A/N: It often happens that I sigh with relief and say, "this story has finally stopped haunting me", only to have the characters return unexpectedly weeks or months later. I see them walk, I hear them speak, I catch their facial expressions, and I'm obliged to sit down and continue writing the story.

Alayne looked doubtfully at the note that was conveyed to her by the maid. An evening invitation to her father's solar; there was nothing suspicious in it, and yet, his invitations have seldom been so formal. He said they were to have a cup of wine together and talk over a certain matter. Well, whatever she thought of it, she could hardly refuse. But what should she wear? She settled for a dress of dark brown velvet, embroidered in green thread. It went well with her chestnut hair. Her neck and ears were unadorned, and the whiteness of her throat made a very pretty contrast indeed against the dark of the fabric.

She found Littlefinger in his solar, alone. A good fire was lit there, and a flagon of Arbor red, along with two goblets and a plate of fruit, apples and pears and oranges, was set upon the table. Upon seeing her, he rose. "My lord father," she made a curtsey.

"Alayne, my sweet." Petyr looked to be in high spirits. Although he obviously hasn't touched the wine yet, his eyes glowed, and there was color in his cheeks. His features were unusually animated. "Come closer, and pour for us both, if you would be so kind. I have sent the servants away. I have something to say to you that is for your ears and mine alone."

Dutifully, Alayne approached and filled the two goblets to the brim. Littlefinger took a sip from his, and eyed her over the rim of his cup. "Drink," he pressed her with an affectionate smile, "drink, my sweet daughter, for this is an occasion which deserves to be toasted."

"What occasion, my lord father?" Alayne didn't understand, but drank all the same. The wine was fine and sweet, but very strong, and her goblet was still almost full when she replaced it on the table.

"I bring glad tidings to you, sweetling," he said, "I have had a bird from King's Landing today. It appears that someone has brought a gift for Queen Cersei and the little king."

"A gift?" Alayne repeated uncertainly. "What gift?"

"A sack. A sack with a head in it; a rather overlarge, misshapen, scarred, noseless head."

Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widened. "You don't mean - I - "

"Fear not, my lovely daughter," Littlefinger smiled and lifted his goblet again. "I hardly think you will be expected to wear mourning for the Imp, even when your true identity is finally revealed. Which, now that all we have to do is ascertain your widowhood, will not take long."

Alayne didn't know what to feel. Sansa, she told herself. I will soon be able to be Sansa Stark again. But Sansa Stark was a silly little girl she had left behind when she fled King's Landing. She wasn't sure she'd want to be her again. Being a bastard of obscure birth was easier, safer. Less was expected of a bastard, and her secrets were more conveniently kept. As for Tyrion... they killed him, she thought with a jolt. They killed him as they would have no doubt killed me. Littlefinger told her not to mourn for the Imp, but she had not wanted him dead. He was kind to me. He could have taken me, he was supposed to have taken me, but he chose not to, even though Lord Tywin was wroth with him.

"Well," Petyr's eyes twinkled, "we shall drink to this, my daughter, shall we not? We will, of course, make perfectly sure the dwarf is dead, but I am certain there is no mistake. From there, it will be a close and swift road to the announcement of your betrothal, your marriage to the Young Falcon, and your gathering the armies of the Vale to recapture Winterfell. This is a most generous gift your father made you, is it not?"

To this Sansa could not object. Following Littlefinger's example, she drank deep. The wine made her head swim. "Drain your cup," he urged with a smile. She obeyed. "Does not your father merit an affectionate kiss for all he has done for you, my dear?" he asked slyly.

She could hardly refuse, so she approached Littlefinger and kissed him on the cheek, then quickly withdrew. But he caught her face and kissed her full on the lips, long and deep. She dared not move, dared not flinch away, so she just stood there, still as a statue, until he finally released her. Her face was burning, and her heart was thumping frantically like a caged bird. I mustn't speak now. I mustn't speak until I compose myself. "My lord father, I..."

"This game is at an end, sweetling," Littlefinger smiled coyly, but there was danger in his voice. "Soon, the truth of your birth will be revealed. Soon, you will be again Sansa Stark, the beautiful daughter of Lord Eddard, not mine." He poured another cup for them both. "Drink," he commanded, and Sansa obeyed.

This time, her legs grew even more wobbly, and she could put up even less resistance when Petyr reached for her lips again. When his fingers traced the lacings of her bodice, however, she had recalled herself, despite the shifting, delirious curtain that seemed to be all around her. She had never drunk so much wine at once. Even so, she was able to catch his hand with a surprisingly firm move of her wrist. "My lord, I beg you, no... you... you shouldn't. I am to marry Harrold Hardyng, you said so yourself, I..."

"Ah, but my dear," Littlefinger appeared amused. "When you are acknowledged as Sansa Stark, it will be known that you are a widow, not a maid. No one will be aware that the Imp never touched you - and even if you told them, would they believe? No, our Harry will know he is taking a lady who has been deprived of her flower, but fear not. I hear he likes his women broken in."

"I... my lord, you cannot... you are good to me, I know you will not force me..."

"Force you?" when Littlefinger got angry, there was a lot more grey than green in his eyes, and they also appeared cold. Cold as ice. Cold as steel. Those could have been Stark eyes, if they weren't so treacherous. "Is that your gratitude? I saved your life, I am restoring to you all you held dear, I am elevating you beyond your highest ambition... is it so outrageous to expect a little affection in return?"

"I am your daughter," Sansa said pleadingly, "I am Alayne, your maiden daughter, you said I must always be Alayne, you said -"

"Very well," Littlefinger took a step away from her. "You can either be Alayne, a pretty but baseborn maid, a nobody - or you can be Sansa Stark, a woman who has allowed herself to grow, mature, to love the only one who had ever truly loved her. I cannot wed you myself, Sansa. I will ever be too lowborn for a Stark of Winterfell, but you can still give me the gift of your innocence."

"As my mother had?" Sansa asked, suddenly emboldened.

"No," sighed Littlefinger, "no, my lady, I'm afraid that was a lie, a fancy of mine. Cat was too proud, I never had her. But it makes no difference now. Her spirit lives on in you; you are as lovely as your mother had ever been, and I... I am helpless before you."

A lie, thought Sansa. A lie he told the Lady Lysa – but she was cleverer than her aunt, she hoped. I am helpless before you, not the other way around. "In the name of gods..." she began, but Petyr stopped her with a gesture of the hand.

"I cannot abide piteous bleating, I'm afraid. I will give you leave to ponder all I have told you tonight, and consider your choices. Be sure to decide wisely. I shall call someone to escort you to your chambers... Alayne."

"There is no need to, lord father," she said, relieved, "it is but a short way from here."

She hastened to leave, but her relief was not of lasting nature. It was obvious Littlefinger has planned this thoroughly, trusting to gain what he wanted with the joint effect of wine, and the mixture of gratitude and duty she was supposed to be feeling towards him. She knew he would not relent. He was not a man to give up his object of desire. In a day, a week, a month, he would try again - and she was in his hands, his pawn, his plaything, his prisoner. Before long, he would find something else to blackmail her with. Until he'd had his way.

Well, at any rate, she would sleep now, and perhaps things would look a little different in the moment. Perhaps she would think of something. Perhaps -

But then all her musings were cut off, for the moment she opened the door to her chamber and stepped within, a powerful hand clasped over her mouth, and a rough voice she didn't know said, "quiet, m'lady."

Sansa's eyes widened in horror. She struggled, but in vain; her captor was too strong, and easily twisted her arms behind her back one-handed. He wasn't hurting her, exactly, but he held her firmly, and she could neither move, nor speak, nor do anything to alert anyone of her plight. "Now," the voice continued, "I mean you no harm, but we need to talk. Do you promise not to scream if I release you?"

Sansa nodded fervently. Of course, she had not the least notion of keeping that promise. The man seemed to realise it, for as soon as let her go, he hastened to say, "before you wake the whole castle, m'lady, and get me killed, hear this - I come with a message from your husband."

Sansa froze in shock, but didn't scream and didn't run, and the stranger, it appeared, took it for an encouraging sign. He lit a candle, and she saw he had a broad, homely face, a stout build, and the air of a hedge knight. "Who are you?" she blurted out. "How did you get there?"

"I am Sir Donal Waters," he said, "but my name is of no significance, m'lady, nor how I got here - which cost me quite a bit of trouble. Your lord, though, he was gracious enough to repay my efforts in gold, and promised me more if I bring you to him."

"I..." Sansa didn't know what to say. Her mind was all confusion. Your lord? "My husband is dead. I was told so not an hour ago."

Sir Donal snorted. "Dead? Not in seven hells, pardon me, m'lady. Lord Tyrion is waiting for you some way down this thrice-damned mountain, and if you come to him now, you can leave this place forever... if that is your wish."

Sansa said nothing. A trick, she told herself. This is a trick of Littlefinger; he is testing her loyalty. But Sir Donal appeared to be a shrewd man. "I know it's hard to believe," he said, "here." He pulled a roll of parchment from inside his cloak, and handed it to her. Sansa's eyes skimmed over it; that it was Tyrion's handwriting, she could not admit of a doubt. She had seen him at work too often. It was a message from him, to her... and once she had adjusted to the thought, she could properly attend to what he had written.

The letter was very straightforward. Somehow, he had managed to escape King's Landing, where he was awaiting his trial for the murder of King Joffrey. In an equally mysterious way, he found out of her being gone to the Vale with Littlefinger, and, he hinted, he had a notion or two of the Lord Protector's true intentions towards her. Undertaking no small risk, he had arrived at the Vale himself, and proposed to carry her away to safety at once. All she had to do was give her consent, and the man who he had managed to get into the Eyrie, Sir Donal Waters, would do the rest.

Sansa's heart pounded in her throat. The message appeared to be genuine, but still - would she really be saving herself if she goes with Tyrion? Was he better than Littlefinger? Would not he attempt to use her the same way? He could have done it before, she told herself. He was expected to have done it before, and he didn't. But why? Why did he come for her?

"Why did he come for me?" she asked Sir Donal.

"Your lord expected you would ask that," he replied, "to that, he told me, I was to tell you that a Lannister always pays his debts."

This was a dubious message at best, but Sansa was suddenly feeling bold. Tyrion cannot mean to kill me, she told herself. As for the rest, he can do no worse by me than Littlefinger. "I will do it," she said, "I will go with you, Sir Donal. When might we set out?"

"At once," said the knight.