Work Text:
Hanging On The Curtain – Morphine
What Is This Thing Called Love – Editors
Just Like You Said It Would B – Sinead O’Connor
Joga - Bjork
The Sadness In You, The Sadness in Me - Suede
Souvenir - Morphine
"Lord Baelish,
I am calling upon you in a time of dire need and despair.
You once told me you would always protect me, and as your ward, I need your protection and resources now more than ever. I spoke on your behalf after Aunt Lysa's tragic passing. We have been through so much together—in King's Landing and the Eyrie—and you have been my only true friend in the scariest of circumstances.
My brother, Jon Snow, is gathering men to fight for our family home, Winterfell. Lord Ramsay Bolton is an intruder and invader who deserves to be reminded that the North remembers House Stark as its only true ruler.
Lord Bolton has brought destruction, chaos, and devastation to the region and to my family.
As my uncle and Lord of the Vale, I am asking you to help my brother and me fight for our home against House Bolton.
This is not only about taking back Winterfell—it's about reclaiming the North and making Ramsay answer for the horrors he brought to my family home.
I await your reply.
Your niece,
Sansa Stark"
"Dearest Sansa,
This is a critical time for action. You have always been smart and resourceful, my niece. I have urgently mobilised the army of the Vale to assist your brother's forces on the battlefield.
The journey will take time, but I will urge the soldiers to hurry north. I assure you that every man is loyal to House Arryn. They remember the Tullys, and they will help you reclaim your family home.
I bring with me two thousand knights of the Vale—the finest heavy cavalry in the Seven Kingdoms—along with their squires and supporting infantry. Our forces number near three thousand in total, all well-fed, well-armed, and fresh to the fight. Bolton's men have been warring and raiding for months; they will be weary, their supplies thin.
We will arrive when Bolton least expects reinforcements. The element of surprise will be ours. Our knights are armoured and disciplined, trained since boyhood in the mountain passes.
Time your brother's engagement carefully. If Jon can draw Bolton's forces into extended combat, our arrival at the crucial moment will turn the tide entirely. Victory will be yours, sweet Sansa.
I confess, this commitment carries considerable risk. The Lords of the Vale are cautious men—they have kept their forces intact while the rest of the realm has bled itself dry. Some among them question why we should march into Northern conflicts when winter approaches and our own borders need defending. Lord Royce, in particular, required substantial persuasion.
But I reminded them that the Vale cannot remain an island unto itself. The Boltons are Lannister allies, and a Lannister-controlled North threatens us all. More importantly, you carry Tully blood of the Tullys through your mother, and the Vale has not forgotten its duty to House Arryn's kin.
Still, I must be frank with you, Sansa. If this battle goes poorly—if we commit our forces and suffer heavy losses—my position as Lord Protector will be questioned. There are those in the Eyrie who already whisper that I overstep my authority. A military disaster would embolden them.
This is why timing is everything. We cannot afford a prolonged siege or a war of attrition. Our intervention must be decisive, overwhelming, and swift. One crushing blow to shatter Bolton's army, then we secure Winterfell before winter truly sets in. Anything less, and I risk not only the lives of these men but my ability to protect young Lord Robin—and by extension, my ability to help you further.
I trust you understand what I am wagering here. But for you, sweet Sansa, and for the memory of your mother, I believe the risk is worth taking.
When Winterfell is yours again, the Vale will need assurances. The lords who ride with me will expect something more than gratitude for their banners and their blood. You can offer them what they need most: legitimacy in the North. As Lady of Winterfell, you can forge an alliance between the North and the Vale that will benefit both realms for generations. Trade routes through the mountains, Mutual defense against threats from beyond your borders, Marriages between our great houses.
As for myself, I ask only what I have always wanted: a place at your side as your advisor, as I once advised your mother and father. I do not seek titles or lands for myself, only the opportunity to serve House Stark as I have always wished to do. Your trust, Sansa, is worth more to me than all the gold in Casterly Rock.
I will ride to you at first light.
Yours,
Uncle Petyr"
"Dear Uncle Petyr,
I write to acknowledge your assistance in retaking Winterfell. The Knights of the Vale arrived when they were needed, and their contribution to the battle was significant. House Stark recognizes the debt owed to House Arryn and to you personally.
Your intervention allowed Jon to secure victory and reclaim our ancestral home. Without the Vale's forces, the outcome would have been uncertain.
I have not forgotten that you helped me leave King's Landing, nor that you provided shelter at the Eyrie when I had few options available to me. These actions have not gone unnoticed.
As you requested, I am prepared to offer you a position as advisor at Winterfell. You may remain here as long as necessary to fulfill that role. The North will establish trade agreements with the Vale, and should any threat emerge, our houses will stand together. Though I expect the more pressing dangers lie north of the Wall rather than to the south.
I trust this arrangement satisfies the terms you outlined in your letter.
Your niece,
Sansa Stark"
"Dear Sansa,
Or ought I address you as Lady of Winterfell? The title suits you.
You have endured much, my dear. I watched you arrive at King's Landing—a frightened girl with no control over her fate. Now you command the loyalty of the North, reclaim your family's seat, and forge alliances without benefit of military training. Your practicality and keen judgment have served you well.
Sansa, you have become the strongest woman I know. You faced choices no young woman should ever have to make, and yet you emerged victorious.
I should not have kissed you at the Eyrie. It was inappropriate and unasked for. And yet I could not resist - I wanted to provide you with some comfort. You seemed so lost, so alone, uncertain of what would come next. I wanted to shield you from further harm, take away all the things you had to live through in the Red Keep. Your soft lips... I confess I remember them still.
It is a privilege to serve as your advisor. And, I hope, your trusted friend.
Yours,
Uncle Petyr"
"Uncle Petyr,
I would like to thank you for the flattery, but it no longer works on me. A little pup might have wagged her tail and clung to any scrap of comfort… I was a vulnerable orphan far from home and anyone who could truly protect her. I am not that foolish girl anymore, I am afraid.
You claimed you would protect me, and I thank you for your contribution to reclaiming Winterfell. But how did marrying me to Ramsay protect me from harm? How did that align with keeping me safe?
Uncle Petyr, House Bolton's brutality toward the vulnerable is well-known. Their sigil is a flayed man—a person being tortured and torn apart. They are monsters. What Ramsay did to Theon Greyjoy was horrifying, and I say this as someone who believed Theon murdered Rickon and Bran. And I was his wife. It hurt. It still physically hurts.
Why did you do this to me? I will not accept any excuses. I need the truth, especially if you want to continue advising me. I cannot fully trust someone who shattered my trust so completely.
Sansa"
"My dearest Sansa,
I am so, so deeply sorry for what you have endured while being married to Ramsay. It was a miscalculated move.
This marriage was strategic. I wanted you to be safe, Sansa, because no unwed woman is truly safe in Westeros. I wanted you to have a roof over your head, be fed, and be warm. You have returned to your family home, and I thought it would be a short matter of time before the Boltons would have destroyed themselves from the inside. Ramsay always would - cruel men do not realise their temper costs them their power and lives.
Eventually, Ramsay did kill Roose Bolton and his ugly fat wife, and the true heir. It did not happen as soon as I expected. As I always taught you, Sansa, chaos is a ladder, but destabilisation did not happen soon enough for you to avoid harm.
I knew he was going to hurt you, Sansa, but all men hurt women, especially in a marriage. I underestimated Ramsay, and I will live with it for the rest of my days.
My heart fills with rage when I can only imagine what his hands, his body, his whole being did to you, my scared little bird, my warrior who has survived the worst and did not break. I wanted to come to your rescue swiftly, but I blundered. Horribly. I am so sorry.
I will make sure that as long as I draw breath, you are safe. I bent over backwards to convince the Lords of the Vale to fight for House Stark against House Bolton. And this is only the beginning, my dearest Sansa. I will make it right for you if you have me as your advisor. I pledge my loyalty to you, House Stark, and the King in the North.
Truly yours,
Uncle Petyr"
TRIGGER WARNING - SEXUAL ASSAULT
“Petyr,
You might have misread or misunderstood me. When I addressed the horrors Ramsay did to me, I did not mean he treated me unkindly. I did not mean he behaved the way Joffrey did - nearly publicly flagellated me and made me show my bare back to the public in the Throne Room. I am sure you are a clever man, Petyr, and as someone who owned a pleasure house in Flea Bottom, exploiting vulnerable, hungry, lonely, and poor women who had nowhere else to go, you know what men can be capable of. Men like Ramsay are driven by their insecurity – they turn it into cruelty of the highest order, a twisted, wicked game, only to satisfy their own depraved needs. I am not referring to the spousal duties.
It was a beautiful and horrifying night when I wedded Ramsay. The snow was slowly falling, and I was wearing a white dress, white furs – a colour of purity. I was fortunate not to know what Ramsay was like yet. I said obediently that I was taking this man to be my husband, we both swore an oath, and he kissed me.
Up to that moment, I was still a child. Innocent, easily led, terrified. But I still believed that I was safer in the North rather than in the South. Ramsay then tore my dress off and made Theon watch. I can still hear the way the fabric tore and the way the buttons hit hard stone floors.
Ramsay drew himself into me, and with a moment of sharp pain, he took my maidenhead. He ripped my dress, and then it felt like he was ripping my insides apart. I bled for the next couple of days. It was not my blood moon – just a memory from his sharp, forceful moves.
Ramsay would beat me and hit me anywhere but my face and hands, so nobody could suspect a thing. I was a hostage in my family home. Worse than a slave, as I had no break from him. He would lock me in the bedchambers and have Theon bring me a meal and some rags and water to wash myself. I would rub the cloths over my body until my skin was red, sometimes until I scratched it – the shame would not come off, the bruises and grip marks would not fade.
As I was lying in bed or kneeling on the hard floors, or as my knees were burning against the rough rugs, I would try to take my mind off what was going on. I would come back to the horizon at the harbour in King’s Landing, the ships going far away. My conversations with Shae, or Margaery. It would help for a few moments.
One evening, Ramsay came to the bedchambers inebriated. He reeked of wine and ale and smoke of the fire, and his skin… his scent was absolutely appalling. Anything about him – his voice, his breath, the way he smirked terrified me and repulsed me at the same time. He came in, stumbling. He was not happy after learning his father was expecting a babe, a legitimate heir. Ramsay turned me onto my stomach and spat on my backside. He said that I am unworthy for not getting heavy with his seed yet, that my cunt is useless, that I should not be his wife if I cannot bear his heir after a couple of moons of our marriage. I lay there, silent and shaking. He then spat again and drew himself inside me, as he said I am only to be buggered as scum need not children.
I screamed. The pain was unbearable. I saw stars before my eyes, and I did not even close them. I lost consciousness, and when I came to my senses, the pain did not go away. He kept going like one of his hounds with the breathless bodies of his enemies. He did not care for my cries, for my begging, for me. I then gave up on asking him to stop.
I bled for days after that. I could not sit down without screaming in pain.
Petyr, I was lying in bed one night, alone, as Ramsay retired to his chambers. I had the grace of a small amount of milk of the poppy. I wished there were more of it, and that I could drown my sorrows, fall asleep, and never wake up. I had no control over my life. I had no means of ending it all. Do you know what it feels like to live wishing you were dead?
Maybe next time you should ask Theon to share his experiences before you assume I could ever forgive you.
Sansa”
“Dearest Sansa,
Reading your letters sent shivers down my spine. The way Ramsay treated you, my beautiful, fragile, innocent little bird, will never be forgotten.
It was courageous of you to share this with me. But you must understand – not everyone can keep your secret safe. Northern men are much more.. Traditional. Their opinions are hard to bend, and if they found out what happened to you, they would not consider the fact that you survived as a strength. They would judge you. They could even ridicule you or, gods forbid, they might write a filthy song that they would spread around the world. The enemies could use your stained reputation against you, and for years, you and your House would be remembered for a few mocking, dirty lines and not for reclaiming Winterfell after the Boltons had captured it. You know how people are, sweet thing.
I will never, ever view you as any less of a virtuous, strong, and intelligent woman, no matter what you endured. Your secret is safe with me. I will burn your letter, and I insist you burn my response as well.
Sansa, I am the only man who truly knows you for who you are, and I will never judge you for the path of glass that you walked barefoot to be the Lady of Winterfell. I will protect your reputation and the reputation of House Stark to ensure allies do not turn away.
Loyal to you,
Petyr”
“Petyr,
I thank you for keeping this information safe. I trust you will never speak of it again, neither in the letters nor with anyone but me. I have burnt your correspondence.
Yet again, I am seeking your counsel. An unmarried young woman is not someone northern men easily listen to when it comes to strategies, wars, and political affairs, whether I am Lady of Winterfell or not.
Jon must become the King in the North. There is no other way we can secure the support and loyalty of the neighbouring minor houses to protect us from external threats. I am asking you to speak to the lords and ladies of House Umber, Karstark, Mormont, and every lord and lady of the Vale. It is a demanding task, but it will not be impossible, knowing that our armies have fought and won despite the least favourable odds.
There is a strange comfort in having someone reliable listen to me.
Sincerely,
Sansa”
“Dear Sansa,
Worry not: I will ensure every powerful House in the North knows that Jon Snow is a force, a valuable asset, and a fair, clever ruler who can protect the North, whether it is from the southern threats or the dread beyond the Wall.
No matter what your concerns are, I will always be happy to listen and keep this only between you and me. It is impossible to overestimate having a good friend who will not judge. I have experience in dealing with… sensitive issues, dearest, and I assure you – my knowledge will only be used to your advantage. This is a cold, scary, and dangerous world. Your safety is paramount, and hence, your reputation. Every move you make, Sansa, should be considerate, measured, and determined in the context of your reputation as a Lady of Winterfell and a Stark. I can help you protect your life and your honour, just say a word.
Your friend,
Petyr”
“Petyr,
I thank you for your efforts in joining the great Houses of the North together to proclaim Jon as the King in the North.
I would like to ask you for further counsel.
Jon would only listen to Ser Davos, as well as the brothers of the Night’s Watch, Tormund, and Samwell Tarly. It troubles me deeply. Since the Battle of Bastards, I could not help but worry about Jon’s ability to take my opinions into account. I had to write to you behind Jon’s back so the troops from the Vale hurried to Winterfell. He is my brother, and an intelligent, measured ruler – however, he has his father’s stubbornness. I do not have any military training, and it is fair enough that Jon would rather listen to Ser Davos (whose troops were destroyed by the Boltons with Stannis), or to Samwell, who has read every book in the wide world but hardly lifted his head to look around beyond the books.
It wounds me. It makes me feel unheard, unseen, unlistened to, and, frankly, useless. I have so much common sense in domestic affairs, calculating the rations, my knowledge of House Lannister and House Bolton from the inside, and my connection with you. And yet it is not enough for Jon to take me seriously.
I am a Lady of Winterfell, but I rather feel like a pretty ornament people look at, rather than a person who rules and is strategically important for the welfare of the North.
Yours,
Sansa”
“Dearest Sansa,
It wounds me to read you describe yourself as less than remarkable, intelligent, and influential. It is usual for the real heroes not to ever make it to the pages of history books. Your quick wits and ability to maintain meaningful connections are the reason Winterfell is reclaimed by House Stark – without your letter to me, the outcome of the battle would be looking less hopeful.
What you survived in the lion’s den and behind the flayed man banners is an invaluable experience. All the difficult discussions, decisions, and moves you have ever made as a political hostage and a very young lady away from her family and any protection make me admire you even more. Your resilience is not a flaw or a weakness; it is what made you the strong and determined woman that you are now.
I am sorry that Jon might not fully appreciate your input into protecting the North and the knowledge and contribution you bring to the discussions and strategic planning. I have been a young man myself, and sometimes pride and the desire to appear invincible win. I made a lot of mistakes as an impressionable yet overly confident young man, and Jon’s closest circle must consist of people who are not only able to agree with him but also question and challenge his ideas for the good of the North.
Sansa, you have soft power. The power of calculation, building relationships, and knowing people and their vices. I respect that very much. Soft power is what shaped me into who I am, from a cocky young buck into someone who knows when to speak and when to stay quiet.
With great pleasure, I will help your counsel reach your brother’s thoughts, whether it is through my discussions with his closest advisors and friends, or through… other channels. I will make sure your input is considered, especially if you allow me to accompany you to the strategic meetings with the King.
Always yours,
Petyr”
“Dear Petyr,
I knew not how genuine, kind words could help my morale come back. It was tough, feeling that no matter what I say, it would be ignored, ridiculed, or brushed under the carpet with a polite nod. Since you began attending strategic meetings and sometimes speaking on my behalf, or grounding me with your steady presence and quiet support, I noticed the difference. The difference in how my words ring in the space of the great hall, in how Jon and his bannermen perceive my suggestions. I cannot thank you enough, even though your presence has been evidently irritating to Jon. My brother does not like you – perhaps, he sees me as a threat when I am supported?
Petyr, I thank you for all you have done for me. It is important to remember past mistakes, but so is forgiving what is forgivable.
If you choose to serve me as my confidant and mentor, I trust that in years to come you could help strengthen my family’s position in the North and in Westeros.
Yours truly,
Sansa”
“Sansa,
I have known you for years. When I first saw you at the tournament in King’s Landing, barely a teenager, you were so meek, so gentle – like a winter rose, this fragile beauty of petal-soft, rosy lips and your fair, flawless skin. Gracious, patient, always polite. You knew how to be in court – you inherited your mother’s unapologetic dignity. You have her piercing, striking blue eyes and her gorgeous auburn hair. You have her smile, too. You never gave more than required, still never do – and I’ve always seen potential in how you carry yourself through life.
You are a beautiful, gentle lady. But whenever you challenge someone in court or in the great hall, or when you make difficult decisions, I hear your father’s sternness. I see in your posture and gait that you are a Stark. There is nothing that could break you. Even on the execution block, your father remained an honourable, respectable man, doing what was right for his family to protect you and your siblings. Your father always cared for the people first. You take after him. Do not ever change.
I admire your strength, dearest Sansa.
When King Jon refuses to listen to your advice, fear not. Men with power are frightened of only one thing – more powerful women. Jon is a good man, a loved King in the North. However, you are his half-sister, and as Lady of Winterfell, you should not feel obliged to give up your truths and wishes for Jon’s. I suggest that you bear this in mind and never, ever question your right to voice your concerns or even disagree with Jon openly.
Thank you for confiding in me.
With deep respect,
Your friend Petyr”
“Petyr,
Thank you for your kind words. It is rather unusual to receive such flattery from an advisor or a dear friend, but I guess I should learn the Southern ways of diplomacy if there is ever going to be peace. I remember my parents fondly, and I miss them. Every single day. I hope that their legacy will live on in the free North, through generations to come, who will not forget what sacrifices my mother and father made for the prosperity and safety of the North.
There is something I worry about, which must remain strictly between us. Jon spoke to me in private and expressed that he feels your counsel is not in the best interests of the North, and that without it, there will still be a possibility of a strong alliance with the Vale. I reminded Jon that without your personal help, there would be no hope – Jon would likely be dead or tortured, and I am scared to even think about it. You are my personal advisor, Petyr, and I ask you to remain in Winterfell to support me. It looks like you are the only man who has ever truly listened to me and did not think of me as a simpering, naive girl who only knew politics from the fairytales about brave knights and beautiful princesses.
Your friend,
Sansa”
“Sansa,
Little wolf, are you quite alright? Today in the Great Hall you were clearly in distress. I am so, so sorry Lord Manderly dared to challenge whether you are fit to make decisions as a Lady of Winterfell. It was unacceptable that he mentioned that because you were married into the families of the enemies of the North, your judgment might have been clouded by ill influence.
I was surprised that your brother Jon did not make an effort to defend your honour. I am expectant he raised this issue with Lord Manderly.
I am thankful you let me comfort you. I kissed your salty tears away, and your skin felt so soft, so perfect, nearly porcelain. Seeing you so vulnerable and hurt made me want to rip Lord Manderly’s tongue out for such hurtful words. I wish I could take all your pain away. I wish I could hold you tight, your delicate body flush against mine, and tell you it is all going to work out just fine. I wish I could give you safety and protection in a world that does not understand or appreciate you.
There is a way I could ensure your position of power in Winterfell. There is a way I could help have your voice heard.
Yours forever,
Petyr”
“Petyr,
I appreciated your comfort. I could not have dreamt of a more reliable and sincere friend. As you held me, I felt more reassured, serene, and safe. My heart is still aching – how can I not trust my brother to be on my side and defend me? Father always said, a lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
You were right, of course. An unwed woman in the North, no matter how highborn, is still a woman whose opinions will be ridiculed and downplayed. They told me I was a traitor – firstly married a Lannister, then married a Bolton. They see not I had not chosen these marriages, these men, these families. They understand not the pain I endured just because they are men.
Petyr, you truly, truly see me for who I am. Away from the titles, the past. Only you could help me stop crying. It hurts me so very much.
I trust you have a way of helping me to make sure I have influence in the North. Please, yet again, I am asking for your help.
Yours only,
Sansa”
“My one and only she-wolf,
I know this solution might not be conventional or expected. It might not even be the most honourable choice. But promise me: you will consider my suggestion.
I have noticed that even the most powerful women in Westeros have spouses. Political marriage is, surprisingly, not only there to benefit men.
You see, little birdie, King Tommen is a named ruler and protector of the realm, but who stands behind the young boy? Cersei Lannister. A widow, a mother, and an asset of cruel calculation and intelligence. Jon Arryn’s son, Robin, did not make any decisions since his father died. Lady Arryn did and ruled the Vale until I wed her.
One might say, there is usurpation of power and manipulation. I say – what is not manipulation? What is not power play in our society? Children play their parents on how long to stay up for; wives play their husbands on how many times they bed per moon; the hounds play their owners with sad whining when they have just been fed.
Your mother was a wise woman. She advised your father many times, and even though the late Lady of Winterfell did not have a military mind, she could reason with the most honourable and the most stubborn man in the whole of Westeros. Soft power, Sansa, is the way.
If we wed, I will be rightfully able to accompany you to any gatherings and meetings and speak on your behalf if people refuse to listen to you directly. If you agree, my dearest, the Vale and the North will always be allies, and your past will be long forgotten. In the books, you will be known as a Lady of Winterfell and Lady of the Vale – doing what is best for your homeland.
If you agree to join our houses and destinies before the Gods and men, no man will ever hurt you. That I promise you. Only I can truly see who you are – so strong, clever, beautiful inside and out. You are not what Ramsay did to you. You are not a hostage in the Red Keep. You are the soft force that can save the North and make sure House Stark rules it.
And… you are my sweet direwolf. So fierce with others and so gentle with me. My beautiful girl.
Endlessly yours,
Petyr”
“Dear Petyr,
You are so kind to me, as always. Your words are a welcome comfort during these times. When I feel like I need a friend, I sit down by the fire and read your words with your gentle voice in my head. You put a smile on my face even when most of the day I hold back the tears. I can speak to you freely and know you will not judge. You know all my secrets, and it is oddly liberating to lay so bare before someone. I know betrayal exists, and I know what you are capable of when someone crosses you. Still, after what we have been through and how you have proven yourself to me, I can confide in you.
This is why I have to be truthful, Petyr. I know not how to respond to your proposal. It is a politically complicated matter. Like nobody else, you know what nuance such an alliance could bring. Moreover, Jon is not only my brother – he is my King. I cannot wed without his blessing. This would be a complete move of disloyalty and disrespect. I want our alliance to strengthen the North and not to weaken it, causing my brother to distrust both you and me. More than he already does.
I am unsure of what to do. And I need time to consider whether our marriage would be honourable too. I cannot afford another mistake, another wrong move destroying my reputation and the trust of the people of the North towards me, and, hence, Jon.
What would my father say? Would he approve of our potential betrothal? Would he see this as a match that cannot happen due to our age difference? Due to me being highborn and you – not? Would he approve of me marrying a man who used to own a pleasure house?
Besides, my trusted friend, I must be frank with you. I am not confident I will be ready for any… marital duties. The memories of Ramsay are still fresh. You must have noticed how unsure I am of physical closeness. How I wince and shiver at first when your hand covers mine.
I am sorry I cannot provide you with any clarity. I need time to think. I hope you understand, and my reply does not hurt you. This is not my intention.
Your close friend,
Sansa”
“My winter rose,
Intelligent and measured as ever.
I would not ever rush you into such a serious choice. Not ever. I trust your judgement, and you are welcome to take all the time you wish. Savour your pondering. Remember what it feels like to be in my arms, holding you, my shirt soaking up your bitter tears, and my chest muffling your sobs. Remember how it felt to victoriously ride into the battle with the army of the Vale. How sweet that Arbour Gold tastes at the feast to celebrate the Bolton’s shameful defeat.
Most honourable and rational. You are the daughter of your father, and you are quite right: no wedding should go ahead without King Jon’s approval.
I may be much older than you are, and I may be of humble beginnings. And yet, I am still alive, because I know how to play the game well. Late King Joffrey, King Robert, the Queen of Thorns, Tywin Lannister, Margaery Tyrell – to name a few, highborn, successful, powerful people, all ashes and dust, and whatever remains are the letters on the pages of books. And look at myself, Lord Varys, Ser Davos, Tormund Giantsbane: a powerful name does not guarantee survival or a happy life. Poverty, slavery, trouble and disease, or even whatever lies beyond The Wall – it is not the name that matters but the skill. The late Lord Stark valued skill beyond heritage.
Worry not about physical closeness. I would never do anything that might hurt you or bring you discomfort. If covering your petal-soft lips with mine means waiting for years, I have all the patience in the world. I have waited for a decade, and I could wait more.
Nothing is sweeter than you are, my beautiful girl.
With longing for you,
Petyr”
“My northern star,
I hope the gifts that were delivered to your chambers were to your taste.
You deserve proper courtship, and since the weather has not been kind nor inspiring for slow walks around the keep grounds, I would like you to stay warm and comfortable and indulge.
I imagine you having these rose water-infused cakes with juicy blackberries from the glass gardens. How the sour berries burst with flavour in your mouth, teasing your delicate taste buds. How the juice might drip down from the corner of your mouth down on your chin, and down to your slim neck. How your fingers might try to catch the purple drop.
Your tongue circling your fingers, your lips locking over them, your spit deliciously glistening and dripping down, and the sweet, lewd suckling sound filling your bedchambers.
I hope that the dark emerald silk of the dress I gifted you feels comfortable against your warm skin. The fabric softly covering your shoulders, embracing you when I am not around to hold you from behind. Your beautiful posture, your shoulders probably covered in small freckles. Do you have freckles on your arms? Do you have them anywhere else? On your back, like little constellations, in their mysterious combinations and patterns? I would dot a kiss over each of your freckles.
I want to know how the dark emerald gown is draping over your hips. How the folds of the silk caress them, slide over your skin, even tickle you as you sit down. My kisses would tickle too. Tickle you in a pleasant yet overwhelming way, so your laughter cannot be contained. I rarely hear you lose yourself in a laughing fit, my dear, but on this occasion, I want the tears of joy running down your cheeks.
That white gold necklace with a mockingbird pendant… I imagine it is linking and flowing around your neck. If this is not too much to ask, my winter blossom, I want you to wear it discreetly under your clothes. I will always be there for you, even when I am not physically present to steady, protect, and guide.
Would you like some honeyed figs next time? Or those walnut pastries you enjoyed during our time in the Eyrie?
Enamoured with you,
Petyr”
The hour had grown late. A fresh, crisp layer of sparkling snow covered the Winterfell castle grounds: the cold cobblestones, mud in the sparring yard, and market stalls. The godswood stood deadly quiet: only the ancient carvings in the trees breathed out hot, steamy clouds of air, their mouths curled into grimaces of surprise and warning. The steam went up into the air from the stables, the cattle and horses clinging to the warmth radiating from each other’s flesh and fur. Hooves and heads and horns all seemed mixed into a giant bundle of heat. Winterfell Keep’s corridors had grown quiet after supper. The servants disappeared in their quarters, the nobles retired to their chambers.
Sansa sat at the wooden table in her solar, her face turned towards the fire in the hearth. Its flames slowly rose and fell as she sighed and shook her head, her auburn hair frizzing in the dry heat, locks glimmering with the firelight. Sansa held her pulsating head in her hands. A spitting image of her father: drained from the day ahead before it even had a chance to start. She sipped on some stale ale that tasted like horse piss with a whisper of barley while looking through the ledgers. The war was coming, and winter had come. The resources were melting away as soldiers trained and gathered their strength before an upcoming battle with the army of the dead. She thought to herself: perhaps, if only she had jumped from that tower after looking at her father’s head on a spike, it would not only have pleased Joffrey greatly, but it would also have saved her from further suffering. Saved her from Ramsay. Saved her from learning the news of her mother’s and Robb’s deaths. Saved her from mourning Rickon. All this pain and all this grief for her to sit here, in her family home, watching the army of the living slowly starve and weaken, before the dead would come to destroy what was left of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa sighed and reached out for the pendant underneath her gown. White gold perfectly shone against her porcelain skin, and a little sigil of a mockingbird made her think: what would Littlefinger do?
The steps outside her solar were gentle, light. No guard stepped this quietly and carefully. The walker outside was cat-like, moving through the shadows as if he belonged amongst them. He walked with confidence and patience that did not come from carrying a sword or wearing armour. No, his protection was much thinner, and his weapons were plain words said at the right place at the right time. The footsteps quieted a few inches outside the heavy wooden door that Sansa never kept barred. He was the only one who did not knock before coming in. The door opened with a quiet squeak and closed with a quiet thud.
“Lady Sansa.” The voice purred, and Sansa did not have to lift her gaze from the ledgers. He would speak regardless, assured that he had her attention.
Without an invitation to sit down, Petyr slowly settled in a heavy chair, his shoulders relaxed and his chest held high. Any room he walked into, despite his small stature and no martial skill, Petyr owned it. He knew his words weighed more than any blade made of Valyrian steel.
“You look troubled,” Petyr said plainly as he registered Sansa’s furrowed brow, a shadow under her eyes, and a wrinkle above her nose bridge that only appeared there when she was thinking hard. He got up from his seat and stood behind Sansa’s chair, his figure inches away from hers. Petyr could smell the rosemary oil Sansa applied to her temples to help with headaches. His hand was a gentle but not unwelcome weight on her forearm that brushed past her loose unbraided hair. His knowing calculating gaze skimmed the pages of the ledger. Nothing a former Master of Coin could not fix in an hour, Petyr smirked to himself, a corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
Sansa glanced up at Petyr, snapping back to the reality of the room and his presence so close to her, the sound of his breathing invading her personal space. She noticed his eyes darting from one side of the page to another, processing each line and each number effortlessly. Considerably quicker than she ever could.
“No amount of staring will change these numbers, my lady. You're only losing sleep.” Petyr’s voice was kind, quiet, and yet firm. “Little bird, look at me,” his soft, undamaged by an honest day’s work hand lifted Sansa’s chin so her gaze would meet his. “I will find a way of stretching our resources for another moon and arrange for a produce delivery from the Vale. It pains me to see you taking the weight of the world upon your shoulders. Sansa, you are Lady of Winterfell, and you work so hard for the people of the North. But the hour is late.” Petyr’s voice was authoritative, paternal, as his glance flickered down towards Sansa’s throat. There it was. He recognised the white gold chain instantly.
Petyr’s fingers slid down, tracing Sansa’s pulse point for a moment before feeling the warmth of the metal that was so close to her skin. All day. All night. Petyr’s breath briefly hitched as he imagined Sansa wearing his gift, his sigil resting on her chest beneath her gown.
Sansa’s breath came in short, quiet pants like a doe hoping to slip away from a careful stare of a beast much more powerful and dangerous than her. “I thank you for your thoughtful gift, Petyr. It indeed feels like your presence even when you are not there.” Sansa felt goosebumps running down her arms, the back of her neck, and all the way down her spine. She was a full inch taller than Petyr, and yet as he was towering over her and holding the chain, his gift, between his fingers, Sansa felt pinned to the chair as she could not bring herself to move away, up, or anywhere. It was her solar in her family home, and despite this, Littlefinger collared her like a hound and gave her a wordless command to sit.
“Just imagine, Sansa,” Petyr softly said, murmuring, his words all coming together, all syllables pouring like a mountain stream, “when we are married, you need not worry about any of those problems. With such an alliance, the resources of the Vale would be yours to help the people of the North with. No more ledgers that would keep you awake past the decent hour. No more worries about numbers, armies, and provisions.” His fingers let go of the pendant and gently lifted Sansa’s chin, his thumb brushing and outlining the curve of her jaw. “In the winter, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. And I will make sure we not only endure, but we thrive.”
Sansa’s breath hitched and caught in her chest. She couldn’t help but feel the tears slowly surfacing and blurring her vision. The room became bright and muted circles of light, and Petyr’s face melted with them before she blinked her tears away. He promised her protection and resources, and a dutiful thing would be to accept his offer. But what of Jon’s blessing? What of honour? What would father and mother think? These are different, desperate times, and Sansa looked up at Petyr again, vulnerable, soft. Sansa slightly opened her mouth to reply, but her words caught in her throat. There was a lump she could not quite swallow, and the more she tried to reply, the wetter her cheeks became. The tears stung her delicate skin, and his touch burned, both chaining and comforting, steadying and unsettling.
“Shhhh, little bird,” Petyr leaned over. “You do not have to speak. Say no more.” He saw her struggle to let any sound out apart from a quiet whimper. Petyr let go of Sansa’s chin, not pushing further. Instead, he gently pulled her hand so that Sansa stood up. His arms wrapped around her waist and shoulders, holding her close and pulling her into an embrace. The necklace wreathed around her neck, and now his arms curled all over her body as she was shaking, sobbing, and trembling. She smelled like rosemary incense – a unique combination of her headache cure and smoke from the hearth. Her auburn locks fell against his cheeks, softer than the most expensive Essosi silks. Petyr comforted Sansa, knowing: he would be the only person she would allow to see her in such a state of uncertainty, confusion, lost like a little pup in this complicated world. One hand slaps, another soothes. Petyr smirked to himself as Sansa’s breath steadied and sobs subsided.
After a while, Sansa pulled back slightly, creating some much-needed distance between them. She looked at him, carefully memorising his features. His tired eyes and shadows underneath them from all the late nights, the wrinkles in the corners giving away his age. His moustache was perfectly trimmed, and yet stubble was growing on his cheeks since it had been hours since the morning shave. As he was holding her, she felt his chest going up and down, his breath warm next to her ear. Petyr was human, like anyone else, with small imperfections, and perhaps when they were alone, he would be nothing more and nothing less. When he let go of theatrics, witty remarks, enigmatic smirks, and talking without saying anything specific, he was possible to understand. When his gaze met Sansa’s, she spoke no more.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Petyr said softly. She gave in. Their long cast shadows waltzed away from the dying light in the hearth of the solar, through heavy and stiff wooden doors. Their steps echoed on the cold stone hallways and passages until they reached Sansa’s bedchamber. The fire crackled in the hearth, the wax in the candles bled down drip by drip. The servants placed the heated stones underneath the soft hay and feathers in the mattress to keep the lady’s bed warm through the night. Petyr threw another log into the fire and poked it around the coals, as if this were his room and his heat to keep.
Petyr approached Sansa from behind, his fingers moving her hair away from the laced-up back of her outer gown. His fingertips brushed over the nape of her neck. He then worked meticulously and steadily, untying the lacing knot after knot. The well-woven wool slipped on the floor, and Petyr held Sansa’s hand as she stepped over it.
Her dark-blue woolen kirtle was front-laced. Sansa sat down on the bed as Petyr settled next to her, the mattress giving in unusually to the weight of two people. Her fingers slightly trembled as she hurried to unlace the kirtle, but Petyr's hand covered hers, stopping her rushed ministrations.
“You’re safe with me, Sansa. You’re at home, in your own bed. No need to haste.” His words were grounding and kind. Petyr raised his eyebrows, reassuring Sansa with a small nod. Sansa’s fingers stalled for a moment and slowed down. She awkwardly smiled and nodded in quiet agreement. Finally, the knots and buttons relented, and her kirtle revealed a thin linen shift. The last barrier covering her bare skin.
Sansa rose to her feet to put away her kirtle and fold it neatly. In the low lighting, her nearly bare form looked so fragile, still angular and slim, teenage-like. And yet, Sansa was a woman grown, and no layers of fabric could hide her wide hips and the peaks of her breasts. She slowly turned around to catch Petyr’s gaze. He was not ogling her. He was admiring the woman she had become. Sansa uncertainly stepped closer to the bed where Petyr sat, not quite sure what to do until he patted the spot next to him and shifted to the edge so she could climb under the covers.
Hidden under the covers, Sansa felt somehow safer. She exhaled softly as her head touched the pillow, her hair scattering on soft linen. Petyr smiled warmly at the sight of Sansa finally comfortable and sleepy. He tucked her in before pressing a gentle, soft kiss to her forehead.
“Rest now, little bird.” The back of his hand caressed her cheek before he blew the last candle out and slid out of her chambers into the dimly lit hallway.
***
As Sansa prepared for bed, she noticed the letter sealed with a mockingbird stamp on red wax. She smiled to herself, and as the covers slid over her, Sansa broke the seal. The letter smelled of lemonbalm and mint oil. Closing her eyes, she could nearly feel the heat and softness of his fingers on the neatly folded parchment.
"My icy rose,
I will wait for as long as you need to open your heart to me.
I long for you.
I lie awake, sleepless, restless, rustling in my sheets. My dreams are feverish and puzzling. I wake with your name on my dry lips, parched, but not for water.
How do you sleep? Do you feel my longing and desperation through the heavy doors, the long flights of stairs, your covers, and the linen shift dividing us? Can you hear the squeaking of my bed as I toss and turn? I close my eyes and see yours. That deep blue, hypnotising, calling me to dive in. I do not believe in the Drowned God, but I know where my drowning ceremony would take place. I do not need my airways filled with water to lose my breath. I need only look at your unmatched beauty. Every reserved smile you give me, I treasure like the greatest gift given to a man.
All I can think of is how I would press my lips against yours and savour you until your lips swell. I would slide my tongue inside that gorgeous mouth of yours, circle your teeth, taste you, suck on your tongue. Nothing would compare to having you all to myself. No honeyed figs, no ripe melons, no juicy strawberries, nor fresh grapes would compare to the flavour of your lips and your sweet whimpers.
I would slide my hand between those soft thighs of yours. As your chest rises and you gasp sharply from the sudden, sweet pleasure, I would drink in the beautiful view. How messy your hair would be, scattered across the pillow. How rosy your cheeks would flush. How your vision would blur, your eyes nearly black from dilated pupils.
Sansa… nothing matters without you. The Sun could not rise for me without you. The stars would fall from the sky if not for your gentle, kind, quiet presence. The world does not exist for me if there is no you.
Sansa, my stunning, incomparable, perfect girl.
I want to feel how wet you are just for me. I want to show you how much I adore every inch and corner and nook of your precious body. I want you to surrender to the indescribable pleasures I would bring to you, slowly and gently, and faster and harder only if you ask.
I want you to soak that linen shift thinking about my hand on your heat, my fingers fondling your favourite sweet spot until you come undone in my arms.
Tell me you desire this as much as I do. Tell me to worship you and kneel before you to hide my face under the hem of your skirts. I need no Seven. I need no old gods. I have you.
Eternally besotted with you,
Petyr”
As Sansa’s eyes followed each line, her breath grew heavier. How could such delicate words come from under the hands of such a cruel man? Why did those words make her feel odd? Her stomach felt tight, and her toes curled. Sansa’s breathing became heavier as she was reading the lines down and down, some words making her break a sweat. Was he truly longing for her in such an animalistic and yet tender way? As she read on, over and over, her thighs pressed together. She held the letter, gripped it hard with her fingers, not allowing her hands wander, but her legs were grinding together, her hips restlessly moving, and rumpling the sheets. This sweet sensation was like melting steel dripping down the anvil. It was all too much, Sansa thought, no, – she felt it. Squeezing her thighs was like pressing on a bruise, overwhelmingly too much. Yet she couldn’t stop until sweat dripped down her forehead and temples, her hair messy. Just like he asked her, she was soaking through the linen shift, the damp not bothering her as she moved her thighs, making this lewd, wet noise.
Sansa gasped and spread her legs wide apart. She crumpled the letter, squeezed it in her fist, and threw it into the fire. But as she closed her eyes and blew out the candle, listening to the night, his soft Vale accent spoke:
“Soak that linen shift thinking about me”. She shook her head and got up. Away from her bed, away from that lusty delusion and Petyr strolling into her head like he owned that space, like a mara, uninvited.
Uninvited like smoke from the chimney seeping into the hut. He warmed, yet he suffocated.
Sansa’s arms wrapped around her lean frame, hugging herself, comforting and yet amplifying that loneliness. Petyr was not Ramsay. He kissed her forehead and wished her sweet dreams, and he left her chambers. Ramsay took her with force enough to make her ache and then lose the will to breathe. Petyr wrote her letters comparing her to the gods and goddesses, the Sun and the moon. Ramsay made Theon bring her stale bread, and Petyr gifted her honeyed figs, silks, and white gold.
He gave her to Ramsay. He saved the North from the Boltons.
***
"Come in," Sansa said with as much restraint in her voice as she could manage. After days of staying for a few long moments alone with Petyr after the meetings of their Small Council in the North, Sansa lost patience with herself. She wanted to address the letter he had sent her, but the words felt stuck in her throat, like something she was choking on without the ability to spit it out. Pathetic.
Especially when Petyr would ask: "May I help you, Lady Sansa?", and her blank stare and awkward silence would look ridiculous. So many times in the past days she desperately tried to catch Petyr and get it out of her system, these thoughts swirling around, thickening, curdling, solidifying like custard left to sit for too long. "No, no, thank you, Lord Baelish. I was just thinking about something." Sansa had to physically strain by pulling a careful smile that would look completely unnatural.
It was her home. She was the Lady of Winterfell, and Petyr was a guest under her protection, Lord Protector of the Vale or not, he was not in the position to make her chase him, trying to catch moments alone to speak about such a sensitive topic.
In her solar, Sansa was watching the candle burn on her table. She pinched the wick and felt the sting of the burn for a brief moment. The sensation unfamiliar in the burn, but so familiar in many other ways. Sansa closed her eyes.
"Bitch." Ramsay's voice echoed from the cold stone of the walls as his hand sharply imprinted on her cheek.
"Sansa…" Theon called her after they had jumped off the Winterfell wall into the deep snow, the cold stinging her. They crossed the river. Cold waters surprisingly burned and numbed.
Mother had told her that there is nothing more painful than birthing a babe. Perhaps she was right in one way, but not in the other. Sansa slapped her own cheek. "Bitch." "Cunt." "Pathetic, stupid whore." That was what she had been for Ramsay, for Joffrey, for Cersei. The words kept echoing until she snapped out of it.
She had to send him away. She could not face another horrible marriage, her identity lost and stolen like her family name — firstly a Lannister, then a Bolton. Stripped of all the titles, of the stern Stark-ness in her. Sansa could not allow herself to go through with what Petyr had suggested. He had to be banished.
Sansa made an effort not to look up immediately. Petyr prowled in cockily, always carrying himself with such dignity. She looked at him with disgust: how someone like him could have so much respect and love for oneself? For a moment she sat there in the quiet.
Her reputation was stained. The Keep remembered her most undignified moments, on the floor, with her hair unwashed for weeks, her body reeking of sweat. These walls remembered her reusing the same cloth for her blood moon over and over, folding it, rinsing it in the cold water. Sansa was a shadow of herself, shackled to the bed. Squatting over the bucket instead of using the privy. Ramsay liked watching her. Like a pet, no privacy, no dignity, no second thought. Just the tears running down her cheeks as she emptied her bowels into the bucket under Ramsay's watchful eye. Sometimes he would kick the bucket down and make her clean it. The memory nearly made her gag, but finally she came back as Petyr took a seat opposite her.
"I need to speak to you about a proposition you made to me," Sansa said sharply, with much more nerve than she intended to give away. Petyr slowly nodded and just… sat there. In silence. Not clarifying, not saying anything, waiting for her to either crumble under his stare or manage to say something. Sansa swallowed loudly, she felt the spit travelling down her throat like thick tar.
"I wish not to marry you. And I require no more of your counsel. I would ask you to return to the Vale as you have overstayed your welcome."
Petyr was composed as ever. "Oh?" He softly queried, his eyebrows slightly raised. There was no nervousness or even visible calculation in his gaze. Petyr did not seem surprised. As if he already had prepared for such a possibility. He held the silence for a bit until Sansa could not bear it anymore.
"I cannot go through with this. I cannot marry again." Sansa said, her voice slightly shaky. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled and looked up at Petyr sternly, her eyes slightly glistening from unshed tears.
Her voice sounded lower, Petyr noted. That was her usual move in rooms full of experienced military men and lords who had been in the power longer than she had lived. But this did not work on Petyr.
"And that letter! How could you even think of writing to me such a thing?! I am not a whore at your pleasure house. I am not to be spoken like that!" Sansa's control started to break, her breathing chaotic, shallow, her eyes stinging with tears that she refused to blink off. She got up. Her last resort: her height.
Petyr remained seated. He looked up at Sansa, but not with anger or annoyance, but with clear concern. She was so upset, poor sweet summer child. Now, her first tears finally were rolling down her cheeks, stinging and burning her neck, painting her face in dark pink streaks, highlighting her porcelain skin. "You read it." He said quietly with no hint of surprise. He knew she would.
"You cannot just tell me that the Sun does not rise without me and then write about such dirty, filthy things…" Sansa could not hold her anger for long. She gasped and wept, her shoulders shaking, her hands covering her face that slowly turned red where the tears fell.
Petyr got up and in two short strides appeared by her side. He waited until she looked at him, sharing the space with her, being in her proximity without quite touching.
"My beloved… Those were not filthy words. These were the words of my devotion and desire to be near you," Petyr explained as he reached for her hand, just barely touching her fingers with his. "Would filth truly make you feel so needy for my touch?".
Sansa froze. She could not move and could not speak. "Look at you. You like it. You just put on a show, playing hard to get, eh?" Ramsay's voice echoed in her mind as he was pounding into her, inevitably wet but not experiencing pleasure. And then there was Petyr, only his thoughtful poetic words making her shiver with pleasure and wetter than she has ever been, his touch gentler than Ramsay's ever was, his composure calm and not hysterical nor unpredictable like Joffrey's.
"There is no need to be ashamed. I longed for you as I was writing that letter. I thought of you, imagined you, restless, sleepless…" His voice crawled into her mind. "I touched myself as I was thinking of you feeling all flushed and desperate from my words." Petyr confessed, as Sansa finally looked at him, her hands away from her face. "Did you touch yourself, little bird? There is no shame in it." Sansa exhaled shakily and nodded, barely moving her head, petrified, but confessing nonetheless.
"The pleasure was yours. You took it." Petyr said with a confident nod as his fingers followed and caressed her jawline wet from crying. "I only guided you, but it was yours to take and have it." Sansa managed to stop the sobs, only sniffling. "I will not allow you to marry a lesser man, not again." His tone was soothing, purring. Sansa hesitated at first, but eventually she stepped closer and gripped onto Petyr's shoulders, and he embraced her, his hand running through her auburn locks, stroking her back. She came into his arms, seeking his comfort.
"You truly think I am fit to be a wife? After everything?" Sansa looked at Petyr with her doe eyes, completely vulnerable, exposed and doubtful.
Petyr held her gaze and smiled. "My silly, silly girl. You are fit to be a queen. And your heart will be the greatest gift ever given."
Sansa did not hear the last few words, her mind wandering off to the ships in King's Landing harbour, wondering where they would go, what beautiful and exotic merchandise they are transporting.
***
The ivory gown, fox furs, dark-grey doublet, breeches and a linen shift all laid on the cold stone floor.
The candles flickered on the bedside table as the heavy wooden bedframe bashed against the wall. One, and two, and three. Two, and two, and three. Three, and two, three…
With each thrust, Sansa went deeper and deeper inside her mind. She felt underwater, all sounds muffled, and she could barely breathe, motionless. Like a butterfly captured between the closed book pages. Flattened. Petyr's weight and motions were steady. His skin was gliding over Sansa's, sticky with sweat, his lean frame glistening. The vein on his forehead was visible, prominent from the effort, and he was breathing hard and loud. Nothing new for Sansa. Nothing different. Perhaps, less beatings and more care, but it did not feel significantly nicer than with Ramsay.
At a cue of him letting out a groan, Sansa started moaning, quiet at first, louder as Petyr's movements grew faster and more chaotic. She knew how to please a man: just make him think he is doing a good job. Petyr seemed pleased as he growled and kept drawing himself inside her, deep and demanding.
Sansa's mind wandered: the wedding, their oaths to each other. How automatically she repeated it the third time in her life, when nobody should really marry three times, again and again promising the eternity to a different man. Sansa chose Petyr, unlike Tyrion or Ramsay, and yet it did not feel like the romance in the books she had read as a young girl. No knight was saving her this time, and there was no love between them. Just cold calculation. Without Petyr's protection, worse things could have happened to her. She would learn how to make him content, and she would keep herself safe by pleasing him, and if gods are good, birthing his heirs. She thought Petyr was a knight once, as they sailed away from King's Landing after the disastrous wedding. She knew him better now.
The snow was falling slowly upon Winterfell. Sansa exhaled barely audibly as Petyr laid down beside her and gathered her into his embrace, his skin now cold after all the vigour. Soon she heard his breathing steady as he fell asleep. Sansa felt she could no longer hide it: her chest would explode if she kept the cries in. Her head hurt from all the tension that helped her to keep composure and be a pleasant wife to be around, but now the floodgate has opened, and Sansa sobbed soundlessly, just like she did as soon as Ramsay left her room.
But this time Petyr was near. She hid her face in the pillow and cried, her shoulders shaking as she curled into herself, hugging her knees and crawling away from Petyr's warmth, completely alone in her pain. What had she done? Stupid, stupid girl, this time it would not be any different, not really.
Sansa wailed and howled, not able to keep the sounds from coming, and moments after she could feel a soft embrace from behind. She flinched. She woke him up and he would not be happy.
Instead, Petyr's legs and arms locked around her body, and he whispered to her:
"Worry not, little dove. It's just me. He is dead, he cannot hurt you. Shhh, you're alright." He said gently while holding her tight. Sansa nodded, pretending she was crying about the Bolton boy. Maybe, she was. Or maybe she was crying about herself. About the things she did to survive that she would not have ever chosen otherwise.