Chapter Text
Arya was the first among them to be called upon by the great seas, though Sansa would not know this until later. If she had known, it would be no surprise at all. Adventure, after all, is the one thing her sister desired most.
Eventually, she’ll learn that the others have taken the same path; that her siblings each found their way to the sea. Robb, for his crown. Bran, for knowledge. Rickon, for safety. And her cousin Jon, for honor.
It’s different for Sansa, however. The seas, the creatures that voyaged through them most of all, were something she feared. Where the others may see opportunities, she only saw danger. The seas, therefore, held nothing a lady like her would ever seek.
And yet the great seas of the unknown world is where she ended up regardless. Not if she had a better choice, to be clear. She had been dragged unceremoniously from the rabid lion’s den of King’s Landing and lured to the murky waters of Blackwater Bay with the false promise of freedom.
Sansa’s no longer the naive little girl she was, no longer dreaming of some brave hero who would rescue her. She knew deep down, despite the drunken knight’s flowery words, that she could very well be exchanging one nightmare for another.
In her mind, however, there was nothing worse than staying another moment in the grasp of the Lannisters. Monsters, all of them. Joffrey, the worst of them all. False friends, poisoned words, she thinks with a cold shiver.
She still sees it each time she closes her eyes. Her father, his soft eyes and kind smile. She remembers how there was no trace of that as he walked towards the angry crowd gathered at the Great Sept. He had looked tired; confused, angry, and everything else in between.
It had taken everything in her not to run to him then. Instead, she offered him a smile. Faint and unsure, but she had summoned it to her frozen face. Everything will be alright, she tried to say with the gesture. Joffrey had promised her. She had cried and begged and knelt to him.
Mercy. Her words still echo in the back of her mind.
All she got in return was her father’s head on a spike, and the last words he would ever utter were those of a lie.
She had never wailed as much as she had that night. Her heart threatening to explode in her chest, her screams clawing themselves out of her throat. She still hears it, the sound of the blade as it meets the chopping block. She had cried that night and on all the nights that followed, though her tears were not always for her father. Eventually, the tears were for herself, for the chill that never left her spine, for the injuries that would continuously mar her soul.
So, yes, the Fool Knight is perhaps more treacherous than she had allowed herself to reveal. But he was her only way out of the Crownlands, and that was enough for her feet to carry her to the boat that, unbeknownst to her, would lead her to The Merling King, and in the grasp of Petyr Baelish.
“Why would you risk it? Why go against the Lannisters after everything they’ve done for you?” She would ask him later.
"I would risk everything to get what I want," comes his simple reply.
What could a man like him want badly enough to kill a King for it? The answer, it turns out, is everything.
Their conversation comes long after they meet at his ship’s deck, once it becomes clear to her that he had a hand in Joffrey’s murder.
A murder, she learns, that she had obliviously abetted. She's not entirely sure how to feel about it. It doesn't bring her any comfort. No, far from it. Joffrey's death can't bring back her father. It can't relieve her of the pain she'd endured from him, can't erase the scars that now littered her back.
It does nothing but provide a small ounce of satisfaction that his death, despite her ignorance of the scheme, was in part because of her. She had unknowingly carried the poison that would rid the world of his cruelty. If nothing else, she at least had some taste of vengeance.
Whatever pleasure it brings her, however, is short-lived. Petyr had warned that her timely disappearance from King’s Landing would not go unnoticed. So it does not come as a surprise to her, days after reaching the ship, to learn that her presumed involvement in Joffrey’s death had put a bounty on her head. A whopping thirty million Dragons, in fact, for the murder of a King.
First, her hair is changed. Petyr says her auburn hair is too distinguishable to be safe. They throw the veil of poison into the sea and then burn her clothes. Little by little, they remove all traces of her until it seems as though Sansa Stark, as the rumors say, flew from her cages in King’s Landing and vanished into thin air.
In light of this, she’s also been asked to come up with a new name. A new identity. It had required hard thought, effort, and strength to strip herself of the name her mother and father had given her. Regardless of the difficulty, she knew it was necessary.
"Alayne," is the name she ultimately chooses; it feels like the right one, somewhat. It rolls off her tongue, at least. It’s close enough to her mother’s name that she can bear it.
Petyr offers a slight smile, one she thinks means he approves of it. And he must truly like it because he doesn’t take too long to come up with her false history. He would quiz her day and night about her new identity, hammering down the fictitious story as though that might make it true.
Part of her longs for escape. She knew there was a possibility that following Dontos would just mean exchanging one prison for another. But what choice did she have, really? Staying in King’s Landing would have meant her death. Even if she didn’t know it then, Petyr’s scheme had guaranteed it. But her escape only led her to the man who orchestrated it all.
“Why do this?” She finally asks him one night. “Why help me at all?”
She knows his help comes at a cost; she’s learned enough from the Crownlands to understand that everything comes at a price. But what does Petyr need from her? Why take her along instead of disposing of her like he did the Fool Knight? He already told her what he wanted, she reminds herself. But if he wanted everything, then what part does he think she’s meant to play in attaining it?
Sansa knew little of the man, though the attention he paid her back in King's Landing had not gone unnoticed. She had thought it was merely from his connection to her mother – had insisted on it. But her handmaiden, Shae, had told her otherwise.
"He doesn't offer his help for nothing, Sansa. And what would a man like that want from a young, beautiful girl?” the woman had asked her once.
In lieu of an answer, Petyr sits back on his Captain’s chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ll understand in time. All you need to think about for now is staying alive. The best way to do that is to remember one thing. What is your name?”
She blinks, then swallows back the questions she’s yet to ask. “Alayne.”
“Good. Now, tell me Alayne, where are you from?”
She answers the question with the one he’d ingrained in her, and does the same to the next one, and the next. The answers flow out of her as though they were true. Alayne, a daughter of a Braavosi highborn who did not know of her existence. Alayne whose mother died in childbirth. Alayne, who never knew her father and was raised by a merchant family. Alayne, who grew up working for her custodian as a stall merchant at the Fingers. Alayne who only recently learned the truth about her father’s identity and sought him out.
Alayne, Petyr would call her in front of the ship’s crew. Alayne, he’d say even when it’s just them two. And she has to pretend, way too often, that she doesn't notice how his lecherous gaze would linger on her a little longer each time.
***
The days are long at sea, the nights even more so. As the days bleed into weeks, then into months, it becomes easier to forget that Alayne was ever anyone else.
She can never forget, though. Not fully. The stubborn part in her, the part in her that’s every bit a Stark, refuses to let the truth fade into the dark abyss of her mind.
Then, through a passing ship, she learns of the fall of Winterfell. And the death of her brothers that came with it. Bran and Rickon. She would cry their names in silence that night. They were just little boys when she saw them last, and they were little boys still when they died.
Alayne has no brothers, she begins telling herself. Hoping the lie would dull the ache in her chest. Sometimes, it works. Other times, she becomes too preoccupied with the secrets piling up aboard the Merling King to notice.
As they travel through the Narrow Sea, she watches as government officials and pirates alike come aboard Petyr’s ship and observes as he entertains them. Ever the gracious host, always affable and pliant. On several occasions, she’d find him shaking hands with them in secret, with a pleased smile on his face.
He schemes and schemes and schemes. She sees it all, learns it all, some of it she learns from him directly, yet she can never understand what he does it for. Not completely, not at first. But time can be a better teacher than Petyr would have thought. His lessons are invaluable, she’s certain of it, but some things she learns better on her own.
In the end, no matter how much she learns, it does her no good. Useless, she tells herself. All of it becomes useless once she hears of Robb’s murder at The Twins, and the murder of her mother that followed soon after. No, not her brother. Not her mother. It didn’t matter who she was. Alayne, Sansa, it didn’t matter. Both of them had no one at all.
Eventually, they make their way to port. They dock the Merling King at Gulltown, then they trek the mountains to the Eyrie. There she’s introduced as the daughter of Petyr Baelish to an aunt she’s never met. No, not your aunt, she reminds herself. Alayne has no family but her father.
Their stay in Eyrie is short, no longer than a few moons’ turn, but when they finally leave, she takes with her more ghosts than she could carry. They mostly haunt her at night, deep in her sleep when she has no choice but not to be Alayne. Maybe it’s practice, maybe it’s sheer willpower, but they become mere strangers with familiar faces come morning.
Then it came. A face so familiar, a face so gentle and kind, that no amount of practice or willpower could make her pretend.
The sight of him brings her such disbelief that she freezes. Father, her mind screams. But no, Ned Stark is dead. She had witnessed his murder with her own eyes.
The man looming over them from another ship is much younger than her father, perhaps closer to Alayne’s age. Yes, a long-ignored voice in her mind reminds her. That’s right. He would be one-and-twenty now. A man grown, clearly. No longer the sullen boy she remembers.
And just under her breath, her voice so soft you’d mistake it for the wind, she utters the name owned by one she long thought was dead.
“Jon.”
Call for him, the desperate voice in her mind begs.
No, you cannot, the cynic in her responds. Six years since you’d seen him last. He might as well be a stranger.
Yes, that’s right. He’s a stranger, another voice echoes when she sees Father glance at her worriedly. She swallows, reminding herself to be careful. She feels her bones tense up, the expression on her face clearing. Alayne has never met this Northman.
But what if… There’s ringing in her ears, the situation so unprecedented she’s not quite sure how to go about it. What if he’s come for me?
“We’re in search of a man you might’ve come across in these parts,” The Northman answers her unasked query, killing all semblance of hope with a voice deeper than she remembers.
Ah, the hope that was building in her dies as quickly as it came. Of course not. He wouldn’t be looking for her. Why would he?
They were never close as children. It was Arya he was fond of, not her. Not that she would have welcomed his affections, regardless. She was too loyal to her mother to allow any of the sort, for her mother believed that his very presence in Winterfell, well-hidden as it may have been, threatened the safety of their people.
Still, his voice tugs deep within. The northern lilt to it is so familiar it aches. Her throat starts to close up at the sound of it, images of her youth flashing before her eyes. Memories of home, memories of young boys and a fierce little girl running around in the training yard, memories of laughter in the Great Hall as the household dined in merriment.
She could almost envision it as though she were a child again, back in Winterfell when the world had once seemed like such a beautiful place.
She lets go of her foolish fantasy, reminding herself that she’s no longer a stupid little girl who believes in brave knights who will come to save her, and allows Alayne’s blank expression to cover her face. He’s as much a stranger now as he had been in another life.
The Northman then pulls out a folded bounty poster. She squints a little, trying to make out the face there but the distance of his ship and the angle he holds it against the sun makes it impossible to see.
“Ramsay Bolton’s the name,” he says, the name sounding familiar to her, “Though he could be using an alias.”
Alayne’s father - Petyr - makes a show of thinking about it. “I’ve heard of him but I’m afraid I’ve never seen the man,” he feigns.
She knows this to be a lie; she remembers it now. The man had boarded their ship sometime ago; they’d helped secure him a passage through one of Petyr’s contacts in exchange for gold.
“I see,” the Northman says, his tone even. He glances at The Merling King’s sails and she can see him calculating his options. “I’ve never seen your flag. You’re not a pirate ship, are you?”
“Not at all. I’m a mere merchant. Our humble ship is set to deliver goods from Gulltown.”
The Northman nods, glancing at one of his companions. “I see,” he repeats. “Might I know your name?”
“Petyr Baelish,” Alayne’s father readily answers. “Is there anything else we could help you with?”
“Aye, there is,” the Northman confirms. “I understand that you’ve never seen the man we’re looking for but our crew has been searching for him for many moons now. Our Captain would have our heads if word reached him that we hadn’t been thorough in our search. That said, you wouldn’t mind if we searched through your ship ourselves, would you?”
It sounds like a request, though she could sense a challenge there. It’s almost as if he’s daring Alayne’s father to say no. She turns her attention from the Northman and fixes her gaze upon the jolly roger flying proudly at his ship’s sails.
The head of a fanged bear with crossed swords below, and on its head is a pirate hat with a white skull on it. Bear island pirates, she thinks in surprise. He’s part of Old Bear Mormont’s crew.
This information, she knows, would be weighing heavily on Alayne’s father. The Bear Island pirates are known to be one of the most notorious in the great seas; there's no way he could refuse this request.
“By all means,” Alayne’s father replies, gesturing towards the deck.
The Northman takes this as an answer and signals for one of his men to draw the boarding plank so they can cross between ships.
She can see Petyr tense up as the pirates reach their deck, fully aware that this is beyond his control. He may have enough mercenaries on board to fight against these pirates; there’s a high chance they might even win, but to do so would mean declaring war on Old Bear Mormont. That, he wouldn’t want to do unless there’s no other recourse.
Petyr thrives in his anonymity, in his feigned non-importance. He works best in the shadows, a puppeteer, and that’s how he intends to remain.
The Northman is the last to reach their ship’s deck, measured in his every step. Around them, his men meticulously inspect the crew and large cargo on deck and below.
She can scarcely breathe as she watches his approach. He’s every bit a Northman as he ought to be; every bit a Stark. Dark hair, his solemn face, and those stormy grey eyes. Alayne could cry at the sight of him. No, not Alayne. She feels traces of the false girl simmer down as Jon comes closer.
She swallows, her mind warring against itself in indecision. This might be her only chance for freedom. But what if he doesn’t remember her? What if he doesn’t care to?
A Kingslayer, that’s what she’s become in all these years. With a bounty of 30 million Gold Dragons for her head. She would bring nothing but trouble for him.
And what could she even offer in return? A measly apology for her indifference in their youth? The face that resembled the woman who had hated him? A reminder of the people he did love who are now lost to him?
“Is something troubling you, My Lady?” The polite northern query makes her throat tighten. She looks up, finding Jon’s gaze on her, though he seems keenly aware that they’re being watched. “You seem afraid. I promise that my men and I pose no threat to you,” he says with a faint smile. Then he glances at Petyr. “If the person we’re looking for is not here, then you can all rest assured we'll leave without issue.”
“Of course, Ser.” Petyr pauses for a moment, then says, “We trust you’ll keep your word as Bear Island Pirates are known to be the most honorable in the great seas.”
The tone in Petyr’s voice catches her attention. She glances at the man who has kept her by his side for years now, and she knows he sees this as an opportunity.
She’s heard word from passing ships that Bear Island Pirates are the most formidable in the great seas. Old Bear Mormont is said to have hundreds of ships at his command, and just as many allies he could call upon. It is also said that very few would dare harm those under the Old Bear’s protection.
Petyr would want to make himself among those protected by the man said to be the next King of the Pirates. Yes, she sees the decision cross Petyr’s face right then. He intends to ally himself with the Bear Island Pirates, or pretend to, anyway, just as he’d done with everyone else who held more power than him.
“Honorable,” Jon repeats Petyr’s words bitterly with a snort. This steers her away from her thoughts, focusing on her cousin once more. She sees his gaze darken before giving Petyr an even look. “I’m afraid I’ve long abandoned the word, My Lord. The seas are too treacherous to honorable men.”
This seems to confuse Petyr; it confuses her just as much. She couldn’t quite place why he’d say such a thing, nor could she decipher the sharp look in his eyes.
It brings her sadness, too. It confirms her fears about him; now she knows he wouldn’t help her even if she asked. To abandon honor is to abandon his heritage as a Stark, and what else would have compelled him to help her if not both those things?
Silence lingers on the deck for a moment, the tension palpable among the men gathered there.
She watches quietly as Petyr studies their guest’s face. Whatever he found on her cousin’s face, he must have decided it would be too much of a risk to entertain it. She sees the moment he decides he’s no longer interested in an alliance with Jon.
Petyr clears his throat, fixing a faux smile on his face. “Perhaps you and your men would welcome refreshments?” he suggests suddenly and Sansa could just see the wheels turning in his head. “We have a keg of Arbor Gold in our stores if it would please you?”
Jon repays his words with an empty smile, then says, “That’s terribly generous of you. I’m sure my men would be grateful for such a fine drink, especially if it comes for free.”
She nearly frowns; she never knew him to speak with such flowery words. Of course you don’t, she reminds herself again. He’s now nothing more than a stranger, blood or otherwise.
Petyr bows. “I’ll have someone bring our finest stock for you and your men.”
Petyr glances at her and she can tell he wants her to distract Jon. It becomes clear then that he has no inkling of who stands before him. How could he? He’s never met the man, as far as Sansa knows, and the last they heard of Jon was that he’d been slain by his own men at the Wall.
It also becomes clear to her what Petyr intends now; She watches him with a cold shiver as he heads below deck, appalled with the knowledge that should all this go terribly, he wants her to take part in yet another murder, this time turning her into a kinslayer.
Her brain starts to ache, her heart beats wildly out of fear. No, she will not take part in such a thing. Perhaps Jon is no longer the boy she remembers, perhaps he truly is just a stranger now, but even so, she will not watch another of her kin die.
She turns to him, a warning in her throat, but he’s already looking at her, and the indecipherable expression on his face disarms her.
“Tell me now while we still have time,” he says in a low tone, urgency in his voice. “Has he hurt you?”
She blinks in surprise. “I - what?”
“Baelish. Has he done anything to harm you?” She feels unable to comprehend the question despite how simple it seems. “Sansa, tell me now, how merciful must I be with –” then his voice falters and the expression on his face darkens. “Do you not –” he swallows, and it looks as if it brings him pain. “It’s me, it’s Jon.”
Bewildered, she nearly lets out an incredulous laugh. Of course, she knows who he is; his is a face she’d know anywhere. What catches her off guard is that – “You know who I am.”
“Of course I know you,” he says with a deepening frown. “I’ve been searching for you for moons.”
The revelation is nearly enough to make her cry out of joy. He’s not here for some random bounty; he’s here for her. She’s desperate to embrace him, reunited with her kin at last. However, it seems he wants to keep their acquaintance a secret, and so she musters her composure and puts on a mask of innocence.
She notices a few of Petyr’s men watching her, and she can sense that this can all go terribly wrong. Quietly, she says, “Don’t accept anything he offers and don’t be fooled by his pretty lies. He’s no friend to you or me,” she says urgently, spotting Petyr’s return from below deck. “Here’s my Father returning now,” she says, a bit louder but no less casual in tone. “I’m sure he’ll have better answers to your queries, Ser.”
He shows no indication of hearing her warning, only turning to watch Petyr’s approach. One of Jon’s men marches behind him, and gives Jon a subtle nod as the rest of his crew returns to the deck.
“Ah, Lord Baelish, it seems my crew’s search for Ramsey within your ship was fruitless,” Jon acknowledges.
“As I knew it would be, Ser,” he says, feigning sheepishness. “We harbor no pirates on this ship, least of all someone as dangerous as I’ve heard the Bolton man to be.”
“Aye, that seems true enough,” Jon responds with a nod, his voice even as he angles himself protectively in front of Sansa. “But what of maidens of the North, Lord? The rightful heir to Winterfell, no less. Would you care to explain how she found her way to your ship?”
Petyr’s eyebrows arch up, ever the pretender. “I’m sure I do not understand, Ser. There are no maidens here save for my daughter and I can assure you she’s not of the North. Isn’t that right, Alayne?”
Sansa fights against uttering the words he’d trained her to say, battles against her mind as she struggles to determine the best move for self-preservation. For a long time now, all she’s been doing is survive. Every decision she’s made, every action she’s taken, wrong or right, has been to stay alive.
And now two choices lay in front of her, to stay as Alayne with Petyr or to reclaim her identity with Jon. Everything within her is screaming to put her trust in her cousin. He would not have come for her unprepared, she tries to convince herself. He would not risk both their lives and the entire Stark legacy that now falls heavily upon their shoulders if he did not think they could survive this.
Or would he? Doubt whispers in her ears. History will show that Stark men have a tendency to be rash. Their grandfather and uncle have proven that when they stormed King’s Landing in search of her aunt. Her own father had proven that when he’d antagonized the Lannisters without a plan. Her brother, too, had lost his crown from the same flaw. And now Jon…
“Alayne,” Petyr calls again, his tone more demanding now. “Speak up, sweetling. Tell the man he’s mistaken.”
She considers the people around them. Petyr has armed the ship with capable mercenaries. She has seen them face off against formidable enemies and has witnessed them defeat men triple their numbers.
Though Petyr would rather not proclaim himself an enemy of the Bear Island Pirates, he’d risk it if they tried to take her from him. She’s far too valuable in his eyes, she understands this now.
And the crew Jon has brought with him, though she does not mean to discount whatever skill they may possess, is far too small in number. They’re likely to fall if a fight ensues now, and that would mean Sansa loses the only family she has left just as quickly as he had arrived.
The best thing to do now is to align herself with Petyr, or at least pretend to, and diffuse whatever danger is looming over them. Perhaps that would give her enough time to devise a plan of escape with Jon’s help.
Jon speaks up before she can make up her mind on what to do. “Sansa,” he says softly, turning his head sideways so he can see her. “There’s no need to be afraid. I will keep you safe, I swear it. I have every intention to bring you back home.”
“Home…” she whispers, her gaze clouding at the mere thought of Winterfell.
That seems to be all the answer he needs. Jon turns his attention back to everyone else.
“Ser, you’re making a grave mistake,” Petyr says, continuing the facade. “That woman there is my daughter. And I shall not be forgiving should any harm come to her.”
She can see, even from where she stands behind him, that Jon’s entire body starts to shake with anger. He takes a deep breath as if to calm himself, then – “All we want is for Lady Stark to come with us,” he says loudly, addressing Petyr’s men. “And the head of Petyr Baelish, an enemy to the crown in the North. The rest of you shall be left unharmed, and your ship untouched. However, fight us and we promise no kindness.”
Petyr’s men turn to each other, then to Jon’s crew, as if weighing their options. They’re bloodthirsty, Sansa has seen it, but they’re not loyal to Baelish. The thought of claiming the ship, the merchandise below deck, and whatever treasure Petyr is hiding must be tempting to them.
“Keep me alive and I will triple your pay,” Petyr screams, as if finally realizing there’s no talking himself out of this, and backs away to cower behind his loyal Lothor Brune. “These savages are no match for you. Get my daughter and me to safety and I shall give you all the treasure I possess.”
That seems to be all the encouragement they need. Petyr backs away, and his men come forward to fight.
“Edd,” Jon shouts. “Take Sansa to safety.”
And with that, Jon tears off his tunic, revealing to her his naked back as he comes aflame. Sansa gasps in shock at the sight of it, backing away from him as orange flames dance in his hand and all the way to his upper body before extending it to approaching enemies.
Devil fruit powers, she thinks in bewilderment. She’s heard plenty of stories about such abilities, about how you can gain inhuman powers, all at the price of being forsaken by the sea, but she’s never seen anything like it before.
“My Lady, come with me,” One of Jon’s men calls for her, and she assumes him to be Edd.
She heard Jon's command, knew she must leave the ship, except she can't do it without - “Petyr. He has journals in his cabin, I must - “
“It’s too dangerous for you to get it. Jon will have this ship at the bottom of the sea before long,” he explains. “I’ll get it for you.”
She nods in acceptance. “You cannot let him escape with it. In his desk, in the captain's cabin. It should be in the locked drawer at the bottom.”
He nods. “I’ll remember that, My Lady. But first -” He grabs hold of her arms, pulling her against his back. “Hold on to me.”
And then, to her growing bewilderment, he transforms into some sort of bird hybrid. What used to be his face becomes hidden in black feathers and a long beak, his arms turning into wings.
Despite her shock, she does not need to be told twice. She interlocks her arms around his neck and up they fly towards the other ship. She does not have time to wonder at the sensation of flying before he lands carefully on the ship and deposits her shakily on the deck.
“You’ll be safe here,” he assures as she tries to regain her footing.
Before she can say anything to him in response, a loud howl takes her attention. She turns in the direction of the sound, and her eyes widen at the sight of the white-furred direwolf padding toward her.
He’s massive, nearly the size of a horse, yet he moves so gracefully and so gently. She meets the creature with an embrace, laughing as it tries to lick her face.
“Oh, Ghost,” she cries.
She burrows her face against his soft fur, thinking of Lady. She would have grown as big as him if she were still here, perhaps she would have been bigger.
Her thoughts then take her to Nymeria, to Summer, and to Shaggydog. Where must they be now? She wonders. Perhaps it would be better not to know, the dark thought looms over her. She thinks of Grey Wind and her brother, and remembers the horrendous tales she’d heard of the aftermath at the Twins.
This brings tears to her eyes and an ache in her chest that she has long buried deep within. There’s some relief there, too. Family. She still has a family left to her.
“You lovely beast,” she whispers to Ghost now, scratching just below his ear as he snuggles his head closer to her. She plants a kiss on his snout, happy to know at least one of them remains. ”I’m glad you’re alive, I’m glad that you and Jon had each other even after all this time.”
The words bring her back to the present, her stomach sinking as she remembers that Jon is still fighting on the other ship. She sniffs, wiping away her tears before she turns to face Edd, but he has already left. She sees him flying over the Merling King, snatching one body after another and throwing them to the sea.
Sansa lets her gaze move lower and sees the Merling King in flames. At the center of it is Jon as fire dances on every inch of his skin. It’s a sight to behold, and clearly a sight to fear among foes.
She’s not sure how long the fighting lasts, but eventually, she sees Petyr kneel in front of Jon, head bowed in surrender. She can’t hear what they’re saying but she can guess at what he’d attempt to say. He’ll probably proclaim himself an ally, and share with Jon the tall tale of how he rescued Sansa and kept her safe. It would be true, at least partly, except he won’t reveal that he only did so for his own gain.
As if sensing her eyes on them, Jon looks up to meet her gaze. There’s a question in his eyes, one that feels heavy. And then she thinks of her father, of her mother, of her siblings – all of them now lost to her, all because Petyr Baelish needed the chaos to gain a crown.
What crown, Petyr? She thinks bitterly. You have gained nothing and it shall remain so.
She shut her eyes for a second and the image of her family, once happy and whole, flashes in her mind. She meets Jon’s eyes once more and remembers what he had called her. The rightful heir to Winterfell. And she understands now why he had been searching for her.
And so she nods, passing her first sentence on behalf of the family now lost to her.
Jon’s flame dies down, turning his attention back to the man before him. Petyr looks up at her gratefully, perhaps thinking his salvation has come, only for Jon to unsheath the sword still on his belt, and strike him clean in the neck.
It brings Sansa no pleasure, no relief, but she watches it as a Stark should. She lets out a shaky breath, unable to look away from Petyr’s now lifeless body, and rages at the fruitlessness of it all.
Everything he’s done, all the treachery, the deceit, the lies, the lives his greed had cost - Sansa, even when she didn’t know, has had to pay for all of it with pain and suffering. And it’s all been for nothing.