Chapter Text
The italics could be quotes from the original book or script or Sansa’s thoughts now. An italic "she" emphasizes the actions of show Sansa. I’m not a native speaker. I just hope this would make sense to you.
It was a sensation that she had never had before. The coming of memories. It wasn’t painful. She just felt empowered as time sored through her consciousness like a river pouring down a waterfall. Sansa caught herself a moment overwhelmed by them.
Tapings were coming from the windowsill, small and constant. She sat up from her wheelhouse rest. Slowly and tentatively, she moved her fingers through and unleashed the window opened just in time to see a black raven take flight. She looked out on the gray and vast terrain—not so gray, she noted—as snowflakes started floating from above, glazing the lands with a coat of white.
Winter is coming.
She had been in strange attire. She wore a bird-like feathered black dress paired with a huge, ugly pendant across the flat of her neck. The dress complemented her figure well, making Sansa feel older and wiser than her years. Formidable even.
But it was ill-fitting for a girl who claimed no armies or allies. Better should her enemies underestimate her than be impressed by her.
Sansa unclasped the necklace and let it slide to reveal the snowy white skin beneath, so clear that one could count the rises and falls of her pulses. A show of vulnerability, that’s good, Sansa thought. She was walking along the lines, fidgeting with the controls of savage men, she knew. My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.
Under the dawn light, she combed through her thick auburn hair. There were still black ends to it. The dyes hadn’t washed out completely on the road, and she let it just fall on her back and sides of her face freely, framing her tired face and casting shadows over her high cheekbones. Good mother, she prayed. Look after your lost children. Finally, she selected two thin strands of hair and twisted them delicately behind at the crown of her head.
There, she thought, let me fly home.
She found Petyr looking out on the landscapes. He was a rather less cunning counterpart than Sansa was used to. A real dwarf, sooner buried under the northern snow.
I won't force you to do anything. Don't you know by now how much I care for you? Say the word, and we’ll turn the horses around.
A wolf smells lies as it smells prey.
The logistics weren’t lost on her. Sansa wanted to question him. The one who had ripped her away from the Vale Lords, who had shown her compassion, deceiving them about her whereabouts before disclosing his intentions for her, had the audacity to suggest that she wasn't forced.
As for caring for her, words were wind, Sansa had learned. There wasn’t a bone in him that truly cared for her. This Petyr rarely even called her Alayne. He cared for her not, as his daughter. There weren’t even any traces of that pettiness born from unrequited feelings of a lowborn ward to Cat, his lord’s daughter.
Sansa realized that she inspired no partiality in him. He cared for only her name and the leverage he had over her.
Now, which he had sold, Sansa thought, to the Boltons, who had lacked precisely that legitimacy.
The name Stark still held power in the north.
The Boltons' rule was slipping, Sansa suspected. She still had allies in the winter. She just had to dig through the heavy snow to find them.
She pushed her steps forward.
I ’d be a hostage again.
In Winterfell.
Yet the walls seemed to call out to her, her bones inching to return.
Her measured, quickening footsteps towards him alerted him in time, and he turned for Sansa to catch his eyes.
Sansa wondered what Lord Baelish’s plan was for her to avenge her family.
“Good morning, my lord.”
He returned her with a fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes: “I have sent a raven ahead. We shall be at Winterfell before nightfall.”
“I had to know.” Her knuckles were white with the pressure she was holding them. “How shall I avenge my family?”
His smile was self-satisfactory. “Stannis Baratheon garrisons at Castle Black. He'll march south to King's Landing before the winter snow blocks his way. But first, he has to take Winterfell.” Sansa found the case rather familiar, but she made no move to interrupt him.
“You are the last surviving Stark. After he takes Winterfell, he rescues you from the most despised family in the North. Grateful for your late father's courageous support of his claim, he names you Wardeness of the North.” He sounded so earnest for this possibility he had drafted for her, but Sansa’s stomach twisted with unease upon his words.
A twelve-year-old could have thought of that plan, Sansa resented, because what was it if not what exactly she had done years ago in King’s Landing? She had prayed for the Lannister’s defeat, only for Tyrion to vanquish Stannis’s army using wildfire at the Blackwater’s bay.
And even Cersei had known that Sansa would still be a hostage under Stannis. How could this Petyr think her to be so stupid to not grasp the obvious? Sansa lowered her eyes, hiding her indifference to his idea. It would not do her well to anger him now.
She also failed to see why this plan needed to include her marriage to the Boltons in the first place. Shouldn’t being a Stark better endear her to Stannis than a Bolton? Because he only means to sell you, you foolish girl.
“But what if Stannis were defeated?” Sansa asked in a small voice, faking timidity.
“Then you’ll take this Bolton boy, Ramsay, and make him yours.”
Sansa would resist this marriage till the end, but Littlefinger didn’t need to know that. Instead, she asked mildly, “What if our King’s Landing friends find out?”
“I shall no doubt need to pay Cersei a visit after I escort you safely to Winterfell. We mustn't let her sniff out any trouble.” He replied a little reluctantly. He rarely did spell out his future plans to her, though Sansa supposed it had been fairly easy for her to derive out. He wasn’t much of a good tutor in this world, from lack of effort. And she had been a slow learner.
However, Sansa herself learned fast.
So Cersei was still in power, and Littlefinger still worked for her, at least seemingly. The Cersei in her original world hadn’t been so lucky. Petyr had informed her that Cersei's leadership in King's Landing was bringing the Seven Kingdoms to ruin faster than he had anticipated in confidence. But here she would have to tread carefully for information.
So quick that it would be seen as involuntarily, she broke the grip of her own hands, allowing one to shoot out to grab hold of his as if she were truly concerned for him. Sansa saw with grim satisfaction as Littlefinger’s attention immediately went downward to where her hands clutched his fingers.
“Would you be safe?” She felt herself whimper in her words. Yes, whimper a bit; he’ll be pleased that you cared for him. Then, as if suddenly remembering herself, she started to withdraw, only for him to snatch her hands back violently.
His slimy eyes were looking straight at her when he said, "I’m glad you’re worried for me, Sansa, but there’s no need.”
Oh no, you had been too eager to manipulate that you forgot. When had King’s Landing ever been a dangerous place for him? He’s not you, little dove.
“I’m just worried that the news might anger the queen regent, and she’ll take it out on you,” Sansa replied.
She wouldn’t even hesitate with him, who in her mind would always be a lowborn schemer, Sansa thought venomously.
Then, with righteous hatred, she continued, "She’s a horrible and vile person.” And Cersei didn’t dwell well with temper. She’d blow up all her enemies in a second if she could.
“She would no longer harm you, Sansa, I swear.” Sansa brushed away his false swears. She only wanted to hear of his plans.
“Perhaps the Tyrells would be willing to help us.” Sansa tried again. "Margaery just got married with Tommen, did she not?” “She has been a good friend.”
And she had been, Sansa thought thankfully. The Margaery in her past world had shied away immediately when it became clear that Sansa wouldn’t marry her brother. The Tyrells’ plans of gaining the north were shattered by her marriage with Tyrion.
In this world, Tyrion had confronted her on the news of their betrothal beforehand. Sansa had been devastated, and after she had heard, Margaery had tried to console the younger girl, though Sansa remembered her words had been ignorantly childish.
For how could Sansa let herself be pleasured by her Lannister husband when her family fought a war for her?
But she had been heartfelt in her words, not unlike Ser Garlan at her wedding. Sansa had been surprised to find out that in this life, the Tyrells only had one son, meaning they were no doubt weaker here as well.
Despite her daring displays, Sansa hoped her friend would truly grow up to realize the realities surrounding her. She had not the time to play games with Tommen or to teach her sons by him. Things rival fast in the game of thrones, and Tommen could hold no true power in King’s Landing.
Still, Sansa wished for the best: "Maybe she could absolve me from the false accusations?” Her hand was still in Littlefinger’s grasp. She gave it a little squeeze, and he hummed in thought, not replying. His eyes were still calculating, fixated on her.
Finally, he released her and said, “But those were not false accusations against you, Sansa. You did carry the poison to the wedding.”
But she didn’t orchestrate the plan, Sansa thought. She was merely the pawn. Others had been the mastermind.
While her idea of asking Margaery for help hadn’t even been bright, instead of meriting her, telling her sincere information about the Tyrells, and explaining to her why this would be unfruitful, he had called her out on the fraud.
The Petyr in her old world would have stolen an unwanted kiss, but he would have taught her eventually. He liked her smart. I... I am Alayne, Father. Who else would I be? With my wits and Cat’s beauty, the world will be yours, sweetling.
Maybe this Petyr enjoyed her gullibility. It had served him well, had it not? He had talked her into selling herself. She had to be her.
“I only did as I was told, as I’m doing now,” Sansa replied, her haughty voice not concealing the fact of her powerlessness. He should be used to her indignation, Sansa thought.
But he had been saved by her self-assertion. The Sansa he had known had been an impulsive girl. She had planned her testimony to the Vale Lords without him instructing. Perhaps he’d like a taste of it now. So she said, “What if I got hurt in this marriage, or couldn’t control this Ramsay? After all, they are the flaying men that betrayed my brother. Shall I need to murder them in their sleep?” He needed me to be harsh to play the diplomat. Would he really prefer her to take down house Bolton by herself without his help? Sansa wondered.
“I would never let him hurt you, Sansa. I’d have come for you.” Littlefinger told her, getting hold of her hand again. “I came for you in King’s Landing, hadn’t I?”
“Yes, but you were almost too late.” And with that final verbal slap to his face, she tore her hand away from his and staunched off.
Sansa knew she made him angry, but it was a child’s tantrum that felt in character for her. Besides, if she had read correctly of his last statement, he wouldn’t be done with her just yet, in any short range of time.
Sansa walked away to the wheelhouse that should take her traveling for the day. Littlefinger didn't follow her, and she was left to process the information she deduced from their conversation and evaluate her present situation quietly and blissfully alone.
When she came to this new world, she had already revealed her true identity to Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood. They had believed and empathized with her. Lord Royce even shared fond memories of her father with her. So that when she gave out her testimony, stating her trust in Littlefinger, they back outed on their “misconceptions” of him.
And from there, Littlefinger then successfully turned the tables. He questioned their conviction towards justice and Sansa’s father, their silence in the war of the five kings.
Do you support the Lannisters, the house that executed your friend Ned Stark?
Just like Sansa remembered in her past life. He bewitched them.
It had been guilt. Both times, it had been his weapon in negotiating with the too-honorable Vale Lords. They were easily provoked and easier to provoke. A slight was made, and it would be paid.
He had paid Ser Lyn to draw arms during the Lords Declarant meeting, who threatened Ser Lothor with Lady Forlorn. The aggression had painted him as the unlikely peacemaker, and he was able to demand concessions out of it.
This time, she had been the one to uncover him as the unlikely savior.
He's always been so kind to me.
He had used this newly gained trust, freshly deprived of misgivings, to lead the Vale to voice against the Lannisters.
And to back Robin. He finally had the right pretext to rally the knights of the Vale.
I'd have you back. Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale.
After the sweet serendipity, he then served to “reward” Sansa, the enabler who had literally handed over the trusts of the knights to him. He cut her off from all of them and sent her north in the name of protecting her.
Sansa was positive that the knights of the Vale would be against her marriage with a Bolton. Littlefinger had meddled in this without their knowledge. It’d be unlikely for them to be happy if they were to find out.
Knowledge is a weapon, Sansa. Arm yourself well before you ride forth to battle.
So she had. She had set out to arm herself. Littlefinger just confirmed her suspicions in his last statement to her. It all clicked. He would come for her, in the end. He had told her to wait until Stannis’s attack, because only then shall he emerge, when one army was defeated and the other weakened by the effort, to pluck the fruit of the victory that is Winterfell right from their grasps.
And what army should he use, if not his newly acquired knights of the Vale?
Cersei wouldn’t suspect a thing. He shall be taking down either the Boltons or Stannis. Either would have worked well in his explanation to the Queen regent, the traitors that would have wed Sansa Stark, or the usurper king Stannis.
He would have won favors from all sides, loyalty from the Knights of the Vale, gratefulness from Sansa, and satisfaction from Cersei. Attaining three aims, checkmate.
But what would Sansa gain from this? She asked herself. Her family’s castle, an unwanted name, and further control from Littlefinger. Two of which were disturbing future aspects. The north holds no love for the Boltons, as Littlefinger now holds no love for me.
In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them.
The Petyr Baelish she had known taught her this. It was time that she taught the lesson to this new him.
The rattling of wheels mixed with the rustling of hooves met her ears. In the rhythm, she thought she could hear the chattering of armor and the crushing of swords.
There was a crucial fact, or rather a person, in Littlefinger’s otherwise flawless plan that he had neglected.
Sweetrobin.
In his eagerness to command the knights of the Vale, he had forgotten that he had won that power through another.
Her cousin in this world might be a bit sickly, but he had neither episodes nor had been slowly poisoned by Littlefinger. Instead of having the power eased from him, it was pushed straight at him.
A young boy, especially one with different advisers, could be easily swayed, Sansa thought. A loose piece in Littlefinger’s puzzle.
But I mustn't be seen. He mustn’t know. She would have to be patient, Sansa reminded herself. Though her blood chilled with the idea of the wedding.
And the bedding. But Littlefinger would be horrid about it as well. Though he no longer wishes to protect me, he wouldn’t stand to witness and not have me. Yes, he would have been gone by then. I’ll just need to hang on.