from the hungry journalists. "My client has been through a very trying time. You'll excuse us."

Sansa's name echoed behind her as her attorney pulled her away and towards the parking garage. Even now, she was smiling. She'd been as perfect before the reporters as she had been on the stand, she could feel that in her bones now – what it was like when people wanted to believe you. It was powerful, it surged through her veins and made the tips of her fingers twitch. She hadn't even noticed they'd reached Baelish's car until he'd hit the unlock switch on his fob and the vehicle beeped its welcome.

"Well, Miss Stark." He spoke in that quiet, smooth way of his as he loaded her case into the trunk. His fingers drummed against the open back of it and he gave her a long, appraising look. "Did I deliver as promised?"

Sansa's head picked up, her purse hanging awkwardly by her elbow. "What's that?"

"Out of jail; charges dropped; all of America in love with you – and the destruction of the people you hate. It's not a bad set of figures, is it? And all pro bono."

The young lady smiled, her face relaxing as she did so. "No one could have done it better, Mr. Baelish."

The man smirked, his chest puffed, and she thought back for a moment how easy it was to please him. (You're so good, Petyr – oh, yes, just like that, you're so very good...And he acted like the world was opened before him in offering, just because it was her. She would miss that.) "So, what is it you plan to do now."

The Stark girl bit at her lower lip a moment, fingers fidgeting nervously against her arm. "I don't know. Mom and Dad would want me to finish school, though."

"What would you study?"

Sansa looked at him from beneath red lashes, and a smile threatened at the corners of her lips. "Law?"

Her protector seemed no less amused, even relaxed. "You'd be good at it."

The smile widened and she looked down again. "I thought...maybe I could take a vacation first, with some of that trust money; nothing big, just enough to...leave this behind me for a little while."

Sansa looked up when she heard the trunk of the car shut – not a slam, but loud enough to echo in the silent parking garage. Petyr didn't look angry, not even upset, just thoughtful, his perpetual mask of amusement doing nothing to hide himself from her. "So, leaving me a bachelor again, are you?"

She attempted an uneasy smirk. "I'd have thought you'd want your house to yourself again."

"It's a building where I keep possessions, its only function is in ostentation. It could burn down tomorrow and I'd collect the insurance without a tear." There was a steady beat of silence, him looking at her, her looking at him – and then he turned his face away and cleared his throat, as though this were merely a very casual, boring conversation. That was a poor lie for him. "It was beautiful while you were in it."

Sansa gaped for a moment, a little like a fish, and she knew that Petyr wasn't looking at her, because her cheeks weren't burning hot; instead, he was fishing his keys from his pocket again – and he seemed sad to her. She'd never seen him sad before. It was both heartbreaking and startlingly intimate. Her mouth opened before she knew what she was going to say, but then again, yes, she did. "...You know." He didn't look up, but he stopped flicking through his keys, searching out the correct one. "I'm...going to need to get a roommate, after I get back, while I'm in school. Just to be practical, save money, that sort of thing."

The corner of his mouth twitched – and maybe not even toward a smirk. Toward something real, for half a moment, something real. She could hear the silence where his heart should be beating. "Oh, is that the case."

"Of course, your home is probably a bit out of a student's price range."

"We might be able to work something out."

Sansa leaned forward so that he could not ignore her any longer, so that he had to meet her blue-eyed gaze with one of his own, her eyes searching his face with a flicker of dormant hope. "Pro bono?"

"Mmm..." Petyr looked thoughtful for a moment, staring at her as deeply as he was (a look of yes, yes, save me – as he had saved her, but then, wasn't he the last man in the world to wear such a look?), but then he shook his head. "Not this time, I don't think."

"Well." Sansa pulled her hair free of its low ponytail, half-sighed to feel it fall freely about her shoulders. Petyr stared after it and his pupils widened. She remembered that note from before, its two, simple sentences, and wondered if he was thinking on it now as well. Burning, as he'd promised – and for her. "Someone did promise my face on every magazine in America. There might be a little money in that."

"So there might." His mouth twitched again, but Petyr wouldn't let himself smile – not in front of her, not in public. She didn't mind so much. She knew what would happen once they got out of the city, once they pulled into the dark of his garage again; she'd had no idea how deeply she'd missed it. In a moment, he was at the passenger side door, holding it open for her. "Shall we?"

Sansa slid into the seat slowly, elegantly, and looked up at her host with a measuring glance. "Of course – partners, after all."

Just before the door shut with a soft "click," she heard his whispered reply: "Partners."