-PART TWO-

"The truth was that Jay Gatsby, of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God – a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that – and he must be about His Father's Business, the service of a vast, vulgar and meretricious beauty.
So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen year-old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end."

WILLAS

[ten weeks to the election]

.

Petyr Baelish's childhood was as surprising as it was textbook: son of an Irish carpenter and an English artist, he grew up very poor in a suburb of London with a horrendous crime rate. Little Petyr was four years old when his mother died (natural causes, probably an illness, nothing fishy), an excellent student. That was as far as the official information went.

When Willas tried to dig a little deeper, he met the usual problems: people hanging up the phone the moment he said he was writing for a newspaper, or else, the moment he asked for information about Baelish. No matter whose number he came up with, headmasters, old teachers, neighbours; dead ends everywhere. Someone had been very thorough with the lot of them, he thought.

His search in old newspapers didn't help very much, either. The politician's name didn't come up once; the only thing he found were two arrests made at his school half a year before his graduation.

Cocaine traffic.

He thought of the way Baelish held his cigarette, he was sure now, he'd seen it before – but it was a far-fetched connection even for a tabloid article, so he dismissed the thought.

There was nothing else to find before another outstanding graduation from university, Oxford of course, and even though he knew his new boss told him to, he couldn't bring himself to make up any stories.

The beginning of his text therefore turned out being dreadfully boring. Even for a tabloid article.

But then, surprisingly, one of the people he'd so desperately begged for information called him back. The man sitting in the café waiting for him was in his late forties and grossly overweight. His bald head made his eyes look curiously big and there was something very, very fake in his smile.

He was called Varys and he had started teaching at Petyr Baelish's school when Baelish had been fourteen or fifteen. And, to Willas's greatest surprise, the man was in a mood to chat. Or, to put it a little more directly, it looked like he wasn't ever going to stop talking at all.

Apparently the truth was, of course, that Petyr Baelish hadn't been the perfect student the official records made him out to be. He hadn't wasted night after night on revision and studying, and he'd certainly not been an engaged, respectful student, either.

"He had good grades because he was smart, because it was all so easy, or so he kept saying. He was never the teachers' favourite, though he was always one of the best students of his year."

"So he was rude?" Willas interrupted, frowning. He found it hard to imagine such behaviour from the man he'd seen on the photograph.

"Oh no, never. Certainly somehow… disdainful, but he was very quiet, always did what the teacher told him, never impolite. I believe that his teachers, myself included, all were a little scared of him. Boys like that, so smart, hardly challenged at all, and with so few friends, you see… they don't really mean any harm, but they get bored. They'll get queer ideas sooner or later, and they'll cause a huge mess if the teachers don't watch out."

"Did he?" Willas asked gently when Varys didn't go on. "Cause a mess?"

Varys's smile faded a little. "Well, from what we all could see the boy never did anything, but several odd things happened while he was there that he was certainly involved in, one way or another."

Willas nodded. "The cocaine?"

Varys smile was back up and looked even faker than before. "Tyrion Lannister and his friend Bronn each got a year for that," he said, his tone smooth and empty. "The police never even looked twice at Baelish."

Willas sighed. Yes, he'd read that in the bloody newspaper. "But several students bought from them, right? Did Baelish?"

"If he did, he was never caught. But, to be honest…," Varys took a sip from his cup, "It's not the kind of thing he would do, if you ask me. He… he always seemed very keen on being in control. Strong drugs like that don't really seem his style to me… as far as I know, there was only one time he got really drunk."

"Well, you as his teacher wouldn't really know about that-"

"There are things about Baelish that most of us knew back then… Has anyone told you about the Tully sisters?"

Willas frowned, confused, and muttered: "…No, I don't think-"

"Catelyn and Lysa Tully. They lived in the same neighbourhood as Baelish, they practically grew up together. Only he was poor, and, you know, foreign", Varys whispered that word, smiling mildly, "well, actually, he just had a foreign father, and he was from Ireland, so that's not really all that foreign. But you know, to those old honourable English families everyone who wasn't born less than fifty miles from London is basically extra-terrestrial. Either way, the older one, Catelyn, she was… beautiful, you see, very good at school, popular to no end… went out with the school's football champ, Brandon Stark. He was handsome, all muscles, bit of a temper. All the girls wanted him, and all the boys wanted to be like him. And little Littlefinger," Varys smiled to himself about his pun, "three years Catelyn's junior, he was madly in love with her. Her little sister, on the other hand-"

"Lysa, was it?"

"Yes. Lysa. She was completely infatuated with Baelish, who didn't really care because he was busy pining over her sister."

"Well, that's nothing unheard of."

"Hear me out. Baelish kept on getting in trouble with Brandon, Catelyn's boyfriend, telling him to keep away from her, that he didn't deserve her… you get my drift. He got so importunate Hoster Tully, the girls' father, threatened to obtain an interim order against him. Cat was mortified, and Brandon, well… he got very angry."

"Yeah, I still don't see how this is supposed to tell me anything about -"

"You will. One night, Baelish got Stark so riled up he snapped and - till then, most of the school had thought the whole business hilarious, but most of them choked on their laughter after that incident. Baelish refused to talk, even to the police, and of course Brandon said nothing either, but fact is Brandon ended him up in hospital. The boy was slashed open, probably a broken bottle or something of that sort. Rumour had it he only very barely survived the blood loss." Varys sighed. "Catelyn broke up with Brandon after that, of course, her family couldn't have her running about with such a person. They had to think of their reputation," he added gently, nothing but the hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Brandon died soon after that, car crash or something, and Baelish turned up on Catelyn's doorstep the moment he heard, but she sent him away with what must have been some very final words. She and Brandon's brother Ned… uh, bonded over their shared grief. Got married a year later." He poured himself another cup.

"Baelish had this idea in his head that everything that had happened had been Hoster Tully's fault, that he forbid Catelyn to come near him and thus ruined any chance he might have had. Well, Baelish's dignity had got more than a little scratched in the whole affair and I think he just needed someone to blame. Anyway, since Catelyn was well out of reach, he turned to several bottles of his father's liquor, and finally to poor little Lysa. She'd always been a little simple, see, and she adored Baelish, made his revenge so easy.
It was a huge scandal, and all her rich well-bred friends turned away from her the moment they heard. Her father was outraged and immediately tried to cover everything up. If people would have found out – his daughter, from a good long-established English family, loses her virginity to the son of an Irish carpenter, in a dirty school lavatory. Both of them drunk, to make it all even worse."

"Ouch," Willas muttered, finally starting to see what Varys wanted to tell him. Baelish was the kind of person who sacrificed others for his own needs – but that wasn't really all that surprising. He was trying to become prime minister.

"Exactly. Lysa, naïve as she was, of course hoped he'd settle for her after that-"

"But he didn't."

"Oh, he came back often enough. When he was bored. Or when he needed something… her father had somehow convinced one of his colleagues she'd be just perfect for him, and left his daughter little choice but to become involved with that man. He was in his early forties then, you see, and poor Lysa was dreadfully unhappy. Baelish… ah, provided some comfort, and in return, she called in a few favours with her husband for her so-called childhood friend."

"So she got him into politics?" Willas asked, taken aback. Well, wasn't that news.

"Oh, don't underestimate him. He would have got where he wanted by himself, with his grades and his skills and his master's degree from Oxford, but it would have taken him a lot longer. Lysa's husband… helped along."

"Is she still married to that man?"

Varys pulled a sad face that didn't convince him. "Oh no, he died some five years back, and left her with a sick son. The poor woman had gone quite a bit soft in the head herself by then."

"Where is she now?"

"In her house in the boroughs, but I wouldn't recommend a chat. Poor thing has an aggressive temper these days, threatens people left and right, and anyways, she's not the most reliable of sources, I suppose."

"And the sister? Catelyn?"

"You can't talk to her, either, I'm afraid… Her husband was shot, something of an execution it seemed. He'd got into politics himself, you see, but he wasn't made for it… fell in with the wrong kind of people, relied on the wrong person to keep him safe… Mafia, if you'd believe what people said. Catelyn apparently tried to avenge him, and her and her oldest son ended up much the same. Such misfortune, the whole family… well, except the last of them, of course. She gets to have everything… let's just hope it lasts."

"Good Lord," he muttered, staring into his cup. "Who is the last of them?"

Varys smiled. "Didn't you listen, dear boy? Brandon and Ned Stark."

For a moment, Willas didn't get it at all, then he asked slowly: "Isn't that the name of Baelish's…"

"Sansa is Catelyn's daughter. Some people say…" he leaned closer and looked about himself as if he expected someone to try and listen in on the conversation, "… some say that's why… because she looks so much like her mother."

.

[nine weeks to the election]

.

He knew Cersei had led him straight into a thing that was far too big for both him and their dumb tabloid. For God's sake, two people had gone to prison, probably completely innocent people.

And three people had died a violent death.

This was bigger than anything he'd ever wanted to get involved in. And yet… yet he couldn't get the image of that girl out of his head. Fragile, beautiful Sansa Stark, and the politician with that dirty grin on his lips, watching her from behind his dark sunglasses.

Sansa, Willas had learned, had let her boyfriend take her to America when her mother and her brother died, just half a year after her father had been shot and her little siblings had gone missing. Las Vegas, rumour had it, to take her mind off things. Having met Joffrey Lannister, if only fleetingly, and having to suffer his mother on a daily basis, Willas could about imagine how that had worked out for her.

Baelish must have met her there, though Willas couldn't fathom how that had happened – he could neither see a sensible reason for Baelish to just happen across her nor could he picture a man like him risking his reputation just to seek out the daughter of his childhood sweetheart in a paradise for strippers and addicts.

He didn't understand any of it, really.

Willas couldn't see what Sansa wanted with him, and besides, Baelish seemed a little too scheming to just keep her around for her pretty face. He wanted to know what the hell Baelish had in mind with the girl.

So he sighed, cursed himself and his own stupidity, and picked up the phone again.

The next person he called, not without panicking slightly, was Tyrion Lannister. The younger brother of his boss. To ask about drug traffic.

"Was it Baelish?" he asked bluntly after a little small talk, and just as he'd thought, Lannister seemed to know exactly what he was talking about.

"Some advice, boy. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"So it was Baelish?"

Lannister sighed. "I don't know, and if you're smart, you'll tell yourself the same. People who get too close to Littlefinger…"

"Yes?"

"Just look up what happened to Ned Stark," Lannister said darkly, audibly done with the conversation, but Willas interrupted him hastily before he could hang up.

"Hang on. Ned Stark's death had nothing to do with Baelish."

"Of course it hadn't. Keep me out of this, boy."

"No, tell me what you mean, I won't quote you or anything, I won't tell a soul, I just want to know-"

"The truth?" Lannister laughed. "You haven't been in the business for long, have you?" There was a long pause, but then, finally- "Baelish promised Catelyn he'd have an eye on Ned. For her sake. The people Stark got into trouble with… he introduced him to them."

"He introduced-"

"Again, boy, if you're smart, stay out of this," Lannister repeated. "Also, if my name comes up in any of this, I'll get my sister to have your head."

.

His next move was… desperate. But fact was, there were only three parties who seemed to know about all this. The Lannisters refused to talk, Catelyn and Ned Stark were dead, so there really was only one other person he could talk to.

And now he was renting a bloody dinner jacket.

He was going to look a right idiot among all those rich politics people. Not to mention there was always the possibility Baelish would straight up have him murdered when he brought the whole topic up – Petyr Baelish seemed the type.

Willas hated big social events, ever since he'd got his leg smashed at that stupid athletics tournament. He'd been just a kid and he could hardly remember the whole accident, but his father said another boy had messed with his pole and Willas had fallen some eight feet – and landed very unfortunately on his right leg. He was limping ever since, and he always had the feeling everyone around him noticed, and stared.

For someone who was this anxious to go out, becoming a journalist had probably been a very stupid job decision.

Even the building reeked of wealth and pretence, he thought and instinctively tried to shove his hands down his trouser pockets like he always did – only there were none, because he was wearing a goddamn suit.

This was going to be a very long night… and he would count himself lucky if he remembered half of the guests' names.

"Okay," he muttered to himself and made his way to the entrance, clutching his press card. "Okay."

Even the bumper was wearing a tux, and he threw Willas a suspicious glance, but let him pass after inspecting his card for a moment.

Petyr Baelish was fashionably late to the event – Willas had been there for over an hour when he finally turned up. He wore an offhanded smile and an understated suit and matching tie, making him look almost like a waiter or an attorney among the other guests in their tuxedos and bow-ties. A sliver tie pin glittered on the dark silk, shaped like a small bird. He had barely crossed the threshold when somebody put a glass of champagne in his hand.

Where Baelish looked calm, modest and at ease, his date for the night was vibrant and sparkling. Her dark emerald green cocktail dress made her hair shine like molten copper and her blue eyes had an almost feverish gleam to them. She wore almost no make-up, only a simple pair of earrings, and yet she was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the building. Still he thought there was something insecure, something similar to sleep-walking in the way she clutched her glass and moved aimlessly through the room. While Willas watched her, Sansa Stark wandered among the guests, making suspiciously little small-talk, the champagne glass quickly followed by a martini, then some colourful cocktail, then more clear liquor in varying glass shapes.

From time to time, she stopped to talk to Baelish, almost as if she'd run into him by accident. Willas found the dynamic between them very hard to read – there was something decidedly intimate to it, the small distance between them, the way their gestures and positions were almost identical and the casual physical contact - her hand brushing past his, his hand on her arm, his fingers brushing a strand of auburn hair out of her face. And he had the impression Sansa looked a little calmer, a little more stable when she was close to him.

But then again, they both seemed somewhat distracted, Baelish eyeing everyone in the room warily, reading their faces, probably their lips as well, making pleasant small-talk with his opponents; Sansa with her vague smile and her soft voice, drinking and weaving through the crowd. She hardly ever seemed to listen to what people told her, except maybe for Baelish, but Willas wondered if maybe she was giving them that impression on purpose.

She reminded him of something floating on a river, a paper boat or a flower petal, light, twirling, restless.

With a deep sigh, Willas made his way through the crowd, almost bumping into waiters balancing trays full of sparkling liquor no less than three times.

"Mr Baelish?"

The politician turned to face him, a mildly surprised look in his eyes. He was a little shorter than Willas, his dark hair turning silver at the temples. Willas thought he looked rather unimpressive, except maybe for his grey-green eyes that had an alert, teasing air about them.

"Yes?"

Willas cleared his throat nervously. "My name is Willas Tyrell, I, um… I work for-"

"A tabloid," Baelish supplied, a faint sardonic smile playing around his lips. "You're new to this whole thing, aren't you, Mr Tyrell?"

"Yes… how…" Willas shook his head and started over. "I'm trying to get a story together, about… about the Stark family."

"Oh dear, yes," Baelish sighed, turning his glass in his hands – Scotch, this time. "Tragic. Poor Catelyn and her sons, how old were they again?"

"Nineteen, twelve and… four years old. The girl disappeared as well, Arya."

The politician's eyes flickered to Sansa for a moment, then he took a sip from his glass and nodded. "Right. Who would do something like that?"

Willas noticed how Ned and Brandon didn't get mentioned at all. "Hardly anyone seems to know anything about it," he replied. "That's what intrigued me so much. Even the accident of Ned Stark's brother, they made an arrest and the guy got his verdict and all, but nobody ever seemed to care about what really happened. It's a very mysterious tragedy."

"Certainly," Baelish answered carefully. "But, if you don't mind me asking… what do I have to do with all this? You came all this way."

"Well, you… you knew them all for a long time and you and Ned were in with the same crowd."

Baelish laughed a little, his eyes very cautious. "It is a very big crowd, Mr Tyrell, look around." He waved a hand at the crowded ballroom. "These aren't even half the people I deal with. If Cat hadn't told me Ned was around, I would have probably never noticed him."

Willas grimaced. He'd somehow known Baelish would say something like that. "I know, but… I was hoping I could talk to you about it some time, see if there are any details that could help me."

A look of confusion flickered over his features. "I, um… I can't quite follow, I'm afraid," he said in a friendly tone. "You see, I'm running a campaign, I am somewhat busy. Besides, if you've looked into the whole thing, you might have seen the police records as well? It would surprise me to hear my name came up at all, I can't even recall being questioned."

"I know," Willas answered faintly, "but I also know you knew Catelyn Stark from school, and… Brandon and Ned as well, it says so in the school records."

Again, Baelish frowned. "Well, yes, I went to school with them, and I did know Cat rather well, but I only knew Brandon because he was on the football team, and I don't think I ever spoke to Ned at all. And then later… you know, I met Stark a couple of times, shook hands, he, um, he made a couple of rather possessive remarks about his wife, I introduced him to a colleague or two and well, before I knew it, someone put a bullet through his head. I'm afraid I'm not much help."

"There are people who say that those one or two colleagues you introduced him to were the ones that got him killed," Willas said, annoyed with Baelish's suave way of talking himself out of things.

"I would be very sorry to hear that," the politician answered, emptying his glass, and Willas sourly noted his utterly convincing, slightly shaken tone. "I did what I did trying to help."

"Ned Stark married the girl you were in love with at school," Willas was proud to notice a flicker of genuine surprise in Baelish's eyes, "why would you have tried to help him?"

"Cat asked me to," he answered flatly. "It would have been childish to refuse."

"Some say you did it on purpose."

"Some," Baelish repeated with a sardonic smirk. "A nice bit of gossip. Sounds like a reporter's dream come true, doesn't it? Too bad it's only an interesting theory."

Willas fought the urge to roll his eyes. "What would happen if someone could prove it? Theoretically speaking?"

"Nothing." Baelish shrugged. "Even if I'd made him shake hands with a psychotic mass murderer, it would not have been the least bit criminal."

"You would still have knowingly led him into danger. Maybe even knowingly led him to his death. Maybe that's not criminal, but…"

"Mr Tyrell, even if I'd done such a thing," Baelish said patiently, "and I understand why you would like that, you're at the beginning of your career, and no one needs a disaster like a budding journalist… but even if I'd done that… show me the police officer who would arrest me on charges of immorality and I'll be scared of you. Until then," he threw him a crooked smile, "I'm afraid you're not very threatening." He turned to the waiter and said, still in his jovial tone:

"Whatever the young man here has tonight is on me. You make sure he enjoys himself."

Willas frowned. What the hell…?

"I'm very sorry, but I don't have much more time for you, Mr Tyrell. Have a nice evening."

Then, almost as an afterthought, Baelish turned around, stepping very close, and added in a quiet, cold voice: "You will only speak to Sansa if she addressed you first. Are we clear on that?"

Willas scoffed. So what would he do if he talked to her anyway?

Stop buying him drinks?

"Why don't you want me to talk to her?"

"Why would I want to keep an nineteen year-old girl from being constantly reminded of how both her parents and her four siblings were taken away from her?" Baelish asked, his voice full of mockery.

Willas couldn't stop himself from replying: "Why don't I believe you give a damn about her grief?"

Baelish smiled wryly. "Well, maybe I do care. Or maybe I just don't feel like putting up with a crying date. Either way…" his smile turned very cold, "don't go near her. You would sorely regret it."

He could do nothing but stare after him in utter disbelief. Petyr Baelish had really proven everything Willas had thought he'd be – as intelligent as he was eloquent, cunning, dirty-minded, and an arrogant bastard on top of that. Besides, there was that disturbing lack of empathy underneath his pleasant smiles… he probably classified as a psychopath… or was it sociopath?

Willas never could tell those terms apart.

"Drink, sir?" the waiter asked with a polite smile.

"Huh?" He looked up, startled, and was about to tell him no when he changed his mind. "Um, yes. Please. I'll have a whiskey, please, but not… not that nasty cheap stuff."

"Of course, sir," the waiter replied and scuttled off. Deep down, Willas knew that no matter how much expensive liquor he could drink in one night it would hardly hurt Baelish, with all that money he'd amassed over the years in a hundred different ways that were only legal if you squinted slightly.

But it felt good anyway.

"You look lost." Her voice was just as he'd imagined, soft and bright, with a very faint huskiness as if she'd had a cold. Maybe it was the alcohol. "I know how that feels."

"Yeah," he muttered, swirling his drink in his glass. "This is a weird place." He looked up at her for a moment, the way her dress flowed around her slender body and her hair shone against the dark green. "Not for you, of course." That made zero sense. "I'm Willas. Tyrell. I work for a newspaper."

"Sansa," she said with a smile, and thankfully went on before he could say I know. "And believe me, it is, for me as well."

"You don't look lost, though."

For a moment, she cast her eyes down. "I've had a lot of time to learn how to blend in." Then she leaned closer and added in an even quieter, conspiratorial voice: "And I have someone paying for my drinks."

Willas laughed. "Well, the same person who's paying for my drinks tonight, I guess."

The frown looked very pretty on her face. "Petyr's paying for your drinks? I wouldn't accept gifts from him. He'll end up asking something in return."

Oh, does he? What's he asking from you, then?

"Um, you think it's a gift? It… I'm not sure what he said to me, but it sounded more like a threat."

She gave a bright little laugh and turned towards a waiter who stood waiting with a glass of something clear with a slice of cucumber in it. "Thank you." She turned back to Willas. "Petyr doesn't threaten people."

"What does he do, then?" Willas asked carefully, unsure whether she might take this as an insult.

But Sansa Stark just smiled. "He talks people into things. You know, he's a politician, it's what they do."

Oh, well, she'd had a good teacher. Willas sighed and emptied his glass. "I know he's trying to get influential people to vote for him, but… why are you here?"

She still smiled that knowing little smile. "Everyone here's trying to spy on the other, Willas. That's why they're here, it's not about votes, it's about getting ahead of the competition."

"And you? Are you spying for him?"

"I'm a girl," she replied with a shrug and another of her shy smiles tugged at her red lips. "If I get to go to a big posh party and wear an eight hundred pounds dress and drink expensive champagne and more gin than I could ever pay for, why'd I say no to that?"

"Right." He nodded stupidly and tried not to stare at her too much. He had a feeling that would not bode too well for him, after his little chat with Baelish, and besides, he didn't want to look like a creep to her. "The gin's good?"

She laughed, and it sounded almost real this time. "Yeah, I quite like it."

"Thanks for the recommendation." He handed the waiter his empty glass and smiled at Sansa. "How long d'you think this party will take? I really need get out of here. I'm not used to being around politicians for so long."

Sansa grinned. "I thought you work for a newspaper. Shouldn't you be used to it?"

"Yeah, I haven't been doing this for very long."

She stroked back her auburn hair and nodded slowly. "Well, I hope your researches aren't done yet."

"Why?"

"Then I'd see you around," she replied with a smile and handed him her glass. "Try it, I'll get another. Nice to meet you."

And with that, before he could say anything else, she disappeared in the crowd.