- Two years later –

The fog was growing thicker with every step they took and it swallowed the lights they had left behind. They were out in Blackwater Bay, the dark water breeding mist and deathly silence. Their companion stooped over the oars.
"How far must we go?" Sansa asked.
"No talk." The old oarsman's voice was tough and his posture strong and fierce. His wrinkled face appeared oddly familiar to her but she couldn't tell who he was.
"Not far." Ser Dontos whispered, holding her hand gently. "Your friend is near, waiting for you."
"No talk!" the oarsman bellowed. "Sound carries over water, Fool."
Abashed, Sansa bit the inside of her cheek and sat down in silence. The rest was rowing, rowing, rowing.
The eastern sky was hazy with the first ray of aurora when Sansa finally spotted a ghostly figure in the darkness ahead; a trading galley, her sails furled, floating slowly on a single bank of oars. As they approached, she saw the ship's figurehead, a merman with a golden crown blowing on a great seashell horn. She heard a voice yelling, and the galley swung slowly about.
A rope ladder dropped over the rail once their boat came alongside the ship. "Up now. Go on, I got you." The oarsman hissed and helped Sansa to her feet. She thanked him for his kindness but he responded with an indifferent growl. Going up the rope ladder was easier than climbing down the cliff at the capital. The rower followed close behind her whereas Ser Dontos remained in the boat.
Two sailors were waiting by the rail to help her onto the deck. Sansa was shaking. "She's cold" she heard someone say. He took off his cloak and put it securely around her shoulders. "There, is that better, my lady? Rest easy, the worst is past and done."
She knew the voice. But he's in the Vale, she thought. Ser Lothor Brune stood beside him with a torch.
"Petyr…" The flames illuminated his face; the face she hadn't seen for weeks; the face she hadn't touched for years; the face she kept dreaming of; the eyes she kept longing to get lost into; the lips her mouth yearned to collide with.
"Fret not. It will all be better now." His façade was on but she could see beneath it.
His fingertips brushed along the side of her face, sending comforting chills down her spine. If it weren't for the sailors being witnesses, she would have embraced him. He took her away from the capital, just like he had promised that night at her chamber. Could it be that he had condemned Joffrey to his doom as well?
In the mist, Sansa's oceanic blue eyes met Petyr's grey-green ones and her palms rested on his tunic-covered shoulders. And he smiled because he knew.

- The End -