Sleep is hard to come by for her now. When Sansa finally nods off Sandor is waiting for her in her dreams. Joy fills her heart in her sleep, giving her reprieve from her anguish. Each morning when she awakens the wound of Sansa's grief bleeds anew. Her dreams of him are so real as she opens her eyes it is as though she is hearing the news of his death for the first time.
She is losing herself a little at a time in more ways than one. In four weeks she has lost so much weight that choosing a gown that fits has become a daily chore. Her maids say nothing, only exchange worried glances as they hurriedly take in her gowns. Their concern is not for her; their only fear is Lord Baelish. He does not like hearing that despite the rich delicacies that appear daily she is still dwindling away. She has long since stopped caring what he says or thinks, or if he even speaks to her anymore.
A woman grown of seven and ten, she is now down to the same size of the new grown-up gown her mother gifted her on her twelfth nameday. She lets her thoughts drift back to that happy time while her maids alter her gown before she breaks her fast. Petyr does not like being made to wait but she doesn't care. She has been taking many of her meals in her quarters but she realizes Petyr will not tolerate her behavior indefinitely.
Right before the family left Winterfell, she celebrated her last happy nameday. It feels like a lifetime ago and yet it is still so fresh in her mind. She can still feel her mother's gentle touch brushing her once deep auburn hair to a rich gleam.
Dutifully she listens to Septa Mordane lecturing her about a lady's behavior; her mother pulls out the beautiful dress with a huge smile. Sansa had never seen such a lovely color; she squeals in delight as she pulls it on. "It is called periwinkle blue; I chose it to match your eyes," her mother says merrily, delighting in her daughter's excitement.
Next she sees her father's gray eyes twinkling proudly as he leads her by the arm toward her surprise feast. Robb laughs as he gallantly brings in her nameday lemoncake; Jon steals his thunder by reaching out and swiping some frosting as he passes the family table. Arya chases Rickon and Bran around the table until Septa Mordane takes them outside...they are all only a memory to Sansa now. She is the lone wolf, the rest of her pack is dead. Bitterness fills her heart, ruining her happy memories. She is jolted out of her reverie by a sharp knock on the door.
Her maid Jenny opens it while Sansa ties her gown; it is Petyr naturally, probably hoping to catch her undressed. "Will you come to the table this morning Sweetling?" his voice drips with the honey of false concern. It makes no difference to him whether she eats or not; he only cares what the other lords of the Vale think of her drastic change in appearance.
Sweetling...the sound of his pet name for her makes her ill. How can he possibly expect her to eat at the very table she heard of Sandor's death? Is it any wonder she is losing weight? He is not ignorant of the cause of her weight loss, he is far too wily to not discern the origin of her suffering-yet he continues the charade of pretending he doesn't know Sandor's death is the source of her misery.
"Yes," she answers automatically, I'll be right down." As she passes the mirror she sees the mask of courtesy on her face. Her voice sounds just as it did in King's Landing. "It was well struck, Your Grace" the very same tone echoes in her memory. Sandor had protected her by backing her story to Joffrey. "The girl is right, what a man sows on his nameday, he reaps all year," his voice rasps in her ear. Though far away from that place, her tormentor long dead, her stomach still twists into a familiar nauseating knot as she remembers Joffrey's expression at Sandor's words.
It would feel so good to scream at the top of her voice that she hates him, she wishes she had never come to the Eyrie. Tyrion was not the husband she would have chosen but at least he was not the monster that Petyr is, despite being a Lannister. One day she hopes she will muster the courage to tell him she sees him for the pathetic worm that he is, that the only fool in the Eyrie is the Lord Protector of the Vale himself.
Gliding down the staircase toward the dining hall, she carefully avoids his upturned face as she sits down. If she keeps porridge in her mouth he will not try to kiss her, so she draws out the meal as long as necessary for him to give up each and every day. Baelish has uncomfortably cast her in the role of both daughter and potential lover. It is his depraved twist on Jaimie and Cersei's perversion, no doubt; he lived with the Lannister lions long enough to accept their twisted relationship as natural.
His daily overtures of intimacy sicken her to the core. No matter how she tries to avoid it he never fails to kiss her on the mouth. Always cramming his slimy tongue down her throat, he insists on grinding his disease shriveled manhood against her in his fevered passion. He would have killed Shae himself if he knew she had told Sansa about his condition; he still thinks her an ignorant child, that she does not understand what goes on inside his brothels-as if she could remain ignorant to such things married to Tyrion.
She always manages to pull away before she vomits out of disgust and fear. He thinks she doesn't know he's pretending she is her mother. Only her aunt had been foolish enough not to discover his sick obsesssion. Or perhaps she had been too horny to care, Sansa thinks at times. When she thinks these thoughts, she cannot deny the influence her time spent with Cersei had on her. When confronted with the undeniable proof her Aunt Lysa had lashed out at her instead and Petyr Baelish killed a second member of her family as a consequence of her recklessness.
Though this truth remains unspoken they both know Sansa will never be free of him. The terror of what her life has become fills the awkward space between them. Now isolated at the Eyrie, she has no way of escaping him. Maintaining her veil of ladylike politeness is essential for survival and a measure of freedom; she wears her courtesy like armor around him. Baelish should not mistake her courtesy for ignorance however; she discovered long ago he is responsible for betraying her father. Given the opportunity she is determined to get away from him, by any means necessary.
Last night after Petyr passed out from drink she took the white cloaks Sandor had given her from her chest of drawers. Before leaving her bedchamber she buries them along with a small trowel under her needlepoint in her large sewing case. "I'm going to sew in the godswood now," she calls into his solar. Being in Littlefinger's company for so long, Sansa's lies melt off her tongue easily now. "Wait, why are you doing needlepoint there? Surely the light here is better suited for it."
Sansa has anticipated he would protest. "No, silly. I am making a scene of the godswood for your solar. Now you have ruined the surprise!" she pouts at him. He can never resist her pouting. "I am sorry Sweetling, I hope you are not too disappointed." he purrs as he sidles up to her. A quick peck or two should satisfy him, she thinks before dotting his cheek with the chastest of kisses. Turning to leave, she hurries out of the Eyrie before he can follow her. Her trips to the godswood do not interest him, her devotion was well known in King's Landing.
For the past four weeks she makes the daily trip into the hauntingly beautiful godswood just outside the walls of the Eyrie, seeking solice in the faith of her forefathers. She prays to the gods of her mother while she kneels before the Heart tree as well. Formerly she would have thought this unthinkable but she is desperate and there isn't a sept for many miles. Both the old gods and the new know better than anyone of her suffering; she is certain they understand that she means well and they will hear her prayers favorably.
Deeper into the godswood next to the Heart tree lies a beautiful pool. Its deep stormy gray water reminds her Sandor's eyes. She finds herself spending hours watching the sunlight reflecting on the still pool; it gives her comfort to imagine she is looking into his eyes here. She hopes that he can see her wherever he may be now, and that he knows how deeply she misses him.
Casting a quick glance around her she takes out the trowel, digging a hole next to the pool. It will be her secret memorial to her beloved. Here she will visit Sandor; it will be the place she feels free to love him openly. Brushing away the excess dirt, she carefully folds Sandor's cloak from the night of the battle and places it inside a yellow satin bag she has embrodiered with the three black dogs of the Clegane sigil. Wrapping it in plain black woolen cloth she gently lays it into the makeshift grave, covering it thoroughly and placing rocks over the top so it will go undetected. Petyr never comes here; it is her only refuge.
She kneels down and prays to the Heart tree that Sandor will feel her love for him in the afterlife; she asks for the old gods forgiveness for not telling him of her love while he was with her. Knowing Sandor had kept no gods does not deter her. He was a Westerman, the Seven will hear her prayers for him as well. She makes the sign of the Seven over his memorial and prays to the Stranger that Sandor will know peace with him, and if he should see fit that he will allow Sandor to return to her.
It is the prayer of lonely desperation she knows but in her profound grief she feels it can't hurt to ask the Stranger for this extraordinary gift just the same. If he will not return Sandor to her she asks the Stranger to reunite her with him in the afterlife. It is all she has to look forward to now. All of her loved ones await her there; she longs to join them, for then she will no longer be alone.
She wraps herself in the Kingsguard cloak Sandor tore off the day Joffrey had her beaten in front of everyone. He had left his post beside the king and gently covered her nakedness, not caring the whole court was witness to his tender display.
She realizes now she never even had the chance to tell him how much she loves him for it, and for so many other things too. Laying down on his memorial she sobs uncontrollably in all-consuming anguish as the afternoon autumn sunlight slowly fades into darkness.