The Provenance || Jon Snow | Game of Thrones

2.01

The morning has just begun when Gabrielle enters the chambers of Sansa Stark, the chambermaids having just begun to ready the girl when the door jarrs open in a wide ark. And though that entrance does not typically send women fleeing, the sharp look on Gabrielle Baelish's face has them standing to their toes and then sprinting off, hushed voices nigh in their folly towards the Queen Regent. The Mock Queen rolls her eyes at each and every one of them and their utter idiocracy towards the entire scene of King's Landing.

Sansa looks positively scandalized by Gabrielle's intrusion, but the woman ignores her, picking up where the maids left off as she tightens Sansa's corset into its proper form and with a diligence Sansa finds to be typically lacking. And though it makes the Stark wonder how Gabrielle knows these maiden arts, she's reminded that Gabrielle Baelish likely has no maids to do this for her--just prostitutes. Throwing the pink dress over the girl's head, Gabrielle intimately forces Sansa's curves, leaving the girl a desirable shade of flushed that has Gabrielle chuckling slightly with humour.

She makes quick work of Sansa's hair, braiding it back into the Queen's notable style despite the utter horridness of such a look. Smiling slightly at the girl in the mirror, Gabrielle is pleased with the final product, laying a warm hand on the girl's shoulder before going over to poke the fire to life in the hearth nearby. As it just begins to roar--and Sansa's curiosity peaks --Gabrielle turns back to the Stark with a wide smile, "Good, now we will not be heard."

Sansa takes a moment to understand that point, suddenly grateful for this woman's brilliance even at this early hour, never having thought of such a motive to do just this. But Gabrielle pushes on with her plans, "Now, Sansa, our Lord King is what we consider to be a sadist. Do you know what that means?"

"It—" Sansa stutters as her eyes drop and cheeks flush, "It means he derives pleasure from the suffering of others."

"Good," Gabrielle nods, turning on her heel as she makes to pacing Sansa's shrunken chambers, "Now, sadists are usually dealt with through execution, but we do not have much choice or power over that matter—so we must deal with him ourselves. This is more of an enigma, though, for we do not want you to infuriate him by fighting back (he'll only hurt you more) nor please him and consequently allow him to hurt you further. No, I believe our best plan of action is through irritating him. You've done a fine job of it thus far, though he has failed to show it. Your pretty and complacent words of praise and those claiming your brother a traitor are both what he wishes to hear, and despises since they cannot be heartfelt. You will continue with this tactic. And if it comes to violence, I will do my best to step in—but I cannot be everywhere at once."

Sansa Stark's eyes shine with a depth of emotion Gabrielle has not seen for many years--nevertheless to her. It resounds of gratefulness and an innocent kindness she holds for Gabrielle, reassuring the target that these actions are not done without approval or reward. Sansa understands the significance of her choices.

"I cannot expect you to," Sansa says, "Thank you for this, you and your father have been far too kind."

But at the mention of her father, Gabrielle is not so pleased with the perceptions of the younger woman, "Do not trust my father, Sansa. You are not a fool, so do not act like one." Her eyes turn back again to the fire, "But you can trust the Hound and Lord Tyrion—"

"A Lannister? They killed my father," Sansa resounds, scandalized, but prompting Gabrielle to send her a sharp look of disapproval.

"Joffrey killed your father—Lord Tyrion was not even there. He is a good man who is not nearly as impish as the name supposes. Take my word for it. Now, I've arranged for some dresses to be made for you, seeing as you've grown in these past months. You'll say that your mother stored them away for you before you left Winterfell."