Queen of the Ashes

Chapter 1

"… So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa… Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. That's worth another kiss now, don't you think?" – AFFC

SANSA I

Sansa could feel her throat tightening. She had been promised to Joffrey, to Willas Tyrell, to Tyrion, and most recently, to Sweetrobin. She had actually married Tyrion, although where he was now, and whether that marriage really counted, she could not say. She was weary of marriages.

Petyr was looking at her expectantly. He wants me to be happy, he did a lot to make this happen, she realized. She knew what he wanted. She gave him a tremulous smile, and kissed him on the mouth, the way she knew he wanted to be kissed. His lips parted under hers, and received her eagerly. He tasted of cinnamon and cloves and mulled wine. His arms came up around her, and pulled her closer to him. She allowed herself to melt into his embrace, allowed the kiss to go on as long as he wanted it to. When he finally broke away, she gently disentangled herself from him, and tried to choose her words carefully.

"Harry the Heir has a bastard at fifteen, I'm almost fifteen, Petyr."

"Yes," he agreed, "You are almost fifteen, and you have been betrothed four times. Five, now. And married, I hear. Do I hear the crow calling the raven black?"

"It's not the same, Petyr, you know, I'm still a - " his eyes were dancing with fond amusement, and she realized that he was teasing her. For some reason that made her angry. "Yes, he has a bastard," she repeated, "and another on the way. I know my lord father had a bastard, and he was an honorable man, but that was different, and even then my lady mother never really forgave him."

At the mention of her mother, something changed in him, but she bulled on regardless. "Harry probably won't make a very good husband, claim or no. Maybe – maybe there is a different way? Couldn't we – um…" the words died on her lips at the look on his face. So much for choosing my words carefully, she thought.

"You told me you wanted to go home," Littlefinger said, flatly.

"I do, but –"

"Do you know another way?"

She had no answer for that. All his warmth was gone. He was no longer Petyr, begging for kisses, but Littlefinger, dealing with a stubborn pawn. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It must have shown on her face, because his manner changed. "Sansa, sweetling…" he began, reaching out gingerly to take her hand in his own. She jerked away, overcome with a reckless anger.

"You just want the Eyrie for yourself, even if I do marry him, how long is he going to live?" Once the words came tumbling out, she couldn't stop them. "You only care about my claim to Winterfell, none of this is for me, even if I do marry him and get control of the Vale, and Winterfell, you're just going to use that to try to – to – do something," she finished belatedly. She realized that there were tears on her cheeks, but she didn't know when they had gotten there.

She thought she saw hurt in his grey-green eyes, and for a moment, Sansa had a flicker of doubt. Is it possible that he really did do this for me? She pushed the thought away – he was a masterful actor, she knew that. Petyr regarded her cautiously, his face a mask. Sansa's heart was in her throat – had she been mad, to say all that to him? He took her hand again, and this time she did not pull away. They were very close now. "I want you to think very carefully about what it is you want," he said softly. "And when you know, I want you to come tell me." Because when you know what a person wants you know how to move them. The thought came unbidden, but she did not let it show. "Can you do that for me?" Her heart was pounding very fast now, but she did not know if that was from fear, or something else. She was acutely aware of his touch, of his hand on hers, and of his closeness.

"Yes, Petyr," she said.

Later that night, snow swirled around the Gates of the Moon. From the battlements where Sansa stood, the landscape looked like a portrait painted only in shades of white, grey, and black. An icy wind tugged at her thin cloak. The night was colder than she had expected. Winter isn't coming, Sansa thought, winter is here. At the far end of the wall, a guard paced back and forth, an attempt to keep warm during his watch. He paid her no mind, though.

Sansa didn't mind the bracing cold. It was refreshing after the stuffy heat of her chambers, where she had fled after her conversation with Petyr. She had been happy to see him too, she remembered sadly. He had kissed her, had told her he had brought her a present. If the present had been lemons, everything would have been easier.

She had wanted to go home. But when she pictured home, it was the one she'd left – the one with her lord father and lady mother, with Robb and Arya and Jon and Bran and baby Rickon. She remembered the beautiful glass gardens, the warmth in the walls, kind maester Luwin, and Septa Mordane, who had taught her to be a lady, how to behave around wise lords and gentle knights. She didn't teach me that there were no gentle knights, though, Sansa thought blackly. In fact, the things her septa had filled her head with had only hurt her, had left her a sheep among wolves in the south. Not wolves, she reminded herself, lions.

It didn't matter now anyway, though. They were all dead. Winterfell was burnt and broken. Even her direwolf was dead. It was possible, maybe, that Arya was out there somewhere, alive, but Sansa had seen enough of the world now to know how unlikely that was. I have no home, and no family but Petyr. She remembered the time she saw him in the King's Landing throne room, so long ago, back when she still had a family. "Life is not a song, sweetling", he had said, "one day you will learn that to your sorrow." He had not lied to her in that, at least.

But curiously, thinking back on it, she felt nothing. She thought of Ser Ilyn Payne's dead eyes, and felt nothing. She thought of Ser Dontos being rewarded with crossbow bolds rather than gold, surprise etched on his fat face even as blood blossomed on his jerkin and his little boat began to sink, and felt nothing. It was as if she had already endured all the pain she was capable of enduring, and now, past her quota, she couldn't feel anything at all. She hated the Lannisters as much for that as for anything else – they ought to at least left her able to grieve, but no, they left her only a scar where her heart had been. My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel, she thought, not for the first time. At least she wasn't afraid anymore. It's hard to be afraid when you have nothing left to lose.

What do I want? Petyr wanted power, she had no illusions about that. She couldn't blame him – she had tasted enough of powerlessness herself to want nothing more to do with it. He was using her, she knew, but she supposed that could go both ways. He was a dangerous man, there was no arguing that, but she liked his intelligence, his boldness, his easy competence. He had taught her a great deal in their short time together, had already done more to equip her for the world as it really was than her Septa or her true father ever had. She didn't think she could ever come to love his Littlefinger persona, but there was a flesh and blood person under that mask, and even Littlefinger had his uses, just as Alayne had hers. And, oddly enough, she knew in her bones that he wouldn't hurt her - she meant something to Petyr, and that would protect her from Littlefinger. Sansa stood on the battlements of the Gates of the Moon for a long time, looking out into the night. She stayed there when her fingers and her face grew numb from the cold, and a good while after that. By the time she went back inside, she knew what she wanted.

Three nights later, the Gates of the Moon held a dance, as Myranda had hinted it would. Sansa put on the nicest dress she dared. Alayne was only a bastard girl, and it would be strange if she came out clad in the beautiful myrish lace Sansa would have preferred. Nonetheless, the simple woolen dress looked nice, she thought, examining herself critically in the mirror. It was modest around the neckline, but the soft dark blue fabric brought out the color in her eyes, and the cut of it emphasized her slim curves.

Her hair was still the dark brunette Lysa had demanded she dye it, but Sansa no longer minded the color. She had found a fresh jar of the dye placed in her chambers when she first arrived, and had gratefully hidden her ginger roots. She had nearly run out of the stuff at the Eyrie, and it had been enough to remind her of the importance of this part of her disguise. She bounded up her hair as nicely as she could without the help of servants, and wore no ornament but the small silver mockingbird pin Petyr had given her.

The dance was already well underway when she emerged into the great hall. It was hot, loud, and crowded, but that was a welcome change after the loneliness of the Eyrie. There were hundreds of ladies in beautiful gowns, their dresses swirling splashes of color in the grey stone hall. Their men danced with them and loitered around the edges of the great hall, drinking, laughing, and talking. The room was a sea of faces, nearly all of them strange to her. She spotted Petyr in the far corner, nursing a cup of wine and conversing good-naturedly with Lady Waynwood and Nestor Royce. It was the first time she had seen him since the night of her arrival.

Myranda came up behind her.

"Alayne! Dear, you look lovely," she said, taking her arm and guiding her towards one of the long tables. "We have so much to talk about, you wouldn't believe the rumors flying around about you!"

"Rumors?" Sansa did her best to look mildly curious.

"Oh now, don't be coy, dear. You and I are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course, my lady."

"Alayne dear, I already told you, please just call me Myranda. Now, is it true that you are engaged to Harold Hardyng?"

"Oh that – I mean, yes," she said. "Tentatively engaged would be a better way to put it, I still have to meet him, and it will only go through if he likes me." She gave the older girl a shy smile.

"Oh that," Myranda quoted her with a mischievous grin, "Do you have something else up your pretty sleeves?" She didn't wait for an answer, for which Sansa was grateful. "Well, you won't have to wait much longer to meet him, he's here."

"Here?"

"Come along then, I'll introduce you." Myranda steered her toward a group of raucous boys, and Sansa had no choice but to follow along.

Harold Hardyng was handsome in a boyish sort of way, she had to give him that. But his cheeks were flushed with wine, and there was a grease stain on his expensive attire. He was loudly telling a crude joke, to the great amusement of his companions, when Myranda interrupted to introduce her.

"My lady." He bowed drunkenly and planted a wet kiss on her hand when he learned who she was.

"I thought you said she was a bastard," interjected one of his friends.

"Shut up, Steve," said Harold.

Her betrothed led her to the dance floor, all smiles. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. "Do you dance, my lady?"

"A bit," she replied, shyly. In truth, she loved to dance. At Winterfell, the occasional dances had been her favorite events, and she had always looked forward to them. Septa Mordane had even been kind enough to say that she was a talented dancer herself. That had been a long time ago, though. Those Winterfell dances felt like something that had happened to somebody else. She wondered if Alayne would know how to dance.

It turned out to scarcely matter, however. They danced through three songs, but Harold made a poor partner – he didn't seem to know where to put his hands or his feet, and the wine had surely not helped either. His hands were sweaty, and he was holding her all wrong. He almost seemed nervous. "They told me you were pretty, my lady, but you are even more beautiful than they said," he told her at one point. Sansa appreciated the attempt at gallantry, but it was rather ruined by the fact that he kept stepping on the hem of her dress and nearly tripping her. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Petyr watching her from across the room, but when she looked again he was deep in conversation with Nestor Royce.

After the dancing, Harold led her over to the tables and pressed a cup of sweet-wine into her hands. She sipped it daintily while he regaled her with tales of tournaments and a new set of armor he was having made. It was going to be gleaming white chased with red, after the colors of House Hardyng, and the shield was going to have the image of a falcon emblazoned over the checkered field of his house, because, he added modestly, people called him the Young Falcon.

Sansa listened and nodded and gasped at all the right moments, and let him prattle on happily about how he played at war. He boasts of tourney battles, but he has never seen war, she thought sadly. In war, nobody cares how lovely your armor is, they'll kill you all the same, and you'll kill them, because that is the whole point – knights are for killing. The Hound had taught her that. Harold went on, oblivious. There was a time when he might of charmed her, she realized – indeed, the old Sansa would have probably fallen head over heels for him. But that girl was dead. He is just boy, she thought. They were nearly the same age, but Sansa felt a thousand times older.

It was then that she noticed there was someone at her side, waiting to get her attention. He was an old man with a bushy white beard, bent almost double with age. After a moment, she recognized him – she had passed the old man on her way to breakfast the day before last, and he had done a double take, then stared at her as she walked past. It had made her only a little nervous at the time – she knew Alayne was a subject of gossip, and in any case, it was not so strange for old men to gawk at girls her age, but now she wondered if he knew her. She didn't think she'd ever seen him outside the Vale, but then, she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell – it was more common for people to know her than it was for her to know them. She excused herself from Harold and let the strange old man lead her over to a corner where they could talk.

He looked left and right and beckoned her to lean in before he began. "I know who you are," he whispered.

A chill went through her, but she knew she couldn't show it. "What?" She tried to look confused and little put off by this strange old man.

"Please my lady, just listen. I know who you are, and Littlefinger is no friend of the Starks, no friend of anyone's, you have to believe me. He may be courteous to you, but Petyr Baelish is a dangerous man," he told her in a hoarse whisper. Yes, she thought, but the world is full of dangerous men. Perhaps this one was dangerous. No doubt the old man thought he was being quiet, but a nearby hedge knight was looking at them curiously.

"My lady Sansa," he began again, "you are not friendless, if you give me some time I can get word" – she cut him off.

"My name is Alayne. I don't know what you're talking about." His eyes widened, but before he could go on she gave him a kindly smile and took his hand. "Its okay, Ser, my own childhood friend had an uncle who would sometimes become confused. He would mistake his daughter for his wife, and sometimes fail to recognize his lady wife at all. It happens sometimes, to the elderly, it can happen to the best of us when our days near their end. It's nothing to be ashamed of." She gave his head a reassuring pat and looked at him with sympathy. "I'll mention this to the Maester, I'm sure he can help you," she said warmly.

He looked up at her in horror, but she walked away before he could reply. She hadn't fooled him, she knew, but there had been little else she could say in front of the hedge knight. Her heart was hammering in her chest. If Queen Cersei finds me… she didn't want to think about it. She had heard what they'd done to Tyrion, and if he was implicated in regicide, so was she. Harold was looking about for her, she saw, but she avoided him. There would be time enough for the Young Falcon later. She forced herself to remain calm and meander to the other side of the hall, smiling and greeting the other guests as necessary.

Petyr looked up pleasantly when she approached. "Alayne, sweetling. I hope you are enjoying the evening." His manner gave no hint of the fact that they'd quarreled the last time they spoke.

"I am, father. I was wondering if you might like to dance," she asked shyly, and held out a hand.

Lady Waynwood beamed at her. "Oh, a father-daughter dance. What a dutiful child you have. How lovely!" She gave Petyr a playful push. "Well, go on then, Baelish! Don't keep the maid waiting!" She winked at Sansa with good humor.

Petyr didn't need to be told twice. He put down his drink, took her hand, and got to his feet in one fluid motion. His smile was warm, but she could see the question in his eyes. He took her arm the way a man was supposed to take a lady's arm, and escorted her to the dance floor. She needed a slow song that would allow her to get close and whisper in his ear, but this song had a fast tempo, as did the next.

Petyr guided her expertly through the steps, turning and stepping perfectly with the rhythm. Sansa let him twirl her and dip her and soon she grinning despite herself. He can dance, she realized with surprised delight. Her Winterfell dancing lessons may have happened in a different life, but her feet and her body and her hands remembered them. Of course he can dance, he danced with my mother at Riverrun, she thought, recalling Lysa's last rant. Petyr might be fifteen years Harold's senior, but he moved with more grace by far. His touch was gentle but sure, and she was starting to get a thrill when there was fleeting contact between their bodies. Most of the other guests paid them no mind, as the hall was quite crowded, but they were starting to get a few glances from those nearby. Sansa didn't have time to worry about that though, and neither, apparently, did Petyr. By the time the third dance ended, she was flushed and breathless with excitement. She felt almost a girl again.

Petyr was flushed and breathless too. His grey hair was disheveled from their twirling, but it only made him look more handsome, Sansa thought. Are you trying to get us caught? his grin asked, but there was a happiness to him she had never seen before. This was dangerous, she realized, but he was trusting that she had a good reason. Or maybe he didn't care, maybe something about her made him reckless. She did have a reason, though.

The fourth song was a slow one, and here at last was her opportunity. She let him hold her more closely. His hands draped protectively around her waist, and her hands his shoulders, as they revolved slowly on the spot. She had hoped they could dance their way to a more secluded part of the floor, but there were no secluded parts of the floor – it was crowded, and loud, but perhaps that was better. She leaned into him, making as if to rest her head on his shoulder.

"The old man in the corner, with the white beard, the short one, he is confused," she whispered as quietly as she dared, more into his shoulder than into his ear. "He thought he saw a wolf."

Petyr gave no sign that he had heard her, but when the song ended, he excused himself with a smile and a bow. "That was lovely, Alayne, but now I find myself in need of another drink." He kissed her hand chastely and strode off toward the wine table.

Sansa wanted to watch where he went, and who he talked to, but Harold and Myranda pushed their way through the crowd to join her almost as soon as he left. "You lied, you can dance," said Harold with a sheepish grin. "It was all my fault we kept stumbling." He had the grace to look embarrassed, at least. Sansa had thought he would return to the company of his mates, but apparently he preferred hers. As did Myranda. She wanted to know where a bastard raised across the Narrow Sea had learned to dance like that. Too clever by half, indeed. She had no choice but to submit to their company.

The first time she was able to steal a glance at Petyr, he was chatting amiably with some men she didn't know, over wine. The second time, she found him back with Lady Waynwood and Nestor Royce. The little old man was nowhere to be seen.

By the time Sansa managed to rid herself of Harold and Myranda, the dance had been over for hours. Some few guests had remained sitting around the large oaken tables, talking, but by ones and twos they had dwindled back up to their rooms or out into the night. Sansa stood outside the great iron gates to the Gates of the Moon, having just said her farewells to Myranda. The girl had a very short journey – just across a courtyard and down a few steps – but had insisted Sansa see her off anyway.

A dozen yards or so from the gate, just beyond the edge of the torchlight, a pair of ladies leaving the dance seemed to see something in the ditch, and shied away from it in revulsion, like a pair of skittish mares. As Sansa watched, other passerby were doing the same, in the same place, although some of the more experienced knights and sellswords went on their way unfazed. Sansa found her own feet taking her towards the spot.

At first, it appeared to be no more than a small black lump in the darkness, but as she neared, Sansa saw that it was a corpse. The little old man looked even more frail in death than he had in life. He lay crumpled in a pool of his own blood, eyes wide and staring. He'd been run through with a spear. In the dim light, the blood looked black. Sansa found herself unable to turn away, transfixed with a curious detachment. She stared, even as other guests passed her on their way home. No doubt her behavior seemed strange to them. "Littlefinger's daughter," she overheard being said in hushed tones, from more than one set of lips. A little rivulet of dark blood was still moving, very slowly, down a slight incline in the ditch. Sansa felt sick – but whether that was because the body bothered her, or because it didn't bother her, she could not say.

"Lady Alayne, are you well?" A guard had come up to her, and was looking at her with concern. "He was only a vagrant who tricked his way into the feast, to steal food and who knows what else." He watched her uncertainly. "We can move the body, if it offends you."

"My daughter has a gentle heart," came Petyr's voice from behind them.

"Lord Baelish." The guard turned around and stood at attention.

Sansa made no effort to hide her queasiness. "Do we really have to kill vagrants like this, father? Isn't there another way to make them go away?"

He put a fatherly arm about her shoulder. "I wish there were sweetling, truly, I do," he said tenderly.

"Leave us," he said to the guard. "And have the body taken a little farther out into the woods. I want whoever dumped it here disciplined. There have been many children and gently born ladies using this road tonight, this was not a fit sight for them."

"Yes, Lord Baelish."

Petyr took her arm. "Please, walk with me." He led her out around the other side of the castle, and then out into the forest. Sansa noticed that there was a dagger on his belt under his long cloak. He noticed her eyes lingering on it. "Ah yes," he said, "you and I were safe at the Eyrie, sweetling, but here, there are many people coming and going, not all of them friends – as you may have noticed." He looked at her meaningfully. "I've never been much use in a fight, I fear, but one must take what precautions one can."

"Where are we going?"

"Just out where we can find some quiet and fresh air, and talk without being interrupted. As Lord Protector of the Vale, I find my attention is often in demand, and it can be hard to find the time for a word with you, sweet Alayne, as much as I enjoy your company."

They carried no torch, and it was quite dark under the trees, except in the places where moonlight dappled through the thick canopy of pine needles. The snowy forest seemed to swallow all sound, except for the crunch of snow under their feet. Their breath made little clouds in the cold air. It had snowed most of the day, but now the night was clear. She caught occasional glimpses of the sky through breaks in the branches, its cold inky blackness scattered with countless points of light. It had been a long time since Sansa had seen the stars.

She wondered how long they were going to walk. When she started to shiver through her thin dress, Petyr gave her his cloak, but they kept going. It was not until they had long since lost all sight and sound of the castle that Petyr led her into the shadow of a great pine, where it was almost black under the heavy snow-laden branches. Wordlessly, he pushed her up against the rough bark, pressed his body against hers, and kissed her for a long time.

When they finally broke apart, Sansa could feel herself blushing, but in the dark, Petyr couldn't tell. He wanted more, she knew, a lot more, but he only ran a caressing hand through her soft hair and held her close.

"He thought he saw a wolf," he said finally, in a soft voice.

"Yes," replied Sansa.

"Poor man. My daughter is a mockingbird." It was hard to be sure, in the dark, but she thought there was a hint of pride in his voice. "I saw you dancing with our Young Falcon." It was not a question.

"Yes," she said.

"Did you like him?"

"Not really." Harold wasn't a bad sort, she had decided, but neither did he interest her.

"Not really?"

"He's just a boy." Sansa didn't know how else to put it.

"You're just a girl."

"Yes, but I don't feel like one." There was more truth to that than she could say.

"Will you marry him?"

"Yes."

That surprised him. "You don't like Harold, but you'll marry him?"

"Yes," she said again.

It was a long time before Petyr spoke again. Melted snow from the tree's bark was soaking through the back of Sansa's dress. It was cold on her back, but Petyr was warm.

"You may remember that I asked you, a few days ago, to think about what it is you want. If you don't want Harold, what do you want?"

"You," said Sansa. She had had her answer ready ever since that night on the battlements.

"What?" He hadn't been expecting that, she thought with satisfaction. Or maybe he had. It didn't really matter though.

"I want you," she repeated. "I want the Vale. I want to rebuild Winterfell. I want to bring peace, security, and plenty to the Riverlands. I want to restore my uncle Edmure to his seat at Riverrun. I want to bring the Ironborn, the Boltons, and the Freys to their knees. I want to be the Queen in King's Landing. I want to find the people who betrayed my father. I want to take their heads, and call it mercy. I want to destroy Lannisport. I want to burn Casterly Rock to the ground, and sow its fields with salt so that nothing will grow there again." She let the words hang over them in the cold night air for a long moment. The dim starlight did not reveal much of his expression, but they were so close together, she could feel is pulse quicken, and it betrayed him.

"Will you do this for me, Petyr?"

"Yes," he breathed.