"Now the pale morning sings of forgotten things

She plays a tune for those who wish to overlook

The fact that they've been blindly deceived

By those who preach and pray and teach.

And I'm a goddamn coward, but then again so are you

And the lion's roar, the lion's roar"

"No one knows me, Sansa. And if I can help it, no one ever will." She is meditating on his words as she threads her needle and thread through a white small cloth. She's embroidering her new initials onto it, along with a tiny mockingbird seated on top of the B. She still doesn't understand why anyone would want to go through their life without wanting to be known, or at least understood, by another person. Even after their awkward confrontation this morning, she was relieved that it had not seeped into their breakfast and the silence that passed between them now.

It's a warm afternoon, and she can feel the stagnant air draw the sweat from her brow and under her arms. Petyr sits quietly at a desk, ledgers and books spread across it. All sorts of people have visited him throughout the morning, and she was happy he let her stay in the room while he pertained to his duties. Even so, she was entirely shocked at how many responsibilities he had as the Master of Coin. He could add and subtract the most complex numbers within minutes, and it fascinated her considering mathematics was never the strongest of her talents. Stories, and history, languages, sewing, and music were the things that interested her. It was Arya who loved mathematics, politics, and wars. A memory leaps into her mind of Arya sitting at their table across from her, sticking out her tongue whenever she gets the chance. Her hair is wildly pulled into a braid the nape of her neck, and her dress is stained with dirt. She has a book of the history of Old Valyria hiding between the pages of poetry Septa Mordane had given them. Gods, I miss Arya. Please, if she still lives, let her find happiness. Let her live a full life. Let her find love, and even if I never see her again, I shall be happy.

Now that Petyr was the man she was to be attached to for the rest of her life, she wished she had payed more attention to the latter for that seemed to be how his mind worked. She watched him now as his eyes were focused intently on a document, his brow was creased with concentration, and his lips were turned down seriously, gently moving as he whispered the words to himself.

Sansa decided she enjoyed watching him this way. He seemed his most relaxed, like this was where he belonged. She never thought her Lord Husband's mind would be at all important to her, but seeing this now made her proud to have someone so intellectually gifted. No, he wasn't a knight, or big and strong, but his weapon was his mind. She was sure, and had witnessed it, that he could outmaneuver anyone at court. Even Cersei and Varys sometimes were no match for him in their duel of wits. Only if I could read that mind of his.

There's a knock at the door, and Petyr is startled from his concentration. Sansa can see he is slightly irritated at the intrusion. He clears his throat, "Come In."

It's one of Cersei's personal messengers, twitchy and uncomfortable, As anyone would be working under her steely glare. He says with as much authority as he can muster, "The Queen wishes to speak with Lady Baelish."

It takes her a second to realize he is referring to her, and then she rises from her chair ungracefully, looking at Petyr with alarm. What need would she have of me now? He nods for her to go, his face serious, but no alarm is present. Even if he is hiding his true thoughts, this comforts her. She decides if he appears not to be worried, she will muster up her courage, and face the serpent woman for one last time.

"As she wishes." Sansa says obediently slightly dropping her eyes to the floor. She walks over to him motioning she will follow.

"Attend your duties with haste, my sweet." He calls to her back his voice calm and too friendly, "We leave for the Eyrie the minute you return."

So it's the Eyrie we are heading to. Sansa never even thought to ask. She had hoped they might find their way to Winterfell, but she undoubtedly knew it was only girlish wishful thinking. Admittedly, the Eyrie is the last place she wished to be. The mere thought of it sent shivers down her spine. It hadn't been long since her Aunt Lysa had been pushed out of the moon door in which she had thrown so many others to their abysmal deaths. The murderer turned out to be her personal musician. According to rumors around court, their relationship was questionable. He never left her side, and was granted whatever he wanted. It hadn't occurred to her to ask Petyr about it before. He didn't seem overtly upset over the whole matter, but how can one have formed any attachment to someone they were married to (so obviously a business transaction) for such a brief amount of time? Sansa couldn't say her Aunt Lysa's death caused her any undue pain. She can picture her face, her mother's appealing Tully features drawn out across Lysa's high cheekbones into harsh planes plagued by paranoia and erratic mood swings. She was bulky and stumbling where her mother was lithe and graceful. Sansa had heard that after her husband, John Arryn, died her behavior became even more outlandish. She often terrified the members of her court. The fact that Petyr was even married to her, and shared her bed, caused a nauseous knot to form in the pit of her stomach.

The knot clenched tighter as she stepped closer and closer to Cersei's chambers. She had hoped yesterday was that last time she had to withstand the Queen Mother's presence, but to no avail. She sucked in her breath sharply as she approached her doors, and the messenger knocked sternly three times,

"Lady Baelish, Your Grace."

"Please, do come in." she says. Her voice is cheery, and it brings dread to Sansa's heart. She could feel her beguiling smile on her as she entered the room. The air was just as heavy and stifling in here, even with all the openness of the windows that framed the chair where she sat. It all became almost unbearable paired with the nervous heat rising up her back to her chest. Sansa thought she might faint there right in front of her. She was ashamed of her fear, and she forced it away.

"Good morning, Little Dove."

"It is a fine morning, Your Grace. Thank you." She nods her head in agreement and curtsies, willing her lips o smile.

" I trust your evening was... enjoyable?" She is smiling at her question, but her eyes are cold as ice.

"It was, Your Grace." Sansa replies.

"You are fully a woman now." She states matter-of-factly.

Sansa's eyes shoot to her shoes. She wishes to not speak of any of it. Not to her.

"Please, Sansa, take a seat. I know that you are leaving this afternoon for the Eyrie," How would she know that? "And I hoped we would go over our arrangement."

"What arrangement?" She asks her, fully confused now. Cersei looks across her desk at her as if she's a pest to be squashed.

"You didn't think you would be getting off that easy, my girl? Did you?" She brings her arms up to the table and rests them in front of her calmly. She is all business. Any hint of the courtesy she showed her when she was Joffrey's betrothed was gone now.

She continues her questions, her voice is collected and cold, her blue eyes reflect gray against the stone walls, and the deep hue of her wine-colored frock brings out the gold tones in her Lannister hair. She is glowing.

"How are you enjoying your time spent with Lord Baelish? I trust he tended to you well last night. It was all your guests could do but stifle their giggles at what was overheard from your chambers." I understand now why we were given such a magnificent room. Our lovemaking must have been heard throughout the entirety of the Red Keep.

Cersei continues, not noticing her pained expression. "There is many a man in King's Landing that would have loved to have their hand at piercing that fine flower of yours, but I trust Lord Baelish's whore-loving hands knew exactly how to coax such pleasure from you. I dare say, a man like that...I do wonder why he wanted such an inexperienced little bird like you."

Sansa blushes shamefully. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. The tears with which she held back so expertly this morning are pushing vehemently at the backs of her eyes, and her throat contracts when she tries to swallow. Her mind is swimming in her mortification and it's all she can do to make her lips form words.

" I...we...," She almost chokes, but manages to say stupidly, "had a pleasant enough evening, Your Grace."

"Well, little dove, I don't wish to take any enjoyment away from you newlyweds, but this is something I've been meaning to share with you for quite some time now, and I think, as the only motherly figure in your life at present," she pauses to let this settle, " I believe it is my duty to warn you of anything that may cause you distress in the future."

Sansa's mind has calmed, and she is intently focussing on every one of Cersei's words. She can sense the blow that Cersei's "news" will have for her. She knows it is something that she has tucked away somewhere for safe keeping, until this opportune moment arose where she can cause her the most pain. Her heart sinks at the realization. The feeling of being released from Lannister's ferocity was nothing but a guise. It was a picture she had painted to make her think one thing was happening, when in fact it was something entirely different.

She asks her question forcefully, projecting her voice as confidently as possible, "And what warning could you have for me, Your Grace?"

She takes a sip of her wine, slowly savoring it in her mouth and swallowing. "Let me tell you the story about your father. You see, Little Dove, your father came to King's Landing with his honorable Northern sensibilities. He truly believed that in the end, with honesty, honor, and the truth, that the Iron Throne would fall into the rightful heir. Your people believe this is the way of the wolrd. And you see, on that fateful day, when your father stood before Joffrey and I with a piece of paper signed by my late Lord Husband," she laughs sarcastically at the absurdity of it all, "He thought a single piece of paper would garner his protection. Ned assumed he had the trust of a certain mockingbird, all because of some conceived notion of unrequited love between him and his wife."

Sansa's heart is pounding now and her body is shaking. She can feel the tears have escaped and are gliding down her cheeks. She can taste them on her lips as she bites so hard that it bleeds. All the past moments between Petyr and her are racing through her mind, and she sees them in a clear light. How could I have been so blind? How could I think this could have been an ending where I would be content. You stupid little girl.

Cersei continues, her smile broadening into a deeply cruel beam as she sees the realization and horror creep into Sansa's eyes. She is a predator who has her prey in its clenches, but waits for the kill even as it squirms and screams under her piercing talons.

Then she thrusts them deep into her heart, "But who do you think it was that turned the City's Watch on your father? Who do you think held a knife to his throat as those Watchmen killed his men in front of his eyes? I am afraid to say it, Little Bird...but the untimely downfall of Noble Ned Stark can only be attributed to none other than Your Lord Husband."

Sansa wills it to stop. She can't speak. A scream is building inside her, but her lips will not form the words, she has lost all her voice, and all her fight. Any sense of dignity she might have had left as a Stark or as a woman has been crushed in Cersei's fist. The bloodless cunt couldn't have planned this any better. She has stolen all my chances away, and there is no other option for me other than to crawl like a snake in the grass back into her clutches. Sansa's heart is breaking, and all her strength breaks with it. It has been crushed; squeezed out of her. There is nothing left, and in this moment, she wishes she could join her father in his restful peace.

"Now, now, Sansa, my dear. Everything is going to be fine. You don't think I have thought on this for a long while now?"

Of course you have.

"You see, I couldn't tell you this information sooner. It had to be this way. Petyr Baelish is too clever. He would have seen anything else coming. It would have been too obvious for him, and he would have won. Now, you can be the master of your revenge. You can carry out what needs to be done for the good of the realm. And when your task is complete, you will return to King's Landing and be named Lady of Winterfell. You see, my love, our debts will be paid. Winterfell will belong to you, and your future heirs, forever."

Sansa's breath catches in her throat, and she tries not to choke. The blue of her eyes is still radiant even as they turn swollen and red. She stares at Cersei. She would do anything to return to Winterfell. How could I ever think he was my key to getting there?

She sniffs back her tears, and straightens, resting her hands calmly in her lap. She is higher than Cersei when she arches her back straight. She steadies her voice and asks,

"And I will never be bothered by you or any other Lord for as long as I live?"

"Of course, Winterfell will be yours, and the Lannister's will break all ties with it and the surrounding villages. There would be no attachment between our Houses any longer."

She sits quietly for a moment, staring at her with contempt and suspicion. She is till trying to take this all in, but decides she must not think, but act. She must be strong, like her father and mother, and Robb, and Arya. She must be faithful to them, and to Winterfell. And to the North. She realizes now that this is her only loyalty. It is the only thing she can be certain of, and it is the thing that matters.

Sansa gazes her directly in the eye, both their eyes steely and calculating, and she asks,"What must I do?"

"Oh, it is simple my girl. The only thing that stands before you and Winterfell is Petyr Baelish." She pauses briefly to highlight her point, "As soon as I receive word of his death, you may think of yourself as Head of House Stark, and Lady Paramount of the North. You will rule, and no longer shall you be my Little Dove."