Depictions of violence and rape warning. It's nothing too graphic, but I wanted to make sure you're all warned.
She slays, and her hands are not bloody;
She moves as a moon in the wane,
White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy,
Our Lady of Pain.
― Algernon Charles Swinburne
A fortnight later
She was in the Great Hall.
The Iron Throne sat on a raised iron dais with high and narrow steps. A long carpet stretched from the throne to the Hall's great oak-and-bronze doors. High, narrow windows made the Hall look shadowy and infinite.
The air smelled like dust, candle wax and blood.
"Do you have some business for the King and the Council, Sansa?" – Cersei spoke.
The Queen Mother was sat next to Joffrey.
"I do. As it pleases, Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was Hand of the King" – Sansa said, looking at the Iron Throne.
"Do you deny your father's crime?" – Petyr Baelish asked.
"No" – Sansa stated.
Lord Baelish grinned a sudden ugly grin; his eyes sparkled with malevolence.
The world shifted and changed around her. She could hear the crowd screaming.
Sansa was now on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.
The Sept was located at the top of Visenya's Hill, surrounded by a white marble plaza. It featured a statue of Baelor, which stood tall and serene upon his plinth; his face was a study of benevolence.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King. I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of Gods and men" – her father's voice invaded her ears – "I betrayed the faith of my King and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son... And seize the Throne for myself" – Ned Stark spoke; a false public confession.
"Traitor!" – people screamed.
"Let the high Septon and Baelor the blessed bear witness to what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the Grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm" – Ned Stark said.
Sansa met his eyes and smiled.
She remembered Joffrey's words: 'Your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the King... Or there'll be no mercy for him'
Sansa had pleaded for her father's life. The King would be merciful. Her father would live. Everything would be alright.
"Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" – Joffrey commanded.
Sansa's heart thundered.
She could feel sweat running down her forehead, her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat.
"No! Stop! Daddy!" – she cried – "Someone stop him!"
Tears rolled down her face.
The air felt like fire in her lungs, as if she were being burned to death from the inside out. She felt like she was being suffocated.
"Stop! Daddy! Stop! No, no!" – she yelled.
"Traitor!" – the crowd screamed.
"Stop! Stop him, stop!" – Sansa cried; a sob tore from her throat – "Daddy!"
Sansa woke suddenly, violently, and bolted upright in bed, heart racing.
She looked around, eyes wide open but filled with fear. The nightmare was still in her head.
Daddy – her own desperate words rang in her head.
She covered her face with her hands and tried to control her breathing.
The image of her father invaded her mind again. Her heart ached.
She could still see his long face, dark hair and gray eyes. Her father had a good sweet heart beneath his solemn face.
She loved him deeply and now he was dead.
She didn't save him. She watched him confess a crime he didn't commit, and smiled. She had been naïve enough to believe that, in the end, everything would be alright; she had believed in justice and songs, but justice and songs didn't save her father.
He was a good man and he died as a traitor.
How many times did she call him traitor? How many times did she confirm his crimes? How many times did she dishonor him?
Her pretty words didn't save him; her lies didn't save him or herself.
She could hear her own heart beating inside her chest.
Questions stormed her mind.
Why did she dream about the day she pleaded for her father's life?
Why did she dream about the day he died?
Throwing off the furs, Sansa rolled off of her bed and walked to her water basin, peeling soaked strands of her hair off of her neck. She splashed her face and wiped down some of her body with a wet rag before toweling off.
She looked at the table in the center of the room. A big flat box with a huge ribbon on top and several other smaller boxes and bags were still there – gifts from Littlefinger. The dress inside the big box was a gorgeous dark gray gown; it was fitted but flared out at the bottom, and small black mockingbirds were embroidered from both shoulders of the dress down to the skirt. The intricate beading made it look regal and expensive.
Sansa touched her gown. The pale lilac dress was dirty and the seam of the left sleeve was ripped, but she refused to change it.
Littlefinger thought an expensive dress would make everything alright. He couldn't be more wrong. The gift was the embodiment of his obsession.
Sansa smoothed her dirty clothes.
She braided her hair in a single thick braid and tied it together with her hair tie.
Never had she felt so far away from home.
They were now in Oldstones.
The ruined stronghold sat on a hill above the Blue Fork of the Trident. Nothing but its foundations remained and a sepulcher of the ancient River King Tristifer IV Mudd.
A sennight ago they had crossed the Twins easily. Money and gold could buy anything, and now that House Frey was dead, the men responsible for the maintenance of the two bridged castle were not as proud and prickly as Walder Frey had been.
She moved from her side of the tent and entered the spacious open room where they would eat and Lord Baelish would entertain the turncoats and oathbreakers.
Colorful rugs of various stripes covered the floor, and cushions lined the tent walls.
It was all of golden silk, the largest and grandest structure in the camp.
The Knights of the Vale's stares reminded her of childhood peers, back on King's Landing, who'd claimed she was the daughter of a traitor. But Sansa was no insecure child now. She responded with cool courtesy and sat on her chair.
"Why aren't you wearing the dress I gave you?" – Lord Baelish asked.
He was sat at the head of the table.
Sansa looked at him and her nightmare returned.
"Do you deny your father's crime?" – Petyr Baelish asked.
"No" – she stated.
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
She had blamed Joffrey, Cersei and Ser Ilyn for her father's death, but what if there was someone else involved in his death? Someone who worked in the shadows.
Her stomach lurched. It was like standing in front of Ramsay and Joffrey again, frightened and alert with her heart pounding.
Sansa tried to disguise her fear. She kept her eyes on his and spoke clearly.
"Because it would mark me as yours, bought as easily as any other commodity" – she stated.
Lord Baelish's smile was swift and without feeling.
"You need to eat something" – he finally said.
Sansa bit the inside of her cheek.
She stared at the ham and eggs like they were made of mud.
Feeling more like a puppet than a real human being, she managed a few mouthfuls of eggs. They tasted like nothing, even though she didn't doubt they were seasoned to perfection.
Littlefinger smiled and turned his attention back to Lord Wylde and Ser Swann.
Sansa looked at the knife on her hand. Before her brain could process what her body was doing, she slid the knife into the sleeve of her gown.
Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the knife.
She felt a tear on her cheek and wiped it away with her thumb. She had to pull herself together. There must be a way out of the camp.
She wondered it if she could use the knife to escape.
She heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She hid the knife under her pillow and rose from her bed.
The tent flap opened and Margaery walked into the room. She had with her two guards; one of them was carrying a tray of cakes.
Fingers laced together, back straight, Sansa met Margaery's eyes.
The Lady of Highgarden was no longer a lovely girl with doe's eyes and a cascade of soft brown hair. She was the enemy now. Sansa looked at her, and Cersei's face flashed through her mind.
"I brought your favorites" – Margaery cried enthusiastically – "Orange cakes" – she said, taking a bit of cake.
Sansa wanted to correct her. She loved lemon cakes, not orange cakes.
She clenched her jaw and pursed her lips together in a thin line.
"I don't want anything from you" – she said.
"Just my crown" – Margaery retorted.
"You don't have a crown" – Sansa objected – "The Seven Kingdoms already have a Queen"
Margaery waved her hand, as if that fact could be ignored.
"Accidents happen" – she simply said; Sansa's eyes widened, understanding the double meaning of her words – "You didn't think I would stay hidden in the North, did you?" – she arched an eyebrow – "No roses can bloom there, save for the winter ones" – she added – "My place is in King's Landing"
The Lady of Highgarden walked towards her.
Sansa felt as though her heart had lodged in her throat as Margaery brushed back a loose strand of her hair.
A shiver went through her.
She remembered Margaery in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful; the dimples at the corners of her mouth when she smiled; the sweetness of her laugh; the warmth of her hands.
When had Margaery turned into this greedy, ambitious and sly person? Had she always been this person? Had she always hated her?
Maybe Margaery Tyrell was heartless.
She remembered their time in King's Landing. Margaery had been her only friend at court, or so she thought. She had made her feel safe and happy. Maybe it was all a lie; an act.
Sansa wondered if a little part of Margaery did ever care for her. She hoped it did, because she desperately needed to find a way to make her see reason. It was the only way to stop this madness.
If she managed to break the link between Margaery and Littlefinger, maybe she could have a chance. She needed to turn Littlefinger into the enemy – Margaery's enemy. She needed to weaken their alliance.
"Littlefinger is using you" – she started to say – "He only cares about himself. He doesn't want you on the Iron Throne. He wants it for himself"
Margaery smiled and walked towards the small table on the corner of the room.
She grabbed the jug and filled a cup with wine.
"Tell me something I don't know" – the Lady of Highgarden rolled her eyes – "He thinks he's smarter than everyone else, and that will be his doom" – she stated.
She took a seat and crossed her ankles.
Sansa remained in silence.
"It has been said that history repeats itself" – Margaery picked up her wine and drained her cup – "Do you believe that?" – she asked, meeting Sansa's blue eyes.
The Lady of Winterfell swallowed hard.
Margaery Tyrell really was heartless. She was confident that she would win the war, like Robert Baratheon did.
"I'm not Lyanna" – Sansa stated.
"No, you're not" – Margaery offered her a mischievous smile – "I've made sure of that"
Sansa did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her.
"What's that supposed to mean?" – she managed to ask.
The Lady of Highgarden considered her for a very long moment.
"For centuries, noblemen have been using the rich aroma of red wine to cover up a very different scent" – Margaery said, refilling her cup with wine.
Sansa's mouth felt dry.
Poison.
Her hands went automatically to her stomach.
"You poisoned me?" – she asked with a trembling voice.
Her heart thundered in her chest. She forced her brain to understand Margaery's riddles.
"No, Sansa, I didn't poison you. You're my friend" – Margaery said; she fell silent for a moment, watching the expressions chase across Sansa's face – "Milk of the poppy" – she explained – "You were supposed to have drunk it before the spring feast, so you would miss the banquet" – she continued to say – "I would have successful seduced your brother and all would be fine"
The spring feast.
Sansa had the vague memory of feeling languid and weak that night, after Jon's kiss; after drinking the wine in her chambers. When she woke, the next morning, Jon was already on his way to King's Landing. Margaery Tyrell had left Winterfell that day.
"But I suppose the plan didn't fail completely. You didn't run away with your lover, like your aunt did, so…" – the Maid of Highgarden interrupted her thoughts.
"Jon would've never married you" – Sansa swallowed her tears and forced the words out from her mouth.
Margaery had planned this right from the start. She pretended to be her friend, only to get close to her and betray her.
Sansa felt tired. She was tired of this game. She was tired of fighting.
Why couldn't the Gods let her be happy? Was that so much to ask after all she'd been through?
"He would" – Margaery said, narrowing her eyes – "And you would've married Sebastian Lake. He even looked like the golden-haired knights you always dreamt about" – she added – "Did he not please you? Did your time with the Lannisters make you change your taste on men?"
Sansa knew what she was implying – incest.
Margaery was trying to stain her love for Jon.
"He is not my brother" – Sansa stated.
"Did you think I didn't see how you used to look at him when you thought I was not looking?" – Margaery continued to say, ignoring her words – "Seducing your brother would've been any easy task, if only you weren't around to ruin my plan. It was quite clear that he had no interest in me, because you made sure his eyes were always on you" – she declared – "You forced me to this, Sansa. All that is happening is your fault. I offered you a good life. I found you a suitable man for you to marry"
Sansa would have laughed if she wasn't so furious.
Sebastian Lake's proposal had been Margaery's behest.
She shook her head.
"You found me a suitable man for me to marry?" – she exclaimed – "Who are you, my father?"
"No, he's dead" – Margaery said coldly.
Sansa's eyes filled with tears at her response.
She could barely speak.
Daddy – she heard the thirteen-year-old version of herself say.
Her voice was broken and hoarse.
A trembling had started in her fingers, so pronounced she knitted her hands together tightly to try to stop them from shaking.
"You're not going to win" – she managed to say – "They have dragons" – she added.
"And I have you, which means that their dragons are useless" – a wicked smile twisted across Margaery's face – "Your honorable Jon will not risk harming you. You're not immune to the fire"
A chill went down Sansa's spine as she realized what Margaery was saying.
She remembered a previous conversation with Lord Baelish:
"Soon, they will be coming to rescue me and you don't have enough men to withstand them. You can't hope to defeat them" – she had said – "These men you bought, they are brutal men who kill and die for pay, but they won't be enough against a large force; against dragons"
"That may not be so…" – Baelish smiled.
They were right. Jon would not risk hurting her. He would not risk her life, which meant that Margaery and Littlefinger had the upper hand now.
The room tilted crazily.
Sansa inhaled deeply, taking in great gulps of air, fighting off dizziness.
"You're using me as a shield" – her throat hurt.
"You will be his doom, like Lyanna was Rhaegar's" – Margaery spoke.
She motioned for one of the guards to approach her. Sansa watched as the man gave Margaery a small parchment.
Sansa frowned.
"Did you know that he wrote you a letter before leaving?" – she asked, waving the missive in the air.
Sansa sucked in a deep breath, like she'd been punched.
Margaery had stolen her letter; the letter Jon wrote to her.
Fear gave way to a sudden wave of fury.
"It's a shame you'll never know what he wrote" – the Lady of Highgarden continued to say.
A candle flickered a few inches away. Margaery approached the letter to the flame and it caught alight.
A moment later, Jon's words were no more than black ashes.
Sansa's lungs hurt as she tried to control her breathing.
Her head spun.
She had to stop Margaery. She couldn't let her win. Margaery Tyrell was worse than Cersei Lannister.
Think. Think. Think.
Sansa came up with a desperate plan.
Her eyes gleamed like a wolf's.
Before Margaery's mind could register what she was doing, Sansa shoved her backwards and Margaery hit the ground hard. The Lady of Winterfell fell with her full weight on top of her; knees into her stomach.
Margaery's eyes were wide, shock in them.
Sansa slapped her face; the collision of flesh against flesh made a sound like a whip crack. Before she could hit her again, strong hands grabbed her and pulled her away from Margaery.
The Lady of Highgarden touched her cheek; it was now blue from Sansa's blow.
She looked at her, shocked by what she had just done. Her guards weren't sure what to do.
Her face went from frozen shock to devoid of emotion in a matter of seconds. Then, she laughed, a small laugh devoid of humor.
Sansa raised her chin defiantly, for she was determined not to show her any fear.
"Payback for me replacing you with Joffrey?" – Margaery asked.
"I didn't want to marry Joffrey. Your betrothal was a blessing to me" – Sansa spat.
Their gazes were locked, two fighters, two strong and resilient personalities.
There was a silence while Sansa's heart hammered out her fury and her eyes blazed at Margaery.
The Maid of Highgarden regarded her for a long time. Then, she grabbed one of the guards' swords. She advanced to her with the sword pointed for her heart.
Sansa felt a determination rise in her that she never felt before. She could almost hear the locking and clicking of her will as her body tensed to take the required action, which she knew she would take. She would stop Margaery's plan.
"Kill me" – Sansa raised her chin defiantly – "Do it!" – she insisted, trying to provoke her.
If she died, Margaery would lose the upper hand; she would lose her shield. Jon could use his dragons and defeat Margaery and Littlefinger.
If she died, Jon could win the war. She would no longer be a liability.
Margaery's eyes glowed brighter. She was looking at Sansa like a cat with its gaze fixed on a mouse.
She lifted the sword and brought it down on Sansa's braid.
"Not yet" – the Lady of Highgarden smiled.
Before Sansa could understand her words, Margaery swung the sword.
Sansa heard the sound of snipping.
Her heart stopped. She was too shocked to move.
Tears welled in her eyes as strands of red hair fell.
She saw her long braid on Margaery's hand.
Sansa's legs felt like water, shivers that had nothing to do with the cold ran through her body.
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, feeling as if she had lost more than hair. There was a literal attachment to her hair, a familiarity, a constant that she wasn't sure she could part with… but now it was too late.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Margaery and the guards were no longer in the room.
She saw her own reflection in the mirror in front of her. A stranger. Her hair was cut to her jawline, which made her neck appear longer.
Tears rolled down her face.
Sansa tried to move back to the bed, but her legs gave away underneath her, and she collapsed to the floor, sobbing harder than she had since this whole mess had begun.
The thirteen-year-old version of herself returned. Sansa hated her. She hated the silly little girl who believed in songs and heroes. She hated her stupid dreams. She hated her tears.
Suddenly, Sansa felt a fire running through her whole body.
She wiped her tears and forced her body to move.
She approached the bed and lifted the pillow.
The knife gleamed.
A pile of letters and notices that had arrived earlier that afternoon sat on the table next to him.
Ravens began appearing a sennight ago, and every day more ravens arrived than the last. News of Sansa's kidnapping and Margaery's claim to the throne had spread fast through the Seven Kingdoms.
Most correspondence they received expressed a positive reaction to the Targaryen's call; Daenerys and Jon had summoned all the Houses of Westeros, but some responses were ambiguous, while others refused the call: the Stormlands had joined their forces with the Tyrell army, as well as House Arryn of the Eyrie and House Baelish.
The fire had died down and the room had grown cold.
They were at the Twins, gathering as many men as they could; preparing their army.
Jon was looking out the window; nightfall was close.
Lyanna Mormont's words echoed in his head:
"You have the support of the Northern Houses. You know we would go to war with you" – she started to explain – "Queen Daenerys has dragons, armies and allies. The Tyrells don't stand a chance" – she added – "You don't have to marry Margaery Tyrell to ensure peace. She doesn't has the upper hand, you do"
Lyanna was wrong. He didn't have the upper hand… not as long Margaery (and Littlefinger) had Sansa.
He couldn't use the dragons and burn them all. He couldn't risk burning Sansa.
Jon was starting to lose his mind.
He didn't have an army fully prepared for war. The unsullied army was in King's Landing. It would take weeks to gather all men and start the battle plans.
They were wasting time.
Every day that passed was a step closer for the Tyrells to gather more men and attack them.
The Tyrell's army was well trained. They had the best weapons and soldiers. The Tyrells had allies; many Houses didn't like to see a Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne again, much less two ruling the Seven Kingdoms. They feared the Targaryen taint – the alleged madness in the blood of the dragon.
Daenerys pulled her cloak tighter around her arms and watched Jon clenching his jaw. She knew he was thinking about Sansa. His worries grew heavier each day.
The realization that Petyr Baelish had crossed the Twins a sennight ago made him see red. It blotted his vision and turned his world to black hatred.
"There's been a riot in the south keep" – Ser Davos said, stepping into the room – "Some prisoners heard a rumor you were going to let them freeze to death. They panicked and two guards were killed" – he explained, looking at the King in the North.
"Hang the men responsible" – Jon stated, not bothering to look at the man.
Those men had allowed Petyr Baelish to cross the Twins. Their actions put Sansa in danger. They were the enemy.
"We don't yet know who started it or who dealt the killing blow" – Ser Davos said.
"Defiant even in captivity" – Jon said through gritted teeth.
The King in the North walked towards the table. He looked at the maps and letters spread out in front of him.
"Because they foresee death by your command" – Daenerys said, approaching him.
"Are you defending them?" – Jon suddenly snapped his head up and turned to look at her.
The look he shot her was as sour as poison.
"Of course not. I'm only advising you to choose your next move carefully" – the Dragon Queen explained – "The time has come to either dole out mercy or to crush them all" – she added – "Whichever you choose, there is no turning back"
"Terror worked for the Targaryen kings who ruled Westeros for almost 300 years. It kept the realm safe" – Jon declared.
"But at a price, Jon" – Daenerys retorted – "Rebellion, war, death, madness" – she added.
Jon narrowed his eyes, and then looked away.
Daenerys watched him running his fingers through his dark curls.
"How many men are in the south keep?" – Jon asked.
"A dozen or so" – Ser Davos said.
Jon walked towards the door.
His hand reached for the carved brass doorknob that worked the lock.
"Hang them all" – he commanded – "In the courtyard, so the others can see what fate has in store for those who would rise against us" – he added.
The giant door moved away and Jon stepped out of the room.
Men who saw him coming move out of his way; some were shouldered aside.
He hurried down the corridor and walked up onto the battlements. He felt like he was suffocating. He needed some fresh air; his lungs hurt.
Daenerys followed him. She looked at Jon for a while as if pondering what to say.
"I know you'd let the world burn to keep her safe, but –"
"No" – Jon interrupted her – "It's more than that" – he said, gazing at the courtyard – "I would light the match" – he stated.
The Dragon Queen bit her lower lip.
The words 'Burn them all' echoed in her mind.
Dany shivered. She had to make Jon see reason. He was starting to lose control of his own actions. He was starting to sound like the Mad King.
"You can't lose yourself in this, Jon" – Daenerys reached over him, put a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards her – "Eventually the war will happen. When it does, you need to be there to command the men, to give them hope" – she explained – "You can't do that if you've lost yourself in the meantime"
Jon didn't answer. He had gone rigid all over, stiff as a bar of iron.
"Battles have been won against greater odds. We don't need dragons to defeat them" – Daenerys continued to say – "We're the rightful rulers of the Seven Kingdoms" – she added.
"I don't care about that" – the pain in Jon's voice made Daenerys sad – "I've never wanted to be king" – he sighed.
Jon fell silent and studied his hands.
Daenerys offered him a sad smile.
Her thoughts travelled and she remembered Ser Willem Darry. He had broken into the nursery, in Dragonstone, and saved her and Viserys from Stannis garrison; they set sail under cover of darkness for the safety of the Braavosian coast.
Ser Willem Darry had always been kind to Dany; his hands were soft as old leather.
She remembered the time they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. She had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem died, the servants had stolen what little money that had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house.
Daenerys had cried when the red door closed behind them forever.
They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Viserys would not allow it.
"We will have it all back someday, sweet sister" – Viserys would promise her – "The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King's Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back"
"All I ever wanted was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside my window, the childhood I've never had" – Daenerys spoke.
The mention of the lemon tree made Jon think about Sansa. His heart ached.
The King in the North looked up at Dany. She looked as if she was lost in a distant memory.
"Then why did you claim the Iron Throne?" – Jon finally asked, breaking the silence.
"Because it was the right thing to do" – she half-smiled – "It was my duty, my destiny" – she raised her hand and pushed a lock of hair from his forehead – "My claim to the throne led me towards you … and finding you was better than fulfilling my dream" – she said softly – "I've never had a family, but now I do"
Jon noticed lines of concern rifted under her violet eyes.
She looked scared, scared for him. Inside her indigo eyes, Jon could see that she was scared that he would lose his mind and become mad, like their ancestors.
He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, gazing at her with tenderness.
Jon pulled Dany into her arms. He closed his eyes and held her tight.
He moved his right hand so he could slide his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head.
Daenerys stood on her tiptoes so she could press her face to the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
They remained like this for a long time.
They could be as different as the sun and the moon but the same blood ran through their veins; the blood of the dragon.
A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.
He was usually uncomfortable with Dany's constant demonstrations of affection, but he was now starting to understand her kind gestures and touches. He was surprised to realize how much he missed being held by her.
As he hugged Daenerys he could feel some of the anger and tension leaving his body. He felt the weight of the world slowly disappearing from his shoulders.
"Any word from Tyrion?" – Jon asked.
"The unsullied are ready and the Dornish are on our side" – Daenerys said – "They are in King's Landing waiting for us"
Jon nodded.
"We leave at first light" – he said.
Sansa watched him step into the room.
Lord Baelish, totally taken by surprise, looked up at her, shocked.
The look on his face made her want to thank Margaery for cutting her hair. He looked completely broken, devastated, lost.
She was no longer his precious Cat. His perfect picture was falling apart.
Sansa almost smiled.
"No…" – he cried, stumbling backward against the nearest wall.
His pain was her trophy.
Sansa gripped the handle of the knife in her sleeve.
"Why did you do this?" – he asked, sounding desperate – "Why did you do this?" – he repeated.
He thought she had cut her hair on purpose.
Sansa remained in silence, looking at him.
Petyr Baelish was slowly losing control of everything and Sansa hoped he felt as helpless as she did. He deserved to suffer before he died. She wanted to see him suffer before he died.
Littlefinger's men were mercenaries. Without gold they would have no reason to fight.
If Littlefinger died, his promises of gold died with him and part of his army would cease to exist. Fewer men meant less power, and less power meant defeat.
Margaery and Littlefinger would not win. Sansa needed to help Jon, no matter the cost.
If she couldn't turn Margaery against Littlefinger, she could, at least, diminish their army.
"Why?" – Lord Baelish screamed.
"Your picture will never come true" – Sansa said.
The pain, which only moments ago had pinched his features, had now slipped away, leaving his eyes cold, nearly glacial.
A wicked smile twisted across his face.
Instantly, Sansa understood his intention. She opened her mouth to scream, but he lunged and slammed her into the tent wall, clamping one of his hands over her mouth.
"You should be nicer to me, Sansa, you really should" – he was panting like an animal – "Like you're nice to that bastard brother you've got" – he said – "How come you're giving him what you never gave me, huh?"
Starting at the base of her throat, he trailed the fingers of one hand slowly downwards.
A sound of outrage issued from Sansa's throat when Lord Baelish squeezed her breast with his free hand, but that only made him maul her more roughly.
"How come you prefer that bastard instead of me?" – he spoke again.
Lord Baelish managed to work his hand between their bodies and push it between her legs.
Sansa tried to evade his crude thrusting motions, but she couldn't move from side to side. Her entire field of vision was filled with his face; his small eyes smoldering with resentment and cruelty.
Grunting with the effort, he pushed her feet apart with his, making it impossible for her to close her legs.
Sansa's mind was screaming.
This cannot be happening. Not again.
Vivid flashes of Ramsay invaded her mind.
With a sadistic smile, Baelish nuzzled along the side of her neck, tracing slobbering kisses. He kept her mouth blocked, stifling any cries.
Terror overwhelmed her.
Mere moments and it would be too late.
He was determined to have his way with her. All sense of decency and propriety had deserted him.
Lord Baelish's hand flew to her throat, squeezing.
Sansa clawed at his hand while fumbling the handle of the knife, struggling to slip it out of her sleeve.
"I can take much better care of you than the bastard" – he murmured with a sadistic smile.
The edges of Sansa's vision grew dark as his grip tightened even more, but she refused to let this be the end; to let him win.
Centering her attention on what must be done, Sansa forced her body to relax.
Be calm – she repeated over and over.
She ceased struggling and went limp.
Feeling the fight go out of her, Lord Baelish came to false conclusions.
Regain control – she repeated.
In arrogance and over eagerness, Lord Baelish actually thought she would give in to his advances.
Confident of attaining his goal, he relaxed his hold on her only marginally, but Sansa used that split second to push against his chest with her hands.
He staggered back a few inches.
Sansa's body moved by itself: three quick jabs to the stomach, one to the throat.
And he'll go right to his knees.
She heard Jon's words echoing in her head as Lord Baelish fell to the floor.
The Lady of Winterfell stumbled away, gasping for air and finally pulling the knife from her sleeve.
She felt the room spinning as the blood rushed to her head. She felt dizzy from the strangulation.
Sansa took a deep breath; her knees were trembling and her heart was hammering. She tightened her grip on the handle of the knife.
Before she could control her breathing, Lord Baelish surged toward her; his hands reaching for her throat again.
This time she was ready.
She ducked and thrust the knife as hard as she could into his belly. It slid far more easily than she imagined it would, and the handle slipped from her grip.
Lord Baelish looked down at the knife sticking out of his stomach.
Sansa felt her entire body trembling.
With a pained wince, Baelish pulled the blade out of his body; his expression strangely calm, making Sansa's insides twist; her eyes widened.
Her legs gave away underneath her, and she collapsed to the floor. She was unarmed and exhausted.
She was tired of fighting. She was tired of losing.
Petyr Baelish had to be in pain, but he walked towards with ease.
"I once pressed a knife against your father's throat" – he said, looking at the knife he was holding.
There was a laugher in his voice. Cold, cruel, hard laugher.
Sansa's heart battered her ribs as she tried to breathe slowly.
"Do you remember the day he died?" – Lord Baelish asked, enjoying the way Sansa's body tensed – "The day I killed him?" – he added.
His lips curled in a mocking, sardonic grin.
Sansa forced herself not to show the torrent of emotions pouring through her, but she failed. Fear and fury mixed together.
Calming her racing thoughts was next to impossible. It was impossible not to let fear grip her. Her nightmare returned:
"Do you deny your father's crime?" – Petyr Baelish asked.
"No" – Sansa stated.
She prepared herself for the worst.
"You betrayed him" – she stated, summoning up all her courage.
"I did" – Lord Baelish said – "He needed the gold cloaks on his side, otherwise the Queen's men would be enough to overwhelm what remained of his household guard" – he started to explain – "Before he confronted Cersei I told him the City Watch was his" – he added, looking right into her eyes – "And do you want to know why I did it?" – he asked; his eyes sparkled with wickedness – "Because he ruined my picture. He stole her from me" – his voice as sour as poison – "I planned your father's death since the day he arrived in King's Landing"
Sansa's lungs ached, her heart was pounding with fear and over-exertion; every fiber in her body was tensed and straining.
Fire and ice filled her.
"You knew Joffrey wouldn't spare his life, didn't you?" – though her lips trembled, she kept her eyes on his and spoke clearly – "You watched me plead for my father's life. You watched me say that he was guilty in front of the entire court and you knew that my words would be for nothing, didn't you?" – Sansa felt her voice rise, but she didn't bother to force it back down – "You knew that even if my father confessed a crime he didn't commit, Joffrey would kill him anyway, didn't you? Didn't you?" – she demanded; her fear and anger blending together into something very like despair.
His smile was twisted.
Sansa hated him and she hated herself for not being able to kill him.
"You're sick" – she spat.
"My only regret was that I didn't slit his throat right there and then, in front of the Iron Throne" – he stated.
Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to cry.
Lord Baelish leaned down, so he was at her level.
Holding the knife like a toy, he pressed it against her cheek and she felt the warm blood – his blood – pour down her face.
She suppressed a shudder; her lips curled in disgust.
Sansa looked right into his eyes. There was a deep dark rage in them. He was going to kill her. She knew it.
Frigid fear rushed through her, warring with the torrent of incandescent anger.
Sansa bit her lower lip, stopping the tears from falling. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Part of her wanted – longed – to die. It was the only way she would ever be free of him. Maybe, if she died, she could meet her father again. Maybe she would be able to see her family again. Father, mother, Robb, Rickon… she would see them again.
She felt a sharp pain in her chest as Jon's face invaded her mind.
If she died, she wouldn't see him anymore. She would never get the chance to tell him that she loved him; that she loved him more than she ever thought possible.
Sansa closed her eyes and disguised a sob.
She tried hard to cling to some hope: Jon would never be on his own. He had Daenerys and Bran… and Arya. Arya would find him. Besides, if she died, Jon would win the war. He could use the dragons and burn the enemy's army. Sansa tried hard to cling to that thought.
She opened her eyes, ready to face her enemy; ready to face death.
Lord Baelish, as if a gentle lover, caressed her cheek and down her neck.
Sansa glowered at him.
Suddenly, a blade was put against his throat and slit it right open.
The gash was deep; blood spurted forth from the several arteries, spattering over her.
Littlefinger's eyes widened in shock as he choked on blood, spitting out mouthfuls. He clutched his throat, blood pouring around the edges of his fingers.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
Sansa's throat somehow closed up, she was too scared to scream.
She wanted to scream, but she was too scared to scream, too scared to even move. All she could do was stay still.
She stared at the front of her gown saturated with blood.
Sansa felt sweat running down her forehead; her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat. She tried to control her breathing, but the blood pooling in her skirts made her entire body tremble.
Her lungs hurt and her breath came in gasps.
Sansa summoned up every ounce of courage and determination from within herself.
When she finally gained control of the amount of emotions that were invading her body, she forced her head to look up.
For a split second, she thought she was dead or dreaming.
A tear slid down her cheek.
A wave of relief, joy and astonishment washed over her.
"Arya" – she breathed.
Arya is coming to play!
I planned this since I began the fic. This was ALWAYS the plan. I absolutely love Arya, so she definitely had to be part of this story! I hope you guys are okay with this twist.
Please let me know what you think! (: