DISCLAIMER: I don't own ASOIAF series, its characters, the setting or even the best lines in this fic. All credit goes to George R. R. Martin whose work inspired me to write this story.

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CHAPTER 5

SANSA

The morning brought clear skies and many of the guest were leaving. Sansa raced to find Sandor Clegane to know if he was one of them. She found him in the hall outside the common room where breakfast was being served. The passageway opposite the wide staircase led beneath the castle to the Eyrie's entrance. It seemed to Sansa like the maw of some great monster.

"Are you leaving?"

"Yeah."

Someone came out the side door to the common room and she heard the clattering of dozens of people eating breakfast. Then the door closed, the person passed, and she and Sandor were alone again.

"You better go," he said, breaking the silence. "I'm waiting for Baelish."

"I'll go." She turned her attention to one of the great tapestries that warmed the walls, like she'd just come down to admire it, and traced her finger over the designs in the fabric. "You're right, you know. It isn't fair, but it wouldn't be fair either way."

He cocked his head. "What are you saying?"

"It wouldn't have been fair if you really had kissed me. Because after that you left King's Landing, while I stayed and suffered."

He looked struck. To see him so hurt her as well and she couldn't hold his gaze.

"I wanted you to come with me. It was not my decision to leave you."

"You did, though."

He crossed to her so swiftly she backed into the wall. The stiff fibers of the tapestry dug into her back.

"You think I'm a coward. Is that it?"

"No," she answered truthfully. He looked terrifying when he was angry, but she forced herself to look at him.

"The offer is still open, Sansa. Let me take you from here."

She almost asked, "To Winterfell?" but she knew what he would say. And he was right, for how would they get there? Who would help them? She knew it was impossible and her eyes started to burn from the effort of holding back tears. "I can't," she said.

"You're craven," he barked at her. "You wouldn't go with me then, and you won't come with me now."

His words cut into her like ice and tears welled at the corners of her eyes. That was how Petyr Baelish found them, descending the staircase with Lothor Brune at his side.

"Sandor Clegane," his voice rang through the hall and Sandor snapped to attention. "Are you bothering my daughter?"

"No, father," Alayne cut in, keeping her eyes squeezed tightly shut so he would not see her tears fall. "I just came down for breakfast."

"Off with you, then. I'll join you in a moment." Brune gave her an appraising look before she hurried through the door.

Sansa chewed her biscuits and eggs slowly, but was still half done before Petyr came to join her. He usually sat at the high table when there were guests, but this was an informal breakfast.

"We don't have to worry about Sandor Clegane any longer," he told her while he filled his plate. "He'll take his ransom and leave—to the Free Cities or someplace similarly far away, I hope, and I doubt there's a soul in the Seven Kingdoms who will be sorry to see him go."

Alayne said nothing. She felt like a part of her—the last part that was Sansa—was leaving with him, and she was about to lose them both, forever.

"I'm not entirely sure he didn't recognize you, but don't worry. Imagine what Cersei would do if he ran back to her with his tail between his legs—Joffrey didn't last so long without his sworn shield. Not that him being there would have helped," he winked at her, "though I could have kept him here if I thought he'd pose a problem."

Would you have kept him willingly, or as a prisoner like myself? she thought bitterly. "Clegane does not seem the type of man to be easily kept," she ventured.

"You misunderstand me." He pulled a platter of berries nearer to his plate. "You should try these; they will be hard to come by when winter comes. No, I wouldn't have to shackle him to a dungeon wall. He asked to stay."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "Why would he . . ." she started to ask, then shut her mouth. She did not want to arouse his suspicion, but Petyr noticed nothing beyond her curiosity.

"Well, it could be a ploy to betray us and regain favor with the Lannisters. Otherwise, what better place to hide from the world than deep in the Vale? Surely you know that, Alayne," he smiled knowingly.

That is not the reason, she knew. She felt sick.

"Of course I refused. He's got a good arm—no one's denying that—and a good price, too, but he's dangerous; unstable, if you ask me. And we can't have soldiers who run off during battle. That man's reputation has gone to rot. Alayne, you really must try these berries."

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself," he pushed the plate away, and took her hands in his. "To happier matters—you haven't told me what you think of the prosperous union I arranged for you."

The words came out in a rush. "Why didn't you tell me? I never met Ser Harold before yesterday. How could you think I want to marry him? I don't even know him."

"No," Littlefinger conceded, his thin lips tightening, "but Harry is near your age, quite dashing, and the heir to the Eyrie, after our young Lord Robert."

He means to kill the boy, Sansa knew. The realization did not make her any more comfortable about the arrangement. "You could have asked me."

"Told you, you mean? A match like this is quite above your wildest dreams, Alayne, but you seem quite ungrateful. Cat must have spoiled you when you were younger."

She was so used to their ruse that it took her a moment to register her mother's name. That upset her. "I'm not spoiled. It's sudden, that's all."

"Then I have your consent?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Petyr patted her hand. "I understand. You have qualms about getting married. That's fine. Think on it, and let me know tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Father." It was true. After Joffrey and Tyrion, Sansa did not want to get married again, and she had trouble separating how Alayne felt from that.

"Try to consider the fact that he's perhaps the most eligible bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms when reaching your decision."

Sansa sighed, and tried to imagine what her life would be like as Ser Harold's wife. They were well-matched, both being heirs to one of the Seven Kingdoms, and he was the type of man Alayne would grasp for beyond hope. There really was no reason to say no, for either of them. The thought of being married again still brought a sour taste up from the back of her throat. She would be at her husband's mercy and, until Harry's inheritance brought him back to the Eyrie, Lady Waynwood's. She would have no friends to take with her to her their house, but then again she had no friends here, either. Ever since she left Winterfell, her birthright, she had been at the mercy of others. If she was there, at least she could set some of the terms of her marriage, but as Petyr's daughter she depended on him for everything. She wondered if she had aroused some doubt in him by complaining so much about the announcement when she had such little say in her own fate anyway, and decided to apologize. "I'm sorry, Father. I only meant that it would be a trial to leave you."

Petyr responded with a glint in his eye. "Have no worries, my dear. My plans never have you far from my side for long. It may be premature to say this," he hesitated, something he rarely did. "But I have even entertained the thought that, at a later date, we may get married."

She was flabbergasted. "I'm your daughter."

"Yes," he squeezed her hands. "But Sansa isn't."

He had not spoken her true name since they came to the Vale. Her mind ran through the possible scenarios of how her marriage to Ser Harry could play out, but came up short of ending with her married to Littlefinger. There were plans beyond her own marriage he would not share with her. She pulled her hands away, confused about his motives, and rose from the table.

"It's just an idea I wanted to share," he said dismissively, ignoring that she recoiled from him. "Think on Harry, and let me know in the morning."

She bowed her head to take her leave, unable to even open her mouth, and took the stairs up to her room as though in a dream. The castle never felt so dark a prison. She had no control over her own life, and she was frightened. When the door clicked shut behind her she started to sob, and almost as soon as she opened her mouth she threw up. She ran for the bedpan across the room with one hand over her mouth and vomited her breakfast into it.

"Father," she moaned, thinking of Ned Stark and how he'd been beheaded on the church's steps. "Lady." Her direwolf had also lost her head. Sansa shuddered, thinking that the dead could not help her. The next name she called out was only a whisper.

"Sandor." He'd left her again. They'd all left her. He didn't want to, a voice inside her said. He wanted to stay.

Yes, but he couldn't. And she couldn't go. She had to stay here and play a pawn in Littlefinger's game. Helpless and angry, Sansa crawled over her bed to the window at its side. Black thunderclouds loomed over the mountains in the distance, but it didn't look like they would reach the range the Eyrie was on at least until tomorrow. That meant clear skies and sunlight on the Vale's rolling hills. Crossing the valley, she could make out the speck of a horse and its rider.

A kind of fit seized Sansa and she reached under her bed for the tooled leather saddlebag Petyr had given her along with the horse he didn't ever want to let her ride. The horse and bag were gifts imported from Dorne to help her out of the Eyrie when winter came and also, she saw them now as going-away presents. After Sandor had left her room yesterday she'd carefully packed everything she thought she'd need for a trip to the North, knowing it was wishful thinking. Now she asked herself why she'd done that, if she hadn't meant to go. The risks of travel would be better than what waited for her here. She pulled on her riding boots, picked up the bag, threw on her warmest cloak, and snuck out of the castle.