They fled the Eyrie under cover of night. Lord Baelish woke her and muttered instructions to her in a rush, seeming angry, almost on the verge of striking her. "Take the boy," he said, sharply. "I don't care what you tell him, but get him to come quietly."

That much, at least, hadn't been any trouble. The boy in question spent most nights now drugged so deeply that Sansa half expected him to simply stop breathing one night. He didn't even respond as she lifted him out of bed and brought him obediently down to the stables, where Lord Baelish was saddling two horses hurriedly.

"He'll ride with you," he said, curtly. "We have to go."

"Why?" She asked, quietly, but he didn't answer, tugging the girths tight.

The ride down the mountain had been like a nightmare. A rush of neck-breakingly steep slopes, the wind whistling eerily, the horses whinnying in nervous fright. They fought their way down step by step, and when they finally reached the ground Sansa was frozen and Robert was shivering even in his deep sleep, but Petyr allowed them no time to rest.

"Ride," he snapped, and spurred his horse forward into a gallop. She had no choice but to follow suit, and they pounded through the night, Sansa's heart in her throat. She watched Lord Baelish's back and thought.

They stopped when the sun was about to rise, in a small copse of trees, where Petyr threw himself off the horse. "Rest now," he snapped, and started to stride off.

"Please, my lord," she ventured, submissively. "What's happened?"

He looked mutinous. "We've been sold out. They don't intend to let me retain my post. Nor, do I expect, would my life outlast my resignation."

Sansa didn't have to pretend at a shudder. "And Robert?"

"Is the only weapon we may have," he said, sharply. "Now rest, Alayne. We ride again at sunset."

She slept restlessly, stirring uncomfortably. Twice she heart hooves pounding not too far away, voices calling. Halfway through the day Robert woke up. "Where?" He demanded, shrilly. "Where am I? Take me back, Alayne!"

Petyr had roared at him, in a towering fury still, and that had sent Robert into one of his fits, and Sansa had had to fight desperately to keep him relatively silent. But they were not discovered, and at sunset Petyr helped her onto her mare, holding Robert in front of her, and they rode again as she constantly murmured to soothe Robert. They were going somewhere good, it was all right, it would be fine.

Petyr tired of this quickly, and forced another vial of sweetsleep down the boy's throat. He went deathly limp again quickly.

Sansa rode on, a chill in her heart.

--

Their days settled into a routine. They rode at night and slept uneasily during the day, keeping Robert almost constantly drugged. A year ago, perhaps even less, Sansa would have kept her head down and followed meekly as Petyr dragged her across half the continent.

But she was getting tired of running.

Sitting awake, watching him sleep, she thought about taking his horse for Robert and leaving him to their pursuers. She heard them sometimes, behind them, usually when Lord Baelish started swearing. But they hadn't caught up yet. Sansa didn't think they knew for sure where to look.

She could go back and throw herself on their mercy, fabricate a story of fear and blackmail, but Sansa didn't really want to go back to the Eyrie either. And didn't trust any men to keep her safe. When had they last, after all? No, it would have to be her. She was on her own again, but this time she was smarter.

What did she owe Petyr, after all? What did she really owe anyone?

Oddly soothed by the thought, she lay down and closed her eyes, mind whirling, planning, considering and discarding idea after idea after idea until she fell asleep.

She dreamed of Margaery that night, Margaery and the Queen of Thorns her grandmother, and trying to convince them she wasn't helpless anymore, while they shook their heads and laughed at her.

The next morning they were riding again, southwest, she guessed. "Where are we going?" She ventured, tentatively.

"Away," Lord Baelish snapped, and she asked no further questions. Her stomach churned nervously, and abruptly she thought of her little sister. Arya wouldn't hesitate, she thought, and then shivered.

Southwest they could be going to Highgarden, but she doubted that. Or they could be going to the coast, to run some more. Even farther from home. "I'm done running," she said, to herself, and wrapped her arms more tightly around Robert.

Across the fire, that night, as they ate a hurried and pitiful dinner of something between watery stew and soup, he held her chin, examining her face with his intent, sharp little eyes. Beady bird eyes, Sansa thought, sometimes. "You're even prettier than your mother," he said, with a smile. "You have all the promise she had, and more."

Sansa pulled away from him, and he let her go, but didn't look away. "Sansa, I have been considering. And it has occurred to me that perhaps…it might be wise for us to marry."

"My name is Alayne," Sansa said, not quite flatly. Petyr looked annoyed.

"The time for that pretense is past. Let it be Sansa, now; Sansa Stark, with pride." He leaned forward, sitting down with his legs crossed. Sansa watched him across the fire, eyes wide. "Sansa," he said, in a low, quick voice. "If you marry me, I promise you will return to Winterfell. North, we would be out of reach of the Eyrie's lords, and they have no jurisdiction over a Lord of Winterfell…"

She felt sick at the thought of this man, a Lord of Winterfell. "I thought you were the Lord of the Eyrie," she said quietly. Petyr twitched a hand impatiently.

"Not anymore. They must have been planning this for months…damn bastards, I heard nothing of it…" He looked back at her, focusing again. "Well? Surely you can understand how mutually beneficial such a partnership would be…and there needn't be any formal marriage," he added quickly. "Not – physically, in name only, my dear." The glint in his eyes said otherwise as he lifted the soup to his mouth and drank a gulp impatiently. Sansa folded her hands delicately in her lap.

"I don't really understand at all, actually," she said, still quietly. He looked impatient.

"No? What don't you understand?"

"What would be mutually beneficial about it. You have no lands. No title. Nothing to offer me."

She saw the flash of anger in his eyes before he managed to hide it. She'd gotten better at telling when he was angry, and he was now. "Don't be absurd. I have experience that you'll need if you have any hope of reclaiming your erstwhile home."

"And besides," she added, thoughtfully, "People who join your mutually beneficial partnerships seem to end up dead. Lyn Cobray. Cersei Lannister. My father."

The silence that fell was heavy and absolute. Petyr seemed, for the first time, to be taken off guard. "…what are you talking about?"

Sansa leaned forward. "No matter. It's all in the past, and doubtless I don't understand. What would you do for me, my Lord, if we were to marry?"

His face brightened again, ever so subtly. "You wish more than Winterfell?"

"It is more a matter of not wishing," Sansa said, allowing herself a small smile. "I don't wish to be tethered to an invalid child for the rest of my life." Both of them glanced over to where Robert was deep in drugged sleep. Lord Baelish did not hesitate.

"You wish to be…rid of him? That's all? That can be managed easily enough."

She smiled a little wider. "I thought you would say that."

"Does this mean you accept?" He tried to hide his eagerness, but that was one thing he had always been bad at masking.

"No," Sansa said in a slightly regretful voice, "I'm afraid it does not." He stiffened. She held her smile.

"What…does it mean, then?"

She watched him, considering. "Did you know that the day I watched my father die was the worst day of my life?"

"What has he to do with anything?"

"Everything," Sansa said, softly, and smiled at him, even as she could feel the tears prickling in her eyes. "I never did tell you, father… not to trust me."

He didn't understand, still. She saw his eyes widen and narrow and fill with rage. "You little – where are they? You told them. You idiot, both our lives are-"

"I haven't summoned anyone."

"Then what-" He tried to stand. She felt a twinge of nasty satisfaction when his legs wouldn't respond. "What the- no. You little whore. How could you – after everything I've done for you-"

"You haven't done anything for me," Sansa said, voice quavering ever so slightly. "Only for yourself." Her voice hardened, strengthening. "You're not my father. You were never my father. Just as I'm not my mother."

Once the effects of the poison had begun, it was finished quickly. She'd recognized the plant from something he'd told her once, casually. For a while, she hadn't been sure it would be enough. A strange sense of satisfaction welled up in her – ha, I can do something right.

He was turning slowly blue, gagging as Joffrey had done. Sansa turned her face away as Petyr Baelish choked and died, tears running silently down her face. Even after everything, she couldn't watch him die.

But the tears were never for him.

Rising, Sansa threw dirt on the fire until it went out, avoiding looking at the slumped heap on the other side of it. She went to Robert, shook him gently. He stirred and murmured sleepily, limbs twitching, too deep in the drugs to properly react. "Come along, Sweetrobin," she said, softly, turning to her horse, and lifting him up in front of her. He flopped limply, more like a puppet than a child, and she pursed her lips. "I believe it is time to be gone. Far, far from here."

Turning her mare deftly in a tight circle, Sansa pressed her heels to the horse's sides and started north. No matter what else lay ahead, there was always Winterfell.

And Winterfell would always be home.