*A/N* beware, reader, for this is the lazily written filler part I never wanted to write. I hate half of it and it doesn't make much sense to me, but here it is anyway, because it is crucial to the plot.

-PART THREE-

"Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees – he could climb it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. […] He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God."

SANSA

[nine weeks to the election]

.

"Your little Daisy Buchanan act was very convincing, by the way," Petyr said and handed her a coffee.

"How did you even hear that?" Sansa asked with a frown, "you were at the other side of the room."

He chuckled and sat down across the table. "My hearing isn't that good, but I am a very attentive observer." He threw her a look over his coffee cup and added with a smirk: "And you pulled the same thing with Stannis's mistress, I heard you then."

She buttered her toast and took a sip of her coffee. It was boiling hot and more than a little too strong. She would have complained about it, only she knew that wouldn't change a thing.

"Well, from what I've gathered about Melisandre, she's still on her crusade and she's got Stannis wrapped around her finger, almost as much as his wife." She smiled. "She thinks she's all-knowing, it's actually kind of funny."

"She is very perceptive," he argued softly, "I'm impressed you actually fooled her. Well, all the better for me," he added with a smirk, refilling his coffee cup. "Stannis used to be hard competition, but the majority won't vote for a religious fanatic whose only political intention is to be the rightful leader this country deserves. He's throwing away all his potential, for something I don't think he even really believes in."

"For sex," Sansa said with a smirk and emptied her coffee cup. "Stannis Baratheon is an actual guy after all."

There was a shadow flickering across his face for a second or so. "A stupid mistake to make, though, for such a smart man."

"Well, he's not likely to come to his senses anytime soon, anyway" Sansa answered with a shrug, trying to ignore his mood swing, and he smiled a little.

"Do you mean to say I don't have to take him into consideration anymore?"

"No," she replied and rolled her eyes. His tutoring got so obvious sometimes. "I'm saying don't invest too much time into your plan B."

"I'm starting to see why I'm keeping you around. What did you get on the others?"

.

[seven weeks to the election]

.

Sansa stared at the poorly illuminated photographs covering the top third of the page. The left one had been taken at a rather unfortunate angle and the bottom corner of the picture showed the shrubbery the paparazzi had apparently been lying in flat on his stomach to catch the couple in the restaurant on camera. Her fork was halfway to her mouth and she seemed to be laughing about something the man opposite had said. Petyr, as ever, seemed the very image of self-assurance and ease, his chair tipped back ever so slightly and a mildly amused look on his face. All in all, it was an awful picture, the quality was poor to say the least, both people on it were out of focus and facing away from the camera slightly. The ingenuity of it lay in the bright reflection of the lights on the knife in Petyr's hand in combination with the image on the right.

There wasn't much to be seen on this one, either. It had been taken on some narrow road lined with big elegant houses, also at night; Sansa counted five police cars, three DCs were just roping off the area with yellow crime scene tape. The black inscription on it was the only thing that was properly focused, CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS, the cars and the constables blocked everything that went on behind it from view.

He has caviar and Arbor Gold while his ex falls to her death

MP Petyr Baelish (38) was photographed at dinner with his current girlfriend, Sansa Stark (19).
Meanwhile, Lysa Arryn, widow of the late Jon Arryn, former mayor of London, fell from the balcony of her flat on the sixth floor. The cause of death is yet to be confirmed, however a neighbour told this newspaper he had seen Baelish leave her flat approximately two hours before her death.
According to an unnamed source, Baelish and Arryn were involved in Baelish's final year of school.
Baelish's office has made no statement as of yet about this shocking and tragic -

When she heard footsteps approaching, she dropped the newspaper on the table as if she'd burnt her fingers, and out of some silly, inexplicable instinct hastily folded it back the way it had arrived with the mail. Then she snatched up her cup and put up the kettle, feeling like a child that had narrowly escaped being caught doing something forbidden.

Petyr entered the kitchen, poured himself half the pot of coffee at once, then balanced the dangerously full cup to the table while Sansa stopped in her tracks, not quite sure whether she was waiting for him to say good morning, spill the boiling hot coffee over his fingers or call her out for doing something she shouldn't have – which was stupid, because why shouldn't she read the papers? Why would he expect her not to? It was right there on the table after all, he'd put it there himself when he'd collected the mail.

Still, she couldn't shake the diffuse feeling there was something wrong, that she'd forgotten how dangerous this man was, how careful she had to be around him.

Don't be silly, he was with you when it happened. And why would he want to do Aunt Lysa any harm? They haven't seen each other in ages… tabloids would say anything to get attention…

And yet she'd heard his phone ringing in the middle of the night, and why would anyone wake up a powerful politician just to tell him some girl he'd gone to school with had fallen off her balcony? It wasn't like Aunt Lysa's name had ever come up, as if there had ever been any proof of the stories Lysa told when she'd had too much wine that made all her relatives roll her eyes… Petyr never spoke of her… who would think he'd care enough to know she was dead that he couldn't wait until it was all over the papers, and why?

When she sat down at the table, Petyr had picked up the newspaper. There was a contemptuous smile on his lips, but his eyes looked strangely dark. After a moment he looked up with a scoff and returned his attention to his coffee. "A woman dies and they're still desperate to make sure everyone sees how old I am right in the first line of text. They should have written the ages in bold letters, or maybe do the calculation for the less intelligent while they're on it."

"Sorry?" Sansa gave back innocently, her restless mind unable to come up with a more convincing reaction.

"Did you see this? The bloody football game beat us to page two," Petyr declared with a crooked grin and handed her the newspaper.

She glanced over the text for show, her heart beating a little too fast. He would see right through this. He always saw right through her.

She wondered what it would happen, if he had something to do with it. If it would change anything. Would she be scared of him? Would she hate him for it?

No, said a small unwelcome voice in her head. He's always been good to me. He'd never hurt me.

"This isn't funny, Petyr," she said darkly and took a sip of her tea. "You know there'll be an investigation, right? You'll be a suspect."

"Don't worry about me, Sansa. I'll be fine." He grabbed the grilled half of toast on her plate and ignored her dark glare.

"Your reputation might not be. You know you're in politics, don't you?"

"Oh, sweetling, I'm a liar, through and through, no one will suspect me." He got up, poured himself another cup of coffee and added, in a voice that probably wouldn't sound fake to anyone but her: "The poor sweet thing topped herself, and I feel so guilty. Our visit must've worked her up, she probably had another bottle after we left and then she tripped and fell, my God, is it my fault?" He placed a hand over his heart and raised a brow at her. "Nobody will have the slightest doubt. If anything, they'll love me for it. A touch of tragedy, people adore that."

Sansa just stared at him, not quite sure if she'd managed to keep the disgust out of her eyes. "You're unbelievable."

"I know," he replied in a voice that implied all the wrong things, emptied his cup and threw her a smile. "I'm running late."

She shook her head, suddenly very much convinced her intuition was right, and couldn't keep herself from muttering: "One day, all your lies will catch up with you, Petyr."

"I'll go to hell anyway, sweetling. No point in stopping now," he answered flatly and got to his feet.

"Did you have her murdered?" she called after him after a moment of hesitation, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, knowing he was too smart to tell her the truth even if he was guilty, knowing full well her life would probably be a lot easier so long as she could pretend she didn't know a thing about her aunt's death.

He stopped in his tracks, a hand already on the door handle. "Is that what you think of me, darling?" he asked softly. "Do you really think I'm capable of something like that?"

"Yes," she whispered, her fingers clutching the cup trembling just a little.

"I didn't kill her, Sansa," he said without turning around, his voice without inflection.

"You're lying," she concluded after a moment, her voice so soft she could hardly hear it herself.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I'm running late," he said, equally quiet, and left without another word.

.

[six weeks from the election]

.

They didn't speak of it again – Sansa didn't dare pressing the matter, and he didn't seem to be very worried she would do anything about her suspicion. In fact, he seemed fairly sure that even if she believed him to be a murderer, things wouldn't be any different.

And, though it took her a while to realise it, in the end, things really weren't any different.

Deep down, she'd always known there was something crooked about him. He'd never tried to trick her into thinking he had especially pure or humanitarian motivations – Petyr was a power-hungry man full of contempt for the people who'd always belittled him. To him, this was about recognition, about power, and about retaliation; and she'd known all this from the start.

He'd been good to her, though, and that and nothing else was what had pulled her in. Nobody had shown her kindness the way he had in what felt like forever, and in return, she would probably forgive him anything he did to others. It would take a while, but she would; Petyr had her in his hands and he knew it.

When it all came down, none of it really mattered.

It was a very final, but strangely liberating truth. Liberating, because it meant she would never have to tear out of that vast, comforting carelessness ever again, if nothing could ever change things between them anyway.

.

[five weeks from the election]

.

"I love you," she whispered, some night. She didn't know if she'd even known that before, if she'd ever said it before, but this time he heard, and for less than a second there was a very strange look on his face. Surprise, as it turned out, didn't really suit him.

The smile that followed was just a little too bright, a little too reassuring to be real, and his eyes a little too cold. Sometimes she wondered if he wanted her to see when he was faking his smiles.

"You do, don't you, sweetling?" he muttered, green and silver bearing into blue, and gently pushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"It's what you were planning to happen all along," she gave back matter-of-factly. She wasn't angry; she actually felt like she'd known all along, somewhere in the back of her head. Petyr was always seeking to profit from what he did, and what else could he want from a girl who had nothing left?

"Did I?" he asked, an amused spark in his eyes. "I'm not sure I was aware of that."

Later, she would often wonder whether that hadn't been the most honest thing he'd ever said to her.

.

[two weeks from the election]

.

He grew quiet from that night on, not so that anyone else would have noticed, but Sansa did. She'd been watching him for so long now, and she knew something had changed.

She still saw him during the day, buried in paperwork and coffee cups as usual; he made his quips and his jokes and gave it his best effort to hide from her, and he was excellent at hiding. He almost fooled her, but only just.

He still slipped into her room every other night, but as well as he had once managed to fool her aunt (that was if Willas was to be believed, anyway) even Petyr seemed to struggle faking their unwilling, strangely guilt-ridden affection. And how would you act someone wanting something but acting like they didn't want it acting like they didn't care? Even an actor like him couldn't possibly pull that feat.

No, something was off, and Sansa knew. And he knew she did.

Had she just got better at spotting the cracks in his masks, the little slip-ups in his lies, or was he actually acting strange?

Either way, there was something coming, and she was still trying to figure out how scared she should be when it happened.

"Tyrell's waiting for you outside," Petyr announced softly, putting down the phone. A security guy was controlling the driveway these days, a guy called Kettleblack or something, who informed Petyr of every car that he let pass.

Sansa had met up with Willas some four or five times already, talking about her family. She didn't really know why he cared so much – there were far too many lose ends to that story to tie it together for a decent article. She knew that much, having tried to piece together what had happened herself. There was always a piece that wouldn't fit.

"Why do you want me to give these interviews?" she asked, stopping in front of a mirror to fix a pin in her hairdo. "You always said let sleeping dogs lie. What changed your mind?"

"I need you to find a way to deal with your past on your own," he replied, putting aside his book and got off the couch. He'd been sitting there all morning, as if he'd been waiting for something.

(Looking back, she knew he had.)

"But why now?"

"Because you have to leave, sweetling."

From a neutral point of view, this statement could have meant anything, but his voice was very quiet and there was a gravity and finality about his words that made her lose ground for a second. In a way, she had been waiting for something like this, yet when she finally found her voice again, all she could do was ask, stupidly, like a little girl: "Why?"

"This… it all makes things complicated, and I can't deal with any complications at the moment."

That was ridiculous, so ridiculous it almost made her laugh out loud. Dealing with complications was all Petyr had ever done in his life.

"That's not an answer," she said instead, too taken by surprise to be angry, or sad.

He gave a humourless laugh at that and took a long time to reply, studying her face intently as if he'd suddenly lost the ability to read her like an open book.

"You could be my daughter, you know that?" he asked then, a strange touch to his voice that she'd never heard before. "No, really, you could have been. If I'd had it my way back then, you would be."

Sansa just stared back at him, not so much shocked any more as she was disturbed. He wasn't making the least bit of sense.

She thought of the bottle of scotch Varys had given him a few days back, and of the small plastic bags with the white powder in his desk drawer, hidden carefully inside his old copy of The Scarlet Letter, and wondered if he'd really be so careless.

"What are you talking about?"

He shook his head and put his smile back up, but that strange look in his eyes wouldn't quite go. "You have to go, Sansa. It's for the best, trust me."

"Petyr." She'd told him she loved him, it had to be that – he was scared of ending up just like Stannis, there was nothing else… But Petyr didn't exactly consider Stannis's intellect on par with his own, so why would he believe he'd make the same mistakes?

He just smiled mildly. "And I'm not discussing it."

"Petyr-"

"Give your new address to my office, I'll have your things brought round."

"What happened?" she finally managed to ask, though not as loud as she'd intended. In a way, she didn't even expect an answer, and she sure as hell didn't get one.

"Nothing, love, I just… I let this go on far too long. I should've had the nerve to stay away from you in the first place, I suppose," he answered in a strangely offhanded tone. "But don't worry, sweetling. You'll find soon enough you have that effect on most men. The world is yours, with your mother's looks and the two or three things I've taught you, and it's about time you put all that to some use."

She just stood there and stared at him, no idea how to even reply to that. The shock was ebbing off now and something else took over her head, but she wasn't quite sure yet what it was.

He sighed. "Sansa, I'm not joking. Please go. I would really hate to have you thrown out."

She couldn't help a helpless, angry little scoff at that. "Yeah. I really don't want to put you in that position, Petyr." Finally, she felt the tears she'd sort of waited for the last five minutes run down her cheeks. "Just… just at least tell me what's going on."

"I have my reasons, and they're my business," he said calmly. "Goodbye, Sansa."

She felt like he'd slapped her, the way Joffrey used to, and her vision blurred with alarming speed.

No, she decided then, slowly wiped the tears off her face and forced her mask into place as well. No, that's not how you'll get your revenge, Petyr. I'm not her. I won't let you get back at her through me. She would not do him the favour of falling apart for him. She could put herself together for another minute.

Anger is so much easier to endure than hurt, isn't that right, darling?

"Fine. Goodbye," she said, her voice as cold and sharp as she could make it, and left the house with no idea where to go, taking nothing with her but the dress she was wearing and the handbag she'd packed for a few hours at a café.

Her vision blurred with tears and nearly drowned in sunlight, she stumbled out of the driveway practically blind, and some part of her marvelled at the tacky poetry there would be about some poor oblivious person hitting her with their car in this moment. Oh, wouldn't the tabloids have a field day about that…

The only thing that was actually surprising, the only thing she had never pictured, was that the betrayal felt so personal. She'd always thought the worst would be the fact she was all alone in the world once more, she'd thought the worst thing would be all those memories rushing back, but it wasn't, and that was upsetting.

She had never expected the pain to actually come from losing him.

"Sansa?"

There was Willas, climbing out of a cab that stood waiting on the side of the road. She'd forgotten all about him.

"Are you okay?"

"No," she whispered, too softly for him to hear, then forced a smile on her face and answered "yes", louder this time.

He looked deeply worried now.

She'd probably overdone the smile.

"C'mon," he said after a moment, putting a wobbly smile on his lips as well, "let's get away from here."

She didn't object.

(He didn't look surprised at all, though that thought came to her much later.

She asked him, and learned what she'd practically known already – that he'd known, days before she had, that Petyr had called him, told him to come and pick her up once he was done with her.

That Petyr had told him, in these exact words, take care of her, Tyrell. And make sure she doesn't come back.)