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game of thrones + in memoriam: petyr baelish

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littlefinger + quotes

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gif request meme: 3. favorite villain (requested by wyattlogan)

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@apprenticemockingbird‘s complete Petyr x Sansa oneshots (part 1)

(I) A Virtuoso of Deceit

(II) Needlework

(III) A Rush of Blood

(IV) Mouse of the Vale

(V) Stains

(VI) Protection

(VII) A Complete Education

(VII) A controlled Experiment

(IX) Lapse of Control

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Petyr Baelish Week: Day 1 - Favorite Book

↳ “And there it stands, miserable as it is. My ancestral home. It has no name, I fear. A great lord’s seat ought to have a name, wouldn’t you agree? Winterfell, the Eyrie, Riverrun, those are castles. Lord of Harrenhal now, that has a sweet ring to it, but what was I before? Lord of Sheepshit and Master of the Drearfort? It lacks a certain something.” His grey-green eyes regarded her innocently. “You look distraught. Did you think we were making for Winterfell, sweetling? Winterfell has been taken, burned, and sacked. All those you knew and loved are dead. What northmen who have not fallen to the ironmen are warring amongst themselves. Even the Wall is under attack. Winterfell was the home of your childhood, Sansa, but you are no longer a child. You’re a woman grown, and you need to make your own home.” “But not here,” she said, dismayed. “It looks so … ” “ … small and bleak and mean? It’s all that, and less. The Fingers are a lovely place, if you happen to be a stone. But have no fear, we shan’t stay more than a fortnight.” […] Lord Petyr made a face. “Come, let’s see if my hall is as dreary as I recall.”

-A Storm of Swords (( &Thanks to souberbielle for suggesting this scene to illustrate! Specifically, “arriving at the Fingers with Sansa + Bonus points for Kella/Grisel/Bryen/other smallfolk.” ))

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Petyr Baelish in Stormborn

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Have no fear, my lord, Tyrion thought, it’s not the Wall I have in mind for you. He seated himself in a high chair piled with cushions and said, “You look very elegant today, my lord.”“I’m wounded. I strive to look elegant every day.”

Lord Petyr sauntered into the solar as if nothing had gone amiss that morning. He wore a slashed velvet doublet in cream-and-silver, a grey silk cloak trimmed with black fox, and his customary mocking smile.

Lord Petyr was clad in a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves, his silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” he said as he seated himself.

Lord Petyr was seated on his window seat, languid and elegant in a plush plum-colored doublet and a yellow satin cape, one gloved hand resting on his knee. “The king is fighting hares with a crossbow,” he said. “The hares are winning. Come see.”

Littlefinger took a moment to adjust the drape of his cape, but Tyrion had seen the flash of hunger in those sly cat’s eyes.

Littlefinger came calling an hour after the Grand Maester had left, clad in a plum-colored doublet with a mockingbird embroidered on the breast in black thread, and a striped cloak of black and white. 

When the herald called, “Lord Petyr Baelish,” he came forth dressed all in shades of rose and plum, his cloak patterned with mockingbirds. She could see him smiling as he knelt before the Iron Throne

Petyr welcomed his visitors in a black velvet doublet with grey sleeves that matched his woolen breeches and lent a certain darkness to his grey-green eyes. 

-Petyr Baelish, fashionista

Bonus: “A poor copy,” Renly said with a shrug.“Though much better dressed,” Littlefinger quipped. “Lord Renly spends more on clothing than half the ladies of the court."It was true enough. Lord Renly was in dark green velvet, with a dozen golden stags embroidered on his doublet. A cloth-of-gold half cape was draped casually across one shoulder, fastened with an emerald brooch. "There are worse crimes,” Renly said with a laugh. “The way you dress, for one.”

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Littlefinger + showing up when it counts.

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Make Me Choose: @petyrbaelish asked: Petyr Baelish or Pyat Pree

Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder.

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Petyr Baelish vs tumblr text posts (pt 7) ❤-day edition

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Sickly little boys sometimes become powerful men.

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“He’s been taking Sansa under his wing and watching her grow into this formidable — and less readable — player. They are equals now, almost. I think they both know what the other is up to.” -Aidan Gillen

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bird-dove-wolf:

She wished she could wipe that smirk from his features, that she could send him away and not let his words twist their way into her head, but they did. They twisted and burrowed and took root, just as he meant them to. 

Gloved hands tightened their grip, pale eyes looking for him in the corner of her vision, her mouth set in a thin line. She let him speak uninterrupted, gaze returning to the wildlings below, to the wildlings and the proud Northmen that stood in awe of their savage brethren. 

It was a bitter thought, a cruel one, that the Northmen were more eager to accept wildlings than her. More willing to listen to Tormund than anything she might have had to say. 

                        Denied by the very people that should have welcomed her. 

Jon was her brother, and she loved him, but that did not mean she was to mindlessly follow after him. He was good at this, he inspired confidence and loyalty, he had the right look, the right words, but he was too much like father. Too honorable, too kind and far too trusting. 

Those traits had taken their father, their brother, she did not want to see Jon suffer the same fate. She shouldn’t have doubted him in front of his men, she knew that, and yet she had done it anyway. He needed to inspire these men, make them believe in themselves and the power of their northern blood. A woman, a true born Stark questioning their King. It undermined his power, but if he had talked to her, told her what he had intended to do - 

A deep breath escaped her lips then, eyes falling shut for a few precious seconds as she let those thoughts slip away, as she let her heart calm and her attention return to the man that stood at her side, his words ringing digging in her flesh, pulling and tugging at fresh wounds. 

                                          “Nothing is ever as we imagine it to be.” 

She had imagined coming home to her family, of being welcomed with opened arms, she had imagined Old Nan and her stories, she had imagined Rickon and his bubbling laughter, she had imagined Bran and her mothers good natured chiding. She had imagined Robb, Jon, and Arya playing in the yard, she had imagined her Father’s warm smile. Those were only dreams and faded memories now. 

“What do you want Lord Baelish?” She looked at him now, turning her gaze form the snow laden yard below to the grey-green eyes of a man she’d never quite known. Given a thousand years she doubted she’d ever know him, not truly. Petyr Baelish was one man, warm and funny and gentle, but Littlefinger was someone else, someone that was no friend of hers, someone who was her enemy as much as her ally. 

Petyr heard her breath, and did not look. How many more breaths would it take before she succumbed to reason? Pride, especially Northern pride, was stubborn beyond all else. Fleetingly, Baelish thought of Eddard Stark, and ignored the pang of dread which materialized at the thought that Sansa, his Sansa, would end up no better in spite of all his careful teachings. Driven by nothing but antiquated notions of honor and fairness and benevolence. No. She was nothing like Eddard Stark. Petyr remained quiet in reply to Sansa's words; he resisted the urge to nettle her with sentiments of being correct. Sansa could scarcely abide his presence, it would simply not do to flare flames of irritation. If she expected to find his telltale smirk, pliant with a self-satisfied erudition, she would have looked for it in vain. Petyr understood the magnitude of her emotions, of the rejection she suffered, of the considerations she faced with paths taken and paths not taken. She looked like Catelyn, standing there looking at him, impassive and detached. Part of her loathed him, he imagined, wished him away, wished him silent, wished him dead. But part of her kept him near, because she needed the resources he had to offer. He knew this. She knew that he knew this. Once before she had asked him what he wanted, and he'd delivered with over-ambitious ambiguity. The all-encompassing everything provided as much of a lead as the all-forsaking nothing; but wasn't that the point? She knew what he wanted. She'd known for a long time. He wanted her. Sansa Stark. As his wife or as his whore. As his Queen, as his servant. He wanted her on her knees, so that she could force him to his. He wanted her to rule the North, and the South. He wanted her weeping weirwood roots to stretch across the Narrow Sea. He wanted her red ruby hair to spread in a halo across his feather bed as she cried out his name a thousand thousand times. When you know what a man wants, you know how to move him. Petyr Baelish's eyes shifted over her face. She asked him now not with a vague spark of curiosity to irreverent blue, but with a lack of tolerance. Careful, sweetling. Petyr Baelish had not saved the wretched hovel of Winterfell from the grasp of the Boltons for nothing. A smile, practiced and amiable, curved his mouth easily. "A conversation." Away from all of this rabble, he did not need to say. "There is much to discuss, wouldn't you say?" It was unctuous, the way he said it. Too smug, veering dangerously near to a taunt. Games, all games, running in a constant path through his mind – and hers. Paths taken and paths not taken. Paths which could yet be taken still.

{ A Broken Hill }

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doomed to be unfinished: male characters [3/5] → lord petyr baelish

You know what I learnt losing that duel? I learnt that I’ll never win. Not that way. That’s their game, their rules. I’m not going to fight them: I’m going to fuck them. That’s what I know, that’s what I am, and only by admitting what we are can we get what we want.

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Do you really think I ate the fruit unwillingly?

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{ A Broken Hill }

Punishment and reward. Carrot or stick? Simple motivations for simple people. Northern people. Hulking mongrels with set eyes and square jaws, swathed in their tenets and moralities and their thousand-year notions of honor. How they bored Baelish. Baelish who sat amid a heaving crowd of them, caring about, watching, listening to, interested in only one. She sat there with her shoulders pulled back, her chin aloft, looking every inch the queen she was not allowed to be. Cut down and usurped and denied by her half-sibling. Not even half. This thought, alone, made Baelish's mouth twitch temporarily upward, reveling privately in a secret that had the power to reduce them all to ash. And Jon Snow cut her down again, in her cool and icy logic, to the nodding, drooling masses of the hall's audience. The North had hardened her, given her a resolve he'd never seen in her before. Before. Before his unspeakable lapse in judgement had nearly rendered her useless and laid waste to years worth of meticulous planning. Fool. Fool Baelish, worthless man, who dared to entrust his most precious rubied jewel to the bastard son of a man who delighted in flaying his enemies. For a moment, Baelish closed his eyes. There was a pulse in her jaw, well-concealed, and perhaps most of them did not notice – but Petyr did. Below the thick wooden table, did her fingers clench into gloved fists? Denied. Again and again by her would-be brother. The last of her family, she had said more than once, with the deepest of conviction, as though the notion of having nothing, no one, was a fate worse than death. It was not until later, long after the hall had been cleared, bodies marching out thrilled with their own senses of self-importance and righteousness, ready to take on the frozen evil of beyond, that he spotted her, aloft, alone, staring over her would-be kingdom. Ruminating. Denied. "My lady," he approached, his voice low, papery, furred cloak a sway of ruffled black as he settled to standing repose beside her. Silence answered him. Silence always answered him. Unforgivable, his very presence, his very existence. "Your brother has a way with words, does he not?" His smirk was insufferable. "Quite the shepherd," he continued, eyes sweeping down over the courtyard, the hustle and bustle of wildlings somehow even more uncouth than the broken Northern men they stood aside. "They're all rough around the edges, stalwart in their following." It wasn't tradition anymore, was it? Sansa had suggested tradition, kept in line with their savagery, and was still cruelly rebuffed; they had put their faith now in Jon Snow, with his rule-breaking and his mercy and his notions of equality. To turn back now would make fools out of the lot of them. Better to be dead than to be a fool – so believed the North. How did it make her feel? To so poorly misjudge the wants and responses of her own people? Her father's people? To be shunted away and ignored by her brother, to whom Winterfell ought not belong, to be placated and refuted before all of the North's sworn allies, discounted like a small child? Denied. Petyr slanted his gaze, eying Sansa quietly. "Is it all you imagined it would be?" He wasn't looking at it – Winterfell – anymore, but the intimation was clear all the same.