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The wedding was performed with little pomp and less circumstance, as though it was a perfunctory act that all involved were eager to get through. All but Lord Baelish, of course. The small man looked genuinely pleased to be at her side and, while Sansa had noted the way his eyes never matched his smile in the past, there was no such disconnect now. His smile seemed genuine, almost eager, though she was beginning to doubt her instincts on that matter. The Queen’s eyes had always seemed so sympathetic in the past, and now she saw nothing but falsity when she looked in them. It was not just that a veil had been lifted away, as if it had been thrown aside violently.
When she was told the news of her impending marriage at court earlier in the week, she had accepted it with a thin smile. Measured, demur—she was still a lady, and there were certain reactions expected of her. On the way back to her rooms, she had bit her tongue hard enough that her mouth filled with the now-familiar taste of blood. She barely felt it.
In the days after that, she realized that it was not the match itself that upset her. She barely knew Lord Baelish, though she reasoned he must be a kind man to marry a girl who was practically a stranger to him, one forever marked by traitor’s blood. It was not even that she was not marrying Joffrey, though some part of her mourned the loss of her childish dreams. It was that marriage itself was so final, so altering, so permanent. She would no longer be a Stark. She would not see Winterfell again.
And her mother. The morning of the wedding, as her Lannister maids had dressed her in a new gown that just months ago she would have swooned over, she pictured her mother all in black. Sansa knew she should be in mourning too, and the sight of light colors against her skin made her ill. She itched to tear it off, but the sting of the Kingsguard’s hand was too fresh in her mind. She smiled when prompted and complimented the design, though she could not really look at it.
She had kept that same thin smile on her lips all the way to the Sept, holding it throughout all of Joffrey’s cutting remarks and the whispered comments from the court. She had held it till she saw Lord Baelish’s genuine smile, and had him kiss her hand. Something in his reaction had both intrigued and unnerved her, and her lips turned upward before faltering.
He did nothing to stop them beating you, she thought to herself as the Septon spoke. But he’s not Joffrey.
When he clasped his cloak about her neck and brushed back her hair, she remembered that her mother had not intended to marry her father, and that they had managed to love each other. And with that memory she found herself biting her tongue again, to stop the sobs.
****
Lord Baelish had saved her the indignity of a bedding, and for that she was somewhat grateful. Somewhat, because she still didn’t know what his intentions were. There was no true feast, just some cold mutton and wine, and afterwards she found herself back in her bedchamber, pacing the floor and attempting needlepoint. She didn’t feel much like a married woman, at least not like the brides the singers told about.
At some point in the evening she started to doze in her chair, and was awoken by a soft rapt on the door, so gentle she was surprised at her violent reaction. She leapt from the chair, spilling her work on the floor, and Lord Baelish found her on her hands and knees, gathering her things.
“Sorry to startle you, my dear,” he said, and he reached down to help her with her task. Sansa could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, her heart pounding. There was really only one reason to visit her at this time, she knew, and yet all her mental preparations seemed for naught. She tried to keep her hands from shaking, though she was sure he noticed. The time it took them to collect her things seemed far too short, and soon he was pulling her to her feet and offering her wine to steady her hands. She accepted, desperate for something to focus on.
“We have not had a chance to properly talk, I fear,” he said as her handed her the goblet. She took too big of a gulp and felt the wine burn on the way down. Nevertheless it felt good, cleansing.
“You have yet to ask me why I married you,” he continued. His eyes were intense, and Sansa found it difficult to meet them, though meet them she did.
“You were my mother’s friend,” she found herself saying, before she realized they were Cersei’s words. “A…kindess. There would never be a better match.”
His mouth smiled. “The Queen had some of the truth of it, no doubt.” He took a sip of wine, more measured than Sansa’s. “Though, as usual, she misses the mark completely.”
Sansa’s eyes darted to the door reflexively, and Lord Baelish took her hand. “You’re right to be afraid. There are birds everywhere. Remember that, my dear.”
It seemed strange advice for one’s wedding night, but Sansa nodded all the same. “So, why did you marry me, if not just for that?”
He reached out to touch a fading bruise on her cheek, and Sansa flinched as much from embarrassment as anything else. “You’re too conspicuous. It puts you in danger. You have all the skills, and none of the training. With time, you could be perfect, Sansa.”
“Perfect for what?” He words seemed odd to her, but there was something in his tone and the cryptic speech that held her attention. It was like he had some private jape and she could only guess at his true meaning. She held his gaze for what felt like ages, transfixed by the amusement and sheer need she found there. A chill ran down her body and she took a sip of wine to warm herself.
“You’ll see. You’re still young, yet, but you’re learning. We all start out like you.” He caught her chin in his hand, his fingers spreading along her cheek, and Sansa’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The kiss was almost tender, though deeper than the one in the Sept. Sansa was not sure what to do with her hands; she clutched her goblet desperately.
When he drew away, he studied her with a far-away look. “You have your mother’s beauty and then some. That’s good. That will get you far.” A heartbeat later, he pulled his hand away as though it had been burned, and stalked to the door, quickly putting half the room between them.
“Sleep well, my dear,” he said, one hand closed around the handle. He seemed a little less focused than he had just minutes before, his eyes not quite meeting hers.
“My Lord…” she wasn’t sure how to ask the question that was on her mind, that was still eating at her. She cast her gaze to the bed.
Thankfully, he got her meaning, though it didn’t seem to calm him any. “Sweetling, you are a beauty…but still a child. That lesson will come, in time.” With that, and a short good night, he was out the door.
Sansa listened to his retreating footsteps, and then settled back in her chair. She thought about court the next day, and found that the idea no longer made her ill. She was married, if not bedded, and should no longer be the target of the king or queen. She touched the fading bruise, then traced the lines of her lips.
As long as I look out for birds, I will be safe she thought. She walked across the room and picked up his cloak of protection; there was a slight chill in the air. She picked at a loose thread on one of the mockingbirds, and frowned a bit at the faded state of the thing. Nonetheless, she draped it about her shoulders.