A/N: Thanks so much for sticking with this story! I promise I haven't forgotten about it. I am trying to find a good balance between the show, books, and my own fan version. It's far more difficult than I imagined lol. Anyway, enjoy, my faithful readers!

Chapter 27: Seed of Doubt

It had been so long since Sansa had traveled anywhere that she forgot how sick the motion made her. Horses were dicey for her, at best; a ship was torture. Another wave of nausea threatened to overcome the last few shreds of her will power when she heard Littlefinger above her, talking in hushed whispers with the captain. The threads on her blanket had come undone as she squeezed them yet again. The entire trip had lasted a total of four days – three of which Sansa had spent dry heaving on the bed or curled up against the corner trying to keep her supper in.

Suddenly, the door to her cabin opened and a ray of sunlight beamed inside. Her eyes adjusted as Littlefinger helped her into the sunlight.

"Where are we?" she asked hoarsely.

"My home," came the warm reply.

The dock gave way to land but one last dry heave began to rise. When Baelish walked away to give the captain another lecture, she let out the most unladylike belch she could make. Had anyone heard it, she would have been mortified; Sandor would have loved it though.

"This way," Baelish directed.

His hand on her back made her slightly uncomfortable but she let him lead her to a horse.

'Oh gods above help me,' she silently pleaded. Her leg swung over the side and her sensitive stomach protested violently at the action. She breathed deeply and steadied herself for what was about to come.

The horse lurched itself forward and she followed her leader down the rocky path. Fortunately, Littlefinger had also been slightly ill on the trip and decided to take it slow for the first few hours. By time they reached Baelish Keep, Sansa was exhausted and ready for a bath.

The eldest Stark girl had been used to grand castles but this…was no castle.

Its dreary stones melted into the rocky cliff edge. One false move on a balcony would have a person falling head long into the unforgiving waters below. A single light from the black stones beckoned the weary travelers as if it were a siren singing its fateful song. The Vale of Arryn was awkward traveling and one could easily get lost lest they knew the way. Littlefinger of course was an expert as this was his home. Sansa placed its appeal somewhere between Harrenhal and the Dreadfort. She hoped it would look better after a restful night's sleep.

Sleep, she smiled. A soft moan fell from her lips as the sensation washed over her, drowning her as though she had fallen from that precipice above the Keep. The elusive act was drawing near and the closer they got, the further away she felt. An idea of warm water waiting for her in that brooding place Petyr Baelish called his ancestral house.

"How long?" she croaked, her voiced tired and sore from the exhaustion. She truly didn't want to complain as she was overwhelmed by gratitude, but she badly wanted the ordeal to be over with.

"Only a day's more ride," Littlefinger replied calmly. "I promise you it's almost over."

"I don't think I can make it."

The graying man turned in his saddle. "Yes you can. You survived King's Landing and escaped Cersei's wrath. You have to make it."

She sighed heavily into her saddle and forced herself awake. The rigid mountainside grinded against the hooves and created a harsh metal clinking. It brought back a long forgotten memory of when she chased Arya into the stables where her new dress got singed from running against the red-hot poker. She had screamed, first at Arya then at the foreman, before declaring her life was over and running to her mother.

"What a stupid girl," she mourned sadly.

"What's that?" Petyr asked as he laid down two blankets near the horses.

"Nothing."

"We'll be there soon," he said in that typical stoic way he had. "I know this is no way for a proper lady to travel but it is necessary."

She smiled raggedly. "I know. This is better than sailing."

In response, he crooked a smile and turned his back to her. The isolation caressed her soul and she began to look at the silver lining of her situation: she was far away from the Lannisters and Joffrey was dead. She should be dancing! The stars were aligning in her favor; her moon, however, had disappeared. Without him, the light at the end of her torturous tunnel was dim. But it was there nevertheless.

'At least I have the stars,' she reminded herself. That would have to do for now until she was reunited with Sandor.

xxxxxxx

"Appalled" was not the word Sansa could use to describe Littlefinger's castle. It was the correct description: she just couldn't physically say it. Baelish was staring at her with cynical eyes.

She wrapped herself in her armor and gave him a grateful smile. "Which room is mine?"

Of course he knew she was disappointed but he appreciated the effort regardless. He motioned for her to enter the gloomy fortress that housed his painful memories of the past.

"Sharyl," he called out.

A slim, tender woman came running from the side and bowed lowly. "Milord," she addressed weakly.

"This is my bastard, Alayne. Show her to her room and draw a hot bath."

Crusty hair that showed some sense of trying to be tamed brushed against Sansa's cheek as the woman picked up a bag. Repressing a shudder, Sansa followed the decrepit servant.

"What a lovely job you have done keeping this up," Sansa complimented.

"Thank you, milady."

"I'm not a lady," Sansa rebuffed urgently.

The woman turned and Sansa was stunned to see it wasn't an old lady as she initially thought but a young girl. Her body had been broken by the years of her servitude of the Baelish household. It didn't take Sansa long to realize that Petyr was deeply ashamed of his past and the decomposing castle was the proof.

"Oh," the servant apologized. "You speak very well for a bastard."

"Well Father wants the best."

An old wooden door creaked against the hinges and the smell of decay wafted from the room. It was simple compared to what she was used to: everything was a tad smaller and certainly more rustic. It was bleaker than King's Landing and reminded her of Winterfell, except for the only important thing that made a house into a home: warmth. Not the literal kind as anything north above the Crownlands had a well used hearth but the symbolic kind – the glowing embers of a loving family and happy smallfolk; the smiles and laughter which filled the dinner table; the friendships and marriages that ensured a family's legacy would live on.

Here, in Baelish Keep, it was as hollow and unfriendly as Petyr's heart. The stones were silent; the seas roared outside her window as they protested the intruding entity that prevented them from completing their task. Instead they crashed against the walls, deflating their energy against an immovable object; misery abounded in every facet of those who lived in the Keep.

The girl eyed her with deep suspicion but too scared to say a word, began her duties. Sansa wagered that it would be a long wait between this stay and her aunt's in the Vale.

xxxxxxx

"What is it?" Sansa asked brazenly.

Petyr Baelish rolled the paper around his finger and laid his eyes across the table at his protégé. "A proposition," he mentioned coyly.

One perfect eyebrow lifted at the vague response. "Is it about how long it takes for supper to arrive?"

Baelish laughed softly. "Food is hard to come by: war has that effect."

"The war is over."

"It is easy to assume things are done simply because they appear that way. A real player of the game knows that the game is never truly over; there are only brief moments of respite because sooner or later, someone will move their piece against yours."

"You speak as if I do not have a choice."

"Oh you have choices. It is our choice whether to obey or defy; huddle in our beds and cry or rally against the hate; to jump or stay. Life, my dearest Alayne, is made up of those small choices that lead to those which change our lives and shape the future – good and bad."

Sansa pointed at the wrinkled parchment. "Which choice is that?"

"Yet to be seen. I've been working on something else in the meantime."

"Oh?"

Littlefinger snapped his finger and a surly man appeared carrying a pitcher. When he saw Sansa's lips part in a smile, he couldn't resist doing it himself.

"Arbor gold," she said with awe. "I can smell it from here."

"The finest," he bragged. "A good accomplice of mine saved me some."

She eagerly gulped half her cup but quickly remembered her upbringing. Her lady mother would ashamed of her manners. "Thank you, Lord Baelish."

"Tsk," he scolded gently. He sauntered to her chair and softly placed his hand on her shoulder while leaning in close. "It's Father now. Remember where you are, sweetling." He kissed her crown and returned to his place.

It was then Sansa felt the coolness beneath the warm hand, his icy breath lingering just beyond the gentle tone. She hid her disappointment behind a napkin before changing the subject. "When do we leave?"

"Leave?"

"For the Vale. You are to marry Lysa Arryn, are you not? That was the gossip in King's Landing."

A sly grin spread across Littlefinger's lips. "You have kept your ears open. Good girl. What else have you heard?"

"There has been a large pack of wolves terrorizing the Riverlands since the Red Wedding. No one can find it though."

"They say it is led by a direwolf."

"Direwolves are in the North."

"Except one, it seems."

She drank lightly from her cup. "When do we leave?"

"Why so anxious, dear one?"

"I prefer to get the traveling over with."

"In that case, we will on the morrow. Does that suit your taste?"

"Thank you."

"It had nothing to do with you," he clarified blithely. "I know how uncomfortable this place is and how excited you are to finally be with other people."

"I don't care where I am as long as I never return to King's Landing."

"Never say never, my dear one. It's an omen – much like dark wings, dark words."

"Why should I ever want to go back? There is nothing there for me."

"There is nothing now and I admit probably not for a while. But trust me, my lovely. One day you will look forward and in your sight will be the throne."

"My only sight is to please my lord."

"And you have done a marvelous job but we have quite a bit of work ahead of us. Things are just getting good."

Inside, Sansa shuddered from his meaning. As Littlefinger ripped into his pork leg, she studied him. Sometimes it was if he were keeping a damning secret from her. Of course, a man like him always had secrets but the way he cared for her was a reminder of how Cersei first blinded her with promises. What empty promise was Littlefinger trying to establish? He was capable of great deceit – she had witnessed that herself with Dontos – but how far did that go? What was his agenda? What was the reason he took her away, other than for her mother's sake? When her usefulness ran out, would he strike her down as he did Dontos? What was he truly capable of? His indifferent and immediate reaction to killing Dontos made her brain start. It struck her then as hard as one of Meryn Trant's gloved fists that she knew nothing about Petyr Baelish. It was a revelation that knocked her sideways.

Naturally, these thoughts occurred within a matter of seconds and Littlefinger had no clue what was in her mind. He sat, mindlessly ripping the animal apart, and she watched him swallow with vigor. Suddenly, she felt ill to her bones.

"Pardon, my lord. I am tired. I look forward to our journey in the morning."

When she reached her room, she slammed the door and slid down the rough wooden entryway. Her breath came faster and the room had started to spin. The more she thought about the night of her rescue, the more questions came to mind. The most prominent being: if he was that callous toward Dontos, had Littlefinger killed before? Who else had given him their trust only to be betrayed?

It was an unsettling feeling and Sansa felt the need to wash her ungrateful thoughts away. Obviously, Littlefinger would not kill her; she was far too valuable, even she knew that. It had been driven into her head that she was the key to the North. Plus, he was keeping her away from the Lannisters. He'd never let any harm come to her, not after the torturous years in King's Landing.

'No,' she thought. 'Littlefinger' deserves my trust. Still, there was a voice – so small that it was almost unnoticed – that cautioned her to not rely solely on his word…or actions. How could she trust him if he spat lies and killed in cold blood?

It was then she missed the simplicity of Sandor. She never doubted him for a second when she wanted the truth. An image of him smiling against her lips fluttered into her vision. She crawled into bed and hugged her pillow tight against her chest as she let herself hear his growling laughter. She could almost feel his chest under arms and smell his earthy skin beneath her head. A chilly breeze caressed the stones and she huddled closer to her pillow, smiling as she drifted into a restful sleep. She could almost feel him soothing her hair and kissing her scalp. It was a pleasant memory that sheathed her against the fear and unknown. He'd want her to be brave and perhaps learn from a master player.

"That's what I'll do," she resolved quietly. "I will become a player."