Chapter Text
The heavy snowfall had carpeted the Gates of the Moon in a white blanket; leaving only the portcullis and the two guards to contrast with the white that had engulfed the Vale. Sansa drew up the hood of her cloak against the bite of the cold and the snow. She trudged towards the west tower, where a light could be seen through one of the topmost windows, one which was seldom extinguished.
The guards merely glanced and gave a nod as she approached the entrance, and took the steps two at a time. The door was closed, but not locked; she rapped softly on the door twice and a familiar voice from inside bid her enter. The warmth in the room hit her senses not unlike a hot cloth flung to her face, which reminded her oddly of the hot springs in Winterfell. Home. An aroma of cloves and fresh linen hung in the air, along with the undertone of mint that she had come to associate so closely to the Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn, her father, Littlefinger, Lord Baelish, Petyr. Her protector.
He was sitting at his writing desk, engrossed in some letter, his left hand around a goblet filled with a rich crimson liquid and his right fingering the regrown beard on his chin, which seemed to have a few more grey hairs than before her aunt had bid him to shave it off. His face was a placid mask that not even her entrance stirred. Sansa was not surprised. She unfurled her cloak from around her and draped it over a chair. She moved from the solar into the bedchamber, where she took off her snow-dappled boots and lay down on the large canopy bed. The hangings were of a light green colour, and upon closer inspection, she could see the small embroidered mockingbirds that dotted the fine material. The linens were also new, as she could discern from running a hand atop the bedding and feeling the crispness of the cloth, their white as white as the snow falling outside the small window.
“Myrish,” came Petyr’s voice unbidden, slightly hoarse and more than a little musing. “Are they to your liking?”
It took her a few seconds to realise that he was referring to the hangings and the linens. “They’re lovely.” She shuffled her limbs down from the bed, in slight embarrassment at her casual manner, and moved to a sitting position at the edge of the bed, as Petyr seated himself beside her and offered a cup of mulled wine. She took it and wrapped both her hands around the cup, inhaled the aromas and drank deeply. She had found that, taken in sufficient quantity, the dark red drink helped her sleep a much yearned-for dreamless sleep, and more importantly one not disturbed by her little cousin’s almost-nightly visits to her chamber, where he’d insist on nestling close to her and nuzzling his face between her breasts, often followed by fits, and a sleepless night for Sansa.
“Again, sweetling?” Petyr asked in a tone of mild concern, to which Sansa nodded, her eyes heavy. She sipped deeply once again, wincing slightly as she felt the strong warm drink trickle down her throat. An arm snaked around the small of her back as Petyr’s hand settled on her waist. She closed her eyes and let her head fall on his shoulder, inhaling and exhaling deeply as sleep came softly as a warm embrace in a world of stone and snow.