Chapter Text
Littlefinger is there when you wake up.
He has this small cough he does, a discreet clearing of his throat, when he wants you to know he's disappointed. You could hear it from a million miles away, and you can definitely hear it when he hovers above you in bed.
If you weren't in Sandor's arms, you'd be dead.
"Having fun, are we?" Littlefinger says. His eyes glitter like grassy razor blades. You slowly lift your head from Sandor's pec and give him a nudge. He's down to his boxers—you fell asleep petting his chest, milking him for stories.
When he thunders up with all his muscles, he's about as happy as Littlefinger. He runs his fingers through his hair to fix it over his scars. "Can I help you, little guy?"
Things suddenly move very fast. Littlefinger reaches for your arm, he's small but he's still stronger than you, you yelp, he has you tugged halfway out of bed when Sandor grabs your waist and throws you back. Then he's up, and he's the big one, the ferocious kaiju, puffing his chest to Littlefinger's face and backing him against the wall. "You don't touch the girl," Sandor rasps. His hand shoots forward, his big shoulders block the action, but you just know he's gonna strangle your Uncle!
"Sandor, no!" you cry. And you do start to cry because this is so scary, you slept with a monster, here are the consequences. You scramble off the bed and crawl, tear-blind, until you wrap yourself bodily around Sandor's leg and pull.
"Little bird," he growls, staggering back a step, and now Uncle deals his sharpest words.
"If I were you, dog, I'd back off. One touch and my lawyers will have you behind bars."
"f*ck your lawyers," Sandor snarls.
"Sandor," you whine, but Uncle comes for you next.
"The Hound? Really, Sansa? Are you so stupid? You have a boyfriend, or have you forgotten?"
You sob because you are dumb and you do have a boyfriend, but you did it anyway. Sandor seemed worth it last night but he doesn't anymore; you want to wish him gone and forget everything that happened, especially the dirty stuff. Sandor barks, "Her boyfriend's a dick." He tries to pry you off him, but you squeeze his leg even harder. "Just go away," you whine, shaking him. "Go." Turns out he was playing nice, because he takes your upper arms and yanks you up, toes dangling.
"Who?" he spits. His eyes look so different, shiny, white, frightening. They’re worse than his scars.
You shut him out, and whisper, "You, Sandor."
A terrible second passes, then he surrenders you to the ground, softly, like you're a crystal vase, or elsewise empty-boned. You can't bear witness, so you listen as he breathes broken boulders, redresses, and storms out the door. Slam. You're relieved because one problem is solved, the weight of the sun is gone, but in his wake, there's reverse catastrophe—a tiny one, with a clean, surgical impact. A wormhole.
Littlefinger doesn't beat you—not on tour, not on your face. Never the moneymaker. He has a special discipline ritual, back home. Right now, you're naked in front of people all the time. So as soon as Sandor's gone, he commands you to the couch for a simple lecture. He needs you to sit down, so he can be taller. These conversations always go the same. "What were you thinking?" You weren't. "He's an animal." You know. "He's hideous, and worse, a nobody." That one stings. He felt substantial last night, in topsy-turvy world, where dragons can somehow nest with little birds. You clench your fists, nails deep in your palms, and force down tears: you're just like Usagi. You know, yes, you know, but you hate when Littlefinger says it.
"You're such a crybaby."
"Don't fire him," you whine. "I'll be good, I promise."
He lets you snivel on the couch while he makes his calls. You freeze there, as if black vines bind your bones. You wish you were Sailor Moon, a magical girl, moon tiara action, you aim it square at Littlefinger's silver head. But you're not powerful like a pretty guardian ought to be, or brave in the face of evil. Because Sandor has the evil face. Littlefinger has a perfectly tailored Michael Kors suit, a keenly trimmed goatee, not a hair out of place, or hint of monster stink. You don't know who to fight. No, you're like Usagi: a fat, witless crybaby.
It's Littlefinger who cuts the vines. He hands you his Blackberry. "For you," he says.
"Sansa Stark speaking," you get out, brutally fake-sweet.
"Hey babe," comes a voice like bored summertime.
Joffrey! (♥ω♥*)
You have so many things to tell him! (And even more things you definitely can't!) You open your mouth, shape words like a landbound fish, but nothing comes out. Luckily, Joff takes over.
"I'll be at your Hollywood show," he says.
Your heart soars to the moon. "Really?"
"Yeah, that's what I just said."
"Oh my gosh, babe, that's amazing!" You clap a hand over your mouth to keep in a squeal—Joff hates them. Maybe everything will be okay! Maybe you really can forget Sandor!
"I have to go. Uh—love you."
"I love you too, baby! I'll see you so soon!"
You pass the Blackberry back to Littlefinger, who stands over you. He made this happen. He saved you from terrible evil and threw down the rose at the last minute.
You sink onto your knees and wrap your arms around fresh-pressed slacks. "Thank you so much, Uncle Petyr," you say. "I owe you everything."
He knows, and you do.
—
You ride a carnival high, all bright lights, thrills, smelly food you can't eat, but it's about the feeling, like the first time you went to Disneyland (with Dad, of course). But the ground is sticky with puke and slushies, children scream, and greasy hotdog holders clutter the paths alongside crumpled churro wrappers and squashed styrofoam. You're exhausted, your muscles ache to the bone, but you can't be sad, after all, you're at the fair!
Dreams come true!
Here's your dream: you don't get to ride in the bus anymore. Littlefinger drives you. Yes, he drives. He likes when it's the two of you, alone. He rented a boring BMW, cramped, no space for dancing, no space for laying down, or like half of your suitcases. No space for Puff (he hates her ╥﹏╥) or even thinking. He doesn't let you turn on the radio and he doesn't want you to play games either; your backpack idles in the trunk. He likes to talk about your future. "I think we'll sign another three records," he tells you. "Walder was pleased with your weight loss—you just have to keep it that way." He knows about the Margaery drama, too. "She went to Switzerland!" you whine. Littlefinger strokes your velour-cloaked thigh to reassure you. "She invited herself, and besides, she stayed at a resort. That girl is a floozy. Joffrey isn't interested."
So maybe she didn't see the ring. Maybe you invented that part. It felt so real, though. Who cares. Joff is back to texting you. That's what you do in the car, because Littlefinger says it's appropriate. You pass hours in the Mojave desert on your phone, texting Wylla, Randa, Jeyne, and Arry, too. You were hoping to fly Arry out for one of your shows. He said no, he was too busy with school. Bummer. You're in the midst of forgetting Sandor, but you still feel like talking about him. You feel like talking about him to Arry specifically, because Arry's not a pretty girl like the rest of your friends. Annoyingly, he's like Sandor, a rebel bad boy.
Since when did Arry care about school?
He should care about you more.
Most importantly, Littlefinger has your surgery scheduled in May. Snip snip for your ugly, flappy lips. You'll have time to heal in between contracts, and before you start recording. Dr. Qyburn will do other work too, touch-ups, filler, a smidge of botox. "You can't sag," Littlefinger says. "You won't sell if you look older."
You agree. The mere thought of wrinkles—terrible!
So all in all, your spirits are lifted: you're skinnier, on top of your game, and madly in love with your prince.
It would be so easy, except for one thing.
You begged, begged, for Sandor to keep his job.
And now, every show, you have to see him. It's awkward for so many reasons. A) Littlefinger is always there, like, always. If he could help it, he wouldn't be more than three feet apart from you. The only time he cuts you loose is for rehearsal, but even then, he paces in front of the stage and futzes with his Blackberry. So that brings you to B) Sandor stares at you, but he won't talk to you. During rehearsal, he sits in his stupid shadowy dragon's lair, and two cruel gray eyes slice you through. You quickly remember his face is ugly, his brow slanted with perpetual anger.
Thing is, there are times where proximity is unavoidable. Ugh, last show, you and Littlefinger walked past Sandor backstage (literally just walking) and protectively, Littlefinger clutched your hand. Sandor glared a whole armory of daggers and did a fake-out lunge, like he was gonna commit some sort of violence. Littlefinger flinched and you peed a bit.
"Careful, dog," he hissed. Hey, only you can call him that!
But you keep quiet and look down, not like to be stabbed.
It's whatever, you don't need to talk to Sandor, your mix is perfect. You make conversation with Symeon and Arthur so you can secretly watch him put on his jacket and go for his smoke break. Smoking is so bad for you, like you'd definitely never date someone so gross, but you're always kind hoping, deep in the back of your head, that he'll do what a big monster ought to do, and steal you away. Unwillingly, of course.
What happened to the days when he'd pop out of nowhere? You try to remember how that went down. You would love to puke all your food up and get chased. You're in thrill mode, tummy flopping, nerves buzzing. But with Littlefinger around, you don't even eat that much food. Certainly not in the car, not during rehearsal, so if you're lucky, you get a little breakfast granola, then maybe a salad before your show. Even if you do want it gone, you're not allowed to go to the bathroom alone.
Randa goes with you.
You begged for her job too, and Littlefinger decided he could still trust her. She's the only one who gets you by yourself, in five minute spurts. So you gab through the stall door and catch up as quickly as you can. Honestly, there's not much to say, like Sandor is over and done, and Joff's just being Joff—no complaints! :-)
But today during soundcheck your earbuds malfunction. One second the mix is fine, the next static fuzz combines with a horrible screech. You gasp and clasp your ear. "Ouch!" you say, and you glare at Sandor from up on the stage, like what the heck, it hurts! He messes with his machines, and scowls exceptionally hard. "Sandor, fix it!" But he doesn't: he starts cursing and barking commmands to Podrick. You rip out your earbuds, unclip the receiver, and collapse to your knees. You're certain he did it on purpose! He's bitter and mean, and oh shoot, he's coming for you. Sandor grabs the stage ledge and hurdles himself on top of it.
Omg, that's scary hot.
Two big boot stomps and he towers over you.
"Give it here," he says, sticking out his palm.
You hand over the little black box, the in-ears, and its tangle of wires. Sandor lets out a nasty groan that smells like stale coffee and tobacco. "Cut the drama," he grumbles. "It's just a frayed cable."
Hyle comes over. He has a little back and forth with Sandor. Littlefinger noticed the commotion, so he's at the foot of the stage, glaring. You look at Sandor's Docs instead. Absently, you finger the thick yellow stitching, until Sandor crouches down. "Here," he says. He puts your earbuds back in. His touch is a papa bird touch but you stay pouting, until he tucks in your loose curls, and picks up your chin. He steals from your eyes. What, you're not certain. Here's your chance, baby girl. Say something. But Sandor's nothing to you.
He's just doing his job.
"Thanks," you say. He gives you a hand up, which you take in both of yours. It's so stupid that you like him. Like, last week he was your crush. Now, when you stretch your neck to look at all of him, he's an old man again. He has silver hair in his dark scruff and it's his wrinkles that sculpt his perma-scowl. Who cares if he’s big as the night sky with stupidly sexy muscles? Who cares that if he wanted, he could crush you to marrow berry jam?
Littlefinger clears his throat down below, but you don't let Sandor go, not straight away. "Little bird," he gruffly says. "I'm not worth it."
You're so delirious (so hungry ) from this final stretch of tour, that by the time you make it to the bathroom to pee, you wear your true feelings on your face.
"What is it?" Randa asks, reapplying her bright red lipstick as you wash your hands.
You sigh super loud, so she says, "I know it's him."
"He's weird and he's old," you say. "And like, ugly too."
Randa turns and crosses her arms. One brow lifts.
"So why can't I stop thinking about him?" you whine, face crumpling.
Randa pulls you into her arms. She's kinda like the mom you never had, except for the giant boobs. She’s a mom that wouldn't mind if you had a stupid crush on a great big brute. "I totally get it," she says. "I'd let him plow me six ways to Sunday. Hell, if he wanted, I'd even do it face to face."
"Really?"
"Duh. He's got the whole Phantom of the Opera thing going on, if Erik was like, less of a bitch, and absolutely packing. Plus they've both killed people."
True. "But not for me," you mope. Sandor hasn't come for your terrorists, whoever they are. Margaery, or the Spider, probably. Bleh.
"Hey, cheer up." Randa holds your cheek in her well-moisturized hand. "You've got two more shows. There's still time."
You half-laugh because you're pretty sure Randa is joking. "Home stretch," she says, smiling, pushing you toward the door. She's very right. If you make it two more shows, Sandor will be nothing but a bad dream, a very sexy, scary nightmare.
—
Maybe you're the killer. You slay San Diego (thank God Sandor fixed your cable). It even puts Littlefinger in a good mood. He followed you from the green room to the dressing room, to the other backstage quick-change dressing room, and he watched the whole show backstage, until he could stalk you in reverse.
He gets his extra special treatment, post show, in the green room.
You do so well he lets Wylla hang out in the hotel suite for a while. She's like, so afraid of him, she calls him Sir, and stays on her best behavior. (Littlefinger is listening so absolutely NO real talk.) You very tactfully browse Vogue and surf the Spider's website. He put up a couple pictures of you arriving at the hotel. The caption is pretty nice: our little bluebird's almost done with her tour! A shame if you didn't get tickets, as always, she sold out!
Littlefinger enforces a strict bedtime, so at midnight, your friends have to go. He asks you to put on his favorite pajamas of yours, a blue silk two piece, shorts and short sleeve button-up, lace-trimmed, that once belonged to your mom. You're a good girl; you do it. When he sits down on the edge of the king-sized bed (which you will be sharing, no plushies allowed) he doesn't even have to ask. You kneel, take out his co*ck, and go to town. It's just a mint-flavored chore, you think. Like sweeping, or doing dishes, or vacuuming. Except you never did that kind. This is a special type of work, for a special type of a girl. It makes men happy, dulls their nerves, paves your path to starry success. It's easy enough, though sometimes your knees ache and your mouth gets sore.
You wonder if you made Sandor happy. Yeah, you did. You remember how he looked at you after you gave him head. You'd think he'd never gotten blown, or maybe that he never came before. It was a miracle look, and you liked his co*ck too. It's probably gross for girls to like them even though they're supposed to. But Sandor's is so big and you wish the dick in your mouth was his. It dipped straight into your stomach, it had presence, it made itself known.
It wasn't a chore. It was a five course banquet, and the post-glut shame—
Where is it, bluebird? Where's your remorse?
You swallow Littlefinger's come and honestly that feels worse. It's getting tedious, because princesses hate chores. Like totally, you feel bad. Mostly because Sandor is so not worth losing Joffrey. If you had to pick one, the answer is obvious. So you make sure to give Joff an extra lengthy text good night: I love u forever baby! Ur my best friend and the best boyfriend ever! Love u to the moon and back <3 xoxoxo
And tonight? He sends back ilu2, how romantic! You kinda space out though, you wonder what you'd say to Sandor if you could. Maybe you'd say something dirty. I miss your co*ck. Oh that's naughty! But he'd like it, right? He'd be dirty back: I miss your tit*. Bad dog! It's fun to pretend you're scandalized. I'm a good little bird >:(
you are, you're my little baby bird
Oh gosh, that took a turn. Rectangle glow floods your face and you frown at your bursting inbox. Nothing you want. You open a new message.
i miss you daddy, you type, just to see it spelled out. Delete, delete, delete.
He's a shadow monster, the infectious kind, a brain worm. He's eating up your thoughts.
Littlefinger sleeps with his silk eyemask on, earplugs in, arms draped over his toned belly like a corpse. And guess what? You have another secret (yes, another): Sandor left behind his book. So while Littlefinger is knocked cold, you sneak off to the sitting room, and carefully turn on one light. After a little co*ke, for energy, you read.
There is so much drama in Westeros!
You open it where Sandor left off: the evil queen! She's taking down the younger queen, much too pretty, much too ambitious. Then there’s something about the drowned god, and a priest, boring, boring, boring. Finally, you make it to the chapter about the ugly knight. She still hasn’t found her princess, sadly, but she learns something else. The girl, thought to be taken by a fool, was taken by a terrible traitor called the Beast instead. He defied the crown, stole the girl, and is roaming around the riverlands, killing people! Wow, you'd hate to be her. The plot is thickening. You haven’t read so much in years, or maybe ever, this is crazy, look at you go.
But purple dawn crawls up your huge skyline windows before you come back to your knight. At least you can sleep on your drive to L.A. For now, you creep back to the bedroom, stash the book deep in your backpack, and slip under the covers. It’s Valentine’s Day. Will Joff bring you chocolate? Or maybe flowers? Flowers would be better, zero calories. And Joff knows you love peonies; you’ve told him like fifty million times. How romantic that would be: him, rushing up on stage, maybe during Yours, with a bright pink bouquet. He’d set the flowers on the piano, or maybe stick one in your hair. He’d kiss your tears away, take your waist, and twirl you around.
“My prince, Joffrey Baratheon,” you’d tell the screaming Hollywood Bowl. They’d go wild! After all, who doesn’t love a fairy tale ending? You’d bury those terrible rumors alive.
Oh my Gosh—what if he’s been acting distant for a reason?
What if he’s going to propose????
He went to get the ring!!! Right???? That’s totally it! He’s just nervous! Well, Joff doesn’t get nervous, but he definitely gets secretive. So he’s been keeping the best secret of all: he wants you to be his wife! Wow! Okay, you’ll have a summer wedding, like this summer, at Neuschwanstein Castle, like, duh. But who will design your dress? You're always torn between Versace and Herrera. You’ll for sure have a veil, and puffy sleeves, and a train that’s like, twenty feet long, at least. Oh, this spring will be so much fun while you plan everything! The two of you will get a house in SoCal, move in together, and you’ll recover from surgery! On your wedding night, you’ll be a brand new girl! Maybe he’ll even want to eat your puss*!!!!!
The hotel alarm clock goes off before you even had a wink of sleep. You kiss Uncle awake.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” you say.
He peels off his eye mask and slowly rises. “Up early, I see.”
“Mhm,” you say, smiling wide. “I had the sweetest dreams!”
You won’t tell Uncle what they are, in case that jinxes it. Even so, he doesn’t ask. No matter—tonight’s the big night. Tonight, finally, you’ll still be his girl.
You’ll be his forever.
You’ll be Joffrey’s bride <3
