Stay With Me - Ch. 3
Title: Stay With Me
Summary: When did it all change? When did this become her path? As Sansa tore the last towel from the rack, it seemed it had all happened in an instant. Her life was never the same.
Rating: M
Pairing: Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane
Warnings: Some dubcon (this chapter)
Length: ~4,200 words
"You still cry in your sleep." Alayne's legs swung down from the top bunk, blithely kicking back and forth.
Sansa ignored her. She only had a few moments left where she could still hear his voice and feel him on her skin, where she could remember his face in all its gruesome detail and peer once more into his steel grey eyes. As much as he hated fire, his eyes used to burn.
Then, she blinked and he was gone. His memory crumbled into particles of ash and blew away as though they weighed nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
That was all she was now, she reminded herself.
And that was okay, because nothing mattered anymore.
Sansa exhaled and rubbed the remnants of sleep from her eyes.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Alayne asked, swivelling around and poking her head over the edge of the bed. Thick strands of dull brown hair fell across her face like kelp in an oceanless sea.
She was beautiful. Graceful. Sansa hated her for it, though she loved her in equal measure. Sansa used to be graceful, only now she felt wooden inside. She spent her days going through the motions, like a marionette trying to mimic the movements of those around it.
"So serious," Alayne said, with a mischievous frown and a gleam in her eye. There were secrets in there, secrets joyously kept.
Seemingly without cause, Alayne smiled and her face lit up, delicate and free. She reminded Sansa of someone she once knew.
"I didn't mean to bother you," Sansa said quietly.
"No, you never mean to bother anyone, do you? And yet you find yourself here." Alayne's wide gaze roamed the cell. "You are quite the bothersome little thing."
Outside in the dorm, the guards had begun the morning head count. Officer Grisel, a woman whose looks matched her name, stepped inside Sansa's cell, glanced boredly around, and with a click, added a single head to her tally.
The guard moved on to the next cell and Sansa waited for the next to arrive. She wanted to get up and brush her teeth, but prisoners were supposed to remain in place until all the on-duty officers had compared numbers and the count was made official.
It seemed like a waste of time. No one escaped Black Cells Prison. Everyone knew that.
Alayne stayed quiet until the process was finished and the announcement was made. As soon as the loudspeaker cut off, the other prisoners emerged from their cells, all trying to beat each other to the showers. Sansa never joined them. All the hot water was usually gone by the time she got there, but she didn't mind. She was from the North. The cold never bothered her, and the privacy it afforded her was well worth the sacrifice.
"You know you can't avoid them," Alayne said, finally breaking her silence as Sansa finished scrubbing her teeth. "They can hear you as well as I. I told you, you can't keep doing that. They'll use it against you."
Staring blankly ahead, Sansa wiped her mouth. "What's it going to hurt? Dreams aren't worth anything."
"That's not what you used to say."
"I'm not that person anymore." That girl died that night, with no one left to mourn her. Sansa was strangely proud at how little she cared.
Alayne snorted in disbelief and flopped flat out over the mattress. "Part of you is. She's alive and well and keeping me up nights."
Biting the inside of her cheek, Sansa gripped the ledge of the sink. "What do you want from me?" Every day since she'd gotten out of solitary, ever since Alayne had appeared in her cell, Sansa had been asking her that very question and had never received a satisfactory answer.
"Mmm, lemon cakes, I think," Alayne replied, practically licking her lips. "Will you have time to go over to the commissary after breakfast?"
Exasperated, Sansa swiftly turned around and began rummaging through her belongings. "I can't," she said sharply. "I have laundry duty this morning." And she wasn't going to waste what little money she had on one of those mass-produced pastries stuffed with stale cream and wrapped in plastic.
They didn't even use real lemons in them.
Sansa's hands briefly stilled as her taste buds remembered the real thing-cake thinly layered with lemon curd and frosting with mascarpone cheese, the entire thing infused with a sweet lemon syrup. Nothing fake, the portion small because that was all he could afford ...
Why couldn't she hold on to anything real?
Recoiling from the memory, Sansa set out her towel and was almost relieved to find that she was nearly out of shampoo. That was a better use of her money, anyway. Most of the inmates did okay with family and friends on the outside, but cleanliness was the only luxury she could afford.
Everything else came with a price. A lesson she had learned well.
Her mind didn't seem to care, though, as it tiptoed off in its own direction.
There was an AM/FM radio in the commissary. It wasn't too much, and it would be so nice to be able to listen to music again. Or to have a fan. And lotion. Laundry duty was hell on her hands. The only thing worse was kitchen duty. What would her mother have said if she could see Sansa's hands cracked and red after a shift? What would she have said if she'd known her perfect daughter would wind up in here? Her little brothers were all Sansa had left and she had no idea how they were. She couldn't call them, but maybe if she had some paper … Maybe she could write them a letter?
She could do it for Bran and Rickon. Couldn't she?
It didn't mean anything.
It didn't mean anything.
Sansa glanced up and finally noticed Alayne's horrified gaze, mirrors of blue reflecting back at her.
"Don't," Sansa snapped. "Don't look at me like that." She snatched up her things and clutched them tightly to her chest. "You have no idea, okay? So, stop it! You just …"
Sansa couldn't escape the arrows of disapproval sent along in Alayne's level gaze. They pierced her, sprouting legs like a swarm of insects to skitter and crawl beneath her skin.
"I have to go," she whispered, backing away.
Once outside her cell, she turned on her heels and ran.
oooOooo
"There you go, darling." Another laundry bag plopped carelessly into Sansa's arms. The owner, Ygritte-she thought that was her name-all freckles and wild orange hair, looked Sansa up and down with a calculating expression, lingering a little too long on her hair.
"What?" Sansa asked irritably, wanting to move on.
"Oh, nothing." Ygritte put on a wry smirk and fondly patted the bag. "You enjoy that, now."
Right. There wasn't enough dye in the universe, and it still wouldn't do anything about that face.
Sansa continued in her path down the dorm, while Gilly followed behind pushing the laundry cart.
Every cell it was the same. The inmates all had something to say. They thought they were so clever, but Sansa was mostly used to it. Their snide comments never lasted long. A few insults and jokes at her expense and then they lost interest. She had been through far worse, and for all their teasing, they never touched her.
It was rather morbid, in a way. Every time she walked the alley and felt all those eyes turn her way, she got the feeling they were just waiting for the show to start. Joffrey's murder was all over the news. The President's son killed, the prime suspect, a member of another prominent Westerosi family, fleeing before the police could arrive, and the scandal of a valued employee of the victim's family disappearing with her-it was ratings gold. The details of the investigation and her arrest had captivated the country, with Joffrey's poor grieving mother at the epicenter calling for justice. But what the public didn't know was that Cersei Lannister-Baratheon hated Sansa long before her oldest son was killed. Cersei didn't care about a trial or the fact that Sansa hadn't been convicted of anything yet-she was to blame. Cersei's family had money and a long reach, and she wanted vengeance. For the prisoners, a beating meant getting in trouble with the guards and the possibility of catching more prison time. Why risk it all on her?
Sansa Stark was already dead and everyone in the Black Cells knew it. The only question now was when.
"It's about time," shouted an inmate as they finally arrived at the prison laundry. Upon entering, Sansa was hit by a thick wave of heat and the smell of cheap detergent.
"Honestly, how long does it take to gather a bunch of bags and haul your skinny asses down here?" Tongue dripping with disdain, Obara Sand glared at Sansa and Gilly and then dug into the cart for a few bags. Of all the inmates in Sansa's cell block, Obara and her sisters, Nym and Tyene, were probably the most unpleasant of them all. They called them the Sand Snakes. Luckily, Obara was the only one of them on laundry rotation right now.
Exchanging a look of forbearance-especially in light of Gilly's burgeoning belly-Sansa and Gilly pulled a few bags of their own and dumped them out on the counter to be sorted and checked for stains before they were thrown into the wash. There usually were, especially from the prisoners who worked off site. The things Sansa had had to scrub out of people's clothes-everything from sweat stains to Gods know what, and each one smelled worse than the last.
"What are you turning your nose up at, princess?" Obara sniped. She flung out a filthy orange jumpsuit and straightened it with a crisp pop. "Oh, I forgot. You're too good to work with the rest of us, and now you're too good to dirty your hands cleaning our clothes. I'll bet you grew up with your mother at your ear, telling you shit like, 'Proper ladies do not sweat.'"
"That's ridiculous," Sansa muttered. The remark didn't deserve the time of day.
"It's bullshit, that's what it is," Obara said. "You've been inside how long? Eight months? Amazing how I've never seen you on the prison bus with the rest of us."
Sansa didn't respond. She knew what the others thought, but she didn't make the assignments. She'd always just gone where she was told.
Eight months? she thought belatedly. No, that didn't seem right. Surely, it had been longer. But then, when she thought of her first month here, all there was was black.
"Leave off her, will you? We're all just trying to get by, same as everyone else." Sansa perked up some as Gilly spoke up in her timid manner, but she wanted to tell her not to bother. She wasn't worth the grief.
Obara snorted with derision. "Oh, some of us get by a little differently than the rest. You must be quite talented, princess, for Baelish to keep favoring you as he does."
"Jealous, Obara?" Myranda Royce swept in leading along the next cart with Chataya pushing at the rear. "Perhaps you wish Baelish would look your way one of these days."
Obara made a gagging noise at the idea.
Myranda laughed. "Sansa, you do what you have to, honey. The rest of us will do what we want or envy those that do." She threw a smug grin Obara's way and helped Chataya unload their cart.
As uncomfortable as Sansa was with the conversation, she couldn't help but admire Myranda's confidence. The polar opposite to Chataya's tall, willowy frame and rich dark skin, Myranda was short with curves for days and had no qualms about using them. There were few male guards at the prison and only occasionally were they on the cell blocks, but when the opportunity presented itself, Myranda could be found steaming up one of the storage rooms with Osmund Kettleblack. Rumor had it, her late husband had even died in the act.
Myranda sidled up next to her at the counter. "Just between you and me, Sansa," she said, even though it was hardly just the two of them listening in, "I've always wondered, how little isLittlefinger's little finger? I mean, the name had to come from somewhere."
Obara let out a hateful snicker.
Sansa yanked a standard issue white t-shirt out of her next bag and threw it in her pile, concentrating on her job. "I wouldn't know."
Myranda grinned. "That wouldn't be a blush forming on your sweet cheeks, would it, Sansa? Because surely you've been in the position to see a man's-"
Memories of Sandor drowned out the rest as they skipped and scattered across her memory, brute strength, gasping breaths and a tangle of limbs between the sheets. Sansa abruptly gathered up her first pile of clothes ready for the wash and spun around. "Excuse me."
Moving with the strict discipline of an automaton, she loaded the machine, added detergent, and got it running. She couldn't think about him. Not here. Not now. A small part of her was afraid, if she did, Sandor would somehow hear.
He wouldn't understand.
"Oooh," Myranda murmured, her tone grave although her eyes were teasing. "Perhaps it is as small as everyone says. Just know, Sansa, if you're not happy with the Baelish situation, I am always ready to step in and help out a friend. You just mention my name to him and I'll do the rest." She winked, however there was no doubt in Sansa's mind that she was completely serious.
So was Sansa. She paused, a flare of anger rushing through her chest. "Why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself, then? Don't let me stand in the way."
Myranda looked intrigued. "Really?"
"Be my guest."
Echoes of unwanted kisses slithered over her lips and across her neck, setting her nerves on edge, crackling with fear.
"Stark!"
Sansa spun around, startled. The postures of the other women immediately tensed.
Officer Grisel loomed in the doorway, thumbs tucked in her utility belt and her middle aged jowls set in a permanent frown. "Warden wants to see you," she said.
Across from Sansa, Obara started to laugh. "So much for your attempt at reaching new heights, Royce. Or should I say, hitting new lows? It seems Stark's not quite finished with him yet."
Myranda glared viciously at Obara, who turned her sneer on Sansa. "Go on, princess. Cry to Littlefinger. If you play your cards right, maybe tomorrow you'll be getting breakfast in bed."
As Sansa obediently moved past, Grisel barked back. "Don't need any lip, Sand. Get back to work."
oooOooo
"Ms. Stark." Seated at his desk, Petyr Baelish glanced up from his paperwork and greeted her with a smile. "Do come in. You'll forgive me a moment. An inspection this morning turned up a serious leak in the one of the pipes on the eastern block. I need to authorize these repairs before it gets any worse."
Sansa ambled inside, her shoes filled with lead. "Of course, Mr. Baelish," she said in a quiet monotone.
"Please, Sansa." He tilted his head. His voice was pleasant, almost cloying. "I've asked you to call me Petyr."
"Apologies." A tremor in her breath, she gulped past a catch in her throat and forced a polite smile. One of the first lessons her mother had ever instilled in her was to always be polite. "Petyr."
Her arms wrapped around her torso, she took the chair across from him while he returned to his papers. It was soft, cushioned. His entire office shunned the strict utilitarian feel one would expect from the warden of a state prison.
His desk was of the finest mahogany with gold-finished, antique hardware, accompanied by his own high-backed leather chair. It was supposed to create an inviting atmosphere. That was the only reason Sansa could think of for having such beautiful things in this austere environment. There was carpet in here, in a place where there wasn't carpet anywhere because carpet was too hard to clean.
Sansa looked around the room, a place she'd been many times now. It reminded her some of her father's office at home in Winterfell. When she was little, her father kept crayons in one of the drawers, and she would crawl into his lap and draw while he worked. As far back as she remember, her mother's picture had always been there on his desk, smiling back at her, a candid photo of her as a young woman with eyes only for the man behind the camera. In later years others joined it, but Sansa's favorite was one with entire family - Sansa and her mother both mortified and trying to smile for the camera while Robb had Arya in a headlock, baby Rickon had toddled nearly out of the frame, Bran lying prostrate on the ground, tired of trying to get this stupid family picture taken, and her father watching it all with a quiet smirk on his face. Of all the shots the photographer had taken, Catelyn Stark had never understood why he'd picked that shot to display, since they had finally managed to get one with everyone smiling and facing forward. Sansa thought she did.
She had always felt so safe there, warm and loved. Even in her father's den away from the world (and sometimes them), her family had always been there.
Petyr's office was nothing like that, though. He kept paintings on the walls, books and figures on the shelves, but nothing of a personal nature. No photos of family or friends.
It was cold.
"Marei?" Petyr called out.
His assistant came in, a solemn young woman only a few years older than Sansa. Her platinum blonde hair was plaited back in a long braid. "Yes, Mr. Baelish?"
He held the papers out and she took them into her grasp. "See that these work orders get to Mr. Wydman as soon as possible."
Marei nodded curtly and turned to leave.
"And close the door on your way out," he added.
Like any good subordinate, she did as she was told. Silence was left in her wake.
"Is everything alright, Sansa?"
Sansa glanced up. He was looking at her as though several minutes had passed without a word being said. "What?" she asked, flustered.
"I said-" He leaned closer, propping his elbows on the desk top. "Is everything alright? Are you being treated well?"
"Yes … Yes, I'm fine." Sansa swallowed heavily. He was looking at her that way, that mask of pity mixed with understanding. It made her uneasy. It brought her back to the moment she first met him, being dragged out of the SHU, half-starved, the light searing her eyes.
"Hey." A man stood over her-a police officer, she thought-pushing her leg with his toe. "Hey, girl. C'mon. Transfer time." His brow furrowed when he got no response and he shouted over his shoulder. "Hey, Selmy? We may have a problem."
Suicide watch, they said. It was for her own protection, they said. All she remembered was being stripped and left alone, shivering in the dark. When she got out, Petyr had been standing there like some sort of savior, welcoming her back to the light.
She should be grateful to him for that, shouldn't she?
Sansa's mouth moved, aimlessly searching for purpose. "Has … Has there been some word from my brothers or … or some news about Arya?" Her hopes for Arya were likely foolish. Her sister had been missing since the accident that killed Father, Mother, and Robb, over two years ago. Nevertheless, Sansa couldn't not ask.
"I'm afraid not," he replied. "Your brothers are doing well in foster care, though. There's no need to worry on that account. They're well taken care of."
Somewhat relieved, Sansa nodded.
He rose from his chair and peered out the window. He took in the view of the courtyard and then maneuvered his way nearer. He crouched down before her, a look of caring on his face, and continued on in his measured, velvety tone. "I simply wanted to see how were doing. If there was anything you need. Your trial date is coming up soon."
Oh, yes. She'd forgotten.
"Have you heard from your lawyer?"
"No," she said. "Not recently."
He pursed his lips, the rest of his features highly controlled. "Well, I'm sure you will soon. Janos Slynt is a man of certain talents, and the murder of the President's son … that's a serious thing."
Resentment flared in the pit of her stomach. "I didn't kill him."
"So you have said."
"I didn't!" she shouted frantically.
"Sansa. Sansa." He took her gently by the hand. "I believe you." He pushed her hair back from her temple and an icy chill spilled through her veins. "I'm sure Mr. Slynt is merely preoccupied in dealing with the ongoing issue of your parent's estate. According to the terms of the will, you, as the eldest surviving child, are the primary heir to your parent's holdings. However, your current incarceration makes things tricky. There are certain legalities …"
"I know. I know." Sansa's eyes fell to the floor. She didn't need another reminder of all the many different ways she had failed her family. If not for her, Joffrey wouldn't have died. She wouldn't have been forced to go on the run, and she could've taken custody of her brothers and her home the way her parents would have wanted.
"Well, I'll give him a call, shall I?" Petyr said a small smile gracing his lips, painting his expression with calculated sympathy. More than anything, Sansa wanted to believe his concern. She longed to know there someone, anyone who still cared. But she knew better.
The legal issues with her parent's estate also kept her dependent on others for money. Since she had no one on the outside anymore, that only left Petyr. And he knew it. He took advantage of that fact at every opportunity.
"You don't have to do that," she whispered, her eyes still glued to the floor.
"Nonsense, my dear," he said. "I'm happy to." He curled a finger underneath her chin and made her look at him and his predatory smile. "Whatever you need."
Sansa started shaking. "Please …" she whispered. "Please … don't …"
His finger trailed beyond her chin, tracing a central path down her neck. "Now, Sansa, you know I need to," he said. They weren't talking about calling her lawyer anymore. "You are a singularly beautiful woman and you need to be prepared for all that's coming. I can promise you safety. With renewed press coverage on the upcoming trial, we've received a lot of recent threats on your life."
Sansa managed a grim nod, her eyes locked painfully on his, desperate not to acknowledge the movements of his hand.
"You aren't afraid?" he asked. Apparently, that wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for.
"No."
In a dark corner of her mind, Joffrey's crazed voice sounded dangerously amidst a sea of broken glass stained with her blood.
"You think I'm done with you, bitch? I'll never be done."
"Joff, don't … no …" Helpless on the floor, she pushed weakly against his chest, her hand red and trembling. He picked up a twinkling shard of glass from the floor and started cutting into her arm. "No, Joffrey, please!"
Petyr's eyes broke away and drifted hungrily downward. "You know, Sansa, I should have you moved back into security housing. It's the best way to keep you safe, and it would look very bad for me if something were to happen to such a high-profile prisoner mere weeks before trial."
Sansa's hard-fought composure nearly dissolved into pure panic. She bit her lip and tried to steel her resolve. "No. I don't want to. I can't … I-I can't go back there." She would die in there.
Maybe she should die. It might be better for everyone if she did. But she was afraid.
Somewhere inside, she was always afraid.
"Very well, then. If that's what you want," he whispered hoarsely. He moved in and Sansa shut her eyes.
Everything comes with a price.
She felt the dip of cotton as he tugged down the neck of her shirt, which was already too loose. A soft current of air rolled over her skin, and his lips pressed between her breasts.
"I knew your mother once," he said, relentlessly sucking and biting on her skin. "Did I tell you that?"
Sansa nodded, although he was too preoccupied to notice. He mentioned her mother practically every time they met and it was the thing about him that horrified her the most.
He lifted his head up and took possession of her lips. As his hands snaked behind her to the clasp of her bra, Sansa kept her eyes closed and tried to imagine someone else.
When he'd finally had his fill, Petyr got to his feet and Sansa readjusted her top. He'd never asked her for more-Petyr Baelish was a very patient man-but someday he would. It was inevitable.
Straightening his button-down shirt and catching his breath, he settled on the edge of his desk, facing her. "I'll see that some more money is transferred to your account, Sansa."
Numb, Sansa tipped her chin in a quick acknowledgement. That was how this always ended. He gave her money and she did her best to make what he gave her last as long as possible. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to see him again for a while.
Taking that as her dismissal, she got up to leave.
"Oh, and Sansa?"
She turned around.
"I think we ought to discuss security housing again soon," he said with a pointed lilt. "Perhaps assess it on a day-to-day basis? I would hate to see anything happen to you, my dear."
In shock, Sansa barely responded to the clear threat. A few minutes later, she was stumbling down the corridor, wondering if she'd said anything or if she'd just nodded again, accepted it without a word or putting up a fight.
Oh, gods … What was she going to do?
She started to breathe faster and faster. Her heart hammered in her chest.
By the time she reached her cell, Sansa was grasping for every respiration like it might be her last, every crushing passage of air tearing a moan from her throat. Her whole body shook of its own accord, every ounce of control she had, lost. She scrambled for the nearest wall and sank helplessly to the floor.
Right where she'd left her, Alayne jumped down from her bunk and crouched before her. The girl watched her with animal curiosity, a slight tip of her head to one side and then the other, revealing nothing. Then, with startling suddenness and strength, Alayne took her hard by the chin, her blue eyes snaring hers.
"Are you going to start crying?"
Her lungs racing, Sansa shook her head.
"You have to go back to the laundry. You can't cry."
Sansa held Alayne's dark, mesmerizing stare and her breaths gradually slowed. The threads of her control came back to life and bit by bit became something solid within her, something she could grasp onto when needed. Everything else, this maelstrom of emotion that tried to drown her, she threw away.
She didn't need it. It only made her weak. Vulnerable.
Her only knight in shining armor was gone and she was only a shell now, waiting to join him.
Alayne nodded in approval.
She was no one, and she only cried in her sleep.
Summary: When did it all change? When did this become her path? As Sansa tore the last towel from the rack, it seemed it had all happened in an instant. Her life was never the same.
Rating: M
Pairing: Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane
Warnings: Some dubcon (this chapter)
Length: ~4,200 words
"You still cry in your sleep." Alayne's legs swung down from the top bunk, blithely kicking back and forth.
Sansa ignored her. She only had a few moments left where she could still hear his voice and feel him on her skin, where she could remember his face in all its gruesome detail and peer once more into his steel grey eyes. As much as he hated fire, his eyes used to burn.
Then, she blinked and he was gone. His memory crumbled into particles of ash and blew away as though they weighed nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
That was all she was now, she reminded herself.
And that was okay, because nothing mattered anymore.
Sansa exhaled and rubbed the remnants of sleep from her eyes.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Alayne asked, swivelling around and poking her head over the edge of the bed. Thick strands of dull brown hair fell across her face like kelp in an oceanless sea.
She was beautiful. Graceful. Sansa hated her for it, though she loved her in equal measure. Sansa used to be graceful, only now she felt wooden inside. She spent her days going through the motions, like a marionette trying to mimic the movements of those around it.
"So serious," Alayne said, with a mischievous frown and a gleam in her eye. There were secrets in there, secrets joyously kept.
Seemingly without cause, Alayne smiled and her face lit up, delicate and free. She reminded Sansa of someone she once knew.
"I didn't mean to bother you," Sansa said quietly.
"No, you never mean to bother anyone, do you? And yet you find yourself here." Alayne's wide gaze roamed the cell. "You are quite the bothersome little thing."
Outside in the dorm, the guards had begun the morning head count. Officer Grisel, a woman whose looks matched her name, stepped inside Sansa's cell, glanced boredly around, and with a click, added a single head to her tally.
The guard moved on to the next cell and Sansa waited for the next to arrive. She wanted to get up and brush her teeth, but prisoners were supposed to remain in place until all the on-duty officers had compared numbers and the count was made official.
It seemed like a waste of time. No one escaped Black Cells Prison. Everyone knew that.
Alayne stayed quiet until the process was finished and the announcement was made. As soon as the loudspeaker cut off, the other prisoners emerged from their cells, all trying to beat each other to the showers. Sansa never joined them. All the hot water was usually gone by the time she got there, but she didn't mind. She was from the North. The cold never bothered her, and the privacy it afforded her was well worth the sacrifice.
"You know you can't avoid them," Alayne said, finally breaking her silence as Sansa finished scrubbing her teeth. "They can hear you as well as I. I told you, you can't keep doing that. They'll use it against you."
Staring blankly ahead, Sansa wiped her mouth. "What's it going to hurt? Dreams aren't worth anything."
"That's not what you used to say."
"I'm not that person anymore." That girl died that night, with no one left to mourn her. Sansa was strangely proud at how little she cared.
Alayne snorted in disbelief and flopped flat out over the mattress. "Part of you is. She's alive and well and keeping me up nights."
Biting the inside of her cheek, Sansa gripped the ledge of the sink. "What do you want from me?" Every day since she'd gotten out of solitary, ever since Alayne had appeared in her cell, Sansa had been asking her that very question and had never received a satisfactory answer.
"Mmm, lemon cakes, I think," Alayne replied, practically licking her lips. "Will you have time to go over to the commissary after breakfast?"
Exasperated, Sansa swiftly turned around and began rummaging through her belongings. "I can't," she said sharply. "I have laundry duty this morning." And she wasn't going to waste what little money she had on one of those mass-produced pastries stuffed with stale cream and wrapped in plastic.
They didn't even use real lemons in them.
Sansa's hands briefly stilled as her taste buds remembered the real thing-cake thinly layered with lemon curd and frosting with mascarpone cheese, the entire thing infused with a sweet lemon syrup. Nothing fake, the portion small because that was all he could afford ...
Why couldn't she hold on to anything real?
Recoiling from the memory, Sansa set out her towel and was almost relieved to find that she was nearly out of shampoo. That was a better use of her money, anyway. Most of the inmates did okay with family and friends on the outside, but cleanliness was the only luxury she could afford.
Everything else came with a price. A lesson she had learned well.
Her mind didn't seem to care, though, as it tiptoed off in its own direction.
There was an AM/FM radio in the commissary. It wasn't too much, and it would be so nice to be able to listen to music again. Or to have a fan. And lotion. Laundry duty was hell on her hands. The only thing worse was kitchen duty. What would her mother have said if she could see Sansa's hands cracked and red after a shift? What would she have said if she'd known her perfect daughter would wind up in here? Her little brothers were all Sansa had left and she had no idea how they were. She couldn't call them, but maybe if she had some paper … Maybe she could write them a letter?
She could do it for Bran and Rickon. Couldn't she?
It didn't mean anything.
It didn't mean anything.
Sansa glanced up and finally noticed Alayne's horrified gaze, mirrors of blue reflecting back at her.
"Don't," Sansa snapped. "Don't look at me like that." She snatched up her things and clutched them tightly to her chest. "You have no idea, okay? So, stop it! You just …"
Sansa couldn't escape the arrows of disapproval sent along in Alayne's level gaze. They pierced her, sprouting legs like a swarm of insects to skitter and crawl beneath her skin.
"I have to go," she whispered, backing away.
Once outside her cell, she turned on her heels and ran.
oooOooo
"There you go, darling." Another laundry bag plopped carelessly into Sansa's arms. The owner, Ygritte-she thought that was her name-all freckles and wild orange hair, looked Sansa up and down with a calculating expression, lingering a little too long on her hair.
"What?" Sansa asked irritably, wanting to move on.
"Oh, nothing." Ygritte put on a wry smirk and fondly patted the bag. "You enjoy that, now."
Right. There wasn't enough dye in the universe, and it still wouldn't do anything about that face.
Sansa continued in her path down the dorm, while Gilly followed behind pushing the laundry cart.
Every cell it was the same. The inmates all had something to say. They thought they were so clever, but Sansa was mostly used to it. Their snide comments never lasted long. A few insults and jokes at her expense and then they lost interest. She had been through far worse, and for all their teasing, they never touched her.
It was rather morbid, in a way. Every time she walked the alley and felt all those eyes turn her way, she got the feeling they were just waiting for the show to start. Joffrey's murder was all over the news. The President's son killed, the prime suspect, a member of another prominent Westerosi family, fleeing before the police could arrive, and the scandal of a valued employee of the victim's family disappearing with her-it was ratings gold. The details of the investigation and her arrest had captivated the country, with Joffrey's poor grieving mother at the epicenter calling for justice. But what the public didn't know was that Cersei Lannister-Baratheon hated Sansa long before her oldest son was killed. Cersei didn't care about a trial or the fact that Sansa hadn't been convicted of anything yet-she was to blame. Cersei's family had money and a long reach, and she wanted vengeance. For the prisoners, a beating meant getting in trouble with the guards and the possibility of catching more prison time. Why risk it all on her?
Sansa Stark was already dead and everyone in the Black Cells knew it. The only question now was when.
"It's about time," shouted an inmate as they finally arrived at the prison laundry. Upon entering, Sansa was hit by a thick wave of heat and the smell of cheap detergent.
"Honestly, how long does it take to gather a bunch of bags and haul your skinny asses down here?" Tongue dripping with disdain, Obara Sand glared at Sansa and Gilly and then dug into the cart for a few bags. Of all the inmates in Sansa's cell block, Obara and her sisters, Nym and Tyene, were probably the most unpleasant of them all. They called them the Sand Snakes. Luckily, Obara was the only one of them on laundry rotation right now.
Exchanging a look of forbearance-especially in light of Gilly's burgeoning belly-Sansa and Gilly pulled a few bags of their own and dumped them out on the counter to be sorted and checked for stains before they were thrown into the wash. There usually were, especially from the prisoners who worked off site. The things Sansa had had to scrub out of people's clothes-everything from sweat stains to Gods know what, and each one smelled worse than the last.
"What are you turning your nose up at, princess?" Obara sniped. She flung out a filthy orange jumpsuit and straightened it with a crisp pop. "Oh, I forgot. You're too good to work with the rest of us, and now you're too good to dirty your hands cleaning our clothes. I'll bet you grew up with your mother at your ear, telling you shit like, 'Proper ladies do not sweat.'"
"That's ridiculous," Sansa muttered. The remark didn't deserve the time of day.
"It's bullshit, that's what it is," Obara said. "You've been inside how long? Eight months? Amazing how I've never seen you on the prison bus with the rest of us."
Sansa didn't respond. She knew what the others thought, but she didn't make the assignments. She'd always just gone where she was told.
Eight months? she thought belatedly. No, that didn't seem right. Surely, it had been longer. But then, when she thought of her first month here, all there was was black.
"Leave off her, will you? We're all just trying to get by, same as everyone else." Sansa perked up some as Gilly spoke up in her timid manner, but she wanted to tell her not to bother. She wasn't worth the grief.
Obara snorted with derision. "Oh, some of us get by a little differently than the rest. You must be quite talented, princess, for Baelish to keep favoring you as he does."
"Jealous, Obara?" Myranda Royce swept in leading along the next cart with Chataya pushing at the rear. "Perhaps you wish Baelish would look your way one of these days."
Obara made a gagging noise at the idea.
Myranda laughed. "Sansa, you do what you have to, honey. The rest of us will do what we want or envy those that do." She threw a smug grin Obara's way and helped Chataya unload their cart.
As uncomfortable as Sansa was with the conversation, she couldn't help but admire Myranda's confidence. The polar opposite to Chataya's tall, willowy frame and rich dark skin, Myranda was short with curves for days and had no qualms about using them. There were few male guards at the prison and only occasionally were they on the cell blocks, but when the opportunity presented itself, Myranda could be found steaming up one of the storage rooms with Osmund Kettleblack. Rumor had it, her late husband had even died in the act.
Myranda sidled up next to her at the counter. "Just between you and me, Sansa," she said, even though it was hardly just the two of them listening in, "I've always wondered, how little isLittlefinger's little finger? I mean, the name had to come from somewhere."
Obara let out a hateful snicker.
Sansa yanked a standard issue white t-shirt out of her next bag and threw it in her pile, concentrating on her job. "I wouldn't know."
Myranda grinned. "That wouldn't be a blush forming on your sweet cheeks, would it, Sansa? Because surely you've been in the position to see a man's-"
Memories of Sandor drowned out the rest as they skipped and scattered across her memory, brute strength, gasping breaths and a tangle of limbs between the sheets. Sansa abruptly gathered up her first pile of clothes ready for the wash and spun around. "Excuse me."
Moving with the strict discipline of an automaton, she loaded the machine, added detergent, and got it running. She couldn't think about him. Not here. Not now. A small part of her was afraid, if she did, Sandor would somehow hear.
He wouldn't understand.
"Oooh," Myranda murmured, her tone grave although her eyes were teasing. "Perhaps it is as small as everyone says. Just know, Sansa, if you're not happy with the Baelish situation, I am always ready to step in and help out a friend. You just mention my name to him and I'll do the rest." She winked, however there was no doubt in Sansa's mind that she was completely serious.
So was Sansa. She paused, a flare of anger rushing through her chest. "Why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself, then? Don't let me stand in the way."
Myranda looked intrigued. "Really?"
"Be my guest."
Echoes of unwanted kisses slithered over her lips and across her neck, setting her nerves on edge, crackling with fear.
"Stark!"
Sansa spun around, startled. The postures of the other women immediately tensed.
Officer Grisel loomed in the doorway, thumbs tucked in her utility belt and her middle aged jowls set in a permanent frown. "Warden wants to see you," she said.
Across from Sansa, Obara started to laugh. "So much for your attempt at reaching new heights, Royce. Or should I say, hitting new lows? It seems Stark's not quite finished with him yet."
Myranda glared viciously at Obara, who turned her sneer on Sansa. "Go on, princess. Cry to Littlefinger. If you play your cards right, maybe tomorrow you'll be getting breakfast in bed."
As Sansa obediently moved past, Grisel barked back. "Don't need any lip, Sand. Get back to work."
oooOooo
"Ms. Stark." Seated at his desk, Petyr Baelish glanced up from his paperwork and greeted her with a smile. "Do come in. You'll forgive me a moment. An inspection this morning turned up a serious leak in the one of the pipes on the eastern block. I need to authorize these repairs before it gets any worse."
Sansa ambled inside, her shoes filled with lead. "Of course, Mr. Baelish," she said in a quiet monotone.
"Please, Sansa." He tilted his head. His voice was pleasant, almost cloying. "I've asked you to call me Petyr."
"Apologies." A tremor in her breath, she gulped past a catch in her throat and forced a polite smile. One of the first lessons her mother had ever instilled in her was to always be polite. "Petyr."
Her arms wrapped around her torso, she took the chair across from him while he returned to his papers. It was soft, cushioned. His entire office shunned the strict utilitarian feel one would expect from the warden of a state prison.
His desk was of the finest mahogany with gold-finished, antique hardware, accompanied by his own high-backed leather chair. It was supposed to create an inviting atmosphere. That was the only reason Sansa could think of for having such beautiful things in this austere environment. There was carpet in here, in a place where there wasn't carpet anywhere because carpet was too hard to clean.
Sansa looked around the room, a place she'd been many times now. It reminded her some of her father's office at home in Winterfell. When she was little, her father kept crayons in one of the drawers, and she would crawl into his lap and draw while he worked. As far back as she remember, her mother's picture had always been there on his desk, smiling back at her, a candid photo of her as a young woman with eyes only for the man behind the camera. In later years others joined it, but Sansa's favorite was one with entire family - Sansa and her mother both mortified and trying to smile for the camera while Robb had Arya in a headlock, baby Rickon had toddled nearly out of the frame, Bran lying prostrate on the ground, tired of trying to get this stupid family picture taken, and her father watching it all with a quiet smirk on his face. Of all the shots the photographer had taken, Catelyn Stark had never understood why he'd picked that shot to display, since they had finally managed to get one with everyone smiling and facing forward. Sansa thought she did.
She had always felt so safe there, warm and loved. Even in her father's den away from the world (and sometimes them), her family had always been there.
Petyr's office was nothing like that, though. He kept paintings on the walls, books and figures on the shelves, but nothing of a personal nature. No photos of family or friends.
It was cold.
"Marei?" Petyr called out.
His assistant came in, a solemn young woman only a few years older than Sansa. Her platinum blonde hair was plaited back in a long braid. "Yes, Mr. Baelish?"
He held the papers out and she took them into her grasp. "See that these work orders get to Mr. Wydman as soon as possible."
Marei nodded curtly and turned to leave.
"And close the door on your way out," he added.
Like any good subordinate, she did as she was told. Silence was left in her wake.
"Is everything alright, Sansa?"
Sansa glanced up. He was looking at her as though several minutes had passed without a word being said. "What?" she asked, flustered.
"I said-" He leaned closer, propping his elbows on the desk top. "Is everything alright? Are you being treated well?"
"Yes … Yes, I'm fine." Sansa swallowed heavily. He was looking at her that way, that mask of pity mixed with understanding. It made her uneasy. It brought her back to the moment she first met him, being dragged out of the SHU, half-starved, the light searing her eyes.
"Hey." A man stood over her-a police officer, she thought-pushing her leg with his toe. "Hey, girl. C'mon. Transfer time." His brow furrowed when he got no response and he shouted over his shoulder. "Hey, Selmy? We may have a problem."
Suicide watch, they said. It was for her own protection, they said. All she remembered was being stripped and left alone, shivering in the dark. When she got out, Petyr had been standing there like some sort of savior, welcoming her back to the light.
She should be grateful to him for that, shouldn't she?
Sansa's mouth moved, aimlessly searching for purpose. "Has … Has there been some word from my brothers or … or some news about Arya?" Her hopes for Arya were likely foolish. Her sister had been missing since the accident that killed Father, Mother, and Robb, over two years ago. Nevertheless, Sansa couldn't not ask.
"I'm afraid not," he replied. "Your brothers are doing well in foster care, though. There's no need to worry on that account. They're well taken care of."
Somewhat relieved, Sansa nodded.
He rose from his chair and peered out the window. He took in the view of the courtyard and then maneuvered his way nearer. He crouched down before her, a look of caring on his face, and continued on in his measured, velvety tone. "I simply wanted to see how were doing. If there was anything you need. Your trial date is coming up soon."
Oh, yes. She'd forgotten.
"Have you heard from your lawyer?"
"No," she said. "Not recently."
He pursed his lips, the rest of his features highly controlled. "Well, I'm sure you will soon. Janos Slynt is a man of certain talents, and the murder of the President's son … that's a serious thing."
Resentment flared in the pit of her stomach. "I didn't kill him."
"So you have said."
"I didn't!" she shouted frantically.
"Sansa. Sansa." He took her gently by the hand. "I believe you." He pushed her hair back from her temple and an icy chill spilled through her veins. "I'm sure Mr. Slynt is merely preoccupied in dealing with the ongoing issue of your parent's estate. According to the terms of the will, you, as the eldest surviving child, are the primary heir to your parent's holdings. However, your current incarceration makes things tricky. There are certain legalities …"
"I know. I know." Sansa's eyes fell to the floor. She didn't need another reminder of all the many different ways she had failed her family. If not for her, Joffrey wouldn't have died. She wouldn't have been forced to go on the run, and she could've taken custody of her brothers and her home the way her parents would have wanted.
"Well, I'll give him a call, shall I?" Petyr said a small smile gracing his lips, painting his expression with calculated sympathy. More than anything, Sansa wanted to believe his concern. She longed to know there someone, anyone who still cared. But she knew better.
The legal issues with her parent's estate also kept her dependent on others for money. Since she had no one on the outside anymore, that only left Petyr. And he knew it. He took advantage of that fact at every opportunity.
"You don't have to do that," she whispered, her eyes still glued to the floor.
"Nonsense, my dear," he said. "I'm happy to." He curled a finger underneath her chin and made her look at him and his predatory smile. "Whatever you need."
Sansa started shaking. "Please …" she whispered. "Please … don't …"
His finger trailed beyond her chin, tracing a central path down her neck. "Now, Sansa, you know I need to," he said. They weren't talking about calling her lawyer anymore. "You are a singularly beautiful woman and you need to be prepared for all that's coming. I can promise you safety. With renewed press coverage on the upcoming trial, we've received a lot of recent threats on your life."
Sansa managed a grim nod, her eyes locked painfully on his, desperate not to acknowledge the movements of his hand.
"You aren't afraid?" he asked. Apparently, that wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for.
"No."
In a dark corner of her mind, Joffrey's crazed voice sounded dangerously amidst a sea of broken glass stained with her blood.
"You think I'm done with you, bitch? I'll never be done."
"Joff, don't … no …" Helpless on the floor, she pushed weakly against his chest, her hand red and trembling. He picked up a twinkling shard of glass from the floor and started cutting into her arm. "No, Joffrey, please!"
Petyr's eyes broke away and drifted hungrily downward. "You know, Sansa, I should have you moved back into security housing. It's the best way to keep you safe, and it would look very bad for me if something were to happen to such a high-profile prisoner mere weeks before trial."
Sansa's hard-fought composure nearly dissolved into pure panic. She bit her lip and tried to steel her resolve. "No. I don't want to. I can't … I-I can't go back there." She would die in there.
Maybe she should die. It might be better for everyone if she did. But she was afraid.
Somewhere inside, she was always afraid.
"Very well, then. If that's what you want," he whispered hoarsely. He moved in and Sansa shut her eyes.
Everything comes with a price.
She felt the dip of cotton as he tugged down the neck of her shirt, which was already too loose. A soft current of air rolled over her skin, and his lips pressed between her breasts.
"I knew your mother once," he said, relentlessly sucking and biting on her skin. "Did I tell you that?"
Sansa nodded, although he was too preoccupied to notice. He mentioned her mother practically every time they met and it was the thing about him that horrified her the most.
He lifted his head up and took possession of her lips. As his hands snaked behind her to the clasp of her bra, Sansa kept her eyes closed and tried to imagine someone else.
When he'd finally had his fill, Petyr got to his feet and Sansa readjusted her top. He'd never asked her for more-Petyr Baelish was a very patient man-but someday he would. It was inevitable.
Straightening his button-down shirt and catching his breath, he settled on the edge of his desk, facing her. "I'll see that some more money is transferred to your account, Sansa."
Numb, Sansa tipped her chin in a quick acknowledgement. That was how this always ended. He gave her money and she did her best to make what he gave her last as long as possible. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to see him again for a while.
Taking that as her dismissal, she got up to leave.
"Oh, and Sansa?"
She turned around.
"I think we ought to discuss security housing again soon," he said with a pointed lilt. "Perhaps assess it on a day-to-day basis? I would hate to see anything happen to you, my dear."
In shock, Sansa barely responded to the clear threat. A few minutes later, she was stumbling down the corridor, wondering if she'd said anything or if she'd just nodded again, accepted it without a word or putting up a fight.
Oh, gods … What was she going to do?
She started to breathe faster and faster. Her heart hammered in her chest.
By the time she reached her cell, Sansa was grasping for every respiration like it might be her last, every crushing passage of air tearing a moan from her throat. Her whole body shook of its own accord, every ounce of control she had, lost. She scrambled for the nearest wall and sank helplessly to the floor.
Right where she'd left her, Alayne jumped down from her bunk and crouched before her. The girl watched her with animal curiosity, a slight tip of her head to one side and then the other, revealing nothing. Then, with startling suddenness and strength, Alayne took her hard by the chin, her blue eyes snaring hers.
"Are you going to start crying?"
Her lungs racing, Sansa shook her head.
"You have to go back to the laundry. You can't cry."
Sansa held Alayne's dark, mesmerizing stare and her breaths gradually slowed. The threads of her control came back to life and bit by bit became something solid within her, something she could grasp onto when needed. Everything else, this maelstrom of emotion that tried to drown her, she threw away.
She didn't need it. It only made her weak. Vulnerable.
Her only knight in shining armor was gone and she was only a shell now, waiting to join him.
Alayne nodded in approval.
She was no one, and she only cried in her sleep.