The next few days flowed as calmly as the ship did on the cerulean waters. The more they were nearing the capital, the more distant Petyr was becoming. He made no further endeavour to kiss her on the lips or be affectionate with her. He would only peck her cheek every morning when they met to break their fast and every night when they parted for sleep. The only comfort for Sansa's calcified heart was the forthcoming reunion with her father.
On the morn of the fourth day afloat, impelled by the sound of a horn, Sansa left her cabin and visited the deck. Before her stressful eyes she saw the location that she had been dreaming of ever since she was a little girl. The Red Keep; imperious and despotic, it was situated on the rocks of Aegon's Hill. She could spot the harbour, the walls, the roofs of the capital. She gaped in awe, admiring the royal site that coursed before her eyes. My father is there...and the Prince. For the first time in the past few days, Sansa smiled genuinely.
"Built by Aegon the Conqueror, completed during the reign of Maegor I Targaryen" she heard his voice coming from behind her.
There was an arm that snaked around her waist and drew her close to him; she succumbed passively.
"Do you remember the tale you are going to sell?" Petyr muttered against her hair.
"I do." She responded and pulled away from his captivatingly enticing embrace.
"Smile, sweetling. Soon you will be meeting Prince Joffrey."
"I don't want Prince Joffrey" she retorted impulsively.
With her head lowered she walked to the rail and watched the small obscure waves of blue that rocked the ship ever so gently. What was I thinking? Of course I want the Prince, he will be brave and gallant and royal and our babies will be beautiful princes and princesses...Engulfed in regret, she didn't even notice that Petyr was standing next to her. She only realised it when his palm ran down her shoulder and arm smoothly. Should I tell him the truth?
"I still remember..." she started, ignoring the internal voice that yelled at her to keep silent. "I still remember t...that night." Her voice broke and an icy tear gushed down her cheek.
He was clever enough to understand which night she was referring to. He sighed and waved his fingers through her auburn hair. His voice was so low that she could barely hear it.
"That night is over. It faded into nothing. It cannot be, Sansa." Every word was yet another poisoned arrow to her heart. "I have nothing to offer you."
Her cheeks were now showered with teardrops. And yet there was still a wilful power in her chest that coaxed her into turning to him and taking his face between her hands. Even with blurred, teary vision she could tell that he looked startled.
"I have a lot to offer you, though. We could go to the North and live there together. We could wed, we could be happy." Couldn't we?
The vanity of her hope was ruinous. His expression had softened and his hands cupped her face similarly to the way she had. There was a funereal silence between them, and the words their eyes exchanged remained wordless and sacredly concealed.
"There will come a day when we will be together. I promise you that." Petyr sounded perilously honest. It was the undefined time that lunged Sansa's aching heart.
Before she could blurt out more foolish words, his mouth crushed on hers forcefully. Their lips and tongues battled with igneous passion and unbearable desperation. They broke apart after a long time, with sore and swollen lips. The goodbye their hearts exchanged was tacit and unspoken.
The ship anchored at the harbour by the time of sunset. Lord Baelish and Sansa got off the ship and trod next to the canal, escorted by the guards that had travelled with them from the Fingers. They dived deeper into the streets of the capital, destining to arrive at the castle. Some citizens greeted Lord Petyr, others simply eyed her with the same lust the sailors had. Luckily, their stroll didn't last long before they arrived at the entrance gate.
"Lord Baelish. Welcome." One of the guards uttered with a smirk.
"And who might this lovely lady be?" One of the others blurted out.
"Sansa Stark, the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, now Hand of the King. Is that good enough for you, Ser?" Petyr cut him off with a shrewd smile.
The knights glanced at each other with surprise but in the end they nodded.
"The King and the Hand arrived earlier today. The Small Council meeting will be held tomorrow, we've heard. They were expecting you." The first knight announced.
Lord Baelish responded with a firm bow of his head and walked through the gates.
Sansa followed him and gazed around her new surroundings with amazement. Knights and high-born ladies were ambling around the hallways; some of them were silent, others were giggling, others were hissing. She stayed close to Petyr unquestioningly, with her hands clasped together awkwardly.
"We will visit your father first, at the Tower of the Hand." he whispered in her ear.
They ascended a long staircase on the way to the tower, whose tall windows guaranteed a fair view to the Blackwater Bay. Sansa's heart had begun racing with anticipation. She felt like treading on clouds of dreams and soon she would wake up. Right when their ascent had ended and Petyr was about to knock on the door before them, a familiar voice echoed in the corridor.
"Sansa?!"
The little girl who ran towards them could barely be seen in the shadows, and she was so quick that the torches couldn't illuminate her. She ran straight into Sansa's arms and embraced her so tightly that it made her sister gasp.
"Is it really you?" Arya looked up at her sister and her dark brown eyes, usually tough and determined, they were now filled with tears. "Where have you been?! Seven Hells, we were all so worried! Mother cried day and night...who is this?" The little Stark girl glanced at Petyr with a suspicious frown.
He welcomed her caution with a sly smirk.
"This is Lord Petyr Baelish. He is the one who found me...he saved me and he brought me here after having heard that father would be Hand of the King." Sansa responded without hesitation and touched her sister's cheek. Her smile was kind and pure, no matter the lie she had just blurted out. She had been repeating the fraud story during the voyage and by now she was able to spill it out like it was the truth. "We can talk more about this later. Where is father?"
Arya took her sister by the hand and knocked on the door. It was Septa Mordane who opened it and yelped at the sight of the eldest Stark daughter. She took Sansa's face between her palms and kissed her brow, murmuring incessant blessings and gratitude to the Gods.
Petyr had been watching the continuous reunions in silence. His grey-green eyes, severe and obscure, they gleamed with silver moonlight and followed the visage of his desire. He only spoke when she was about to enter the chamber of the Hand.
"Sansa" he whispered, grasping her arm. "I think it's better if I leave you alone with your family for now. We will meet again." His faint smile was evidently reassuring, though in truth it was made of futility and lethe.
"I've hoped to meet you for some time, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me." Petyr seized the opportunity to greet the Hand as soon as he had entered the Small Council chamber.
"She has, Lord Baelish. I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well." Ned responded with noble tranquillity.
"All too well. I still carry a token of his esteem. From navel to collarbone." The Master of Coin responded by gliding his fingers respectively to the mentioned places.
"Perhaps you chose the wrong man to duel with." There was a shadow of a smile on the Winter lord's face; one that faded instantly when Petyr answered.
"But it wasn't the man that I chose, my lord. It was Catelyn Tully. A woman worth fighting for, I'm sure you'd agree." Lord Baelish had triumphed.
Easing the two rivals out of the awkward position, Grand Maester Pycelle interrupted their antagonistic dialogue.
"I humbly beg your pardon, my lord Stark, I heard about your daughter being found. We are all pleased to hear she has been retrieved safely, just like yourself after your adventure."
"A lovely maiden. I saw her with Joffrey earlier in the gardens. Poor girl." Renly Baratheon joked and took his seat next to Ned. "My brother spoke of a betrothal already this morning."
The Hand's chestnut oculars found the Master of Coin. His smirk was still patent and victorious.
"I suppose I must thank you, Lord Baelish. If it weren't for you, I can't imagine the agony and woe my daughter would still be going through." Ned spoke as if he had swallowed a twig. "Your kindness will be remembered and rewarded."
Petyr gave him a firm nod of deceptive integrity.
"Oh, I forget something." Pycelle mumbled again, taking a pin out of his pocket and handing it over to the Stark lord. It was the pin of the Hand of the King. "This belongs to you now."
Eddard examined the pin and the shape engraved upon it; the pin that his old friend Jon Arryn used to wear until his recent, tragic end.
"Should we begin?" Grand Maester Pycelle rambled.
That took Ned by surprise.
"Without the King?"
"Winter may be coming but I'm afraid the same cannot be said about my brother." The youngest Baratheon teased.
"His Grace has many cares. He entrusts some small matters to us that we might lighten the load." Lord Varys was the one who explained with skilled composure.
"We are the lords of small matters here." Petyr Baelish declared with amusement, manifesting his self-satisfaction with his own remark.
"Do I really have to go? I mean, father could arrange it without me." Sansa stared at her reflection in the mirror and grimaced as the comb came across to a knot in her hair. "Careful."
Septa Mordane paused and sighed, though her exasperation remained hidden. She carried on and smiled with serene kindness.
"Your father is not one to give you away just because the King wants to join your Houses." She observed. "And you have known the Prince for...since this morning? It would be truly rushed."
"But I want to marry him" Sansa turned to look at the Septa pleadingly, right in the eyes. "He is handsome and he likes me. We will wed and have babies with beautiful blond hair...and blue eyes." Her smile was dreamy and her mind floated to the morning of that day, when she went for a walk with the Prince. He had been warm and nice and every time their eyes met, her cheeks would blush instinctively.
Can it be that this story had such a happy ending? I will marry him and we will be happy and one day we will rule the Seven Kingdoms...
And what about Petyr, a voice inside her head retorted.
"Tell your father how you feel, child. He will listen, though I do think it would have been better if your mother were here to advise you...but your brothers need her, after what happened to poor Bran. Have you written to her yet? I shall leave you to it." The Septa curtsied and left the Stark lady to her privacy, alone in her chamber.
Sansa didn't react. Standing in front of the mirror, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander. She cogitated of lips grazing her neck, her shoulder, her chest; familiar lips that had ignited her skin and devoured her heart ever since. His breath had brushed against her ear and his minty scent had strangled her sweetly. She pressed her two hands right above her heart; her heart that was sick with fondness for a man of apathy and self-interest. A man that lusted for power and yet she had mistaken him for smitten. She had given her maidenhead to someone who didn't love her, to someone who wasn't wed to her. She had shamed her duty and her family but no one could ever know; her chagrin was meant to be carried by her alone.
The Master of Coin, the Master of Lies, who had cloaked her heart and mind in a cocoon of fraudulent affection, he had to be forgotten.
At dinner, Lord Stark and his two daughters joined the King, the Queen Regent and their three children; Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella. The match was arranged and agreed upon. The rushed betrothal was sealed.
On the way back to her chambers, Sansa saw him from far away; dressed in a brown tunic and with a book in his hand. He was alone and having felt her intense stare, he looked at her direction. He showed no signs of recognition or familiarity, and he walked away.
Petyr Baelish was once again a stranger to her.
