Chapter Text
Sansa is running a little late. She's usually more punctual, but Baelish wouldn't let her leave early. Truthfully, she almost decided not to show up for this appointment. She's alone, and it's dark this late at night, and though this neighborhood doesn't have a reputation like some others do, she's not familiar with it, and it's a bit remote.
But she doesn't have much of a choice. She needs to get out of Harry's apartment, and if she doesn't find a place of her own soon, she'll be sleeping on the couch in the back of the bar, which Baelish would be enjoying just a little too much. What she truly wants is to go back home to Winterfell, to her brothers and Arya, to Jeyne and uncle Benjen and aunt Lyanna. But she doesn't have money for the trip, and part of her is scared to face all of them. She was so eager to leave them all behind when she first went south.
Though she's already five minutes late, she's the first to arrive. She is supposed to meet the landlord outside the building, but there is no one around. She takes out her phone and pulls up the message. She didn't mistake the hour nor the address Mr. Targaryen sent her. It's an odd name, unusual, one that belongs in centuries long passed and not in a text message.
"Miss Stark?" The whisper is as soft as the wind, but it almost feels as if his voice is reaching her from the inside and not through her ears. She turns around.
He stands not a full inch shorter than her, dressed all in black, jeans and leather. His hair is dark, and he has a neat beard and mustache, framing a plump, reddish mouth. He's handsome, but in an unusual way. She believes he can't be older than thirty. His eyes look dark in his pale face, though his cheeks are oddly flushed, as if he ran here. She didn't hear a car, and she doesn't see a new one close either, so perhaps he did walk here.
"Mr. Targaryen?" she asks.
"Please forgive me for being late, Miss Stark," he apologizes. "I had an urgent matter to attend to that took up a little more time than I expected."
He inclines his head in a way that almost makes Sansa think he's expecting her to curtsey back or something. When he looks back up at her, his lips twitch into a smile that strikes her as amused, and grows wider when she agrees to follow him up to the apartment.
It's small, just the living space with a kitchen only separated by a breakfast bar, the bedroom, and the bathroom, but it's clean and modern, and though the furniture is austere and basic, she's grateful that the place comes mostly furnished. In fact, it almost seems too good to be true. The rent isn't ridiculously low, but low enough that it made her suspicious when she first saw the picture with the for-rent sign on the advertisement board at the corner shop, which she'd already found unusual.
Mr. Targaryen voluntarily gives her an estimate for the utility bills, which is again, surprisingly low. She can feel his eyes on her as she inspects every corner, careful not to ask too many questions. He's not leering at her or checking her out, she's all too familiar with what that feels like to tell the difference, but he is watching her constantly.
She decides to be blunt. "What's the catch?" she asks, turning to face him.
He tilts his head, holding her gaze calmly. "There is no catch." He shrugs. "I don't really need the money, and I don't want the living space to go to waste."
She nods and runs her hand over the top of the breakfast bar, pretending to study the surface. "Then why don't you live in it yourself?"
"Oh, I have my own unit," he points out. "I own the building."
She shouldn't be surprised by that. She bites her lip, smoothing her hand down her scarf. "Alright," she tells him. "I'll take it."
The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles at her. "I have a standard contract in my office downstairs. We can fill out the details together right now, if you like."
She nods. "That would be great."
When they've finished the paperwork, he offers her the keys.
She stares at them. "Don't you want to wait for the deposit?"
"There's no need for that," he waves away her objection. "In fact, I think you should stay here tonight. It's late. I don't believe it would be safe for you to head back home tonight."
She has been dreading that, both the Uber ride back and returning to Harry's spare room while he's off partying with his newest fling in Pentos. She knows she should be concerned by Mr. Targaryen's eagerness to keep her here, but for some reason she doesn't. She trusts him, even though she knows she probably shouldn't.
He's giving her another smile when she looks up at him again, and she offers him a bright smile back.
"I'm never going to see my money," Sansa sighs into her phone as she turns the key and pushes the door open. She couldn't take Baelish' lecherous looks and lingering touches any longer, so she decided to quit on the spot.
"Yeah, no," Jeyne mutters back. "Try to look at it like this, though. You won't have to see that creep Baelish ever again."
She sure hopes so. Thinking about the way Baelish looked at her and tried to touch her still makes Sansa shiver with disgust.
"Did you get in any trouble with your landlord?" Jeyne asks.
"No," Sansa answers slowly as she drops her bag and jacket on a chair. Masha Heddle has been kind enough to give her more hours at the corner shop, and an advance payment of her next paycheck, but she didn't manage to pay Mr. Targaryen in time. "I was almost a week late, but I never saw him. He didn't even send me a text or anything."
"Just be careful," Jeyne warns her.
"What do you mean?" she asks with a frown as she toes her shoes off.
"He didn't bring up the rent issue. That's... I don't know," Jeyne answers around a mouthful of something she's chewing loudly.
Sansa narrows her eyes, even though Jeyne can't see her. "What are you eating?"
Jeyne stays quiet for a couple of seconds. "Lemon cake."
Sansa groans as she thinks about the meager dinner she's about to make. She'll give herself five minutes on the couch before she starts that. "I'd kill for a lemon cake."
"So, tell me about Mr. Tarquinian."
"Targaryen," she corrects her friend. She doesn't understand Jeyne's sudden interest in her landlord. "He owns the building. He lives on the first floor, doesn't socialize much, only comes out at night. He's nice enough, but, I don't know, a little weird."
"Is he hot?"
She takes her time, swinging her legs up and crossing her feet. "I guess so. Kind of." She's not quite sure where Jeyne is going with this sudden change in her line of questioning, but knowing her, she's not expecting anything good to come out of it.
"Maybe you shouldn't be that careful after all," she continues, and Sansa can hear the grin in her voice.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Come on, Sansa." Jeyne laughs. "He owns a building and you guess he's kind of hot. He's probably one of those super rich eccentric types, and he might be into you."
She closes her eyes and rubs at the spot between her eyebrows. "And you're getting all of that from him not bringing up that my rent was late?"
"I have a gift," Jeyne answers proudly.
When Sansa opens her front door the next morning, there is a pastel green cardboard box waiting for her on the doormat, which has a card attached to it. She doesn't recognize the handwriting.
It's comforting to know you still love lemon cakes. I wouldn't want you to kill someone over them, though, so I've arranged for a box of them to be delivered to you.
Sansa knows she should probably be freaking out, and feel creeped out, but instead, a familiar warmth starts spreading through her chest, and then, moments later, she's aching for something she didn't even know she had lost. She can almost remember what it is. The answer is on the tip of her tongue as a scent of pine, leather and woodsmoke embraces her, but it stays just out of her grasp, like someone she can see staring at her out of the corner of her eye, but is gone as soon as she turns around.