“I cannot believe that once, for the smallest of seconds, I thought you had changed.”
Sansa Stark’s men outnumbered Littlefinger’s twenty-to-one; which was to say, while they walked to the hamlet beside the Twins, Littlefinger was alone, and Sansa was with twenty she trusted most, including Brienne and Ghost. Littlefinger had requested privacy from the Lannisters to speak to her, and Sansa obliged, though ready to command him killed were his reasons unsatisfactory.
“Lady Sansa,” Littlefinger began, trying to form cute sentences to muddle her clear mind, but she would not have it. “How is it,” she interrupted, “that simple laws of not betraying people seem so alien to you? Is it because snakes cannot grow spines?”
“They can,” Littlefinger corrected, which only infuriated her further. “I understand you are upset, but if you would hear me out-”
“Upset?” she interrupted again, as they walked deeper into the hamlet, a place mostly deserted after the Tullys had fallen. “Why would I have any reason to be upset? It is only my uncle and the Blackfish who have died thanks to you. Upset does not even begin to cover it. Of course, it would be hard for you to comprehend, Littlefinger, for it requires a person with an actual heart-”
“Enough,” Littlefinger said, with such naked ferocity that Sansa found herself wary. “I did what I had to, what lowborns like me must. When we were in the Eyrie, Cersei Lannister sent me a raven commanding me to attack the Twins from the east. If I would have refused, the Tullys would have fallen anyway, and we would have been her next target. The Eyrie is a stronghold, but she could have starved us out, or kept us sieged in while she struck Winterfell. Instead, I took the opportunity to become a mole in Cersei’s Council.”
“You already told me this while we marched here,” she reminded him. “I do not see how that redeems you.”
“One man can be worth ten-thousand,” he persisted. “I must keep my enemies close, and make no mistake, Cersei Lannister is my enemy. I underestimated her at first, but she now has the Stormlands, the Reach and now Riverrun at her side. I cannot stand around waiting for Daenerys Targaryen to bring her to justice. I control my own destiny, I protect my own men. How do you think the Tullys held on for as long as they did?”
Sansa was incredulous. Does he still think of me as a summer child? Before she said anything, Brienne spoke besides, voicing her exact thoughts. “Do you honestly imply, Lord Baelish, that you were helping the Tullys in the fall of the Twins?”
“I sent them ravens on battle strategies. If not for my aid, they would have died sooner-”
“Sooner than you came to finish them off?” Sansa challenged, aghast. She housed a lot of doubts about Baelish, but none of them were about his cunning. He betrays the Tullys, clear as snow, and then professes to help them?
“I did not finish them off, Lady Sansa,” Littlefinger said, abruptly stopping. “I did what Cersei commanded me,” he said, before his voice dropped to a whisper, “but I also did the Riverlands some good while I could.” He gestured toward a small hut, its door slightly ajar, beckoning her to enter. Sansa instead signaled at Brienne to check if the room was clear of danger.
Brienne entered the hut cautiously, one hand on the hilt of her sword. As she vanished into the blackness of the home, Littlefinger told Sansa, “I sought private audience with you, to assure you that Cersei will pay for her sins. After what I have done, I do not expect you to believe me, Sansa. But I suppose you will believe him.”
Sansa was confused. “Who?” she said, as Brienne came out hurriedly, eyes wide in surprise. “Lady Sansa,” she said, quiet and quick, “please come inside.”
Sansa’s confusion turned to curiosity as she followed. It took her a while for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the smell of sweat, flesh and blood was pungent from the start. With one hand covering her mouth, she looked around the house. Brienne took her arm, leading her to a darker, fouler corner of the room, and she heard the coughing intensify. When she got closer, it stopped abruptly, and dark brown eyes shone in her direction. “Who is that?” Sansa said, lack of light still blocking her vision.
“Ten-thousand men,” Brienne said quietly, as the vision cleared, and Sansa saw a grimacing, panting, heavily bandaged, yet no less alive Brynden Blackfish. “I thought you were dead,” Sansa said, shocked.
Brynden gave a tired chuckle. “Our conversations follow a pattern, do they not?” The jape was met with an involuntary wince. “The Arryns rescued me, while I floated in the sea with a broken leg,” he said. “They took me here. With Edmure dead, I need to stay hidden. The Kingslayer will put me to the sword if they see me.”
Now, as the dark cleared, Sansa saw more men sitting beside Brynden, falcons for sigils, sworn to guard the Blackfish. “Uncle Brynden,” she asked him, “did Lord Petyr Baelish help you in the battle?”
“Not enough,” he said, chuckling. “He did send battle recommendations across the Eyrie, but when the war was lost, turned on us like a rat. He has not handed me over to the Lannisters, at least, so I suppose that must count for something.” He looked at Sansa’s confused countenance, and gave another weak smile. “I can only tell you what I know, sweetling. Do not ask me if he is trustworthy. I am good at reading swings of swords, not the minds of men.”
*
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