Chapter 44: Sansa III

Sansa could not help but flinch when the blade fell.

That Petyr would be executed had not been in doubt for days. His trial had been swift, and his conviction unanimous. Not even his supposed allies dared stand with him. His attempts at convincement fell on deaf ears. One by one, all those whose favour he'd worked so carefully to win turned around to condemn him. Neither Nestor nor Lothor spoke up to object on behalf of their employer. The murder of a Vale lady could not be so easily forgiven, would not be so easily brushed aside.

Not by the Vale lords. Not by her.

Yet his more desperate pleadings of innocence still rung in her ears. He's a liar. A liar. A liar and a murderer. Not that she'd minded when he'd murdered Joffrey. Not that she'd even really minded when he'd killed Lysa. Aunt Lysa was going to push me through the Moon Door. Both times, Petyr had acted to protect her.

Sansa felt sick. Shame and rage and fear and sorrow swirled within her.

Yet she was too far gone now for regrets. Even as her gut clenched and writhed and her heart raced so fast she thought it would run out her chest, Sansa stood fast and joined the chorus in condemnation. She had no choice. She had committed herself the moment she'd uttered those first tearful, thoughtless words. It was him. Even as she secretly wept in her chambers till it felt like her eyes would fall out. Even as she kept Arya's letter tucked tight to her breast like an invaluable treasure. Hoping with all that she had that the last bit of family she had left in this world wasn't a well-crafted trick.

When she closed her eyes, she saw Petyr, gaze chock full of longing, eyes red with the pain of betrayal, rage bubbling in his gut, heavy irons about his wrists. He only wanted to fuck you, Sansa reminded herself. Because you looked like your mother. He wanted to make you a whore. To rape you. Like Jeyne.

It was that thought that allowed her to keep her stomach as they dragged Petyr off into the cells, a doomed man.

Yet the method of his demise was hotly debated. Many advocated for the Moon Door, for him to suffer the traditional fate of scoundrels in the Eyrie. The same fate he had condemned Lady Lysa to. But the letter, arrived by exhausted raven at the eleventh hour, had sealed his fate. The king demanded his head.

The task fell to Lord Yohn. It was his hand that did the deed. The head was quickly collected and buried away in a wicker basket, out of sight of Sansa's churning stomach, and the discussions promptly began as all the Lords Declarant retired to the solar. The chattering began as soon as the men were seated, and Sansa listened half in a daze as she tried to force the image of Petyr's head from her mind.

He's not father, she had to remind herself, though for a while he'd been as good as one to her. He's not father. And Lord Yohn is not Joffrey. It was no use. Only a distraction could quell her unease.

"Are we agreed on the issue of succession?" Lord Yohn asked.

"Of course," Lord Belmore wheezed. "We all knew you'd be Lord Protector in any case."

Lord Yohn nodded gratefully. "Till Lord Robert comes of age."

"And you'll have the privilege of raising our young lord, eh?" Lord Hunter cracked a smile. "Any luck and the young Lord Robert Arryn will think of you the same way Robert Baratheon thought of his foster father."

"That brings us neatly enough to the issue of the crown," Lady Anya interjected.

Lord Horton Redfort huffed, shook his head and scowled. "What of it? We ought not be bending the knee to that boy on the Iron Throne. Stannis is the one true king."

"Stannis is all but beaten," Anya said, shaking her head. "Winter will hit the North harder than anywhere else. Even if Stannis is victorious against the Boltons, it doesn't mean his cause is hopeful. The Iron Throne has Arya Stark-"

"And we have her sister," Horton pressed.

"Aye," Yohn ground out. "But the Iron Throne has food and supplies as well. Enough to avert famine. When he offers the northern lords a choice, who do you think they'll choose? We might have avoided the worst rigours of war, and our stores may be full to bursting enough to feed us, but add the burden of another kingdom's worth of mouths to that and I think you'll find our larders quickly run dry. And the northerners get a Stark either way. No. The Boy King offers us forgiveness. We would be wise not to spurn it. That does not mean we need make common cause with Lannisters, but we are better off not making them our enemies yet."

Lady Anya nodded sagely. "Glad to see you've got some sense."

"And then there's the question of how he knew," Sansa spoke up, the words bubbling up to her lips. She had been preparing for this moment the second she had laid eyes on the letter.

All eyes turned to her. "Knew what, dear?" the Lady Anya Waynwood asked.

"That Petyr killed her. Only I, Marillion and Petyr were there when it happened. We told nobody else. Petyr made certain of it. So how did he know?"

The lords shared an uneasy look. "You mean you think he has spies? Someone else, who saw?"

Sansa shrugged. "If he has reach enough to know such a tight secret, I'd think he'd have reach enough to know whatever plans you all make."

"Do you think King Tommen capable of such a thing?" Lady Anya asked, leaning forwards with interest.

"I think Lord Tywin, or else Lord Tyrion, capable of such a thing," Sansa said. "I know not if Tommen is their puppet or another of their ilk. We got along well enough when I was at the capital. He seemed the quiet type to me. A little childish. Not entirely unlike Lord Robert. Good-hearted, I thought. Kind."

Lord Yohn lifted a gnarled hand to scratch his beard and nodded. "All the better we should make overtures whilst we have the advantage."

Sansa took a deep breath and steeled herself. "And you have the perfect envoy, too."

Lady Waynwood's look turned incredulous as she caught Sansa's meaning. "Have you gone mad, girl?"

"Tommen knows me," Sansa put in for her defence. "He likes me. And he has my sister. I have to go back."

"They could kill you," she retorted.

"Then let them," Sansa said. "Better House Stark should die with me than live on a shadow of it's former self. And I am more use to you as an envoy than a hostage. You all have fairly good relations with the North through my late aunt in any case. Holding me hostage won't give you much more. But sending me back could smooth over relations with Lord Tywin, which I know you all want."

An uproar of objections started, swiftly silenced by Lord Yohn. No matter how much it stung the pride of the Vale lords to admit, the Old Lion inspired a sense of fear in them all. A slight fear, perhaps, but fear all the same. A fear intensified by the prospect of spies in their midst. "What you're suggesting is very dangerous, my lady," Lord Yohn said once the last of the noise had settled.

Sansa nodded, feeling a lump rise in her throat, her hands trembling. "I know."

"You could die."

I wanted to die, just a few days ago. "I know."

"I can't allow you to wander into danger," Lord Yohn said after a second's thought. "Yet I also won't keep you prisoner if you truly wish to leave."

Horton seemed horrified. "You can't be serious, my lord. To send a daughter of Lord Stark into Lannister custody?"

"I want to go," Sansa insisted.

Horton turned his old head to look at her. "Forgive me, my lady, but you've been through a quite the ordeal, and are young besides. Your judgement may not be the most sound as of now."

"I know I want to see my sister."

"All you have is a letter," Lord Belmore cut in. "Lies can be written by any hand. Think of the danger you're putting yourself under. You say you don't fear death. Well enough. But what of torment? Joffrey beheaded your lord father on a whim. And as I understand it your treatment at the hands of the court was most unkind."

"Joffrey's dead," Sansa insisted as she clenched her fists beneath the table and fought to keep her composure. "And I met Tommen when I was in the capital. He's nothing like his brother."

"What of his mother, then?" Lord Redfort said. "Or Lord Tywin? How are we to ensure your safety, my lady?" He turned to face the newly-made Lord Protector. "It's all well and good to try and improve relations with the crown - much as I might disapprove - but this is too much."

"Worry not, my lords. She won't go alone," Lord Yohn said, looking her in the eyes. "Nestor will accompany you down to the capital with a company of Valemen and keep watch over your stay. When you are done with your business, you will return."

Sansa nodded, but before she could offer her gratitude Nestor interjected himself.

"You're sending me down with her?" he asked, eyes burning with outrage. He shook his head, beard flowing. "No, I won't go."

Yohn's gaze settled slowly on Nestor. "You closed the Gates of the Moon on us on the orders of the last Lord Commander. I know you to be a dutiful man. You'll go to the capital on the orders of this one. You'll deliver Littlefinger's head. And you'll bring back the Lady Sansa. Alive."

Nestor's objections caught in his throat. He could scarcely admit to selling his loyalty to Petyr. Not before all his fellow Lords. Yet if he left there was every chance Lord Yohn would act to weaken his hold over the Gates of the Moon. That seat had only recently become his by right. All at Petyr's behest. His hold over it, in spite his years faithful stewardship under Jon Arryn, was tenuous at best and prone to challenge.

Nestor's outrage twisted into a bitter scowl as he slowly swallowed his pride, the reality of his new position settling in. She was his punishment.

"I'll take Ser Lothor as well, if it please my lords," she said. She didn't trust the look on Lord Nestor's face. And Lothor Brune was as good as trustworthy as she was likely to find. Loyal to Petyr - and thus to her. Strong, quiet, and in need of a new benefactor.

Lord Yohn cocked his head in thought a moment, then accepted Sansa's choice with a nod. Another former loyalist of Baelish's he'd not have to deal with, doubtless. And ridding himself of her would serve his purposes nice enough. Many of the Vale lords were eager for war, still smarting over Lady Lysa's refusal to join the war on the Stark side. Lords Redfort, Belmore, and more. Sending her south would quieten their voices. Yohn may once have joined their call to arms, but now he needed peace more than war if he was to tighten his hold over the Vale, over those last few areas whose loyalty remained questionable. Gulltown, the Fingers, Heart's Home.

Petyr had underestimated him, she knew. She would not make the same mistake.

"And if Lord Nestor and Ser Lothor fail?" Lady Anya asked.

Yohn pursed his lips and let silence linger for a moment. "Lord Tywin would not be so foolish as to start a war now," he finally declared. Beneath his beard and stern expression, she couldn't tell if he was eager or afraid at that prospect.

She kept that thought in her mind even as the lords meeting wound down to a close and she left the solar, wandering through the halls and passages of the Eyrie half in a daze. The thought of facing Cersei again terrified her. But Joffrey's dead, she told herself. And Tommen was kind. Tyrion didn't rape me. Fear and doubt wrestled in her mind, the ache from their struggle spreading across her skull. I'm doing this for Arya, she thought, struggling to marshal herself.

Even as her head fell to her bed, she was still struggling. The next few days passed achingly slowly, as preparations were made for their departure. One by one, the Lords Declarant slowly left. First went Lady Anya, then Lord Belmore, then Lord Redfort. The castle was abuzz with activity. Soon enough, it would be her turn.

Then one morning, she was woken by a knock on the door.

Sansa readied herself in a hurry, made herself decent, and opened the door to find Ser Lothor behind it. "Ser Lothor," she greeted him.

The knight bowed his head slightly. "M'lady," he said. "The little lord asks your presence. He won't leave his bed." Asks. It had only been a few days ago that he would have commanded her presence.

Sansa sighed, nodded, gesturing for Ser Lothor to lead. As he went, she found the courage to speak. "How have you been, Ser Lothor?"

The knight shrugged. "Well enough, m'lady. Busy. Have a lot of work ahead, preparing for the journey. But it's nothing I can't handle."

"That's good," she said. It wasn't long before they had arrived at Lord Robert's doors. She turned the iron ring and pushed open the door a crack. "Sweetrobin?" she called.

Someone sniffled in the darkness. "Are you alone?"

She looked back at Lothor, who shrugged and went off on his way. "I am, my lord."

"Come in, then. Just you." She crept through the door and shut it tight behind her. "Did the Maester send for you?"

"No," she shook her head. "Are you hungry, my lord? Should I send one of the girls for some food?"

"I don't want food," the little lord said in a petulant tone. As she advanced on him she saw his eyes were red, puffy. "I want to stay in bed today."

"You can't stay in bed," she said. "Today we have to leave."

"I don't want to leave," he said. "You can read me a story."

"We have to go," she chided the boy. "Here, take a bath and I'll read you two stories. I'll call some of the serving girls up."

The boy scowled. "I don't like the serving girls. They always scrub too hard. It hurts. My mommy never scrubbed me so hard it hurt."

"I'll tell them to be gentle."

"I want three stories," Sweetrobin said.

Sansa felt a flash of annoyance. Sweetrobin was a greedy, spoiled child. Whatever you gave him, he wanted more. But he'd at least been afraid enough of Petyr to not give her too much cheek. "Take a bath, eat your breakfast, and I'll read you three stories. The mules are waiting."

Sweetrobin scowled again. "No bath, it gives me a headache. And no mules, either. They stink. One tried to bite me once." He looked like he was about to cry. "Tell them I'm staying here. The Eyrie is safe. Nobody can bite me here."

He is afraid, she thought. And with good reason. "Who would want to hurt you, my lord? The lords all love you. Lord Royce will care for you well."

He shivered. "I'll have to go down... In that cage."

Sansa nodded. Ever since his mother's death, Sweetrobin had not even strayed near a ledge. She could see how the thought of descending from the Eyrie might scare him. "You eat your breakfast, get dressed, and I'll go down with you. It'll be perfectly safe, I promise."

Sweetrobin seemed to consider it. "I want a hundred lemon cakes!"

Sansa grit her teeth and forced herself calm. "All the lemon cakes you like," she promised him. "But nothing before you're washed and dressed and away."

It took a little more than that to cajole the little lord from his bed, but eventually he was up and in the hands of the serving girls and Sansa could retreat from his chambers and make her way down the steps. Ser Lothor had already packed for her, she'd found. She fished out a cloak from the collection kept in her chambers and wandered out. Up at the height of the Eyrie, the courtyard was draped in old snow, deep enough to sink someone to the ankle. The wind blustered about her knees from beneath her skirts, her legs trembling only partly from the cold.

This place is as good as a prison, she thought. Yet the notion of leaving it terrified her. High up, the Eyrie was impregnable. Impregnable against armies, she reminded herself, not against assassins and spies. She wandered the Eyrie one last time, taking in the feel of keep. The seven slender towers above her, the rattling of the Moon Door, the beautiful views. Yet there was something utterly desolate about that beauty. The Eyrie had no sept, no heart tree. Nobody here answers prayers.

Eventually Sweetrobin had finished his bath, and midday had come. She returned to her rooms and donned a scarf, some heavy leather gloves, some heavy woollen hose beneath her skirts for her legs. Within the heated walls of the Eyrie she sweltered, but when she emerged again into the cold she was grateful for the extra clothes. Lothor was in the chain room when she arrived, sending down a load of saddlebags.

"The boy ready yet?"

"Washed and dressed and on his way. Has anyone gone down yet?"

"Lord Nestor," he said. "And some guards."

"Is the wind bad?"

Lothor shrugged. "Not too strong, but bloody cold. It'll be worse if we wait much longer though."

Thankfully, they were spared by the arrival of the little lord, and without delay they were bundled up into wicker baskets. Remembering her promise, Sansa joined Robert in his wicker basket as the chains were hooked on and they were slowly lowered. They were lucky. The baskets themselves had walls that stretched up above Lord Robert's head, denying him a view of what lay below. Even still, as the bucket lurched down, slowly swaying with the wind, the boy clutched her tighter, shivering.

"My lord is brave," she said.

"Of course I'm brave," he shot back. "I'm an Arryn."

It took them an agonisingly large amount of time, but finally they were down, and Sansa helped Lord Robert from the basket to the mules. Lord Nestor stood waiting, holding the basket containing Petyr's head, twenty mules behind him, casting his gaze up as the chain was drawn up for the next load of people. "My lady," he said gruffly, gesturing behind him.

Sansa looked down. "Which one would my lord like to ride?"

Sweetrobin scrunched his nose. "They're all stinky."

"Choose anyway," she said.

"That one, then. But only if you come with me."

She nodded and helped him mount his mule, joining him side-saddle. It took another half-hour before their party had formed and the rest of the men were down. The lords and ladies had mostly already left. Now it was just them. But soon enough they were off, riding through the castle Sky and down the precariously narrow path that had once taken her to the Eyrie. The winds blew them from the side, her cloak flapping loudly. But there was no risk. Even as the path turned crooked and uneven, the mules sauntered down without a care in the world. They'd made this journey dozens of times.

And so they went, with surprisingly little fuss, strolling down in single file, Lord Robert's whimpers drowned by the wind.

She was lucky. Though at a few moments he seemed as though he might succumb to one of his shaking fits, he never did. And soon enough they were through Snow and Stone as well, leaving the waystations to the Eyrie behind and winding their way down the Giant's Lance, where the path widened and flattened and the little lord's shivering began to diminish. Exhausted from the trip, Sweetrobin promptly fell asleep in the saddle, and Sansa offered a silent thanks to the gods for that.

Nightfall was upon them by the time they'd sighted the Gates of the Moon, their rest-stop for the night. This last part of the journey was the most peaceable, the mules growing sluggish below them, the breeze far gentler. But still by the time they'd arrived Sansa was grateful for the apartments she was given and the bed she slept in. They were greeted at the gates by the men of Runestone, Lord Yohn awaiting his ward.

The next morning they ate and readied themselves for the next leg of the journey. Lord Robert naturally threw a fuss when he discovered she would be leaving him, but she managed to calm him with the promise of more lemon cake, and they were away again, into the bracing cold.

At the crossroads they finally parted. Lords Robert and Royce to Runestone, and Sansa Stark to Old Anchor.

And then, to Kings Landing.

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Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. Tommen chapter up next