Chapter Text
One more night.
He shivered and pulled the heavy cloak closer around his slight frame as he strode along the deck. It would not due to fall ill.
The cliffs around Kings Landing had brought many a seafarer to their doom, and not just because of the dangerous passage into port. The night weather was notoriously fickle and unhealthy for the lungs and was the reason for Flea Bottom’s wretched state. At night the fog would linger there, determinedly worsening the wretched lungs of its impoverished inhabitants and leaving the richer classes clinging to the higher altitude neighborhoods around the Red Keep. This weather did little to endear this city to him, it recalled to mind too many wretchedly cold days and nights on the Fingers after he had been banished from Riverrun.
Moving past the mainmast, he turned and made his way into the lower deck. Fingers of fog seemed to linger even here, obscuring the dim lanterns and creating a murky gloom belowdecks. It would be good to be underway again by next evening.
Opening the door to his cabin, he made his way to his desk. This room was brighter, and Petyr felt better here — the cabin was appointed with furnishings that matched his most detailed instructions, and the most petulant gloom was no match against the room’s determined air of luxuriousness. The golden thread woven throughout the dark fabric of the upholstery was picked up by the light cast by the silver lamps, an unctuous reminder of its rarity and worth. It was a very well-appointed room indeed, he realized with satisfaction. And, tomorrow, it would shine even brighter with the lustrous beauty of Sansa Stark. His plans had been finalized and he was ready for the next stage of the game. Dontos had done his work well, the girl was primed to fall into his hands like a ripe apple, although he imagined no fruit could be sweeter than her.
Putting his hand into his pocket, he wrapped it around the latest note from the fool. Bringing it out, he unrolled the parchment, and scanned it once more. A confirmation that tomorrow Sansa Stark would be delivered into his eager grasp. The final line, however, gave him pause as he read the almost illegible script. All is well, but she will not leave without her dog. I agreed.
He supposed that would be fine, her dire wolf was dead, and had most likely been replaced with the kind of small yapping things favored by ladies of the court. One of the serving men could take care of it for him, he supposed, if it was too much in the way.