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He wasn’t the one who found her. Although Petyr had been personally searching the land near Winterfell almost constantly since he had learned Sansa was missing, it was a group of Vale soldiers who had discovered the girl and her companion – once called Reek, now, reportedly, a Greyjoy – hiding in a burnt out cottage in the Wolf’s Wood.
It was nearing dark by the time a messenger had found Petyr’s search party, but he ordered their immediate return to Winterfell. The messenger raced on ahead, with only one instruction: Sansa was to be brought to what had been Ned and Cat’s chambers, then Roose and Walda’s, and now Petyr’s.
Once through the gates of the castle, he dismounted and called out to the nearest guard. “The girl?”
“Well, and in your chambers, m’lord.”
Petyr nodded but did not stop, his pace approaching a run as he moved towards the great entrance.
“And the Greyjoy?” the guard called after him.
It was only then that Petyr noticed the wretched creature shackled between two soldiers. He barely glanced at the three men, passing them swiftly while removing his gloves and pulling open the fur collar of his cloak. Frowning as though he did not understand the question – such an unimportant question, not worth asking – he waved the man off. “Deal with him.”
Once through the great hall, Petyr was alone now, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the doors of his solar. Two guards stood on duty, and he dismissed them both.
Taking a deep breath, Petyr composed himself.
Pushing at the heavy door, he caught his first glimpse of her. Slumped in the chair at his desk, she still wore the cloak she had escaped in, now torn in places and with a hem wet with dirty snow. The hood was down, however, and her familiar red hair was in a loose braid.
Sansa turned to look at him. Her lips were pale and cracked, the colour gone from her cheeks. There were dark circles under her eyes, but in those eyes he saw fire.
Petyr stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. For once, he had no words.
“Sansa...” he rasped, and that’s when she launched herself at him, out of her chair and across the room in seconds, pounding on his chest and slapping his face in turn.
“How could you?!?!” she screamed, over and over, until the sentence began to fail and the words became lost in cries of untamed pain.
Petyr did not move. He let her beat him, slap him, scratch him, turning his face only slightly when her assault became too much. He let her scream and curse him; let her release her rage on him until it was nothing but tears.
Sansa slowed her assault, exhaustion taking over, her body collapsing under the force of her sobs. Her knees began to buckle, and that’s when Petyr wrapped his arms around her, half-leading and half-joining her in her slow collapse to the stone floor. She did not have the strength to push him away, so she let him hold her.
Petyr was quiet longer than he would have liked. It had been a long time since he had called upon to show sincerity. It had been even longer since he had been called upon to ask for forgiveness.
Still holding Sansa, her face buried in his chest, he stared into the middle distance.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She heaved in his arms, crying out, pushing against his chest to bring herself face-to-face with her betrayer.
“Ramsay, he... he...” Her mouth moved, but between fury and pain was unable to get the words out.
Petyr gazed at her, and something inside him loosened. “I know.” Ramsay had bragged about his conquest of the last living Stark upon Petyr’s return from King’s Landing. He ignored polite requests as to the girl’s whereabouts, and the more insistent Petyr became the more detailed in his description of Sansa’s abuses Ramsay was. “If you’re worried about our wedding night, calm yourself – I was able to enjoy her innocence many times before she escaped,” the younger man had grinned. “In fact, I availed myself of my lovely wife’s ripe quim on a daily basis... It’s strange, no matter how often I fucked her she was still as tight as the first night I took her. It’s a shame she’s no longer at Winterfell, I might have let you feel such pleasures for yourself.”
The only thing that had stopped him talking was Petyr’s hands around his throat. His fingers squeezing, nails digging, eyes bearing down on Ramsay’s, watching every moment of the bastard’s agonizing death.
Once the deed was done, Petyr called for his guard to begin the assault on Bolton’s men, and open the gates for the knights of the Vale to re-take Winterfell. Before he left Ramsay’s chambers, however, he paused to wipe the blood off his hands. Always keep your hands clean, he had told her. Why was it that when it came to Sansa, he couldn’t hold himself to his own advice?
“You left me alone with him.” Sansa’s voice brought Petyr back to the present. He stared at her, face blank. Slowly, he reached for the mockingbird brooch at his throat. Unpinning it, he took her hand and placed it on her palm. He then released the clasps on his doublet, and pulled at the tie on his silk tunic.
Confusion and fear flashed across her face. He kept her gaze, and pulled the last of the fabric away, exposing the lengthy scar that tore its way down his chest.
“The night your mother was betrothed to your uncle Brandon, I confessed my love. She laughed, and so like any young man who has had his pride wounded, I drank to forget. I drank so much that I had to be carried to my chamber. I drank so much that when Lysa climbed into my bed I believed she was Cat and let her have her way with me. Maybe that was why I believed challenging Brandon to a duel would win you mother’s favour,” he glanced down at the scar, wincing almost imperceptibly at the memory. A finger twitched, as though intending to trace the physical reminder.
“I lay near death for days, out of my senses from grief and milk of the poppy. This did not stop Lysa from once again coming to my chamber... Once again taking me while I was helpless and heartbroken.”
Realization washed over Sansa’s face. She tore her gaze from his face to his chest; a wound well-hidden, but never healed.
Before she could reach out to touch the scar, Petyr shifted backwards. Meticulously he dressed himself, face a familiar mask. He showed her his hand, palm-up; Sansa returned the mockingbird. He rose smoothly, only then looking at her once more.
She stared up at him, red-rimmed eyes wide. Softly, he placed a finger under her chin.
“What did I tell you about justice, Sansa?”