Chapter 11

“Lord Baelish, might we have a word?” a voice at the door asked Littlefinger, who naturally responded to the sound and the knock.

“Of course, my Lady of Winterfell. Perhaps you’ve heard the news, then? The ravens have already borne the message that our King, Jon Snow, has taken the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, as his bride? Quite an auspicious union, of course. Still, I don’t recall what this has to do with gathering dragonglass, do you?” Petyr already began to spin his web, seeking to manipulate Sansa Stark, whose love and family heritage he still craved now that her mother was dead and gone.

“Naturally, my lord, I am aware of my brother’s nuptials, which had to be quick to secure the alliance that this bought us. I’m not wild about the reunion with the South, of course, but the Night King and his Army of the Dead remain a very real threat and this protects us against both that and Cersei Lannister at once. At least one of those rulers of all of Westeros is a Stark of Winterfell, by blood if not by name. Jon Snow is my brother, in case you forgot. He is my King, too. If the North must return to the Westerosi fold, then let it be under my brother’s rule, even if he must share the power with a Targaryen. If he had bent the knee, that would have been harder to stomach, of course. He needed to marry, anyway, sooner or later,” Sansa declared, not in a mood to be the victim of Littlefinger’s machinations.

“All true, yet this reminds me that you yourself should marry someday. Someone not Ramsay Bolton, of course. Have you given any thought to who that might be, perhaps Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale? Perhaps your former husband, Tyrion Lannister, Hand to our new Queen? Or maybe someone more useful in other, less apparent ways, to your cause? I’ve even heard rumors of a certain Baratheon bastard who survived Joffrey’s purge, one by the name of Gendry. I do not know if this gossip is correct, but if it is, he would have a certain claim to the Iron Throne, arguably better than Cersei’s at least. Not equal to your brother’s through his marriage to Daenerys Targaryen, naturally, but it is something to contemplate,” Baelish continued his insinuations, making Sansa more bored and frustrated by the second.

“Lord Baelish, if I had need of the Iron Throne, I would have worked closely with your scheming in the past, but I have no such desire. To be honest, I care not a fig for the Iron Throne, other than if it should aid in removing Cersei and the Night King as perils to the North, my true country. The Iron Throne is your worry, not mine. I’m the Lady of Winterfell and the ravens have proclaimed me Wardeness of the North to boot. That in itself is very reassuring to me. It shows me that my brother is thinking ahead, not just with his cock. You can rest assured that it wasn’t the Targaryen Queen who would have thought up such a detail herself, knowing so little of the Seven Kingdoms that she means to rule,” Sansa shocked Baelish by her very frank and vulgar language, but then she had been raped by Ramsay Snow on her wedding night ... she was long past delicacy of any sort.

“Of course, milady. I meant no treason, mind you, just pointing out the prospective suitors, as you no doubt have considered to at least an extent, even with this whole dreadful business of war, both with the Dead and with the Lannisters. After all, there’s no guarantee that your brother’s union with Daenerys Stormborn will bear fruit any more than her marriage to that Meereenese nobleman did, or her rumored affair with a mercenary called Daario Naharis, who she notably left behind in Essos. An insurance of sorts against the possible barrenness of the Dragon Queen is a sensible policy, wouldn’t you agree?” Littlefinger recovered as quickly and deftly as he could.

“I will certainly think about the matter, as I already have, of course, but for the present, let’s table that. I have other business that I intended to weigh with you. I need you to ... how do I put this, take care of an urgent personal task for me. It would require you to travel to the Riverlands, posthaste, and aid in freeing Edmure Tully, my uncle, from his dungeon, or at least discover if he has been liberated. If he has, what has he been doing and why haven’t we heard from him, you see? There has been, so far, no word, no messages, no ravens, nothing from Uncle Edmure, and he owes my brother his fealty, so why hasn’t he communicated with him? This is very alarming indeed,” Sansa elaborated her concerns, intriguing Littlefinger as he nodded in assent.

“Yes, of course! The thought had occurred to me, but I wondered if perhaps he had simply sent a secret missive to you from Riverrun. It is most worrisome that there has been no contact whatsoever, as you say. Is Lord Edmure Tully perhaps behaving a bit more like Lord Walder Frey or is there something else at work? Treachery within the family is most troubling, but remember that he did aid Ser Jaime Lannister against the Blackfish, and there was no sound reason to do that, was there? Certainly not an obvious military reason to do so.

“Perhaps he has been turned by the Lannisters already and for something of a sweetener, such as the Riverlands back at Cersei’s hand, given the failure of the Freys to hold it, or even the chance to divorce Roslin Frey and marry a more attractive bride, at least to his thinking. Perhaps he hasn’t been jailed for years in a dungeon after all, or kept somewhere else?” Littlefinger once again seemed eager to sow seeds of doubt and mistrust between Sansa and her uncle.

“That could well be so, but if you should happen to succeed at this mission, you will be granted a bride of high status, perhaps a Frey girl of your own. Rumor has it that there are plenty from which to choose, widows and orphans the lot of them. A suitable one could lead to a grant of the Twins, and you could imagine how that would benefit you, even if it isn’t the Iron Throne. You could wax very rich and fat off that castle, couldn’t you? You need to let go of any silly dreams of possessing me, after all. It will never happen, my lord,” Sansa proposed an incentive to Petyr, eager to see if he would take her up on it.