Gentle Rogue

The Bastard Rogue

A stain upon the good Stark name, Jon had fled his family home at sixteen -following in the footsteps of his dearly departed mother before him, and taking to the seas upon a merchant ship to make his own way in the world. When rumors of the death of his beloved Uncle Ned reach him, Jon turns his ship towards Westeros, finding himself in hostile waters, and face to face with the past he'd been running from.

The Lady in Waiting

Promised years ago to wed Joffrey Baratheon, the Duke of Kings Landing, Sansa Stark should have been the happiest woman in Westeros when she came of age. It was everything she'd dreamed of as a child -a fairytale prince to sweep her off of her feet. Yet everything was not as it seemed, and Joffrey was anything but chivalrous. The death of her father brought Sansa's world crashing down around her, pushing her family farther in financial ruin, and at the mercy of the wealthy Lannisters -the powerful family of the King's mother. Hatching a plan to escape the confines of a loveless marriage, Sansa boards a ship for Essos, but finds herself in peril when her ship is commandeered by pirates, and she exchanges one prison for another.

Prologue

Winterfell Manor, Westeros 1796

Ned slumped against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Every time Lyanna screamed, it was agony -like a blade twisting deep in his gut. His little sister -always so willful and stubborn, she had brought this on herself, but he'd shelter her from it if it was within his power to do so.

"Where is the blasted doctor!" Robert screeched, cupping his hands over his ears to block out Lyanna's wails of pain. "I could have ran faster than this. I'll whip that damn stable boy bloody!"

"You'll do no such thing," Catelyn emerged from around the corner of the corridor, her arms filled with fresh white linens, balanced on the shelf of her swollen pregnant belly. "Your Grace," she added, respectfully dipping her head in a quick bow.

The mighty Robert Baratheon, Duke of Storms End, Lord of the Storm Lands and heir apparent to the Westerosi throne let no slight go ignored -except that which came from the mouth of Ned's new bride, Catelyn Tully of River Run. Or his sister Lyanna, of course.

As if on cue, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the other side of the door, reverberating through the empty hallways -for anyone that was clever had remained out of sight and out of the way. Ned rushed to open the door for Catelyn, immediately regretting his decision of chivalry as the smell of blood, thick and heavy, invaded his nostrils, churning his stomach with the dread he already felt. Quickly he pulled it shut, terrified of what lay on the other side.

"Is it supposed to be like this?" Robert looked to him, desperate for some kind of reassurance.

Ned had none to offer, and so he remained silent, resuming his slumped position against the wall and bracing himself for the next bout of screams. It could have been mere minutes or painstaking hours -he could no longer differentiate between the two, when the door creaked open again and Nan slid out into the hall.

"The babe is turned my Lord," she shook her head, her somber eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Feet first. I've done all I can, but I cannot save the babe and-"

"The hell with the bastard, let it die then!" Robert interjected, appalled that it should even be a topic of discussion.

"Robert please," Ned held his hand up to silence his oldest and dearest friend. It was so easy to forget formalities sometimes, but it was the least of his worries, as he nodded for her to continue.

Nan shook her head slowly, eyes downcast. "You misunderstand, Your Grace. She's bleeding out and I cannot stop it, 'tis beyond my skills." Her hands fiddled with the folds of her dress, mottled with blood, "There is a way I can save the babe and she wishes me to do so ..." She paused with a resigned sigh. "She wants to see you. Both of you."

"'Tis not proper-"

"Oh shut up Ned," Robert eagerly shoved past them. "Propriety be damned."

Ned followed suit with no urgency in his step, trying to make sense of Nan's words. He knew very well what they meant, but just couldn't seem to wrap his brain around them. This couldn't be goodbye -not when they had lost so much already.

He wasn't exactly sure what he expected to see when he entered the room from which the screams had poured forth from for hours, but the sight of his little sister, pale white against the blood soaked bedding, nearly brought him to his knees. Ned grabbed for the bedpost, not sure he could trust his legs to hold him up. The smell of blood was suffocating -he was no simpering green boy, seeing his fair share of both death and blood, but not like this ...

"Brother," Lyanna stretched her arms out to him, her smile weak, but genuine -a show of courage amidst her suffering.

Letting gravity take him, Ned dropped to his knees by the bedside, folding his little sisters dainty hands within his own. They were cold, despite the stuffiness of the room, but steady -unlike his own. Perhaps her bravery was not a farce, after all.

"The doctor ...he's-" Ned stumbled over his words, wanting to offer comfort and failing miserably. "You've just got to hold out awhile longer."

"Shhh, I am running out of time dear brother, and I have much to say," Lyanna squeezed his hands, her grip surprisingly strong, before removing one of them, and reaching for Robert on the opposite side of the bed. "Forgive me, Robert," she turned her tear streaked face towards him. "It was never my intention to hurt you. I wish I could have been the queen you deserve, but you know it is not who I am."

"Sweetling, who has done this to you?" Robert asked, pushing the sweat soaked hair back from her brow and stroking her cheek intimately.

"That doesn't matter," Lyanna shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut as more tears sprung forth from them. "He is dead and gone. What is done is done."

Robert opened his mouth to protest as another contraction tore through Lyanna's small frame, silencing any arguments, as she tried to breathe through it, sapped of the strength she needed to even cry out. They watched in horror as her body contorted in pain, and fresh blood seeped through the linens bunched between her thighs, staining them a dark crimson.

Nan rushed to replace them as Ned tried again to offer comfort, wrenching his gaze away from the chaos unfolding at the bottom of the bed, and focusing solely on his sisters sweet cherub face. "That's it, deep breaths," he cooed, brushing his fingers across her whitened knuckles, until her grip relaxed and she could open her eyes again.

"I'm sorry Ned," she sobbed, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. "For father, and Brandon. I made such a mess of everything!"

"Shhh," it was Ned's turn to hush her. "Quiet now. None of that matters."

"It does! I'll not die knowing you hate me."

"I could never hate you, little sister." His words were true. Lyanna had made some horrible choices -she had brought death and shame to their family name, but she was a headstrong child who was now paying the ultimate price for her sins. No ...he could never hate her. "And you are not dying."

"You are honest to a fault Ned, and I love you for it. Do not start lying to me now," Lyanna chucked him under the chin when he tried to lower his eyes. "It's almost time for the babe to come and I must ask one more thing of you," she panted through the end of the contraction, her grip on his hand tightening once more.

"Anything," Ned nodded, of course he would do anything she asked of him.

"You will love this babe. Raise it amongst your own. Let it not know my shame, I beg of you!" Her voice grew shrill in desperation, the plea of a mother who'd never know her own child.

"I swear it to you," Ned bent his head to brush his lips against her knuckles -he didn't have to think twice.

Bowing her head in return, she turned to Robert. "I would have your word, too."

"You don't know what you ask of me-"

"I do!" She cut him off. "Do not place my sins on the head of an innocent child. For the love you bore me, swear it to me Robert. Please ..." she begged him, just short of hysterics.

"Alright dammit, I swear it!" Robert reluctantly agreed, dragging her hand to his lips before pressing his forehead into her palm, defeated.

"Thank you," she brushed her hand through his thick black locks affectionately before turning back to Ned. "Give Benjen my love and if it's a girl, name her for our mother."

Ned could only nod, feeling her begin to tense up on the wave of another contraction. Lyara ...it would be a fitting name for a baby girl in the image of his beloved little sister.

"My Lady?" Nan stood poised at the bottom of the bed, knife in hand -a question for permission to do the unspeakable.

Lyanna answered with the shake of her head, both of her hands grasping onto Ned's tightly. "I'll be brave big brother, I love you."

Ned tried to focus on her last words, and not the final anguished scream that tore from her throat, as Nan drew the knife across Lyanna's lower abdomen. He tried not to watch as her body spasmed violently on the bed before falling still, tried not to look at her now sightless eyes staring accusingly up at him. The room was spinning out of control, the air wrought with the scent of so much blood, Ned swore he could taste its bitterness in his mouth. He was suffocating, falling into an endless void of suffering, the sounds of Roberts wailing chasing him farther into the chasm as he sat in a dream-like state, still clinging to his dead sisters hand.

Another hand -warm and firm settled upon his shoulder, as Catelyn came to stand behind him, driving the darkness of the void away. A slight tremble in her other hand, she reached to brush Lyanna's sightless eyes closed, then tugged the bed sheet up over her head.

Ned fought to compose himself, in awe of his new wife, for surely he did not deserve this lovely woman with steel in her spine that he had only acquired by default, through the tragic death of his older brother -murdered by pirates. More lives uprooted by his sister's selfish decision to flee with a lowborn scoundrel to escape the fate of her own arranged marriage, and yet, Catelyn had shown her nothing but kindness when she arrived a few weeks ago, heavy with child.

The cry of the babe finally freed from its mother's womb, pulled Ned from his thoughts, as Nan laid the wriggling newborn at the foot of the bed. Ignoring its angry protests as she wiped the traces of birth from its body, she announced that it was a boy in perfect health, and Ned breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that his sister had not given her life in vain.

Robert stood, his eyes rimmed red and puffy from crying, and moved towards the crying babe. With a soulful look at Ned, his hand reached for the hilt of his sword, his purpose clear.

Ned lunged for the bottom of the bed, intent on shielding the babe from Roberts wrath. "You mustn't! You gave your word. Does that mean nothing, Your Grace?"

"Aye, I gave my word." Robert shot back, his grief turning to anger. "But so did she! She was to be my wife, Ned, the future queen of Westeros! Why should that bastard get to live when she has been taken from me?"

"Because I gave my word," Ned positioned himself between Robert and the squirming infant, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he laid down the gauntlet. "Your sword will have to go through me first then, brother."

Roberts eyes narrowed dangerously as they stared each other down, the only sound in the room, the angry grunts of a hungry newborn.

"You're a loyal fool Eddard Stark," Robert snapped, finally relenting, he shoved his sword back into its scabbard. "Keep it out of my sight then, for I never wish to lay my eyes upon it again." He stomped towards the door, his boots heavy on the wooden floorboards, and reached for the latch, turning back once more. "I mean it."

Ned could only nod his head in understanding as Robert slammed the door behind him, the echo of his threat ringing in his ears.

Chapter 1 - Whispering World, A Sigh Of Sighs

"Whispering world, a sigh of sighs,

The ebb and the flow of the ocean tides.

One breath, one word may end or may start.

A hope in a place of the lover's heart.

Hope has a place in a lover's heart."

"Hope Has A Place" -Enya, The Memory of Trees

Kings Landing, Westeros 1817

Sansa dragged the silver handled brush through her long auburn hair and studied her reflection in the looking glass. In two days she would marry the King. She supposed she should at least try to look the blushing bride-to-be.

When she'd first arrived in Kings Landing, a fortnight from her fourteenth name day, Joffrey had been everything she'd imagined and more. Doting, kind and chivalrous -her handsome golden lion, the prince of her dreams. And then her father had returned to Winterfell and shortly after that, King Robert had perished in a hunting accident. It was then, after his coronation, that another side of Joffrey had begun to emerge -or maybe it was there all along and she had just been a stupid, silly girl, blinded by her infatuation.

Sansa paused, setting the brush down on her wardrobe and ran her finger lightly against the purple bruise high on her cheek. The latest consequence of angering the King -tainting her otherwise perfect ivory skin. Lately, it was merely her presence that seemed to provoke his ire, leaving her to wonder what was yet to come, and if she had the strength to endure it.

She felt isolated and alone, now that her friend Margaery had left court and she and her brother and grandmother had returned to High Garden -guests of Lord Renley, who recently went home to the Storm Lands. Sansa suspected that Cersei and her father had a hand in that, driving out everything stag and Baratheon, in favor of Lannister. Even the Keep decor had been draped in golden lions -it was almost as if the great ruling house Baratheon had never existed.

Sweet Margaery, how Sansa missed her dear friend who had helped make things bearable. Now, she was truly alone.

She longed for Winterfell, longed for her family. For sweet little Rickon, his head full of curls and innocent curiousness. For Bran and his thirst for knowledge and his encompassing wisdom -burying himself in his books to pass the time while bedridden. Arya, stubborn and willful, as she was fierce and loyal -whom Sansa always secretly wished she be could more like. Robb, courageous yet gentle, like father, copper colored hair and kind blue eyes like mother -who turned any young maiden's head. Even her cousin Jon, whom she hadn't seen since he'd left for a life at sea two years before she'd even departed for the capital. She missed them all.

More often then naught, she wished she hadn't been so obsessed with becoming the Duchess, and instead had spent more time sewing with her mother, or reading to Rickon and Bran. That she'd worked harder at being nicer to her little sister, hugged her big brother more, and had treated her cousin Jon with kindness, instead of ostracizing him as most of Westeros did. After all, it was his mother who had brought shame to the Stark name -not him.

It was through her aunt Lyanna's folly that Sansa had become Joffrey's betrothed. An attempt to right past wrongs, she supposed. King Robert had sworn their families were destined to be joined, and in the beginning, Sansa hadn't minded, wanting more than anything to be the handsome young prince's intended bride -protesting vehemently when her parents objected to the match.

"Sweet one," her father had said to her, as he'd gently stroked her angry flushed cheek. "Listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me."

Her mother had been less subtle, citing Joffrey as nothing but a spoiled cad with a cruelness in his eyes. She'd been right, of course -but how was Sansa to know such things at the tender age of twelve? With nothing left to do but reflect on the past and the many blunders she'd made, her outlook on life had changed exponentially over the years. She was a slow learner, it was true -but she learned.

Several times over the last years, Sansa had considered calling off the betrothal, but knew that her family would fall farther into financial ruin -especially now that King Robert had passed away. He'd waived her dowry, but she doubted the Lannisters would be so generous -and her family needed every bit of coin they could spare for Brans medical needs. Being born without full use of his legs had been a financial hardship on her family from the start. Costly doctor's visits and even traveling around the world seeking a cure had quickly burned through the family's finances -and while most doctors had given up on him from birth, Bran had refused to quit. He was a Stark after all, and the Starks endured.

Indeed, the Starks endured -and so would she. By morn tomorrow, she'd be hugging them all again -the only silver lining to her upcoming nuptials. Her family would be in attendance for her wedding and the celebration that followed thereafter. All, but her cousin, Jon.

A knock on her chamber door stirred Sansa from her thoughts. A handmaiden, come to fetch her for the morning meal -the one she sent away earlier to dress on her own, so she didn't feel like eyes were always upon her. Eyes of the Queen Regent. Cersei was always watching...

Sparing one last glance at herself in the looking glass, Sansa smoothed the skirts of her gown and allowed the handmaiden to escort her to the King's chambers. The heels of her shoes clanked against the cold stone walkway beneath her feet, echoing in corridor -empty, but for the Kings Guard.

Ser Meryn Trant stood sentient by Joffrey's chamber doors -the man who had taken perverse pleasure in putting his hands on her at the Kings behest -until Joffrey found he enjoyed it all the more when he did took to the task himself. Sansa kept her eyes lowered, feeling the hair rise at the back of her neck as the man's cruel gaze burned into her. She'd wished for his death a thousand times since he'd first struck her, but wishing would not bring her justice, nor solace.

The door swung open as Ser Jamie stepped aside to allow her entrance, and Sansa didn't miss the frown that pinched his lips when he noticed the fresh bruise high on her cheek. She kept her eyes lowered as she passed by him -one of the few that remained kind to her in this hell hole, he was an unlikely ally, though Sansa didn't dare trust him. She'd heard the rumors like everyone else -the whispers about Ser Jamie and the Queen, and how their affection far surpassed that of siblings. She'd heard other rumors too, but those were too terrible for her to even entertain.

Lord Tywin -the self appointed Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table. The one commanding presence that Joffrey scarcely challenged, who often treated him as the petulant child he so frequently behaved as. Yet even he seldom spared her from the Kings cruelty and errant temper -accepting the poor excuses offered for her injuries without question.

"Lady Stark," he acknowledged her with a dip of his, indicating she take a seat, and once she had, he waived for the servants to begin filling their plates with their morning fare. "What happened to your face, child?"

"A mishap in the Godswood, my Lord," Sansa answered quickly, casting a nervous glance at Joffrey who was glowering at her over his goblet. "A low hanging tree branch." She'd become so accustomed to lying, she did it quite well now.

"Do be more careful, little dove," Cersei crooned with feigned concern, as she plucked a ripe berry from her plate and popped it into her mouth. "T'would be a pity to permanently mar a face so lovely as yours."

"Yes, it would," Ser Jamie added rather forcefully, as he took a seat at the table opposite of her, ignoring Cersei's angry eyes cast upon him.

"Why do you spend so much time there?" Princess Myrcella asked with the sweet innocence of the gentle heart she carried, her eyes fixated on Sansa's bruised cheek. Sansa long suspected at one time or another she and Tommen might have been the former subjects of Joffrey's twisted machinations.

"That does not concern you, Princess," Tywin scolded her.

Myrcella lowered her eyes and nibbled on some bread before changing her tactics. "I saw your wedding gown earlier when I was being fitted. Sansa, it's lovely! Gold brocade and lace. You shall paint quite the stunning picture with the radiant coloring of your hair."

"You're very kind," Sansa smiled sweetly, reaching for a lemon cake, and wondered why she hadn't made more of an effort to befriend Robert's middle child. "I'm sure you will be stunning as well. Your gown is pink, correct?"

"Red," Myrcella sighed, rolling her eyes. "I wanted it to be pink, though."

"Lannisters wear red on special occasions," Cersei interjected. "We show pride in our house colors."

"But we are Baratheon," Tommen chimed in.

"Yes, but in name, only. At heart, you are golden lions. Fierce and bold."

And prideful, Sansa thought to herself as she nibbled her lemon cake and the room fell into silence.

"Do you think uncle Tyrion will come?" Again, it was Myrcella determined to keep the conversation at the breakfast table flowing. "I do miss him, so!"

"Not if he has an ounce of humility rolling about in that empty head of his," Cersei spat, tossing the bread she was chewing down onto her plate and exchanging it for her wine goblet. "You shouldn't miss him. He's an embarrassment to this family with his constant whoring and drinking."

Sansa did not miss the irony, as Cersei drained her goblet and reached for the wine carafe to refill it. Tyrion had fled shortly after Lord Tywin arrived at court. It was no secret that he despised the youngest of his children. Sansa hadn't known him very well, but Tyrion had always been kind to her.

"I miss him too," Ser Jamie said, winking his eye at Myrcella and causing her to erupt in giggles, despite the disapproving look from her mother.

"You must be awfully excited to see your family, Lady Sansa. Don't they arrive soon? I think I shall ask that handsome older brother of yours for a dance at the feast."

Sansa opened her mouth to reply, then paused, noting the nervous glances suddenly being exchanged around the breakfast table. All but Joffrey, who was smirking at her -the corner of his mouth titled up in a cruel half smile, to match the hate seething from eyes.

Tywin reached to lay a letter down on the table in front of Sansa. "It arrived from Winter Town just yesterday. Word from your mother, Lady Catelyn."

Sansa's heart begun to accelerate, beating wildly against her breast. Why would her mother send a letter when she was due to arrive any day now? Her hand closing around the folio of paper, Sansa's fingers brushed against the wax seal stamped with her family's sigil -already broken. The fact that they'd already read a personal message scribed to her didn't surprise her in the least. Feeling the heat of everyone's eyes upon her, Sansa's hands shook as she began to unfold the parchment.

"There was an accident," Tywin offered, before her eyes even fell upon the words scrawled out on the paper before her. "Your father was set upon by robbers on the Kings Road ...his injuries proved fatal."

The world began to spin around her, the words on the parchment jumbled together in her disoriented state. This morning Sansa had awoken happier than she'd been in months, the prospect of being reunited with her family, her sole consolation prize in this sham of a marriage -and now, her father was dead ... her family wasn't coming, and her mother's own handwriting was not asking her to come home and mourn with her family -but to instead proceed with the wedding as planned?

"I -I must go to Winterfell at once," Sansa stood, the room still spinning around her. She was almost grateful for Cersei's hand as it snaked around her wrist and drew her back down into her chair.

"You will do no such thing. Your duty is to marry the King. It is what your father would have wanted. It is what your mother expects of you." She said, matter-of-factly.

"The wedding will go on as planned," Tywin nodded in affirmation, his authoritative tone leaving no room for arguments. "Guests have already begun arriving, everything has been paid for. If it is still your wish to visit your home, you may do so after the great feast."

Her father was dead.

Sansa slumped in her chair, her manners be damned, her stomach churning. "May I please be excused?"

"You haven't touched your food, my love," Joffrey fixed her with a smug smile.

"I've no appetite, Your Grace," Sansa kept her tone cordial and polite, despite the urge to dive across the table and wipe the smugness from his face. Oh, but had she the courage of Arya!

"Nonsense. You need your energy. Eat up. You're entirely too thin. Whatever will I grab onto on our wedding night if I allow you to whither away to nothing but bones?" He continued to toy with her, taking great joy in blatantly disrespecting her in front of his family.

Her father was dead.

"Gods, let the girl go," Ser Jamie slammed his spoon down on the table, fixing Lord Tywin with a scathing look.

Tywin nodded his head, and Ser Jamie shoved his chair from the table, and assisted Sansa to her feet. She allowed his escort back to her chambers -but who was she to protest when she was so dizzy she could barely stand on her own, anyway? She clung to his arm, forcing her feet to move, as she fought the tears that threatened to spill. She would not cry -not in front of them. Not even, Jamie.

He mumbled something once he left her alone in the confines of her rooms, shutting the door behind him. Sansa thought it might have been his condolences, but she couldn't be sure, as the ringing in her ears had blocked out the sound of his voice.

She felt physically ill, the bile in her empty stomach churning and threatening to come up. Dropping the letter to the floor, Sansa collapsed on her bed, finally releasing the tears she'd been holding at bay. They ran in torrents to soak her pillow as her body shook with uncontrollable sobs in her unrelenting grief.

Her father was dead.

Sansa wasn't sure how long she'd lain there wallowing in her misery, only that her handmaiden had come twice -once to bring her some wine, and again later to bring her a tray of food. It sat untouched exactly where she'd left it. When the sun dipped lower in the sky, finally, Sansa forced herself up from the bed. Reaching for the wine carafe, she poured herself a goblet to stop the incessant shaking of her hands. Perhaps she would become like Cersei, drowning her misery in helping after helping of wine. Did it dull the pain, she wondered?

Her father was dead.

A knock at the door startled her mid sip, causing her to spill some droplets down the front of her gown. Normally Sansa would have cared for her disheveled appearance, but she couldn't find the strength as she stumbled towards the door, dragging her hand across her mouth to wipe the wine from her chin. It was Lord Baelish that stood on the other side -the Master of Coin. Sansa knew him only as the man who had grown up with her mother, but other than introductions and polite nods in passing, they'd never interacted.

"Lady Sansa," he smiled at her, pity shining in the depths of his eyes, so dark they were almost black. "If I may have a word with you?"

Sansa didn't want his pity. Straightening her spine, she tried to pull herself together and present a more controlled appearance, as she swung the door to her chambers open and stepped aside, allowing him entrance. "My apologies Lord Baelish, it seems I am not fit for receiving visitors today."

"No my Lady, it is I who must apologize for intruding upon you," He replied, closing the door behind him. "I heard the news and came at once to offer you my deepest sympathies. I wasn't close to your father, but I respected him, and I'm sure you know of my fondness for your mother. We were raised as siblings."

"Yes, I have heard." Sansa nodded. Her father had introduced him as such when they had arrived in Kings Landing three summers ago.

"I wonder if I might offer you some advice?" He asked, reaching to clasp her hands in his. When she didn't answer, he continued, "Do not despair. Seek solace in the Godswood, my Lady. There you might find comfort, if not the answers that you seek."

Sansa swallowed, feeling slightly uneasy under his intense stare, as his fingertips grazed intimately over her knuckles. "The Godswood," he repeated, before abruptly releasing her hands and taking his leave.

Sansa stared after him, a little shaken at their odd encounter, but the unease she felt didn't stop her from donning her cloak and slipping out to the palace gardens, deep into the Godswood where her escorting maids didn't follow. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, and after walking the path several times over, Sansa wondered if she'd just imagined what had seemed like a cryptic message.

It was beginning to get chilly as darkness began to advance on the gardens. If she lingered any longer, surely they'd send someone in after her. With a defeated sigh, Sansa turned to head back to the palace, as Lord Baelish stepped out of the shadows, startling her.

"Shhh," he pressed a slender finger to his lips, and took a step closer to her.

As if only now realizing what a bad idea this was, Sansa took a hasty step backward. What had possessed her to come to the gardens so close to dusk? To meet a man she didn't know who may intend to harm her? Stupid, stupid girl.

Lord Baelish stuck a hand inside his cloak and pulled free a letter -direwolf sigil wax seal intact, and placed it in her trembling hands. Breaking the seal Sansa unfolded the folio to reveal her mother's tidy penmanship -and words that made much more sense than those she'd read earlier.

My dearest daughter,

I hope this letter finds you well. I believe in my heart of hearts that your father's death was no botched robbery, but an assassination plot, and now your brother Robb has gone missing as well. I no longer feel safe in our own home. With Petyr's assistance, I'm taking your siblings to Essos for the time being. He is like a brother to me, and you will find him trustworthy, I swear it by the old Gods and the new.

Your Loving Mother

"So you understand, my Lady?" Lord Baelish asked, closing the distance between them once more and lowering his voice as he spared a quick glance around them, and extended his hand for the letter.

Sansa was loath to relinquish the only tie she'd left of her family, but knowing it was best, she folded the folio and placed it in his waiting hand. "Robb is missing? But why?" And what exactly did that mean?

"Perhaps he was asking the right questions, my Lady," Lord Baelish answered, stuffing the letter back into his cloak.

"And my mother is safe? Arya, Rickon and Bran?" Sansa peppered him, her mother's letter leaving her with more questions than answers.

"They are safe, this I promise you. It is best that's all you know for the time being."

"And what now, Lord Baelish?" Sansa pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, but could not shake the chill that had crept into her bones. Surely her mother didn't truly intend for her to remain behind and wed the King?

"Call me Petyr," he insisted, tucking Sansa under his arm as he began to escort her out of the wood, pressing his lips against her ear as he spoke just above a whisper. "On the morn of your wedding, before the carriage comes to carry you to the Sept of Baelor, you shall excuse yourself to pray here, in the Godswood. No one will object. You shall find all the answers you seek."

Sansa nodded her understanding as Petyr released her abruptly and faded back into the shadows -just as one of the palace guards materialized onto the path.

"My Lady," he rushed to her side. "It grows dark, you should not be out here alone," he scolded her in a fatherly fashion, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Thank you Ser Barristan. I seem to have lost myself." Sansa replied meekly, grateful for his assistance.

"Have you found comfort in your prayers?" He asked, the gentle tone of his voice alerting Sansa that news of her father's death had reached his ears.

Her father was dead.

"I do not pray, Ser," Sansa answered him honestly.

"My Lady?"

"It is the only place I can go and be truly alone."

The kind old Knight did not reply, just released a sad sigh and pat her hand affectionately, before escorting her back to the Red Keep.