Sansa had tried to question Lord Baelish several times throughout the afternoon and into the early evening, but he stayed silent, sitting up on his horse straight and tall with a slight smirk playing on his lips. Sansa found it infuriating.

Instead, she again retreated into her own thoughts, this time wracking her brain for any idea, any prior mention of where they might instead be heading. Lord Baelish had certainly given everyone the impression when they left King's Landing that they were heading for the Vale. But then, she thought to herself, wasn't that rather the point?

It was getting hard to see though the gathering darkness when they finally came to a stop at a small, dingy roadside inn at the edge of a small hamlet. It did not seem much, but Sansa was relived to be finally out of the saddle when her husband helped her down from her horse. He kept his hand on the small of her back as he guided her inside.

The inn was, if anything, even less impressive than it had appeared from from the outside. There was no proper floor, just sawdust to soak up any spilt wine or ale, and the large man sitting nearest the door leered at Sansa as she stood next to Lord Baelish.

Sensing her discomfort, Petyr drew Sansa even closer towards him with a protective arm. He'd noticed when they had dismounted earlier in the day to give the horses some water that she was becoming more and more comfortable around him. He felt her lean closer in to him, hoping he would shield her from her surroundings.

In all honestly he did not like the feel of the inn they had chosen for the night much more than she did, but if they were to reach their destination in good time this was the most logical place to stop. It would not be safe to continue riding through the night, the further they rode from the King's Road.


After speaking the the inn keeper for a few minutes, leaving Sansa hovering uncomfortably by the doorway, Lord Baelish packed their servants off the sleep with the horses in the stables and guided Sansa up the narrow, rickety stairs towards the only bedchamber.

The room was at least quarter the size of the one they had shared in King's Landing. Sansa had no choice but to undress in front of Lord Baelish in their cramped quarters and sleep next to him in their bed. Faced with this reality, Sansa felt the confidence she'd built during the day, trying to figure out Littlefinger's moves and motives, and her pride in herself at keeping a straight face when he had taunted her about their eventual bedding break, just a little. At least the room seemed much cleaner than the bar down below.

Sansa took a few steps into the room, now unsure of herself. Her stomach flipped when Lord Baelish closed the door behind them with a solid thunk.

Petyr new exactly what was running through Sansa's mind as she stood rooted to the spot. He considered toying with her again, if only for his own amusement, but the long ride had taken any real desire to play out of him. He'd only admit it to himself, but he was absolutely exhausted and even the slightly lumpy looking bed looked inviting. To preserve Sansa's modesty rather than his own, he turned his back to her before removing his doublet, breeches and boots. He pulled at the laces of his tunic, exposing his neck and giving him access to wash away at least some of the grime from the road. There was a pitcher of water helpfully left on the window ledge. After washing the best he could given the circumstances, he turned back towards his wife, ready to get into bed and allow her to wash and undress.

As he approached the bed, his eyes flicked up towards Sansa's face, hoping to catch the blush rising in her cheeks at the sight of him in such a state of undress. What he had not expected was to see her eyes as wide as saucers, shock so clearly painted across her face.

His scar.

The jagged, raised white mark that run from just below where his tunic was usually tied, all the way down to just below his sternum had been part of Petyr's appearance since he was just a boy, so he had long since stopped paying attention to it. He kept it well hidden so not many people knew it was even there. It must have taken Sansa completely by surprise. Petyr chuckled.

"You can ask, you know." Sansa quickly looked away, embarrassed that she had been caught staring, and started to undress. She turned her back to him, pulling at the laces that fastened the back of her gown.

Petyr watched her from the bed. Ladies gowns, even such a simple dress designed to travel could rarely be removed without assistance from a lover or a handmaiden. Sansa would have a girl to help her when they arrived, but for the time being he wondered how long it would take for her to ask for his help.

Stubborn, Sansa continued to struggle with the back of her dress for what seemed like an age, before she felt Lord Baelish's hands covering hers, stilling her movements.

"Let me." She swallowed. She was still nervous at his touch, scared of how far he might try to take things, but something had changed in her when she saw his scar. Her first reaction had been to step toward him and reach out to touch it. She'd wanted to run her fingers across its white, puckered trail, to trace its journey and to see just quite how deep the damage went. Sansa had wanted to touch her husband. For some reason, seeing his scar, how quite damaged the usually impeccably presented man was underneath his neat clothes no longer made her want to pull away when he touched her bare skin.

Sansa shuddered involuntarily as she felt Lord Baelish's fingers brush the sensitive skin on the back of her neck. She hoped that he had not noticed, but nothing escaped her perceptive husband. He stayed silent however, unlacing her gown right down to the small of the back, taking his time, letting his fingers brush against her where just the thin material of her shift lay between him and her bare skin just a little bit more than was strictly necessary. It was also not strictly necessary for him to raise his hands up to her head to gently work out the pins that had been holding her long, auburn hair up off of her neck for traveling, combing the kinks out with practiced fingers. Sansa stood absolutely still.

Petyr stood there for a moment, his hands still buried in her hair, trying to gauge her reaction. There was just inches between them now, and while Sansa was not quite melting into his touch, he could sense little of the utter terror she had displayed the night before when she though he was going to bed her.

That was enough for tonight, though. Sansa was no longer scared of him, and that was a start. Petyr stepped backwards, holding her golden hair pins out to her, the candle light causing them to flash in his outstretched palm.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish."

Petyr got back into bed, and Sansa followed.

"You can call me Petyr, you know."

"I…"

"Unless you want me to start calling you Lady Baelish?"

Lady Baelish. It was the first time Sansa had really considered her new title since her marriage. It felt uncomfortable somehow, like it did not really fit. Like her new name had made her less of a Stark.

"Goodnight, husband." Petyr smirked at her stubborn compromise as he leaned over to blow out the candle sitting next to the bed, plunging the room into eery darkness.

"Goodnight, wife."