Author's Note: Gonna go ahead and slap a "Trigger Warning" on this one (mild non-con). This chapter has been highly anticipated in your reviews, so I sincerely hope it has been worth the wait. :) Longest one yet, I think!

Chapter 10: Sansa

Sansa awoke the next morning in her pallet bed, temporarily disoriented. She had half-expected to wake up still clinging to the Hound, and as she looked around the empty room, she almost convinced herself that she dreamt the whole thing. She had looked on his face, reached out and touched it...

She didn't know what had been so frightening about it before. They were just scars; all warriors bore scars. She herself had scars, only ones that you couldn't see. She wondered how different life would be if she had to wear them on the outside too, as he did.

The Hound had two faces, but it wasn't the same as the two faces Littlefinger wore. The Hound had been forced to bear them, for all the world to see. Against his will. Littlefinger, on the other hand, had carefully crafted his, and hid it so well that you couldn't tell the difference.

All the world will see his ugliness soon enough, she thought darkly. She had seen to that.

It felt as though a burden had been lifted that she didn't know she bore. She always wished she could say those things to him, and now, she had gotten her chance. By some wonderful order of events, she had found him, alive. Sansa wanted to bow before the gods, the old and the new—even the Stranger—and thank them for the opportunity; for restoring hope and faith when all had seemed so bleak. It wasn't her family returned to her as she prayed, or Winterfell, or even an end to the war...but it was something. Something more powerful than she would have thought previously, and she wouldn't take it for granted.

She thought back to how his arms had felt around her, and how comforted and safe she'd felt there, in ways she never expected she might feel in a man's arms—or anyone's arms ever again, for that matter. She had felt such a closeness with her friend Myranda Royce, it was true, but Myranda only knew Alayne Stone. Sansa knew she would never see her best friend again besides, just as she'd never seen Jeyne Poole again.

Sandor Clegane might be the only man alive who knew her for who she was, and would hug her for it rather than harm her or use her. Someone she trusted. Without all his anger, perhaps someone she could even come to see as a friend. Alayne had called Gravedigger her friend, after all. Had that just been a disguise, as Alayne had been? Or was that who the Hound was now? It had yet to be seen for a certainty, but she very much hoped so.

In turn, Sansa also hoped he wasn't entirely like Gravedigger. The Hound had a ferocity to him that she appreciated, and now that her ears were less innocent, she even appreciated his crudeness, for at least it was honest. She hoped he had retained some of those qualities, just as she hoped to retain some of Alayne's. It wasn't all bad, she decided. Alayne made her less timid and naive; Gravedigger might make the Hound less hateful and bitter. At her core, she was still Sansa Stark, and always would be. She could see that now. Maybe he could still be Sandor Clegane.

When I touched him, he wept. Just as he did the last time she'd done that. The circumstances were vastly different this time, but the result was the same. He's the same. But also so different.

Pulling on her boots and a fur cloak, Sansa trudged through the snow to break her fast. It had begun to snow in earnest, it seemed, and showed no signs of stopping. The wind howled all around her. The walkways were covered in snow up to her mid-calf, rendering all of yesterday's work useless. The untouched snow at her sides came up to her neck now, and she shuddered to think of traveling in it. She had fled the Vale at the right time.

She heard the cutting and scraping of snow being shoveled ahead just as he faded into view, his figure dark and towering in the swirling snows. Sansa approached him, somewhat cautiously, uncertain of what his manner might be. She relaxed, however, when he saw her and appeared pleased by the sight. He leaned on his spade and repeated his words from last night, confirming to Sansa that she hadn't dreamt it: 'Little Bird'

"Are you coming?" She asked. She frowned as he shook his head, gesturing to the walkways around them and signing, "Need work"

He needed to keep the walkways cleared or the snow would overtake them entirely. She could see that. Still, it was disappointing.

He could see her expression plainly, so he added, "Later"

Sansa smiled. "Yes, later. I should like that."

She touched his arm lightly as she left him to continue on to the common hall. On her way, she noticed more brothers were outside with shovels in the swirling haze of snow, digging out the walkways. The Isle was a small place in comparison to most, but still quite large on its own. There was much ground to cover, to be sure.

She gave each brother she encountered a greeting, which they returned. Brother Brandon was shoveling this morning as well, and she greeted him as she passed.

A snowball struck Sansa in the back as she walked away from him, and she giggled as she spun around, ducking as he threw another. 'Watch your back,'he reminded her, and she dug her fingers into the snow and returned the attack, hitting him square in the chest. Thus ensued another impromptu snowball fight between the two of them, lasting until the truce was called, by brother Brandon this time.

Her hands were numb and tingling and her hair full of snow when at last she entered the common hall, laughter still in her throat. She found it sparsely populated; most of the brothers were outside still. She sat down by herself, a meal brought to her soon after. She began to pick at her food, alone with her thoughts. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to ponder without abandon.

Sansa used to hate playing in the snow, she reflected as it melted in her hair; perhaps Alayne wouldn't leave entirely after all. The thought pleased her. She liked being a lady, but she had also enjoyed the freedom of being a bastard. Maybe she could be both a lady of courtesy and bastard bold. Instinctively, her mind wandered to Jon Snow. It gave her pause.

He was dead too, now. News of the Lord Commander's death had come, about a year ago, in an even more terrifying letter addressed to her father. Not your father. Alayne's. He had laughed at it, calling it a desperate attempt by the Watch, who clearly just wanted their swords and supplies to last through the Winter. He had wanted to share in his mirth, asking Alayne to read it aloud before he tossed it in the flames.

"Grumpkins and Snarks," he had chuckled, shaking his head. "They take me for a fool."

Alayne had laughed with him, while Sansa thought back to all the tales Old Nan had told her; the scary ones, the ones Bran liked so much. She thought of Jon, and how many tears she knew she would shed for him once she was alone. Mutiny at the Wall. Lord Commander is dead. The Others are coming, and the long night follows. Send help, or all will be lost.

A year had come and gone, and Winter had come. Sansa wondered how they had fared. Sansa hoped some of the other lords had taken the letter more seriously, whether the Others were real or no; it was the realm's responsibility to supply the Watch, was it not? Was it not the one thing the Seven Kingdoms could agree to do together? Had the land been torn apart by war so badly that men would laugh in the face of a cry for help?

The raven who bore the message had still been perched on the window ledge, Sansa remembered. It had mimicked Petyr's last word, as ravens were sometimes wont to do, the clever ones at least: "Fool! Fool! Fool!" it screeched. It echoed in Sansa's ears now, as it brought more memories to mind, memories she had been eager to stow away.

Ravens had become increasingly more clever in the Vale as of late, it seemed, for she'd never heard so many that could repeat words before. She hadn't been the only one who noticed, but she alone took notice of it only happening when she was around. She had started to pay attention to the birds eventually, and she was now sure that they had been her first sign, but not from the Seven Gods—this one had been from the Old. Sansa knew the stories of the Children of the Forest, and their talking ravens. They hadn't had to write letters back then, for the ravens could speak so well. It was said in the stories that such birds of today were long descended from that line.

Alayne hadn't believed such nonsense at first, but for one time in particular—one word in particular—that had struck her. "Pool!" a bird had cried from a tree nearby, as Petyr had been telling her a story about Maidenpool. "Pool! Pool!"

The word had brought a name to her mind; a name she thought she had forgotten, but at the same time could never forget. Petyr had grown annoyed of the cawing, sighing, "Stranger take those blasted birds, I've taken all I can stand of their interruptions as of late."

"Taken!" the bird replied accusingly.

She hadn't put the words together until later that night, in her dreams. She had dreamt of the day her world first crashed down around her, when she and Jeyne Poole were captured and kept in her bedchamber for days. She had been annoyed by all of Jeyne's sobbing then, but she felt ashamed of it later, for she had never seen her best friend again. Sansa never discovered what had become of her, but a realization had come to her in this dream; a passing comment, long forgotten, coming back to the surface in a rush. Littlefinger knew where she was. Littlefinger had offered to see her dealt with.

When Alayne woke, she knew only one thing: Whatever had happened to Jeyne Poole, it hadn't been good. And Littlefinger was the reason.

That was when she knew, for the first time in her heart, that she would have to get herself out of this situation. There was no one to help her now, and Littlefinger was no friend of hers. She was a pawn in his schemes, not a partner as he would have her believe. She was just another Jeyne Poole, only more valuable. She'd always known this truth, deep down; but the reality had crashed over her in that instant, just as it had done yesterday in the stables. She had to get away, and soon. Before the long night came. Before she had a new name.

She'd spent those last months trying to figure out the best possible way in her mind, but no such way presented itself. Before she knew it, it was her wedding night. Again.

The entire affair was a sham, just as her previous marriage had been. Littlefinger said it wouldn't matter in the end, but Sansa knew this marriage was a rushed affair, hastily stitched together at the last minute. This would be her third marriage now, having married Harry the Heir not long before he died of a heart attack, which had taken place shortly before Sweetrobin had stopped waking up. The Vale belonged to Petyr Baelish now. The Lord of Poison. A scavenger King.

Rumors had spread of a Dragon Queen crossing the Narrow Sea, sooner than Petyr expected, and he was eager to be in her good graces when she arrived. He told Sansa that this changed things, and he planned on being on the winning side. As his luck would have it, another Targaryen had resurfaced, and word reached them that the Martells intended to offer their own heir to him. Not to be outdone, Petyr offered the hand of Sansa Stark—although in truth she was Alayne Hardyng now. Petyr assured her that such charges as regicide wouldn't matter once the Targaryens were restored, and she in their favor. The same would apply to her previous marriages. In any case, he conveniently left all that information out of his proposition. She remembered wondering what he was conveniently leaving out in his promises to her.

The North had apparently appealed to the young Dragon more than Dorne, for he accepted, and had come straight to the Gates of the Moon to marry her. Petyr failed to mention to him that they didn't yet have the strength of the North at their backs, but said it too would matter little, for once news of Sansa Stark's new marriage spread, her old one annulled, and the Dragon Queen in their good graces, the North would come to them willingly. A name is a powerful thing, he'd told her. And there are still many who would rally behind the Targaryen name, just as much as Stark. Together, they would have greater strength and claim than anyone.

The Marriage was planned mostly in secret, taking place in the late hours of the night. Only Petyr, a Septon, and the Targaryen's envoy would bear witness and know of Sansa's true identity. It would be safer to reveal who she was after the alliances had been made, not before. The secrecy also benefitted the Targaryen prince, for he too was hunted; Petyr let him think it was his idea.

One of the Targaryen's terms was that Sansa prove she was a maiden still, so she had been inspected by the Septon the day she was to be wed, her maidenhead confirmed to remain intact. Alayne had gotten Harry too drunk to perform all three times he'd tried before his heart attack; she had done it out of compassion for her friend Myranda—who, she knew, wanted him—but had also done it to preserve her own virtue. She had not wished for Harry to die as he did, but she'd held no love for him either. He was a nasty, selfish man who only had love for himself. Even still, Alayne had charmed him well enough, and convinced him they had indeed consummated.

The Septon had sent a request for annulment to the High Sparrow afterwards, though Sansa couldn't be sure if it would reach him, or if he would even consider it legitimate. Surely it can't be that simple. It had been enough for Petyr, however, who didn't intend on waiting to hear back. Since Harry the Heir technically married Alayne Stone, no such process had been necessary then. Once they left the Vale, Littlefinger intended to spread the rumor that his daughter had tragically died. One less loose end to tie up.

Aegon had been a handsome man of an age with herself, with exotic blue hair that Sansa found charming. She remembered feeling confused by the whole thing, however, for she had thought Petyr meant to take Winterfell by marrying her himself. Now he was handing it over to the Targaryens, just like that? Maybe this prince was just another corpse in his path to achieving that end. It made her ill. She liked Aegon, although she had no love for him either, nor did she trust him. She knew that, if she were to marry him, surely he would be dead in a matter of time as well. Petyr still had bigger plans; he'd only altered them a bit to accommodate the new player who had entered his game of thrones. Sansa pitied her, too, whoever this Dragon Queen was. Would dragons be a match for the kind of scheming that went on at court? If the skulls said to be kept below the Red Keep were any indicator, the answer was no.

Petyr's possessiveness of her was confirmed in the design of her wedding dress, she had noted as she looked on herself in a full-length mirror, hand maidens playing at her hair and lacing her bodice. Little wolves and mockingbirds decorated the collar, a subtle gesture that she was still his. Time was running out, and still she had no plan or opportunity.

Once she was married to Aegon, they would be returning to Winterfell. It made Alayne sick to think that Littlefinger might sit in her true father's seat someday, and it was with that mental image that she knew she had to go, now, or die in the attempt. The time for waiting had run its course.

Her heart had sank, then, when the door swung open, and Littlefinger entered the bedchamber. He sent the girls away, locking the door after them. Sansa remembered how hopeless it had seemed after that; he wasn't going to let her out of his sight until the deed was done. She had missed her chance, if she'd ever had one.

He'd had other intentions, however. As he poured them each a cup of wine, he instructed her that she needed to make her new prince happy. She wouldn't get out of it with her clever tricks this time, for he intended for her to be wed for much longer. Since she had never laid properly with a man before, with the Septon having already inspected her, he intimated to her that the first time should be something special, and what was more special than the love he had for her? What better way to learn, than from one's own father? He offered her a cup of wine then, to toast to the new life that was waiting for her, and to special occasions such as these.

Sansa had stared at him, wondering if he truly thought her to be such a fool. He's always underestimated me, she thought. She refused the wine, claiming to have an upset stomach from the tightness of her lacings. She did have an upset stomach, in truth, but the dress was not the cause. He offered to loosen it for her, setting Sansa's skin to crawling.

It hadn't mattered, in the end. Ultimately growing tired of her polite refusals, Littlefinger pushed her roughly down on the bed, crawling on top of her and kissing her. Silent tears ran down the sides of her face, knowing he didn't plan on stopping at kissing. Not tonight.

She could have screamed, but what good would it have done her? Littlefinger would surely have lies prepared in advance, would likely make it seem as though she initiated it. He didn't act without forethought. It made sense to her now, how he always asked her to kiss him, rather than the other way around.

Completely at his mercy, Sansa had almost accepted her fate and let it happen. Almost...

He had her wrists pinned to the bed, surprisingly strong for such a small man, although she gave him no struggle. She just laid there, frozen in her fear and despair. He was trailing wet kisses down her neck, and when he came back up to lick her ear, a whisper escaped his lips. "Cat."

That had been the straw that broke the horse's back, disturbing Sansa so thoroughly that it jolted her to act. He had once told her how he'd claimed the maidenheads of both her mother and her aunt Lysa; one of those, she knew, was a lie. It revolted her to think he would add hers to his collection. She would stick to her original plan: get out of here, or die in the attempt. She waited for him to shift in his position atop her, when she could gain enough momentum to knee him—hard—in the groin.

Everything had happened so fast, then. She took advantage of his distraction as he howled in pain, shoving him off her onto the floor, and leapt off the bed to the other side. Heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst, she spied a knife on the cheese platter her handmaids had brought up earlier. She sprinted over and grabbed it, spun around, and held it out just as he was upon her again, the point threatening to pierce his throat if he came closer.

Then, time had seemed to freeze momentarily as she looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers. He was furious, but not stupid; he lifted his arms in surrender.

"You surprise me, my sweet child," he said in a sickeningly saccharine voice. "Put the knife down, and we shall never speak of this again. How does that sound?"

He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. It never reached his eyes.

"Have some wine," she'd said, her voice quaking as much as her hands, betraying her. He protested at the idea, and Sansa drove the blade forward enough to puncture the skin.

"Drink. It." She'd said through clenched teeth, in her attempt to hold back sobs. "Go to sleep. Or I will put you to sleep."

She walked forward as he walked backward, until he bumped into the dressing table where he'd abandoned the goblets. "The other one," she demanded when she saw him choose the one he'd poured for himself.

He tried to talk her out of it, made her empty promises and assured her he would make it up to her if she'd only put the knife away; but he never actually apologized. In the end, she'd drawn enough of his life's blood to force him into it.

It worked so quickly, it surprised her. Littlefinger crumpled to the floor moments later. Curiously, however, he remained conscious. Paralyzed, she realized, her stomach churning. Only his eyes moved.

"My mother never loved you," she told him, her voice thick with loathing. "And this is for Jeyne."

Taking the knife, Sansa bent over him and carefully drew a deep gash down the center of his face, from forehead to chin. He was unable to scream, but his eyes were deafening. He could feel it. She drove the knife deepest when it reached his lips, not stopping until it scraped the teeth beneath. She split his tongue as well, for the snake he was. Grotesque and quartered, no one would ever want to kiss those lips again. Or trust the words that come out of them.

Still, she wrapped his face and set him on his side to keep him from bleeding to death, or choking on all the blood. She wasn't sure how long it would take for someone to find him, or how long the poison would last. Surely, enough time for Petyr to feel confident in his endeavors; but not long enough to waste, either. It was midnight; the wedding was only an hour or so from now, two at most.

After that, time seemed to speed back up again. Shaken from the whole encounter, and horrified by what she'd done, Sansa fumbled around her bedroom and threw anything and everything she might find useful onto the bed. She held the knife in her sleeve and tied the blanket up around her things, tossing it out the window. She used her curtains as a rope to climb far enough down to jump safely, but she paused before she exited, looking back to where Petyr lay on the floor. She didn't feel sorry. The world would now see his split face as clearly as she had seen his split personalities. He's the true traitor.

"I wish you would spend this time in regret," she told him quietly. "But I know you'll only spend it thinking of lies."

When she reached the ground, she slumped down against the wall and sobbed in earnest, muffling the sound with her hands. She was shaking all over, and her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe through all her panic.

"Go!"she thought she heard a bird screech from the roof. "Go! Go!"

She did go. And she didn't look back.

Getting out of the Gates of the Moon had been easy after that, with how well she came to know the layout since the Eyrie had closed for Winter. She knew all the best hiding places. She knew when and where the guards were stationed, what their habits were, how attentive they were to their post. It was the dead of night, besides. She was able to slip by them without notice.

When she reached the Bloody Gate, the guards asked where she was going, but didn't question her further. She had donned a few cloaks to give herself a hunched appearance, her sack slung over her shoulder, her head down. She did her best to sound old and frail as she told them she was going to her daughter's village before the snows piled too high, for she was to be a grandmother. She could have cried with relief when they gave her passage, congratulating her and wishing her a safe journey. It had been anything but, in truth, although she knew it could have been much worse. They could have found me.

It had been snowing when she left, but Sansa took care to try and cover her tracks, or misdirect them when she could by walking in a circle and then walking out from it in different directions. It had slowed her progress considerably, but she hoped it would have the same effect on the search party.

She had walked until her feet bled, and then walked some more. She slept mostly in trees, when she could find ones with dense enough branches to hide her. She ate bugs, leaves, and snow. She shivered so hard she feared her bones might break. But she had made it. She decided upon making human contact again that she must remain as Alayne, and would likely be Alayne until her death. She had been wrong, however…it felt as though she had been reborn.

Tears were in her eyes as she thought back on it all. It had been the first time she'd properly reflected on the memory, and she found she was filled with a new strength for it. Things seemed so bleak before, but now...

The Gods were good, and although there were no wolves left, there was at least a dog who had survived. It would never be enough, she thought sadly, but it was the best she could have hoped for.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

He had a pack of his own now, and he did not howl...but Jon Snow's wolf had never howled either; a mute. She remembered the red of his eyes, the white of his fur, the face; he looked every bit like a Weirwood. Just as Sandor Clegane looked every bit a faithful servant of the Seven.

But Ghost was still a wolf, and perhaps Sandor Clegane was still a dog. He couldn't come with her when she left this place, but if she was lucky, maybe he would impart on her some of his ferocity. She would need it on the path ahead.

Inside, she was not only Sansa Stark; she was Alayne, she was Myranda, she was Jeyne, she was Cersei, and Margaery, Littlefinger...she was Arya, Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, her Father, her lady mother...a Stark. A lady. A wolf. Even a little bird. She carried pieces of everyone she knew inside her, wove them into her, and called on them when she needed them. In that way, she would never be alone, not truly.

She was pondering on that when the door to the common hall opened, snow swirling in as the Elder Brother crossed the threshold. He mostly took meals in his personal chambers, but every few days or so he would join the others here, sitting with a different brother each time; but she noticed that he had his eyes on her often. He had been helping to clear the walkways, she observed, for he was glistening with sweat and covered in snow. He shook off the excess as he took notice of her, and came to sit across from her at the table.

"Winter is here in earnest, it would seem." he said, shrugging off his heavy cloak. Snow still clung to his eyebrows. Sansa had finished her breakfast already, but felt contented to keep him company. He turned down a meal in favor of hot wine, and considered Sansa as he drank.

"What's on your mind, child?" he asked, noting her expression.

"Nothing of consequence," she lied. She changed the subject quickly. "I would like to join your prayers today, if it please you," she said, "To pray for Spring."

Elder Brother smiled at that. "You would be most welcome to join your prayers to ours, Alayne; I would be pleased to have you attend with us at long last."

Sansa bowed her head slightly in apology. "I confess it, my faith was shaken."

"Pray I ask what has restored it?" Sansa looked up at him, biting her lip. He always wanted to know things.

"The Gods have shown me proof beyond doubt that they are with me," she said after a moment. "The old and the new."

"You worship all the Gods?" He asked, interested. Sansa shook her head. "Not all. Just those."

"I've heard it said that the more Gods you keep, the harder it is to have faith. You must be blessed indeed."

Sansa laughed at the word. "Forgive me, but I would sooner call myself cursed, for all the challenges they seem like to face me with. I have renewed faith, and it gives me joy. But it has cost me greatly as well."

The look in Elder Brother's eyes were of empathy; perhaps he too felt cursed, although he didn't say so. "The Gods reward the faithful, and they challenge the worthy, sweet child. Winter doesn't last forever."

"Only for the living," she replied quietly.

The wind howled against the windows, and the Elder Brother considered her for a long while. "Surely you've heard that Dragons fly our skies, and the dead march in the far North. I wouldn't think it so far-fetched to believe you will feel the Spring breeze upon your face again."

Sansa smiled in spite of herself, for the thought of Dragons and restless dead frightened her, but none so much as Littlefinger. His wrath would be terrible if he ever found her.

"Indeed, it's as though the songs and stories are coming true. But none of the ones that have happy endings."

"Life's not a song, or a story," he said to her gently, "just as songs and stories are not life. Once you can separate them, you can appreciate each for what they are; for one does not diminish the other."

She raised her eyes, and they looked at each other for a moment. Then, he rose from the table and said he looked forward to seeing her at prayer. He left, leaving Sansa alone to ponder on his words.