Sansa Stark’s eyes had never left Littlefinger. Her ears perked when he had gone to the support of Jon. If we do not unite, there may be no Winterfell, he had said to the bannermen. Sansa knew Littlefinger to be a man of cunning, but why would he support sending barely a fraction of Jon’s army to the north? Surely, if he courted war with the king, his army would easily be defeated by Jon’s men. Baelish could have disagreed with Jon and created more confusion, but he didn’t.
But did Littlefinger court war with Jon? “I’ve declared for House Stark for all to hear,” he had told her, that day beside the weirwood tree. “The past is gone for good.” Baelish wanted the Iron Throne, Sansa knew, but he could not hope to get it without the support of the Starks. Maybe that was why he agreed with Jon Snow?
Jon was a good man, Sansa knew, but she did not want to bother him with the politics of Winterfell, not when he had an army of the undead on his hands. She wanted to speak with someone she could trust, someone who would not spill her secrets in the ears of northern lords.
Sansa found Brienne of Tarth in the courtyard dueling with young Podrick Payne. The lad was holding a steel sword and Brienne wooden, yet poor Podrick looked like he could hardly stand. The moment he saw Sansa walking towards them, he dropped his blade and tried to shy away.
“No, Podrick, stay,” said Sansa, slightly amused. Podrick was always scurrying away whenever he saw her. Sansa looked around – the courtyard was not exactly empty, there were people carrying sacks of grain or swords and shields, but the whistling wind meant she would not be overheard. She turned to Lady Brienne. “My lady,” she said, her voice low, “I know you do not trust Lord Baelish, but at the council today, did it puzzle you that he agreed with Jon? Why do you think he said that?”
Lady Brienne’s normally stern face softened, but before she could speak, Podrick intervened. “Beg pardon, m’lady, I mean, my ma’am,” he stuttered, “but Lord Baelish is very popular, I mean, he has a lot of respect, in the way…”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, just the other day, I overheard Lord Manderly… he was saying something to Lord Cerwyn, it was about Lord Littlefinger… I mean, Lord Petyr. You know, I did not mean to hear what he said, but sometimes-”
“What was it?” Sansa’s stern query cut through Podrick’s stammers like piss through snow.
Podrick was looking at Sansa’s feet, clearly regretting entering the conversation, but his speech was improving now. “It was something like… I mean… the long and short of it is, I think the lords like him. As in, respect. They respect Lord Petyr. They value him.”
Sansa was puzzled: Littlefinger was lowborn, Lord of the Vale, an outsider. Why would the northern lords care for him? Her puzzlement seemed to show, for Brienne quelled it. “He saved their lives, Lady Sansa,” she said simply. “They owe him the north as much as they owe it to you, or your brother.”
Of course. No wonder the lords of the north fell in line after Baelish gave his assent. Littlefinger could have the ear of most of Winterfell, which seemed frightening. “But if so,” she said, “why not use it to his advantage? Why agree with Jon?”
“If I may, my Lady,” said Brienne, who seemed equally lost in thought. “Lord Baelish, whatever we may think of him, is helping Winterfell with his forces. His army may help us in the Long Night. He agreed with your brother’s commands when he was free not to.” She paused, as if it was not her place to say what she wanted. “Sometimes… sometimes there are people you think you know, but you may not have known them at all. Sometimes what you know of a person is different from what others wish upon them.”
Sansa was sharp. “You seem to be talking from experience.”
*
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