"Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl, Frozen in the headlights. It seems I've made the final sacrifice."

Sansa awakens, her eyes wide with alarm as she holds her hand up and stares at it. Fluidly, she twists her wrist to inspect both sides. She flexes it back and forth, clenching and stretching her dexterous and strong fingers. She was dreaming of an unfamiliar young man, tall and sturdy, hair curling around his shoulders, and startling almond-shaped eyes as black as night. He grabbed her hand, and in the in between moment of being awake and unconscious she could have sworn someone was squeezing her tightly. The presence felt real, and she could not shake it.

Guilt floods her body as she wonders what Loras would feel of her dreaming about a handsome man touching her hand, but then her memory regroups itself as to what day it is. What Loras thinks holds no meaning anymore because her hand belongs to Lord Baelish. Images pile up in her mind of what the night will bring, how the man will run his hands with their long, slender gracefulness over her cheeks and down her collarbone, over her belly, and to the secret parts of her. He is the exact opposite of any man she ever imagined being the one to claim her maidenhead.

A scarlet blush forms on her chest and climbs to her cheeks as The Hound suddenly comes to mind, and she thinks on the kiss he gave her in her chambers on that fiery night. Even he, with his scarred and deformed face and melancholy eyes resembles something more closely familiar to the man of her dreams.

Sansa's mind races, Why me? Why must I always be the martyr to the cause of the North? How did I end up with such an awful marriage? Lord Baelish has been nothing but outwardly kind since I arrived in King's Landing, but I feel a sense of uneasiness he has caused me, and I never can read him. Most of the time I feel like he is laughing at me. How can I be a wife to someone I can't understand?

Before he set off to marry her aunt she was looking forward to going with him North only to be detained by Queen Cersei. When she summoned her to her chambers she assumed it was to inform her of her marriage to a handsome Tyrell. It was one thing to accompany Lord Baelish home to Winterfell, but it was an entirely different game to become his wife. Turning over in her bed she hugs her pillow to her chest and buries her face in the down. She never wishes to leave this bed because that means she must accept her fate.

Many minutes later, as she is groaning loudly and fighting back tears, she sits up and rests her elbow on her pillow as the dream fades from her mind. The dark eyed man fades like a mirage in the Red Waste until she can barely remember him at all. It is morning and the sun hasn't risen completely as the hazy glow of dawn still lingers. The air is still and quiet, not being claimed by man's activity yet. This quiet is only interrupted by Shae clanking a tray with her breakfast against the door.

"I know it is earlier than usual, My Lady, but I thought you should break your fast early as possible if we are to have you ready by this evening."

She is standing steadily with her arms folded in front of her, and her back straight as an arrow. She is dressed in her usual mauve frock, and the first blush light compliments her dark beauty.

She glances at Sansa's breakfast tray, "I was able to scour the kitchens for some lemon cakes. I know they are your favorite." And she smiles the biggest smile Sansa has ever seen come from Shae's lips.

It's a feeble attempt at making her situation more pleasant. She stares at her wedding gown hanging limply over the small chair by her dressing table. It is a sage color that she's never worn before. Across the entire gown the stitching was such a deep brown that it almost looks black. The pattern consisted of a jagged scroll that resembled tree branches in the dead of winter. As it settled across the natural waist of the gown two stitched mockingbirds sat perched facing each other. At the center of the deep scoop neckline there was a tiny silver mockingbird that matched the one Lord Baelish wears signifying the partnership of their two houses.

I don't understand how I, a stupid little girl, can ever be a partner to him. Why would he be interested in marrying someone like me in the first place?

Sansa thinks on how different her life will be from now on. Her girlhood is officially over as of today, and for as much as she wanted to be rid of it, now that it's gone, she deeply mourns its loss.

It took place in the courtyard. It was met to be a slight by Cersei not being married in the actual castle, but in spite of this she was glad to be under the sunshine, and being closer to the Godswood gave her great comfort. She waited inside patiently, praying the fierce direwolf at her back would give her strength. Suddenly, the large doors opened and the light took her breath away. For an instant, everything was white and she was blinded. When her eyes adjusted, Joffrey came rushing at her like a demon. She sniffed back her tears, and asked, "What are you doing?"

He looked at her, viperous, "Your father is dead. I am the father of the realm, and therefore I'll give you away."

He seemed pleased with himself, and his words stung, but in truth she was bored with him. She understood that he reveled in her unhappy marriage, and thought to have her in his bed anyway. It gave her solace she was leaving on the morrow and Joffrey would no longer be able to torment her. Instead of giving him the pleasure of a reaction, Sansa turned her head, drew up her chin in mock pride, and continued as gracefully as she could down the rest of the aisle.

She spotted Lord Baelish, waiting for her at the end. He wore a dark brown doublet that had the same branches that climbed up his neck from each shoulder and resting on either side of his collar was a green mockingbird. The rest of his attire was simple and plain except for a belt that had a very small, fierce-looking face as the buckle; its two emerald eyes glittering in the sunlight. I wonder what that symbolizes. He didn't seem nervous, and she was slightly disappointed. She wanted him show some kind of emotion. Something to tell her he was real. Something to say he was just as uncomfortable as she was. (She wasn't sure he was at all) When she settled in next to him, the officiant cleared his throat, and spoke loudly, "You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection."

Making eye contact would be too horrible, so Sansa turns her back to himand waits for the cloak. He grabs the cloak from her shoulders, his fingers slightly grazing the back of her neck as he does so. His proximity makes her skin itch and her hair stand on end in anticipation. There's a pause, and then she feels him return with his cloak, and he wraps it around her, the heaviness weighing her down. She feels him again only this time its his breath on her shoulder and she knows he is almost close enough to whisper in her ear. She feels like he is gloating.

But just when the thought enters her mind, he is gone again, the empty space returns, and the officiant continues,

"King Joffrey, All the Lords and Ladies of the Court...We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. With these vows House Baelish and House Stark will be one. Repeat after me," he states and motions to Lord Baelish.

Following his lead Petyr repeats the vow, "With this kiss," His voice is deep, and calm. "I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife. I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days."

Hoping she has masked the quivering in her voice, Sansa echos, "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband. I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days."

Satisfied, the officiant continues, "Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity, proclaiming Petyr of House Baelish and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them."

He looks at them both, waiting. A pause. His eyebrows raise, "Well?" He says, quite impatiently.

It suddenly dawns on Sansa, and her eyes dart to Lord Baelish. This is the first time that she can really take him in. He is waiting patiently, if not a little expectantly. His eyes are warm, and his mouth is slightly turned up into the hint of a smile, his hands clasped and relaxed in front of him. She notices, quite shockingly (as she has never really noticed them before), that his eyes are a very pale green, and the brown and green of his doublet make them smolder with intensity. They may be inviting eyes, but open and friendly are not how she would describe them. Other than they're warmness, they give nothing away. There is no display of emotion. She couldn't guess at what age he is. He seems older than Cersei, but still much younger than her father, despite the gray that grazes his temples. There are lines around his mouth and eyes suggesting a face that has seen a breadth of expression, and a crease at his forehead that she imagines is due to long hours gazing at account books. Even so, there is nothing that denotes old age. His shoulders are assuming, his back erect, and his movements are fluid and practiced, almost like the dancers she had seen as a child.

His lips part, "Sansa?" he asks, his green eyes (Or are they grey?) open with concern "Are you all right?"

She comes to, blinking away her thoughts and stares at him. She looks around her to the Lords and Ladies of the court spread across the courtyard, waiting for something to happen.

Realizing she must have just been frozen and staring at him, she blushes a violent shade of pink, I am so tired of blushing, and then the only thing she can think to do is grab is hand.

So she does.

It's warm and smooth accept for the hard writer's callous, his fingers are thin and nimble. He grasps her other hand, and finally leaning in, kisses her. It is so short, so light on her mouth, it is like she was touched by a feather; and its over before she has time to comprehend what has happened.

"Thank the Gods!" Joffrey cheers from behind her, impatience in his voice, " That was painful. Let's feast."

And with that they are whisked away, her arm around his, his hand upon hers. It's strange having him so close. She can feel the heat radiate off of him, and she's reminded of the springs warming the floors in Winterfell. It won't be cold in his bed, at least. The thought makes her flush once again, the heat of it causing sweat to pool on the small of her back, and her eyes dart around impetuously making sure no one has heard her. It would have been different with someone like Joffrey or Loras. They are young men, and while they have probably still had women, the intimidation is nothing similar to how she felt with the Hound, and now him. There is something... Is it Fear? Exhilaration? That, just by the act of standing next to her, these men cause a deep stirring in her body. They know something she doesn't. It's that feeling of helplessness when you realize everyone around you knows something you don't-Have felt more, have loved more, have killed more...They have lived.