I.
Sansa thinks of her mother often.
The ghost of Catelyn Stark haunts Winterfell. She's there, in the bedrooms, in the dusty corners of the great halls, in the clean air of the open courtyard. Her presence looms over the great house and especially over the daughter who loved her so well. She is there with Sansa when she directs the household staff, oversees preparations for the long winter, and tends to the sewing and mending. She thinks about her mother when she is alone, about Lady Stark's strengths and failings. Family. Duty. Honor. Family. Duty. Honor. Family. Duty. Honor. She chants these words until they lose all meaning. Catelyn Stark remembered these words. Catelyn Stark was a good woman, an honorable woman, but she was not kind. She was not -
"There you are."
Jon Snow, chief witness of her mother's cruelty, has silently appeared before her. He bends down to sit beside her where she leans against the heart tree of the Godswood.
His presence brings out one of her rare half-smiles. It's funny, Sansa thinks. The person her mother most hated has become the one person she loves most in the world.
They sit in companionable silence for several moments. She doesn't want to speak first, doesn't want to disturb the tranquility of the woods their father so loved, but she can sense that he is troubled and she thinks she knows why.
"Sansa, I'm no king."
She struggles hold herself from laughing openly at him. She finally settles on a grim smile. "All right, let us consider this matter fully. King Aerys burned our grandfather and killed our uncle. Prince Rhaegar kidnapped and raped our aunt. King Robert was a drunkard and whoremonger. King Joffrey cut off our father's head and tormented me for years, had me beaten and humiliated. Even Ser Davos's dearly-departed Stannis killed his own brother and burned his daughter at the stake." She scoffs, "No you're right. You're absolutely unfit to be a king. You're not nearly cruel enough."
"Now you're mocking me."
"Maybe a little."
"You mean to tell me that you think this is a good idea? That I should go on calling myself King in the North?"
"I didn't say that."
"I know who I am" his voice rises, frustrated but always honest, "I didn't ask for what just happened in there. I didn't want to take this away from any of the trueborn Starks. I won't have you passed over for me."
"You think I resent you? That I would fight you for something so temporary as a crown? You really think so little of me?" She bites her lip. "Jon, the last time one of my brothers was called a king, he marched South and was butchered for it. I've seen kings rise and fall. I've seen good men killed for doing what's good and honorable and just. I won't have that happen to you. I won't let it."
He grins now, freely. "You intend to protect me, do you? Will you take up arms against the White Walkers then? Poor things. I almost feel sorry for them."
"Now you're mocking me."
The twinkle in his eye is painfully familiar. She wonders what Ned Stark would think of the two of them, here, like this.
"Maybe a little," he replies.
They lapse back into a comfortable silence before he sighs then, suddenly. "I'd give it all up just to see any one of them again."
She slips her hand into his. "I know."
Catelyn Stark could not love a motherless child.
But she will.
II.
"How could you?"
The hour is late. He's cornered her on her way back to her room, the overwhelming mass of his body trapping her against the stone walls. He is angry, almost fuming, none of the typical gentleness she's come to expect of him. Beyond his shoulder, she can see two serving girls giggle and run away in embarrassment. She can only imagine what gossip they will spread.
"What is it, Jon? What's wrong?" She pleads with him.
He turns away, can't seem to look her in the eyes. "I just had an interesting conversation with Littlefinger."
"That snake. What did he want from you?"
He laughs harshly, "You plead ignorance, do you? I may not be as bright as you but I'm no fool. I half expect the whole scheme was your idea."
She stays silent.
"You, Sansa." His hand slams onto the wall above her head. "He wants you."
The glow from the candlelight makes him look dark, menacing. He looks like a wolf, she thinks, and her heart breaks for what she - what they - have lost.
"Jon, come inside. We shouldn't discuss this out here."
He stalks down the hallway and into her room, white hot anger rolling off his body. She gently guides him to sit beside her on the corner of her bed. "Now. What did he tell you?"
Jon scoffs. "I think you know. He wants to marry you."
She chooses to ignore him. "That can't be all of it. He told you what he wanted. He had to have promised you something in return."
His eyebrows furrow. "Nothing I can't live without."
It dawns on her suddenly. "But of course. The Knights of the Vale. Me for an army. You'll need a strong army in the wars to come." She leans back to lie flat against the bedcovers and considers. "He's declared for House Stark but that won't stop him from going against us if I refuse him." She worries her lip, trying to imagine his scheme. "It's not a bad deal, Jon. It's true Robin is Lord of the Vale but he's a sickly child and he listens to everything Littlefinger says. What happens when he dies? What happens if you die?"
He leans down to brush her nose with his. "Haven't you heard? I can't be killed. Not permanently, at least."
She smiles. "If only that were true."
"Sansa," his voice is strained, "You really didn't know?"
"I knew - " she stops. "I saw the way he looked at me, but I wasn't sure that this was what he wanted."
His jaw sets stubbornly. "I don't care what he offers," he growls. "I won't be parted with you. Not unless you ask it of me."
She suddenly becomes aware of his face, inches away from hers. She stops herself from pressing her lips against his cheek.
"You're a good man, Jon Snow."
She watches him leave, a slow, bashful smile spreading across his face.
The door closes.
She hatches her own scheme.
III.
"I'm so pleased you've accepted my hand in marriage, my dear."
She smiles pleasantly as she surveys the room. The details are important, she thinks about how he has taught her this lesson. The table has been set with a bountiful assortment of rich meats and delicacies. It's the kind of display that pleases a man like Littlefinger - the illusion of excess, the want for nothing. An ornate display designed to satisfy a greedy little man. The warm glow of the candles fill her with a giddiness, an eagerness she hasn't felt in years.
She pours two glasses of wine and gently places one in front of him. "I think of my mother often, Lord Baelish."
He nods, chewing absently at a piece of mutton. "As so do I. She was a good woman. I loved her very much."
She watches him relax, his guard down in a place he seems to think he belongs to him. She wonders how soon after their marriage would he have found a way to kill her brother and take this castle as his own. "Yes, I think you must have. It is a trait we both share."
She passes him a platter of bread. "I sometimes think about how alike we would have been, she and I."
He takes a long drink from his wine goblet. "You're beautiful like your mother. Perhaps more beautiful than she ever was."
She smiles thinly. "That's kind of you to say, Lord Baelish, but it's not what I meant." She bites delicately at a lemon cake and continues. "I wonder if I act like her, if she would approve of my decisions."
"My mother was a dutiful woman," she continues thoughtfully. "She would never have dined alone with a man who wasn't her husband. I'm sure she would have thought it improper"
His smile widens, interested. "I am soon to be your husband," he corrects her.
She ignores him. "My mother was an honest woman too. She would not have lied to her brother or her king."
He licks his lips slowly. "I've seen honesty get men killed, my lady."
She stands up slowly. "But isn't it funny, Lord Baelish? I think the most striking difference between my mother and I is that of honor. Lady Catelyn would never have poisoned her enemy."
She watches, satisfied, as he abruptly stops drinking from his goblet of wine. He leans down to smell its contents. The color drains from his face.
"Did you really think I'd let you take him from me?" Her voice is steel.
He splutters angrily. "You would throw away everything I've worked for - the chance to be Queen - for a bastard boy?"
"You underestimate King Jon Snow."
His hand involuntarily claws at his throat. He speaks plainly, desperately. "And you underestimate me. What do you suppose Robin will do when he finds out I've been killed by your hand? I can't imagine the Knights of the Vale will rally around the woman who poisoned their Lord Protector."
"No, of course not," she glances up at him, her eyes half-lidded. "But they might rally around the grief-stricken woman who was his intended wife."
She reaches across the table to caress his cheek. "I imagine you've already written to Robin, telling him all about our great love. Robin knows me to be a lady of great beauty and virtue. I imagine he'll feel quite sorry for me when I write to him and tell him that you, my dear husband" she spits out the endearment slowly, spitefully, "were cruelly murdered by our enemies."
"I haven't yet decided how you'll be murdered," she says, cheerfully twirling a strand of her hair, "But it'll will be good, I can promise you."
He finally falls to the floor, gasping for his last breath.
She rises up to tower over him, playing both angel and devil. "I want you to know one last thing before you die. My mother found happiness with a Stark and so have I. Jon Snow is my king but more than that, he's my family. Save for my father, he is the only man I have ever truly loved."
She watches Littlefinger's eyes shut and his uncontrollable spasms cease.
Sansa thinks of her mother often.
She thinks she would be proud of her.