Flea Bottom seemed to give the Righteous Saviors a twisted sense of superiority. Its cracked, sooty walls, the smell of shit and urine, cheapskate commerce and sparsely clothed populace all contrasted with the architecture and manner of the Red Keep. As Mhaegen led Sansa Stark, Brienne of Tarth and Petyr Baelish through its winding, narrow streets, Sansa caught an odd smile on her wrinkly lips. It was as if she were gaining increasing confidence, strolling in the battlefield of her choice.
They sat in a house that looked abandoned, before Sansa realized the broken furniture were actually people in grey garbs, huddled in prayer. She inwardly grinned at Cersei’s way of dealing with the Faith Militant. Why destroy a religion when it brings a newer, darker one?
Littlefinger spoke first. “We are here to discuss the election of the High Septon for the Righteous Saviors of the Seven,” he said, “but I would like to share something in confidence. Queen Cersei will agree happily with formalities as such, but this will not win you power or profit. You need to be smarter, you need more influence. Allow me to help.”
Mhaegen met his offer of help with a sneer. “And why would you want to help us?”
“Because I wasn’t born princess of Casterly Rock,” Littlefinger said. “I come from nothing, like you. I understand what it is to be downtrodden. I insisted to Queen Cersei to delegate matters of the people to me. I made you my priority, because I believe I can help.”
For the next hour, when they discussed the Righteous Seven and the streets of the Crownlands, Littlefinger offered more than promises. He gave them a bag of gold dragons that would help fund the religion. He offered plans to spark commerce in the city. He was calm, patient and ‘eager to represent the Crown the best way he could’.
Mhaegen was still not convinced with his words. “I will consider your offers,” she said shiftily. “I wish to speak to the girl now. You may leave.”
Littlefinger seemed slightly abashed by the slander, but he left with a courteous bow, leaving Sansa and Brienne. When he was away from earshot, Mhaegen turned to her. “Should I trust him?”
It was time for Sansa Stark to reveal her hand. She chose her words carefully. “If you are who I think you are,” she said, “I think you are beyond trusting him. I suppose we must stop this farce and speak openly. How did a woman of Littlefinger’s brothel rise to the Small Council, and why does she shout about the Righteous Seven when, in fact, she whispers about The Promised Prince?”
The amount of information she knew clearly shocked Mhaegen the Maiden. Her chewed hair fell to her side limply, all character forgotten, as she wondered what her next move would be.
Sansa congratulated herself for winning two on two. She had sent Brienne to confirm what she had already known. When Joffrey had executed the bastards of Robert Baratheon, he had bragged about butchering a babe from the arms of Littlefinger’s wench. Mhaegen. In addition, Sansa had seen the pictures of the Prince that was Promised all around Flea Bottom, and had listened to Melisandre’s prophecies too long.
“You don’t trust Littlefinger,” Sansa said, as Mhaegen seemed unable to speak. “Trust me. I ask you as a woman who was betrothed to that cunt Joffrey, who has been raped and defiled, who actually understands what you speak of.” She extended her hand. Mhaegen took it.
Ideas connect people more than power or profit.
“Great,” she said. “This is what I have to offer.”
*
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