(ﾉ◕‿◕)ﾉ～『✧~*only cat*~✧』

The wording almost brings tears to her eyes. So many times in her childhood wars of passion and famines of affection with Arya, their mother had been the chief means of bringing about the eventual ceasefire. Their father had generally lacked the wherewithal to effectively engage with two young girls once their tempers were sufficiently raised, but Catelyn had a younger sister and the right touch to silence Arya, dry Sansa’s tears, stitch up torn skirts and repair broken toys. Peace, Ned had called it, dryly and at various intervals.

How stupid she’d been. Growing up believing that the whole drama and pain of war and loss and grief and resolution would only ever be contained in the relationship she shared with her sister. No one had ever hated her the way Arya used to hate her until Robb and her father had given them cause to. She would give anything to trade the present for that past, but perhaps such a thing was never going to be possible. Sansa had always thought herself an utterly competent, spirited person, but without Arya to chafe against she was rapidly forgetting what it felt like to fight for something. 

Slowly, she raises her blue gaze again. She isn’t sure she wishes to discuss politics with Petyr Baelish. Does he think she knows something? How much should she know? And how much does he?

“Do you-” she starts, feels the defeat clutch at her heart and pushes on. “Do you know if anyone has seen my sister?”

Sansa tilts her chin slightly, trying to affect her sister’s determination. 

“They don’t have to worry about me leaving until I know what happened to her.” She had stayed in London, after all, to fetch Arya. But Lady had tracked Nymeria’s scent through the whole of the Stark London house and discovered nothing.

Sansa can barely remember the last time she saw a sister. Her voice weakens again. Arya is probably dead, she reminds herself. Like how Robert Baratheon is dead and Joffrey is dead. The mob doesn’t discriminate. They’d have killed me too. 

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. 

"You believe she's still alive," he says, only half a question.  It's clear by the lift in Sansa's voice, the way she infuses it with a certainty that facts can't support, that her hope is fragile but tenacious.  She won't easily accept otherwise.  "The city isn't kind, Sansa.  Your sister hasn't gone to any shelter, or sought any police assistance.  That may be proof of nothing - but a sixteen year-old girl can't survive long without help.  I'll look for her, but I want you to understand that you may be pursuing a corpse."

He takes a drink to allow his warning to settle before he continues.  "If the opportunity arises for your escape and your sister hasn't been found - you wish to stay here?"

As for his wife, or lack thereof, Anya guessed as much.  She could make no judgements, not after her ward’s scandal the year past, and Eddard Stark’s very public mistake, well, she supposes Mr. Baelish’s humble demurring will do.

“The mailed statement should do fine,” she nods, her fingers unlacing as she sits back against the booth, “And as for the matter of your daughter, well, I hope you know I make no assumptions  You’re doing a noble thing, raising her regardless.  I do hope one day I’ll have the chance to meet her.”

"Forgive me, I didn't know your ward was related," he lies politely.  After a moment's feigned surprise he smiles.  "It really is a small country."  And nothing is quite so small as the branches of a noble family's bloodline.  At least the Arryns had never fallen prey to the same maladies that plagued the Targaryens; once in a while, they selected brides from outside Welsh borders.  Robert Arryn had been born awry because of Lysa's pickled womb, not a failure in the blood.

"You're very kind, Lady Waynwood.  Should the opportunity arise I would be happy to introduce you."  Had the Starks and Waynwoods ever had a chance to mingle?  He doubts it, but Anya is a keen woman; she would recognize Sansa Stark the moment she laid eyes on her.  Hers was too pretty a face for the magazines to pass up printing on their covers.  And all the commotion now - the princess in the tower, the bird in the cage.  They romanticized every aspect of Sansa Stark's imprisonment even as they made it possible.

Again, Catelyn’s name again, Catelyn’s ghost again, why Lysa just couldn’t chase it away?   

“I am so sorry” Lysa leaned closer, without any attempt to touch Petyr’s hand again, her eyes guilt and devoted like the beaten dog had. She felt shame of speaking with him in such a way, reminding him of her again, and melted; her shoulders relaxed, “I shouldn’t have said that… And everything I said was so unfair”

A power over her was still in his hands, although the strings had been cut. She couldn’t move under his cold grey-eyed gaze, it made her feel guilty over and over every word, again and again. And the taste of her love, with wormwood, as always, overwhelmed her, like a waves.

Again and again. And that made her inconstant and powerless, made her change minds and words, feel guilty and defensive… How tired she was to do that dance.

“Mr. Egen is not mine” Lysa lied easily; no, he is, the only shield between you and the whole world, “London makes me nervous, it eats me alive. And, Petyr … I worry about my Sweetrobin constantly after what you have told me. I just want to come back and make sure he’s safe. Please, let me go”

He understands very well what he's doing to Lysa Arryn.  His hand is in her wound, and when he twists it she flinches and bends however he'd like.  A puppet, but more than that - a puppet happy to be pulled and plucked by its master.  She disgusts him.  "Your son needs his mother.  If only my own had been so caring..."

Too thick?  Petyr buries a laugh.

"We'll have other nights together," he promises her.  "Happier ones than this.  For now..."  It's a risk, taking her hand.  Just a brief touch, as if he's afraid of what a brush against Lysa might inspire in him.  Contempt, he thinks, but it's easily masked as apprehension.  Lysa will see what she wishes to see.  She always has.  Perhaps her vision is improving, but it'll fade again - or if it doesn't, he'll snip her strings and watch how hard she falls.

It was as Anya expected.  Mr. Baelish was nouveau riche, without connections or a strong family name.  If his daughter was a secret, Anya dares wonder if she might even be out of wedlock.  It wasn’t unheard of, of course, even honorable, noble men had bastards.  Lord Arryn’s ward Eddard Stark had an illegitimate son, and Lord Arryn had held Mr. Stark in the highest of regards.

“I’d imagine parental love is quite a bond.  I love my sons and my wards both,” loved them much more than she did her late husband.  For him all Anya felt was duty and latent affection.  ”Which politicians was it that you meant to greet?  You’ve been so agreeable, I would be remiss if I didn’t offer to make proper introductions on your behalf.”

He's composed enough to show only gratitude at Anya's offer of a proper introduction; years of rising far past his place in life have accustomed Petyr to being looked down upon, dismissed, or pitied by those born to a higher station.  None of them would ever hurt quite so much as the memory of Brandon's fist, and the pity in Cat's eyes before she'd turned away.  The rest are echoes, dulled and dulled.

"Rhaenys and Daenerys Targaryen.  Tories, I know, but both young and unmolded yet.  I thought a tour of their homeland would be welcome, but my schedule prohibits it.  If you could make the offer in my stead, Lady Waynwood--"  Petyr plays a genuine smile.  "I would be most grateful."

Welsh support.  The Targaryen government will come to pass, but not unaided - and not as it had been.  Aerys had been villainized.  Targaryen daughters would present a gentler image.  Beyond that, it remained to be seen how useful they'd be - but Petyr has hopes.  Youth and ignorance combined were a great resource for a man with deft hands.

Her next question, delicate though it is, answers itself.  She wouldn't ask if she didn't suspect.  "Neither, I'm afraid," Petyr says heavily.  "We were young, and foolish.  You can see why I keep Alayne's existence quiet.  Not for my own benefit, but hers - I don't wish to see my daughter punished for her father's sins."  Lady Waynwood can now feign shock, he thinks idly, and then sympathy.  Yes, yes, of course, I see...

And yet, none of them had been Welshmen.  None of them had been public figures.  Is it possible that Mr. Baelish is exactly what he says he is?  A new friend?  Anya’s been a politician far too long to assume that’s all there is to it.  There’s no family ties between Baelish and Waynwood, not like there is between the Waynwood and Lord Hunter, or Lord Royce, or of course, Lord Arryn.  His family has no history to it, at least none that she knows of.

“This arrangement is formal,” Anya sniffs, her fingers tensing as she weighs her options.  ”I won’t be subject to any under the table deals.  You’ve bought my debt properly and legally, and I will pay the appropriate amount per month, with interest, until it is paid off.  Those are the legal terms that I’ve agreed to.  I won’t be in your debt any more than is necessary, Mr. Baelish.”

Sighing, Anya lets her fingers relax, and her tone likewise.  ”That being said, I do appreciate the kindness.  My sons are grown and out of my home, but I have two wards that I care for, as well as two homes, and a flat in Mayfair.  My expenses are numerous, and I will not be the one to tarnish the name of House Waynwood.  I’m sure you understand.”  Her chin juts as she speaks, and she wonders again what his family history might be.

Alayne.  The name forms out of air, ready on his lips should Anya ask for it.  "As to legacy, I hope to make that my work in government.  At the moment that legacy is... indifferent at best.  Just yesterday I learned I won't be available to greet two young politicians I'd hoped to endear to Wales."  He smiles again, small and friendly.  "Little defeats.  But as you say, Lady Waynwood.  Your terms."

Your pride will beggar you and fill my accounts.  He'd counted on that.  The old families would sooner limp and stumble than take an offered hand.  Lady Waynwood will have no one to curse when she loses her estate; Petyr will be blameless in her eyes, and in the eyes of the law too.

Anya offers him a manicured hand over the table, and is pleasantly surprised when he matches her grip.  A firm handshake intimidates many men, and Anya can’t help but judge a man who offers her a weak hand, or a sweaty one.  When she reclaims her palm, she laces her fingers together yet again, cocking her head as Mr. Baelish comes into the light.

“As distasteful as I find it to discuss money, I suppose I must delve into those murky waters.  The state of my family’s finances are something I would rather be kept discreet, but I imagine you would have gathered as much, seeing as you tracked down each penny of it.”

"You've been fastidious about your payments, the agencies tell me."  A pause.  "You've wards, don't you?"  Petyr doesn't flinch from her eye contact; he enjoys it.  So few politicians could hold his stare without flinching; all of them liars, and bad ones, too aware of their own falsehoods to slip them past.  

"I understand their care comes before all else," he continues.  "Our arrangement will not go public, Lady Waynwood.  You may pay on your own terms, whatever you might manage month-to-month.  I'm not lacking in funds, and I would rather see a champion of Wales focused on our country than on her debt record."

The Crescent Club was a reputable club, though its members names were not as storied here as they were in others.  Rather than older aristocracy, the Crescent Club favored businessmen and newer nobility. Anya’s own father was a member of a Welsh club, but his, like many of the facets of Welsh nobility, has fallen into decay in recent years.

Anya stills in the doorway, eyeing the deep wood and burgundy carpets uneasily.  Though most of the gentlemen’s clubs in London opened to women around the same time Anya found herself occupying her late father’s seat in the House of Lords, she had never been fond of them.  Anya prefers bright, opens rooms, with the Welsh wind whistling through high windows.  She was a coastal woman, and this was a cave, a den.

Her disquiet settles in her belly as she waits to be led away, doubtless to some nook or private room, to meet her creditor.  Her father’s debts had risen as the aristocracy declined, and he sold his land too early, reducing their estate when property values were low, and dying before the Targaryen economic boom of the 80s.  Anya was younger then, and had been sheltered from the state of their finances, and by the time Lord Arryn was in power, it was too late.

Still, with prudence and hard work on her side, she’s worked to reduce her debts.  In order to keep the nature of their affairs more private, her father had spread their debt amongst a few collectors, a little here, a little there, lest anyone discover how vast the sum was that he owed, and Anya had continued this tradition, and would have happily but for fate’s, or rather her new creditor’s, intervention.  It seemed a single entity had found the scope of her debt and purchased it all, and left her with no choice but to beg an audience to inquire as to what he might want and why.

Finally, the host returns to his wooden stand, and Anya bites back a curt comment, instead allowing herself to be led to a booth towards the back of the empty club where a man sat, his back to the door of the club, his face half hidden in shadow.

"Peytr Baelish," he replies. letting his Welsh accent loose on his tongue.  Anya Waynwood is proud of her heritage; though she'll suspect him regardless of the way he speaks, he expects she'll be more forgiving of a countryman.  He smiles, shades of apology in the way it winces.  "I don't have a face for photographs.  But I do know you - and you know what I do.  Thank you for coming, Lady Waynwood."

She'd been a good find.  An aristocrat in debt was a prime means to an end; often they'd do anything to keep their name - but most importantly their lifestyle - intact.  Waynwood is not dissimilar.  It's not luxury she values; she worships the ghost of Jon Arryn too much for that.  She's practical.  Proud - but pride is as easily manipulated as greed.

"You are concerned, I imagine," he says, watching her.  "I hope my acquisition didn't alarm you.  I like to keep busy; business is my hobby.  This field is rather... new to me," he lies, "But I feel I've done well.  I was surprised to find what I did.  Please don't believe I think less of your family for it; I come from small means myself, and know how easily fortunes can change."

Sweetling. As if he were an avuncular consort rather than a stranger offering a similarly strange olive branch. She inspired affection, she’d always known as much, but so far their conversation has hovered gently over current dangers and how to navigate them, not particularly the sort of discourse that lead to quick and natural endearment.

He must’ve been truly close to her mother, once. And yet Catelyn had never mentioned him, at least not in a context that Sansa could recall. It perhaps would not have caught her so off-guard had it not been followed so quickly with what felt, given her vulnerability, a little like a threat. 

She straightens her neck, prepared to respond, but the waiter appears at her elbow and she hastily orders the first thing under the entreé course that sounded the least hassle and is thankful to hide her hands in her lap again once he takes the menu and disappears.

“The route to Scotland is closed to anyone not on political or emergency business,” she says, quickly. She cannot trust anyone regardless of all the pretty words they can string together. “And I can’t go through Ireland. Cersei says I’m an example that the government can’t afford to lose.” In as much, yes. Sansa had been largely blind to her place in international affairs beyond emotional ties, but her chaining her to central London while her father was elected in the north meant that Scotland could not abandon the United Kingdom entirely. Just as he and Robb would not abandon her. She hoped. In the space she occupied there was leverage to reinstate trade and treaty. If she slipped away now, it would be more than just the Lannisters who would notice. 

She runs her eyes across his face again. Had her mother loved him once? That would account for how little she mentioned him, if it was a point of shame she’d pointedly neglected since her father had brought Jon home with him from London so many years ago. There are elements to his features that are handsome indeed, but not in a way she finds appealing or approachable. It strikes a horrible, hollow note of yearning in her - she has not spoken to Catelyn in weeks. There’d been the urge to telephone her after the interview had aired, but Sansa had felt so ashamed and so restrained within the walls of that little green guest room that she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I will stay here,” she goes on. “Until there’s a peace. Or-” Or what? Some other barrier broke? Would it be the borderline or her strength of will that snapped first? She turns up the corners of her lips to fill in the pause. Perhaps the cracks are already starting to show. She needed to be more careful. 

“Or I’m permitted to go,” she finishes, softly. 

Good.

He smiles.  "Cersei is right.  You're a piece the government cannot afford to lose.  Leverage against your family, and a face for the public to view through the bars.  They'll take comfort in your captivity."

The ice in his glass clinks together when he raises it to his lip, sipping between a frown, and his eyes never leave Sansa's.  Blue.  He wonders idly what Catelyn would do if she knew her daughter sat across from him.  She would feel relief first, he imagines, but then the stiffness would set in.  As for Lysa - she would turn a mottled pink at seeing her sister's doppleganger winning smiles and praise, however soft it was.  Lysa had always craved his approval.  She'd be sick with jealousy at the sight of them; that's sure to be a weapon in his hands, later.

"A peace," he repeats, his smile returning.  "There's an idea that's not occurred to either side."  He sets down his water glass and studies her in silence.  Will it unnerve her, to be watched?  To bow and smile and advance himself through Whitehall has lost its charm; it's effortless, and it's boring.  Sansa Stark is an exciting addition to his plans, and one he needs to explore thoroughly.

She does not, he expects, believe a peace will be reached.  Nor does she believe she'll be released - not happily, not before her family has been punished, not before she's too listless and broken to care that her cage is open.  He has to free her before that happens; he has to coax her into his hand.  

"Catelyn," Petyr says carefully, "Will try to broker peace."  

Just like now.

She hesitates with answer, absent-mindedly circling her finger around the mug. Of course, it’s hard not to catch the second meaning of his question, not to sense the curiosity in these words. Organizing Sansa’s party in Kensington Palace was just one of urges to come to London now; the other was left between her and Ned. Robert had problems; the mess he had made started to get out of control, with Targaryens coming back… and Scotland waking up. Ned hoped he will be able to extricate his friend before all these things escalate, for the sake of long-lasting friendship between them. Catelyn wondered if it wasn’t too late to do so; healing something — somebody — constantly going down for years in just a few weeks seemed impossible.

“I’m not really good at predicting the weather,” she answers finally, fixing her eyes on Petyr again, “but I believe we will stay here for longer time, regardless of all the storms that might come.” She sips her coffee before adding quietly, “Lightnings may foreshadow a storm, but it only gives time to prepare.” But do they have this time? She isn’t sure.

Catelyn fulfills expectation by extending the invitation at all, and though he's satisfied she has, he's also disappointed she hadn't outstepped him.  Cat's coldness had charmed him as much as Cat's warmth; he liked the game of following her steps, adapting to the changes in them.  Some things are outgrown, Petyr supposes, and spontaneity is one of them.  Motherhood hasn't dulled Cat beyond recognition, but it has made her steps heavier, and easier to follow.  Petyr finds himself like a foxhound - disappointed by a quick, simple hunt.  He'd wanted to stretch his legs.

His coffee is growing cold on the table, and he lifts the straw resting in it to stir it idly.  "Lightning is too late, Cat," Petyr says quietly.  "It's the storm clouds you ought to watch for."  And you've missed them.  The whole of Whitehall has missed them, even if the shadows of them have blacked their doorways. 

There's no reason to stay.  His mood has changed quickly; Catelyn can offer him nothing, wishes to offer him nothing beyond the same courtesy she'd grant any old friend that crossed her path.  There is a barrier between them that he can't penetrate.  He wonders, spitefully and fleetingly, if he ought ot mention Lysa.  That would rile Cat into a frown at least, but he doesn't wish to leave her with suspicions.  Instead he stands, pulling change from his pocket to set on the tabletop for his drink and hers.

“No,” she says, softly. “No, that’s sad. He shouldn’t have died. Not like that. Not for a long time. He didn’t deserve that. It was horrible.” It all spills out together in one indecorous moment. She hadn’t put much thought into how she felt now that Joffrey was dead and she was rid of him; she’d put more energy into distracting herself from the fact altogether. That morning, she’d woken up feeling airy and free but the moment the television delivered the news, Sansa had been unable to stop shaking. It had been horrible - that part wasn’t a lie, at least. But now that she was forced to occupy the halls he himself been reticent to fill, she felt more and more thankful that Joffrey was gone and would not return, but the heavy memory of his cruelty was with her always, like a blade at her side. 

But she does not necessarily need Petyr Baelish to know that. Perhaps, at least, not yet.

The menu rests in her open hands but she resists glancing down again.

“I told the truth, sir,” she presses on. “My brother is a traitor. He knows it as well as I do.” She hopes that that is the case. Robb had been hard to contact in the few days since her interview had gone out over the satellites. Sansa tried to comfort herself with the fact that, from a pedantic perspective, she had neither lied nor been manipulated. A law had been broken, that’s all she’d said. That there were steps taken now to rewrite all those laws, well… that was over her head and far away. She couldn’t think about that now. Not until she gets herself back home. 

With that affirmed, she wonders what to say next. To ask outright how he means to help her seems a flawed strategy when she’s on such unbalanced footing as it is. She doesn’t want to seem desperate, though he clearly knows she is. She ignores his comments about air and false hopes and prays he’ll do the same. 

"No," he says gently when she offers the menu.  "Order what you'd like, sweetling.  The restaurant is mine, and sadly familiar food loses its flavor."  He notes absently that her nails are trimmed but unbitten when they tilt towards him, pearly, with the menu.  Unbitten is good; she isn't one for nervous habits.  He won't have to scold her out of toying with her hair, wringing her hands; though she's clearly nervous, Sansa is at least physically composed.

Petyr inclines his head in acknowledgment.  "A traitor, yes, by definition - but Stannis Baratheon would name a typographical error as perjury, and you do not seem so quick to condemn.  Do you want to see your brother punished for his crime?  I assure you, Stannis' punishment would not be light."  He wonders if she knows how far they'll drag her down their streets, if it comes to it.  Hard hands will take her wrists and lead her to the stands; she'll be made to testify in front of the court against her own blood.  Could she say their words then, knowing she was helping to condemn her brother to imprisonment?  Petyr doubts it.

"Imagine," he says softly, "how terrible it would be to lose your brother in the same way Joffrey was lost to the crowds.  And your fists helping to strike the blows that kill him.  They will make you do it, if you're kept here.  Unfortunately," Petyr says, a secretive smile nudging at his mouth, "It is much more difficult to escape a country than it is to escape a house - even one so guarded as the Lannisters'.  It would take... quite a lot of discipline.  And patience."

His comment about Ned is in one ear and out the other. Catelyn doesn’t really like the idea of getting tense about old (but still fresh) resentments in the very beginning of their first meeting after like twenty years. But Petyr isn’t making it easy for her, as usual.

It doesn’t fail to surprise her that her sister’s name wasn’t mentioned yet. Maybe it’s for the sake of them both, but she feels her guts twisting, trying to recall the last time they were all three together. Catelyn sips her coffee, wondering if he and Lysa stayed in touch. It seems possible, as she guesses; all these years, while talking with her sister, Petyr’s name was unspoken taboo between them. It was so easy to make Lysa angry when Catelyn would mention him.

"Very little catching up is required," he replies smoothly, his smile tipping up the corners of his mouth before they smooth again into unreadability, into patience.  "We seem to already know what's passed.  What I wonder is what's to come."

Despite her remark about the rush they're in, he knows Cat - knows that she values decorum too much to leave when she's only just ordered a coffee with a friend.  His time, like sand in an hourglass, will run out the moment her mug is empty.  "Little Sansa's party, and then what?  To predict the weather is... tricky, but I smell a storm.  Will you stay for it, or retreat?"

He wonders if she understands him.  It's only a matter of time; he's seen too many memos, too many intercepted messages, not to recognize the storm brewing.  Robert Baratheon is not a problem solver.  He creates them, then ignores them; he hides himself in bawdy comforts.  Petyr's more exclusive nightclubs have had sightings, whispers from waitresses that he knows double as bed warmers.  Cersei Lannister will only take so much; her father will take less.  The Greyjoys are ruthless.  The Targaryens, returning.  Pieces on a chessboard, moving to the center.

Sansa suppresses the shudder. It’s too close to what Cersei calls her, though in this case the metaphor makes its meaning utterly different. Another half-step forwards towards the table, her back to the restaurant open below, and she’s thankful for it. It puts her on less solid ground, reminds her not to trust so easily. She sinks into the chair pulled out for her and slips the coat from her shoulders. If she’s a bird then she supposes she should be comforted by being this high, secure that she’s harder to see and harder to find. And that there are no bars, so far as she can see. 

Slowly, she draws her eyes across his face. She’s used to reading people by beauty the way the media taught her, but the last few months have proved disenchanting where that rule is involved. Petyr Baelish would seem more handsome if he wasn’t so much older, and his question perplexes her. Apparently the test of flight had not been enough, he wants to test her wits, her gall, as well. 

As tempting as it was to be indignant, to say, it doesn’t matter if they do, she resisted the urge. That is the sort of thing Arya would do without question but Sansa does not want to seem likely to turn rude under pressure. Arya is not in her situation. Arya would not be in this dilemma and she surely would be less likely to get herself out of it, too. So she allows the wheels in her mind to turn slowly, to let them push her forwards with caution, into this strange dinner party. 

“I’d tell them I asked you,” she says, blithely. “That all I wanted was a chance to speak to immigration and you could do nothing to help.” Did he want her to say she’d fall on a grenade or throw him to the lions? She didn’t know. She’d have to work her way through courses and conversations first to find out if he was the sort of man who kept to his own side, or if he had been telling the truth about serving her mother’s interests. 

He gestures for a waiter, who offers only Sansa a menu before stepping back.  Petyr intends to spend the evening listening and watching, not dining; he eats only sparingly at the best of times, and dislikes the idea that he might miss a glance while spearing a steak.  Every little twitch hides a secret, and Sansa Stark has already begun to learn to play the game.  Courtesy masks unease well.  It is, after all, one of the intentions of good breeding to hide discomfort in mixed company.  He knows without being able to see them that, by the soft slant of her arms, her hands are folded in her lap; he knows she will eat in small bites, and will answer slowly and carefully.

She's clever.  Unstudied, but instinctual.  Her fabrication is well done; her reasoning sound.  Cersei would love nothing more than to see a spark in Sansa so she could dart to stamp it out; after that her interest would wane; satisfaction in her victory would disinterest her to pursuing the matter any further.  Petyr admires the lie.  He could compliment Sansa, encourage her, but finds the idea distasteful.  For the same reason that he's placed them among people, he won't soothe her with praise.  Coddling never helped anyone.

Their gazes meet and Catelyn lets herself for a small smile before she sips her latte. The coffee is hot and it quickly help to lead some warmth through her veins. What kind of question it was? Of course she remembers them, some rather vaguely though; with time even memories of childhood and youth fade, but the essence is still here. She can recall them even now if she’d like to, without special resentment or regret, but she answers crisply, “I do. We were so silly sometimes, don’t you think?”

Even back then, as much as important their games were for her teenage self, she has always, almost always, found them rather entertaining and innocent, just childish ways to have some fun. There were things she certainly wasn’t proud of, reckless and stupid things she and Lysa had done or said, sometimes looking for more attention, sometimes vying for graces or just wanting something new, different. Catelyn knows they were important for Petyr and he remembers them probably better than she does.

He knows that if Cat saw another boy taking punches for a girl he loved, she'd smile with pity.  Silly children and their games.  Petyr would not; Petyr would arm the boy with whispers, and even if he was thrown into the mud too, with blood filling up his eyes, he'd remember the words.

"I did," Petyr replies, stirring slowly at his coffee.  It doesn't escape him that Catelyn has turned the subject around, moved the spotlight to encircle him.  Perhaps she thinks it might soothe him to tell her of his accomplishments.  By what she's said, she already knows them; had followed them, at least until he'd taken his place in Cheltenham.

If I make it out, then I have to go.

That was the covenant Sansa made with herself as the sun slumped lazily in the late summer’s sky. It had not been long now she’d been closed up in the Lannister townhouse, but somehow it felt like months since she’d taken city air into her lungs and heard the leaves rustle overhead along Mayfair streets. Her skin prickled with anticipation, but she did not know the house well at all and escaping was easier said than done. Her three guarded followers had had their routines docked since she’d arrived in definite leonine territory, but she had no idea where else there might be other eyes lurking.

Petyr said it would be like a test. A test of what, she wasn’t sure, but she told herself it would be a baptism of fire. Get out from under Cersei’s heels and know she was brave enough to walk alone through London again.

She was conscious of the risks.

All day she’d dragged her feet through the house and tried to make it very clear to her present captors, if Myrcella could be considered in the same vein as her mother, that she would rather be elsewhere than present at the table for afternoon tea. She hoped, therefore, that her silence around dinner time might not be thought suspicious. Cersei seemed happy enough to leave her wallowing unless there was some mention of her father in the news, or a need for some lesson to be demonstrated, or her daily irritations required catharsis. By the time six-thirty rolled around, the sky steeling deep and blue outside her window, Sansa had been left alone for two hours and it seemed likely enough it’d be twice that again before she might be remembered again.

Cersei’s attention was only one thing to avoid, and by and large it was easier than any of the other obstacles that lay in Sansa’s way. For the last month, she’d been reticent to leave Jon and Alys’s flat for fear of receiving some verbal abuse for her brother’s insult. Since her interview, she’d not been outside at all. What would be made of her, if anyone took notice of her out in the city? If there were photographs taken, if there were headlines written, Stark daughter seen with GCHQ Director, well… then God knows what Cersei’s claws might do next.

But, she thinks, standing before the long mirror in the corner of the little green best room, the risk might well be worth it. If it meant getting out. If it meant getting going home.

She had to be clever. It was a test, after all, so she did her best to only look a little like herself. Too pretty and someone might notice, too serious and even more might… how did people expect Sansa Stark to look days after denouncing her father’s government on television? What would bore them, rather than make them stare through the bars of her cage? She had with her, still, a summer coat that had belonged to her mother once. It was sheer cut and navy blue, falling loosely around her hips. Sansa slipped that on over her plain white sundress to hide the A-line silhouette of its girlish skirt and wound her red hair into a braid to hide the color somewhat.

The Lannister floorboards were smooth enough that she found that, as long as she moved quickly and did not look back, her passage to the side garden door was quiet and easy. The summer evening enveloped her in its leftover heat as she slipped through the garden gate and onto the sun baked streets. Only then did she look back, seeing a long black town car waiting in the road outside. Whether it was dropping someone off at the house or taking them away, she did not look long enough to know. At the corner of the American Embassy, she stepped lightly into the shade of Grosvenor Square and made for Bond Street up ahead.

The restaurant Mockingbird was a long established Soho business near Air Street. Sansa thought that maybe that was for the best - older places meant fewer patrons, unless it didn’t- unless it meant varied clientele and tourist traps. But she’d come too far now to turn back at the possibility of being spotted by someone who might very well do nothing.

If I make it out, then I have to go. I can be brave.

She might, he's warned himself, not appear at all.  Lannister Street is well-known for being heavily guarded, and he knows how Cersei prizes her pet.  The lock of her cage could be picked, but only by careful hands.  He'll wait - he's good at waiting - and greet her arrival, whether it's demure and on time, or frantic, an hour late.  His expectations hover between satisfaction and disappointment, will-she or won't-she, and it's an entertaining enough game to play while he checks the briefings on his phone.  A swipe, a click, and he glances again to the door.  He has a man there, waiting, a man who knows Sansa Stark's face and is old enough, warm-eyed and tenderhearted, not to send her running at the sound of her own name.

The man moves.  Petyr watches with interest, and when he sees Sansa step into the light he shuts his phone off with a click and sets it on the table, eyes fixed to her, evaluating her presentation.  A white dress, a navy blue summer coat that he recognizes, remembers draping different shoulders.  Plain, unremarkable, but not out of place.  Well done.   Sansa herself is pale and stiff-shouldered.  On time.  Early, in fact.

His man leads her up the stairs and to their table.  Under normal circumstances Petyr would rise out of courtesy, but instead he only inclines his head and motions for her to sit.  "The little bird has flown its cage," he says with a small smile.  "Thank you for joining me, Sansa."

The papers will try to use you, my love, he said, his voice lost its power, the tone so sickly sweet that even taste of wormwood was better. Lysa grinned wickedly, with her eyes still closed, and that turned her face into an ugly mask. She never moved to touch him again.

Not just the papers, the reply was on the tip of the tongue, the laugh behind the chest, her jaw tightened. Lysa lifted her eyes on Petyr’s face and slowly shook her head, putting a full-stop with her chin. No.

“I need to come back early tonight” the usual tone didn’t conceal the voice trembling. Lysa bit her lip and twisted her phone in fingers a bit before dialing Vardis’ number. She needed him as she had no power to cut all strings which led to Petyr Baelish’s fingers.

She fumbles her phone to her ear then and Petyr stays silent.  To protest will be pointless; Lysa will only get louder and more desperate if he tries to fight her flight.  Her Mr. Egen will come and take her away.  What Petyr needs - what he has to acquire - is the certainty that she'll come whimpering back.

"I've upset you," he says when she's lowered the phone.  It clicks in her hands, off of jewelry or buttons he can't be sure, her fingers skittering nervously over the case like insects' twitching legs.  "Do you think I came here to talk about Catelyn?  Old jealousies, love.  I came here to talk to you, about you - no one else.  Catelyn Stark," Petyr says, his tongue curling on the name sourly,  "does not interest me."