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For three days, Jon had ridden as fast as his horse could go to the Vale, stopping as little as possible, taking only an hour or two of sleep at the time. The War of Five Kings was at last over. His aunt, the dragon princess, was queen. And rumor had reached the recently reclaimed palace in Kings Landing that Sansa Stark was alive, ward to one Petyr Baelish.
“Go,” Daenerys had urged him, seeing how shaken he was at the news. “Find out if there’s any truth to it. And if there is, bring your sister home.”
Technically, she was his cousin now, and of all the Stark children, she’d been the one he felt the least kinship with. But she was Sansa. The war had served at least one good purpose—to introduce him to his new family, his Targaryen blood; and now that it was over, it was time to reclaim what remained of his old. If Bran and Rickon and Arya were out there, he would find them.
But first, he would ride to the Vale.
At the village near the base of the mountainside, Jon stopped in at the tavern, which seemed as good a place as any to find information. “I need someone who can tell me the path to the Eyrie.”
“Get in line,” piped up a familiar, impudent voice from behind.
Brow wrinkling in consternation, Jon turned to see none other than Tyrion Lannister happily sipping a mug of ale. At his side was his brother, Jaime, who looked decidedly less pleased with the turn of events.
Most likely, Jon should have killed them on the spot, but the jarring sight of them in this place seemed to have addled his wits. “What business do you have in the Eyrie?”
“The same as you, doubtless. Unless you’ve come to ask Petyr’s advice on opening a brothel, in which case…by all means, go ahead of us.”
Jon gritted his teeth, sword hand clenching automatically around the hilt. “If you think for one moment I’m going to allow you to kidnap Sansa—”
Jaime groaned, rolling his eyes back in his head. “Yes, please, say her name out loud so that if by some small chance Petyr Baelish doesn’t already know we’re here and why, there will no longer be any confusion.”
Tyrion chuckled good-naturedly. “Ignore my brother. He’s rather grouchy, as he’s misplaced his hand. And I’m rather grouchy, as he’s made me come along on this ill-fated journey to rescue the lovely Sansa when I would much rather be happily tumbling in a gigantic bed full of whores back in Casterly Rock.”
Jon ignored the last bit, blinking in confusion. “And what makes you think you have any claim or responsibility over what happens to my sister?”
Tyrion shrugged. “I suppose the very small matter of her being my wife.”
The next instant, Jon’s unsheathed his sword, pressing to Tyrion’s throat—though he had not been quick enough, for Jaime’s blade was also now pressed to his own.
Seething with blind rage, Jon could not much seem to care. “I swear to the old gods and the new, you filthy Imp, if you’ve so much as touched her—”
Tyrion raised his hands. “Happy to clear that up. There was no touching, of any kind.” At the doubt written plain in Jon’s eyes, he shrugged. “I’m surprisingly chivalrous when the mood strikes me. You have my word, Lord Snow, when last she left me, she was pure as the driven…well, snow. And if you’ll kindly recall, it wasn’t me who insisted on following her here, it was my brother Jaime. So if you could perhaps redirect the blade in his direction…?”
Jon frowned, looking to the older Lannister. “What tie do you have to Sansa?”
Jaime allowed a wan smile. “Never met the girl, truth be told—or if I have, I don’t much recall. But I made a promise to her Lady Mother I would bring her home. And for better or worse, preferably better, I intend to see it through.”
A short, barking laugh escaped Jon’s throat. “Aren’t the Lannisters just oozing gallantry today? But you’re mad if you think for a moment I’m going to allow you anywhere near Sansa.”
He made for the door, but Tyrion’s voice caught him. “All right, fine. You can cut us in line. But I’m afraid you’re still behind him.”
“Him?” Jon turned, following the direction of Tyrion’s index finger to a bulky, hooded figure sitting in the shadowed corner.
Even having scarcely interacted with him, Jon would have recognized that scarred mottled face anywhere. “Sandor Clegane?” he gaped.
“Bastard,” the Hound returned with a short nod of acknowledgement.
#
“All right, all right!” Tyrion interjected, managing to raise his voice above the shouts.
More out of exhaustion than concession, the other three men turned to him, waiting to hear what he had to say.
“We’ve been arguing for a good quarter of an hour about who gets to be the one to rescue the fair maiden in the tower. I’d wager that Petyr Baelish is by now well aware that we’re all scheming to snatch away his favorite prize.”
“What’s your point, Half-man?” Clegane snarled.
Tyrion offered a wan smile. “Here’s a wild idea. What if—and hear me out—instead of getting so riled up that we end up cutting each other’s heads off, we all ride up to the Eyrie and cut Petyr Baelish’s head off. Together?”
The three men exchanged uneasy glances. “Together?” Jon echoed at last.
“As the only person here who’s actually been to the Eyrie, why don’t I remind you about what we’re going to be getting ourselves into?” the Imp pressed on. “First, there’s a long, arduous, steep climb with loose rocks just waiting to tumble you off the side of the mountain. Then, the path narrows so we all get to ride single file in a slow, laborious process, which means Petyr and his men have plenty of time to take aim at us from their fortress in the clouds and pick us off one by one. That’s not to mention the three gateways we have to pass through to get there in the first place, and the thick wooden door barring our way once we reached the top.
“In short, there’s a reason we have the saying ‘as impregnable as the Eyrie.’ Because it is, in fact, impregnable. The chances any one of us making it in and out alive is close to nil. But the chance of four of us managing to make it through?” He shrugged. “Ever so slightly better.”
Another glance was exchanged. “I don’t trust any of you,” Jon said at last.
Jaime shrugged. “I don’t like any of you.”
Clegane snorted. “I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
“But,” Tyrion reminded them, “if it means a better chance of saving Sansa…”
There was no arguing with that. They, each one of them, knew they could not sacrifice her for the small petty matter of pride, no matter how much they might all loathe one another.
For Lady Stark, thought Jaime as they mounted their horses.
For the Little Bird, thought Sandor.
For Sansa, thought Jon.
#
Despite the roughness of the terrain and the steepness of the climb, it was with disturbingly little effort that they at last reached the Eyrie doors. There had been no shriek of arrows, picking them off one by one. No armies waiting for them at the gates. In fact, they had been let through without question, almost as though they were Petyr Baelish’s welcome guests.
“He’s playing with us,” Tyrion murmured uneasily, and for the first time there was real fear in the undercurrent of his voice. “That was too easy. For whatever reason, he wants us here.”
“He won’t want it after I’ve ripped out his throat,” Sandor vowed.
Jaime smiled lazily. “I think you meant after I’ve cut out his heart?”
Jon looked at him sharply. “If anyone has the right to kill Petyr Baelish, it’s me. He betrayed my father, held my sister hostage…”
Sandor snorted. “If it takes you as long to kill him as it does for you to talk about it, I could’ve done it three times already.”
Tyrion held up his hands. “Boys, boys. There’s enough Petyr for everyone to kill, no need to fight.” He rocked back on his heels, squinting up at the tallest tower. “But I’m afraid this is where I leave you.”
Jaime blinked at him in surprise as Jon and Sandor exchanged a glance behind his back. “Leave us? Why?”
“The last time I came to the Eyrie, I was put on trial for murder and nearly dropped from a moon door to plummet to my dreary death below. You’ll understand if my memories aren’t the best.” He shrugged. “So, as fond as I am of my old ball and chain, I think I’ll stay back and guard the horses.”
Anticipating their protests, he waved them off. “You’ll be fine. Jon can use his authority as the queen’s nephew, Jaime can bribe him with Lannister gold. And if it comes down to a battle of wits, leave it to Clegane.”
“Mother-licking runt,” Sandor grumbled back.
“See?” Tyrion exclaimed joyfully. “He can spout poetry on command!”
#
The man guarding the door did not even ask them their names, just raised it to let them through.
Jaime’s eyes took in everything—every shadow, every corner. “Oh, yes,” he muttered to himself. “We’re definitely being played with.”
A servant met them and ushered them through the corridor. “Lord Baelish is waiting for you in the Great Hall. He hopes you’ll join him for supper.”
“I don’t like this,” Sandor muttered, more to himself than the others. “It’s a trap. Must be.”
But the only thing waiting for them in the dining hall was a table full of food—ham, fowl, fruit, and an assortment of the most luxurious sweets Jon had ever laid eyes upon. Honey fingers, maple-drizzled cream puffs, and in the midst of it all, a small plate of lemon cakes that gave Jon some small hope his sister was still alive and well in this place.
The door at the head of the room opened, and Petyr Baelish stepped inside, grinning broadly, his hands outstretched. “How good it is to see old friends,” he cooed, stopping at the head of the table. “It must have been a long and arduous journey. As you can see, I’ve laid out my best banquet for you. Please, sit down. Eat.”
There was nothing to do but sit. As Petyr gave instructions to one of the servants waiting in the corner, Clegane leaned in toward the other men, lowering his voice. “Why don’t we bash his head and get it over with?”
Jaime surreptitiously glanced about the room. “We can’t be certain the servants aren’t armed, or that there aren’t hidden compartments where his men are watching, just waiting for us to step out of line.”
Leave it to a Lannister to think that way. Jon glanced uneasily at the food, even as his stomach rumbled. “How can we be sure it isn’t poisoned?”
Petyr had returned to the table by then and overheard the last bit. “I could see how you might be wary of such a thing, Lord Snow. Your family hasn’t always had the best of luck when it comes to feasts, now have they?”
Jon clenched his hand under the table but remained silent.
Still smiling that broad, snake-like grin, Petyr motioned to a servant standing near the door. “But if you’re truly concerned, my best suggestion? Eat only what she eats.”
And that was when Sansa entered the room.
In an instant, the three men were all on their feet. Before anyone could move, Petyr had ushered her into the chair nearest his. The carving knife before his glass remained on the table, pointed away from her, but the threat was clear. One wrong move and he could slit her throat before any of them had reached her.
Reluctantly, they sat again, all eyes fastened upon the girl in question, who stared down at the table. She was older and more beautiful than Jon had remembered, less a child now and more of a woman. Always a pretty girl, she had somewhere along the way become incomparably lovely.
Part of the rumors surrounding her were that she had been living under an assumed name, her hair dyed a dark brown, but there was no evidence of that now. It shone a bright fierce red against her smooth, pale skin.
Kissed by fire, thought Jon to himself, trying not to stare.
Just like I remember, thought Clegane with a painful knot in his chest.
Almost golden in that light, thought Jaime, seeing the girl as if for the first time.
As if he could read their minds, Petyr reached out to twist a lock of it around his finger. Sansa flinched but did not look up, did not pull away. “So much like her mother, isn’t she? Catelyn Tully was a rare beauty in her day.” He pulled the strand to his waiting lips. “But you know, sweetling, I do believe you’re prettier.”
Sandor clenched his hands under the table, and Jaime had to put a restraining hand on Jon’s knee to keep him from rising to his feet.
“You seem to have done well for yourself, Lord Baelish,” he spoke up, using his Lannister smile to full effect. “A title, a castle, a beautiful ward.”
Petyr reluctantly slid his gaze away from Sansa. “Some of us were fortunate enough to ride out this war off the battlefield, Ser Jaime, it’s true.” He made a sweeping gesture across the hall. “I have, as you say, a title, a castle, and a great beauty at my side. But the war is over now, and fortunes, as we all know, can shift so quickly once a new family is in power.”
He looked pointedly at Jon, and at last he understood. Petyr Baelish had brought them here to bargain. The Eyrie might be impregnable from the ground, but he doubted even it could withstand dragon fire for long.
Jaime had sniffed this out as well. He raised his wine glass. “Then may it shift even further in your favor.”
There was no choice but to raise glasses all around. Still fearing poison, Jon merely pretended to sip; Sandor did not bother to lift his glass at all, merely sat back in his chair and scowled; but Jaime took a long, deliberate gulp, wiping at his mouth as he finished.
Petyr nodded, eyes sparkling. “Your show of trust warms me, Ser Jaime. If only I could be so bold as to impart my trust in you in return.”
Jon knew that Jaime understood much better how this sort of intrigue worked, but all of the oily, fancy words were beginning to make his head ache. “Enough, Baelish. Tell us what it will take for you to release Sansa to us.”
Petyr’s eyes landed upon him, and though he was still smiling, his gaze was cold. Cutting. “Has anyone ever told you how much you look like your lord father?” He corrected himself. “Forgive me—it turns out Eddard Stark was your uncle, doesn’t it?”
At this, Sansa finally raised her gaze from the table, too surprised to stop herself. For a brief moment, her gaze met Jon’s.
Without glancing in her direction, Petyr merely lifted his index finger off the table ever so slightly; instantly, she looked down once more, cowed. “Regardless, the resemblance is striking. Enough that when you first walked in, for a moment, I thought it was his ghost. Only confirmed further when you opened your mouth—Ned, too, was never much good at this game.”
“Was that before or after you betrayed him?”
A thin, wan smile crossed Petyr’s lips. “You do me a disservice, Lord Snow. I’ve always had a vested interest in the fortunes of your family. I’ve kept Sansa safe all this time—haven’t I, sweetling? I rescued her from the clutches of the Lannisters.” He motioned to Jaime, then to Sandor. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but the Hound was there the day they cut off Ned Stark’s head, and I don’t recall him jumping to his aid.”
The legs of Sandor’s chair scraped back against the floor. “Want to see me jump into action now, Littlefinger?”
Jaime held up his good hand. “I think what Lord Baelish is trying to remind us is that none of us was blameless in this war.” He looked at each of the men in turn before turning his gaze back to the head of the table. “We would, of course, be happy to vouch for that to our new queen. Perhaps if you were to send Sansa with us, as a show of good faith…”
Petyr considered it, reaching out once more to stroke Sansa’s hair. “What do you think, my pretty girl? It would pain me to part from you, but could you trust these men enough to travel with them and plead for your dear friend Petyr’s life?”
Sansa had gone very still, her face white and drained of all color. “It would sadden me ever so much to leave you. But how could I not, when you have been so kind to me?”
Jon’s heart ached to hear the careful, practiced words. How long had she been living in such fear, he wondered? And just what had Petyr put her through to shape such rigid obedience?
“There’s a good girl.” Petyr smiled down the length of the table at the men and their empty plates. “Our guests must not have been as hungry as we anticipated, for no one has touched the food. But let’s not have it all go to waste. Sweetling, why don’t you hand out the lemon cakes as a celebration?”
Sansa rose dutifully to her feet, moving to fetch the platter from the center of the table. She was so close, Jon could have reached out and touched her, and the urge to throw her over his shoulder and run was so strong he had to press his fork down into his leg to keep from grabbing her. Not now. Not when they were so close to leaving with her whole and healthy and unharmed.
“Sansa was so excited when she found out you were coming that she insisted on making these—her favorite treat.” Petyr beamed at her, motioning her back again. “Come here, my sweet. I simply must try them for myself.”
As Sansa approached with the tray, Petyr pulled her into his lap, opening his mouth expectantly. Flushing with shame, Sansa nonetheless obediently broke off a piece of one of the cakes and held it to him. Petyr closed his lips over the dessert, holding her wrist in place as his tongue darted out to lap up the lingering flecks of sugar from her fingers.
Sandor let out a low growl of protest, and Jaime’s fingers tightened over the rim of his goblet until they turned white.
So close, Jon had to remind himself, even as every instinct in him warred against it. We’re so close to getting her out of here. Yet even knowing that Petyr was purposefully goading them, trying to push them into a fight they could never win, it took every ounce of effort to stay in his chair.
Petyr beamed at them, clearly enjoying himself. “Mmm. Just as delicious as I remembered.” His hand slid about Sansa’s waist, pulling her against him so her back was flush with his chest, the side of her cheek pressed to his.
“I know I should have offered you some before me as my guests,” he murmured, one hand snaking up to run a lazy thumb over Sansa’s breast, “but I wanted you all to remember that I was the one to taste Sansa’s sweets first.”
Jon was on his feet before he could stop himself, sword unsheathed. It was difficult to say whether Sandor and Jaime had stood at the same time or just after, but all of them were up now, weapons at the ready. “Unhand her, or I swear to the gods of my fathers, you will not leave this room alive.”
Petyr only laughed, his other hand moving to the knife on the table. “No need for that, Lord Snow. You’ll get a turn. Our sweet Sansa’s become very good at passing out favors to all her friends, haven’t—”
He stopped mid-word, both hands moving abruptly to his throat. He coughed and gasped, fingers prying at the skin.
Thus released, Sansa darted away from him, pressing her back to the stone wall. Petyr’s eyes followed her, glancing briefly to the plate of lemon cakes, before widening with realization. “You…”
He stumbled after her but had barely made it to his feet when he dropped down again. By the time Sandor had reached him to pin back his arms, his face was already turning a muted, mottled purple as he gasped in vain for his last breaths.
Back still pressed to the wall, Sansa watched on, no expression on her pale face as he strained and shuddered, then lay still.
Back still pressed to the wall, Sansa watched on, no expression on her pale face as he strained and shuddered, then lay still.
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Jon didn’t know when he’d moved, but suddenly he was at her side, hesitating before touching her shoulder. “Sansa…?”
She jumped and pulled away on instinct, then blinked and truly seemed to see him. Her fingers gripped his sleeve as if she could scarcely believe he was real. “Jon?”
He stood still as her fingers tentatively touched his beard. He imagined that he, too, was vastly different from what she remembered. They’d been children when last they parted, entirely innocent to what the world had in store for them. And now, he suspected, they had at least a dozen ghosts between them.
But then, they’d found each other again, hadn’t they? And he was convinced the others would not be far behind, now that the war was over. Arya, Bran, Rickon. Theirs were the names that had carried him through all the dark nights of horrors.
He offered her a gentle smile that was in itself a promise—that he would find her siblings for her, that he would make sure she never came to harm again. She swallowed, reaching out to run one of his curls through her fingers.
Then her hand dropped back to her side, she straightened her shoulders, and she turned back to look at Jaime and Sandor in turn.
“I’m ready to go home now,” she said, her voice strong and clear.
Queen of the North, thought Jaime approvingly, watching her with frank admiration as she moved to the door with her head held high.
A lady now, thought Sandor, realizing his little bird had learned at last to spread her wings.
Sansa, thought Jon as she slipped her hand into his own, clutching on as if he were the only thing keeping her afloat. My…. cousin.
For the first time in years, Sansa allowed herself a small smile—one that was not forced or coerced, but hers entirely, her own secret, sacred hope.
Home, she thought, and pressed on toward the gate.