Fic: All the King's Men [2/4]
Title: All the King's Men
Author: luna_plath
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Word count: 3,428
Warnings: sexuality, violence, language
Summary: Sansa Stark has been in hiding as Alayne Stone for over a year. One night she runs into Jon Snow, an old family friend now sworn to the service of Stannis Baratheon, the would-be King of Westeros. Jon offers to deliver Sansa to safety but it comes at a price: the head of one Petyr Baelish.
AN: You can check out my picspam of Petyr's gardens here and my fancast for this fic's version of Jon Snow here.
TWO
Once Jon makes a call to Lord Davos they leave Tarly Securities within five minutes, a shiny black escalade waiting directly outside the front of the entrance. His arm around her, Jon makes sure that Sansa is inside first, the door barely closed behind them before the driver pulls into the Merchant District’s thick traffic.
The driver introduces himself as Grenn, explaining what happened while they were in Sam’s office.
“The navy yard in the harbor was attacked,” Grenn says, swerving the large car across three lanes of traffic, the force of the turn pressing Sansa into Jon’s side.
Reaching between them, she takes his hand, feeling reassured when Jon laces his fingers between hers and squeezes her hand reassuringly.
“This wasn’t us-do they know who did it?”
“It’s Euron Greyjoy. The official word from the Red Keep is that it was a terrorist attack from the Targaryen woman, but no one in the press believes that. Greyjoy warships have been spotted all over the coastline for the past week. They just don’t want to admit that King Tommen can’t fight against a clear and obvious threat.”
Sansa doesn’t ask where Grenn is taking them. She knows that later she will have to call Petyr and she’s found that it’s better to not know the details of what she’s trying to cover up. Lies come more easily to Sansa when she can pretend that they’re the truth.
Once they get out of the car Jon and Grenn flank her on either side, escorting her into the back entrance of what she thinks is a bar. Jon’s hand on the small of her back, Sansa climbs two flights of stairs until the three of them file inside a plush office. For the second time that day Sansa sees Lord Davos’s concerned, weary expression, his one unmarred hand clutching a felt bag around his neck.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Lord Seaworth says. “Jon, you need to start working with Sansa at the firing range. Today reminded me of how vulnerable we really are.”
Jon nods in agreement. Sansa isn’t sure if she feels more or less anxious at the thought of learning to use a handgun, but if Jon will be the one teaching her then she’s sure it’s the right thing to do.
“I have to get back,” Sansa says. “Petyr will want to know where I’ve been.”
“Do you feel safe enough to travel by yourself?” Lord Davos asks.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
In truth it takes three times longer than usual for Sansa to drive from the Merchant District of King’s Landing to Petyr’s manse outside the city. The number of people on the roads leads Sansa to believe that everyone is afraid to be in the capital, and for good reason. With Euron Greyjoy attacking King’s Landing it makes good sense to leave. Twelve-year-old King Tommen is believed by most in Westeros to be a weak monarch, and with his grandfather dead and Queen Cersei ruling from the Red Keep Sansa wonders just how bad things will get with the Greyjoys.
I have no choice but to trust in Stannis, she realizes.
--
By the time she reaches Petyr’s home it is past dark. She finds Mya in the more casual den watching the TV news, a glass of Dornish red in her hand.
“Where’s Petyr?” Sansa asks.
“He’s on the phone with someone. Were you in the city when this happened?”
Mya points to the news, which continues to show clips of footage displaying the tower of smoke billowing out of the navy yard, along with the faces of muted commentators.
“Yeah, I had no clue what was going on at first. Did Petyr know this was going to happen?” she asks.
“There had been some talk about a possible attack from the Ironborn, but no one expected it so soon. Last we heard they were still fighting Stannis in the north and raiding the Shield Islands.”
Hearing the few words about Stannis Baratheon and his northern campaign sparks Sansa’s attention. There wasn’t much news coming south of the Neck, but from what Sansa had overheard the Bolton forces holding Winterfell had been met with opposition from every turn-especially if Jon’s Rangers had sided with Stannis. As a child Sansa had heard stories of the fabled Night’s Watch of the far north, it’s modern equivalent being the Rangers that kept the peace in the most distant parts of the land beyond the Wall, and she had been both impressed and concerned when Jon Snow had left home to join them at eighteen.
Sansa goes to Petyr’s office, knocking softly on the doorframe before poking her head inside.
Still on the phone, he motions for her to enter. She takes a seat on the sage green chaise just as Petyr finishes up his phone call.
Rising from his desk, he walks behind the backrest of the chaise, his hands resting on Sansa’s shoulders and giving them a light squeeze before he takes to his favorite armchair. Petyr’s office is outfitted with a large corner desk and a comfortable sitting area. In lieu of pictures or decorations the room features a wall of windows, giving them a clear view of the gardens and the cliffs that drop off into the Blackwater Rush.
“I’m glad to see you safely home,” he says, his brown eyes settling on her. “I should have warned you that the Ironborn were thinking of acting, but I doubted they would do anything so dramatic as attack a navy yard.”
“Will this be good for us?” Sansa asks, wondering how the actions of Euron Greyjoy will affect Petyr’s plans.
“Of course,” Petyr replies. “I couldn’t have asked for a more convenient distraction.”
“Who were you speaking with?”
Sansa looks down at her nails, trying to appear uninterested when, in truth, she means to remember every detail of this conversation.
“Robert’s school,” he says tiredly. “I called as soon as I heard of what had happened in King’s Landing, I must appear as the caring stepfather, you understand.”
“I’ll go to visit him,” Sansa offers.
Robert Arryn may not know he’s her cousin, but she can’t help feeling pity for the boy. With both his parents dead and Petyr Baelish as his only guardian Sansa had initially been worried to hear that he’d been sent to a boarding school in the capital. The Citadel’s prestigious boys’ academy was only a half hour’s drive from Petyr’s home and Robert visited most weekends.
Smiling at her, Petyr says, “How sweet of you, Alayne. It is late. Come kiss your father goodnight.”
Trying her best to hide her disgust, Sansa stands by his chair and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Her walk to the guesthouse seems to calm her, settling the queasy, uncomfortable feeling she always gets in her stomach when Petyr presses himself on her. Sansa has been playing coy with him for the past year and he has tolerated it, but only a fool would think that Baelish had no plans to take things further. For a long time Sansa had hoped that her brother Robb would rescue her from the Lannisters and Lord Tryion’s guilty stares. Petyr had saved her from all of that, but now she realizes that no man, however they may seem, will be able to truly protect her.
And now I must place all my hopes on Stannis saving me, she thinks bitterly. At the same time a voice pushes forward from the back of her head, reminding Sansa of Jon Snow and his offer to take her to the shooting range.
Before she had left The Fisherman’s Wife Jon had given her a cell phone with the numbers of himself, Lord Davos, and Sam Tarly programmed into it.
“Don’t hesitate to call me,” he’d assured her, hugging her close one last time before she’d gotten in her car to drive out of the city.
Once she’s inside the guesthouse Sansa pulls the phone from her purse and selects the contact that was simply labeled J. She sends him a short text asking when they can meet for target practice, wondering if Jon would think differently of her for contacting him so quickly, but where else can she turn?
As she prepares for bed Sansa wonders if the funny, bubbly excitement she feels in her stomach every time she sees Jon is just happiness at seeing an old friend or if it’s something else. In her darkened bedroom she throws on an oversized T-shirt and climbs into bed. It isn’t the sort of thing that Alayne would wear, but she and Arya always wore them growing up, or in the winter they would sleep in hand-me-down flannel shirts that used to belong to her brothers.
The screen of her cell phone brightens and Sansa quickly grabs it. She feels her pulse speed up when she reads Jon’s message, like her heart is fluttering inside her ribcage at seeing a few words on the tiny screen. His response specifies where and when they should meet, his quick reply making her smile into her pillow.
Sansa rolls onto her stomach, her palm underneath her chin, thinking about the way Jon’s first instinct in Sam’s office had been to protect her. She thought of how it had felt to be pinned beneath him on the floor, his chest flush with her own. Pulling the covers over herself, Sansa wonders what the scar on Jon’s neck would feel like beneath the pads of her fingertips, whether it would feel ragged along the edges or smooth, a mark from an even, clean wound.
Shifting her legs restlessly, Sansa falls asleep imagining what it would feel like to touch Jon Snow.
--
The Citadel’s boys’ academy is in a historic part of King’s Landing, its entrance across from the entrance to the Sept of Baelor, the place where Joffrey took her father’s life. It is painful for Sansa to look at the sept, to remember what it felt like to see her father collapse to the floor, the damage to his body beyond repair-but she is not Sansa right now. She is Alayne Stone, illegitimate daughter and assistant to Petyr Baelish and sometimes caretaker for Robert Arryn.
She called ahead with the Maestors to make sure that Robert would have time to see her. They must have mentioned her arrival to the little lord, because he is waiting for her just inside the entrance, running to her side and greeting her excitedly.
“Alayne! I’ve missed you. Come with me-I must show you everything.”
Robert is nearing ten years old but he is small for his age and practically a head shorter than the other boys at the academy. Sansa follows him through the corridors, her heels clicking on the slick marble flooring, listening while Robert tells her about his classmates and which Maestors are kind and which ones are old and boring.
It’s at these moments when Sansa can forget how trying Robert can be. In his excitement with her visit he is pleasant and eager to please her, hoping that she’ll stay longer or take him home to see Petyr.
“I’m sorry sweetling, but Petyr is very busy right now. He wanted to bring you home but the Maestors said you have examinations soon,” Sansa says, smoothing Robert’s thin hair out of his eyes.
“I don’t want to take my stupid exams. I want to go home.”
His lip trembles and Sansa isn’t sure if he’s about to cry or if one of his fits is upon them. Looking around for a private place to sit down, Sansa places her arm around Robert’s shoulders and leads them into a deserted courtyard. Every room in the boys’ academy is a beautiful display of architecture, and the courtyard is no exception, with arching stonework and tiled mosaics on the walls.
“Oh, Robert, look at the fish,” she says, pointing to the multi-tiered brick fountain in the center of the courtyard. Bright yellow fish with wispy fins swim in the bottom basin of the fountain, darting around beneath the rippling surface of the water.
“I don’t care about fish, Alayne. I don’t want to be at the school anymore,” Robert says, crossing his arms.
“Don’t you want to be a lord one day, like your father?” Sansa asks. “All the high lords must receive a good education, and there is no where better for you to learn everything you’ll need to know.”
“I suppose,” he says, conceding for the moment.
Giving him a quick hug, Sansa offers, “How about you come home for a visit this weekend, hmm? How would you like that?”
“Yes-of course I’d like it!”
Sansa does her best to keep Robert in a good mood for the rest of her visit, assuring him that he will be able to leave the academy for the weekend and giving him a package of his favorite sweets before she leaves. She spoils him terribly, but it is important for Robert to like Alayne Stone since his care is one of her primary duties as Petyr’s assistant.
Sansa leaves the boys’ academy and walks several blocks before she finds a coffee shop with a public restroom. She changes out of her heels and silk blouse for something more practical, pulling her hair back but still checking her face in the mirror before she leaves. A shallow, silly part of her wants to look pretty for Jon, hopes that he’s going through the same nervous thoughts as her, even while a more cynical voice in the back of her head insists that Jon couldn’t be interested in a girl like her.
Once her transformation from Alayne to Sansa is complete she finds the address Jon gave her, spotting him in his jeans and black button-down outside the entrance.
Smiling at her, Jon asks, “You ready?”
Sansa nods and follows him inside. They’re given a pair of safety glasses and what looks like earmuffs without the fuzz. They enter the range and Jon offers her a small handgun that could easily be concealed in a purse or coat pocket.
“It’s a .22,” he explains. “It’s good for practice. You’re petite so you don’t want anything too big.”
“How does it work?”
Jon shows her how to load the handgun, explaining that it’s a semi-automatic and showing her how to turn the safety on and off. They both put on their ear coverings and he stands behind her, arranging her body so she’s holding the handgun correctly. Sansa feels her breathing become more shallow when Jon places his arms around her, arranging her grip on the weapon and making her feel a tingling rush underneath her skin that has nothing to do with the loaded firearm in her hands.
She braces herself for the recoil and fires her first round, tearing a hole through the target. Sansa doesn’t think she’ll be winning shooting competitions anytime soon, but with each successive attempt she feels more comfortable with the weapon in her hands.
The clip empty, Sansa removes her ear covers and looks to Jon.
“How’d I do?”
One part of his mouth turned up more than the other, he says, “Much better than Sam the first time he went shooting. He dropped the gun and it went off.”
Jon shakes his head as if his friend’s mistake is merely an amusing story and not a near-fatal accident.
A bit shyly, she asks if she can watch him shoot. He says, “Of course.”
Watching Jon fire at the target isn’t merely an excuse to stare at the firm line of his shoulders, it’s also an opportunity to see how a gun is properly fired, to watch someone practice with superior form and aim. Sansa is impressed with how accurately Jon hits the mark. If he can teach her to shoot like that then she won’t have to worry about Cersei Lannister’s hired thugs or Petyr’s enforcer, Lothar Brune.
She looks down at the .22 in her hand and wishes that everything hadn’t come to this. The idea of shooting someone is still highly off-putting to her-Sansa remembers seeing her father’s unconscious form bleed out in front of the sept-but she can’t afford to follow her principles, not now.
After they’ve finished Jon walks with her back to her car. It’s out of the way for him but he assures Sansa that he doesn’t mind, that it makes him feel better to know that she won’t be walking around the capital alone where anything could happen.
“Do you know what’s happening with Stannis in the north?” she asks quietly, the pair of them walking along a less crowded side street.
Jon glances around before answering. “The Boltons are holed up in Winterfell, but they won’t last much longer. Stannis has people inside. The Rangers are helping him, and all the old families, even the mountain clans. No one wants to see Roose Bolton as Warden of the North.”
They reach Visenya’s Hill and, despite being surrounded by high rises, the view of the rest of the city is uniquely beautiful. Sansa’s gaze falls to the Red Keep on Aegon’s High Hill and the moment turns sour, making her bite her lip before she turns to Jon.
“What about the Queen?” she asks.
Sensing her worry, he puts his hand on her arm to reassure her, the two of them standing closer together than before.
“The attack from the Ironborn couldn’t have come at a better time,” Jon says. “The Lannisters don’t have the men to fight Stannis and protect King’s Landing at the same time, especially with winter about to arrive in the north. The Tyrells are the only thing keeping the crown afloat right now, but we both know how quickly those things can change.”
Hearing Jon’s words alleviates some of Sansa’s fears. He walks with her all the way to the parking garage where her black Audi is parked, the line of his mouth turned into a frown.
“You still need to be careful,” Jon warns her. “Not just of Baelish or the Lannisters, but the Boltons too. They’re desperate. If they find out where you are they could try to come after you. Just promise me that you’ll try to stay safe.”
Taking in his concerned expression, Sansa feels a sinuous, heady warmth in her limbs at Jon’s words. She should be scared, any sane person would be frightened of the stories told about Ramsey Bolton, but mostly she feels pleased that Jon cares for her.
Before she can loose her nerve, Sansa gives him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I promise I’ll stay safe,” she says, getting into her car before Jon can notice the flame-red flush in her cheeks.
--
Surveying Petyr’s office, Sansa notes that it’s neat as a pin, with a computer monitor, a notepad and a single fountain pen on his desk. She makes sure to get a good look at everything before she sits down, not wanting to accidentally displace anything and make him suspicious.
Her trip to see Robert had given Sansa an idea, a perfectly believable reason to need the security code for Petyr’s computer. She had to send a request form to the academy whenever Robert came home for the weekend and the form she needed, with all the necessary information already filled out, was saved on Petyr’s hard drive. Sansa could always say that she was saving the document to her flash drive so that when Robert wanted to visit she wouldn’t have to go to Petyr’s office every time to send it.
She had already plugged in the external hard drive but it was out of site. The tower for Petyr’s computer was inside its own cabinet, one of the design features that kept his desk looking so clean and seamless.
Sansa pulls out her cell phone and calls Mya, sitting through only two rings before her friend picks up.
“Mya, I’ve got a quick question.”
“Hey, no problem. What do you need?”
She feels momentarily guilty for lying to her friend, but Sansa promises to herself that she won’t let Stannis Baratheon or anyone else go after Mya Stone in the courts, not when Mya’s the one who’ll make all this possible.
“Do you know the security code to Petyr’s computer? I’m trying to save a form so I can send it to Robert’s school, it’s so he can come home this weekend,” she says, holding her breath.
“Oh, sure. It’s 9972CAT.”
Sansa’s mouth falls open but she recovers quickly, thanking Mya for her help before ending the call.
Cat, she thinks. For my mother.
Plugging in the code, Sansa watches as the percentage bar increases little by little until she has saved all the data on Petyr’s computer. It takes up the better of two external hard drives. She makes sure to leave everything just the way it should be in Petyr’s office, she even puts his chair in the same position she found it in before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
It isn’t until she reaches the guesthouse that Sansa feels a sense of relief. Even if something happens to her, or if the external hard drives are damaged or stolen, Jon and Lord Davos will still have all the information.
I’ve got you, Petyr, Sansa thinks. She takes a series of deep, long breaths before calling the number Jon programmed into her phone.
“Lord Seaworth? Yes, this is she. I need to meet with you.”
--
They meet at The Fisherman’s Wife, with Sansa using the back entrance, double and triple checking that she has both external hard drives before being let in to see Lord Davos.
Jon is there as well, his gray sport coat thrown over the back of his chair, his blue tie loosened. Seeing his rolled-up shirtsleeves, she wonders where he was before their meeting.
“Can I get you a drink?” Lord Seaworth asks, holding up an already opened bottle of wine.
“That would be lovely,” Sansa replies, her cotton sundress sticking to her legs in the humidity.
The windows have been opened to let in the breeze but the air feels thick and oppressive against her skin, the type of weather that precedes a summer shower. The glass of chilled wine is a relief. Sansa opens her bag and takes out the hard drives, handing them to Lord Davos, glad to finally turn the information over.
“Excellent,” he says. “Stannis will be very pleased to hear of this, my lady.”
“Can you tell me what’s happening in the north?” Sansa asks.
Davos’ expression turns more serious. “They’ve had some nasty weather above the Neck, as strange as it sounds winter will be here soon, but the king has found a way to use it to his advantage. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had control of the castle in a few weeks time. Until then you will continue to stay with Baelish.”
Sansa nearly drops her wineglass. “Stay with Petyr? But I’ve given you everything you need. He’s been planning a match for me-a match to Harry Hardyng of the Vale-if I stay he could marry me off and there would be nothing I could do about it.”
Jon watches her very closely, his jaw clenched and his glass of wine untouched. She wonders if the possibility of her marrying someone else bothers him at all.
“We just need you to go through the motions,” Lord Seaworth pleads. “If Littlefinger tries anything sneaky then leave straight away. Take whatever you need and come here. As soon as Stannis has control of Winterfell we will bring you home, you have my word.”
Their meeting ends soon after that. Sansa promises to give them reports on Baelish for the time being, though for anonymity’s sake she will report to Jon. The Fisherman’s Wife is known to belong to Lord Seaworth but there are few in the capital that could pick out Jon Snow, the adopted son of Eddard Stark and Lord of the Gift.
When they leave Lord Davos’ office Jon asks her if she’s all right.
“I’m fine,” she answers, the both of them aware of her lie.
Sansa crosses her arms and makes to leave but he reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder, almost as if he’s coaxing a reluctant animal.
“Here, lets talk for a second,” Jon says, leading her several doors down the hall to an unused office.
Closing the door behind them, he asks, “Why are you afraid of Littlefinger? Has Baelish tried to hurt you?”
Relaxing her posture, Sansa admits, “I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t trust him. I wish that-I wish that I could stay with you instead.”
The look on Jon’s face tells her everything. He glances down, color rising in his cheeks while he says, “I wouldn’t be there all the time. What if someone came there to hurt you and I couldn’t protect you-“
Sansa steps forward and kisses him, his height forcing her to stand on the tips of her toes. Jon’s hesitates for a moment but then he cups her face, drawing her closer and pressing his lips to hers, circling a strand of her hair around his finger.
Jon’s arms come around her waist, tugging her closer and making her spine tingle in a way that reminds her of the first step into a warm bath.
“San,” he moans, her hands exploring the planes of his chest and untucking his shirt so she can lift the hem and feel along his back.
Jon pushes her toward the desk, his hand curving under her ass and settling her on top of it. Sansa instinctively widens her legs, shivering at the feeling of his lips along her jaw, neck, and collarbone. She drags her fingers through his hair, tugging at it and sighing into his mouth, loving the feeling of his tongue against hers.
The only man to kiss her in the past year had been Petyr Baelish, who always seemed to leave her feeling unclean and confused when he’d force her to give him a peck on the cheek. Jon drives any such thoughts from her mind, showing Sansa what it’s like to be properly kissed.
She curls her foot around the back of his leg, feeling his hips press into hers, a thick, whirling heat curling in her belly. Jon holds her hips in his hands, touching her sides, the small of her back, only just brushing the underside of her breasts. Sansa takes his hand and places it over her breast, taking in his mussed hair and the blatant look of desire on his face. He inches down the straps of her sundress while she undoes the buttons on his shirt, the pair of them breathing heavily.
One of her heels falls off but she doesn’t care. Pushing his shirt off his shoulders, Sansa feels the cords of sinew and muscle in his chest, her head falling back when Jon moves her bra aside and pinches her nipples.
Leaning down, he kisses her breasts but the loss of friction between their hips makes Sansa restless. She pulls his mouth to hers, savoring the feeling of their naked chests pressed against one another, her blood running hot beneath her skin.
They continue to kiss and hold each other, her hair becoming a tangled mess. She tries to come up with the words to tell him how perfect this feels, how much she’s wanted to be held by someone that truly cares for her, but Sansa can’t think of what to say. She can only hold him close and shudder beneath his lips while he kisses a bruise onto her neck.
Author: luna_plath
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Word count: 3,428
Warnings: sexuality, violence, language
Summary: Sansa Stark has been in hiding as Alayne Stone for over a year. One night she runs into Jon Snow, an old family friend now sworn to the service of Stannis Baratheon, the would-be King of Westeros. Jon offers to deliver Sansa to safety but it comes at a price: the head of one Petyr Baelish.
AN: You can check out my picspam of Petyr's gardens here and my fancast for this fic's version of Jon Snow here.
TWO
Once Jon makes a call to Lord Davos they leave Tarly Securities within five minutes, a shiny black escalade waiting directly outside the front of the entrance. His arm around her, Jon makes sure that Sansa is inside first, the door barely closed behind them before the driver pulls into the Merchant District’s thick traffic.
The driver introduces himself as Grenn, explaining what happened while they were in Sam’s office.
“The navy yard in the harbor was attacked,” Grenn says, swerving the large car across three lanes of traffic, the force of the turn pressing Sansa into Jon’s side.
Reaching between them, she takes his hand, feeling reassured when Jon laces his fingers between hers and squeezes her hand reassuringly.
“This wasn’t us-do they know who did it?”
“It’s Euron Greyjoy. The official word from the Red Keep is that it was a terrorist attack from the Targaryen woman, but no one in the press believes that. Greyjoy warships have been spotted all over the coastline for the past week. They just don’t want to admit that King Tommen can’t fight against a clear and obvious threat.”
Sansa doesn’t ask where Grenn is taking them. She knows that later she will have to call Petyr and she’s found that it’s better to not know the details of what she’s trying to cover up. Lies come more easily to Sansa when she can pretend that they’re the truth.
Once they get out of the car Jon and Grenn flank her on either side, escorting her into the back entrance of what she thinks is a bar. Jon’s hand on the small of her back, Sansa climbs two flights of stairs until the three of them file inside a plush office. For the second time that day Sansa sees Lord Davos’s concerned, weary expression, his one unmarred hand clutching a felt bag around his neck.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Lord Seaworth says. “Jon, you need to start working with Sansa at the firing range. Today reminded me of how vulnerable we really are.”
Jon nods in agreement. Sansa isn’t sure if she feels more or less anxious at the thought of learning to use a handgun, but if Jon will be the one teaching her then she’s sure it’s the right thing to do.
“I have to get back,” Sansa says. “Petyr will want to know where I’ve been.”
“Do you feel safe enough to travel by yourself?” Lord Davos asks.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
In truth it takes three times longer than usual for Sansa to drive from the Merchant District of King’s Landing to Petyr’s manse outside the city. The number of people on the roads leads Sansa to believe that everyone is afraid to be in the capital, and for good reason. With Euron Greyjoy attacking King’s Landing it makes good sense to leave. Twelve-year-old King Tommen is believed by most in Westeros to be a weak monarch, and with his grandfather dead and Queen Cersei ruling from the Red Keep Sansa wonders just how bad things will get with the Greyjoys.
I have no choice but to trust in Stannis, she realizes.
--
By the time she reaches Petyr’s home it is past dark. She finds Mya in the more casual den watching the TV news, a glass of Dornish red in her hand.
“Where’s Petyr?” Sansa asks.
“He’s on the phone with someone. Were you in the city when this happened?”
Mya points to the news, which continues to show clips of footage displaying the tower of smoke billowing out of the navy yard, along with the faces of muted commentators.
“Yeah, I had no clue what was going on at first. Did Petyr know this was going to happen?” she asks.
“There had been some talk about a possible attack from the Ironborn, but no one expected it so soon. Last we heard they were still fighting Stannis in the north and raiding the Shield Islands.”
Hearing the few words about Stannis Baratheon and his northern campaign sparks Sansa’s attention. There wasn’t much news coming south of the Neck, but from what Sansa had overheard the Bolton forces holding Winterfell had been met with opposition from every turn-especially if Jon’s Rangers had sided with Stannis. As a child Sansa had heard stories of the fabled Night’s Watch of the far north, it’s modern equivalent being the Rangers that kept the peace in the most distant parts of the land beyond the Wall, and she had been both impressed and concerned when Jon Snow had left home to join them at eighteen.
Sansa goes to Petyr’s office, knocking softly on the doorframe before poking her head inside.
Still on the phone, he motions for her to enter. She takes a seat on the sage green chaise just as Petyr finishes up his phone call.
Rising from his desk, he walks behind the backrest of the chaise, his hands resting on Sansa’s shoulders and giving them a light squeeze before he takes to his favorite armchair. Petyr’s office is outfitted with a large corner desk and a comfortable sitting area. In lieu of pictures or decorations the room features a wall of windows, giving them a clear view of the gardens and the cliffs that drop off into the Blackwater Rush.
“I’m glad to see you safely home,” he says, his brown eyes settling on her. “I should have warned you that the Ironborn were thinking of acting, but I doubted they would do anything so dramatic as attack a navy yard.”
“Will this be good for us?” Sansa asks, wondering how the actions of Euron Greyjoy will affect Petyr’s plans.
“Of course,” Petyr replies. “I couldn’t have asked for a more convenient distraction.”
“Who were you speaking with?”
Sansa looks down at her nails, trying to appear uninterested when, in truth, she means to remember every detail of this conversation.
“Robert’s school,” he says tiredly. “I called as soon as I heard of what had happened in King’s Landing, I must appear as the caring stepfather, you understand.”
“I’ll go to visit him,” Sansa offers.
Robert Arryn may not know he’s her cousin, but she can’t help feeling pity for the boy. With both his parents dead and Petyr Baelish as his only guardian Sansa had initially been worried to hear that he’d been sent to a boarding school in the capital. The Citadel’s prestigious boys’ academy was only a half hour’s drive from Petyr’s home and Robert visited most weekends.
Smiling at her, Petyr says, “How sweet of you, Alayne. It is late. Come kiss your father goodnight.”
Trying her best to hide her disgust, Sansa stands by his chair and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Her walk to the guesthouse seems to calm her, settling the queasy, uncomfortable feeling she always gets in her stomach when Petyr presses himself on her. Sansa has been playing coy with him for the past year and he has tolerated it, but only a fool would think that Baelish had no plans to take things further. For a long time Sansa had hoped that her brother Robb would rescue her from the Lannisters and Lord Tryion’s guilty stares. Petyr had saved her from all of that, but now she realizes that no man, however they may seem, will be able to truly protect her.
And now I must place all my hopes on Stannis saving me, she thinks bitterly. At the same time a voice pushes forward from the back of her head, reminding Sansa of Jon Snow and his offer to take her to the shooting range.
Before she had left The Fisherman’s Wife Jon had given her a cell phone with the numbers of himself, Lord Davos, and Sam Tarly programmed into it.
“Don’t hesitate to call me,” he’d assured her, hugging her close one last time before she’d gotten in her car to drive out of the city.
Once she’s inside the guesthouse Sansa pulls the phone from her purse and selects the contact that was simply labeled J. She sends him a short text asking when they can meet for target practice, wondering if Jon would think differently of her for contacting him so quickly, but where else can she turn?
As she prepares for bed Sansa wonders if the funny, bubbly excitement she feels in her stomach every time she sees Jon is just happiness at seeing an old friend or if it’s something else. In her darkened bedroom she throws on an oversized T-shirt and climbs into bed. It isn’t the sort of thing that Alayne would wear, but she and Arya always wore them growing up, or in the winter they would sleep in hand-me-down flannel shirts that used to belong to her brothers.
The screen of her cell phone brightens and Sansa quickly grabs it. She feels her pulse speed up when she reads Jon’s message, like her heart is fluttering inside her ribcage at seeing a few words on the tiny screen. His response specifies where and when they should meet, his quick reply making her smile into her pillow.
Sansa rolls onto her stomach, her palm underneath her chin, thinking about the way Jon’s first instinct in Sam’s office had been to protect her. She thought of how it had felt to be pinned beneath him on the floor, his chest flush with her own. Pulling the covers over herself, Sansa wonders what the scar on Jon’s neck would feel like beneath the pads of her fingertips, whether it would feel ragged along the edges or smooth, a mark from an even, clean wound.
Shifting her legs restlessly, Sansa falls asleep imagining what it would feel like to touch Jon Snow.
--
The Citadel’s boys’ academy is in a historic part of King’s Landing, its entrance across from the entrance to the Sept of Baelor, the place where Joffrey took her father’s life. It is painful for Sansa to look at the sept, to remember what it felt like to see her father collapse to the floor, the damage to his body beyond repair-but she is not Sansa right now. She is Alayne Stone, illegitimate daughter and assistant to Petyr Baelish and sometimes caretaker for Robert Arryn.
She called ahead with the Maestors to make sure that Robert would have time to see her. They must have mentioned her arrival to the little lord, because he is waiting for her just inside the entrance, running to her side and greeting her excitedly.
“Alayne! I’ve missed you. Come with me-I must show you everything.”
Robert is nearing ten years old but he is small for his age and practically a head shorter than the other boys at the academy. Sansa follows him through the corridors, her heels clicking on the slick marble flooring, listening while Robert tells her about his classmates and which Maestors are kind and which ones are old and boring.
It’s at these moments when Sansa can forget how trying Robert can be. In his excitement with her visit he is pleasant and eager to please her, hoping that she’ll stay longer or take him home to see Petyr.
“I’m sorry sweetling, but Petyr is very busy right now. He wanted to bring you home but the Maestors said you have examinations soon,” Sansa says, smoothing Robert’s thin hair out of his eyes.
“I don’t want to take my stupid exams. I want to go home.”
His lip trembles and Sansa isn’t sure if he’s about to cry or if one of his fits is upon them. Looking around for a private place to sit down, Sansa places her arm around Robert’s shoulders and leads them into a deserted courtyard. Every room in the boys’ academy is a beautiful display of architecture, and the courtyard is no exception, with arching stonework and tiled mosaics on the walls.
“Oh, Robert, look at the fish,” she says, pointing to the multi-tiered brick fountain in the center of the courtyard. Bright yellow fish with wispy fins swim in the bottom basin of the fountain, darting around beneath the rippling surface of the water.
“I don’t care about fish, Alayne. I don’t want to be at the school anymore,” Robert says, crossing his arms.
“Don’t you want to be a lord one day, like your father?” Sansa asks. “All the high lords must receive a good education, and there is no where better for you to learn everything you’ll need to know.”
“I suppose,” he says, conceding for the moment.
Giving him a quick hug, Sansa offers, “How about you come home for a visit this weekend, hmm? How would you like that?”
“Yes-of course I’d like it!”
Sansa does her best to keep Robert in a good mood for the rest of her visit, assuring him that he will be able to leave the academy for the weekend and giving him a package of his favorite sweets before she leaves. She spoils him terribly, but it is important for Robert to like Alayne Stone since his care is one of her primary duties as Petyr’s assistant.
Sansa leaves the boys’ academy and walks several blocks before she finds a coffee shop with a public restroom. She changes out of her heels and silk blouse for something more practical, pulling her hair back but still checking her face in the mirror before she leaves. A shallow, silly part of her wants to look pretty for Jon, hopes that he’s going through the same nervous thoughts as her, even while a more cynical voice in the back of her head insists that Jon couldn’t be interested in a girl like her.
Once her transformation from Alayne to Sansa is complete she finds the address Jon gave her, spotting him in his jeans and black button-down outside the entrance.
Smiling at her, Jon asks, “You ready?”
Sansa nods and follows him inside. They’re given a pair of safety glasses and what looks like earmuffs without the fuzz. They enter the range and Jon offers her a small handgun that could easily be concealed in a purse or coat pocket.
“It’s a .22,” he explains. “It’s good for practice. You’re petite so you don’t want anything too big.”
“How does it work?”
Jon shows her how to load the handgun, explaining that it’s a semi-automatic and showing her how to turn the safety on and off. They both put on their ear coverings and he stands behind her, arranging her body so she’s holding the handgun correctly. Sansa feels her breathing become more shallow when Jon places his arms around her, arranging her grip on the weapon and making her feel a tingling rush underneath her skin that has nothing to do with the loaded firearm in her hands.
She braces herself for the recoil and fires her first round, tearing a hole through the target. Sansa doesn’t think she’ll be winning shooting competitions anytime soon, but with each successive attempt she feels more comfortable with the weapon in her hands.
The clip empty, Sansa removes her ear covers and looks to Jon.
“How’d I do?”
One part of his mouth turned up more than the other, he says, “Much better than Sam the first time he went shooting. He dropped the gun and it went off.”
Jon shakes his head as if his friend’s mistake is merely an amusing story and not a near-fatal accident.
A bit shyly, she asks if she can watch him shoot. He says, “Of course.”
Watching Jon fire at the target isn’t merely an excuse to stare at the firm line of his shoulders, it’s also an opportunity to see how a gun is properly fired, to watch someone practice with superior form and aim. Sansa is impressed with how accurately Jon hits the mark. If he can teach her to shoot like that then she won’t have to worry about Cersei Lannister’s hired thugs or Petyr’s enforcer, Lothar Brune.
She looks down at the .22 in her hand and wishes that everything hadn’t come to this. The idea of shooting someone is still highly off-putting to her-Sansa remembers seeing her father’s unconscious form bleed out in front of the sept-but she can’t afford to follow her principles, not now.
After they’ve finished Jon walks with her back to her car. It’s out of the way for him but he assures Sansa that he doesn’t mind, that it makes him feel better to know that she won’t be walking around the capital alone where anything could happen.
“Do you know what’s happening with Stannis in the north?” she asks quietly, the pair of them walking along a less crowded side street.
Jon glances around before answering. “The Boltons are holed up in Winterfell, but they won’t last much longer. Stannis has people inside. The Rangers are helping him, and all the old families, even the mountain clans. No one wants to see Roose Bolton as Warden of the North.”
They reach Visenya’s Hill and, despite being surrounded by high rises, the view of the rest of the city is uniquely beautiful. Sansa’s gaze falls to the Red Keep on Aegon’s High Hill and the moment turns sour, making her bite her lip before she turns to Jon.
“What about the Queen?” she asks.
Sensing her worry, he puts his hand on her arm to reassure her, the two of them standing closer together than before.
“The attack from the Ironborn couldn’t have come at a better time,” Jon says. “The Lannisters don’t have the men to fight Stannis and protect King’s Landing at the same time, especially with winter about to arrive in the north. The Tyrells are the only thing keeping the crown afloat right now, but we both know how quickly those things can change.”
Hearing Jon’s words alleviates some of Sansa’s fears. He walks with her all the way to the parking garage where her black Audi is parked, the line of his mouth turned into a frown.
“You still need to be careful,” Jon warns her. “Not just of Baelish or the Lannisters, but the Boltons too. They’re desperate. If they find out where you are they could try to come after you. Just promise me that you’ll try to stay safe.”
Taking in his concerned expression, Sansa feels a sinuous, heady warmth in her limbs at Jon’s words. She should be scared, any sane person would be frightened of the stories told about Ramsey Bolton, but mostly she feels pleased that Jon cares for her.
Before she can loose her nerve, Sansa gives him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I promise I’ll stay safe,” she says, getting into her car before Jon can notice the flame-red flush in her cheeks.
--
Surveying Petyr’s office, Sansa notes that it’s neat as a pin, with a computer monitor, a notepad and a single fountain pen on his desk. She makes sure to get a good look at everything before she sits down, not wanting to accidentally displace anything and make him suspicious.
Her trip to see Robert had given Sansa an idea, a perfectly believable reason to need the security code for Petyr’s computer. She had to send a request form to the academy whenever Robert came home for the weekend and the form she needed, with all the necessary information already filled out, was saved on Petyr’s hard drive. Sansa could always say that she was saving the document to her flash drive so that when Robert wanted to visit she wouldn’t have to go to Petyr’s office every time to send it.
She had already plugged in the external hard drive but it was out of site. The tower for Petyr’s computer was inside its own cabinet, one of the design features that kept his desk looking so clean and seamless.
Sansa pulls out her cell phone and calls Mya, sitting through only two rings before her friend picks up.
“Mya, I’ve got a quick question.”
“Hey, no problem. What do you need?”
She feels momentarily guilty for lying to her friend, but Sansa promises to herself that she won’t let Stannis Baratheon or anyone else go after Mya Stone in the courts, not when Mya’s the one who’ll make all this possible.
“Do you know the security code to Petyr’s computer? I’m trying to save a form so I can send it to Robert’s school, it’s so he can come home this weekend,” she says, holding her breath.
“Oh, sure. It’s 9972CAT.”
Sansa’s mouth falls open but she recovers quickly, thanking Mya for her help before ending the call.
Cat, she thinks. For my mother.
Plugging in the code, Sansa watches as the percentage bar increases little by little until she has saved all the data on Petyr’s computer. It takes up the better of two external hard drives. She makes sure to leave everything just the way it should be in Petyr’s office, she even puts his chair in the same position she found it in before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
It isn’t until she reaches the guesthouse that Sansa feels a sense of relief. Even if something happens to her, or if the external hard drives are damaged or stolen, Jon and Lord Davos will still have all the information.
I’ve got you, Petyr, Sansa thinks. She takes a series of deep, long breaths before calling the number Jon programmed into her phone.
“Lord Seaworth? Yes, this is she. I need to meet with you.”
--
They meet at The Fisherman’s Wife, with Sansa using the back entrance, double and triple checking that she has both external hard drives before being let in to see Lord Davos.
Jon is there as well, his gray sport coat thrown over the back of his chair, his blue tie loosened. Seeing his rolled-up shirtsleeves, she wonders where he was before their meeting.
“Can I get you a drink?” Lord Seaworth asks, holding up an already opened bottle of wine.
“That would be lovely,” Sansa replies, her cotton sundress sticking to her legs in the humidity.
The windows have been opened to let in the breeze but the air feels thick and oppressive against her skin, the type of weather that precedes a summer shower. The glass of chilled wine is a relief. Sansa opens her bag and takes out the hard drives, handing them to Lord Davos, glad to finally turn the information over.
“Excellent,” he says. “Stannis will be very pleased to hear of this, my lady.”
“Can you tell me what’s happening in the north?” Sansa asks.
Davos’ expression turns more serious. “They’ve had some nasty weather above the Neck, as strange as it sounds winter will be here soon, but the king has found a way to use it to his advantage. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had control of the castle in a few weeks time. Until then you will continue to stay with Baelish.”
Sansa nearly drops her wineglass. “Stay with Petyr? But I’ve given you everything you need. He’s been planning a match for me-a match to Harry Hardyng of the Vale-if I stay he could marry me off and there would be nothing I could do about it.”
Jon watches her very closely, his jaw clenched and his glass of wine untouched. She wonders if the possibility of her marrying someone else bothers him at all.
“We just need you to go through the motions,” Lord Seaworth pleads. “If Littlefinger tries anything sneaky then leave straight away. Take whatever you need and come here. As soon as Stannis has control of Winterfell we will bring you home, you have my word.”
Their meeting ends soon after that. Sansa promises to give them reports on Baelish for the time being, though for anonymity’s sake she will report to Jon. The Fisherman’s Wife is known to belong to Lord Seaworth but there are few in the capital that could pick out Jon Snow, the adopted son of Eddard Stark and Lord of the Gift.
When they leave Lord Davos’ office Jon asks her if she’s all right.
“I’m fine,” she answers, the both of them aware of her lie.
Sansa crosses her arms and makes to leave but he reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder, almost as if he’s coaxing a reluctant animal.
“Here, lets talk for a second,” Jon says, leading her several doors down the hall to an unused office.
Closing the door behind them, he asks, “Why are you afraid of Littlefinger? Has Baelish tried to hurt you?”
Relaxing her posture, Sansa admits, “I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t trust him. I wish that-I wish that I could stay with you instead.”
The look on Jon’s face tells her everything. He glances down, color rising in his cheeks while he says, “I wouldn’t be there all the time. What if someone came there to hurt you and I couldn’t protect you-“
Sansa steps forward and kisses him, his height forcing her to stand on the tips of her toes. Jon’s hesitates for a moment but then he cups her face, drawing her closer and pressing his lips to hers, circling a strand of her hair around his finger.
Jon’s arms come around her waist, tugging her closer and making her spine tingle in a way that reminds her of the first step into a warm bath.
“San,” he moans, her hands exploring the planes of his chest and untucking his shirt so she can lift the hem and feel along his back.
Jon pushes her toward the desk, his hand curving under her ass and settling her on top of it. Sansa instinctively widens her legs, shivering at the feeling of his lips along her jaw, neck, and collarbone. She drags her fingers through his hair, tugging at it and sighing into his mouth, loving the feeling of his tongue against hers.
The only man to kiss her in the past year had been Petyr Baelish, who always seemed to leave her feeling unclean and confused when he’d force her to give him a peck on the cheek. Jon drives any such thoughts from her mind, showing Sansa what it’s like to be properly kissed.
She curls her foot around the back of his leg, feeling his hips press into hers, a thick, whirling heat curling in her belly. Jon holds her hips in his hands, touching her sides, the small of her back, only just brushing the underside of her breasts. Sansa takes his hand and places it over her breast, taking in his mussed hair and the blatant look of desire on his face. He inches down the straps of her sundress while she undoes the buttons on his shirt, the pair of them breathing heavily.
One of her heels falls off but she doesn’t care. Pushing his shirt off his shoulders, Sansa feels the cords of sinew and muscle in his chest, her head falling back when Jon moves her bra aside and pinches her nipples.
Leaning down, he kisses her breasts but the loss of friction between their hips makes Sansa restless. She pulls his mouth to hers, savoring the feeling of their naked chests pressed against one another, her blood running hot beneath her skin.
They continue to kiss and hold each other, her hair becoming a tangled mess. She tries to come up with the words to tell him how perfect this feels, how much she’s wanted to be held by someone that truly cares for her, but Sansa can’t think of what to say. She can only hold him close and shudder beneath his lips while he kisses a bruise onto her neck.