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Halloween parties weren’t exactly Petyr’s forte. Sure, he enjoyed dressing up, but his idea of the concept meant something entirely different. He had a certain sense of style he prided himself on, something that most Halloween attire couldn’t possibly live up to.
Still, here he was, on October 31st, dressed in costume and at a Halloween party, all in the name of keeping up appearances at work. His boss, Robert Baratheon, had little taste for theme parties, but his dreadful wife Cersei had planned the event (on the company’s dime, of course), and as a senior level employee, Petyr was obligated to attend. And to wear a costume, which was explicitly stated as mandatory on the rather gaudy invitations, designed more to flaunt wealthy status than to exhibit taste. Just like Cersei herself, in fact.
He’d spent more time than he would have liked to admit trying to find a costume that was both simple and elegant, that required minimal effort and allowed him to wear one of the suits he always donned for company events. A vampire might have been a good choice, if he’d been willing to wear false fangs, which were really all that was necessary to pull off the look, but he felt rather stupid doing so, and that option was quickly discarded. Another option, found during a quick search for costume ideas, involving writing the word ‘book’ on his face to mimic Facebook, was also dismissed. He didn’t relish the idea of walking around with anything written on his face, even in the name of a simple costume.
Instead, he’d opted for something that only required that he carry around an empty picture frame, large enough to frame his face, minus the glass and cardboard backing. It was annoying to have to carry it around everywhere, and Cersei seemed less than pleased, but everyone else seemed to love the ‘Self Portrait’ idea (many wished they’d thought of it themselves, rather than dressing up in fairly typical Halloween fare). Over all, Petyr was definitely pleased with successfully saving himself from having to spend an entire evening dressed like Prince Charming (Cersei’s twin brother Jaime) or wearing some foam monstrosity like Pycelle (fuck, was the old man really dressed like Gumby? Petyr supposed it fit, in a way. Pycelle had always been quite spineless. And creepy).
Petyr spent much of the night trading barbs with Varys, who was dressed tonight as Maleficent. Though Petyr wouldn’t have thought it, somehow Varys actually pulled it off, which was slightly unsettling. The man was always full of surprises, though Petyr wouldn’t never admit as such to anyone, and tonight was apparently no exception.
Varys had spoken with disdain of Petyr’s own costume, seeing behind the ingenuity for what it really was: an excuse not to do any work finding a real costume and a way to avoid suffering through the indignity like everyone else. Of course, Varys was actually enjoying wearing his outfit, but that was hardly the point. Varys had known Petyr would abhor dressing up, and now Petyr had robbed Varys of the joy of goading him all night about it.
As they quipped about Cersei’s costume (she was dressed as Cinderella, the counterpart to her twin brother Jaime’s costume. They weren’t even trying to be discrete about their incestuous affair, apparently. Her husband, Robert, was the only one who’d forgone a costume, which was probably how they’d managed the couples’ costume in the first place), Petyr spotted Ned Stark walking towards them, accompanied by his wife, Catelyn, better known as Cat, a heartache if there ever was one. He’d spent years recovering from her rejection, blissfully separated from her and her new husband, until suddenly they were back in his life again. Really, he should have seen it coming, considering Robert and Ned had been close growing up, but Petyr had hoped Ned would continue with his rather ambitionless career track in construction.
Cat and Ned were another pair wearing a couples’ costume, dressed as Beauty and the Beast, respectively, which Petyr thought quite fitting, all things considering. Apparently they were among the few that had actually followed Cersei’s theme for the night of classic fairy tales. Of course, Petyr’s own costume fit with the theme, technically. Self portraits were common, in the times when most of those fairy tales took place, after all.
Luckily, Ned spotted Petyr before they were close enough to have to make pleasantries for appearance’s sake, and grabbed Cat’s arm, pulling her in the opposite direction. Petyr watched them go with a self indulgent smirk that he hardly cared if Varys noticed, until his eyes caught a flash of vivid red and his smirk faltered. Cat had covered her own red locks with a cheap brown wig for the occasion, since Belle was a brunette, so Petyr was certain it hadn’t been her. And yet the girl he’d seen had looked so much like Cat had back when he was still young and foolish enough to love and hope for love in return, that he was completely taken off guard.
She was dressed like a faerie, though her costume was like none he’d ever seen before. Petyr watched her, enchanted, as she wove through the crowd, following Cat and her brutish husband. Her dress was dark green, short and tight-fitting, embroidered along the hem and up one side with curling vines, their trail snaking along her neckline and down one breast, and up into the sheer light green fabric that stretched from the tops of her breasts to her neck. Flowers glittered like jewels among the leaves, and the entire dress shimmered with an iridescent quality that seemed otherworldly.
On her feet were dark green stilettos, the straps crawling up her calves and to her knees, looking for all the world like real vines against her pale skin, complete with tiny leaves. And upon her back were wings, delicate structures of sheer gossamer fabric, light green like the top of her dress, and glittering with silver filagree and shining gemstones. They swayed gently as she walked, leaving a shimmering trail in her wake.
Petyr swallowed, and fought back the urge to follow her, to find out who she was, to take her hand and lead her from the party, back to his apartment, and his bed. Varys eventually tired of trying to secure his attention once more, and left for more stimulating conversation, though Petyr knew he’d hear about this at work on Monday. He didn’t entirely care. All he wanted was to keep watching her, only her.
She drifted closer to him once, as she gave up her pursuit of Cat and Ned (which still had him more than a little curious) and instead flitted about the party, laughing and talking with his co workers. Her skin carried a subtle glow to it, and a fine dusting of metallic silver shone on the apples of her cheeks. There were little flakes of reflective material encrusted in artful designs by her eyes, reminiscent of shards of glass, each fleck highlighting the gorgeous blue eyes that peeked up from beneath long, pale lashes.
Petyr caught her eye once. Only once. And her lips had curved upwards in a smile he could only deem excessively wicked, and oh, how he liked it.
But before he could force himself to stop standing there and gawping at her like a complete imbecile, she’d vanished.
One minute, he had her in his sights, and the next she had gone. It was like magic. He searched for her in vain for the next ten minutes, then ended his vigil and searched the room on foot, again to no avail. The girl was gone.
Mood soured, Petyr left the party, thinking that perhaps he might be able to find her again, using his considerable skills at finding people who did not wish to be found. But instead of driving back home, he inexplicably found himself driving to another party, that of Robert Baratheon’s brother Renly, and Renly’s boyfriend Loras. Positively baffled by what on Earth had tempted him to come, when he’d never cared for either Renly or Loras, he sat in his car for a few minutes, trying to figure out the strange compulsion.
Coming up empty, he made to pull his car back out of the space he’d pulled into, but found himself oddly reluctant. Petyr cursed, then snatched up the picture frame and got out of the car, wondering if perhaps he’d been possessed earlier that night. It really was the only explanation.
Or perhaps possessed was the wrong word for it. Enchanted, more likely. The girl had befuddled his senses, rendering him completely incapable of speech or movement. More than likely, he was still shaking off the effects of her considerable charms.
The party was in full swing when Petyr reached Loras’ apartment, the door open to allow free passage for guests. No one seemed to notice him, everyone half clad in various costumes, and either drunk, high, or a mix of the two, dancing and shouting like the world depended on it. Again, Petyr wondered at the strange inclination he’d had to come here, and briefly debated about turning back around and heading back for his car.
Until he saw that flash of red again, so vibrant despite the cacophony of color saturating the room. Like a fly caught in a web, he was instantly ensnared, helpless to her pull, though he suspected she was as like to devour him as the spider would the fly.
She was talking to a girl he recognized as Margaery Tyrell, Loras’ sister. In truth, neither were technically classified as girls, but as young women, but as he was nearing forty he had a tendency to refer to anyone under thirty as a girl, or a boy, rather than as a woman or man. Though he was starting to revise that line of thinking, staring at the bewitching red headed faerie. Young she might be, but when he looked at her he saw only a woman, fully grown, and, quite importantly, legal to be lusted after, or pursued, if he so chose.
Petyr watched her with her friend, not caring if anyone noticed how openly he was staring. As she hugged Margaery goodbye, her eyes caught his once more, and she cocked her head curiously to the side, regarding him thoughtfully. And then she was sweeping past him, leaving behind an intoxicating scent of lemon and mint in her wake.
So, of course, he followed.
He’d followed people before, though purely for work purposes, and not for anything else, but the methods were much the same in any case. So he knew how to be discrete, as he trailed her outside, then followed her in his car as she drove uptown. This was toeing the line of stalkerish behavior, he knew it, and yet he couldn’t stop himself regardless.
Somehow, something had driven him to Renly’s party. And he was certain it had been her. Somehow, some way, she was calling to him.
And he would answer that call, it seemed. Willingly or not.
Mostly willingly.
Nearly completely willingly.
She’d taken him to another party, this one, he was somewhat horrified to see, packed full of Cat’s children. None of the Stark brood interacted with her at all, but Petyr watched her watching them from afar.
Luckily, she chose not to stay long. The Stark children’s party had been even more raucous than Renly’s, with a decidedly younger guest list, and the whole time he’d been waiting for someone to spot him and shriek of stranger danger.
Again, he followed his faerie beauty, his eyebrows lifting when she pulled into his club, the Mockingbird. Apparently she had her sights on the joint party held by two rival paintball enthusiast groups, the Night’s Watch and the Wildlings. Petyr had been most amused when they’d come to book the party, months ago. From what he’d heard, the head of the Night’s Watch had fallen for a flame haired Wildling during one of their many matches, and now they wanted to hold a party in hopes of settling the differences between the teams.
This last party was even more hectic and hedonistic than Renly’s and the Stark children’s parties combined, though that was to be expected, considering it was at his club. The strippers he employed were all working the room, dressed in tasteful costumes that he himself had approved ahead of time. Alcohol and other, less legal substances, flowed freely, and most of the Wildling team (all easily identified by an excess of piercings and tattoos, along with unnaturally colored hair) had heavily imbibed.
Petyr followed her once more, and watched as she focused her gaze on the head of the Night’s Watch, a young man with longish curly dark hair who had eyes only for his wild haired Wildling girl. He could see a sadness in her eyes, one he’d caught briefly at the company party, and at the Stark brood’s party in fuller force. Just what was her connection to these people?
He spent awhile pondering the matter as he watched her, but unfortunately, since he was at his club, his focus was eventually interrupted by his staff, inquiring after the reason for his presence.
Annoyed, Petyr tried to shrug Olyvar off. “I own the Mockingbird, Olyvar. That is reason enough.”
The blonde laughed. “Uh huh. And that pretty redhead you’ve got your eye on has nothing to do with it.”
Petyr shot him a withering look. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Olyvar gave him a cheeky salute, then sidled up to one of the patrons he’d previously been attached to, and disappeared.
“So this is your club, huh?” A voice sounded behind him, lilting and musical.
Petyr turned, and she was there, smiling coyly at him. His mouth went dry as he caught her scent again, his eyes drinking in her ethereal beauty afresh. She was even more breathtaking up close. Quite literally, in fact.
He schooled his features into one of indifference, though it probably hardly mattered, considering his behavior all night. “Yes.”
She cocked her head to the side, her gaze traveling up his body before meeting his. “It’s nice,” she commented. “And quite classy, for a strip club.”
He chuckled. “I prefer to think of it as a night club. Referring to it as a strip club calls up a far seedier experience than I hope to provide.”
She grinned. “And do you ever partake in your club’s offerings?”
“No,” Petyr scoffed. “Though this is a classier establishment than most, I have more self respect than that. A woman bought for her attentions is not a willing woman, no matter how much it appears otherwise.”
“So you would prefer that a woman comes to you willingly?”
“I think you’ll find most do.”
“Indeed.” Her lips curved. “You’ve been following me.”
Petyr raised an eyebrow. “Have I?”
“Yes.” She sidled closer, her hand reaching out to finger his tie. “Do not worry. I am willing.” She paused, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Dance with me?”
He only nodded, not trusting himself to speak, though he honestly wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect. Were they still at the company party, he would have been assured of his dancing skills, but club dancing was a far different entity, and he was loathe to make a fool of himself. Still, he followed her out onto the dance floor, and tried not to sigh with relief when she merely wrapped her arms around his neck, initiating a slow dance despite the techno beat.
As they danced, he found his gaze caught by hers, their bodies moving closer and closer together, and closer still, until hardly a sliver of space could be found between them. Soon they were cheek to cheek, and his breath whispered against her ear and the tendrils of flame tucked behind it.
Though the silence that enveloped them was exquisite in its own right, he was desperate for answers, his need to know overpowering anything else. “Who are you, sweetling?” he asked, feeling her shiver in his arms as his breath tickled her neck.
“You may call me Sansa,” she replied softly. “The rest is unimportant.”
Even her name sounded otherworldly, the way he thought it might feel to roll off of his tongue. The sound of it, and the sensation, dredged up images both erotic and exotic, and if only her name could inspire such in his mind, he could only dream of what delights unraveling her mysteries might bring.
Petyr pulled back so that he could see her face, and gave her his most winning smirk. “Oh, I doubt that.”
The corner of Sansa’s mouth lifted to match his. “Do not ask me, unless you truly want to know. Many a man has lost his mind upon learning a faerie’s secrets. They cannot handle the truths we bare.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Getting a little too into the spirit of the holiday, I see.”
Her lashes dipped, and she shook her head sadly. “It is a shame. I had hoped that perhaps you’d be different.”
Mouth turned downward, she made to step away, but Petyr tightened his grip on her waist. “Wait.”
“Yes?” One red brow had arched, and her blue eyes had retained some of their former sparkle.
“Test me. If indeed I lose my mind, it will have been happily lost.”
Her smirk returned. “And if you keep your sanity, what then? Will you continue to follow my lead?”
“Continue?” Petyr asked, then narrowed his eyes as realization struck him. Of course. Grinning, he shook his head. “My first eye opener of many, I suppose. Tell me, was it mere coincidence that I saw you at Renly’s party?”
“Of course not,” she purred. “You had no intentions of coming to that party, before tonight. You came for me, and me alone.”
He wanted to know just how she had enticed him to follow her to that second party, when he’d had no idea that she’d be there, nor any reason to go besides that, but then, maybe he didn’t. What did her reasons matter, truly, so long as her interest in him was genuine? He’d always prided himself on his judgement, in the character of others, in dealing with all manner of life’s idiosyncrasies. Whoever this bewitching woman was, he knew she meant him no harm.
“And what were your reasons for attending so many parties tonight?” Petyr asked, prodding gently for the answers he wanted. “A woman such as yourself doubtless has no lack of friends, and yet only at the second party did you seem to have any previous rapport with the guests.”
Sansa’s smile turned wistful. “In another life, that might not have been the case. I was born to another family than the one that raised me. A family who does not know me, even as I watch them from afar. I would have been happy with them, my heart tells me so. But fate had other plans.”
Petyr frowned, considering her words. Then each party she had attended tonight, perhaps had guests with familial connections to this girl? And the third party had been hosted by the rambunctious Stark children…
He wracked his brain, casting for clues among the various guests he’d spotted at each party. Ned and Cat had been at Cersei Lannister’s company party. Their children had all been in attendance at the third party. And here, at the fourth party, he suddenly recalled that the head of the Night’s Watch was in fact a cousin of the Starks.
That left only the second party, which rather left a kink in his theory. Try as he might, Petyr couldn’t remember having seen anyone there that was related to the Stark family, or even a Tully, which was Cat’s maiden name. But then, Sansa had seemed to have friends there, so perhaps that party alone was not part of the puzzle her words had suggested.
“And what fate would tear a girl from her family?” Petyr asked finally, suspecting she wasn’t about to answer him outright, but enjoying the challenge the riddle posed nonetheless.
Sansa leaned in close, her breath tickling the shell of his ear. “I should think you’re clever enough to know the answer, though I shall give you a clue regardless. Not everyone is wearing a costume tonight.”
He had left his own meager attempt at a costume behind in his car, needing no pretense to visit his own club, though he knew with absolute certainty that she wasn’t referring to him. And, as he hadn’t yet seen anyone in the club without a costume, he imagined Sansa’s words held an entirely different meaning. Which only left one answer, one possibility, which even now lingered beneath his fingertips.
But that was absurd.
Wasn’t it?
Long ago, he remembered hearing that Cat had lost a child. A girl who’d been taken from them soon after birth. They’d buried their little girl, heartbroken over their loss. And yet here was a woman, whose looks seemed so very similar to Cat’s, whose age corresponded with the story, who’d never known the family she was born into, and instead sought them out one Halloween.
She had said he might lose his sanity upon learning the truth. Although he was wondering if perhaps he should be questioning her sanity instead, if she was really insinuating what he thought she was.
Still, what could be the harm in playing along? Either she’d offer proof and he’d learn another hidden facet of the world he lived in, or she was simply enjoying her little game, seeing how far she could take it. Or, most undesirable of the three, she truly believed what she was telling him, despite all evidence to the contrary, and he’d have wasted an evening on the whims of a gorgeous mad woman.
Petyr sincerely hoped that it wasn’t the third option. The second would be most ideal, he imagined. But, a part of him, a very small part that still believed in songs and fairy tales of happily ever after, despite all he’d done to crush it, hoped it was the first option.
“Show me?” he entreated, drawer her closer in his arms.
She was silent for half a heartbeat, yielding to his embrace, then her steps halted, and she retreated, eyes glinting. “This is your club, is it not?” He nodded, and she continued, expression sly. “Perhaps we could go somewhere more private? You must have an office on the premises.”
Smirking, he stepped back, taking her hand. “Right through here, my lady,” he said leading her towards a door that nearly blended in with the surrounding wall, marked with a discrete ‘Employees Only’ sign.
The door lead to a corridor, and at its end Petyr found his office, retrieving a key from his pocket to unlock the door, before letting Sansa inside. He stepped in after her, flicking the switch on the wall to turn on the light and closing the door behind him with a soft snap. She surveyed the room with a keen eye, turning on the spot to take everything in, the space immaculate, just as he always kept it, and he watched her in turn, wondering just what she had in store for them.
Finally, her eyes found his again, her lips curving in a mischievous smile. “Are you certain this is what you want?” she asked. “There may be no turning back.”
He cocked his head to the side, eyes sweeping over her form, taking in every exquisite detail, before they met her gaze with a calmness that was in stark odds with his erratic heartbeat. “I am confident that whatever the outcome, it will be worth it.”
Her smile broadened. “For your sake, I hope you are right.”
Petyr tried to shake off her cryptic warning as he watched her retrieve a small round mirror from her purse and set it on the ground. He stared, astonished as the mirror began to expand before his eyes, growing larger and larger, until it was the size of a small area rug.
Then, she took his hand. “Do you trust me?”
Without speaking, he nodded, hardly knowing what to think.
And then she stepped forward with one foot, onto the glass, and as she did so ripples fled from the point of contact, like water in a pond. A gentle pressure to his hand, urging him forward, and he stepped onto the mirror as well, just as she moved her other foot. Petyr stared down at their reflection for a second, watching the ripples slowly smoothing out, before he suddenly felt himself sinking down, down, down. Before he had fully realized what was happening, he was standing upright once more, on the mirror, and with Sansa. But their surroundings had changed. Where once he’d been enveloped by the comforts of his office at the Mockingbird, he was now surrounded by complete unfamiliarity.
Petyr could not help but gape as his eyes took in the scene before him. They were standing in a garden, dark greenery overflowing in every direction, dotted with splashes of color more vibrant than anything he’d ever seen. It was dusk, and the moon was full overhead, and so bright and round and startlingly close that he felt almost as if he could reach up a hand and cup it in his palm. Fireflies lazily drifted about, and the air seemed to shimmer, like dust sparkling in the moonlight.
There were statues nestled here and there about the foliage, flowers and vines twining around them, as they continued to grow, even now before his eyes, and the statues too seemed to shift and change, expressions morphing, limbs stretching, hair blowing in the soft breeze. A large weeping willow, with flowers reminiscent of cherry blossoms woven into its long trailing branches, stood at the edge of a lake with waters smooth as the glass of the mirror beneath his feet, a state which contradicted the tumbling geyser at its center.
Sansa stepped off of the mirror, her hand still in his, and he followed her to the cherry willow, ducking with her through its canopy. Beneath the tree’s shade was a space strangely incongruent with the size he’d expected, given the tree’s dimensions. There was another pool, the water burbling happy against smooth stones, along with a large blanket draped over the dark green grass, its design similar to the dress Sansa wore. Glowing orbs hung in mid air at varying heights, fireflies dancing beneath the glass.
She led him to the blanket, drawing him down to sit beside her. It was far more comfortable than he would have thought, sitting upon the ground with only a blanket between him and the earth, and he idly wondered how that could be possible, before chastising himself. Of everything he could see before him, that was honestly what he was curious about?
It was clear that his earlier theory had been right. This woman was not merely masquerading about on Halloween as a faerie. She was one. And here was the proof, before his eyes, beneath his feet, in his hand.
As strange as it seemed, option number one had indeed been the correct answer.
And Petyr was certain that he’d never been happier to have his entire worldview turned on its head. From dreamer, to cynic, and back to dreamer again.
Both transformations at the hand of a red haired beauty that had captivated his heart.
He was certain now. It could not merely be a coincidence. This was Cat’s daughter.
Sansa was a changeling.
When Petyr’s gaze met hers, she smiled sadly at him, twining her fingers with his. “And now you know.” She paused. “Will you stay with me?”
“Yes.” He said it automatically, without having thought it over, without a single fraction of a second’s hesitation. And yet he didn’t regret his answer. Far from it.
Her eyes shone, lips parting, each painting a picture of the surprise and joy she clearly felt. And then he leaned in and kissed her, and her lips tasted bright and sweet, like lemon meringue, and he couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted to.
Afterwards, she lay curled against his chest, her skin soft against his, the blanket pulled to drape over their bodies as the air chilled beneath the tree. Sansa wasn’t asleep, her fingers drawing abstract patterns over his chest and stomach, tracing the scar he knew they’d eventually talk about. Petyr did not know how or why she had set her sights upon him, but he hardly cared. As long as she wanted him, he would follow her lead anywhere.