Quick as the new morning, life was brought back into the halls and courtyard of Winterfell. When the sun rose, weak as it may be north of the Riverlands, so too did the people to go about their day. It had been but just a few short days in Winterfell, though enough to make a habit for his daily routine and also wish to leave this place and go anywhere else. He had not seen her when he had gone down to the Great Hall to break his fast. But it was early and Petyr likened that she may be asleep still, soft, guarded in her bed. Nor did he see any of the Boltons when he took a seat at the table and made to ladle the thick, creamy white soup into a nearby bowl. It was definitely a Northern food, full of comfort, rich, hearty root vegetables, that of winter squash and carrots and parsnips and whatever else the North could find. Rich with butter and velvety smooth. Petyr ripped the heel of a crusty piece of bread, slightly stale already, but used it as a vehicle to scoop up the soup and transport it into his mouth. A few bites only anyways and he was done. There was cooled mint tea on the table, that he helped himself to, but otherwise ignored the rest.

With the chair moving along the floor with a loud scrapping noise, Petyr pushed back and left the Great Hall to find the maester and ask if any ravens had been sent for him. Although the largest castle in the North, Winterfell was not difficult to navigate through. Petyr had learned by now the quickest and most effective routes to take to get him from point A to point B, especially with as little contact with others as it was possible. The main courtyard was the most direct way to access the maester's turret, but also the most active area within Winterfell. Much of it was still being rebuilt, which contributed to further activity and bustling of those who resided in Winterfell and had business to go about. Even if Petyr wanted to swiftly arrive at the maester's turret, it was difficult to move unnoticed. He had begun to climb the stairs to the balcony that lined the castle walls of Winterfell, but as his luck would have it, he could go no further. Ramsay Bolton had been idling around the top of the steps and seemed surprised to see him approaching. Petyr continued his ascension with a nod in Ramsay's direction.

"Lord Baelish," Ramsay said, moving aside to walk next to the him, "you're certainly up early this morning." Petyr gave the younger man a thin smile and made his way to the conjunction of two railings to settle into. He brought up his gloved hands to rest on the railings, while Ramsay mirrored his actions.

"Yes, well, I certainly dislike to have idle hands," Petyr replied, looking down onto the bustle of the courtyard, instead of his company. The air was awkward between them, so it was the most comfortable and fitting action to settle into. With his gaze focused down below them, he noticed the flurry of activity already well under way. Scorched planks of wood of varying sizes sat in a heap, to be sorted of what was useable to rebuild the walls and what could be used to light a hearth. A ragged man was in the middle of the courtyard, shoveling a seemingly fruitless and endless job. Continuously passing that man, were others hauling the wood back and forth. Fire were strategically lit in various places to keep warmth and light for those toiling in these early morning hours. The scene below was punctuated with the sounds of shouting, hammering, the labors of men and women.

Petyr spied Sansa coming through the entryway, hands busy fingering the needle ornament on her necklace, eyes set in front of her as she walked determinedly to her destination. Cast against the dark and dull colors of the North, the black hair she had donned to become his bastard daughter did nothing to liken her appearance in this environment. Now that her identity was Stark again, the red would shine soon in her hair once more. He assumed Roose Bolton would be curious to see if Petyr had actually brought Sansa Stark or someone poorly disguised as her. Though, there was no reason to ruse the man with a girl unbefitting of the tales told about her.

"She really is lovely," Ramsay interrupted his thoughts. From the corner of his eye, he spied the younger man turning finally to look at him, but Petyr paid him no attention, keeping his own trained on the girl below. "I hope I can make her happy."

"I hope so too," he replied, still refusing to look up. "I've become quite fond of Lady Sansa during our travels together. She's suffered enough." Ramsay had been trained on him throughout the entire time Petyr had spoken. Still without looking up, Petyr could spy Ramsay's eyebrows furrow together, a look that equally wanted to understand, but something of concern as well had graced his features.

"I'll never hurt her," he said. "You have my word." Only then did Petyr turn his attention to the man standing beside him. He looked him up and down. Then he met the gaze of those blue eyes, like dirty, chipped ice.

"I've heard very little about you, which makes you quite a rare thing. As far as lords go." Ramsay had the decency to look abashed.

"I haven't been a lord very long," he replied, casting eyes downward briefly. "I was a bastard."

"And you're not anymore." As whispery as his voice was, Roose Boltons steps were also as soft as the first snow. He had approached them from behind, but both Petyr and Ramsay turned when he inserted himself into their conversation. Body still turned to the younger of the Boltons, Petyr eyed Roose from the side. "Allow me a moment alone with Lord Baelish."

A boy who seemed eager to please his father replied in response. Ramsay turned to Petyr once more, with a "thank you Lord Baelish" and a lowered head, before excusing himself and leaving between the space of the two other men.

A boy who seemed awkward at playing the role of a lord. Petyr was somewhat thankful for the intrusion of Roose Bolton, if only to excuse himself from the pleasantries he had to play towards the son. The father now stared at him unmoving, the twin moons that man had for eyes trained onto him, a hand to the hilt of his sword. Petyr Baelish is a master at playing the game, but he would be a fool to say Roose Bolton did not unnerve him.

"He seems pleased," Petyr said, an attempt to move forward the conversation.

"Shouldn't he be?" Roose turned and lead Petyr away.

"I assure you she's still a virgin. Tyrion never consummated the marriage," Petyr was quick to steer the direction of the conversation. "By the law of the land, she is no man's wife." Only then did Roose turn back to give some attention to him. No emotion was betrayed on his face though. Roose Bolton wore emotions, each in the same way and much to the same effect. They all looked similar and there was no discerning way to tell what the man was feeling — or thinking. As if not believing him, Roose turned away. "Inspect her if you must."

"I leave that to the brothel keeper," Lord Bolton said, on the airs of uncaring. "It's her name I need, not her virtue."

As much as Roose was leading him around the castle of Winterfell, so too was he in charge of the direction of this conversation. Cunning as he was, Roose was also vicious. Attacking constantly, he fired questions and counterpoints at Petyr within succession. The man was testing him. Finding out his loyalties. Finding out his agenda. Finding out where he held the confidence to hand Sansa Stark over to the family who killed her own. As many answers as Petyr had, Roose Bolton had an equal number of questions, if not more. Just as Winterfell was being built up around them, so was the nature of the game they were playing.

Finally, Petyr was a step ahead, literally. In a small victory, he had surpassed Roose Bolton and gone ahead of the other man. In what felt like a turning point, he was ready to take control of the conversation until Roose reveals a scroll.

"A message for you. Cersei Lannister." Roose Bolton had allowed him to think he had the upper hand, only to back him into a corner again. The gray-green of his eyes dropped down to the scroll in the other man's hands, quick to take it back from him. Petyr already noted how the seal of the scroll was broken. He was forced to look up at Roose; when he had moved to walk ahead of the other man, he was the first to descend down the steps, but now Lord Bolton was perched on the top of the stairway, with those pale blue eyes staring down on him. Petyr looked away. Roose continued: "The Lannisters made you one of the great lords of Westeros, yet here you are in the North, undermining them. Why gamble with your position?"

Petyr met the other man's gaze. "Every ambitious move is a gamble," he said, while taking a step up to meet him squarely. "You gambled when you drove a dagger into Robb Stark's heart." Teeth bared in a crooked smile, he continued, "It seems like your gamble paid off." If Petyr did not have the upper hand in this little game between the two of them, at least he had leveled the playing field. At another time could he take the win. Roose Bolton, although he hated to admit it, was equally as devastating a player as himself.

"I'd like to borrow one of your birds," Petyr finished off by saying. "Cersei would expect a reply."

With that spider soft voice of his and a tilt of the head, Roose said, "I'd like to read that reply." Then, the other man moved past him, presumedly to lead the way again and escort him, like a child, to the maester's turret.

They had not been far off from where the rookery was located. After a carefully worded reply and a thorough read-through from Roose, Petyr was free to send the bird off and free from the company of the other lord. It was also about time to be free from this place and travel back south again. Petyr was not of the North, nor could he sit around up here, trying to play moves from the back seat. He needed to be in the thick of the action, the middle of things, a powerful seat to command moves.

Petyr Baelish made his way around Winterfell, ordering his knights of the Vale to make haste in packing up their things and be ready to make a move out of Winterfell within the coming hours. He cleared his things out of the room they had supplied him in the guest house and donned his traveling cloak. He needed to find Sansa and let her know of his departure. As he made his way throughout the castle, Petyr imagined Sansa would not be happy by this news. In order to get what he wants though, he would need to be elsewhere in the seven kingdoms. Petyr didn't have the liberty or the indulgence to hold Sansa's hand and guide her through the Bolton's maze. He had given her the tools she needed to play the game and trained her himself. If she couldn't survive and win over the Boltons, then perhaps Petyr had been mistaken about her. Perhaps she would not be a useful piece in his arsenal.

But Petyr was also a master game player and he was hardly wrong.

He found her where he thought he would. Sansa was busy paying homage to her ancestors, copying rituals of old, copying things she probably saw her father do, over and over again. Standing in front of the sepulcher of Lyanna Stark, she twirled a feather in between her fingers. He brought up stories of the dead, of a beautiful Lyanna and the prince that stole her away. Stories in truth because he had been there when Rhaegar had presented a crown of winter roses to her. Whatever else that happened, could all very well just be stories. As the continued to talk about her aunt she had never gotten the chance to know, he recognized the stony look in her face. Then, Petyr urged her away from the dead then. With a hand at her elbow, he guided her down the halls of the crypt.

"You're dressed for riding," Sansa said, finally taking note of his appearance.

"I am."

"Where are you going?" She asked, a touch of cheek to her tone. She continued to twirl the feather in her hand while they walked and spoke.

"King's Landing," Petyr finally said. The clipped conversation between them finally got her attention. He could see in her eyes she wanted more then the short answers he had been giving her until now. But it also told her that he would be gone from her for much longer then she had anticipated. This wasn't a quick trip to somewhere beyond the walls of Winterfell or business to attend to back in the Eyrie. No, King's Landing meant bigger moves were going to be played. Time consuming. Thoughtful. One's that did not involve her for the first time in awhile.

"You can't leave me here," Sansa said."

"I know how hard it is to live with people you despise, believe me," Petyr said in return. "But you must remember all that I have taught you."

"What do you mean?" They had been facing each other then, but he turned her again and they began walking once more.

"Play the Boltons," he said. "Play the game." Their footsteps were a quiet echo down. They could speak freely here. Only the ears of dead Starks could hear them now.

"Roose Bolton frightens me," Sansa said, honesty in her words, that which he could see in the Tully blues of her eyes.

"As he should. He's a dangerous man," Petyr said. "But even the most dangerous men can be out maneuvered. And you've learned to maneuver from the very best.

"You will take this Bolton boy, Ramsay, and make him yours. He's already fallen for you. Use him. Use him in whatever way you see fit. As protection against his own father if you must. You will be marrying the sole heir to the Dreadfort and now Winterfell, a man who will also become Warden of the North one day. And one day in return, you will take it all back, what is yours by right. You will be Wardeness of the North."

"Wardeness," Sansa blinked with disbelief. "But, but… I don't know how to do… those things." Petyr moved to quiet her fears and doubts with a soft kiss on the lips. It was chaste and nothing more then a comfort. His hand rested at her cheek when he moved away.

"Sure you do. For how long have you watched Margaery play Joffrey? You are also far more skilled then the Queen," Petyr said. "Make Ramsay Bolton yours and Winterfell will also be yours."