Chapter Text
The first night he came to her she almost didn’t notice him. The moon was high and the house was quiet. The only sound in the room was the low roar of the furnace…and soft breathing. He hovered in the shadows near her door, standing and watching. Her eyes flitted open with a feeling of the presence of another, slowly accommodating to the darkness.
“Mr. Baelish?” Her voice was raspy with sleep.
“Sansa,” his tone low and thoughtful.
“Is something wrong?” She sat up in bed, keeping the thick blankets pulled up to her chest to cover her thin nightgown.
“No, sweetling, just checking up. I know it must be hard, settling in here. Do you need anything?” He was already making his way back to the door, but his green eyes remained fixed to hers.
“No…no thank you.” She heard herself respond, more alert this time.
Apparently satisfied, with a nod and a half smile he exited the room.
Her room now, she supposed, although only for a few days so far. Her relocation was a recent one; it had been two weeks since the fire that killed most of her family. Arson, they’d said, but still had no leads on who or why.
Sansa had ideas, however.
The fire that started in her parent’s room spread quickly to her brother Robb’s. They died almost instantly, but not instantly enough to stop their screams. After that it swept through the rest of the house engulfing room by room. By this time the rest of them were awake and making their escape. Sansa and her sister Arya were the first out, uninjured. Her brothers Bran and Rickon followed closely behind with their half-brother Jon. On the way out a beam collapsed and Bran was nearly killed. Jon pulled the beam off, carrying him out to safety.
During the next week the remaining Starks were subjected to incessant questioning about the fire (they all knew better than to talk, but the questions continued, nonetheless). Bran was hospitalized. They said the recovery would be long and hard, and it’s a miracle he lived at all but he may never walk again. Jon had his hands full with Rickon, Being 18 it fell into his hands to take care of him.
Arya ran away. Two days after the fire, after the first rounds of questioning, she slipped from the hotel room she and Sansa shared, leaving nothing but a note claiming she’d be somewhere safe. Sansa had her doubts. She also had her doubts the police would find her if she didn’t want to be found. Arya was wild and clever, much more clever than a 14 year old should be.
This left Sansa quite alone.
She had no close family. Her Uncle Benjen was currently abroad with the same company that (probably) got her parents killed. Her Aunt was gone as well, died of a heart attack two years before. She was 16, still in school and living in a hotel.
That was when he showed up.
Accompanied by her social worker, dressed finely in a gray suit and immaculate, chestnut hair with graying patches on the sides. He appeared somber but also, Sansa noticed uncomfortably, a slight gleam in his eyes unbefitting the situation.
“Sansa,” Ros, her social worker, began. “I trust you remember Mr. Baelish?”
“Yes of course I do.” Mr. Baelish, or Uncle Petyr as she used to know him, was her Aunt Lysa’s widower. He was never around much, never attended family events, but always seemed to show up when he was needed.
And her father trusted him.
It had been a couple of years since Aunt Lysa passed and Sansa had seen him maybe a handful of times since; at her father’s annual business party or visiting the house once to consult Ned on very important matters.
Why was he here now?
Ros cleared her throat, pulling Sansa from her thoughts. “Sansa, what would you say about coming to live with your Uncle for a little while?”