Jon Snow dreamed at night.

He dreamed of his dead brothers and lost sisters. He dreamed of the Wall, and relived his icy death many times over. He dreamed of ravens and wolves and dragons and snow and fire, of the dead walking.

He dreamed of death.

I am dead, he reminded himself. It didn't matter that he was breathing and walking, he had still died. He would have remained that way if not for the Red Woman.

Melisandre.

She wouldn't tell him what transpired after his black brothers betrayed him. Every time he asked, she only responded with mysterious words and predictions, speaking of White Walkers and a mysterious Other, of Dragons and Ice and Fire and shadows. All the things he dreamed of.

He recalled the icy pain of cold knives in his flesh. And hearing howling, the howling of Ghost. Melisandre had been right when she warned Jon to keep his wolf close. His mouth twisted in bitterness as he remembered Ghost's agitated behavior shortly before the betrayal. Ghost had known; Ghost would have saved him. But Jon hadn't listened, hadn't paid attention, and now his beloved direwolf was most likely dead.

"You're looking back," said Melisandre. Her ruby eyes bored into him. "You regret the choices you have made."

Jon didn't feel like having another lesson from her. All Melisandre spoke of was prophecies and predictions and battles and fire, what she saw in the flames. He was tired of it. He wanted solid truth, for once. "I want to know where we're going."

The Red Woman eyed him. "I have told you, Jon Snow, it is not yet for you to know. Even I don't fully know, yet. The future is still unclear. In time, the flames will reveal it."

This cryptic response infuriated Jon, but he hid it well.

"If you can't say what our final destination is, at least tell me which region we're in. This doesn't look like the North."

"The Vale," said she. "We are in the Vale."

House Arryn ruled the Vale, Jon remembered. Lady Catelyn's sister, Lysa, was Lady. If all went well, he wouldn't encounter her. He was a deserter of the Night's Watch; his life was forfeit. Melisandre told him he was free from his vows because he had died. No one in the Seven Kingdoms would know that, therefore his life was still forfeit. For all anyone else would know, Jon had deserted.

Jon wished he could have been freed from his vows before all his siblings died. He could have fought for Robb, protected Sansa and Arya, saved Bran and Rickon. Instead he was forced to hear of his family's fall from afar, unable to do anything about it. It was ironic. The whole of House Stark dead and gone, and all that was left was the bastard, Jon Snow. And it was possible for him to inherit Winterfell but what he once wanted, he wanted no more. How could he? He couldn't rebuild Winterfell with his family dead.

Not just my family. I'm dead, too. We're all dead.

"You've been hiding things from me."

Littlefinger turned around as Sansa entered the room, hands clasped like a dutiful lady.

"My Lord?" Sansa inquired, surprised.

Her heart pulsed, but she looked calm.

Petyr Baelish smiled.

"I know about Sweetrobin. Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"Lord Baelish, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Sansa replied.

His green eyes never left hers as he stepped close. But she stood her ground.

"Robin's sweetmilk," he said. "You've neglected giving it to him. May I ask why?"

Sansa breathed out. It was not as she feared.

She had to explain why she was dumping Robin's sweetmilk, though. Littlefinger couldn't know she was on to his intentions.

"Lord Baelish, I'm sorry, I didn't know the milk was so important to you. I've been dumping it, because I fear it's not healthy for Robin. He doesn't like drinking it, and he only seems to get worse after. I was quite distressed."

Her blue eyes widened in appeal, innocent and girlish.

Baelish narrowed his eyes, but stepped away, visibly relaxing. "It's alright, Alayne."

My name is Sansa.

"In fact," Baelish continued, "I agree. That sweetmilk doesn't do wonders for little Lord Arryn. But it wouldn't do for it to go to waste. Find someone to give it to. Someone who needs it." His devilish green eyes were cold.

Sansa nodded.

"Now," Littlefinger said. "I've almost completed the arrangements for you. Harry the Heir will guest here in two day's time."

"Does he know about me?"

Baelish smiled shrewdly. "He knows there's a beautiful girl waiting for him. My informants will have made sure. He doesn't know who you are. I wouldn't trust a third party with your secret."

"Of course you wouldn't, Lord Baelish. You're far too smart for that."

Littlefinger looked satisfied. "When Harry the Heir arrives, you know what to do. In the meantime, continue to take care of Robin. We need you to look like you have a purpose here, instead of being my bastard daughter. Else people will be displeased, and word will get out of the 'upjumped usurper' and his bastard, living like royalty in Lord Arryn's home. And we can't have that now, can we?"

"No, my Lord."

His eyes raked over her. "I trust you'll know what to do when your groom arrives."

"I'm to keep him occupied. Distract him." Seduce him.

"Good."

Sansa backed away from Littlefinger before he could steal a kiss, or remark on how beautiful she was or how much she looked like her mother. She wouldn't allow that anymore, unless it served a purpose.

I'm Sansa Stark. I'll reclaim Winterfell on my own terms. Not his.