cross my heart hope to die: a petyr x sansa apocalypse!au playlist (for bystanding)
She thinks she feels his knuckles against the curve of her cheek, but he’s already pulling away. “The trick to survival, Sansa—you have to make yourself believe there’s something worth surviving for.”
Sansa doesn’t ask him what he thought he’d had.
↳ cranberries, zombie
but you see it’s not me
it’s not my family
in your head in your head
they are fighting(x)
↳ placebo, every me every you
carve your name into my arm
instead of stressed I lie here charmed(x)
↳ throwing muses, bright yellow gun
with your bright yellow gun, you own the sun
and I think you need a little poison(x)
↳ emilie autumn, liar
I want to mix our blood
and put it in the ground
so you can never leave(x)
↳ ain’t no grave, johnny cash
when I hear the trumpet sound
I’m gonna rise right out of the ground
ain’t no grave
that can hold my body down(x)
↳ kasey chambers, rattlin’ bones
till they bury me down, beneath the ground
with the dust and rattling bones(x)
‘And when you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him.’
‘And if a man is not certain what he wants?’
‘Then he needs not be moved. He will fall just as easily on his own.’
He had told her something not many knew about him. He had given her a part of his past, something that seemed long forgotten in the lies he spun. He told her how he had always been a small boy; physical strength was not something he had been gifted with. He sought to remedy that through her father’s company, to trade his arms for mechanical replacements, but they discovered his body was hostile towards synthetics. He would find out later, when he went to the Baratheons (for a synthetic heart) and later, the Lannisters (to rid himself of his scars from the failed procedure) that the hostility was not exclusive. His body rejected everything cybernetic and artificial.
In a world where life is perfected through the loss of humanity, Petyr Baelish stood alone as the only (completely) human being. The scar on his chest would remind him (and the world) of this.
“Why?” She asked. And he understood her question.
Why did he want to try to be stronger? Why did he want to replace his heart? Why did he want to live longer? Why did he want to rid himself of his scars? The answer was simple.
“For a woman like you, Miss Stark.” He touched a strand of her hair, the red awakening the memories of Riverrun burned in his mind. Burned red from the sight of auburn hair, burned red from the blood he spilled for her.
He pressed his lips together with a slight dip of his head (the beginning of a nod) but said nothing. She leaned into his palm, as if to offer some sort of comfort or consolation.
No, he wanted to say. She wasn’t just a consolation prize, not to him. She would be the key to his rise, the catalyst for his plans, the queen of the rook he had become in this game. (After all, what use were kings in a game of chess?)
Instead, he allowed his thumb to brush across her cheek. (And from the touch, his power enabled him to see the circuitry in her, the synthetic fibers having a distinct design marked by the Lannisters.) It was the closest thing to a “thank you” he had ever offered her.
She finds that she is bathing more often these days.
Alayne is sure the maids are whispering about her newfound passion for soaking in the tub till her skin turns pink and wrinkled, the steam making her room almost too hot to bear. She knows they find her insistence on undressing by herself curious. But as skilled as she is quickly becoming in lies, Alayne simply does not know how to explain the bruises that dot her skin like stains on parchment, some of them bearing the unmistakable impression of teeth. Sometimes she wonders, as she drags a hand through the fragrant water, what stories her secrecy helps create. She can imagine tails of beatings and mistreatment, of scenes where her maids obliquely give her words of comfort while she hides her smiles. Perhaps she will try and discover if this is really what they assume, or even drop hints that will lead them down that path. The thought of it is amusing, and she’s sure Petyr will appreciate her cleverness. It never hurts to have people second-guess what’s really going on.
Anonymous asked ⇒ AU: Renaissance Italy ⇒ Sansa Stark/Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish
A hundred men strong lined around the edges, and they all reek of blood. Sansa stands there in her summer dress, and beneath it all her skin is cut and bruised. Pretend to be a lady, she thinks. I know that you remember.
And she turns to watch as Petyr mounts the steps to claim the Throne. He stands before it calmly, gazing up in wonder past the incline of the steps. A hundred men, fresh from battle, and the sound of indrawn breath is the only thing that’s heard.
“Take it, Petyr,” she calls out, and all the smooth symbolic silence rears its head at her and balks. There is confusion in his eyes when he turns to look at her, as though a sudden revelation has grasped him round the neck.
“No,” he says. “You.”
And slowly, sickeningly, with grace that makes Sansa’s stomach leap into her throat, he steps aside.
petyr/sansa. this is just the sketch, I want to paint it this weekend. his face is still kinda wonky but oh well.
also, she’s supposed to be older here. like 18-20.