Petyr was in the High Hall with lord Royce and lady Waynwood, leaning so that his hands were on the mahogany table between them. Sansa could hear that they were clearly in deep conversation, but she did not desire to be with Harrold Hardyng alone for much longer. As Sansa entered, still flushed after Harry the Heir's attempt at intimacy, the talking came to an abrupt stop. Petyr straightened, his disposition calm and his eyes bright as he caught Sansa's. Sansa cocked her head slightly, inquisitive, when lord Nestor Royce and Lady Anya turned to face her.

Sansa's heart raced, and her breakfast of figs and cheese threatened to make a second appearance.

They knew. She glanced at Petyr, who smiled. Her hands began to sweat.

"Lady Stark," Lady Anya smiled, and Sansa swallowed hard, her tongue heavy as iron. "Had we known it was you under Lord Baelish's protection, perhaps we would not have taxed ourselves to drive him out of the Vale." She cleared her throat as Petyr harrumphed in concurrence. "Autumn wanes, and we must gird ourselves for winter. As I have said, no one of us wants war. And who knows winter better than a Stark of lord Eddard's loins?"

Sansa was lost. This was all going so fast, too fast. Her mouth was dry and her head spun as she fumbled for words, any words, any sentences.

"The court has left for the Gates of the Moon," Lord Royce contributed, "and we believe that if you are to marry our ward that it would be safest for all in the Eyrie to descend to the valley below. Including my daughter, Myranda." Lord Nestor clearly adored his daughter, and had once tried to marry her to Harry, to no avail. Sansa wondered if he held any spite towards this plan, considering it marked his daughter as unworthy.

"Once you are wed, Sansa, sweetling, that is when you will take back your home. You will take back Winterfell as your own, from the Boltons, with the men of the Lords of the Vale and the Gates of the Moon," said Petyr. Sansa had not realised he had sauntered to be by her side until he took her hand, her sweat gliding off the coolness of his palm.

"The men of the Gates of the Moon will be your support. I will be your liege, Lady Stark, as will Lady Anya and many more." It was at this that Sansa saw that Nestor Royce held no malevolence towards her for being betrothed to Harry; Randa must have spoken highly of her. But this was all too overwhelming. How long had she wanted to be Sansa again? Too long, she knew, but this was too much for her. She wanted Winterfell, oh, to be home again! But what if… what if…

Sansa dithered on her feet, and her vision blurred. She leaned heavily on Petyr, who murmured to her "it's alright, sweetling, do not fret," as Anya opened the door to let in Harry. Sansa hardly noticed. Harry did; his neck flushed furiously.

Sansa couldn't breathe. "I'm not ready." She couldn't help but lean her head into Petyr's shoulder; the ground was falling beneath her; a moon door had opened and she was tumbling down into the mountains below, cold and biting and bitter.

"Tell me what part of this is worrying you," Petyr asked, stroking her hair.

All Sansa could manage was a croaky whisper. "Cersei," she said into his shoulder. "Cersei will find out, she always finds out, the Spider…"

"She will not find out, not yet. It will remain in this room until you are wed." Sansa opened her eyes and pulled away from Petyr to see her betrothed gaping at her in disbelief.

"Sansa Stark?" He gawked, as lady Waynwood nodded. Harry looked as shocked as she felt. "But… she's a bastard! She can't be Sansa Stark!" His chiselled features looked ridiculous as he balked.

Lord Nestor approached Sansa and Petyr. "My Lord, and Lady, I will not give word of this until the time is right. And I am sure that Lady Waynwood will not either. Or Harrold." He glared pointedly at Harry. "No one else knows that Littlefinger's bastard is Sansa Stark, yes?"

Sansa's heart fluttered. Would Willas betray her? "No," she replied.

Sansa and Harry caught eyes, and Sansa attempted a tentative smile. He feigned one in return, but turned his broad back on her, whispering with Lord Royce. He does not want a wife, Sansa thought. He only wants pretty girls he can plant a bastard inside and leave to suffer on their own.

The Royce's and Harry the Heir left for the Gates of the Moon when dusk fell, led by Mya Stone. The girl was lithe and walked with purpose, and her blue eyes gave away her parentage. Sansa felt that if Mya knew who she really was, they couldn't be as close as she would like. Sansa had not had a female friend who knew her truly since Jeyne Poole; how she missed her, when they would sneak lemoncakes from the kitchens and giggle until early in the morning. She wondered where Jeyne was now. Jeyne would've adored Harry the Heir.

Once they had left, Sansa turned on Petyr. "You ought to warn me before you tell people of importance." Her voice was cold.

Petyr smiled and patted her on the shoulder. "The Royce's can be trusted, believe me, sweetling. And Harry is quite comely, and will give you the heir and men you need to take back Winterfell." What if I don't want Harry? Sansa thought, but she knew how stupid and childish that thought was. She could not choose who she was to marry.

"Yes, well, I'd still prefer to be informed when my own… details are being spread around like rumours." Sansa straightened her shoulders, meeting Petyr's gaze.

Petyr sighed, bobbing his head. "I suppose you're right. Forgive me. Next time, I will inform you." They walked slowly down the corridor, in the direction of Petyr's private chambers. Sansa hadn't been in there since Lysa had died. "Speaking of informing, I must needs tell you of some important matters regarding politics and the Queen. Come." He opened the door to his chambers and led her inside.

Sansa hesitated on the threshold. "I am not sure I would feel… comfortable in my Aunt's old chambers."

"I understand. But I have ensured that no remnants of your dear Aunt Lysa linger in here."

Sansa contemplated that answer. So eager to get rid of all traces, Petyr? She thought. She gave in, and entered. It was clean, so clean, and whatever personal belongings Petyr owned where out of sight- it was impersonal, and sterile. "You have news of Cersei?" Sansa asked whilst looking around.

"Indeed I do, and my, oh my, sweetling, it is interesting. Sit." He gestured for her to sit on the end of his four poster bed, meant for two. She sat, and the silk lined sheets beneath her rustled. How long had he had silk for? Petyr stood across from her, leaning on the wall.

"The Queen Regent has been put under penance for crimes she has allegedly committed, including adultery, by the High Sparrow; he is the leader of a religious assemblage who believe they do the work of the Seven. She has completed her walk of atonement, where she walked naked through the slums of Flea Bottom."

Sansa was frozen still, enraptured with what he was saying. Petyr was clearly struggling to contain his glee. "Margaery is free from her Queen Mother's torment, then?" Sansa asked breathlessly.

Petyr shook his head morosely. "From Cersei's torment, mayhaps. But Margaery was also accused of committing similarly heinous and promiscuous crimes, and the pair were locked beneath the Red Keep. Tommen ruled without either queen; that is, until now."

"What do you mean?"

"Cersei fought her way out of her trial. She… she used Wildfire to destroy the Great Sept, whilst the Sparrows, Kettleblacks, Margaery and Loras Tyrell, and hundreds of others were inside. They were all killed in the blow." He chuckled darkly. "The Mad Queen."

Sansa's heart twisted as she absorbed this news, nodding slowly. Margaery and Loras were dead. Willas. Oh, how her heart ached for dear Willas, who spoke of them so gently, the way she would speak of Arya and Bran and Rickon… Sansa fought back tears. She wished, she wished she could be with him. She knew how he would feel, having lost Robb, her parents, Arya… Oh, Willas, I am so sorry.

As if Petyr has read her mind, he continued. "Your friend lord Willas had left for Dorne only days before the blow; he was denied men from King's Landing by a man called Qyburn. In Dorne, Arianne Martell had revolted in an attempt to put Myrcella on the throne; you know their Dornish beliefs. Myrcella was subsequently injured, and lost an ear." Sansa gasped. Poor, sweet, clever Myrcella. "And, in the North…" Petyr paused.

Sansa's breathing hitched. "Yes?"

"Your bastard brother was stabbed by men of the Night's Watch."

Sansa covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. "No. No." Another one, dead. She could not bear it, she could not bear it…

"Sansa, listen. He is alive. I do not know how, but he is alive." Sansa could breathe again, the weight lifted. Jon is alive, he's alive. She did not care how he survived, she was simply glad he was still in the land of the living. "That is the end of my news." He sat beside her, gently touching her hand. "I am sorry to shock you with all of this. I just felt you should be privy to the knowledge."

Sansa closed her eyes, nodding. "I am glad you told me." She exhaled shakily. "I am afraid Cersei will try to kill me once I am wed."

"That will not happen," Petyr assured. "I will protect you." He sat beside her and pulled her close. "No one will ever protect you as well as I have, and will continue to." His voice was low and rasping. "Harry will be your husband, but it is I who you must always trust foremost. That is how you will survive Cersei once you and Harry take back Winterfell." His breath touched her cheek, followed by his lips. "On the morrow, we are to begin our descent, and after that, we conquer, you and I. Together."