Sansa I

It took them more than a week to clear the Mountains of the Moon. The maester back at the Eyrie had told her the high road could be traversed in three days riding hard, but Petyr insisted they take the carriage. For her comfort, he would say. Yet when they stopped at night to camp, high up in the snaking paths through the mountains, and the men would huddle around the fires, drawing damp cloaks tight around sore bodies from riding all day, Petyr would step outside for only a minute before he could bear the cold no longer and he would return inside.

But Sansa enjoyed leaving the carriage. She loved the taste of the biting wind on her face and the feel of the first flurries of snow whipping at her hair. It was a familiar freedom she hadn’t had for what seemed like a lifetime ago.

When they went back to the road the next morning, the wind would still find its way inside the carriage, whistling past the gaps in the wood, and Sansa listened to it as she would a bard’s melody. It sang of gray days playing in the courtyards of Winterfell with her brothers and sister, building castles of snow and bathing in the hot springs, before her world became one of princes and ladies and dresses. But those happy days were a distant memory now, too far to reach no matter how hard she tried grasping at them.

Sansa knew they had left the high road when the axles of the carriage stopped rattling with every rotation. The shuttered windows were covered with silvery silk curtains, and when she opened the shutters to look outside, she saw a world painted in tones of gray, as if a fine layer of ash had covered the land in the night. The rocky heights of the Vale of Arryn, with its wild shrubbery and thick dark forests, slowly turned to green woodlands and gently rolling hills of lush grass. But from her perch behind the curtains, they were a dull lifeless gray.

After another day’s riding, half their escort of thirty men turned back around to return to the Eyrie.It was for her safety, Littlefinger told her, lest they draw unwanted attention from Lannisters agents on the road. A year ago, she might have believed him, and thought of him as a chivalrous knight worthy of songs.

A year ago she was a fool.

She still played her part, smiling and nodding at his words, but it was a strained thing. Everything she did was forced, as of late. She felt like a giant doll being passed around from hand to hand, dancing to the tune of her masters.

The weather warmed as they rode deeper into the Riverlands. Once, she had wished nothing more than to visit the Tullys at Riverrun. Her mother used to tell stories of her childhood in her father’s castle, of running through a bright godswood of tall redwoods and elms, skipping rocks over gentle streams of clear springwater, the air filled with the aroma of a dozen different flowers. It seemed like a different world from the gloomy Winterfell.

But meeting her Aunt Lysa had soured the idea of family for her. The only family she truly had was gone, and she was partly to blame for it. She was better off letting go of stupid, childish fancies.

They finally stopped when they reached the Inn at the Crossroads, a stone throw’s away from the Ruby Ford. The place brought back dark memories for her, and she had to shake her head to stop the tears that threatened to fall. She didn’t want to think of all those she betrayed that day.

The inn was three stories tall, with a thatched roof and white riverstones as its foundation. Petyr opened the door of the carriage for her and guided her on his arm with ten of their knights, while the rest of the Arryn men led the horses to the stables. Inside, the common room ran the entire length of the ground floor, and most tables were already full despite the early hour. The air smelled of stale beer and sweat, but it was better than staying inside the carriage.

They got a table at the back, near the kitchen—a larger booth Petyr paid for a few travellers to vacate, while the knights leisurely stood guard around. Sansa had a trench of fresh baked bread, and a spread of bacon and eggs with fried onions and fire peppers.

When she was done, she set her cutlery down by the side of her empty plate. “We’re out of the Vale,” she said, looking up at Littlefinger. “Will you tell me what we are going to do in the North, now?”

Petyr finished chewing on his honey-glazed ham and took a draught of wine before answering, “What did I tell you before we left King’s Landing, about keeping your foes from knowing what you’re after?”

“I didn’t think we were enemies, my lord,” she demurred.

Baelish laughed. “We’re not, my dear. But it’s friends that can betray you, no? Even should you do it without meaning, it’d be my head on a spike adorning the walls of the Red Keep.” He reached across the table and clasped one of her hands, smiling gently at her. As always, his smile didn’t reach his flinty green eyes. “I’m taking you home, Sansa—North, to safety. To Winterfell.”

Sansa frowned. “But… but the Boltons hold Winterfell.”

His eyes seemed to gleam under a beam of sunlight. “Don’t you worry over the Boltons. I have a plan to deal with them. You will rule the North, Sansa. I’ll make sure of it.”

She bit her lip. Sansa trusted Littlefinger as much as she trusted a Lannister, but she would be better off in the North, no? At home? Where the winds blew cold and white and the name Stark still meant something. At the very least, she knew nothing could be worse than being Joffrey’s plaything back in King’s Landing. If she could survive that, then she could survive anything.

“And I don’t suppose you will tell me?” she tried.

Before Littlefinger could weave another lie, a blond giant of a woman came to their table. It took a moment for her to figure out they had already met at Joffrey’s wedding, and a moment further for Sansa to contain her shock when Brienne knelt beside her and recited a knight’s vow of fealty. She had no idea what to answer, and Petyr used her stunned silence to fill her up on Brienne’s past exploits, from Renly Baratheon’s Kingsguard to supposedly swearing her sword to her mother.

Instantly, her resolve hardened. The last year had made her weary of vows of loyalty and empty promises. Words were wind, she knew now better than ever. Littlefinger was a lying bastard, but he was a liar she knew. A known quantity. Who knew what this woman was truly afte, with her friendship to the Kingslayer and her Lannister-gold sword?

Brienne had her jaw set tight after hearing Petyr’s mocking words. “Lady Sansa, please, if we could have a word alone?” she asked.

Sansa stared back at her, undaunted. “You should leave.”

Baelish smiled. It was so slimy Sansa wondered how it didn’t just slide right off his face. “We don’t want our new friend wandering the countryside alone, the roads in these parts aren’t safe.” He glanced at the knights that surrounded their table. “Why don’t you stay?”

Brienne didn’t take her eyes off of her. Sansa saw only steel behind them, and for a second she wondered if she hadn’t made the wrong choice. Then it was taken out of her hands, as the tall woman turned to leave.

Petyr’s men tried to stop her, but she elbowed one in the face and took off toward the door. The knights made to go after her, but it all turned to chaos when the inn’s double doors suddenly burst open. Brienne was sent stumbling to the ground, and men wearing brown cloaks flooded the common room.

The people inside the inn broke into screams and cries when the brown-cloaked men pulled out crossbows, and Sansa felt herself being yanked off her seat and thrown over someone’s back. Bolts hissed through the air, too close to be aimed anywhere else but Baelish’s men; but even upside down as she was, she noticed the man carrying her had not been targeted. Two of their ten fell before they made it into the kitchen, then out the back to the stables.

Fighting was already ringing outside, the harsh clang of metal on metal, the rusty smell of blood rich in the air. The cries of injured men echoed across the inn grounds. In his hurry, the knight hauling her had no gentleness, and her stomach bruised where it jostled against his plate armor. Before she knew, she had been thrown on the back of a horse like a sack of potatoes.

“Quickly now, we ride south then cut back north again.” Petyr’s voice sounded as out of control as she’d ever heard. The horse whinnied beneath her, and she saw the knight that sat on her horse put his heel to the beasts flank. The charger took off straight into a gallop, and it was all she could do to keep herself from falling, hanging on to the back of the saddle and the horse’s tail hairs with both hands.

They hadn’t gone far when the lead knight shouted into the morning air, and when she leaned forward she saw a line of horsemen blocking their path, as if they’d been waiting for them. Her rider pulled on the reins hard and swivelled to the side. The sharp turn made the horse buck wildly, and she flew off the back of the animal, crashing against the muck. Her lungs emptied with a painful grunt, and when she tried to breath in, only grass and mud made it into her mouth.

She rolled to her side, numb and breathless. Her head was spinning, and her limbs refused to cooperate when she tried to get up. She could taste blood mixing with the wet earth on her tongue. She forced herself to look around, but a rolling fog had invaded the edges of her vision, turning the world around her into darkness, and Sansa Stark felt herself falling into a pit of black.