The Difference Between Black, White, And Gray
Chapter 4: Fade To Black
Sorcha frowned at the high ceiling as she waited for dawn to approach. She was sure that she had counted all the squares in the pattern twice now-there were 2,225, precisely. Sleep was not a welcome visitation this morning as she contemplated what the new day's horrors would be. Like her mother, she found herself reaching for the small pitcher of wine sitting on her nightstand.
The rough pull of rope on skin startled her and caused her to jerk her guard awake and incite a mental tirade of obscenities. "Go back to sleep," the princess muttered darkly as she grasped the wine and poured herself a glass.
"Does a princess ever need to rest?" Petyr's hoarse voice croaked over the distance between them. The brightening sky had yet to reach the lower portions of the gloom and made Sorcha struggle to make out his neatly trimmed beard.
"No, that's why her guard is supposed to sleep enough for two people," Sorcha quipped back and replaced her empty glass back on the nightstand. "Would you like some?"
"Yes, please," Petyr accepted. He watched the princess' movements and sighed deeply before starting to undo his binds. He could see her immediately stiffen and snap her head around to look at what he was doing. "How do you intend to hand that glass to me?"
Sorcha immediately understood the situation and undid the safety rope connecting them together. "I regret forcing you to live this way. However, growing up around you has taught me a few things."
"And here I was, hoping that we could improve upon our friendship. You would make a greater spy than any I currently employ," Petyr taunted.
"If there was any way to be certain of your loyalty, Petyr, I would accept your offer," Sorcha stated, dry humor evident in her tone, "but the circumstances remain."
"So tell me, Sorcha, how may I gain your trust?" Petyr retorted idly and downed his cup all at once. He made a smacking noise with his lips as he set the cup down, purposefully annoying the Princess.
"To be honest, Petyr, I think you already have more than you rightly deserve."
Sorcha stared open-mouthed at the servant before her. "Repeat that," she ordered dryly, eyes staring wide and seeing only images within. Her gut churned as the high ceilings seemed to breathe and sway and an odd buzzing sound began to dominate the gold painted room.
"Princess?" Petyr's cool hand gripping her bare shoulder brought Sorcha back to reality. The buzzing faded and the face of the servant became clear.
"What?" Sorcha croaked helplessly.
"Joffrey summons you to the gallows at once. You are to personally perform the execution of Sandor Clegane," Jocelyn repeated with more than a little concern in her voice.
"I must change into the proper attire," The Princess ordered, surety returning to her voice, "you are dismissed."
Sorcha turned and buried her face in Petyr's chest the moment she heard the heavy doors click shut. Breathe in, and breathe out..., she recited endlessly in an effort to stay calm, Joffrey has ordered you to execute the only man you have ever come close to loving. You can deal with this. There is always an out.
Despite his better judgment, Petyr enfolded the Princess firmly in his arms. He delighted in the way her frame felt small against his own and how his hands soothed the delicate shake that wracked her body. He was the one she turned to now, Petyr realized with satisfaction, and it had been that way all along.
"So much for the Iron Princess," Sorcha laughed darkly, as if she could somehow sense his thoughts.
Yes, the Iron Princess. Sorcha had earned the nickname when Petyr was new in King's Landing. Nobles and peasants alike had murmured about the Baratheon heiress' strength of will and determination. Those close to the late King would swear that an army of demons couldn't break her spirit, even at three years of age.
The sly Baelish had always known better. By day, Sorcha would appear as required in the court, always careful to keep to herself; but the night was truly her time. Petyr would watch as she would skitter by his own hiding place and practically glow as she explored new territories. As time went by the Princess changed. She no longer danced right past Lord Baelish without a care in the world.
Instead, she would crawl right on in with the master of lies.
"After he said, 'It is only a matter of time before her husband finds out.'"
"The other lord responded with, 'Damn the consequences! Neither of us wishes to hide her gift any longer;' but after that I'm not certain. I think they mentioned visions, indicating that this woman possesses magic or is blessed by the old gods or the new. Or both, if blessings can work that way."
"I don't think they do, Princess," Petyr laughed. Before he knew it, one hand was reaching out to brush through those dark curls.
"Well, I believe they can," Sorcha huffed in response, though she made no move to remove Petyr's curious fingers.
"Do you believe in both the old gods and the new?" Petyr questioned idly.
A nearby door banging open hushed the two. Sorcha closed her eyes and leaned into Petyr to better envelop herself in shadow. When the servant's footsteps had faded Sorcha turned fully towards Petyr and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek.
"Until we meet again, Lord Baelish." And then she was gone on cat's feet, leaving no sign of her presence except the faint tingling upon Petyr's cheek.
When he was sure that the Princess had indeed departed, Petyr let a hand travel to the spot where her lips had lain.
He had been kissed by the Baratheon Heir; damn all those who had insisted there would be no opportunities for him in King's Landing.
"Sorcha!" Tyrion Lannister's voice pervaded the room and brought Sorcha from her panic and Petyr from his memories. "This is a dangerous game you're playing and you didn't come to visit me. Not once!"
"I didn't see any reason," The Princess sniffed. She had stiffened at Tyrion's presence, though he was more of a brother to her than an uncle. At this point, the Princess had no tolerance for men snapping at her and telling her what she must do.
"Does one need a reason to visit their favorite uncle when he is grievously injured?" Tyrion sighed as he made his way across the room, "I also believe that congratulations are in order for you, Lord Baelish, for sleeping with my niece."
"How the hell did you find out about that?" Sorcha squeaked, losing her formal composure.
"Don't worry, Varys has two full coin purses. One for bribes, one for...well, you know."
"What of the hound? Why is Joffrey ordering me to personally chop off his head?" Sorcha demanded impatiently. She pulled away from Petyr and sat on the floor to better speak with her uncle.
"He is safe-for now. The execution has been delayed to prepare for Lord Tywin's arrival." Tyrion had spat his father's name like it was a piece of gristle.
"What? Here, now?" Sorcha continued, paying Petyr no attention as he came to stand at his place behind her.
"Yes. You can blame that one on Varys." Tyrion rolled his eyes and reached for Sorcha's pitcher of wine.
"Explain in full or else I'll force you to watch as I drink every last drop," The Princess warned, snatching up her uncle and holding him in the air above her.
"Your height does not give you the right to manhandle me. Put me down this instant!" he complained.
"You are family and we are close; that gives me the right. Now, speak before I start shaking you."
"You've been sold out. Start preparing your speech or else Tywin will wed you to The Master of Lies by the week's end," Tyrion sighed, "Now put me down and give me some wine."
"Drink the whole thing, dear uncle, you're going to have a long day ahead of you."
Tyrion paused in his pouring, an ominous feeling striking deep in his gut, before continuing in his motions. His eyebrows lifted high as he drank deeply from his cup and smacked his lips afterward. "So-"
"Princess, did you set it all in motion?" Petyr cut off Tyrion, holding Sorcha now by both arms and searching her eyes deeply for truth.
"Yes," she responded gravely, much to her uncle's displeasure.
"How long do we have?" Petyr whispered.
Sorcha glanced at the clock before fidgeting with her fingers. "An hour at best."
"What are you two talking about? What is going on here?" Tyrion's tone was just was worried as the other two. He didn't know what was going on but if Petyr and Sorcha had concocted it-well, he assumed it would be a proper shit show.
Both parties looked away. Tyrion could see Sorcha take a step closer to Petyr and hold his eye, as if asking his permission to speak. It sickened Tyrion and made him deeply concerned for his niece.
"Well, the time is ticking down. Out with it, if you want me to save your asses from whatever is coming."
Sorcha moved towards Tyrion and leaned into his ear. "I've poisoned the demon that has taken control of Joffrey. In less than an hour I will have assumed the throne."
Tyrion thought his stomach couldn't plummet any farther. If there were any more nasty surprises, he was sure it would fall right out of his ass and kill him. "I can't believe you've played into your childhood fantasies while planning something like this."
"Tywin will never let the marriage stand once the situation as accelerated," Sorcha paused to turn to Petyr, "I'm sorry, Petyr, but I don't love you."
"Love makes little difference in the world we live in, Sorcha, you know that," Petyr responded.
"When I am Queen love will become highly valued," The Princess assured.
"If you aren't hanged for treason," Tyrion reminded.
"The common folk both adore and know me well," Sorcha snipped, "and Petyr has the guard in his pocket."
"Yes, Lord Baelish has the guard; and what is it that you intend to do with them, Petyr?" Tyrion questioned.
Lord Baelish took a deep breath before responding, puffing himself up and calming his features. Sorcha knew at once that he was putting on his stage face-which meant he was preparing for a lie.
"They will assure Sorcha's ascent to the throne, of course."
"You're lying," The Princess hissed.
"It's a little late to doubt me, Princess," Petyr remarked. His eyes twinkled with pride and excitement. His plans were coming to fruition right before his eyes and even the Lannisters could not stop him.
"It's not too late to beat you into submission," Sorcha growled back.
"No!" Tyrion shouted, making a grab for the blur that was his niece as she pounced on her guard.
Petyr did his best to fight off Sorcha Baratheon though no hell could have a fraction of her fury. Her soft hands grabbed him from every angle, quickly darting away as he blocked and dodged. Her acrobatics training was paying off in full as the agile Lord soon began to tire.
"Agh!" Petyr cried out as Sorcha finally twisted herself around him, locking his arms fully behind his body and rendering him immobile. With a deft jerk she sent racking waves of pain all along his shoulders. "Is this the kind of queen you plan to be?"
"How do you plan on betraying me?" Sorcha growled in response.
Tywin Lannister could hear a chorus of shouting from three very familiar voices. With a sigh, he continued down the hall towards the disturbance with a heavy heart.
Once upon a time, he had broad hopes for his Granddaughter. Now she dashed them before they had a chance go begin. In his heart he had always been afraid that her strong will would be the end of her; now that that time has come he feared for her the most.
"Wait outside," Tywin commanded his guards.
"Sir," Liam, the taller of the two, interjected.
"I'll be fine," Tywin assured.
When he opened the doors, he couldn't help but laugh. Sorcha was wrapped around Lord Baelish with a positively demonic expression of fury on her face. Petyr, on the other hand, wore a mask of intense pain and tears leaked out of his eyes as he struggled and rolled along the floor.
"Sorcha!" Tyrion kept repeating, following the pair as Petyr's cries continued to punctuate the air. Every time he tried to lay hands on Sorcha he would either get knocked down or she would roll Petyr to a new position. It was the most absurd occurrence Tywin had witnessed in a long time.
"Alright, children, what is going on here?" he boomed across the room.