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It all comes about more easily than she could ever have imagined. In another time, in another life, she might have even felt some guilt over the facile orchestrations. It’s pure manipulation, taking blatant advantage of a vulnerable soul-
But there was no one to care when she was the frightened one, the lonely one, the creature in need. Why should she be the one to offer mercy?
“You must be my brother now,” she’d whispered in his ear, gripping his biceps with trembling fingers. The facts are true enough; she remains wedded to Tyrion Lannister by the laws of the realm, in spite of Littlefinger’s machinations. A hard knot of fury still twists in her chest when she remembers the evening a moon past, when Petyr informed her that she must stay “Alayne” for a while longer, even after her nuptials to Harry the Heir. She cannot attend her wedding with red hair and a white-and-grey maiden’s cloak, as he has promised...no, she must continue the mummer’s farce, hiding inside this other girl’s body until her keeper decides otherwise. A cage, stronger and more secure than any before.
“You must be my brother.” She feels nearly startled by the urgent heat of the tears that build in her eyes. Petyr trained her to cry on command long ago, but her performances never conjured a lump in her throat or a quickening of her pulse. A flush of embarrassment colors the apples of her cheeks as she realizes that she cries in earnest; the sweet faces of her trueborn brothers (and even that of Jon Snow) float into her mind’s eye- lost, lost like everything else, like everyone else.
The word “brother” causes Jaime's muscles to tense and his brow to twitch, and she knows she has him then. She finds herself almost disappointed- there’s no challenge in it, ‘no fun to be had’, Petyr would say.
For a brief, mad moment, she wishes to excuse herself and rush down the corridors to Petyr’s chambers, that she might share her triumph with her teacher, that he might know how she has mastered each lesson and become greater than the sum of the parts he has invested in her keeping. But then she remembers the most important lesson of all, the lesson that continues to plague her with its difficulty- ‘Patience, my dear. Patience and restraint.’
It all began with an off-handed comment, as these things so often do. There had been a feast at the Gates of the Moon in honor of Ser Harry's arrival, as grand and lavish as the Arryn household could muster without the full resources of the Eyrie. As the guest of honor called for constant refills of ale and reached out to pinch the behinds of serving girls with little care for discretion, Petyr casually mentioned how much Harry put him in mind of a young Robert Baratheon. And she did not know why at the time, but the phrase nestled itself deep into the crevices of her brain, echoing in her ears each time Harry winked too roguishly or touched her too familiarly.
Then, at last night’s banquet, she watched Jaime Lannister narrow his eyes in Harry’s direction, his jaw working and his hand clenching. In that instant, everything collided and melded and coursed into a single stream, and she knew exactly what to do.
(She wonders if this is what it’s like for Petyr, when he hatches his clever plots...or perhaps he’s grown accustomed to it, complacent in his own skill...)
Jaime reaches down to clutch her wrist, a sharp and unnervingly-naked desperation in his eyes, and he murmurs her name again and again- “Sansa, Sansa...”
Her heart swells in her chest, a smile pulling at her lips; it has been so long since she’s heard the sweet syllables of the name given her by her true parents. It’s always “Alayne”, “Alayne” all the time, “Alayne” from Harry, “Alayne” from Mya, “Alayne” from Myranda and Robert and all the servants and knight...even Petyr calls her naught but “Alayne” anymore.
But he calls her Sansa, “Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,” and she feels a chill course up her spine with each repetition. She becomes nearly drunk with it, her knees turning to liquid, her feet hardly able to support her, even as she braces herself against the wall. She careens forward, only a little, and Ser Jaime’s golden hand presses to her waist, hard enough to bruise.
“Promise me,” she breathes into the crook of his neck, wincing a bit as he tightens his hold on her, “promise that you’ll take me away.”
“I swear it,” he rasps. Joy seizes every muscle of her body, holding her aloft until she feels certain that she could leap from the window of the tallest tower and fly away without the help of wings.
She rises on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, brushing her lips just slightly too close to his mouth. She allows herself some satisfaction when she feels him shiver, but her pleasure becomes spiked with alarm when she looks at her own hands and sees that they still tremble, quite against her plans, quite against her will.