There's a price she takes. Blurring lines while she ruthlessly raised the stakes.

We kiss on the mouth with hearts that were bound and gagged.

We will seldom speak, and we will rarely talk.

Loss wed to despair, in love when her womb was bare.

A kiss, a touch, our bodies became arsonists to will and brains.

We will rarely talk.

I'm just where you left me alone by them lilacs.

Eight long weeks it's been, and Sansa glares down at the stony pass below her window. The biting wind blows through her hair causing it to whip violently around her shoulders as goosebumps spread up and down her arms. She is fidgeting with boredom and indecisiveness, and she thinks that maybe it would be easier to just free herself and let the rocks take hold of her. She delves her fingers deep in her pocket and desperately grabs for the vile. She had sewn the pocket in her dress as soon as they arrived at this dreadful place. Sansa couldn't have him finding it lying in her trunk after all. She opens her palm to reveal a tiny muse bottle that holds a red liquid. It's the Essence of Nightshade that Cersei had given her before she left King's Landing. Ten drops and he'll never wake up, and it's untraceable. No one will ever know. Just ten drops. They'll think it an accident. She regards the bottle a moment and thinks she would rather use it on herself. It would save her the trouble of jumping out the window.

Her moon blood hasn't appeared in weeks. It was due over a fortnight ago. She can't say she is upset not to have the messy trouble, but the thought of what it means sends dread through her bones like the cold air whipping at her face. Her fingers instinctively play with the boning of her dress that covers the softness of her tummy, and she can feel the tightness of her breasts under her corset. But surely he must have noticed by now that I haven't bled? It was all she could do to keep her muck porridge down this morning as the smell reached her nostrils. The nausea came on so strong that she had to excuse herself. He looked up at her curiously with that now familiar crease across his brow, but she averted her eyes so he couldn't read her. He can always read my eyes, she thinks angrily and puffs. After spending so much time with her lord husband Sansa had learned the art of keeping her features steady, but her eyes betray her every time.

Petyr has had her in his solar for the better part of every afternoon, forcing her to read the history on houses, castles, bloodlines, marriages, deaths, battles, and wars. He says that knowledge is the power which is the key to her endeavors. But at this point she can't see what good it will do her. How will any of that help us kill the Queen Reagent? Even after these tiresome months she still can't see the endgame. She raises her arm angrily as if to throw the vile. She wishes for nothing more than to watch it smash against the stony wall. But instead she let's it fall into her deep pocket and takes her frustrations out on her perfumes and brushes that line her dressing table. She swipes them swiftly off the surface with all her strength. They thrash across the floor violently and glass shatters everywhere. She immediately regrets the decision when she realizes her favorite lavender oil is now all over the floor. It took months for her to receive this in King's Landing. How will I ever get another bottle here? For as thankful that she is that they are momentarily safe here, she bitterly detests every rock and boulder that make up this retched place. The Fingers are a far cry from King's Landing. And Highgarden for that matter, she thinks as she sinks to the floor, defeated. Sansa then lets her mind wander, and she feels the warm sun at her face. His smooth petaled gift that matches his gilded curls brushes the tip of her nose as she breathes the sweet scent in. Loras, with eyes like the sky whisks a fiery lock of her hair behind her ear and kisses her cheek. As he does so, his eyelashes caress her like butterfly wings.

"Sansa, my sweet?" She is startled when she hears Petyr call to her from the hall, and the door rushes open revealing those knowing eyes. Loras's image leaves her like a ghost as she rouses. He gracefully kneels beside her and she can feel his hand clutch the small of her back.

"What has happened Sansa?" He says, his reserved voice perturbed.

She looks up at him guiltily. "Tis nothing Ser." she says her mouth twitching as she holds the tears of rage that swell at her eyes. She can plainly see that he is aware this was no accident, but he says nothing.

"Come here." He stands as gracefully as he knelt, and offers his hand to hers. Sansa instead decides to push herself up on her own, but follows him dutifully to their bed. Petyr sits quietly, and faces her, considering her earnestly. He's playing no game this morning.

"Sansa, I know something has been troubling you recently." He takes hold of her hands, and feels the softness of his fingertips. Those fingers that orchestrate so many plans have become a great reassurance to her these past weeks. She'll never admit that to anyone though. What would my mother and father think of me feeling something for this man? Or Arya for that matter? She shudders at the thought.

He'd come to her almost every night since they've arrived in the Fingers, his eyes weary after reading by candlelight for hours, and the tips of his fingers stained black with ink. He rests those familiar, smooth fingers against the curve of her hip, pushing himself against her backside, and nuzzles his face into her neck stirring her from sleep. She can't help but give into him night after night. For he is the only constant in her ever-changing situation. She cannot count on anything or anyone, but her deepening attachment to him, aware to no one accept for the Gods, gives her endless comfort.

"Sansa?" His voice is more persistent now. "Tell me. What is it?"

"I'm sorry my Lord. It's just..."

His fingers brush up against her cheek just like Loras's had a moment before and his thumb glides under her chin. He pulls her up to face him, and urges her on with a smile.

"I am just tired. That's all...and my moon blood hasn't come yet." She replies shakily.

"What?" he says as his beam rushes away from his face. It loses any playfulness that tugged at his lips and the corner of his eyes.

"Are you sure Sansa? Sometimes these things can be quite tricky, unreliable you could say."

"It's been more than a fortnight. I can't see anything unreliable about that."

"So you think you are..." She is surprised to see him stumble on his words.

"With child, Petyr." She says using his given name carefully. She still feels too familiar using it, but he has been patient with her indecision.

He stands suddenly and she feels the usual coldness that accompanies his absence. He paces to the hearth, and warms his hands over the fire for a moment (as if he needs warming) then turns to her again.

His face is apprehensive, but there is happiness in his eyes. For I can read yours too Petyr Baelish, Sansa thinks and smiles at him.

"You are quite sure then?"

"Yes. I am certain."

"Well then," he says matter-of- fact, and comes over to her again, but does not sit. "We must call for the Maester than shouldn't we? But Sansa," he says grabbing her shoulders roughly, "We must keep this a secret for now. Even from the servants. The three of us are the only ones that can know. For the sake of our plans word must not get out. Cersei can never know."

"That is very fine, Ser, but surely it will be difficult soon. I think that my corset must already be taken out."

" I know, my sweetling," And he kisses her fully on the mouth. "But it will all be over soon. Very soon."

Leaving her alone, Petyr shuts the door to their chambers, and roughly leans against it. He looks to the ceiling and to the floor searching for anything to keep his attention on, but can see nothing but dingy stone. His chest heaves up and down, and he feels panic rush through his bloodstream and ring in his ears. He stifles a scream. Sweat beads at his temples, and then to back of his neck and reaches his back soaking through his tunic. His mind is frenzied, and he still can't seem to catch his breath. It was all he could do to keep himself from grabbing his dagger and stabbing her deep within her womb, killing anything that might be growing inside her. How could I have been so stupid! I let my guard down that I completely forgot about making sure she had Moon Tea. How could I have let this happen to our plan?

He tries desperately to calm himself for he can't let anyone see the terror in his eyes. He glances down the hall searching for Malina. Nothing can look amiss. He inhales slowly, and then out. He does this for several minutes until his breathing has calmed, and he can feel his nerves unwind themselves. Then to his astonishment a sudden beaming, broad smile grasps his lips, and his crows feet creasing deeply. He is thankful no one is around to witness his stupid grin, Even Sansa, but his simple humanity pushes it's way to the surface, and he feels such a sense of pride that it's all he can do but contain it. What am I going to do with this girl? I am sure she'll be the death of me. His body goes limp as he sorts through his emotions, and with a sigh he slides down the door to the raw stone.

He doesn't know how long he closed his eyes for, his head resting in his arms, but when he wakes he decides the maester can wait until the morning. The exhaustion he has been pushing away for days has now fully taken hold of his being, so he gently opens the latch, and enters the quiet room. The cool breeze faintly blows the feathery curtains in the window and her shattered shards of glass still lay in corner, glimmering in the candlelight. He then eyes Sansa, her back to him. She is still holding the book she was reading, and the candle softly illuminates her strong and beautiful features. He undresses silently and climbs into bed behind her. His hand finds the bottom of her shift and makes it's way up the smoothness of her thighs and hips, but instead of stopping at his usual destination, he lets it pass over her warm place to the plushness of her belly. He tenderly lets it rest there and pulls her into him. His face nuzzles into her neck, and she wakes as his beard brushes her skin. She raises slightly, and her puff of breath makes the room go black. She settles again, and he can feel her pushing herself closer to him. Even though it's been weeks and weeks since their marriage, he is embarrassed to think that her responsiveness still surprises him. Then, as he feels her softly grasp his hand where it rests on her belly he whispers, "And what a perfect mother you will be."

Notes:

I am so sorry for how late this is! I am getting married in 6 weeks so things have been nutso around here.

This is just some fluff and angst to keep you going to the next chapter! Things will be happening now!

As always, thanks for reading and let me know what you think.