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Sansa can’t sleep.
It had been this way for far too long. Since Jon was declared King, since she shared that look with Petyr. The look that penetrated her, that planted something within her. The look whose consequences she was trying to bury within herself before they bloomed into something horrible.
That look had validated the dark thoughts creeping into her mind, dark thoughts that Sansa was working constantly to keep at bay. She was home at Winterfell, she had her brother, they were going to rebuild the North together. She needed no other thoughts in her mind.
But the work it took to keep her thoughts aligned meant that sleep rarely came. In those few hours she managed, her slumber was shaded by dreams that left her emotionally untethered. She would awake without a clear remembrance of narrative, but feeling as though she had lived out a hundred lives.
She refused to water it, but still the seed grew.
xXx
If she couldn’t avoid his influence while she slept, Sansa could at least avoid Petyr in waking. Not because she didn’t want to hear what he had to say – though she had certainly heard enough – but she couldn’t risk him looking at her like that again.
And yet she didn’t think about asking him to leave. Neither, it seemed, did Petyr: he was still at Winterfell. Acquiring supplies, re-establishing lines of support and, she was sure, deepening his spy network.
Though she tried to leave her emotions from that day unexamined – the day in the godswood, the day of Jon’s de-facto coronation, the day she saw a future laid out before her that both terrified and thrilled her – there was one piece she allowed herself to turn over and over: “My love”. Those two words had been opened and dissected and put back together and smoothed and kept in a place close to her. She wished she could have seen his face when he said it; it would have been useful to know the look of the man when he wasn’t lying.
She had told him she was finished with prayer and other childish things. Love was supposed to be one of those childish things that life and the game had exposed for how hollow and intangible and unreliable it was. But if a man like Petyr Baelish still believed…
She scolded herself, though she wasn’t sure for what reason. Only a fool would trust Littlefinger, she had told Jon. She had used his nickname, and used it purposely. Only a fool would trust Petyr Baelish. That sentence never crossed her mind. Sansa Stark wasn’t a fool.
xXx
Sansa stood awkwardly, supervising the men carrying crates of food into the kitchens. Really what she was doing was idly watching the work, out of a misplaced sense of duty and a genuine sense of boredom. She was Lady of Winterfell in name only. Both Petyr and Ser Davos were more experienced at establishing and managing a household than she was, and so her attempts to play that role were often clumsy and unnecessary. But an idle mind was rich loam for dark thoughts so she made the effort.
One of the maids approached her hesitantly.
“My lady, there is something I was told you’d want to see...” She gestured deeper into the kitchen, indicating that Sansa should follow her.
Intrigued, Sansa let the girl lead her to a wooden crate near the cold storage. A boy was prying off the top on their approach; as he removed it, she peered inside.
Lemons. Filled to the brim. He had bought her lemons and ensured she’d see them.
“What are we to do with them, my lady?” the maid asked.
In spite of herself, Sansa smiled.
xXx
She continued to sit in on Jon’s war room meetings but soon enough his attempts to include her in the conversation died out, and old habits emerged. It was if she wasn’t there, and eventually she grew tired of trying to be noticed.
Petyr always entered last, and sat far from her; observing. When he did speak it was sparingly but compellingly, and she saw how gradual but how serious the change in the room was. He was being listened to, his advice was valued. Sansa couldn’t decide if the men were right or wrong to listen to him. His plans were good ones, his insights superior to anyone else’s. And yet…
She wondered if she had broken his heart. She wondered if he had a heart to break. Strangely, she felt bad for thinking so uncharitably.
xXx
Late one cloudy afternoon, Sansa sat sewing in her solar. She had created a great many dresses since returning to Winterfell, more a reflection of her free time than her desire for new clothes.
Sighing loudly, she glanced at the empty plate beside her; the lemon cakes having been eaten hours ago.
Carefully putting her away work, she left her room. Not sure where to go or what to do, she began to wander the halls. She visited Arya’s old chambers, and Bran’s, and Rickon’s. She observed the library, quietly being refilled by an unnamed (but not unknown) patron.
She began to make her way down further, and found she had a destination after all.
At the entrance to the crypts, Sansa lit a candle. She hadn’t been down here since they buried Rickon. It had surprised both her and Jon to discover that the Boltons had left the space untouched, unmolested. Her father, her grandparents, Aunt Lyanna – Sansa observed them all in their places, silently guarding their descendants’ home.
As she moved deeper into the crypt, she heard footsteps from one of the tunnels, and started. Petyr emerged from the darkness.
He bowed his head slightly. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, my lady.”
Sansa stared at him blankly. “Why are you here?”
Petyr gave her an enigmatic smirk. “It is far too cold outside for my regular constitutional, so I find wandering the halls of this majestic castle much more enjoyable.”
This irritated her. “No, one of your spies told you I had come down here and so you arranged to be in the same place at the same time. And that’s not what I meant. Why are you still at Winterfell?”
Petyr broke her gaze, and Sansa immediately regretted her harsh tone. He had the saddest smile on his face when he finally looked back at her – admiration and stoicism and regret and heartbreak all in one.
“I pledged my loyalty to House Stark,” he replied after a moment.
“Even if you disapprove of who leads House Stark?” she asked.
Petyr gave her an unsatisfactory shrug.
Sansa knew she should leave it there, knew he was baiting her. Don’t push, don’t pick, don’t bring up what’s best left buried, un-said, un-thought.
“Why haven’t you asked Jon for my hand in exchange for a formal alliance with the Vale?”
He looked at her without speaking, long enough to make her wonder if he would answer at all. Finally, he replied. “I did not want to force you to marry against your will, again.”
Sansa was suddenly aware of how tired she was. Tired physically, but also tired of trying to determine what was good and true and right and what was simply lies. Tired of always assuming he was trying to manipulate her. Tired of not trusting him.
Petyr broke the silence, turning away from her. “I’ll leave you…”
“Petyr…” She faltered. “I never accepted your apology,” she said. He looked surprised.
“When you said you didn’t know about Ramsay,” she continued. “...and that you didn’t mean for me to be hurt…” She swallowed. “I believe you.”
Petyr bowed slightly. He knows better than to say anything, she thought. Maybe a man can change.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For staying to help Jon.”
He smiled slightly, and then took a cautious step towards her, like a man would approach an unbroken horse.
“What is it you want, Sansa?”
She was dreading this question. She had been working so hard to push it out of her mind, to stop herself from asking it and, even more importantly, stop herself from answering it.
“I wanted my home back.” She said softly.
“You have it.”
She looked at him firmly, disputing the semantics with her expression.
“I thought I would be happy here,” she moved towards him as she spoke, entering his personal space in a way that had always felt strangely welcoming, strangely like a homecoming. “I thought I would be happy as the lady of Winterfell. But…”
She finally allowed herself to think back to the day Jon was declared King in the North. How she was surprised, and proud, but... Why are they pledging allegiance to him? Her dark thoughts asked. Why are they pledging allegiance to the man who lost the battle, not the woman who won it? These thoughts – her thoughts, yes they were hers and no one else’s – were correct. She wanted more than she had. She deserved more than she had.
Sansa finally looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since she had those traitorous thoughts.
“I want more.”
Petyr smirked, not unkindly. “And I want you to take it.”
Sansa finally smiled, slowly, but with purpose.
He raised his hands, gently cupping her face, and dipped his head towards her ever-so-slightly. She nodded, and Petyr kissed her.