Chapter Four | Petyr

Petyr emerged from the Godswood filled with a grim triumph. Nobility made people so predictable. He was grateful that he didn't have that particular vice.

He cast a glance up to the window of Sansa's chambers, hoping that she lay sleeping within. Her sobs the night before had gutted him. He'd longed to go to her, but he couldn't show his hand.

He stood in an alcove of the darkened passageway long after Jon Snow had strode past — too blinded by his own anguish to notice the figure lurking in the shadows — and listened to her weep. He ached for her, even as she cried out for another man. He envied Jon his ability to walk away from her, even as he hated him for it.

He hadn't slept. His every move sang with the dull ache of exhaustion, but he knew that he had hours to go before he would rest. Everything had shifted during that long night. It was time to set a new course. He squared his shoulders and set off across the yard.

He motioned to a young squire who was one of his retinue. The boy scrambled over and looked up at him expectantly. Petyr pressed a shiny copper into his grubby hand.

"I want to be informed the second that Lady Sansa emerges from her chambers," he said.

"But, my Lord, she's already risen," he replied gesturing up to the battlements. Petyr could see the whisper of her red hair as it blew in the winter wind. He smiled and closed the boy's hand around the copper.

"Thank you."

Petyr climbed the stairs slowly, collecting his thoughts. It was rare for him to question himself. The maneuverings of the Great Game were second nature to him, like breathing. When the stakes were at their highest was when he was the most serene.

He could see all of the players like pieces in a chess game. He could see the all of the moves, the counter moves, the potential missteps — with a plan in place for every potential reality. He felt like he was always living in the future, a few moves ahead, always impatiently waiting for the rest of the world to catch up — for events to unfold the way that he knew they must.

But with Sansa it was different. He'd made a mistake. He couldn't tell where exactly, but somewhere along the way he had taken a wrong turn. Somewhere the balance of power had shifted and his most prized possession, his deadliest weapon in the wars to come was now the one secret that he felt certain that he would give his life to bury forever.

He cursed himself inwardly. After all of these many years to have made such a misstep —

There was only one way forward.

Her beauty was like a dagger. He never laid eyes on her without being cut. She stood on the battlements facing the carnage of the battlefield below, her wild red hair standing in stark contrast to the cold, impassive beauty of her ice blue eyes.

Beneath the walls, figures crisscrossed the ravaged battlefield, making slow work with wooden carts of the countless bodies still strewn there. In the distance, great fires burned, the acrid smell of man and horse flesh wafting on the wind. Sansa observed it all with a steely gaze.

"Jon ordered them all to be burned," she said without turning, "even the horses."

Petyr's step faltered. Had she sensed him coming? Could it be that he possessed even a shadow of the pull for her that she did for him?

"I knew you would find me here, Lord Baelish" she said mildly, as if in answer to his unasked question. He approached her slowly.

"My Lady…" They stood in silence for a moment. "Would you like me to leave?"

Finally, she turned to face him, her face a dispassionate mask, but her eyes betraying a siege of emotion.

"Would it matter if I did?" she asked.

"It would. What you want matters to me, my love. More than you know. It is the only thing left that matters to me." It was rare for Petyr to speak such a bare truth, even in the service of a greater plan. It left him feeling vulnerable in a way that made his stomach turn, but still he held her gaze, hoping that she would see the sincerity of his words there. She considered him for a long moment and then turned away again.

"Did you get what you wanted last night?" he asked, moving to stand beside her, his right hand resting on the wall next to hers. Her shoulders tightened with the sting of his question, and he regretted it almost immediately. But there was only one way forward.

"Yes," she said finally. "Jon is the King in the North. Our allies have rallied to his side — not that they had much choice in the matter. But once declared, it's doubtful that they will not back us again. Not after last night. The honor of their houses is on the line."

Understanding and then pride swelled in Petyr's chest. Of course! How had he not seen it?

"You spoke to Lyanna Mormont. You convinced her to speak first," he said, his tone betraying his mirth.

"I did," she said, glancing sideways at him with a conspiratorial smile that made his pulse quicken.

"I'm impressed," he said with a small chuckle.

"But not happy."

"There's only one thing that could make me happy," he replied ruefully, his gloved little finger sliding gently along the side of hers. She didn't respond but she didn't pull away, so he left his hand there, the slight pressure of the contact sending a thrill up his arm.

"Does Jon know what you did for him?" he asked.

"Yes. And I did it for us. Jon and I are partners," she said firmly.

"Are you?"

Sansa spun on him, her impassive face suddenly simmering with rage.

"Yes," she said evenly, "We are."

Petyr held both hands up, inclining his head in a bow.

"My Lady, I meant no offense. It's only that —"

"What? Say it, Petyr. You came here to say something to me, and I suggest that you do so quickly and be gone."

"My love, it's only that I have known many lords and kings and they don't have partners — especially not the noble ones." Her face stayed hardened, but she did not stop him, so he continued.

"All of this," he said, gesturing to the remains of the slaughter below, "all of this he did for you. And so did I. I would do it again. I would do anything in my power to protect you. I would burn down the world and rule over the ashes if it would keep you safe."

"But what about Jon?" he asked stepping toward her. "He sits upon your father's chair, he is your father's son, and winter is here. The entire North is now his to protect. The Wall is his to protect. Even the Wildlings, it appears, are his to protect. He won't be able to keep you here — he will have to marry you off. He will need all of the alliances that he can get to protect the lives that are now his to protect." He closed the distance between them, his eyes boring into hers.

"Those bodies that are burning," he gestured to the horizon without breaking her gaze, "he's burning them because he has seen the Army of the Undead. He knows the threat that looms beyond the wall, and he knows what it is coming." He raised a gloved hand to her cheek. Her eyes were cool blue fire, but she didn't rebuff his touch.

"I am not questioning your brother's nobility, Sansa," he continued quietly, his eyes soft and imploring. "I am simply asking you if, based on what you have seen of him, you believe that in the critical hour he will make the smart choice or the noble choice? Can you trust him to do what he must, or will he lead you and everyone who follows him over a cliff? We know what choice your father made."

With lightning quickness, Sansa struck him across the face, the sting leaving Petyr momentarily reeling.

"Enough!" Sansa's voice was quiet, but filled with a seething, feral rage. "You are NEVER to speak of my father. I forbid his name to ever cross your lips again, or I will have you hanged, I swear it."

"If you wish me to hang, then I'll hang, my love." He bowed slowly and then turned, leaving her, a small smile crossing his lips as he descended into the darkness.