Chapter 1

Sansa Stark pulled into the drive of her new home - a quiet little cottage by the lake, where she hoped to get some work done, maybe some journaling if she was good. Her parents had set her up on the west side of Westeros in a place known as The Fingers; they lived on the East in a community called Winterfell, across the lake. If she squinted she could almost see her family's home from the beach.

Her little cottage was nestled in between a thicket of low hanging willows, known as the Godswood Park in this area (the last untouched landscape in the city for miles) and a large palatial home to her right. It was a grand house, with walls so high and covered in ivy it only served to make the cottage feel more isolated. It was only when she ventured beyond her little garden and patio to her beach that she could really see the vastness of the property beside her. It was a three-story mansion with crystalline windows, and coral-colored stone, spanning the length of an entire football field end to end...at least it felt like it did - she wouldn't be surprised.

When she first came to look at the cottage she had asked the landlord who owned the grand palace beside the modest little shack. She had expected some kind of king or celebrity, but the answer was even more elusive than that.

"That house belongs to Baelish," the landlord had whispered conspiratorially.

"Who is Baelish?"

"You haven't heard of him. He's all anyone can seem to talk about these days. They say he is a businessman, works for the Spider, maybe...has dealings with the Lannister family, I also heard."

"Heard?"

"Baelish is very mysterious, not a lot is known about him, not even the people who regularly attend his parties seem to know much about the man himself. Just little bits and facts."

"Parties?"

The landlord, a Mr. Kettleblack if she recalled correctly, nodded with a grin.

"Yes, did I not mention that? He hosts parties regularly, almost every weekend. Lavish and grand parties; celebrities and royalty attend. Musicians from all over the world perform...I even heard rumors of bootlegged liquor and prostitutes. Very scandalous, very outrageous. Anybody whose anybody attends at least once. I, myself had been graciously offered entrance once. Could barely stand all the noise for five minutes. I hope the noise won't be a turn off for you. You won't hear much this side of the wall, no more than a murmur."

Sansa could've said no, the noise could be a problem when it came to her writing...but the idea of living next to such an enigma, well...maybe she'd get some inspiration from her mysterious neighbor.

"I'll take it!" she said without hesitation and the papers were signed that day without even consulting her parents.

That reminded her, she promised she would come home for dinner tomorrow night to celebrate her moving out on her own. (One last ditch attempt to convince her to comeback, no doubt, at least on her father's part.) She made a mental note of it as she put her car into park.

Her car (an old Dodge she had seen for sale at a used car lot) gruffled and grunted into silence as it came to a full stop in front of the little cottage. Sansa smiled. The car was black, with rusting edges, torn and worn leather seats, and a dent in the right fender. It was sturdy and grumbly; it had creaks and leaks; it had character. From the moment she saw it she had to have it, she could not and would not drive anything else. Because of its decent price and functionality, her parents agreed.

All she had for belongings was a large suitcase full of clothing, a lamp she had bought at a yard sale, a quilt made for her by her old nurse Mordane (the closest person she'd ever had to a grandmother), and a framed picture of her and her sister Arya on a beach in France. She always dreamed she'd return there with her husband or lover one day and visit that beach. Not that she even remembered what it was called. Father probably knew.

The little cottage was fully-furnished with quaint little mismatched chairs and a settee. The bedroom was small; the bed sported a slightly lumpy twin mattress, two night stands on either side of the simple metal bed frame. There was a little wardrobe in the corner for her clothes and a small writing desk next to the tiny window that let in a single shaft of sunlight.

The air was dusty in the cottage, and the ivy had overgrown over most of the windows giving the place a cozy, rustic atmosphere. The garden was to be her summer project; she already had some flower seeds in her purse that she planned to plant some time later in the week, and she wasn't even going to think about the state of the tub in the bathroom until she had to. This whole place could handle a deep scrub down.

The kitchen, though small, was also functional; a gas stove, a small little refrigerator, a closet-pantry. It would do. It's not like she planned on hosting many dinner parties or tea services.

The idea of parties caused her to drop the suitcase and box she was carrying in the middle of the living room/dining room and go outside to look at Mr. Baelish's house. She wondered if she'd ever see him, maybe just a glimpse - this mysterious enigma of a neighbor of hers.

There was no activity coming from her elusive man's house. Everything was as still and undisturbed as a ghost town. Even the lake was motionless and glassy, like a large mirror reflecting the sky.

Disappointed - in what, she did not know - Sansa returned to her home to continue her unpacking and cleaning. Her clothes were immediately hung on coat hangers and put away in the wardrobe. Her colors were very drab, mostly faint pastel blazers and lacy white dresses and frocks; dainty stockings, cream colored skirts and pale blouses. She never really cared much for ostentation, simplicity was what she liked. Simple and honest.

With a baby blue ribbon she tied her hair back and set herself to work. The floors were to be mopped; the windows to be washed; the carpets ands rugs to be shaken out and beaten; the furniture to be dusted, and all surfaces wiped. She made her bed; brand new, freshly laundered, crisp linen sheets and a lacy bedskirt topped with a thick pastel blue and lavender duvet and the quilt Mordane had made for her. The lamp and her photograph was placed on the nightstands beside.

The walls of the cottage were fairly bare, and she resolved to go out and buy some pictures or paintings to give the faint seafoam green and beige walls some life and vibrance. Her most prized possession - her typewriter (a gift from her paternal grandfather before he passed away) - was placed on the writing desk with care. Her journals were tucked into the drawer on the side. She saw the drawer required a key and found said key inside an envelope in her mailbox. Not that she had any deep secrets worth keeping under safeguard, but the idea of having her ideas and dreams hidden away like some sort of conspiracy excited her in a small, childish way. She put the little key in a small tin mint box and tucked it between her mattress and it's springs where she could easily reach it. The romanticism of it all! It made her giddy.

The day wore down into early evening. She enjoyed a simple dinner of saltines and pickled herring...her guilty pleasure - and for dessert: sweet homemade lemon cakes (her even more guilty pleasure). She ate three before forcing herself to put the lid on the tin and hide it where she couldn't easily see it.

She was sitting on her back porch overlooking the lake as the sun set behind it; a journal in her lap and a coral shawl around her shoulders to keep her warm as the air began to cool around her. She was interrupted from her distant thoughts by the sudden burst of music and laughter. She heard cars and horns; pianos and trumpets; murmurs and shouts. Before she even realized it, the docile palace beside her had come to life. Bright lights shone from the large glass windows that seemed to want to taunt the sky with their diamond-like radiance. The music started from the top of the building and radiated down into the large veranda where a splash was heard. Cheers filled the night air. Sansa decided to finish her writing inside.

An hour later the party next door to her was in full swing. Music, singing, dancing, cheering, a constant murmur of voices talking to one another. Everything she could hear from her tiny bedroom. Apparently, sleep was out of the question tonight.

Her journal had been abandoned on the nightstand as she leaned against the bedframe listening to the exciting sounds. It was almost mesmerizing to hear all the life happening beside her. What were they celebrating? Who were all those people? Were they all Baelish's friends, coworkers, neighbors?

Her curiosity lead her outside to the beach, standing on her little dock and staring at the grand sight beside her meager little cottage. It was a sea of bodies as far as the eye could see. People dressed in their best finery; diamonds and pearls, feathers and silks; dancing, laughing, drinking and kissing. It was an orgy of color and lights and people. It was a fascinating sight!

That's when she saw it. A green glow emanating from somewhere in the distance. It was incredibly bright and reached out from far beyond the lake. Her eye followed the glow to a figure walking out of the mass of bodies on the veranda with a calm purpose and an air of ease (only afforded to the man who must own this palatial estate). He walked right out of the party and came to stand at the end of a dock. He was dressed in an expensive black tuxedo, a silver ring glittered from his pinky finger. She couldn't quite make out his face from where she was but he seemed to have a very handsome gait about him.

Surely, he must be Baelish. She could sense it in her gut.

He was staring off into the distance (at the green light); a fog was rising off the surface of the lake and wafting around his feet, making him look all that more enchanting. The green glow bathed him in an unnatural light, making him seem otherworldly. Who was he?

A raucous and particularly drink-heavy guest made his way to the edge of the veranda and hollered, lifting up a sparkling glass of golden liquid. "Littlefinger!" he called. The man turned at his name. "Fantastic party!" cried the man. He was a slightly portly, red-faced, and bleary-eyed looking man. He wore a black and white tux that was stained down the front, and there was a plethora of colorful beads around his neck and several feathers from an assortment of boas clinging to his shoulders and collar.

The man called "Littlefinger" turned and his eyes met hers from where she was standing on her minuscule little pallet of a dock. Time seemed to freeze as he stared at her. His face impassive, but his eyes glinted green from the light.

"Littlefinger!" the man called again. "Come have a drink with me!" Littlefinger's gaze did not leave hers, though his mouth curled into a smile. She couldn't see anymore than the outline of his face but she could...feel his smile, like it was an invisible hand caressing her face. His head bowed to her, and she felt the need to return the gesture but didn't exactly know what it meant.

Littlefinger's gaze left her all too quickly and turned to his portly friend. "Dontos," he called the man. "My friend, I will join you up at the house." His voice was husky and smooth, like she imagined a whiskey or bourbon to be.

She craned her neck to get a look at his face but it was blotted out by all the light, and he was soon swept away into the sea of bodies again as if he had been made of water.

Sansa still stood there, shell-shocked by what she had just witnessed. That man - whoever he is - looked at her as if he knew her; had known her for her entire life. The way he seemed to look right into her...she shook it off. It was just her romantic writer's whimsy, she surmised.

The rest of the night was uneventful after that. She went back inside, made herself some tea, then sat down at her typewriter to maybe get some writing done. When nothing came to her she attempted to sleep once again, which was equally as fruitless.

Littlefinger...what a terribly odd name...was it his own or a nickname? What would you have to do to get a nickname like that?

Around three, the party seemed to dwindle, she could hear the sounds of cars sputtering away, their patrons laughing and singing (off-key) into the distance.

Sansa got out of bed and once again picked up her journal and went outside to sit on one of her patio chairs. The peace and quiet after all the din of the party offered her a perfect solace to jot down some thoughts, particularly over the strange man she had seen earlier on the dock.

It was cool outside, with a comforting breeze rustling the willows that hung over her garden. With a little work she could make this place her palace, even more so than the palatial monstrosity that neighbored her. What a large place for only one man...he must be lonely, mustn't he?

Her eyes flitted up; there he was! Well, it seemed to be him, she couldn't tell from where she was sitting. He was standing on the end of the dock again, facing the vibrant green light; one hand neatly tucked into his trouser pocket while the other hung loosely by his side.

He was looking for something...was a boat coming in? Was the green light a signal?

The lights in the house had all gone out except for one at the top, leaving only the green-glowing beacon to beckon its lost souls.

Sansa found herself standing on the beach, toes in the sand, creeping ever closer to the shadowy man on the dock. She stopped when he moved; a simple shift in the balls of his feet; his hand came out of his pocket. Sansa froze. Had he heard her?

The man - she still couldn't make out his face in the darkness - suddenly lifted both his hands up and stretched them out in front of him, as if reaching for something far beyond him. It was an odd gesture, to say the least; it was as if he was reaching for the green light that was beckoning to him. Was he hoping it would come to him if he opened his arms to it?

He stood like that for a long time. Sending his yearning out across the misty lake to some unknown force. It was a beautifully strange sight and Sansa found herself glued to the spot as she watched him, not exactly sure why she was so entranced by this mysterious man.

His arms dropped after several minutes and they smoothed down over his dark suit to a pocket on his vest where he pulled out a glimmering pocket watch. She could barely make it out from where she was. The man turned and walked to where his dock met the shore, then looked up; their eyes met again, and he stopped, taking a moment to take in his audience. She couldn't see his face, only his shape, but she knew he was looking directly at her; she could feel his gaze once again. What was it about this man?

With a bow of his head and what she felt might've been a wink, he disappeared under the arch of his garden gate and was masked from view by the great walls that separated them.

Sansa followed him with her eyes, as his form blended into the ivy-covered coral stone and into the dark house. After a moment she saw a shadow move across the window at the top of the house and then the light switched off, leaving her bathed and chilled in moonlight.

She had just seen Mr. Baelish, she realized. She had just looked into the eyes of the enigma and he had winked back at her. What a fascinatingly odd man!

Sansa went to bed that night (wee hours of the morning more like) with a slight smile on her face. She was definitely going to like it here, she could feel it...she was on the cusp of a great summer.