The Difference Between Black, White, And Gray
Chapter 3
Petyr had become somewhat withdrawn in the last five days. Sorcha mourned the loss of what little friendship they shared and lamented the cold facade that functioned as a wall between them. She had started letting him stray from her, though she also needed to conduct private affairs. Everything was in order for her to assume the throne-except the dunderhead that adorned it.
In truth, Sorcha greatly despised the task before her. Joffrey had been her whole world when she was growing up. They went hunting together, played pranks on the servants, crept into the kitchen for snacks and stayed up late to watch the court's night life. However, when Joffrey started to enter manhood he became more distant and wanted to push their antics too far. He wanted people to get hurt.
Princess Sorcha didn't mind a fair fight, but she never found it pleasurable to damage her peers for sport. The Lannister malice had never surfaced in her blood-though her mother did try her best to bring it around.
"Sister?" Joffrey called from over Sorcha's shoulder. She had just been dismissed from a small council meeting, though her role became increasingly more inert. What was the point of advising a King that would take no advice?
"Yes, Your Grace?" She replied casually, giving her brother a deep curtsey. She flashed her dimples, heart aching as she remembered how he used to be fascinated by them as an infant.
"Where is that rat?" Joffrey sneered, motioning rigidly for his guards to come to a stop.
Sorcha instantly knew to whom he was referring and corralled her anger. "You Grace, I grew tired of his company and dismissed him for a time."
"I heard that you went searching for the hound." Joffrey's eyes were like pale shards of ice, churning as if there was a hurricane behind them.
"Forgive me, your grace," Sorcha bowed, "I only wished to break his nose."
"Then what?" Joffrey countered.
"Your Grace?"
"Don't play stupid with me, sister, you forget how well I know you."
"I apologize, Your Grace. I do not know what I would do-maybe punch him some more."
"You are a liar." Joffrey played with the statement as if it were a succulent piece of ham. "Do you know what happens to liars, Sister?"
"They get sent to their room?" Sorcha offered hopefully, though she knew full well something bad was about to happen to her at the hands of someone she used to love more than life.
"Boris, show the Princess how the King handles a uncontrollable woman," Joffrey laughed. He slapped the arm of a particularly dirty looking Knight and the man flashed a set of decaying teeth.
"It'll me my pleasure, Yer Grace," Boris grunted in response and drew a small dagger. He smiled wickedly down at the Princess as he advanced on her.
Sorcha immediately retreated but was stayed by a call from Joffrey. He would kill her right now if she did not submit. This isn't my brother...
Sorcha shook with fear as rough hands grabbed her around the neck and lifted her onto the tips of her toes. Her clothes pulled tight around her as they were yanked back and ravaged under the sharp edge of Boris' knife.
"No, Joffrey! Make him stop! I'm your sister, don't you remember that?"
"It seems you have forgotten who is your king. I bet you'll listen the next time I give you orders," Joffrey remarked, surveying the scene with a pleased smile.
The cold air slapped against Sorcha's skin and caused all the little hairs to rise up. She struggled to cover herself but Boris merely held her in place, raking her over with a pleased smile. He took one hand and laid it hesitantly on her waist, afraid of offending his King. "May I, your grace?"
"You'll be doing me a favor if you marry her," Joffrey snorted, waving a hand to express his indifference. The Child King smirked deviously at Sorcha, holding her gaze.
"Sorcha!" Circe's voice was strangled and high, her shoes clacking loudly on the stone floor as she struggled to hold her dress aloft.
"Mom!" Sorcha's eyes brimmed with tears of relief. She couldn't think of a way to repay her for this one.
"What are you doing, Joffrey?" Circe was like a tigress as she tore Boris away from Sorcha and hastily covered her nudity with a silk shawl. "This is your sister. You cannot allow some...mongrel to taint her!"
"I am your King, Mother, I can let this mongrel taint you if I want. Unless, of course, Uncle Jamie has beaten him to it," Joffrey taunted.
"Mother has always been faithful to her King, and now-" Sorhca was cut off when Circe clamped a cold hand against her mouth.
"Please, I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace," Circe smoothed. She bowed deeply and moved protectively in front of Sorcha, ready to flee if the situation became dire.
"Very well," Joffrey sighed, feeling uncomfortable under his mother's judgmental stare, "Take the bitch to her chambers and stay in yours for the rest of the evening. I don't want to see either of your faces until tomorrow."
Sorcha had never felt so happy to be clothed. Fury and indignation churned in her gut as she sat beside her mother and wrapped a comforting arm around her.
"That thing is not Joffrey," the Princess sneered, "I can no longer think of him as my brother."
"Ever since he became king," Circe lamented.
"I promise not to get beheaded if you will promise me the same thing," Sorcha joked, her lips quirking up in a bitter smile.
"As much as I would like to humor you, I can't." Circe picked at her nails and fretted over a strand of hair. Sorcha could tell what she was thinking; Joffrey wasn't the only King in town out for their blood.
"Why don't you take comfort in Jamie for a while? I'll be okay here," Sorcha offered, giving Circe's arm a little pat.
"No, I can't let anything happen to you," Circe defended. She took Sorcha in her arms and scrutinized her every detail, brushing a fresh scar in particular. "Not again."
"You can't protect me from Joffrey and he is the only danger here. Varys has always nurtured me and Petyr is firmly under my control."
"Why wasn't he with you?"
Sorcha shrugged. "I got sick of looking at him."
Circe cast a sideways glance and allowed a true laugh to roll from her cherry red lips. "You are truly my daughter."
"See? Humor feels good, now go soothe your heart. I'm sick of looking at your sad frown, Mother."
Circe regarded Sorcha with a mix of pride and worry. "I love you."
"Mom, I will always love you. I only want what is best for you. I will take care of you, now that I am old enough. Just trust me and above all else, remain loyal to me."
Circe searched her daugher's eyes for answers and opened her mouth once, as if she was about to ask a question but thought better of it, and left the room without any further comment.
Sorcha let out the breath she was holding in as the door slammed shut and left her in contemplative solitude. She still felt the scum from Boris' hands and eyes on her body despite the cleansing she had gone through earlier. The incident left her shaken to the core. Boris could change her life forever if she became pregnant.
A furious knocking sounded on the barred door. "Princess? Let me in!"
It was Petyr, Sorcha would recognize his voice anywhere. With a sigh, she forced herself to her feet and catered to his request.
"I came as soon as I heard the news. Are you alright? Did Joffrey hurt you?" Petyr asked breathlessly. The dark pools of his eyes shimmered with concern and his brow was creased with worry.
Sorcha flicked her gaze across his body to see if he was feigning his mood. She was not disappointed; Petyr Baelish was genuinely concerned. For her. She had thought that the only living being he cared for was Catelyn, yet here he was, gentle fingers probing her body for signs of damage.
"Oh Petyr! There aren't words to describe being faced with rape or death," Sorcha cried and threw herself into Lord Baelish's arms. He simply held her, stunned, while she sobbed unabashedly. "In that moment, I viciously hoped that I was already with your child. I don't want to have ugly children with a monster of a father."
"Shhh," Petyr quieted the Princess, "You never know who is listening here."
"Varys doesn't give a damn, Petyr. He can't touch you as long as you're with me. Nobody can," Sorcha responded. She struggled to swallow against the frog in her throat and pulled back from her guard. It seemed like all the handkerchiefs in the world couldn't mop the moisture from her cheeks.
Petyr was also quite shaken. Sorcha's words kept echoing in his head like some sort of manic ghost; He can't touch you as long as you're with me. Nobody can. Lord Baelish knew that she had her guard down, perhaps for the first time in his presence. That little slip led to another-an almost protective undertone. Nobody can. Her words were final and affectionate. The only other woman who had ever felt the urge to shelter him was his Catelyn.
No, Petyr thought suddenly, not a woman. She gave me me up for Stark swine when it was time for the grand transition of life. Even when her betrothed died, she still chose his brother-a man she barely knew-over me.
"So, in turn, that unsettling fact has lead me to a delightful conclusion. Petyr? Are you even listening to me?" Sorcha blinked and ran a finger along his neatly trimmed beard.
"No, I wasn't. Please repeat that last?" Petyr asked, catching her hand in his own. He drew in a deep breath and summoned his court persona. He couldn't trust his true self to keep his lips sealed around the unusual young woman.
"You're impossible. Come sit down, if you wish." Sorcha motioned to Petyr's identical bed positioned directly across from her own. She flinched inwardly when she noticed the rope dangling between the two; she had been tying Lord Baelish to her at night to assure he didn't slip out. It was a necessary evil.
Petyr sighed and took in the disheveled Princess. He could see a large bruise beneath the thin gossamer of her gown that was just starting to turn purple. She was turned slightly away from him, granting him a full view of her back and the thin scab that had formed over a knife wound. "How bad does it hurt?"
"Does what hurt?" Sorcha asked seriously, looking down at herself for the first time. "Oh, I've gotten worse at the flames," she shrugged, "It will be gone by the morning."
"I apologize for my absence. It will not happen again." Petyr looked down at his fingers and schooled his features. He knew damn well that no man in King's Landing could stand in Joffrey's path. Things wouldn't have gone any differently; but he would have been there there when Sorcha was most vulnerable. Today he missed a valuable opportunity to establish trust.
"Petyr! What has gotten into you? Every time I look over it appears that your head is among the stars."
Lord Baelish gave the Princess a withering glance. "Go on, I am listening."
"I didn't say anything yet," Sorcha responded with pursed lips, "I know that what happened between us was a horrible mistake. I wish I could take it back; I know who you were saving yourself for. However, what is done cannot be undone. You need to move past that so we can come out of this on top."
Petyr remained silent for a moment and studied the Princess' every detail. Her black girls were glossy and unkempt and her determined eyes were lined with just a smudge of kohl, lending her an almost sultry look. That soft skin wasn't as pale as the rest of the Lannisters and it was marred by a fair amount of nicks and burn marks. On any other woman, Petyr might have found it ugly. "An easy task; there is nothing to move past."
"Pardon my language, but, don't bullshit a bullshitter. You've completely changed your facade." Sorcha crossed her arms and locked eyes with Lord Baelish, unwilling to let the matter drop.
"How long until your next cycle?"
Sorcha's face hardened and softened at the same time. She understood well that they were in hot water until there was proof that she wasn't with child.
"Two weeks." Sorcha paused to clear her throat and find something to fidget with. "It is highly unlikely."
"My girls really have jaded you," Petyr remarked idly.
"I'm sorry that I never really thanked you properly for all the nights you let Luce come out with me," Sorcha laughed, remembering her friend fondly, "I want to buy her from you before we part ways."
Petyr swallowed hard and produced a paper from his pocket. He paused a second to compose his face into a friendly smile and practiced his stage voice in his mind. "Actually, Princess, I would like to speak with you about my compensation."
Sorcha's sharp eyes glared daggers at the small document Petyr was unraveling. "You don't trust my word?"
"No more than you would trust mine," Lord Baelish countered, pulling himself up and handing the document to Princess Sorcha.
She scowled as she read each carefully written word. "What about the lands? The only subject you explicitly detail is your free choice in marriage." The whole thing reeked of another of his schemes. "Are you planning on forcing Catelyn's hand?"
"She is dead." Petyr's lips tightened and he cast his gaze downward, fretting over the angle of his mockingbird.
Lord Baelish's response was so abrupt that Sorcha instantly felt sorry that she had questioned him. She, too, knew the feeling of love lost; though not to the depth of Petyr's lifelong passion. She couldn't begin to fathom what that would be like.
"Fine," Sorcha finally agreed. She scribbled her name across the page, which had already been witnessed, and handed it back to her guard. "I've added that you cannot wed anyone in my immediate family."
Petyr smiled guardedly. "Of course. It goes without saying, Princess."