"How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.

I struggle to find any truth in your lies.

And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know.

My weakness I feel I must finally show.

Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all,

But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall"

Sansa wakes with a startle. She sits up on her elbow and glances around her, puzzled at her whereabouts for a moment. The grayness of morning is upon them, but it is still very early, and the room is dark. The silent flicker of candlelight catches her eye, now almost snuffed, as it casts shadows on the low ceiling. No one is awake in the entire place, and it's quiet with sleep. She turns when she notices his breathing behind her. It comes in deep waves, and she can feel it breeze down her back, causing her to shiver. While they slept, his arm was stretched out around her ribs and his hand rested just below her cheek. She could feel the smoothness of the skin of the back of his palm, and the faint smell of lemons from his hand salve.

Still sitting up, Sansa turns her body to face him. He shifts quietly as she does so. She enjoys watching him sleep and is surprised at his vulnerability. None of his ambiguous expressions taint his features, and his lips rest in a relaxed line. In the dawn light she can see the outline of his aquiline nose, and the bruise starting to blacken across the fineness of his cheekbone. As she watches him the thought of his neck sliced open and angry, and his warm blood pouring out staining the palms of her hands anxiously races into her mind. She pushes furiously away at the thought. She refuses to let her anger and pain cloud her judgment. (As well as ruin this quiet moment.) If I am going to exact my revenge on Cersei, I'll need him on my side. She gently caresses his skin in atonement where the bloody bruise swells. He reflexively flinches, and his eyes rush open to meet hers. The confusion of first waking is present there, and she revels in his unguarded exposure.

It is something she's never witnessed in him before, and it makes here realize the advantages, other than of the flesh, that the intimacies of marriage bring. Maybe, one day, I'll be able to read that mind of his, she thinks hopefully.

"Why are you up?" He whispers, his voice hoarse with slumber. His forehead creases with concern. He turns on his back to face her.

"I don't know." She replies, "I just startled is all."

He clears his throat and his eyes glance at the window, "What time is it?"

"Very early, but I think first light is hours away." She says quietly.

Petyr groans softly turning over onto his side again, and she recognizes his dismay at being awake. His arm bends pushing into the down pillow, and he rests his head against the inside of his elbow. His other hand comes up to her tenderly grabbing at her shoulder, and he guides her back down to rest her face in the crook of his neck. She breathes him in full and deep now, noting the smell of lemons, the cedar of his chest of drawers, as well as his musty incense. She can feel the boniness of his clavicle and chest, and runs her fingertips through the softness of the hair that lightly spreads across it. She hesitates for only a moment at the raised ridge of his scar. Relaxing into him, Sansa curls her arms up at her chest, letting his feverish heat warm her chilled fingers and nose. The open window has made the room cool, and the dampness in the air only magnifies her chill. He seems unaffected, and she wonders how a man can run so hot.

"Sansa" Petyr whispers. "...Sansa." She grumbles loudly as he lightly shakes her awake. "The sun is here, my sweetling. It's time we moved on."

She makes no motion to move, so he grabs at the fine point of her shoulder, and pulls her to face him. She's still lost in her dreams, but she studies him. He has shaved, and combed his hair, and he feels a smile pull at his lips as her eyes settle on the cut he tended to earlier. It no longer bleeds, and the slice is not deep, but the bruise has darkened, and it is painful to the touch.

"Tis nothing Sansa. It will heal." He assures her.

She sits up finally; the sheets fall to her waist and the plump softness of her belly folds into dunes as she bends. Her nipples harden with the dewy morning air.

"I must bathe." She says gently massaging her lower back. She is not used to such mattresses, and it must ache.

"'Very well, my lady, but be quick about it. The pitcher still has some clean water left." He says, still smiling, You are a fool, Petyr Baelish.

He woke over an hour ago, and he's since bathed, dressed, and gone downstairs to see about food as well as saddle the horses. She never stirred even as he stood in the middle of the room, naked as his name day, and dropped the hard soap he had brought. It fell with a deafening thump, and slid across the floorboards. Nothing but her light snores could be heard from the bed, a pillow thrown over her head, and her long, burning hair tumbling out from underneath it chaotically. She's on her stomach, and the sheets graze just above the slight valley of her rear. He enjoys letting his eyes travel up and down the lean muscles of her back. Her arms are spread out above her, and one foot sticks off the edge of the bed. She's a wildling in her sleep, he thinks. It was all he could do but fall into a fit of laughter.

Now, he rests himself in the corner, where a high-back chair awaits him as he coughs back a chuckle. He glances out the window at the trees, and he can see the cardinal sunrise intensely smolder behind them. Every few minutes, he watches a greasy, half drunk man stumble his way down the muddy road, home to the wife and children he left. The clank of the porcelain pitcher causes him to turn towards her. Sansa is finally out of bed, and he watches her standing at the dressing table, her back to him. She's all legs and elbows, and exceptionally tall for her age. But in spite of her lankiness her womanly form is burgeoning, and there is a softness appearing at her hips, belly, and thighs. He admires her as she washes, and he knows her cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Even as he can see the pink flush reach her ears and neck she shivers with the gray cold of the room. He had almost yelped with shock when he touched his toes to the hawkish floorboards in the early morning, and he swore he could almost see his breath. The summer is fading, and the nights get cooler and brisk as autumn approaches. The Starks are right about one thing: Winter is coming.

Sansa gently washes her face, then her neck, down under her delicate breasts. She slowly, but purposely moves the cloth to her underarms where a scant spread of flaming hair peaks out, and follows down the curve of her waist. Then hesitating slightly, she breathes out and washes the warm place between her thighs. The water drips down the long lines of her legs and pools at her feet. His eyes bask in her body as it bends and straightens, her hair is illuminated by the red sky as it falls over her face. He can feel the slight twinge of desire play at his prick. He wishes to sit her on that dressing table, and fuck her right there. Unfortunate for him, there is no time for it. They must make their way to the Eyrie before nightfall. So his eyes yearningly linger on her for a moment longer, and then he continues to watch the sun as it shyly greets him from the edge of the Earth.

They ride ahead of the servants, and Sansa's ass hurts from sitting in her saddle all day. The wind burns her cheeks as they gallop across the rocky hills of the meadow. She can see the Eyrie in the distance, and its round peak is hidden in the fog. The cliffs start to come upon them, and she tries not to glance down. The castle in the sky is the last place she really wants to go with its gloominess and Aunt Lysa's death looming over them. She's brooding over the fact that she has to see her annoying cousin Robert, and she still doesn't trust that her happiness has anything to do with Petyr's endgame. What if he hides me here and I'm never able to leave, and I'm trapped here for Cersei to find? I need to see Winterfell just one more time. I can't be stuck in this awful place with a man I don't trust. Last night may have been my biggest mistake. I gave too much away, as always. So stupid, Sansa. From here on out, you must keep yourself to yourself.

Anxiety raids her body like the plague, and her knees quiver in anticipation. For what she can't be sure, but she feels a dread fall over her that she can't shake.

When they arrive at the Eyrie's gates, sitting on the bridge overlooking nothing but clouds, Sansa has to remind herself to breathe. Petyr dismounts his horse nimbly, and looks up at her with a pleasant smile as his hand comes to aid her off. Her thighs are intensely sore from straddling her mare all day, and her lips are cracked with thirst. She retrieves her newly embroidered handkerchief from her pocket, and wipes the sweat from her brow. It comes away black with dust and filth from the road. She looks at the gates hoping their luggage has magically caught up to them. She grimaces like a child when she realizes they will not arrive until nightfall, and she desperately yearns for a clean dress.

"Come, my sweet. We shall get you something to eat." He says lifting an elbow for her to take hold of. He guides her through a dark passage, and up a lengthy flight of stairs. By the time they reach the top they both suck for air in ragged breaths. He leads her into the High Hall, which oddly is round with large open windows that look out at nothing but sky. The walls are painted Tully blue which makes the room appear as if it is floating. A giant piece of weirwood has been crafted into a throne, and Sansa can imagine Lysa perched high up there in that fearsome seat. She must have been quite a site with her anxious eyes piercing through you, and fragile Robert suckling at her breast. She was never the beauty her mother was, and her mind had always been tainted; even Sansa can remember that from her childhood. She can't remember the last time she had even seen her aunt though, and she wishes she had been able to be with her one last time before her untimely death. The rumors of her unstable nature and unconventional parenting habits are really the only thing she's ever known about her. It is said that Lord Robert inherited all her less desirable qualities as well which only adds to her uneasiness about meeting him again. She is surprised Petyr willingly came here to live, and there is no doubt in her mind that he had some part to play in her death. Even if it only consisted of a prayer (like he prays) for her demise, she could see why he wanted to escape this dungeon in the sky that was run by a mad woman.

There was one reason to take comfort in staying here, and that was that it was said to be impenetrable (Much like the man who currently protects it) Even if the Lannister's decide they wish her dead, they would never try it so long as she stayed here. It was too risky to attack this castle, and hope to come away with some of your men. I expect that's why he chose this as our temporary home. Her eyes glance at the moon door, and she shudders violently. She finds it kind of ironic that this is how her Aunt met her fate. She was notorious for throwing people to the sky for even the smallest slight against her.

"Hmmm," Petyr interrupts her thoughts, "I do wonder where all the servants are." She looks around now, and realizes no one has come to even greet them, not even the squire boy to assist with coats.

He pauses a moment, and then grabbing her hand leads her down a dark corridor, and they stop at a heavy door with a falcon's head as a doorknob.

As he leads her in she realizes it's the solar. There are books piled everywhere in tall stacks, and the furniture has been covered in thick white cloths. The fireplace is ashy and unlit, and the room is cold. She can feel the coolness of the stone in her socks as it seeps through the thinness of her boots. He pulls at a white cloth shaking it violently to remove the dust, and motions for her to sit in a chair. As he does so, she hears quick footsteps rushing up the hall.

A short, middle aged woman enters the room. She has blonde hair pulled neatly into a high braided bun, and her eyes are a deep, chocolate brown. They look at her, and then to Petyr's back anxiously.

"Oh! m' Lord! We were expecting you yesterday! No one sent any word that you would be arriving late, so we assumed you were detained in King's Landing."

He rolls his eyes to Sansa, never giving anything away to the woman, "Never mind, my dear, we are here now. And I would like you to meet my new wife, Sansa of House Stark." He says stepping out of the way so the woman can see her. Her eyes study hers intensely for a moment before she remembers herself, and gives her best gracious smile. Sansa can't tell if she is surprised by her youth, or if she notices a resemblance to her Aunt. Both notions cause her embarrassment, and she flushes a deep red. I must be so ridiculous, she thinks. But then she remembers that she is in fact Petyr's lady wife, and she must get used to the idea. She also must make others see her as his equal.

"Well, Malina," Petyr interrupts the awkward silence. "Can you please send one of the kitchen maids to light a fire, and undo the rest of the furniture? We'll take our feast in here, as soon as possible. I'm afraid Sansa is quite parched." Great, now I am an annoying little wench. "I'm quite fine for now," she lies. "Please. Take your time."

The woman looking quite put out stares at her sternly, and says to Petyr, "M' Lord, there is something of great importance that I need to speak with you about."

Her turns from Sansa now, hearing the alarm in her voice. When he faces her, fear overwhelms her steely eyes and Sansa can see her clenching her fists in discomfort.

"What can it be, Malina? Is something amiss?" He steps towards her now. She has gained his full attention.

"It's just that…it may be better to speak privately, m' Lord."

Petyr looks at her, and sighs in irritation now, "Anything you can say to me, you can say in my wife's presence. We keep no secrets." That's a lie, Sansa thinks staring at him, and she wonders if he can feel her eyes boring into his back.

Malina sways nervously from foot to foot, and her eyes fall to the floor, "Well, it's just that…it's the Little Sweetrobin, m' Lord."

"What about him?" He asks.

"Well, he's been ill for sometime. He grew weaker and weaker as the days past. We all thought it was just one of his spells, but he lost his fight this time. He's with the Gods now." Her face coils up into a pained expression, and a tear falls down her cheek.

'What?" Petyr says, now in complete shock. His hands fall helplessly at his side, and his shoulders go limp.

"I'm sorry m, Lord!" she spits out in a desperate tone. "We sent a Raven two days ago to tell you the news, but it must have reached King's Landing after you had already left."

Petyr takes a seat next to her now. It seems this news has shocked him as she can see his perplexed expression plague his brow, and he rubs at his temples.

Without opening his eyes, he asks, "And where is the body?"

"He was sent back to the Riverlands m'Lord, and given a proper Tully funeral. Lady Arryn…I mean Baelish Ser, made it clear that's how she wanted it."

"Thank you, Malina." He says abruptly, "That will be all."

She curtsies quickly, and leaves without a word. Sansa can hear her footsteps scurry down the hall, and she hears her scream one of the kitchen maid's names.

"That poor boy." She declares to no one and looks over at Petyr.

He continues rubbing his temples, and his face is pursed into a serious grimace.

"Yes," he says quietly, "He was a poor, unfortunate little creature, and I dare say there are many reasons I am sorry he's gone. It would have saved us an awfully large amount of time."

Sansa is shocked at the annoyance present in his voice. He looks up at her directly, "I'm afraid we'll need to move on from the Eyrie, my sweet. Now that Robert is gone, I've lost all claim as the Protector of the Vale. Harrold Hardyng is the rightful heir, and as soon as word of little Robert's death has reached all of Westeros all the high lords of the Vale will appear with their swords in hand…." He slumps in his chair, drifting deeply into thought.

Finally, he says, "No, we won't be staying. Unfortunately for us, we'll be making our way to the Fingers temporarily, and bend the knee dutifully to the young heir. I should have thought of it before, but it really is the perfect place for keeping a low profile."

He looks up at her and his face is calm, but fear creeps up into his eyes. It radiates off of him and she absorbs it shaking wildly, "Then where will we go?" she asks, desperste.

"I am sorry, my sweetling, but there will be less time now. Our plan will have to move forward much sooner than expected. As soon as Cersei hears word of my… demise," he pauses unsure. She is surprised to see him so uncertain.

"It will be time for my sweet wife to unchain that fearsome direwolf."

Notes:

Phew, that was a hard one to write! Sorry it took so long guys. Please excuse the quick journey lapse. I know it probably takes days and days to get to the Eyrie. But for the sake of timing, I didn't want to go into detail. So I'm just pretending they can get there in 2 days!

****And I was wandering on Tumblr and couldn't believe what I came across randomly!

Bitchtitsmccrabby:

Now normally I ship Sandor and Sansa together… I find that the Tyrion cannon is endearing its not entirely perfect as it could have been… Poor Sansa has become the Hermione of the Game of Thrones fan fiction world…

But! This fanfic really surprised me, and switched my interests into purely Sansa/Petyr… The writing is flawlessly done, and realistically written to the characters. I LOVED it! And I wanted to share with you all :) Give props to the author!

Thanks so much to whoever posted this! A wonderful review!