Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12150888.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Oh_no_Petey_you've_got_to_take_care
      of_your_niece, I_can't_imagine_how_this_is_going_to_turn_v_wrong_v_fast,
      slow_burn_as_fuck, But_once_it_catches_fire_it's_never_going_out
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-21 Updated: 2018-03-11 Chapters: 12/18 Words: 92442
****** A Truly Desperate Heart ******
by lady__sansa_stark
Summary
     Petyr just found out he has a seventeen-year-old niece, and is
     charged to take care of her until she becomes of age. It shouldn't be
     that hard - except the unfatherly thoughts he has towards her makes
     him harder than he should be.
     This is going to be a long two weeks.
Notes
     Inspired by the novella ‘My New Step-Dad’ by Alexa Riley.
     [So I read that story over the weekend and literally from the first
     page it screamed pxs. So naturally I’m gonna convert it into actual
     pxs fic lmao.
     This….is gonna be a gods-awful, unashamed trash of a fic, and I hope
     you love it! ;))) ]
***** petyr *****
               “What the fuck am I supposed to do with a seventeen-year-old
girl?”
               Petyr Baelish resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the gods.
They were watching – always watching – and now they were laughing at him. As if
their torment when he was younger wasn’t enough.
               The man across from him merely shrugged, his bald head catching
the lighting. The act was graceful, his voice soft. “Doesn’t matter, honestly.
But until she turns eighteen and goes off to university, you are her legal
guardian. Her father, I suppose, since hers is long dead… Or have you forgotten
how marriages work?”
               No, he hadn’t. But Petyr had forgotten about the niece.
               Petyr cleaned invisible lint from his sleeves. Adjusted the
cufflinks – emeralds set in silver, to match the mockingbird perched upon his
tie. “Listen, Varys. We both know I don’t have the time to deal with a teenage
girl right now. It doesn’t matter that she’s legally mine to put up with.”
               If Petyr didn’t know better, he would think that the small tug
at Varys’ lips was a crude enjoyment at Petyr’s situation. What was he kidding
– of course it was. The spider and the mockingbird held a very tense
friendship. “Well, it’s only for two weeks. Her school records are impeccable –
I doubt she could be much trouble. Besides, if I recall correctly, you had to
be husband to Lysa for much, much longer…”
               Everyone, deep down, knew or at least understood the true nature
of Lysa’s marriage to Petyr. And that it was: Petyr didn’t have much a say in
the arrangement all those years ago. And long before that, at Riverrun… The
girl had always been annoyingly persistent. A pity Petyr didn’t have the balls
to tell her off, thinking it unchivalrous to do so.
               So, with the years passed between then and now, it was either
agree to the unwanted companionship of Lysa, or to remain stuck in a junior
position.
               Petyr was, after all, no one. Genial? Yes. Capable of finding
obscure details in cases that got them turned in his client’s favor? Always.
Surprisingly good at it, too, especially when the issue dealt with numbers.
Petyr was oh-so clever with numbers.
               But all of that could get him so far. The largest firms in
Westeros were all about money and names. Petyr had neither.
               Until he married Lysa. Then he had both. And a wife, of whom he
didn’t particularly care for.
               Well, it was an absolute shame that his dear Lysa succumbed to a
heart attack at the ripe old age of forty-four. She couldn’t live without her
sweet robin.
               He had mustered enough tears at both funerals, though. Made sure
his voice cracked in all the right places as he delivered a touching farewell
speech. Even Lysa’s friends (a surprise to Petyr that she had any ) wished him
courage in the solitary days ahead. To lose both wife and son in the same
week…Petyr thanked them graciously for their kind words. Made sure his
handkerchief was sodden with tears and snot. No one but Varys caught the lie in
his tears.
               Small Petyr Baelish was now a man with money and name and no
bleeding wife.
               Save for Petyr, the Spider was the only man alive who knew where
Petyr’s heart truly lay. And that was – and always would be – with himself.
               But did Varys know ? Staring into the softness of his face, the
coldness of his eyes – Petyr couldn’t help but wonder time and again: did Varys
know? That was something Petyr hadn’t quite figured out in the months that
passed since his dear wife’s untimely death.
               (It was then – sitting in his office, months after the funeral –
that Petyr realized the niece hadn’t been there. She might have had exams
during it. Or perhaps she wasn’t particularly close to her aunt. Far more
likely – especially since Petyr could only remember Lysa speaking of her in
passing in the beginning of their marriage. And gods-knew Lysa herself wasn’t
particularly close with any family save her Robert. Petyr realized that no one
invited the niece to her aunt’s funeral. Did anyone tell her that she was all
alone now? Except for me. The thought soured the longer it sat in his stomach).
               Petyr inhaled. Held it for several long seconds, counting them
off in his head: one, two, three…
               “When does she arrive?” Because it was going to happen, whether
Petyr wanted it to or not. The girl was an orphan without Petyr, and still
legally a child. And kind, genial Petyr couldn’t very well turn away his dear
niece when she needed him.
               Varys, too, found lint on the immaculate sleeves of his
embroidered coat. He found it far more interesting than the mask Petyr hid
behind. “Tomorrow night, I believe. Her last semester just finished Friday.
University begins at the end of the month. And her birthday, as I’ve said, is
in two weeks. You’re legally free to kick her out by then.”
               The Spider claimed to know just as much about Lysa’s niece as
Petyr did. And yet the Spider knew a lot morethan he let on.
               But tomorrow…
               “Tomorrow’s the annual Lannister gala.”
               Varys shrugged again. He was built for that: shrugging and
shrewding. “Then you better pray she arrives before then.”
               Petyr did it then, rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his
chair. The gods were cruel and wicked and enjoyed their little games. Varys
left with a bow and a knowing smile – maybe the bald man was a trickster god
walking amongst mortals. Petyr wouldn’t be surprised.
               What if I pray she doesn’t arrive at all?
                                     * * *
               Petyr stared out the window of his apartments, sipping slowly on
a finger of whiskey.
               He helped Kella rearrange Robert’s bedroom for his niece,
outfitting it with the bare necessities that a seventeen-year-old girl would
need. Which, thankfully, Kella was more than happy to deal with. Petyr never
wanted children of his own, and especially not with someone like Lysa. It was
torture enough having to sleep with her to sate her lust. To listen to her
shrill cries as she came. Petyr shivered. It was a blessing he was sort-of
friends with a pharmacist down in the Merchant’s Quarter. A dosage or two of
mashed up sleeping pills in her dinner, and Petyr didn't have to deal with his
wife.
               “After she arrives, I can go buy your daughter more appropriate
furnishings and clothing.” Kella said though it came out a lot like a question.
               “Niece,” Petyr corrected her. “And no, that's quite alright. She
won't be around long enough for all that effort.”
               Kella nodded and went back to work. Petyr meanwhile shuffled
through Lysa’s binders and boxes full of work. She had a lower position at the
firm than Petyr, something in administration (which worked out in his favor. He
could get all the gossip of the company, all the candidates and competitors who
worked elsewhere in the city, without having to employ little birds like
Varys). So it was no shock that other lawyers – junior or not – eyed Petyr with
skepticism as he climbed up to an associate position at such a young age, and
just before Lysa passed. (Granted, forty-one wasn't old. Not today, with some
people well over a hundred and still kicking. But the amount of silver that
peppered his hair made him look older. Feel older). It would have been easier
had Lysa been around for a year at least, to plant himself firmly amongst the
big shots who ran King's Landing. Oh well.
               Which was another reason he didn't want to deal with his niece.
He didn't have the time for a bratty teenager. Or the fatherly love to put up
with one.
               So now he waited. For an hour, at least. Fidgeting with the
glass and the mockingbird pin clasped upon a silken emerald tie. The Lannister
gala was the poshest event in King’s Landing, and every year the Lions tried to
outdo themselves. It was nauseating . But they were good clients, and not
because they had an infinite amount of problems they wanted Petyr to magically
dissolve. But they paid handsomely, and never questioned how vital reports
worked in their favor, or how witnesses would change their story during trial.
               The issue: Petyr wasn’t up to kissing ass tonight. It was this
stupid revelation that had been sitting uneasily in his stomach all today and
yesterday. He'd dealt with little Robert, and if his niece was anything like
her cousin...
               At least she would be gone in two weeks. That was the only
solace in this whole mess. Two weeks – and then Petyr could go back to peaceful
solitude.
               His phone rang. Here it was, here shewas. No going back now.
Petyr downed the rest of the drink before answering on the third ring. “Hello?”
                Oswell's voice was low and curt: “There’s a Miss Royce here to
see you.”
               Petyr...was both surprised, and not surprised at all.
               “Send her up.”
               The man grunted his acknowledgement before hanging up. Something
Petyr enjoyed about his man: he didn’t bother wasting words. He also didn’t
bother giving words away for free. Of which Petyr made sure he was the highest
bidder.
               But Myranda… She was a devil of a creature, even when Petyr was
still (un)happily married to Lysa. Only a year and a half out of law school,
and desperate to climb as high as Petyr. Higher. That, he admired about the
girl.
               It was the looks she gave him during meetings that unsettled
him. As if mentally devouringhim. It was the way she sidled up beside him at
socials whenever Lysa couldn't attend, careful where exactly she rested her
hand. It was the low-cut of her dresses, the tightness of shirts with buttons
screaming against her chest as she leant over his desk to ask questions about
whatever inconsequential documents she brought with her.
               Calling her a wolf in sheep’s clothing didn’t do the girl
justice.
               Petyr casually mentioned going with Myranda to the gala to get
her to stop her advances. They weren't unwelcome necessarily, but he couldn't
jeopardize the careful facade of Good Husband he built with with Lysa. But that
was before Lysa died. Now he had to be Good and Faithful Widow. Annoying. But
since they were both single now, it would be difficult to excuse Myranda away
tonight. Especially when she went through all the trouble to pick him up.
Though she's early.
               Sex would help ease the nerves. It's what Myranda wanted. Why
else would she have arrived early, if not to begin what she thought started in
the office with her constant teasing and sharp words? And if it led to Petyr
favoring her over other new hires during promotions, well, at least she wasn’t
ashamed of using her body for it.
               At least she would be useful.
               Ding.
               “If I had known you shacked it up somewhere this nice, I would
have gone ahead and done Lysa in myself a lot sooner.”
               Petyr smiled at the girl, with mouth only. His eyes stared into
her, not at all brushing over her words. It was the same underlying shrewdness
of Varys, careful words that implied she knew. But in a much nicerbody.
               Her dress hung on one shoulder, hugging her soft curves in a
cloak of black. Strategic cutaways slimmed her ample frame whilst pronouncing
the size of her breasts and length of her legs. Even with heels, she stood a
few inches short of him. Petyr imagined many men died between her thick thighs.
               And above it, perched carefully on her lips – a smile to rival
the devil’s.
               Oh, Petyr would need to be very careful around this one.
               He approached her, circling Myranda and eyeing the cut of the
dress. It was beautifully made, that was sure. He couldn’t help but wonder
whose cock she sucked to afford it. “I do wonder who you were planning to
seduce at the gala with that dress?”
               Myranda eyed him all the while, thriving off his attention. She
flipped thick brown tresses over her shoulder. Petyr caught a scent of her
perfume. Roses. As if to mock the innocence she clearly didn't hold anymore.
“Whoever is willing to buy me drinks, I suppose. Though if I could ensnare that
young Lion…”
               Petyr finished his circuit of her body. “A veritable feastof men
willing. But I wouldn't get your hopes up for the Lion, sweet. The boy prefers
women without curves. Or a brain.”
               “So what does that make you?” Petyr dragged his gaze up from
analyzing fabric, up the expanse of her exposed neck, to her full lips. Her
devilish smile crooked more that what Petyr thought was humanly possible. If
Varys was the trickster god, Myranda was the god of desire.
               “I'm not an impertinent child, if that's what you mean.”
               Myranda closed the short gap between them, placing her hand
dangerously close to his cock. Fingers trailing across the expanse of his
slacks, knowing full well what the motions were doing. Having done it tens,
hundreds, of times. “Good.”
               There were three heartbeats in which Petyr should have brushed
Myranda away as a grievingwidow. In which he should have continued to ignore
the distraction of sex and desire. In which he should have caught the dark
gleam in her eyes.  But he didn't stop her. And on the third, she rose on her
toes and kissed him.
               Petyr kissed back, tangling one hand in her thick curls and the
other digging into her hip. There was enough time for a quick one. Though –
with the ease with which her hand finally found his cock, languidly stroking it
– Petyr had the ill feeling that Myranda wouldn't be satiated with one.
               She giggled into his mouth, as if hearing his thoughts.
               His hand on her hips trailed across her back, the dress doing
nothing to cover skin. Fingers trailed along the edge between fabric and flesh.
Myranda mewled as he pulled her into him, his cock a hard press against her
soft stomach.
               Ding.
               He'd nearly forgotten about who he was actually expecting.
               In the seconds between the dingand the door sliding open, Petyr
wondered whether or not his niece would be bothered by the sight of her uncle
entwined with another woman. It had been months since Lysa's passing –
certainly the unspoken rule of widowhood didn't extend this far.
               Myranda tugged at the teeth of his zipper, edging her fingers
beneath fabric. She trailed her mouth from his lips, down his jaw, latching
onto neck with tongue and teeth. His own fingers roamed around the fine fabric
of her dress, slowly dipping beneath the low cut of her back. She was so soft
and willing – Petyr imagined she’d let him have his way.
               That's when Petyr saw her.
               Red was the first thing he saw. Sheaths of it, coiling and
tumbling onto her shoulders, a cascade of autumnal fire. Ivory skin, unmarred
and pure, endless inches of it. Her face was as red as her hair, so embarrassed
at the impure sight before her. Brows shot up in surprise, mouth an O. He
stared at that and wondered if they were as soft as they looked. If they would
be as soft and gentle wrapped around his cock.
               In the back of his mind, Petyr had been expecting someone like
Robert. Small, frail. As annoying as the mother who latched onto Petyr and
never let go.
               But this...her…
               Petyr couldn’t find the words to describe the thrum inside his
ribs. Or the throb between his legs.
               When Myranda pushed him to cup his cock through briefs, it was
hard. Harder than it had been all evening. She giggled into his neck at it.
Thinking she’ddone it. Her wicked mouth, her wandering hands. It wasn’t for
this woman who latched herself onto him, the woman with full breasts and a
wicked tongue.
               But for the girl that watched in horror.
               Petyr dragged Myranda’s hand from his slacks, disengaging her
mouth. He tried (as best he could) to rearrange his cock beneath fabric. He
whispered, “Later,” to Myranda, leaving her with her own dismissed desire as he
approached his niece. “I'm sorry you had to see that. I was expecting you
earlier.”
               Up close, she was far more beautiful. And her eyes , gods-damn.
Big and blue and curious. And her lips, too, closed now but just as pink and
soft. Her everything – there wasn’t one thing about her that he couldn’t not
stare at. Petyr caught a whiff of citrus emanating from her skin. He couldn’t
help but wonder if all of her tasted like that.
               The girl looked at Petyr, at Myranda. She licked her lips, the
movement drawing Petyr's gaze. “I would have thought you'd expect me later…”
               “Ah.” Petyr couldn't help the smile that twitched at his lips.
Beautiful and clever. He curled his toes inside his leather shoes to ease the
ache between his thighs. Offered his niece a hand. “Petyr. I’m sorry for the
loss of your aunt.”
               She stared at it. Wondering, probably, where it had seated
itself just moments ago. Thankfully the most it touched was skin. Imagine that:
the sight of greeting his lovely niece with another woman’s need coating
fingers slick.
               Infinite heartbeats passed before she shook his hand. Soft. Her
skin was so soft, Petyr couldn’t help but rub his thumb in circles over the
back of her palm. Needing to touch her. She watched him – only watched, but
didn’t recoil – before dragging her eyes back onto his. “Sansa. Hi.”
               Sa- n- sa-
               Would it trill off his tongue just as beautifully as he fucked
her?
               Petyr shook the thought out. Smiled at her, and hoped his base
intentions didn’t seep through the mask. “I can show you around the apartments.
We’re off to a gala, so unfortunately you’ll be alone for tonight.”
               Sansa shot a gaze at Myranda behind Petyr. He couldn’t help but
wonder what her thoughts were. What this lovely first impression was. Not kind,
if he was being honest. “Sure. Thanks.”
               So Petyr kept distance between them as he walked his niece
around. Here was the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. Over there was a
wall of windows overlooking the city. Lysa hadn’t wanted to spare any expense
for their home , so Petyr made sure to buy the most expensive apartments. To
please his wife, yes, and to hide away from the prying eyes of the rabble. If
only they knew how much he despised his wife in quiet moments…
               “My room is the last of the hall,” he pointed out. “Your aunt’s
office was this one here. Feel free to go through and keep whatever you want.
I’ll be clearing it out at the end of the month.”
               She nodded.
               “And this sweetling is yours.” Petyr let her open the door. It
wasn’t anything grand. Kella did a fine job in clearing out all the unnecessary
things and knickknacks Robert piled, which now sat boxed up in Lysa’s office.
As Sansa assessed her temporary living quarters, Petyr had to wonder why he
pointed out the other rooms. Was he expecting Sansa to go to his own bedroom?
               He saw it. The quiet padding of her feet down the hall. His door
swinging open on silent hinges. The dip of his mattress, knees walking from the
edge towards the center. Slow, curious fingers running across his chest. Down
to where his need ached for her. Her cries as he took her for the first time.
The second. The third...
               Petyr adjusted his stance, trying to hide his cock.
               She’s seventeen , he chided himself. She’s your gods-damn niece.
               She’s eighteen in two weeks , a vile whisper reminded himself.
You wouldn’t have to wait that long...
               He coughed. To get her attention, yes. But that was worse,
because now the entire seas of the world stared into him with an innocent
curiosity. How quickly would she run out of here if she knew the depravity of
his thoughts? Not fast enough. “If you need anything else, feel free to ask.
I’ve a housekeeper, Kella. She’ll be in tomorrow morning, and you can ask for
things too should I not be around.” Something urged him to add, “I hope you’ll
find happiness here.”
               Sansa blinked at him. All of this was likely as strange to her
as it was to him. “Thank you.”
               Was it strange to hope she would say his name?
               “Well then. Good night, Sansa.”
               She only nodded, waiting for him to leave. Not willing to give
Petyr that bit of satisfaction. That bit of fodder for tonight when he would
imagine his hand was hers.
               Petyr collected Myranda on his way to the elevator. His thoughts
a raucous jumble.
               What was Sansa, exactly? His niece , yes, because Lysa only had
Robert. Catelyn and Eddard were dead, as was the rest of Sansa's family. All
she had was Lysa. Maybe some distant second-cousins and the like, some who
might have enjoyed the girl’s presence. But Lysa, in her horrid kindness, sent
Sansa away to Highgarden for boarding school the minute she was entrusted to
her. Four years ago, Petyr had legally been her uncle (or father? The whole
situation was muddy). Four years, and Petyr never even metSansa until today.
               And now he was expected to take care of her.
               And now he was thinking what, exactly, taking careentailed.
               Did it include taking care of her just as a father might? Giving
her food and room and clothes. Love and affection and whatever else loving
fathers might dole on their sweet daughters.
               Did it include taking care of her just as a father shouldn’t?
Giving her orgasms and caving in to the feel of her mouth around his cock. Her
hands stroking him. Her cunt warm and welcoming as he thrust into her.
               Petyr dragged his hand down his face. Gods, he was all sorts of
messed up.
               Myranda looked up at Petyr through thick lashes. Her face was
still flushed from their abrupt end - it was likely she would want to find a
quiet corner at the gala and finish what she started. “Something wrong, Mr
Baelish?”
               Here was a woman more than willing to spread her legs for him.
Granted, Myranda wanted things, too, like a swift jump up the ladder and
security in the firm. And she was a woman, with a womanly figure and knowledge
how to please him.
               So why the fuck was the sight of red curls and ocean blue eyes
ingrained on the back of his eyelids?
               It’s as if the moment he lay eyes on Sansa, his body, his heart,
knew what it truly, desperately wanted.
               The realization alone made his entire body ache.
               Petyr – after several long seconds – dragged his gaze away from
the panel of buttons, watching the numbers descend to Lobby. Myranda had her
head tilted towards him, watching. “Nothing at all, sweet.” He fixed the back
of her dress where his hand had been oh-too-willing to descend minutes ago (he
let his fingers creep along the edge, just enough to ease Myranda away from her
own revelation). Now, the motions felt bland. Unappetizing.
               “Nothing at all,” he repeated with a small kiss to the back of
her neck.
               Except that I want to fuck my niece.
***** sansa *****
Chapter Notes
     [Okay. Wow. I honestly didn't expect the first chapter to be such a
     hit??? Like, I know this ship is trash and we’re all on board the
     Hell Express to Sintown, but...wow. I love you guys so so much!!! :D
     Also I'm sorry it's a bit later than I thought! 1) I’ve been hella
     busy with work. 2) I ended up writing an outline for this – and uh
     it's going to be less straight up shameless smut and more drama (with
     sin ofc). Trust me, I didn't see this coming either lol
     Still – I hope you'll like what I've got in store!!]
              Sansa didn't like it here.
              The smellhit her first. An amalgamation of salty seawater and
vehicle congestion and human gods-knew-what littering curbs and planters.
Nothing at all like the sweetness of Highgarden, or the crisp cleanness of the
North.
              There were the cars that almost hit her next. And the cloistering
press of bodies and buildings. And the lack of anything green but what people
smoked in shady corners and bus stands. Why anyonewould call this terrible
place home was beyond her.
              Two weeks, she reminded herself, resting her hand on the window.
A deep breath fogged the pane. It was cool – not cold , not like how home would
be right now. The chill of snow, the warmth of a mug of hot chocolate between
her hands. She drew nonsensical shapes with her fingernail, digging in hard
enough to shriek. Two weeks, and then I'll be married.
              It might not have been the wisest plan, but it was the best her
and Margaery had come up with months ago. Years ago, in truth, when Sansa had
first stepped into Highgarden and was greeted by the warm embrace of her now-
dear friend. We could be sisters, you and me , Margaery had said, an ear-to-ear
grin spread over her face. A joke, maybe, to soften Sansa’s rejectionby her own
family. A joke because Sansa missed her own sister.
              And then they thought: Why not? Margaery always wanted a sister,
and Sansa just wanted to be finally accepted.
              There wasn't anyone left for Sansa, anyways. Her parents had
passed away first years ago, just before Robb became an adult. They all thought
(in childish fantasies) that the agency would let them all stay with Robb,
since he was practically old enough to take care of them anyways. They didn't.
They didn't even let them stay togetherin the end. One child here, one child
there. Not listening to their pleas, not seeing the tears streaming puffed
faces.
              Of them, Robb was the only one she knew who died. He joined the
military, already had plans to do it which their mother heavily disliked. Jon
joining the military was one thing – he wasn’t their true sibling. But Robb was
the eldest child of Catelyn and Eddard Stark. Robb was supposed to be the
smartest, the most practical. Sansa thought he might change his mind after
their parents died but… But their deaths seemed to urge him further into
battle.
              And then his head exploded into shrapnel of bone and blood.
              Sansa shook the image from her head.
              To her knowledge, the rest of her siblings were alive. Wherethey
were, though...Sansa didn't know. Because Arya ran away from her foster home
weeks after she was assigned there. Bran and Rickon, she heard, had transferred
between so many hands, it was dizzying to keep track.
              Sansa – polite, graceful Sansa – was given to the Tyrells and
proved herself to be as mindful of her manners as her mother ingrained in her.
She didn't have anything else. No skills in sneaking out, no knack for battles
and warfare, no desire to leave Highgarden and life early. She begrudgingly
accepted what was given to her, and smiled through the heavy ache in her chest.
              It should be noted that all of this switching around – all of
this separation – was due in part because the person who should have loved
them, should have wanted them when their own parents left, didn't.
              Lysa scoffed at them the moment she saw them. Mumbled complaints
that Edmure would have been better off with these things (though he'd been
riotously drunk since Catelyn's passing just shortly after Hoster Tully’s. He
often fell into bouts of madness, an empty bottle clutched in his hand. Crying
out that his sister and her husband had been offed by men clad in black. So
often were these shouts that the foster system immediately deemed him unfit to
care for children). Hardly a week passed after all the forms were signed and
the remaining Starks transferred before Lysa organized this entire system to
rid herself of the burden . “I already have one,” she sneered over their last
(and perhaps only) dinner together. Wine stained her thin lips crimson. The
Stark children all heard Lysa's unspoken words: Why would I want four more?
              Sansa remembered the glinting ring on her aunt (or new mother's?)
hand. It was five times bigger than the one that once wrapped Catelyn’s finger,
with so many jewels Sansa was surprised her aunt didn't cut herself on them.
She remembered, too, the glinting in her aunt's eye when she looked at it.
              Sansa vowed to detest (silently, of course; a lady doesn't
vocalize her displeasure with such obviousness) whoever gave her that ring.
              Whoever broke her family apart.
                                     * * *
              There wasn't a front door here, ten stories above the city,
everything spread out before them. As if they owned it. The entire floor was
one set of apartments, accessed only through that elevator. The rooms were
large, open, and filled with minimal decor it was hard to tell that the place
was lived. Perhaps it was different when Lysa was still alive. Nonetheless, the
whole thing was extra. Precise, clean and spotless and practically brand new.
What was the point of all of this stuff if it was just going to sit around and
not be used?
              It was the sorts of wasteful extravagance Sansa came to expect
from her aunt and her aunt's lover.
              The dingand the low rumble of the elevator echoed through the
walls and the glass. Sansa counted a few heartbeats before she crawled off her
bed and went looking for something to eat. As much as she wanted to hole
herself in this room for two weeks...her body, unfortunately, wouldn't let her.
              She had to admit that part of this sneaking around – would Arya
be proud of her? – was due in part to her new uncle. The way she was
greetedwith the sight of him seconds away from fucking that woman right there
in the entryway. The way his gaze snagged on her: frozen in place, forgetting
the woman in his arms, or the need he tried and failed to conceal.
              The way his lips crooked at the edge. The way he clenched his
fist as he showed her around. The way he stood a hair's breadth too close, the
heat and scent of him lingered long after he left.
              Sansa shivered.
              She was surprised to see the fridge and cabinets were stocked,
clean. The granite counter spotless. Everything was where it should be
(everything but herself), so much so that Sansa worried she walked onto the
showroom sets of furniture stores. A male widow, she thought, wouldn't be so
good with chores and cleaning.
              And then she remembered the housekeeper – Kella, she thought –
who must have kept everything in order. Of course.
              Sansa let the cold air of the fridge wash over her as she stared
without registering anything. If she closed her eyes, then maybe – maybe –she
could pretend like she was back in Winterfell. Her parents still dozing in
their bed, wrapped tightly. Her siblings running around outside, pelting each
other with snowballs or playing tag. Their wolves following them around, soft
fur, the scent of the woods clinging to their pets.
              She wiped wayward snot when she heard that familiar ding. Sansa
wouldn't want the housekeeper to think ill of her. It was bad enough that she
walked in on her uncle snogging it up with some woman.
              Sansa put on a smile and willed the puffiness from her eyes. The
fridge door closed with hardly a click.
              The woman was much older than Sansa expected, and not nearly as
beautiful. Perhaps Sansa had been expecting someone like the woman from last
night – beautiful and capable of seducing men with her more-than-ample breasts,
along with her knowledge of what to do with them. But the housekeeper was
ordinary. Fat around the waist, hair that was half-grey and half-brown.
              Sansa couldn't ignore the relief at seeing this woman instead of
her uncle. An ugly part of her feared (or hoped? Either way there was a swarm
of butterflies in her tummy that hadn’t stopped since she first stepped out of
the elevator last night) that she'd be stuck alone with him. She could remember
the way his gaze made her skin crawl. The way he looked throughher, her clothes
and skin and delved deep inside her very being. The way his hands itched to
touch her. Explore her. Feel her, inside and out. With fingers at first, and
then–
              Sansa violently shook the thought from her head. “Do you need
help?” she offered, approaching the housekeeper with her practiced smile and
warmth. She might practically be an orphan, but Sansa would never forget her
manners.
              The woman – momentarily lost in her thoughts – jumped at the
sight of Sansa. “Oh.” Her gaze roved over her, appraising her with a kinder eye
than the sort her uncle had given her last night. Sansa shivered again at that
memory, goose pimples littering her arms and legs.
              It was then that Sansa remembered she was still wearing her
pajamas. No matter – the housekeeper wouldn't care, Sansa was just a child
after all. Besides, from last night's performance, Sansa couldn't help but
giggle at the thought that Kella had seen much, much worse from her ward.
              A pity Sansa was too much a lady to ask about such things.
              “I'm Sansa. Nice to meet you.” She stuck out her hand, kept a
smile on her face.
              The woman adjusted the boxes she was carrying and took it, a warm
crushing embrace. “Ah, so you're the daughter that Petyr has to take care of…”
              Was that his name? Sansa pursed her lips at the realization that
the list of things she knew about her uncle stopped at 1: Was married to my
aunt Lysa. “Yes, although I'm his niece, actually. My mother was his wife's
sister.”
              Kella – whether knowing all the gossip or not – caught on to the
usage of was. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Sansa. But I promise, you'll like it
here. A bit stuffy, but all the same good.”
              Was she talking about King's Landing, or the man she looked
after? It didn’t matter. “Oh, no,” Sansa corrected. “I'm between school right
now. In two weeks I'll be off to university in Highgarden. So I won't be much
trouble for you or my uncle.”
              Kella accepted the lie without a moment's doubt. “I see.
Congratulations, and good luck at university!” The housekeeper readjusted the
boxes in her arms again. “Well, Sansa, if you wouldn't mind, I've groceries and
supplies in the elevator that needs lugging in?”
              “Of course.”
              They spent the better part of the morning doing some minor
cleaning to an already clean set of rooms. Sansa took the task of wiping down
the huge window whilst Kella did her cleaning duties in uncle Petyr's room
(Kella asked Sansa if she's like to help, but that just felt like a huge
invasion of privacy. They might be relatives, but they were strangers in
truth).
              Sansa waited for Kella to finish, taking a peek into the room he
had pointed out as Lysa's office. It was packed with boxes on the floor, on the
huge redwood desk, even the swivel chair was a mess of papers and clutter.
Flipping the lids open, there was a mix of binders (filled with morepapers),
some knickknacks that definitely were her aunt's, and smaller sets of boxes
with boyish clothes and toys. Another box with blankets painted with
superheroes or embroidered with falcons. Tucked beneath those was a small box
of empty medicine bottles.
              Sansa never met Robert – she’d heard gossip he was small, always
sick, and much loved by his mother despite him being far too old for such
things. He would have just started high school, had he not…
              No matter how much Sansa detested Lysa for how she broke apart
her siblings, it wasn't fair for the gods to take Lysa's only son away from
her.
              And then, as if they hadn't enough, the gods took Lysa, too.
              “Feel free to take what you will. Petyr will be organizing movers
to shuffle all this cra-, er, stuff, out.”
              Sansa had her hands on the lip of one of Robert's boxes. She
fingered the sweater on top: sky blue with cream stripes. It was the softest
material, softer than the sorts of dresses and scarves Sansa used to have back
in Winterfell. Something about touching the dead boy’s things brought on a new-
found courage. “Why hasn't my uncle got rid of these things already?”
              It had been months , after all. Sansa couldn't fathom him
actually in love with her aunt. Couldn’t fathom anyone willingly giving their
heart to that wretched woman. Definitely not her uncle. Not by the way he'd had
his hands all over that woman last night.
              Not by the way he mentally undressed Sansa as he smiled at her.
              “Can't say. Not my business to ask, especially on such a delicate
matter.”
              They finished the small list of tasks. During it, Kella was more
than willing to answer Sansa's questions. The not delicateones, at least.
General information about what to do in the city, about the weather, about the
politics. And innocent ones about her dear uncle – what kind of person was he,
what he did to live in such a nice place. Despite the ease with which she ate
Sansa's lie earlier, Kella was a lot more perceptive than she let on. She was
careful with her words, like she learned to lie a long, long time ago.
              “Well, Petyr works late at a big-shot law firm, so unfortunately
you won't see much of him during your visit.” The housekeeper pursed her lips
like she'd eaten a particularly sour lemon. But the late nights would explain
why the apartments felt so un-lived in.
              “Did he love my aunt?” In truth?
              Kella’s head wavered, obviously unsure how much to reveal. Why,
Sansa didn’t know. “I like to think so, as much as anyone could. But he’s a
secretive man, that Petyr.”
              And so are you.
              Almost everything was already clean, unused. Kella was really
only necessary for bringing in groceries and the odds and ends – fresh bottles
of shampoo and soap, replacement razors, light bulbs. His late nights meant
more chances Sansa wouldn't run into her uncle.
              Good.
              Sansa never failed to catch the familiarity Kella had in
addressing the man by his first name. Sansa stared at Kella whilst the woman
had her back turned, dusting whatever was exposed of the desk around the boxes
piled in Lysa's study. Dark grey hair overtaking the brown, wrinkles lining
thick hands and arms and neck. But she wasn't weak, or frail. She could have
been old enough to be her uncle's mother. Was she?
              “Petyr said I'm to take you shopping for clothes and the like?”
              Sansa thought about her suitcase, how precisely she had packed it
for two weeks and nothing more. There wasn't meant to be more to this farce of
a trip, anyways. Merely a way to wait out the time while Margaery got the
wedding planned for her brother. While Sansa counted down the days until she
was legally able to say goodbye to her new uncle/father.
              New clothes wouldbe nice. Especially since King’s Landing was far
stickier than Highgarden, even in the winter. Sansa knew she'd need to wash her
clothes sometime in the two weeks to rid herself of the filth. Assuming no
passersby threw up on her.
              Could she get her uncle to pay for her wedding dress? Margaery
offered to pay for it (“Since sisters buy each other nice things”), but Sansa
felt ill asking so much of her friend. Sansa looked around the apartments,
through the wall of glass that overlooked the city. He certainly wasn't
unaccustomed to throwing money around. Nor was he unaccustomed to throwing
money around for the women he took a fancy to. Had he tossed jewels and
expensive dates (and that scandalous dress) on the woman who he'd clung to last
night? Probably.
              More than that was the flashing of the jaunty ring perched like a
trophy on Lysa's finger. The haughty laugh as Lysa flicked away her sister's
children without so much as a second glance. Oh, but Lysa gave second and third
and fourth glances to that hideous ring. To whomever gave it to her.
              Sansa clenched her fist, her teeth. Tighter, until the nails
threatened to break skin.
              "I'll take that as a ‘no’, then?”
              Sansa forgot about Kella. The woman was staring at her, smiling,
a glint to her warm eyes. There was such an ease about her. A kindness, too.
Perhaps Kella had missed having someone to take care of, more than the
ephemeral presence of Sansa's uncle. Sansa would at least miss someone here
when she left for Highgarden.
              As much as she wanted to, Sansa shook her head, plastering
another smile onto her lips and loosening her fist. “Thank you, but maybe we
can go out later. I wanted to have a look around the city today, if you don't
mind?” Alone.
              Kella was smart enough not to pressure her. “Of course. Here,
I'll leave you my number in case you change your mind. Feel free to contact me
should you ever need anything.”
              Sansa waved the woman goodbye as the elevator doors slid shut
quietly.
              She changed into practical clothes, a light sweater above it all,
before descending down the elevator herself. She realized she hasn't eaten
breakfast, and it was nearing lunch. She thought about asking Kella what would
be a good place to eat, but decided against it. Kella was a kindly old woman,
yes, but she was under the coin of uncle Petyr. Sansa was just a littleparanoid
(whether rightfully or not) that Kella was already in cahoots with him about
the sort of girl Sansa was.
              So Sansa meandered through those narrow, sticky streets, trying
to look at it differently. At the way the winding streets were cobbled with
stones that peasants and kings walked on centuries ago. The way buildings in
the heart of the city reached across the street for each other, aching to touch
but never connecting. The way the Red Keep stood proud and defiant to the east,
peeking between modern structures of steel and glass to remind her that the
city was far older, had seen countless reigns of kings and – in stories at
least – dragons. Sansa thought she might learn to love it here a little bit, if
she needed to.
              She didn’t imagine loving it when someone squatted by the side of
the road and relieved themselves.
              King’s Landing wasn't home per se. Nothing would ever compare to
Winterfell: the rolling fields, the mountains, the brisk chill that worked its
way into your very soul. Sansa's truehome. Only, the thought of Winterfell
silent, filled only with the fading whispers of laughter and the ghosts of her
loved ones...Sansa’s heart ached at the idea.
              If she went there now, would she be the only living thing among a
sea of ghosts?
              The thought alone sent a chill down her spine. Willas will take
me to visit,she reasoned. Or at least send Margaery in his stead.
              Sansa blocked out her mind and eventually followed her stomach.
Well, she followed people who talked about some plaza a few blocks away that
had food. And at the moment, Sansa reasoned that maybe food would help her
forget about the gnawing hole in her heart.
              The plaza was huge. Set on the ground floor between buildings, it
stretched for an entire block, and the entire block of it was packed with
vendors shouting their wares and customers shuffling through the narrow aisles.
It was sticky here, too. The sort that comes from intoxicating food wafting
between the spaces of bodies lining up. And each vendor sold something
completely different from the ones beside it. Perhaps if she ever had the
chance to study, she would have the chance to learn about it. The history of
the city, the architecture behind its buildings, the politics that went on in
the glittering Red Keep. A pity she didn't accept any of her offers for
university.
              Her stomach growled at the expanse of food before her. King’s
Landing had been – and still was – a hub of community and trade. The plaza was
proof of it. Every sort of food was for sale here, from all across Westeros and
even reaching across to Essos. The whole world condensed into a single city
block.
              Margaery told her a secret when they went on late-night
adventures for dinner. “Whichever has the longest line is almost always the
best food.”
              “But then you'd have to wait forever to eat it…?”
              “True.” Margaery gave Sansa a crooked grin, throwing her arm
around her shoulder. “But the wait will be worth it when you finally get it in
you. It always is.”
              Sansa had a feeling her friend wasn't talking about food.
              She stood in a line that wrapped around the entire section of
vendors. It moved fast, but every few seconds they had to scramble apart to let
people go through. No one complained about it (at least vocally) – it was just
the way things were. After long minutes that felt like hours, Sansa had a warm
gyro and a gnawing hunger in her stomach from the wondrous smells that tempted
her away from her line.
              There wasn't room to eat inside, so Sansa walked two blocks down
to a park, finding a clean edge of a planter to sit on. She looked around her,
at the artificially rolling hills and the children running on it. The neatly-
trimmed bushes lining the concrete walk. It seemed so…odd to see this much
grass and flowers somewhere so packed.
              Sansa counted the palm trees that lined the perimeter of the
park, towering guards of their green oasis. There were at least fifty, but
hardly any more than that. A stark reminder that she wasn’t home. As if the
sounds and smells of the city didn't clue her in.
              Carefully she unwrapped the edge of her gyro and took a bite.
Gods , it was good – Margaery was right. Sansa couldn’t help the bit of a moan
that escaped her as she bit in again, wiping away errant sauce on her lips with
her thumb. (Admittedly half of the deliciousnesswas from the fact she hadn't
eaten since lunch yesterday. Too in shock with her welcoming to bother to eat
anything last night).
              “I’ll have what you’re having.”
              Sansa felt her face flush as bright as her hair as she turned,
dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Hello?” she said, though it came out an awful
lot like a question, and an awful less like a word through a mouthful of food.
              He was about her age, though a few years older. Bundled up
against the Southern cold, soft brown hair peeking beneath a beanie. His cheeks
were flushed pink. His eyes round and penetrating. But his smile was
infectious, dimples creasing his jaw.
              He laughed. “My bad, I didn't realize your mouth was full.” He
waited patiently for Sansa to swallow her food, wiping her mouth clean. She
probed between her teeth in case there was food stuck there.
              Sansa studied him all the while. This was the sort of boy that –
once upon a time – would have made her heart flutter in imagining what her
future would be like with him. Almost like Loras had when she first saw him,
though Loras was far far prettier than even many boys and girls Sansa knew (and
Loras never once looked at Sansa the way Sansa looked at him).
              “Yes?” she asked, finally. Sansa didn't ignore the way he had
been studying her, too. Roving eyes. Assessingher. Like her uncle had the night
before.
              But this was different. Right? A boy her age looking at her,
versus her uncle who was at least twice that with greying hair and wrinkles at
the corners of his eyes.
              And a smile that said he knew things.
              Harry said something but she missed it. “Sorry? I didn't catch
that.”
              He dismissed her zoning out with a wave. “It's fine. I'd be lost
in that sauce too. A gyro, right?” Sansa nodded. “Mind me asking where you got
it? It looks so good.”
              Sansa paused for only a moment as she wondered if this was okay .
She was promised to Willas, after all, though she didn't wear a ring. (“You're
not eighteen yet, I don't know if you can legally wear an engagement ring?” Not
to mention there'd be the questions of who was the lucky person in her life.
And then complaints that “You’re too young to get married!” Sansa bit her
tongue to stop her voice from shouting: “I’m too young for my parents to die
and for all my family to leave me and to be left alone with nothing.” She
didn’t say that, of course. A lady doesn’t complain).
              “It’s this place a few blocks down that way,” she said, finally.
He was just a boy asking for directions. This was completely okay.
              He followed the direction of her finger with his eyes. “Thanks.”
He smiled again, so wide and full of teeth that his dimples made heavy shadows
on his jaw. “I'm Harry, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
              “Nice to meet you, too.” His smile deflated a fraction when Sansa
didn't introduce herself. She was right – he wanted morethan a gyro. With a
nod, he tucked hands in his pockets and left.
              Only a few steps before turning on his heel. “Hey, if you ever
want someone to walk around the city with, well, here’s my number.” He pulled a
napkin from the stack beside her and fished for a pen in his back pocket. Sansa
watched as he wrote each of his ten digits down. “Here,” Harry said with a
sweet smile.
              “Thanks,” she said, not really knowing what else to say. People
who knew her were worried about some cursethat hung about the Starks. How else
would the old family have completely shattered? Perhaps it was for the best if
Harry didn’t know who she was.
              Sansa waved him goodbye. He glanced back over the throng of
people as he went, smiling, not at all clandestine about his intentions.
              The piece of paper felt heavy between her fingers. But it was a
welcome weight.
              She hadn't the choice in her parents' death. Or the choice in
what kind of person her aunt was. The choice in leaving all her siblings and
forced into a new family. The choice in marrying Willas (she had to agree to
it, and willingly say I do ). But where else could she have gone? Lysa didn't
want her (when she had still been alive). Edmure wasn't capable of taking care
of anyone, including himself. Her uncle Benjen was lost in the world somewhere.
Her half-brother Jon was off in the military, mourning the fact that he
couldn't be there to save Robb. Sansa didn't know where else to go , who else
would have her. So she said yesto Margaery’s plan and thought of all the
lemoncakes she would eat, all the flowers she would beholden to pluck and
smell. And didn't think of how little choice she truly had in it all.
              There were worse endings to her life, she reasoned.
              Sansa tucked the piece of paper in her pocket. Well, she had two
weeks to wile away here. And going out and seeing the city and actually doing
things rather than staying cooped up in the apartments… It sounded a lot nicer.
It sounded freeing. And it would be good to have a friendin King’s Landing
other than the housekeeper.
              Not to mention being with Harry meant less time being around her
uncle.
              She continued eating her food, watching people walk by, watching
the palm fronds sway lazily in breeze.
              In one fell swoop, the filling of her gyro spilled out of the
pita. Sansa saved her clothes from the undue mess, but her hands and chin
weren’t so lucky. The white tzatziki sauce coated her fingers. Without a
thought, she licked her thumb and forefinger clean – it would be a shame to
waste something so delicious. Besides, no one knew her or rightfully cared what
she was doing.
              Her gaze wandered over to the children playing tag. To the small
clusters of colored flowers among the green and grey. To the men and women in
suits returning from their lunch break to another four or five or six hours of
desk-job hell. And in that throng of passersby: a familiar head of black and
grey curls. A familiar hungry gaze too dark to make out the color of his
irises.
              Suddenly, Sansa felt all the blood go to her face.
              Her uncle Petyr was stopped in the center of a walkway. How long
he was there, she couldn’t say.
              But she could guess – from the way his hand clutched the green
plastic container of his food, the way she could make out a twitch in his cheek
despite how far he was.
              He’d watched her eat her gyro, watched the disaster splay out all
over her skin. Watched as she licked white cream from her fingers, carefully
lapping over to clean it all.
              And he’d watched her talk with Harry.
              And now he was...what, jealous? Of a boy half his age?
              And now Sansa was...what, confused? Of the way her uncle seemed
to mark her as something more than a niece? Of the way she just knew he
pictured something else than a gyro’s fillings coating her fingers?
              The way she could feel his burning gaze gliding all over her body
– yes, he was thinking things far, far worse than that.
              Long, long, long seconds ticked by. Sansa tried to count her
heartbeats, but they were a frantic thing. Finally, her uncle continued his
steps, faster than he had to have been walking before. He bumped shoulders with
an older woman, not bothering to apologize in his haste to get the fuck out.
Not once looking back at Sansa.
              Suddenly, she wasn’t hungry any more.
***** petyr *****
Chapter Notes
     [Much, much love to all of you for reading this trash ;*
     I love every single one of you, as much as I love writing our trash
     son.]
              Petyr stared at the piles of folders and papers before him,
plastered in post-its, lit by the harsh white light if his computer monitor.
Sunset (he realized) had long set over King's Landing. There was so much work
he had to get done, too much work. The thickest packet of papers dealing with
that banal retrial. A new case of malpractice (of which the doctor clearly
didn’t know what she was doing despite the ten people now lying in the earth).
A folder of possible new hires and interns for when shit hits the fan in a few
months. The norm.
              Only, Petyr Baelish had done absolutely none of it.
              He smashed the palms of his hands against his eyes. Lights
swirled on the darkness. Waves of light dancing in the black, indeterminate
shapes morphing into uncertain spirals. All of them spinning into the soft
curve of her cheek. The way her hair caught in the light breeze, the afternoon
light, falling in lazy curls over her shoulders. The perfect shape of her lips
as she licked her fingers clean.
              Petyr stared at the monitor until his eyes hurt. Gods, with eyes
closed it was worse.
              What exactly was Petyr Baelish when all he could imagine was the
sight of his niece? Or (if he was being honest), all he could imagine was the
sight of his niece naked, beneath him, panting for more and crying out his name
as she came? The technical term was deranged. Another popular one was a mess.
But a messwas putting it – this thing that tightened his chest, that occupied
his every thought – very, very lightly.
              What the fuck is wrong with me.
              Petyr thought he had part of it under control. There were
meetings in the morning that he forced himself to listen to. Finance of the
firm and an overview of the major cases they were dealing with. Droning voices
and idle chit-chat of How was your weekend and How was the gala and all that
shit. It was cause for celebration that he onlythought of fucking his niece
four times during that hour and a half.
              He threw himself into his work after that. Petyr thought whatever
ache in his chest (and his cock) had started to die down. Even when Myranda
swung past his office, the cut of her dress borderline scandalous (although it
might just have been the size of her chest swallowing the fabric). “A pity we
couldn't finish what we started last night…” she said with a devilish smile.
She let her hand twirl circles over the top of his mountain of files. Petyr
could guess that she had half a mind to finish itright now. Hells, she would
probably get off on the imagine alone of being fucked in the office at work.
              Would Sansa like that, too? The high of fear that someone (even
the lordly Tywin himself) could walk in just as she was in the throes of her
orgasm? Worse was the thought that Petyr would look that smug bastard in the
eye as he fucked her senseless.
              Fuck. That was number five.
              “I apologize for leaving you alone and wanting,” he said calmly
(a blessing). “But you know how Tywin is.”
              “Of course.” Myranda walked around his desk, placing her hand
atop the arm of his chair. Petyr could see she would much rather place it
somewhere else. He could also confirm that she wasn't wearing a bra. Wyllym
from accounting probably noticed, too. A surprise he wasn’t waiting for Myranda
just outside Petyr’s office. “We could go up to the twenty-fourth floor. And I
could help you get rid of this ache…” She motioned with her chin the growing
hardness caused by Petyr’s unsightly fantasy of taking his niece right here.
Oh, if Myranda knew...
              The twenty-fourth floor. An empty floor notorious for quickies.
The building hadn't managed to fill it for a year now, ever since the
contractors who worked on the new midrise across the street moved out. Petyr,
ashamed as he was to admit it, went there to deal with his late wife when she
was being petulant. Lysa had illusions of grandeur from the trash movies she
would watch, about how exciting it was to tease each other at work without
being caught (Lysa, to no one’s surprise, was terrible at not being caught.
Everyone just pretended that they didn’t see, wished they could bleach their
minds). The floors were thick enough to mask her moans.
              “I would love nothing else, my love,” Petyr finally said,
thinking of the piles of evidence he needed to get through, the financial
summary for the meeting. Anythingto keep his cock from hardening further, from
giving Myranda the wrong impression that he wanted her. “Perhaps later this
week? Or after I've sorted through the Lannister case.”
              If he was honest, he was a little terrified of the look in the
woman's eyes. A dark glinting. Imagining all of the sorts of equally wicked
acts with Petyr, just as Petyr imagined of his niece (did that count as number
six?). Maybe it was the mirrored hunger that worried him about this woman.
Petyr knew exactly what she wanted, and the lengths she would go.
              Myranda left, not before trailing her fingers down his thigh. In
a promise of later.
              Petyr had himself under control, even with that bothersome act.
He was rather proud of how control he had been the rest of the morning. Until
what he'd seen this afternoon.
              On his way back from grabbing lunch, his head and heart and cock
momentarily freed from the clutches of his niece. Walking through the streets
gave him the mercy of turning his mind off. Of not having to think – about the
case, about how to deal with Myranda’s affections, or how Sansa's hand would
have felt around his cock when he jerked off last night.
              Guildhall Plaza was thronging with people getting to and from
work. A couple of kids ran past him straight into a bed of flowers. Tourists
took photos of the Sept, of the Red Keep, of whatever dumb things caught their
interest. Petyr let his feet carry him along the path, his mind and gaze
wandering without focusing.
              And there she was.
              Sitting alone, staring at the people getting to and from work,
the kids running into the flowers, the tourists photographing everything.
Eating, watching.
              Petyr didn’t realized he had stopped moving until he saw the boy
walk up to her. Petyr’s hand gripped his salad takeout, imagining it was the
boy’s throat. The boy pestered Sansa, smiling, laughing, urging her to like him
back (at least enough to fuck him, Petyr thought. Why else would a boy like
that (and how old was he anyways? Older than Sansa, but much younger than
Petyr) talk to someone as beautiful and unaware as Sansa?) Sansa had the
courtesy to laugh at whatever he said, to smile and take his number. To watch
as he left to gods-knew-where and gods-didn’t-give-a-fuck.
              Rip it up , Petyr chanted as Sansa stared at the slip of paper.
She was thinking the same thing. She was leaving in two weeks, anyways, what
was the point of entertaining a boy who wanted only to get in her pants?
              Only she tucked his number into her pocket and kept eating.
              Drugs. Assault. Murder. There were any number of ways Petyr could
frame the boy and get him the fuck out of the way. Petyr had plenty of favors
he could cash in, too.
              What is the boy guilty of, the judge would say. Aside from the
planted drugs or accused murder... Just for talking to Sansa? No, for giving
her his fucking number. His winning smiles. Petyr watched him weave through the
crowd, keeping an eye on Sansa, while Petyr wondered if the boy would still be
smiling when he beat the shit out of him.
              But Sansa was probably interested in him. That was normal , being
interested in people one's age. For a girl as beautiful as her to find someone
as (moderately) beautiful and young attractive. Sansa wasn’t the first girl the
boy courted, nor would she be the last. He tried to ignore the pesky thought,
but it was Petyr whose affections were not where they should be. He was twice
her age, at least. He had already imagined taking Sansa six times that day, and
it was barely past noon.
              Yet his mind caught on the sight of Sansa.
              Whose burrito (or whatever the fuck she was eating) collapsed in
her hands. Leaving her with a mess of cream coating her lips, her chin, her
fingers.
              Petyr’s cock twitched at the sight.
              Sansa freed the napkins from beneath her phone and wiped the mess
away. She looked around, embarrassment coating her cheeks a beautiful red, and
caught the sight of her dear, kind, compassionate uncle. Staring at her with
the single thought that it was his own come splattered on her face.
              Seven.
              Would she use her hands first, or her mouth? A wicked thought
that Sansa had never touched a man’s cock before, that she never had someone
touch her in ways that made her see gods she never knew existed. That – the
next time she sucked him off – Sansa would learn to swallow all of his seed,
staring up at him through batting lashes and ask Did I do a good job?
              Eight nine ten.
              So Petyr wandered up to the twenty-fourth floor bathroom, leaving
his salad in his office for something more pressing. Checked he was alone
before turning the VPN on his phone on. It didn’t take much effort to find
someone palpable and with the same body shape. Titled red head totally pounded
by her uncle(gods the fact that porn had evolved so much since he was a crazed
teenager is astounding). Her boobs were smaller than what he imagined Sansa’s
to be, and the man hadn’t even bothered to play with them as he fucked her (how
novice). But it did the job well enough to rid himself of his hard-on. His
groans echoed off the tiles when he came.
              A fucking helpless mess didn’t even begin to describe what Petyr
was.
              His eyes shot open. Burned at the sight of the documents on the
screen that he was supposed to have gone through already.
              Deep breaths.
              He knew this case when it first came to light four years ago. And
the scandalof Lannister & Baratheon taking it despite the obvious conflict of
interests… Well, Cersei was certainly protective of the things she loved.
              Or the truth: it was easier to manipulate facts and evidence when
the case was under your own scrutiny. A surprise when the judge ruled in
Cersei’s favor when it first went to trial (but only because Petyr had the wits
to bribe him. And the wits that had the case gone south, Petyr would be out of
job and reputation faster than he just came in the twenty-fourth floor
bathroom).
              At this moment, Petyr couldn't relate a one single detail about
the case. But about the lovely girl named Sansa Stark – he could write an
entire dissertation on how she was the prettiest creature in all of Westeros.
On how he wanted to prove hypothesis after hypothesis on what she sounded like
under him, where her hands would find purchase as she rode his cock. Whether
she would beg for more with her cries or with the way her cunt would be wet and
wanting.
              Gods.
              Petyr downed tea that had gone cold an hour ago. The sharp taste
of mint on his tongue was hardly enough to clean the filth in his mind.
              The office wasn't empty – Petyr wasn't sure if the office ever
was truly empty. Someone somewhere furiously working to get work finished
before dawn. Someone somewhere furiously trying to sway their manager with a
quickie, twenty-fourth floor or no.
              “Proposal for retrial of the murder of…” Petyr began to read.,
rubbing the bridge of his nose. Maybe if he drowned himself in work, he
wouldn't be consumed with the itch to fuck his niece when he got back home.
              After all, he was a better man than that.
                                     * * *
              At least, he thought he was a better man than that.
              Petyr got back to his apartments twenty minutes ago, and it was
just past midnight now. He hadn't bothered with dinner, nor bothered to check
if Kella had done her usual housekeeping. She always did, nearly as punctual as
Petyr. How was she doing, he wondered? He needed to take her out for coffee one
of these days, catch up with her life and her children and whether or not she
really was going to take that vacation back to the Vale. To check up on your
old home, she reasoned. Petyr mustered a laugh at the unneeded kindness. Home?
There wasn't much of a home in the Vale, not since he left years ago. He used
to think he lived in a castle when he was a boy. Now, it was hardly a house.
Small? Yes. A little drafty? Yes. Something that Petyr ever wanted to see
again? Hells no.
              Maybe this weekend, Petyr thought, checking his internal
calendar. He had a business trip to Dorne, which he figured he could sneak out
of early. But the weekend felt so far away, too far away. ( What do you plan to
learn , his mind chided. How Sansa likes to be wooed? Which position she
prefers in bed?) A simple check in with Kella. And learn whatever information –
even the smallest detail of something – that she's eked out of Sansa.
              He loosened his tie on the walk home, choosing streets instead of
the metro. Petyr trusted the streets more than the shit he’d seen this late on
the trains. It was late, and a Monday, but the city never truly slept. People
crowded out of the doors of the bars and clubs. A contrasting sight and sound
to the old-world buildings they had taken over. The Sept loomed above it all,
lights highlighting the seven spires. College kids from the university
swaggering between the late-night tourists trying and failing to navigate the
winding streets of King’s Landing. Petyr watched it all. He thought the brisk
breezes off Blackwater Bay would clear away all his uncouththoughts.
              And it had worked.Until now.
              Now…
              Now he found himself outside of his niece’s bedroom. Staring
through the crack in the door. It took those first ten minutes to muster up the
courage (or cowardice? if he truly had the courage, Petyr would have rushed in
and taken Sansa then and there) to carefully, slowly pry the door open an inch.
Then another. He was smart enough to keep the hall light off as he did it.
              Light from the window cast slitted shadows over her, highlighting
the curve of her beneath the covers.
              What am I doing.
              Petyr pried open the door one more inch, so he could see all of
Sansa in that small crack of violation.
              Stop.
              He could feel the weight of his longing pulling at his heart. Or
at least at his cock. Urging him to just go in there, touch her, feel her,
taste her.
              Sansa rustled beneath her sheets. Petyr held his breath. His hand
was still on the doorknob. He could still close it and leave and pretend like
this lapse of utter madnesshadn't taken over all his rationality. Petyr was a
rational man, a calculating man, and the tug in his chest was the furthest
thing from smart.
              She turned, adjusted her head on the pillow. A small purrof
comfort slipped from her mouth.
              But still asleep.
              Petyr let loose his breath, slowly.
              Close the door and go the fuck to bed, you fucking fool.
              A line of light caught her hair, her cheek. Sansa looked too
sweet, too pure. The covers had slid just low enough to reveal her collarbone,
the wide expanse of her skin there. The column of her throat. Petyr counted the
steady rhythm of her breathing.
              He could imagine – with the way she slept so comfortably, the way
his eyes caught on her exposed flesh above the covers – that Sansa was lying,
waiting, naked.
              As if waiting for me.
              Petyr lowered the zip of his pants tooth by tooth. He couldn't
hear the shouting of his thoughts over the pounding of his heart. Only the
whisper of a Stop amongst the thrum of blood, drowned out, before he was
rubbing the length of his cock above his briefs. Fuck, even after he had come
this afternoon, his body craved more.
              His niece did things to him. Did she know that? It was hard to
say – but damn if the thought that she was innocent of her allure was as
intoxicating as the thought that she led him on on purpose. Did she know that
Petyr hadn't bothered with fucking someone since his wife? And that was mostly
to shut Lysa up. Myranda was a curiosity, if anything. A means to an end.
              Petyr hadn't been this hard, this achingfor someone, in years.
              In her sleep, Sansa licked her lips.
              His cock twitched in his hand. Petyr imagined them wrapped around
his cock as he came inside her mouth. Tasting what she did to him. Drinking in
every last drop. The sight from this afternoon with that sauce all over her
mouth. As if she tried to take him all, swallow every last drop, but there was
too much, he was too much. Sansa wiping come from her lips with fingers. Sansa
licking every last bit of it from her hands, hoping to please her uncle. Fuck
if he didn't have that image in his head all day.
              One final call for reason: Stop.
              Petyr pulled himself out of his trousers, too caught up in the
fantasy in his head.
              He heard the echoes of the woman from the porn he watched,
dragged his gaze over her body. It looked enough how he imagined Sansa's –
lithe and beautiful, nipples perked and body rolling against the cock for more.
The cries as the man thrust against her clit. The haggard breathing as she
neared her climax.
              Then the man pulled out, flipped the girl over. Spanked her once,
twice, before sliding his cock back inside her. Rough thrusts, slamming his
hips into the girl’s ass. The girl cried into the sheets as she came. Moaned
even as the man continued to fuck her long after her orgasm, using her however
he wanted.
              Petyr bit his bottom lip, stifled a groan. Fuck, he was close. He
grasped the door frame with his free hand, so tightly it began to creak beneath
his grip. So close, so close.
              There had been the scent of lemons on Sansa when he met her.
Petyr imagined burying his head in the crook of her neck, licking his way down
the valley of her breasts, as he fucked her cunt with abandon. Relishing in the
taste of her skin tinged with citrus. Relishing in her sighs, her moans, her
pleas for faster and oh gods yes there right there Petyr please . As a
dutifuluncle, he would give his niece whatever she wanted.
              And if Sansa begged for his cock – in her hands or her mouth or
her pretty little cunt – then how could Petyr say no?
              Petyr dug his teeth into his lip as he came, so tightly he
thought he tasted metal. Trying against every instinct not to groan like the
animal he had devolved into at the image of fucking his niece. The door frame
creaked beneath his grip.
              Fuck.
              “...hello... ?”
              Fuck.
              Petyr jumped out of her line of sight. His hand over his mouth to
stifle his breathing.
              Did she see?
              Fuck.
              He'd been so damn caught up in his fantasy he hadn't noticed if –
or when – she woke up. If she saw the silhouette of him jerking off. If she
saw, or smelt, his release. If she knewit was her that made Petyr as wanton as
a common street whore.
              But if the gods were kind and Sansa didn'tsee anything, Petyr
would brush it away as a dream. Of course she was imagining things. Of course
her uncle didn't want to fuck her until her legs were numb, until she couldn't
remember any of the names of the gods – old or new – except for the man inside
her.
              Petyr couldn't help but laugh. At himself, mostly. At the mess of
his come in his hand, still warm from the thoughts of fucking his niece. At the
mess of a person he was now.
              Seconds passed. In each of them, Petyr imagined a different
scenario. In one, Sansa was calling the cops to take Petyr away (rightfully
so). In another, Sansa was packing her things, out the door, hailing a cab for
her drunk of an uncle instead of her lecherous one (aka himself).
              In another, Sansa padded into the hall, wide-eyed and curious.
Wiping her finger along the mess in his hand, wondering what it was. Tasting
it. Wondering if he could show her all of the pretty little pictures he used to
get himself off.
              Petyr couldn't deny which scenario he preferred.
              But the one that happened was lackluster. No frantic calling, no
rushed packing, no curiosity. Sansa had fallen back asleep.
              It's for the better.
              Petyr silently closed the door to his own bedroom. Leaning his
head against it and breathed. Listened to the heavy drum of his heart fade
away. Long minutes passed before Petyr washed away the evidenceof his lechery.
              One whisper of logic reasoned that if he just had the smallest
taste, maybe he could forget her.
              As if that would fucking work. Petyr was drunk just on the
sightof Sansa. He knew, deep down, that he wouldn't be able to stop with just a
small taste, a brief touch.
              Petyr wanted it all – allof Sansa.
              Of course he couldn't touch his niece. She was a fucking child.
( That didn't stop you from imaging all the ways you could take her cunt , his
mind whispered). Of course he couldn't touch his niece, she didn't want him
like he ached for her. There was that boy this afternoon. Someone younger,
someone her age, would be best ( That didn't stop you from thinking how to
incriminate him for life. Or how to cleanly wipe him off the face of Westeros).
              Of course he couldn't do anything. Because Petyr didn't know how
far into madness he would go. How far he would let the allure of Sansa Stark
drag him down until he wasn't a person anymore.
              Petyr dropped his face in his hands. Stared at the darkness
behind his eyelids.
              Gods, this was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.
***** sansa *****
Chapter Notes
     [I hope all of you stay on board the Sin Train as I continue to take
     us downwards into the darkest recesses from whence we can never
     return.
     Enjoy~]
 
               “...hello…?”
               There was a rustle, a creak. Though all of it might have been
the sounds of the building, or of King’s Landing seeping up through the window.
If she listened close enough, Sansa could hear the revving of cars as they
ripped apart the silence lingering over empty streets. The faint lapping of
waves off in the distance beyond the lit monolith that was the Red Keep. And
fainter than all of that: people. Murmurs of conversations, shouts to party,
whispers of acts spoken in the dark alleys.
                It was just a dream , her mind urged. A figment of the shadows
of her room and her mind blurring into the unnatural form of her uncle. Nothing
more than a silhouette, an assumption of who it truly was. Doing…. uncouth
things in the crack of her bedroom door.
               Of course it was a dream. He might be the man who  tore  what
remained of her family apart by doting on the horrible lady that was her aunt.
And he might (or  was ) the man who didn't even truly love his own wife whilst
she was dead or alive.
               But he wasn't the sort of man stoop to such depravity as to
pleasure himself  to the sight of her sleeping.
               Was he?
               Only, when Sansa blinked, she swore the shadowy image in her
mind flittered to the face of her betrothed. Kind, warm Willas – older than
her, yes, but far younger than the man who  owned  her for the next two weeks.
Sansa knew Willas was kind, gentle. A bit boring, yes, much preferring the
company of his books than people, even Sansa. But there were worse men to chain
herself to. The tendrils of darkness lining his face stared at her, through
her, like she was nothing to him.
               Again the shadow shifted. This time, the young, sharp edges of
the boy she met that afternoon. Harry. Sun glinting off his hair, the dimples
of his chin deep as he smiled at her with his mouth. Only the dimples were
gone, the golden hue of his eyes nothing more than a whisper in the darkness
that rivaled the deepest depths of the Blackwater. Harry’s lips crawling over
her chin, her neck, never satisfied with taking only the smile from her. Waves
of cold chilling her skin as he did what he wanted.
               Again it changed. This time, the last time, the shadows returned
to reality. Her uncle Petyr. The darkness of his stare not imagined: Sansa had
seen it,  felt  the weight behind it the moment the elevator doors slid apart.
As if something in him snapped. Though now with slits of moonlight falling over
her bed, Sansa didn’t have to imagine what he looked like with that primal
hunger  carving eyes black. She  saw  it despite the shadows, the darkness that
hid the truth behind what he was doing. Perhaps – and she knew it was true –
that it was all  because of  the shadows that he did it.
               She blinked again.
               A door quietly slammed down the hall. Petyr just got home. The
red neon light of her clock said it was past midnight – she wondered (prayed?)
that this was normal for her uncle. If she didn't need to get out of the
apartments because he was hardly there. Kella's gentle words assured her that
he was a workaholic.
               Amongst other things.
               Amongst being someone who cared so little for his  dearly
departed  that scant months after their dear Lysa's passing, Petyr already had
his hands all over another woman. His mouth, too. And his-
               Sansa slammed the pillow over her head.
               She was to be  married  in a few weeks, good gods. She was going
to have a good husband who loved her – not nearly as much as his sister loved
having another female friend, true. A wonderful husband, a warm family full of
people who  wanted  Sansa. People who weren't going to ship her off to some
other family when they tired of looking at her, feeding her.
               And maybe Willas could help Sansa find the rest of her siblings.
Assuming all but Robb were still alive.
               There were worse people to attach herself to. The marriage might
not have all been her idea or her deepest wish (she couldn't deny the numerous
thoughts wishing her own betrothed was as handsome as his younger brother).
Margaery was more than happy to arrange it for her, to make sure Sansa was a
Tyrell as soon as was legally possible. Sansa  loved  them, yes.
               But she was loath to replace her wolf's heritage so quick.
               Something she would never say to Willas or Margaery or their
sharp grandmother. Sansa only ever smiled and nodded and went along with what
they wished of her.
               The sliver of hallway between the door and the frame was black
as pitch. Gods knew what sorts of monsters lurked just outside the room with
sharp teeth and wild eyes.
               Or the one that lurked at the other end of the hall.
               She had only forgotten to shut her door.
               Of course.
                                     * * *
               Sansa didn’t get much sleep.
               Her mind was a  terrible  thing. A  vile  thing.
               It finally settled enough on the kind lie (she realized sometime
around two-thirty that yes, it  was  her uncle. Her imagination wasn’t  that
impure to come up with the scenario on its own. That outside her room wasn't a
flutter of the shadows or the sounds of the city below: her uncle (her
guardian, her replacement father) touched himself at the mere sight of her
sleeping, unknowing. She shuddered). But her mind had weaved a dream worse than
the truth of what she had woken up to.
               The elevator doors had slid open without their usual  ding.
Sansa looked down at her hands, her body, to find that she didn't have one. A
ghost, an invisible spectator. Looked up to see where her body had
materialised.
               Into the roving hands of her uncle.
               The woman from that first night – with her low-cut dress, with
her lips locked onto the man's neck and her hands trailing slowly around to the
front of his waist – wasn't the buxom woman with chestnut curls or a wicked
glint in her eye.
               It was Sansa.
               Sansa watched in horror as she saw her own body arch into her
uncle’s ministrations along her back. The way he let his fingers dip  just
slightly  between the barrier of skin and fabric. How they ventured a fraction
lower with each passing. How Sansa (the ghost of her, not the  wanton thing  in
her body) mewled into Petyr’s neck as his fingers finally found the courage to
probe deeper. Sansa’s body rocked in tune with his movements.
                Stop , she tried to scream at herself.
                Stop , she tried to pry them apart (“them” because Sansa
couldn't believe it was truly her doing such  lewd  things. That it was truly
her  moaning  at such roaming touches).
               That it was her that found courage, too, to reach for his need.
               She snapped awake.
               Sansa slapped the side of her head, buried her face under the
pillow, did  anything  with the sliver of hope that she could silence her
brain.
               It didn't work. Not to quiet the frantic hammering in her chest
when she awoke. Or the damning wetness between her legs.
                I need to get out of here.
               Out of the apartments for the day. Because the realization of
what her uncle had done and the sickening understanding that some deep, vile
part of herself  liked it  enough to conjure up that nightmare – Sansa wouldn’t
be able to think of nothing else if she stayed cooped up here.
               Out of King’s Landing. Which would be harder on her own. And
without the money inherited to her once she became legally and adult.
               Out of her life. Well, Sansa had nothing, no one. For the next
two weeks,  this  was her life.
               Great.
               Sansa padded outside her room. It was quiet and dark, the sun
not quite awake either. A sort of muted greyness blanketed the walls and floor
that made the world feel just a bit  off , just a bit  unreal . Gods if that
wasn't how Sansa felt right now.
               At the one end of the hall was more darkness. Whether the door
was closed or open, she couldn't tell. She didn't dare investigate.
               To the kitchen, then. Her stomach grumbled at the mere thought
of food – and then felt queasy at the mere remembrance of what happened the
last time she ate food. At how her uncle stared at her with his own sort of
hunger removed from any notion of food.
               No matter what she did, her  kind  uncle was always there.
               But hunger trumped embarrassment (was that the reason for her
flushed cheeks and clammy hands?). Sansa grabbed the refrigerator handle,
leaving it there as she leaned her head against the frame and stared out the
wall-to-wall window. King’s Landing wasn’t awake, either. Bright lights tearing
through the not-quite-morning. Birds chirped from atop parapets.
               At least the view was spectacular. She couldn't help but feel
just a tiny bit like a princess trapped in a tall tower. Just a tiny bit,
trapped with the dragon that kept her imprisoned. Only, in children’s stories
the dragon was  just  a monster.
                Two weeks,  she reminded herself. She could get through this.
               Sansa scanned the shelves of the fridge, forgetting how well-
stocked and how healthy all of her choices were. Not  a lot  necessarily – if
Petyr got home around midnight every night, what's the point in letting all
this food spoil? – but still more than a newly-made bachelor should have. Did
Petyr even know how to cook? Or was that what Kella was for, to help out with
household this and that, and cook and clean. All for the price of dealing with
such a terrible man.
               Well, maybe not  terrible  to most. Sansa couldn't say who her
uncle was outside of the three encounters with him. But he was three for three
on  improper .
               Especially – and this was a big one – because Sansa was still a
child in the eyes of the law.
               An  engaged  child, true. But she  did  consent to the
engagement ( because no one else would have me ). And she had only had a small
swarm of butterflies in her tummy since she said  Yes . But her planned
marriage to Willas was different than whatever this was going on between her
and Petyr.  This  being a one-sided infatuation.  This  being nothing at all.
               Wasn't it?
               Sansa came back from her thoughts, not realizing she had pulled
out all the fixings for an omelette. She had been in the process of finding a
bowl and pan, which she vaguely remembered while helping Kella yesterday.
               It helped, cooking. Letting her mind and body focus on the
individual actions: cracking the egg, adding pepper and spinach and mushrooms,
buttering the pan and sliding the mixture in. Watching little bubbles form on
the edges.
               Harsh lights flicked on.
               “What are you doing, making food in the dark?”
               Sansa spun around, spatula in hand and likely a frenzied look of
terror akin to a bear caught rummaging through tents. She remembered the sight
of one, one summer her and her family went camping in Wolfswood National Park.
One of her brothers (none of them confessed) hadn't locked the tent properly.
That bear sauntered with all of their food and one of their sleeping bags.
               But Sansa felt far from a powerful bear in this moment. More
like a deer caught frozen in the headlights of a speeding car.
               Especially with the far-from-inconspicuous way Petyr let his
eyes travel across her body.
               Each time he did this – the first when she had barely gotten
here, and this now definitely not the last. Each time felt like he just saw her
for the first time, and couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful she was. The
boy from yesterday, Harry, gave her a similar look, though less refined. More
like he couldn't wait to get into her pants and knew that he could (Sansa had
Margaery stave off the boys back in Highgarden, even before she proposed the
marriage). And Willas only ever look at her like her brothers might have. Not
at all like a man should beam at the sight of his future wife.
               But this look was...different. Darkness in Petyr’s eyes,
unblinking. Not wanting to miss a single millisecond of absorbing her – from
the bedhead flyaways, down her chin, her neck, and across the expanse of her
clothed chest. So much different from any sort of look Sansa got. Hungry.
               Too bad he was her  uncle.
               Thank the gods for the island separating them. Sansa didn't want
to feel the heavy heat of his eyes roaming over her legs bare save for sleeping
shorts. Nor did she want Petyr to see how her legs shook beneath his gaze.
               She could see the effort in tearing his eyes away towards his
watch. How long had it been? Seconds? Minutes? An eternity. “Rather early for
breakfast, isn't it?”
               Was it early? She hadn't bothered to check the clock since the
second time she woke from a restless sleep. But she  knew . How early it was.
That her uncle had still been around.
               A whisper told her she was tempting fate. Another said she was
enjoying that thrill.
               “I don’t think it’s ever too early. Especially after a late-
night workout.”
               The corner of Petyr's mouth twitched. But he didn't say or do
anything but cock his head to the side in a motion of  Whatever do you mean?
               Perhaps she had been a little  too  obvious.
               Sansa quickly added, “Would you like some?”
               That little twitch flared again, more obvious this time. Petyr
went so far as to traverse around the island, standing next to her. His
briefcase separated them – as much of a measure of propriety for her as it was
for him. “As good as it smells – is that mushrooms? – unfortunately I'm already
running late.”
               Sansa reached for his free wrist to check the time. “It's
only...six-fifteen?”
               Petyr didn't reply, not in the next second or the one after.
Five. Ten. Sansa felt the roll of his veins beneath her fingers; the quick
rhythm of blood in tune with the heavy heart between her own ribs. The warmth
that traveled where their skin touched skin. Hardly a point of contact – wrist
and fingers – but Sansa couldn't bring it in her to let go.
               Petyr didn't move, either.
               Both of them were staring at the omelette, at the sweat
condensing on the mushroom and the wilting spinach. The bubbles lining the edge
were side-by-side. Neither would admit (and maybe this was only Sansa
projecting her own ridiculous thoughts) that if she looked up, she wasn’t sure
what she would do. Wasn’t sure if her damned heart would combust.
               Slowly, as if reluctant to do so, Petyr softly removed his arm
from her grip.
               There was that little spark of thrill again. Or of  madness .
Tempting the beast before her.
               Sansa liked it. She never had this sort of thrill, this sort of
power , when it came to Willas. Or Harry, though there wasn’t much there for
comparison. But this  thing  that sent her blood pounding...it was
electrifying.
               Sansa hated that she liked it.
               “You'd best go, then,” she finally said, taking a small step to
the side and finding her omelette infinitely more interesting than her uncle.
It sizzled when she flipped it – only slightly burnt. Found it infinitely more
interesting than the way her blood was a flurry in her ears.  From touching his
wrist, gods.
               Petyr – he was close enough (or not close enough?) that Sansa
could smell the hint of mint on his breaths – let loose a long exhale. Like
he'd been holding it in the moment he flicked the light on. “Of course. Enjoy
your breakfast.”
               He left the trace of his warmth and mint as he left, calling the
elevator. Sansa loosened her grip on the spatula, her fingers sore.
               “Oh, and sweetling?” he called from the elevator.
               Sansa turned to look at him.
               A bad decision. She saw (through the loose cascade of her hair)
that Petyr was reluctant to keep his eyes from where they wanted to stay. Would
he stay if she asked?
               Did she  want  him to stay?
               The thought burst with his words: “Have Kella tale you shopping.
Clothes, perhaps?”
                Ding.  And he was gone.
               It was then Sansa realized she wasn't wearing a bra.
                                     * * *
               “What about this one, dear?”
               Kella held out a simple wool cardigan with a lace pattern
covering the back. Sansa tried her best to focus on it, on the ensemble that
Kella was picking out for her. Cute and simple. But her mind was miles away. In
the kitchen of her uncle's apartments, to be precise.
               All she could do was analyze and overanalyze and over-
overanalyze  where  her dear uncle's gaze had lingered this morning. Could he
see  that Sansa had nothing on beneath her sleep cami? Could he  see  what his
proximity, what that brief touch, affected her?  Of course you idiot.  It
didn’t take three brain cells to realize that he was a man who struggled with
his own desire to  touch  her. Sansa read enough cheesy romance novels (to the
shock of godsly septas) to know what men wanted.
               Like how he wanted her when he touched himself in the dark
hallway. Like how he must have imagined what her breasts looked like beneath
her cami. Or imagined the rest of her, naked, beneath him.
               Moaning for him like she had in her dream.
               Sansa shook her head. Clamped her hands around her face. She was
burning. She wondered if her cheeks were as red as her hair.
               “It's pretty,” Sansa managed to remember to reply, removing her
hands to smile at the woman. Kella, thankfully, didn't say anything.  Forget
about him. You. Are. Engaged.  “What do you think about this one?” Sansa
grabbed one at random.
               Kella studied it as if Sansa meant to grab it.  Tsked  as she
shook her head slowly. “No, I don't think so. You're too young to be showing
that much stomach.”
               “You're right.” Sansa put it back without thinking too long on
the thought of: Would Petyr like it?
                Willas . Would Willas like it?
               Because that’s who she was engaged to, who her body and soul and
heart belonged to. Not some random boy who gave her his number. And certainly
not her uncle.
               “I think I should go try these on before you drown under them,”
she said with a smile.
               She was always smiling.
               Kella led Sansa to the fitting room and offered to find matching
boots. Sansa only gave her her thanks before locking herself in the closet.
Following the motions of stripping and trying on the first of what felt like
infinite outfits.
               They  were  cute, that she had to concede. Kella was older, but
she had good taste.
                Bzzt.
               Sansa fished through the pile of her clothes for her phone. Like
she thought: Margaery.
                Hey girl!!! Hope you're doing good in KL. Miss you though :
( Can it be the eighth already cause I can't wait to be your big sister!!!! lol
:*
               Sansa tapped out a simple reply boiling down to: Yeah I'm good,
miss you too can't wait either!
               Her thumbs paused above the keyboard, debating adding a second
text.
               Margaery was always preaching about women having the intrinsic
right to do whatever they want. Or: to do whomever they wanted. Sansa loved the
frankness of her friend, how easy it was to talk with her (even if Sansa kept
most of her thoughts and fears to herself).
               What would Margaery say if Sansa said her uncle fancied her?
               Or: that she  might  have a little itty bitty part that might
(maybe) have fancied him, too?
               “Between you and me,” Kella began from the other side of the
changing room door. It sounded like she went to go rummaging through the racks
for more wintery clothes. Did she know that Sansa was only here for a few
weeks? “That boy has too much money with nothing to spend it on. No point in
letting it wither. Might as well use it for him.”
                That boy  was Petyr. Which showed just a fraction of who he was
to the woman, and who Kella was to him. It also made Sansa like Kella more than
she already did.
               But Sansa saw the glittering ring on her aunt's hand.
               She didn't so much want to be here anymore.
               “I found this one, dear.” Kella slung several sets of clothes
still on their hangers over the door with a resounding  clack . “Is there
anything else you need?”
                Bzzt.
               A terrible thought overcame Sansa as she looked at the photos
her friend sent her. An endless flurry of white. Could she convinced Petyr to
buy her one with his  too much money . Maybe.
               But not as a one-way request. Petyr would  want  something from
her. That’s how all the men in books were: a quid pro quo. This for that. A
beautiful white wedding dress that turned Sansa into the most beautiful
creature in the world. In exchange… Well, judging from what he took last night
( whilst I was asleep , she thought), Sansa couldn't ignore the flutter in her
stomach.
               No.
               Petyr would only buy her a wedding dress if Sansa was to be  his
bride. Which couldn't happen. Wouldn't happen.
                Willas , she chanted to herself. A mantra to remind her vile
brain to step straying so far into the shadows.
               She sent a quick  Busy but they're sooooo pretty omg  to
Margaery before undoing the buttons of the first set of clothes. There were so
many. Kella definitely missed having someone to dote over. Did she do the same
with little Robert? Maybe. “No I'm good. Thank you so much, Kella.”
               “Of course. Let me know when you've finished.”
               “Actually…” Sansa interrupted the woman’s steps. She turned to
the closed door, seeing the housekeeper through the slats. “Can I ask you
something? Girl to girl?”
               “Anything.”
                Be careful what you say , Sansa told herself. Kella was a kind
woman who had too much love, yes. But she was still  Petyr's.  He paid her in
money, and she paid him in labor – and in secrets.
               And if Sansa didn't tell Kella, her only other option was
Margaery. And  that  might not go so well given the small little fact that her
future sister-in-law was busy planning her wedding.
               “There's this...boy I ran into yesterday,” Sansa began. Petyr
had been there, so no worries in that regard. “And he...offered to take me out
on a date.” Not true, but from Harry’s hounding it wouldn’t be difficult to
arrange that. “But. But I already like another boy.” Actually  engaged  to
another boy. A man. “How should I, um, deal with him?”
               The silence was too much, the truth too embarrassing for Sansa,
that she couldn't help but finish fumbling with the buttons of the blouse for
want of something to do. She got all of the try-on clothes off and was
rummaging through the hangers on the door when finally Kella answered. “How
much do you like the other boy? The one you already like?”
                A lot, I suppose. I’m going to marry him, after all.
               Sansa couldn’t help but worry she wasn’t thinking about Willas.
She bit her lip. “More than I like this new boy.”
               “And does he love you back?”
                Does he?  Willas was kind, and gentle, and quiet. He much
preferred the company of books than her, but that's because Sansa was still a
child. But still. After Margaery made a sweeping announcement at dinner one
night – all of the Tyrells toasted, loving Sansa as their own in the years she
was forcibly tossed to them. After all those well wishes and endless cups,
Willas only gave her a chaste kiss to the back of her hand and wished her good
night.
               Nothing at all like the grand declarations Sansa loved in novels
and movies.
               Perhaps that's only the way he showed his affection. Perhaps
that's what Sansa wanted to believe as she twisted an invisible ring around her
finger.
               “Yes.”  He would not marry me if he didn't at least care.
               “Well, Sansa,” the housekeeper began. A pause, as if she too
didn't know how Sansa should deal with this. “There's no harm in testing the
waters. You're too young to hitch yourself to one guy without seeing what else
is out there. I sure as hells never found  the one .” She said it with as much
sarcastic emphasis as possible.
               “Yeah.” Because the fact that Sansa even  considered  going out
with Harry was the smaller of the issues. (She didn’t dare dwell on the more
menacing one). And now another issue of Sansa might having settled too early.
Something she hadn't even bothered to think of as an issue until she came to
King's Landing. Two days ago.
               “Does your uncle know?”
                Why would that matter , was Sansa's first thought.
               And then:  of course if mattered.  Sansa saw plainly how Petyr
stared at her with an intense fire not even Harry had come close to. How – even
from the distance – she saw how tightly his fingers clenched. As if imagining
it was the boy's throat. “Sort of.”
               “Then there shouldn't be an issue. You're  young . Go out and
have fun before life swallows you. Just be safe.”
               “Thanks, Kella. I'll… I'll let you know when I finish.”
               “Okay, dear. I hope that helped?” Footsteps echoed out of the
room until Sansa was left with her thoughts and the mountain of clothes. Her
body went on auto-pilot, pulling on pants and sweaters and blouses, not at all
registering what she was doing.
               She tried on only half off the clothes Kella brought her,
suddenly not in the mood to buy anything.
               Sansa stared at herself in the mirror.
               She was wearing only her undergarments and socks. Hair tied back
in a loose braid, strands popping out from putting on and taking off a plethora
of clothes. Hardly a  look,  that’s for sure.
               Worse was the flash of a smirk that popped in her mind. If Sansa
stared closer enough at her reflection, she could see it, see  him  standing
just behind her. That wicked gleam in his eyes. The minute shaking of clenched
fist as he fought against touching her (though he had no qualms touching
himself ).
               She watched the phantom of him trail his eyes down her body.
Watched as he stepped close, so close she imagined the taste of mint from his
breath. Aching to touch her, taste her – but staving off that deep, dark
hunger.
               There was something...what? She didn’t have word for it. Just
something  about the effect she had on him that made her delirious. Made her
ache for that feeling again.
               She dressed quickly, not bothering to put the haphazard mess of
clothes clothes away (she felt so guilty for that). But this  foolish ,
idiotic, flat-out-reckless thought would disappear if she didn't grab it now.
               “Actually, Kella,” she called out weaving through the racks. The
woman turned, hands stopping fishing for more clothes. A blatant confusion
creasing between her brows.  What the fuck are you doing . Sansa spoke before
her mind realized what the fuck she  was  doing.
               Something completely, irreparably, foolish.
               Something completely new and exciting and wrong.
               “There  is  something I'd like to get, if you don't mind?”
 
***** petyr *****
Chapter Notes
     [Shout out to each and every one of y’all for loving this trash
     story!!!! I love reading your thoughts. And I love being the
     conductor on our journey into Sin Town :)
     Now if you look out your windows on your left, you’ll see a man
     struggling with what he knows he shouldn’t want, yet can’t stop
     wanting it...]
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
               Petyr was a mess. (He had said that already, didn’t he? Yes, and
now he was losing track of how many times he realized it. Likely getting close
to a hundred by now). But with each passing day – and  gods  was it really only
Wednesday? – this sick, twisted part of him dragged him further and further
down.
                ...especially after a late-night workout,  Sansa had said. Had
alluded . Whilst staring at him directly. Whilst her nipples peaked beneath
that thin shirt, practically  begging  to be played with. Petyr’s cock hardened
just at the sight of Sansa standing her own ground. Granted, she deflected the
question shortly after, but it did nothing to ease his desire for her.
               Oh, the things he wanted to do to her breasts.
               The corner of his mouth twitched.
               “What are you smiling about?”
               Petyr glanced up at Varys, eyebrow raised in a delicate arch. He
wondered (and not for the first time) how much the bald man paid to keep
himself so pristine. But asking that question meant that they were something
akin to friends – and neither of them wanted to admit that.
               “Just...nothing of interest,” Petyr deflected.
               “I see,” Varys mused. Because civility required him to say
something, not friendship. He finished writing notes – in a neat hand, too, as
if he wasn’t capable of being anything but. “How has your niece been?”
               Petyr bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check.
Varys – like Tywin, like anyone of good moral senses – wouldn’t respond well to
the truth. The rational part of himself shrank at the truth, so much so that
Petyr couldn’t help but wonder where he’d gone. Where was that rationality
during those a hundred scenarios when he pictured what he’d do to Sansa?
Nowhere to be found. So Petyr just said, “It’s fine. She’s fine.”
               He couldn’t help but stare at the other man, wondering on
something he once said during a company mixer. Varys made no motion to drink,
and Petyr asked why. Petyr knew that drinking was as much a part of civility
during work events as was saying  bless you  when someone sneezed. Nobody drank
the free cheap alcohol because it tasted good, that was for sure.
                So you don’t drink. Let me guess, you don’t fuck either?
               Varys looked  tired , if anything, at the jape. Like he’d heard
it a million times before.  No , he said calmly, his shoulders barely moving in
a shrug. And left.
               Petyr couldn’t help but wonder: how  freeing  it must be not to
have this clawing urge. An urge that was mostly absent whilst married to Lysa,
because, well, it was  Lysa . But even Petyr felt the twitch in his cock enough
during his years as a teenager and especially his years at university to
experiment. To  enjoy  what his body could bring him. But to be rid of the
incessant reminders of his niece – to be able to get through a single damn day
without imagining infinite scenarios of how and where and when he’d take her…
Gods, that must be nice.
               Couldn’t help but tease the question up his throat, onto his
tongue. Tasted the first syllables. Instead, he swallowed it.
               As Petyr noted – they weren’t friends.
               “I’m sure she’s found things to do in the city?” Varys said,
bringing Petyr back into the harsh reality of office lighting and air
conditioning.
               “I think.”
               “...like?”
               Petyr tried to swallow the retort of  Why do you care . Except
this was small talk. This was insignificant chit-chat that was required of
coworkers. Petyr detested it. “Exploring the city, I imagine. And–" his teeth
ground against each other "–she met some boy.”
               “Exciting,” the bald man said in an unenthused voice.
               “Hm.”
               “It’s a good thing that Robert passed so suddenly,” Varys said.
“How tragic – I’m so sorry for your loss.” Petyr let out an acknowledging
grunt. “Though I couldn’t imagine you as a father, in truth. Too much occupied
with your work. I’m sure Robert would have missed your company, and Sansa,
too.”
               Too occupied with work? Well, recent days would prove otherwise:
something red-haired occupied Petyr’s thoughts incessantly. “And you aren’t?”
               The bald man shrugged, a small movement as to not wrinkle the
fine fabric of his clothes. “I suppose I’m the same as you, I imagine.”
                Except you don’t have a niece as beautiful as Sansa. Except you
don’t have this ache to fuck her .
               Petyr finally understood Varys, just a bit.
               “Now, let’s go into the numbers for the second quarter…” Varys
began.
               Their meeting was a momentary reprieve to the impure thoughts in
his mind, allowing for enough clarity to get some work done. Not all of it –
and certainly not to the standards that Petyr set for himself. But enough to
keep Tywin from pestering him. At least, from pestering him about what was
keeping him from completing work.
                Oh I just have a constant hard-on for my niece, and it makes it
a tad difficult to get anything done when I just want to fuck her senseless .
               Well, if Petyr wanted to get fired, that wouldn’t be the worst
resignation letter. Probably up there next to  I was accidentally caught
fucking my own sister in the president’s office .
               He wondered if their come stained the oak desk.
               The sun was setting when Varys finally left Petyr’s office,
satisfied with all the mindless auditing that the firm was undergoing. A
routine thing, to make sure no information – or money – was being siphoned into
anyone’s pockets. Mostly to keep Lannister & Baratheon in the public’s good
graces. Everyone here knew how willing – and often – the Lannisters were in
bribery. A sure method to win misconstrued confessions in court, or to prompt a
heart-wrenching cry for the jury. Petyr wormed his way into this office – with
its view of the city – by being  the man  the Lannisters routinely went to.
               He found it easy to read what people wanted. Someone to fuck,
usually. Drugs or alcohol. Guarantees that they wouldn’t go to jail for lying.
Guarantees that the other person  would  face time. He didn’t give them it –
that was someone else’s job, someone else to dirty their hands.
               A lesson Petyr only broke once. Well, twice.
               The sun was setting over King’s Landing, brilliant brushstrokes
of deep reds and oranges and yellows filtered through the smattering of clouds.
The monstrous buildings of glass and steel cast heavy shadows across the narrow
streets.
               He couldn’t stop staring at the sunset. At the vibrancy of the
world in this moment of time.
               An image flashed like autumn lightning: Sansa, splayed on his
bed, her rich auburn hair a veil surrounding flushed cheeks. A lazy smile on
her lips. Deep Tully blue eyes fluttering closed – too tired, too spent, to
keep them open.
               Her fucking beautiful body the canvas upon which he itched to
paint his sin. Flesh that was hardly porcelain, so fragile. Ivory, maybe, or
even a fired steel that would endure his demanding desires. The crescents of
his teeth finding their way from her throat to her breasts. Ten dark circles
where he’d gripped her hips, pounding relentlessly into her. The angry red at
the join of her neck where his mind  needed  a stark reminder that she was
used, that she was claimed. By him. As if his seed slipping from between her
legs wasn’t enough. It never would be, not where Sansa was concerned.
               He had a sudden craving for lemons.
               Petyr downed the rest of the cold black coffee. Headed to the
break room to make himself a steaming cup of mint tea to chase away that awful
taste. Coffee wasn’t his preference, especially when the night was this young.
But damn if the bitter flavor didn’t help distract his mind. Especially when
the admin refilled the cupboards with tea, and as if by some will of the gods,
stacked the unopened box of  I Love Lemon  above the near-empty  Refresh Mint .
And beside those: a box of  Passion .
               He closed the door (with a little too much force, startling
himself) as he let the scent of spearmint and tarragon tickle his nose. Inhaled
it – wishing it could clean more than the stain of coffee on his tongue.
               Which was good. If Petyr could have smelt her – that hint of
lemon ever-present on her skin mixed with the taste of  her … If Petyr could
have discerned whether or not Sansa had gotten off on the knowledge that he'd
been just outside her door, jacking off – he wasn't sure what his body would
have done.
               Taken her on the counter, probably.
               An animal. A monster. That's what he had devolved into in three
fucking days. And Petyr was meant to take care of her  like a kind father  for
another week and a half? This was torture. Madness.
               Oh, but wasn't he a monster already, for different reasons?
That, he couldn't deny. That, he couldn't help but weigh which was worse in the
eyes of humanity.
               Well, now it was obvious. A physical manifestation of that base
thing that he both so desperately wanted to release and to lock away. When he
heard Sansa rummaging through the kitchen as he dressed, he had half a mind to
let her finish and show up late to the office (he’d done it before, and a late
morning meant a late night and less chance to run into her).
               But his feet moved of their own, pulled forward into a newfound
field of gravity, until he was standing at the end of the hall in the grey
darkness, watching her. Doing something so....domestic. It felt worse than the
stain of his come on his hands in a pitch-black hallway.
               It felt as if whatever thing between them was established,
normal. That they were actually  a thing . That this was how all mornings
started: her hair unbrushed (a wild tangle from when he had his fingers gripped
in the auburn), her clothes light and loose (though the sight of her making
breakfast wearing nothing at all? Or better yet, his discarded shirt, the
buttons undone, the scent of her lingering on the fabric as he imagined what
he’d done), a small smile on her lips (as she recounted all the ways he made
her happy. And by the gods, Petyr would make sure Sansa could never reach the
end of that list).
               The lightswitch gave a small  click . And that taunting thought
vanished with the darkness.
                Don’t be a fool , Petyr chided himself. Watched as strands of
her hair flew around her cheeks as Sansa startled around, staring at him with
spatula in hand. As she did nothing to cover her chest – and said nothing as he
let his eyes get their fill of what he couldn’t see in the night.
                You just want to fuck her. Don’t pretend like you actually care
.
               Don’t pretend to care; as he asked her why she was making
breakfast so early.
               Don’t pretend to care; as she gripped his wrist and he felt her
heartbeat – a quick tempo, matching his own. Her skin so warm, so soft.
               Just don’t.
               If Petyr blinked, he could recreate the curve of Sansa’s
breasts. The way her nipples peaked slightly against the fabric – as if she was
aching  for him. As if she could read the thoughts – both vile and domestic –
and said  Yes please I want that too.
                Yes please, Petyr, give it to me .
               There had been a momentary flash of fear when he couldn’t help
but inform her ( how kind of you ) that she should go shopping with Kella. How
her hands had begun to cover herself just as the elevator doors slid closed.
               He’d gone maybe a floor before Petyr slammed the  Stop  button
and relieved himself in the elevator. Stared at his reflection in the mirror –
and couldn’t help but picture Sansa’s face staring back at him through it as he
took her from behind.
               His cock  needed  something more than his own hand.
               His cock  wanted  Sansa. So. Fucking. Badly.
               “...what do you think, Petyr?”
               He blinked.
               She was beautiful, that was true. Any man (and many women) would
love to feel her sultry gaze focused only on them. Her mouth, her hands, the
weight of her body as they fucked her.
               A pity Petyr's attentions were firmly elsewhere.
               He glanced down at the menu, oblivious to whatever question she
asked. Answered blindly: “Everything is good, though the steaks are absolutely
divine. Paired with a ten-year Dornish Red.”
               The woman stared at him through heavy lashes. She’d outdone her
makeup tonight, heavier than the mask she applied on Sunday. Her eyeshadow
pulled on his gaze – which was saying something, given how much smaller her
dress was tonight. Not what she had worn to work, despite the fact that Petyr
didn’t bother to change. He’d devoured case files until his alarm told him to
get his ass to the restaurant. But the woman’s efforts were obvious. No doubt
where she was expecting the night to go. “I suppose I’ll have whatever you’re
having. Though I do hope there’ll be time enough for  dessert …”
               He flicked his eyes at her and gave her a wicked smile to match
her own. “I should hope so.”
               Petyr only felt  a little bad  that he was treating Myranda as a
thing to relieve himself. As a niece stand-in ( At least I’m buying her dinner
).
               More than that, it was a matter of self-preservation. Petyr
wouldn’t put it past Myranda to have noticed  something  during her brief
meeting with Sansa on Sunday. Wouldn’t put it past the woman with bountiful
cleavage and thickly-drawn eyeliner not to catch the sudden shift in Petyr’s
attention, the way his cock finally hardened at the sight of what it truly
wanted.
               Keeping Myranda close was safe, even if it was detestable an
act. At the least he would be able to release all of his energy to the
imagination of a lithe redhead.
               “Your niece is lovely,” Myranda said, and if Petyr didn’t know
better he’d think the woman read his mind.
               He forced himself to think of the cases piled on his desk. A
malpractice suit that would be easy to dismiss in court. A homicide done in an
act of passion that he was waiting to hear back from Lothor in the police
department about  accidentally misplaced  evidence. The stupid retrial.
               Anything but the beautiful girl with the perky breasts making an
omelette in his kitchen. Anything but how he wanted to lift her on the counter
and taste her beautiful cunt. Would she taste like lemons and sin?
               Fuck, this wasn’t going to work.
               “She is,” Petyr said finally, with enough boredom, hoping his
demeanor and voice belied nothing of the hammering in his chest. Or his cock.
“Though she isn’t of my blood – she is the daughter of Lysa’s sister.”
               Myranda twirled her wine, gave it a careful sip, before
answering. “She passed away, too, right? The sister?”
               Petyr watched the waves crash against the sides of the glass, a
deep crimson. If he squinted hard enough he could see himself in a sea of rich
auburn. Fighting against the storm – but still drowning. “Yes, unfortunately.
Sansa has other siblings, I’ve heard, though some are dead and some are
missing.” He tried to remember what else Varys had debriefed, and what Petyr’s
own spies found out about Lysa’s family before she took ill. If it weren’t for
her name and her predilection towards him, Petyr would have willingly married
into any other family.
               Granted, any other family wouldn’t have taken someone like Petyr
so easily. And Arryn was just as good as Stark or Tyrell in these parts.
               Anything but Baelish. Anything but a no-one.
               “She’s off to university in a few weeks,” he continued. He
didn’t know why he was telling Myranda so much – perhaps as a way to keep his
thoughts calm about his niece. Better to think of her dearly-departed family
rather than the way she let her hand linger on his wrist. The way he felt her
pulse – a steady  da-bump  mimicking the banging of his heart. Much better.
               “And then you’ll be a bachelor again?”
               Petyr  definitely  didn’t like the way Myranda leaned towards
him, elbows perched on the edge of the table, head cradled in her palm. As if
she was  assessing  him. It was...unnerving seeing the similar gaze staring
back at him. No wonder people avoided him as much as possible.
               He also couldn’t ignore the fact that Myranda made use of
bachelor  and not  widow . Not at all disguising her intentions. Which was fine
by Petyr – so long as she knew nothing of how hard his cock was for his
(underage) niece, then it didn’t matter. Myranda was – like everyone else – a
thing, a pawn. To be used and discarded.
               And right now, he needed something warm and responsive beside
his hand.
               The waitress showed up then, taking their order with a well-
practiced smile. He offered his and Myranda’s menus, not afraid to give the
girl his own well-practiced smile. As if to say: this is how it’s done.
               A smile that faltered when he saw  her .
               Her hair in a simple updo that only elongated the beautiful
column of her neck (one that he so desperately wanted to map with his lips). A
modest dress that was too nice to be something that she brought from school in
Highgarden – something she must have bought with Kella yesterday.
               Petyr couldn’t help but stare at the line where fabric ended and
the skin of her collar (so beautiful) began. Or the similar join along her
thighs. And let the vile thought of  Did she buy a matching pair of lingerie
weave in his mind. Kella didn’t say anything of the sort, only that she bought
some  very cute outfits .
               Sansa.  His  Sansa.
               But not with Petyr. His jaw clenched so tight he thought
something would break.
               “Oh! That’s her, isn’t it?”
               Petyr wanted to yell at Myranda:  Shut up . Shut up shut up shut
up. As if she wasn’t  allowed  to look at Sansa so much as speak about her. So
no much as inhabit the same plane as her. Well, it wasn’t  Myranda  he wanted
to yell at. It wasn’t  Myranda  he wanted to punch in the face or strangle
until his fingers grew numb.
               That animal, that base thing inside Petyr, awoke and growled at
the boy sitting across from Sansa.
               That  same  damned boy from earlier.
                I should have gotten rid of him already,  he thought.
               “Nice to see she’s busy with her own date, hmm?” Petyr slid his
gaze back to Myranda, trying to discern the lilt of the way the woman trailed
her sentence. Trying to discern whether or not the past second (what felt like
a solid minute of restraining himself from acting on those sweet images, of
picturing how the boy’s eyes would bulge) gave him away.
               “Yes,” he managed, with as much calm as he could muster.
               Because Sansa  should  go for someone her own age. Wasn’t that
what he’d decided after releasing himself at the sight of her sleeping? That
this – whatever  this  nonexistent thing was between them, which (he reminded
himself) was very very not legal – couldn’t happen. Shouldn’t happen.
               Sansa was a young girl, and Petyr would truly be the monster if
he denied her the privilege of being a child. Of doing dumb things like this:
going out on dates with boys she won’t remember. Who would probably leave
sloppy kisses on her lips and fumble against the clasp of her bra.
               Still.  Still , he couldn’t quench the boiling rage that welled
in his stomach.
                It's just dinner , Petyr told himself.
               But so was this: just dinner between him and Myranda.
               He worked tirelessly to smooth out the napkin over his lap,
worried that if he didn't busy his hands they would certainly find their way
around the boy’s neck.
                Talk about something, anything.  “How's your father been? Still
in the Vale, right?”
               Myranda leaned forward – so much so that her breasts were about
to pop out of her dress. At least  normal  people would be thankful for the
slip of fabric. If Petyr bothered to stare (he did glance, as was expected of
someone being seduced) he would be able to guess what color her nipples were.
“Yes, the sour old man,” she began, scrunching up her face. It might have been
adorable if Sansa did it– Stop . “Always complaining about me being alone in
the big city. Even since university, you know? Afraid what would happen without
his protecting his little girl.”
               Myranda definitely wasn't the one needing protecting.
               Not with the way she was running her heeled foot against his
leg.
               Petyr took a long drag of his own wine, peering over the lip to
see if something similar was happening at a nearby table.
               “Oh, these city boys are too  easy ,” she continued. “They see a
big pair of tits and they forget their own names. Which is fine – as long as
they buy me some good drinks and they're screaming mine by the end of the
night.”
               “That's true,” Petyr admitted, drawing his gaze back to his
date. “Though most boys like to think they know what a woman wants.”
               “Too bad they know shit.” She laughed, not at all ladylike. But
anyone who nosied about what was happening at this table would be too occupied
with the way Myranda's breasts laughed along too. Petyr used the moment –
barely a second, two tops – to unashamedly look at his niece.
               Sansa had the same idea.
               The boy was finely dressed, too, and a charmer if anything. But
Petyr couldn’t help the small surge in pride that Sansa’s attentions were
stolen by him. He almost smiled to her. Almost.
               Except (even from the distance and the dim light) Petyr saw
Sansa’s gaze flick down to where the tablecloth hung several inches above the
floor, just as Myranda let her foot travel a long, slow climb up his shin.
Damn her .
               His niece’s gaze shot back up, her face tinged pink. Petyr could
see the obvious  concern  in Sansa’s eyes at the bounty that was presented for
Petyr’s plucking. Sansa’s own chest bowed inward slightly, and she glanced back
to laugh at the boy.
               And the boy took the invitation to lean in and touch her hand.
                Fuck.
               “Worried about her?”
               Petyr startled. It had been way longer than two seconds. “Yes,
just as your father worried about you I'm sure.”  Wrong.  He might not be
intimately familiar with Nestor Royce – Petyr had met him once or twice when
Lysa insisted they vacation to the Vale (“Where even the gods can hear how much
we love each other,” she had said. Petyr shuddered at the memory). But he could
say with enough certainty that Nestor loved his daughter as a father should.
Petyr, meanwhile, loved his niece as no man should. Even if they weren't
related by means of a dead woman.
               “Oh, please, Petyr,” she said, traveling her leg up higher
across his shin. Did Sansa see? Was Sansa imagining it was her across from
Petyr, just as Petyr was working his brain to imagine another girl sitting in
front of him? “Trust me when I say that your niece  needs  some good
experience. Especially since she's going off to university soon.”
                That’s true, but ...
               Myranda continued: “And if she’s lucky, she’ll meet some cute
boy and go get married and have babies and grow old together...” She finished
by rolling her eyes.
                That  thought left a sour taste in his mouth that even the wine
couldn’t remove. “I'm just worried about that boy she's with.”  Why . It was a
hunch more than anything. All the boy had done (that Petyr was aware of) was
him giving Sansa his number. And a smile ( I bet he has perfect pearly white
teeth, and dimples to boot ).
               Myranda made an obvious gesture to look at their table. Petyr
did, too.
               The boy – as if on cue – scooted his chair over so they sat at a
corner. ‘Much better isn’t it’ Petyr read on his lips. Sansa nodded, too polite
to say anything on the subject.
               “Do you visit your father often?” Petyr steered their
conversation into mindless small-chat, about life and work and (gods-forbid)
hobbies. He allowed Myranda to continue her tease – with foot and cleavage and
smirks – just to keep himself occupied with anything but what he’d seen. How
that fucking boy just...took what he wanted. How Sansa let him.
               How much it  affected  Petyr.
               Their food arrived first, and their conversation trickled to
silence. They ate – faster than was socially allowed for a steak that cost as
much as it did. Petyr didn’t care about the taste, about how his finger dug
into the backside of the knife as he cut pieces. Watched as the meat bled.
               He didn’t care that Sansa was on a date with some douche of a
university student that was trying only to use his dimpled-smiles to win his
way beneath her dress.
               He didn’t care that Sansa laughed along with whatever he said.
That she didn’t look back (Petyr offered very small glances from the corner of
his eye, afraid to fully look for fear that he wouldn’t be able to look away.
Or to explain his immense curiosity in a niece he’d only known for half a
week). Like Sansa was trying to taunt  him  for going on the date with Myranda.
               He didn’t care, either, that the boy left his hand on her knee,
even when their food arrived. Didn’t care.
               He didn’t.
               He  shouldn’t .
               And yet...
               “Would you like dessert?”
               Myranda gave a cursory glance at the sweets menu, trailing her
finger over each picture of cake or tart. Slow circles meant to  entice , Petyr
knew. And as she placed it back beside the seasonings, she looked up through
her lashes again. “I’d much rather have something sticky and salty for dessert.
Work off dinner, you know?”
               Petyr gave a quick glance at his niece.
               And saw how she was  letting  the boy snake his hand beneath the
table across her leg.
               Leaning forward to kiss-
               “Let’s go.” Petyr practically shot out of his chair. Red. His
vision was red, his blood boiling beneath his skin. It took all of his self-
control not to storm the three tables separating them and rip the boy from his
niece. Pound some fucking sense into him.
               He didn’t have to coerce Myranda out of her chair – she was just
as ready to finish the night between sheets.
               “Your place or mine?” she asked as she shucked her coat on in
the chilly winter air.
               A hotel would be best – the lack of familiarity. No question
about what exactly this was – a quick fuck (that Petyr bought her dinner,
because he wasn’t a monster). Sleeping at Myranda’s meant he would need to
navigate his way out of her embrace. He imagined the woman to be a  snuggler .
               But taking Myranda back to his own apartments… A wicked idea
seeped into the rationality of his mind: him plowing deep into the woman from
behind in the entryway as the elevator doors slide open to reveal Sansa (and
that damned boy) eager to do the same. Petyr looking back as he gripped Myranda
harder, hurting her. Watching as Sansa stood there, staring, unable to move...
               And what? Teach Sansa a lesson if she brought the boy home?
This is how you fuck, sweetling. Here – let me show you instead of that stupid
boy of yours .
               He shook his head. Swallowed a hearty lungful of winter air,
hoping to cool this sudden urge to  hurt . At least the after effects of sex
helped calm the body and mind. He fucking needed some calmness right now, even
if this woman with overflowing breasts and a wicked smile wasn’t his first
choice. “You remember the way?”
               Myranda nodded, keys already in her hands. Eager. For a
different reason than Petyr was.
               He only managed to nod back at her before striding to his car.
As much as it had been an effort not to take a knife and carve out that fucking
smile (and he  did  have dimples, and pearly white teeth, and an infectious
laugh), it was  more  effort not to drive his car into something. Someone.
               Petyr had barely hit the elevator button before Myranda had her
hands all over him. Before he let his own explore. Succumbed to the wills of
his imagination.
               Out of all the was to describe what they’d done,  angry fucking
summed up just about all of it: how harshly Petyr gripped her, how many marks
he left with fingers and teeth. How he shoved her facedown, back bent, and
plunged himself into her with abandon. Angry fucking, yes. Something where
love  was not found.
               It was a  punishment  of sorts. But not against Myranda, or even
against Sansa. He hated  himself.  Hated that  this  was the person he was now.
               The woman beneath him moaned.
               If anything, it was a blessing Sansa thrilled on what his anger
did–
                Myranda , he reminded himself. Petyr’s eyes shot open. Tried to
reconstruct the truth of it and not his sick fantasy. He was fucking the woman
from work and not his niece. Not his niece. Not Sansa.
               But who was he fooling? Not himself. Not with the way his mind
keep transforming the woman beneath him. Not with the way he pictured Sansa’s
face in the throes of her pleasure: would she leave him breathless moans as
indicators that she was fucking loving it? Would she cry out, moan, pray to the
gods? How many times would she scream out  Petyr Petyr oh my gods  as he
brought her to orgasm?
               Would she look up at him with flushed cheeks and a lazy smile?
               Would she lean forward to kiss him and ask for more?
               The ache in his heart was just as bad as the one in his cock.
               He thanked the gods he didn't call out the wrong name as his
seed filled the condom inside her. Thanked the gods Myranda wasn’t actually a
snuggler.
               Even in the haze of his afterglow, Petyr couldn't help but see
cascades of auburn hair and startling blue eyes – and smell the faint taste of
lemons – when he closed his eyes and let darkness drag his body to sleep.
 
Chapter End Notes
     [This Petyr is waaaay more jealous than I thought, but damn if he
     isn’t fun to write! And I'm sure y'all don't mind ;))]
***** sansa *****
Chapter Notes
     [Admittedly all of this so far has been a lot of a tease, but I can't
     help it it's too fun!! I promise we’re nearly to some grade A sin,
     just bear with me a little longer, my friends ;)]
              “Are you...sure?” Sansa had just heard it. But still, she wasn't
sure what to believe at this point. Her head knew what to do (don't break off
the engagement for something you'll regret), her heart too (Willas was kind
enough, a little boring, true. But not nearly a horrible husband like in some
of the movies she’d seen). But that third spotwas proving...problematic in all
this. There wasn’t any previous data to compare to, nor was there anything
blossomed between her and Willas regarding that pesky spot between her legs (to
be saved for their wedding night, as was expected of a proper lady). Sansa
twirled an invisible band around her ring finger.
              She heard Margaery tsk on the other end of the phone. “I mean,
not really . Willas might be peeved for a minute. Or a few months. But if
there's one thing I know about you, Sans, you've got that Stark loyalty in you.
Remember when Madame Nysterica almost caught us sneaking out to go to go watch,
what was it called? Oh, A Night to Forget?”
              Sansa smiled. That had been in her first months in Highgarden.
Margaery practically coerced her (to put it lightly) to break the rules, and it
went against every fiber of Sansa’s being. But the movie was good, and it was
nice having another girl’s company. Sansa had missed the feeling. “True. But,
I'm not the one that glued Nysterica’s butt to her chair.”
              “No, but you didn’t tell on me for that either, so...” She could
practically hearthe wink her friend gave her. “You're a good person, girl.
Honestly. I trust you.”
              Margaery’s words should have made Sansa feel better. Except they
didn’t. All they did was worsen the sinking feeling in her stomach. Was she a
good person, truly? If she was , then what would these horrid thoughts that
plagued her when she was unaware? The way that she could see the silhouette of
him in in the slit of her open door. The way she knew what he was doing in the
shadows. The way she reacted to it all, despite what her mind and heart warred
against the natural reaction of her body.
              But it wasn’t natural. None of it. Not even in a wicked novel or
a flighty fantasy. What the hell happened to Sansa in the past week?
              “Yeah,” she replied finally. Sansa twirled a loose thread in her
pants.
              “He’s cute though, huh? Your suitor?”
              Sansa remembered the way the light bounced off of his sandy
curls, turning them into a halo of gold. He had a comely face, and a lovely
smile. A bit forward, yes, but Harry wasn’t the first boy to proclaim his
affections. “Yeah. I suppose he isn’t bad to look at.”
              Margaery barked a laugh. “Mother help me, Sansa. ‘Isn’t bad to
look at’...” Sansa couldn’t help but smile.
              This was the sort of conversation she should be having. A
seventeen-year-old girl gushing about cute boys with her friends. Getting
advice how to woo him, how to ask him out on a date. What a first kiss would
feel like. Wonderful banalities of being a teenager.
              Except Sansa was engaged . She should be talking about the
wedding (of which Margaery adamantly wanted to keep it secret, aside from the
dress photos or basic questions of Sansa’s preferences of flowers, food (lemon
cakes, of course), the like). She should be talking about...she didn’t know,
she was only seventeen after all. What did engaged people talk about? Getting a
house? Adopting a dog? Babies?
              Sansa shuddered.
              It was a fanciful dream when Margaery had proposed the idea to
her. After all, Sansa loved the Tyrells – nearly as much as she had loved her
own family before they were split apart. And Willas was a good man, not at all
like some of the boys Margaery’s cousins dated (Elinor came home in tears one
night, a gift of bruises across her cheek). The stability of it enticed her.
The comfort of a family. The knowing reassurance of who she was and what she
was going to do when everything else was utter shit.
              And Margaery couldn’t stop raving about how much fun they were
going to have as sisters . And Olenna (as biting as ever) welcomed Sansa’s
presence as a breath of fresh northern air to sweep away the cloying scent of
roses. Loras and Garlan were kind, Mace too, and the cousins and the everyone.
Even Willas was kind. They all wanted her to shed her Wolf skin and become a
beautiful Rose. So Sansa said Yes, again, and again, and again.
              After all, it was never about what Sansa wanted.
              She shook her head. “I mean, I don't have to go on a date with
him. It was just an idea.” A foolish idea. And besides, Sansa meant to ask
Petyr about the boy. Maybe her uncle would have insight about what boys wanted,
or how to deal with them on a date (though Sansa had a rather big hunch what
Harry wanted). Still...half of her wished Petyr didn’t work such long hours.
The apartment was lonely in the late hours.
              And the other half of her was relieved to find her door closed
throughout the night.
              “Girl, you never dated in school, and now you’ve found yourself a
cute Lander and you want to date?”
              “Because I was engaged–"
              “Girl .” Margaery emphasized, cutting her off. “Really – really
really , I mean it. Go out and have fun. You need some experience, Sansa.
You’re too stuffy for your own good, no wonder you and Willas are perfect for
each other… But not too much fun – my brother might get offended if you knew
something he didn't, that nerd.” Margaery meant it as a joke – was laughing as
if it was another dumb story, like how they totally-accidentally overwashed
Walda’s clothes so they all shrank ( That’s what she gets for being a bitch,
Margaery reasoned. Sansa fought against the urge to tell the Madame Director
the truth). But gods if Sansa didn’t feel a sinking weight in her stomach
at...everything.
              It was a wonder she hadn’t drowned yet.
              “Are you sure, though? I mean, I don’t think there’d be enough
time to learn anything before the wedding.”
              She heard her friend sigh over the receiver. “Sansa, I swear to
the gods – even the Old Gods!”
              “What?”
              Margaery laughed, such a soft, trilling thing. “Oh, nothing.
You’re too cute, you know? I love Will to death but damn if your cuteness won’t
be wasted on him.”
              Sansa didn’t know what to respond – or how to – and hoped
Margaery could hear the shrug. Sansa worked the thread in her pants looser.
              “Anyway! Girl, you never did respond which dress you liked? We’ve
got it narrowed down to the lace front with all the flowers and the little
crystal beads as the vines – super cute. Or the more simple one with the heart
collar. Also super cute. And you haven’t gotten bigger since I took your
measurements, I hope?”
              There it was again – that roiling, sinking, uncertain thing
clawing through her stomach. You’re getting married soon , her brain told
herself. Be happy. Be happy for your friend, and your husband. “No, I don’t
think I’ve gotten bigger,” she answered, the uncertainty not because of her
weight.
              Margaery didn’t know that. “Sans, sorry, I didn’t mean to imply
you’re fat.”
              “No, I know. I’m just…” Scared shitless? Terrified? Wondering
whether or not (and not for the first time) if this might have been too fast.
If only her family hadn’t been splintered: if her parents were still alive, if
her siblings were still showing their annoying love, if everything was okay
like it used to be. Then maybe Sansa wouldn’t have jumped at the first chance
of being loved. “...I’m just nervous, Marg. It feels like yesterday we met, and
then we made plans, and now it’s here, and I just– I’m just nervous.”
              “I know!” Margaery sighed happily. “I can’t wait to be your big
sister, officially. And not just the one that gets us in almost-trouble with
the Madames…”
              Sansa smiled, but didn’t say anything.
              “Maybe I could swing by King’s Landing and get you try these
dresses on yourself. I know it’s real pushing it, but the dress is pretty damn
important. I want to make sure it fits you – we’re not exactly the same, you
know.” A pause, the faint sound of her rustling through papers, or a book
perhaps. Margaery was smiling when she said, ”Gods, girl. You’re going to be
the prettiest bride. Willas is so lucky to have you.”
              Sansa curled the loose thread round and round her finger. Let it
dig into her skin for a few moments. It snapped in one, clean movement. “Yeah.
He is.”
                                     * * *
              It had been an impulsive purchase, yes. One that Sansa hoped
would somehow magically grant her a certain confidence that she hadn’t had.
Though what would she call standing up to him, approaching him, touching him
(on his wrist, yes, but still). What would she call actually buy the damn
things as if they were the ticket to...what?
              You need some experience , Margaery’s words trilled in her mind.
Sansa once awkwardly tried to kiss Willas (as a betrothed couple is wont to
do); he maneuvered his face so she kissed his cheek instead. Smiled at her as
he said it was something she should save for after their marriage. Sansa wasn’t
stupid to know he was gentleman enough (or smart enough?) not to kiss an
underage girl. Even if they were engaged? Sansa didn’t know. She didn’t broach
the subject again with Willas, going only so far as brief hugs and platitudes:
I’m so excited and I can’t wait till we’re married.
              They were as empty as she felt when they announced her parents
died. An accident, they said. Was this – the marriage to Willas – an accident,
too?
              And aside from her husband-to-be, well, Sansa hadn’t much
experience in the ways of dating or flirting or more. Except – who was Sansa
getting experience for?
              “Damn...”
              She turned her attention from watching the passing cars, the way
the wind tickled the palm fronds. King’s Landing was very different in the
winter than Winterfell, but it had it’s own charm, too.
              He wore a suit, so unlike the casual clothes he’d been wearing
when Sansa first saw him. Hair brushed back, an honest smile. His feet stopped
him several steps away from her, admiring the way the dress sat on her (modest
enough, since she bought it with Kella. Still, that didn’t stop the other
purchase, of which Sansa made a big deal of saying it was for someone that she
wanted to make a special impression on. Kella went modest on that, too, though
modesty was subjective between a dress and lingerie). Sansa brushed her hair in
thick ringlets before pinning it into a simple updo. Wore the sapphire earrings
that were a gift from her mother on her fifteenth birthday (just before they
passed). They were good-luck charms, and gods if Sansa needed all the positive
superstition tonight.
              Her stomach fluttered with a storm of butterflies. Sansa smiled
as he closed the gap between them. She said by way of hello: “I don’t remember
you being this handsome?”
              Harry barked a laugh. A few of the older patrons stared, but the
boy ignored them. “I remember you being pretty. But, damn, you’re prettier than
I remember.”
              She felt the flush spread across her cheeks. It was such an
innocent compliment, but it made Sansa feel lighter than she had talking with
Margaery.
              “Come, come,” he said, offering Sansa a bent elbow and a dimpled
smile. She took it, and Harry led them past the line of fancily-dress men and
women on dates. The ages varied: some only a few years older than Harry, some
as old as the queen of thorns herself. The misplaced family here for the
father’s birthday (though the children were older than Sansa). The host glanced
at Harry when they approached. “Reservation for eight-thirty. Hardyng.”
              The host (whose gold-plated name-tag read Remington) nodded with
a minimal amount of distaste at Harry’s obvious ignorance of rules. Sansa was
too nervous to look at the list of names, choosing instead to look at the
restaurant. It looked fancy from the outside – and from the line of people –
but the inside exacerbated it. Dim lighting, polished sconces along the edge
with a massive chandelier in the center of the dining hall. Almost every booth
and table was black leather with pristine white tablecloths.
              Sansa felt very out of place. The fanciest place she’d been to
with her family was a local steakhouse just outside Winterfell that her father
loved as much as he loved the owners. They were practically family (Ah, Ned you
old bastard. Who’s birthday is it today? ). Sansa needn’t wear anything but
clean jeans and an empty belly. They didn’t have to dress up their appearance
or their manners. They could just be themselves.
              When was the last time Sansa got to do that?
              “Right this way.”
              She followed behind Harry who followed behind a waitress that was
talking about the history of the building, the franchise. How it had been
passed down from generation to generation. Boring banalities.
              They’d barely sat down when a pair of waiters came with a platter
of chilled vegetables and a basket of three types of bread. It was almost a
dance, how they moved around the tables and the other patrons, placing things
with precision. One left at the end, leaving the second waiter standing beside
the table with an corked bottle of wine. “Wine, sir?” he asked Harry.
              The boy nodded.
              Sansa heard her mother’s warning of drinking (Olenna had offered
Sansa drinks (at home, only), and it was impolite to refuse, but Sansa never
much enjoyed the taste of alcohol. There was a thriving in the Tyrell household
that unwillingly soaked up Sansa’s drinks). Don’t drink before you’re legal,
her mother warned. Bad things will happen. So she piped up: “But I’m–"
              "–not ready to order yet.” Harry interrupted. “If you’ll give us
a few minutes?”
              The waiter nodded as he twirled the wine from the bottle into the
glasses, filling them evenly. Not a drop on the tablecloth. “Certainly, sir.”
              Sansa tried to hide behind her menu, trying her best to collect
the confidence that she had moments ago. This wasn’t the time to act like a
child. “So,” she began, lowered the leather-bound booklet that described just
how ritzy the place was (fifteen dollars for a basic salad? Good gods). “Do you
go to school in the city, or?”
              Harry took a generous gulp of his wine. “No, I’m on winter
vacation right now. Spring semester starts next week, though, so I’ll be
heading back to university this weekend.” He made a face at that, then laughed
it off. “What about you?”
              Sansa laughed, too, as if she knew the hardships of university.
The truth wasn’t necessary, but half-truths worked better than full lies. That,
she learned from Margaery. Or rather, Madame Nysterica who quickly learned
Sansa’s tells. “Me too. Though I go back to Highgarden in a few weeks. I wish
vacations lasted longer, I don’t think I’m ready to go back yet…”
              He flicked through the platter of vegetables. Took a bite out of
a celery. “Really? Maybe I should ask to transfer to Highgarden, too. Then you
won’t be bored.”
              Sansa didn’t know what to say, so she smiled as she picked out
the julienned carrots from the platter and arranged them in neat rows on her
plate. This was her first official date, and Sansa didn’t really know how to
approach it. Harry was older than her, yes, and likely wanted a little fun
before he went back to university.
              You got this. “What are you studying? Anything fun?”
              Harry shrugged. “Eh, business law. It’s alright. Too many damn
group projects though. Which I get, but if I have to deal with another group
that doesn’t think the final project is worth doing earlier than a week before
it’s due… By the Stranger, I wanted to smack sense into those damned idiots.”
Sansa laughed along with him. “What about you? Studying anything interesting?”
              “No, nothing interesting. I’m, um, undecided at the moment. Not
sure what I want to do for the rest of my life.” Aside from getting married in
a few weeks. But even that, I’m not sure.
              “Really?” he leaned back against his chair, one arm hooked over
the edge. “I’d have thought you to be someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
A good job – like doctor or something? – and at twenty-five, meet Mr Perfect.
Twenty-six, marriage. Twenty-seven, a sweet little boy. Twenty-nine, sweet
little girl. And then everything goes smooth from there.” Harry made a
smoothmotion with his hand.
              Sansa couldn’t deny most of that had been her dream when she was
younger. When she still had a family. It was unnerving how right Harry had been
able to pinpoint her. So unnerving, that she couldn’t help it when she opened
her mouth – I’m actually getting married in a few days, and I’m probably not
going to university. Oh, and I have an uncle that might be upset to know any of
that. And he probably wants to take care of me unlike an uncle should. And I-
              Luckily – or unluckily – her gaze caught on movement. Sansa
couldn’t help but fear her thoughts were heard by some trickster god and made
real.
              Shit.
              Sansa tore her gaze back to her menu. Her fingers hurt from
gripping it. Her eyes didn’t settle on anything in particular. What the hell is
he doing here?
              With her?
              Over the drowning of fear in her head, she heard Harry ask: “Is
that your dad?”
              Sansa couldn’t stare at Petyr, focusing too hard on trying to
bring her glass to her lips behind her menu for wont of something to do. The
wine was bitter, though that might have only been the taste of the weight in
her stomach. Petyr wasn’t her dad, no, but her own father was dead. So
technically, yes? Except Sansa had no desire to divulge her entire life’s story
to the boy. Thatwould mean that something serious was going on between them.
And right now, Sansa wasn’t sure what exactly was going on between them. “Um,
no, he’s my uncle.”
              “Oh.” Harry sounded...disappointed? But not really.
Disinterested. Because a father would go ape shit to see his sweet daughter on
a date. An uncle didn’t care one way or another.
              Except this uncle would go ape shit, she knew.
              Sansa chanced to look at them again. How smart Petyr looked in
his work suit, with his hair – once perfectly-styled in the morning – now
ruffled with a day of combing his fingers through it. At least, Sansa hoped it
was his own fingers that mussed his hair, and not the woman across from him.
The same woman, Sansa realized, from the first night. Except the woman’s
breasts looked bigger, even in the dim lighting. And her laugh was a heavy
thing that echoed across the hall.
              “Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, looking between them.
Harry waved his hand in a start with her motion, because chivalry declared he
did.
              A quick escape from the restaurant. She suddenly wasn’t feeling
very hungry anymore. Pointing at the first salad she saw: “I’ll have the, um,
raspberry goat cheese salad, please.”
              Harry scoffed at that, but the waiter had enough sense to act
like he didn’t hear it. “And you, sir?” He ordered their speciality steak –
peppercorn encrusted, with some equally fancy sauce, and cooked well-done.  The
waiter nodded, refilled their wine, and left.
              Sansa couldn’t help the feeling that someone was watching her.
Someone in particular , with a wicked smile and mossy eyes and a penchant for
standing outside her bedroom and getting off – that Petyr knew she was just a
few tables away, too. He had to know. He had to sense her here, as she felt a
strange tug that had lured her gaze away the moment he stepped foot in the
dining hall.
              “So, Sansa,” Harry began, lowering his wine by half in a single
sip. He didn’t touch his water cup, and Sansa wished she had asked for a refill
of hers. The wine was so bitter. “Do you have any hobbies? You look like you’re
rather good with your hands.”
              She wasn’t fond of the way he let the last words roll. But at the
same time – she’d heard that same thing before. Heard the implication in the
way Harry lifted the corner of his mouth or narrowed his eyes. Sansa could
still feel the weight of another’s implication on her skin.
              A deep breath. Again: You can do this . “Yes, actually,” Sansa
began, mirroring a smile she saw as elevator doors slid closed. A gleam crossed
Harry’s eyes. “I’m rather good at crocheting, and cross-stitching. So if you
ever need a scarf or an embroidered pillow that says Home Sweet Homefor your
grandma, you know who to ask.”
              He let loose a breathless laugh – not quite expecting Sansa’s
hobby to be so boring. But that’s who she was: boring, uninteresting, ordinary.
Hardly a person someone like Harry (or her uncle) would notice. Harry downed
the rest of his wine, not without glancing over. “Did you tell your da– er,
your uncle about this date? ‘Cause he’s staring at us right now.”
              Sansa fought against the urge to look – afraid that she might not
be able to look away. “No. And he didn’t tell me about his date, either. I
guess the gods just like playing their tricks…”
              Unless it was a sign of sorts. Except Sansa didn’t want to dwell
on that thought. She was here with Harry, not Petyr. She was here to get
experience for when she was married. She was wearing her luck (new) lingerie,
for crying out loud. Sansa was not here to do...whatever else. Even if the
‘whatever else’ was what Harry wanted – Sansa could see it in the way his eyes
often glanced to the collar of her dress. A modest dress, for an ordinary girl.
              Harry talked about his hobbies briefly: rock climbing and
fencing, both of which he was in his university’s clubs for, and both of which
he offered to teach Sansa. She had a feeling (an obvious one) that his teaching
wouldn’t include much rock climbing or fencing.
              When he finished, he look over again. “She’s hot, your aunt.”
              Sansa furrowed her brows. She’s dead? Then realized: “Oh. No, my
aunt passed away recently. My uncle’s on a date date, too, if you can believe
it.”
              Harry looked over again. Scrunched his face – it was almost cute.
“But...he’s so old.”
              Sansa couldn’t help but laugh at that.
              She let the thought whisper past her mind – he’s not that old, in
truth. She followed her date’s gaze, as if to confirm the oldness of her uncle.
              Petyr was already looking at her.
              His own date was laughing at some joke (that he said, or her?
Sansa didn’t know why it mattered, but it just did), and Sansa knew what had
caught Harry’s attention. Her breasts were practically popping out of the
woman’s dress – twice as big as Sansa’s – and at least half of the men’s (and
some women’s) attention were frozen on the sight. But Sansa didn’t pay them
more than a cursory glance.
              She felt fire burn through her veins from the way Petyr stared at
her. Like he had the first morning (the morning after you half-caught him
touching himself outside your door , her mind countered_). Like he tried to
look away. Tried to walk away and pretend like she was just a thing he had to
deal with for two weeks. Tried to keep his hand from touching himself at the
sight of her. But failed. Miserably.
              There was something exciting about watching Petyr collapse. About
watching that carefully-constructed face of a lawyer who always got what he
wanted and everyone did what he willed – watching that shatter further with
every passing second he stood frozen before Sansa.
              She couldn’t deny a terrible mutation of thought. When he flicked
the light on, Sansa watching him watching her. If she said Don’t go to work
today , would he have? If she said, Can you show me something, would he have
leaned her against the counter and show her what his hand did-
              No.
              Through this night, this date, there was never a thought of this
is wrong while with Harry. It was experience, being here. It wasn’t cheating
because Sansa didn’t feel anything for the boy (he was cute, yes, but that was
about it). Besides, Margaery knew, and gave her consent. So long as the night
ended with Sansa a little wiser and still very much engaged to Willas, well, no
harm no foul.
              But now, staring at Petyr who was staring back at her… Sansa felt
it. The screaming wrongness that coiled throughout her stomach, up her ribs,
settling like a heavy lump in her throat. And settled further, between her
legs, a screaming thrum of wrong wrong wrong that echoed her heart. The lump in
her throat threatening to strangle her. Except it wasn’t the wrongness that she
was on a date with someone other than her betrothed.
              Sansa felt like she was on a date with the wrong person tonight.
              And the right person wasn’t Willas. He was...
              Well, he was currently letting the woman across from him sidle
her foot up his leg, inch by inch. Letting her put her breasts on a tantalizing
display. Sansa saw the way the woman smiled – at her , as if she wanted to rile
up Sansa, as if trying to say he’s mine, besides you’re too young for him – you
wouldn’t know what to do with him if you had him.
              Harry had said something, and Sansa forced herself to turn away
and laugh, hoping it was a joke. It had been, thank the gods, and Harry smiled
at her.
              He crept his fingers across that stark-white tablecloth, letting
them poke at her fingertips in a silent May I? Sansa nodded. Harry let
fingertips trace up and down her skin, tickles that ran up her arm.
              They talked more about their childhood and their experiences at
university (of which, Sansa merely talked about her schooling with Margaery,
making sure not to bring up any names of the school or the Madames, in case
Harry recognized it as a boarding school for children and not a school for
adults ). He particularly liked all of Margaery’s stories – some of which Sansa
altered so she was the fun, adventurous girl, and not the bookish one who much
preferred to study and lie to the Madames instead. Harry was in love with that
image of Sansa. So Sansa didn’t bother to correct herself as she let the lies
fall out longer and longer.
              Their food arrived first, but Harry was dissatisfied with the
doneness of his steak. Thankfully, he didn’t make too much of a deal out of it
– Sansa had seen people (older patrons, usually) make an entire fuss out of
their steak being too done or not done enough. She always felt embarrassed for
the waiters that had to deal with them. Harry, thank the gods, was polite.
              So they were left to their conversation a bit longer. Not before
Harry scooted his chair so they sat at an angle, replacing his hand on top of
hers, giving her a wink. “Much better, isn’t it?” he said with his practiced
smile, dimples on full display.
              Sansa nodded with a practice smile of her own, because manners
were pounded into her head. Only, vile thoughts flittered through the filter,
not at all the things the Madames would approve. Especially since the man in
her dreams was not a sandy-haired university boy. She did her best to hide the
shake in her head at the image, turning it into a polite nod.
              Harry sipped at the water, the ice long melted. “Are you
originally from Highgarden?”
              Sansa ran her finger along the rim of her own glass. “Yes, and
no. I’m from Brightwater Keep, which is a bit south of Highgarden. Closer to
the water. But my parents thought it best to send me to the boarding school.”
              “Because you were such a bad girl?”
              Sansa didn’t particularly like the way he said that. Except she
didn’t particularly like telling him the truth – my parents died and my
brothers and sister were split up. And, she was rather enjoying this charade of
hers – another lie, yes, but not one that was expected of her. She didn’t have
to be the pure, perfect daughter of the Starks. Harry didn’t know her, truly,
and she was fine with letting that remain his truth. Sansa brought her wine
glass to her lips. “If you think I am.”
              The look was so familiar, even if she’d only received it a
handful of times. Sansa had to remind herself what her goal was tonight – and
even then, she was starting to forget it.
              “And you?” she asked, by way of bringing Harry out of his own
vile thoughts. “You said you’re from the Vale, right?”
              He nodded. “Yeah, though if I had known how nice the winters were
down here, I would have applied here. It gets balls-cold in the mountains, you
know.”
              She knew, but the Sansa Stark that was on this date didn’t. “Not
really. I’m not a fan of the cold.”
              Harry leaned forward, whispering, “If you want, Sansa, I can keep
you warm tonight.” He trailed his fingers across her arm, down the side of the
chair, before resting on her bare knee. The dress’s hem was shorter than she
was used to, but thank the gods it wasn’t at all like the cut of the woman at
Petyr’s table. Still, she felt goosepimples prick up where Harry touched her.
His hand was burning against her skin.
              In her mind’s eye, Sansa could see, could hear, the growl the
filtered across the tables towards hers. The way his hands clenched, the
flitter in his jaw as he fought to keep that growl contained (but failed). She
wished she could look at Petyr without it being so obvious to Harry that her
attention lay elsewhere. Sansa didn’t contain her smile – let Harry think she
was satisfied with his touch.
              The food arrived (again) before Sansa could answer. Harry didn’t
remove his hand until long after the waiters set the plates down, refilled
their wine, and asked if there was anything else they needed. “No. Thank you,”
Harry said, almost forgetting the thank you. Sansa couldn’t blame him.
              It was a blessing he got a steak, since he needed two hands for
that. Cold brushed over the skin when he left her knee, and Sansa snuck in
quick glances across the room as Harry cut his steak into even pieces.
              They were practically wolfing their food down. Not even talking
to one another, not even enjoying the food (of which, Sansa didn’t want to
imagine the cost). She could see the tension in Petyr’s arms, hands, his whole
body, as he worked at his food. Just like when they spoke in the kitchen.
Fighting against the urge to do whatever he wanted. Fighting against the urge
that sent sparks throughout her body at the mere indication – where did his
imagination take him, she wondered? And how often did his body betray his mind?
              Sansa smiled.
              “So,” Harry said, setting his knife down. He slid his hand back
beneath the tablecloth to rest on her knee – and Sansa realized he’d gone ahead
and cut the meat into pieces first so he wouldn’t have to deal with the
inconvenience of leaving her knee again. Smart. He let his thumb run a circle
over her skin. “You didn’t answer my question.”
              Sansa dug into her salad – which was surprisingly good, though
she hadn’t been able to watch them prepare it, so focused on this game of
taunts and teases. “What question?”
              He trailed nonsense shapes across her knee with fingertips. Let
his tongue exaggerate the motion of cleaning up mushroom sauce from the corner
of his mouth as he stared at her with the same sort of darkness that watched
her through the slit of her door. “Whether or not you’d like me to warm you up,
tonight.” As if to emphasize it – Harry roamed his hand higher across her
thigh, reaching the hem of her dress. Slipping beneath it as he leaned forward
to kiss her-
              There were two things she noticed. The first: this was her first
official kiss, being that Willas was too proud to kiss her until she was
legally an adult (and the practice kisses with Margaery only half-counted).
Harry’s mouth was warm, and she could taste the pepper tingling her own lips.
              The second, beneath the din of diners and plates and footsteps: a
rough command of Let’s go.
              Sansa smiled into the kiss with a certain giddiness (it worked!).
              Of which Harry took as an invitation to go further. He pulled on
her chin with his free hand. Slid further beneath her dress with the other,
barely an inch between him and the lingerie that she felt was wet. But not
because of Harry – because of this game she played by herself and won. Because
turning on Petyr, teasing him, taunting him with another boy who wasn’t him –
somehow, Sansa thrived on that.
              Even though every warning in her mind told her she shouldn’t.
              Sansa pulled away her head and her legs, feeling the rush of cold
as his hands slide out from their journey towards her core.
              She turned just in time to watch Petyr storm through the room
with Myranda in tow. To finish up their night. To let Petyr warm up Myranda.
That thought irked Sansa. Warred against the realization that Petyr had been
riled up – had stormed out, aching and unable to think – because of her.
Because she had taunted him with Harry.
              Just before they left, Myranda turned, and Sansa swore the woman
gave Sansa a knowing wink.
              “Is that a no, or...?”
              Sansa Stark – the true one, pure and perfect and all that – would
say no. What else was she meant to say?
              Harry cocked his head at the Sansa Stark that sat here, a lie of
who she truly was. The darkness was still there, swallowing his eyes. The
corner of his mouth twitched up. “I mean, your old man is definitely gonna get
some tonight, anyway. Did you see the boobs on that woman?” His mouth crooked
further. “I mean, yours are great, too.”
              Thanks?
              “I, uh, I need to use to bathroom? Be right back.” Sansa said,
hurrying between crowded tables to the back of the hall. Surprisingly, there
wasn’t a line. Sansa sat in the stall long after her body had finished, staring
at the pattern of the tiles beneath her heels.
              What was her goal tonight? To get experience with Harry about
dating and kissing and...whatever else people in love do. Or – and she realized
this was what manifested the moment she saw him stroll through the hall – was
it to rile up Petyr?
              Worse: she shouldn’t have been so riled up herself.
              The issue now was what to do with Harry. She could leave, but
that would be bad on all accounts. And he wasn’t bad, not like Eryn who bruised
Elinor, or Tybee, who didn’t even show up to his date with Megga. In another
life, Harry might have been her dream-come-true. Tall, handsome, kind.
              So why didn’t she jump at the chance to go anywhere further with
him?
              Because you’re fucked up.
              “Excuse me?” a woman asked from the stall next door.
              Sansa jumped back into her body. “Yes, sorry?”
              “Hi, um, you wouldn’t happen to have a tampon on you, would you?”
              “Oh. Maybe, let me check…” Her hand froze inside her purse. Oh.
“Here.” Sansa rolled it beneath the crack between the stalls.
              “Oh my gods, you’re a lifesaver. Thank you!”
              No, thank you.
              When she finished up and went back to the table, Sansa made sure
to apply an exaggerated mask of disapproval. “Harry…” she began.
              He looked up from his phone, eyebrow raised in confusion. “Hm?”
              Sansa sat down, setting her purse on the table beside her. How to
approach the subject? Probably bluntly – the more she dragged it out, the more
likely it sounded like a lie. Here goes nothing. “I’m sorry. I just got my
period.”
              His face screwed in disgust (even physically recoiled a few
inches. Good). “Oh . Thank gods I didn’t touch you.” His body shivered at the
thought of blood on his fingers. Or on his-
              “Yeah, I’m sosorry,” she said, stopping the thought. “It wasn’t
supposed to come this early. I had been looking forward to tonight, too.”
Making a show of batting her eyelashes, as if she was as disappointed with this
turn of events as he obviously was.
              He nodded. The lie was taken, if unwillingly. And not the first
of the night. Much better than the lie that Sansa was the type of girl to fuck
on the first date. That Sansa was the type of girl to let a boy touch her
beneath her dress in the middle of a crowded restaurant on the first date.
              But what if it wasn’t Harry who touched you?
              She shook the thought out before she could think it further.
              “We could still…” he began.
              Sansa shut him down before he finished that thought, that dream .
Where would he want her to touch him or suck him off, anyways? In the backseat
of his car? In the alley behind the restaurant? Oh, no no no. This new
adventurous Sansa Stark had a limit. “I’m not feeling really good. I’d probably
pass out from my cramps in the middle of it…” A good thing she only managed to
eat a fraction of her salad. Sansa fished through her purse for motrin,
exaggerated getting a pill from the bottle.
              It would have been hilarious watching him try to act like Sansa
being on her period was no big deal. It would have been, if Sansa didn’t see
the obvious disappointment written plainly on his face. So she was right –
Harry had only wanted Sansa for her body. Just like every other boy that
stumbled his way towards her in school. The shadows were still in Harry’s eyes,
yes. But Sansa was praying on him being actually chivalrous enough to not act
on it.
              “Next time then?” Harry asked with a half-grin, picking up the
check, glancing at it for hardly a blink, before tossing a credit card on top.
Sansa offered her own card but he pulled the check out of reach.
              Would there be a next time? Based on what happened, yes. Harry
would make sure of that, at least. Only, that might be a problem, because:
              A: Sansa didn’t feel anything for Harry, in truth. He was cute.
He was (mostly) kind. But he felt like any of the boys at the all-boys school
that tried to weasel beneath her and Margaery’s skirts during field trips or
dances. She wouldn’t be surprised if Harry didn’t feel anything for her, too.
That was obvious enough – his goal was her pants, not her mind or heart or
soul.
              B: Sansa did feel something for someone, hence the quasi-reason
for going on the date in the first place. Only, the reason devolved from ‘learn
how to act like a girlfriend yada yada’ to ‘make your uncle jealous with rage
at seeing you on a date with a cute university student.’ She definitely
couldn’t tell Margaery the truth of it. And Sansa definitely couldn’t fight
against the grin that wanted to spread over her face. Even if she remembered
the way the other woman looked at Petyr. Or the fact that right now they might
be rutting in the back of his car. Her smile faltered.
              C: ...did she even need a third reason? ‘B’ was damning enough.
              “Next time, then,” she answered, trailing her hand over his as he
reached over to sign the bill. His signature stuttered in the middle. Maybe he
was reconsidering the night ending here. He definitely was. Sansa wasn’t.
              Biting cold welcomed them as they left the restaurant. Sansa made
a show of her cramps (which didn’t really come till the second day, but Harry
didn’t need to know that). As a consolation, she let him leave his hand on her
knee whilst he drove her back to her apartment. He dared just beneath the hem,
but no further. The music was cheesy pop, the air whipping past through open
windows. But Sansa wasn’t listening to it.
              Sansa waved Harry off with a promise to make plans for the future
(she had five days to get over her period, so thank the gods for being a woman.
And he would be back in university by the time her period was over, so she was
good on that end), watching the taillights disappear around a corner.
              She swallowed in a deep breath of winter air. A bit salty from
the Blackwater, a bit filthy from all the scum and drugs and who-knew-what
littering the street. But it was winter, and gods if it didn’t make Sansa wish
she was back home.
              What were her siblings doing? Was Arya still running around the
country? Did Bran and Rickon finally find a family that wanted them? Was Jon
still alive, still mourning his inability to save Robb?
              As much as this was fun , Sansa couldn’t deny the ache in her
very soul that yearned to go back. Yearned for the fire in the great hall at
Winterfell, all of her family there. Not doing anything in particular except
living. Gods, the ache in her chest was enough to start tears at the corners of
her eyes.
              Sansa saw Oswell the doorman head around the front, a pair of
keys jingling in his hands. Not odd, except for that familiar glint of silver
as he approached the building’s door.
              Petyr.
              He’d brought the woman home . ( It’s not your home , her mind
said. But for the moment, yes, it was). There was a voice that knew exactly
what she would see were she to ride the elevator to the top-most floor. And to
be honest, Sansa was not in the mood to revisit her first night in King’s
Landing.
              The way Petyr had his hands all over the woman. The way the woman
raked her fingers through his hair, down his chest.
              Except her memory changed again, a shifting thing every time she
recalled it: Sansa was the one threading her fingers through Petyr’s hair.
Sansa was the one pressing her body against his, kissing his mouth, his neck.
Freeing the hem of his shirt from his pants.
              Sansa stood in the open elevator, watching as she touched her
uncle, as he touched her back. As she let him rest his hand on her knee, rising
up up up until it was lost beneath her dress. She could feel the trailing of
his fingers rise higher along her skin. Felt them clutch the edge of her
lingerie, tug them down until they trapped her legs apart. Heard that raspy,
taunting voice: Oh, did you buy these for me?
              And then Petyr showed her just what he imagined when he got off
to the sight of her sleeping. Showed her exactly all the things – the ways – he
would have taken her-
              No.
              She shook her head. Took in a long, deep breath of air.
              Gods , they were getting worse. She wanted to reach into her head
and pull out whatever vile demon was torturing her day and night. Awake or
alive – she was plagued with this constant sin This constant wrongness. Who was
this Sansa? Because she didn’t know her.
              What she did know was that she couldn’t go home tonight. Not
unless she wanted to transform that wicked image into something real. And
definitely not with that taunting woman there. A woman . Someone that Petyr
shouldlust after. Not his niece. Not his seventeen-year-old niece. Not Sansa,
never Sansa.
              Another breath of that not-clean cold air. It matched the not-
clean darkness in her chest.
              She pulled out her phone as she wandered a few buildings down,
resting against the cold stucco of a building a bit down from the apartments.
She hadn’t many friends, and none of them were in King’s Landing. Still, like
hells would she walk into that scene again. Sansa could only imagine how much
further along they’d be this time – and then, Sansa did her best not to imagine
it.
              The ringingechoed against her cheek, freeing her mind from
whatever wicked demon had overtaken it in these past days. Sansa stared at the
obtuse patterns shimmering against the cars parked on the street. She felt like
one of them – shapeless, massless, unknown.
              “Hello?” the voice answered.
              “Hi, this is Sansa?” she said, though they knew who she was.
Sansa dug her fingers into the stucco behind her. The pain, the chill air,
helped ground her away from the shadows that Petyr wrapped around her the
moment his eyes fell on her. “Um, I was wondering if it’d be okay if I stayed
over at your place tonight?”
 
***** petyr *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
            “Get out.”
            Petyr stood from the bed, chill shooting up from the floor. They
had fucked two more times last night – though the first had been the best only
because the  rage  that suffocated him made him dig into Myranda’s skin harder
than necessary. He didn’t remember moving to the bed, though. He had been
adamant about keeping her away from his own room (and Sansa’s, though that idea
popped in Petyr’s head in his afterglow. The idea that his niece would walk in
whilst he’d been in the throes of another woman. His mind carried away when
Sansa began to strip and asked (ever so politely) to join). Something about the
sanctity of a personal place, blah blah, made him testy about bringing Myranda
here. Well, so much for that. Need was a blinding thing, taking over all forms
of logic for that sweet release. And besides, neither Petyr nor Myranda would
have made it to the bedroom. It was a surprise their first fuck hadn’t been in
the elevator, though he wouldn’t put it past Myranda to try it next time.
            Next time... Would there even be a next time? Petyr hoped not, but
his cock was  thankful  for the warm body.
            Next time… Maybe next time, it would be a red-headed girl writhing
beneath his touch, moaning in his ear.
             I’ll need to buy new sheets , he thought, chasing away the growing
need at that illustrious  next time . Petyr stared at the sheets rather than
the woman who was spread between them. The fine grey fabric did nothing to hide
her assets. Nor was Myranda making an effort of propriety.
            In the soft morning light, Petyr could see the remnants of their
fucking across her skin. And if he squinted hard enough, the sunlight
transformed the woman into another.
            Another woman (girl, he chided himself) who wasn’t even here. A
fact he knew because Petyr had slunked down the hall in the middle of the night
between fucks to see whether or not the other bedroom was empty. It was.
            Sansa was out there, somewhere. The perfection of her, in the
expanse of King’s Landing, lying naked with some douche of a boy. How many
times would he have fucked her? Would she have  let him , let that fucker have
his way with her in all the wicked positions Petyr had taken Myranda? Petyr
could see that boy’s hand slithering across the table to touch Sansa’s. Snaking
beneath the tablecloth to lie on her knee. Inching up, higher and higher, until
he was at the border between fabric and skin. If the boy had stopped there,
Petyr might have been fine knowing nothing would come from that dinner (he was
lying to himself, obviously. But it helped. A bit). But  no . That boy, that
fucking piece of shit, dipped fingers beneath her dress. Sansa spreading her
legs to give him better access, Sansa leaning in to his touch, Sansa kissing
him back. Sansa, lying atop the table, dress hiked above her waist, moaning
that fucking boy’s name as he thrust inside her. Turning her head to stare at
Petyr all the while.  Look what you can’t have , she said with her cries.
            Petyr had been out of the restaurant long before that. If that even
happened . Petyr barely had the self-control to  leave  last night. So close to
rushing past the tables and throttling that fucker. But the image of his Sansa
(not  his , he reminded himself) wouldn’t wash away from his mind no matter how
many times he blinked.
            Again – that fire, burning and boiling and raging, smoldered anew.
Like it had never truly gone away. Not something to be quenched with a quick,
rough fuck. Or perhaps fucking Myranda was hardly the solution to douse it, but
rather set it burning brighter.  Look what you can’t have , repeated in his
mind, to the sweet trill of Sansa’s voice.  You can fuck every woman in King’s
Landing, but you can’t fuck me .
            The woman he fucked in question rolled over to face him, pouting
like a petulant child with half-opened eyes weary from sex.  Come back in bed ,
she said with that sheepish smile. It might have worked on someone else,  had
likely worked on everyone else she seduced. Only, Petyr wasn’t in the mood for
cheeky games of ‘let’s-go-back-to-bed-and-forget-work’ right now. Not with her.
(But if a different girl were to do the same, to ask with pretty pink lips,
auburn hair a tangled halo atop grey silken sheets– Petyr shook his head).
Myranda went so far as to  try , though, tugging lightly on his arm in a last-
ditch effort to get another fuck in before work. Petyr (as gently as he could,
which was to say not gently at all) pulled his arm free. Stepped away from the
bed and headed to the shower.
            “I need to get ready for work,” he said, as coldly as he could
manage. His cock was starting to prepare itself for round four (he thought it
was the fourth, though he might be missing one). And gods, he didn’t know where
he had the stamina for that many fucks. A good sign, for when – if – he had the
opportunity with Sansa. “You better be gone by then.”
            Petyr shut and locked the bathroom door behind him (gods he didn’t
want to imagine what would have happened if he didn’t). And slid down the wall,
hands in hair.
            Sure, he felt better. A lot better. Nothing like a good fuck to
release all that pent up  everything  that had been eating away at him these
past days. Myranda, as clingy as she was, knew what to do in bed. Or rather,
gripping on the edge of the couch. A fuck several days in the making – the
night of the gala was meant to go a very, very different way. Until those
damned elevator doors  dinged . Until Petyr just  knew  he wouldn’t be
satisfied until he could feel the curves of Sansa’s lithe body. Until he could
taste what his ministrations did to her.
            Myranda’s cunt was good, he’d give her that. But she wasn’t Sansa.
            Worse – those damned images in Petyr’s mind were making it  worse .
Every moment was filled with opportunities to fuck his niece (in his mind, at
least). On the way to work, sneaking off down an alley where anyone could see
them if they bothered to turn their heads. Sneaking up to the fuck floor (aka
the twenty-fourth floor of his building) and not worrying about who would walk
in. Or better than that – hiding Sansa beneath his desk, letting her suck him
off as he talked with Tywin or Stannis or any of those snotty fucks.
            Worse – those damned images that plagued Petyr’s mind as he fucked
another woman.
            Petyr opened and closed his fist, staring at the muscles and bones
dance beneath skin. SIlently, he counted his breaths: one in, out; two in, out;
three… That roaring fire quelled, just a tiny bit.
            Sansa was a grown woman (nearly). Sansa could go out and date (and
fuck) whoever she wanted. Sansa was going to leave in just over a week, and –
based on the rash way Petyr was acting – was likely never to set foot back in
King’s Landing again.
             Good . Petyr wasn’t good for her in the sense that he so
desperately  wanted to corrupt her. Her mind, her heart, her body. Free moments
once filled with blissful quiet were now contaminated by the scent of lemons,
the sight of dusk cresting beneath the horizon to the west, the long expanse of
porcelain broken finally by midnight. It was a bliss of its own sort. It was a
madness in every other way.
             Let her go .
            Petyr  needed  to let her go. If not for Sansa’s wellbeing as
someone so much younger than him, but for his own sanity.
            So why was it so difficult to accept that?
            Then, there was the issue of Myranda. Petyr didn’t want to get rid
of her completely. After all, he had forgotten how much better it was fucking
someone (that you hate, or that you just don’t particularly care for) than it
was to use his hand. Something about the responsiveness. The  control . Albeit,
Myranda was a lot prettier than his dead wife had been, and a lot better at
giving head. Still – if Petyr wanted to let loose all of his pent up
frustration and uncertainty (read: shameless lust), it wouldn’t be wise to let
go one of the few women in King’s Landing willing to sleep with him. One of the
few people in this damned city who didn’t outright hate him because of his
name.
            Petyr listened to Myranda moved behind the door. He had been right
– she crept up on tip-toe towards the bathroom, testing the handle as slowly as
she could. When it didn’t move, Myranda let out a huff (not angry or
disgruntled, more like she had expected a little more  fun . Had expected to
convince  Petyr more to put in a good word for her based on how good her hands
and mouth were). Let out a little giggle, too, before walking away. Petyr
waited until her footsteps echoed quieter down the hall, waited until he felt
the rumble of the elevator rise and fall.
            He let out a long breath.
            Petyr waited until the water was scalding before getting into the
shower. It was bad for his skin, but the heat, the pain – somehow, it helped.
Better to focus on that, than the nymph of a niece fucking some stranger. Petyr
turned the heat higher.
            The apartment was quiet when he got out, grey light turning blue
between the slits of the curtains. He shuffled through his closet for a suit,
matching tie to go with the lightly patterned socks. Going through the motions
as he kept his mind focused on anything but the girl who wasn’t home, who
wasn’t here.
            Petyr grabbed his phone. As if Sansa would willingly call him, the
man jacking off outside her bedroom. He realized then he still didn’t have
Sansa’s number.
            But like fucking Myranda – that was for his own sanity. What wicked
things would he be tempted to do if he  did  have his niece’s cell number? An
innumerable amount of things, some even he was ashamed to have thought of.
            But he did have someone else’s. Petyr scrolled through his contacts
(most were work-related, and given coded nicknames as clever as  That Fucking
Lady with the Three Orange Cats , or  Loaded Husband Cheat #12 ). It was a
gift  to be given the courtesy of an actual name.
            His phone vibrated before he finished. Petyr stared at the glowing
screen with disgust:  The Fucking Lion . Tywin.
             Not fucking you . Except Petyr couldn’t very well decline the
call, not if he wanted to keep his job. And at the very least, were Petyr to
get fired from Baratheon & Lannister, it would be on his own terms – ones that
proved handsomely lucrative for all the secrets he knew about the Lions.
            “Hello?”
            “Baelish. Where the hells are you?”
            Petyr let out a long sigh through his nose, careful not to let it
slide into the receiver. The old Lion was particular (read: anal as fuck) about
every little thing. And disobedience (or what Tywin  assumed  to be
disobedience) was grounds for a pay cut, or a demotion to a lower job. The one
Petyr had was very comfortable, not to mention one he was very,  very  good at.
“I…”  I just finished fucking another one of your coworkers, hope you don’t
mind. And right now I’m debating whether or not to go into work today because I
can’t keep my cock in my pants over my niece. My niece, of which, might be
giving her piece-of-shit ‘boyfriend’  (the word tasted sour)  a quickie before
she leaves his cramped studio flat. Oh, and fuck you . “I’m waiting for my
niece to return.”
            “Your...niece?”
            Petyr suddenly regretted telling the fucker the truth. What good
would come from that, anyways? Nothing, that was certain. Still, half a truth
was better than a full lie. “Yes, she was Lysa’s niece, and by extension,
mine.” He cut himself off there – no point in telling any more than was
necessary. Besides, the Lannister didn’t truly care about Petyr’s personal life
– only what Petyr could bring to the firm. Which was half the reason, Petyr
knew, that Tywin didn’t send him back to research duties for this  insolence .
            Tywin gruffed a disinterested  hm . Not surprising. After all,
Petyr had been on a rung beneath Lysa, and Lysa herself had been far, far down
the food chain at the firm. Especially in the eyes of the Lannisters. “You were
expected at the seven-thirty meeting this morning. Unless your niece is dead, I
can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be here.”
            That thought sent bolts of ice down Petyr’s veins. His legs
wobbled. “She might be, sir,” – the  sir  was an added ass-kissing – “I haven’t
been able to get a hold of her.”
            Another bored  hm . Petyr could hear the leather of Tywin’s chair
creak, the shuffling of papers. “You said this was Lysa’s niece?”
             Where are you going with that, old fuck?  “Yes.”
            Another  hm , but Petyr could tell there was a fraction less
boredom to it. Not flat-out interest – nothing interested Tywin save for his
family’s reputation throughout the country. Which was what the seven-thirty
meeting had been for. New evidence came about from someone outside of the
original case looking into it. There had been suspicion when it happened years
ago – the Lannisters were involved, so by definition it was suspicious. Only,
new evidence meant someone might finally get what’s coming to him (that fucker
had it coming to him for  years  anyways). But also, with the  realization  for
Tywin that Petyr was currently taking care of Sansa...
            Tywin mentioned none of that. He’d already grown tired with Petyr’s
obvious disregard to proper work ethic. “You will be in in time for the ten
o’clock with the Stevyns, I imagine. If not, I best tell Kevan to find a new
senior associate. Someone who isn’t so  involved  in cases.”
            A threat, of course. And Tywin was not one for empty threats – last
month he had fired an intern (someone from such-and-such prestigious university
in Essos) because she failed to format her notes properly. Or something banal
like that. Off she went, crying as the elevator took her down.
            Petyr worked his ass off to get that senior associate position, one
step below partner. Like hell would he let some snot-ass Lion kick him back
down.
            He had been pacing around his room all the while, settled on
standing beside the window. Lifted his foot to rest against glass, and imagined
it was Tywin he was shoving out the building. Or Joffrey, the cunt. Or anyone
else at that gods-forsaken firm. Maybe not Varys, he was a better man than most
(a  generous compliment  Petyr was willing to give, only because Varys, like
him, was a nobody). One simple shove, and the Lions would fall. Petyr managed
to keep the venom out of his voice as he replied, “Of course. Sir. I’ll see you
at ten.”
            The line went dead.
             Not even a fucking ‘goodbye’, you fucking fuck?
            He exhaled, watching the curtains shiver beneath his breath. It was
all Petyr could do not to toss his phone against the wall. Or to jump out of
the expansive window. The  uncertainty  of what Sansa was doing – in addition
to the general fuckery of Tywin Lannister – was making him jumpy as all hells.
            The ten o’clock meeting for the Stevyns was more banal than other
cases Petyr had his fingers in. Typical wife pissed she found her husband
cheating with another woman (was it his secretary this time? Petyr couldn’t
remember, but it usually was the secretary). Typical wife pulling out one of
the husband’s hunting guns and shooting him with it. Typical King’s Landing
bullshit.
            It was already past eight, and assuming half an hour to get to the
firm and get situated with whoever was going to bug him that morning (and  gods
, he hoped Myranda would call in sick today, but luck wouldn’t be that kind to
him), Petyr had plenty of time to pace and think and freak out. Great.
            He made the call before Tywin interrupted him, but no one answered.
Petyr didn’t want to look  desperate , and decided to call again at nine. Which
left him with an empty apartment, the only company his terrible mind.
            Not  terrible  like the thought that had him stand outside her door
and jack off. Not  terrible  like the thought of shoving aside her date and
taking Sansa on the table there, smiling as that fucker could only  watch  in
horror. Not  terrible  like wondering whether Sansa would like it if Petyr bit
her neck or twisted her nipples or spanked her pretty little ass.
            But  terrible  in that Petyr now wondered how far she let him touch
her. Wondered if the boy took her in his car, or had the common decency to take
Sansa on his bed. And wondered whether or not that boy would beg when Petyr
wrapped his hands around his throat.
            He didn’t know  why  he cared. Sansa wasn’t his, in any meaning of
the word. She wasn’t of  his  blood. She wasn’t his lover, his plaything, his
girlfriend. She wasn’t  his  one bit.
            That last thought had Petyr punching the closest thing, which was
the wall. It hurt, so Petyr focused on the pain for the next few minutes. Paced
from one end of the apartment to the other and back again.
            The next thing he knew, Petyr was standing in the threshold of her
room. Staring at the emptiness where she had been only a few nights ago.
            Petyr checked his watch – two minutes to nine. Still no word on his
phone (he didn’t consider the flurry of work emails as important right now, no
matter how many of them began with  URGENT  or some bullshit). He checked his
watch again – still two minutes to nine. Walked passed her room again – still
empty. Watch – still two minutes.
             Ding .
            Another work email, likely. Still, he checked the notifications on
the off chance that Sansa managed to contact him (despite not having his
number?). There wasn’t a new notification blinking on the lock screen.
            The rumble of doors slid opening.
            It was an effort not to run to the entryway.
            It was an effort not to scream.
            “Oh, I thought you would be at work?”
            Petyr felt all the muscles in his legs, his arms, tighten. It was
Kella. Just Kella – though that didn’t stop Petyr from scanning the entire room
as if Sansa might be there, somewhere, hiding. She wasn’t.
            “I…” Petyr began, working to keep his voice nonchalant. “I had some
things to take care of this morning. Had to pack for the trip.” Which he had
completely forgotten about. Where were his suitcase anyways?
            Kella stretched her arms with a deafening  crack . Tied her hair
back into a loose bun, ready for work. “Ah, right. Is it Dorne again this time,
or maybe it was Estermont”
            Was it? Right now, Kella could have guessed the fucking ends of the
earth, and Petyr could only shrug in possible confirmation. As the endless
minutes ticked on this morning (and it had only been an  hour , he reminded
himself), Petyr forgot more and more about everything that wasn’t his niece.
That was...normal? Normal for a father? He wasn’t sure. “I had called you. But
you didn’t pick up.”
            Kella tilted her head. “You did…?” She fished through all of her
pockets before snapping her fingers with an  a-ha  and pulling her jacket out
of one of the bags she brought in. In the breast pocket was her phone. “Oh, so
you did call. I’m sorry, I missed it. What did you need?”
            The question burst from his mouth: “Where’s S–"
             Ding .
            Petyr shot his gaze at the metal doors. Waiting – in fear?
anticipation? – for them to slide open. What if it  isn’t  her, he wondered.
What if she actually  was  lying discarded in a greasy alleyway, her dress torn
open. What if she actually was handcuffed to that fucker’s bed, her own tears
and his come staining her beautiful skin. What if she was  dead .
            With an armload of paper bags rustling in each step, there she was.
Fuck, Petyr felt like fucking  crying , like his chest was near about to cave
in on itself, and he didn’t know why. Was it supposed to hurt this much?
            But more than that: Petyr wanted to fucking  scream . He didn’t,
and for that, he gave himself a mental pat on the back later. His voice was
barely a breath. “You’re…”  not dead .
            Sansa didn’t see him. “Where should I put the bags, Kel?”
             Kel?  Petyr glanced between them.  Since when did they become
friendly? He noticed as Sansa wandered into the apartments (who hadn’t noticed
him , and Petyr couldn’t help but watch Sansa in her obliviousness) that she
wasn’t wearing the clothes she went out in last night. And her fancy updo was
damp curls caught in the hood of an excessive sweatshirt. So unlike the
tempting seductress he’d fallen prey to last night.
            “Over here, dear. Thank you so much.”
            Sansa set them down with a grin. “No problem.” Flipped her hair out
of the sweatshirt. Turned, before catching the sight of him standing there,
staring. “Oh.”
            Petyr watched as the looseness in Sansa’s muscles tightened. The
casual smile of thinking she’d been alone with Kella – to have simple girl-talk
as they tidied up an already-tidy apartment – slipped into a barely-parted O.
Petyr tore his stare away from her lips.
            But (and maybe he was projecting himself onto her, or projecting
those wicked thoughts that replaced the terrible ones) he saw how she hadn’t
closed up completely. She was  curious , if anything. Did that curiosity stem
as far as a similar ache that pulsated deep within her very soul at the sight
of Petyr? Because gods if that wasn’t how he felt.
            Kella – bless her soul – said, “I’m going to go organize the
study,” and left without another word.
            So it was just him and Sansa.
            The minute the soft  click  of the door down the hall echoed into
his ears, Petyr took a step forward, two. Sansa mirrored him backwards. The
heavy drum of his heart replaced the echo of the door closing, replaced the
sound of his shoes on the floor. “What do you think you were doing last night,
Sansa?”
            Where the hell did this jealousy come from? He didn’t know. It was
Sansa . It was  something  about her that brought the fire into a full-blown
blaze.
            In her defense, she lifted her chest higher, trying to stand her
own ground. How cute. “Am  I  not allowed to go on a date? Even though you
are…?”
            Petyr thought there was more to her words that she smartly chopped
off. Still, this defiance did something to him. His cocked twitched at her
anger. Petyr cleared his throat, hoping it would clear the haze that was
seeping in at the corners of his mind. “That’s different. I was, treating a
coworker to a dinner. That’s all.”
            Where the hell did these lies come from? And why was Petyr so
defensive about the truth behind Myranda?
            Sansa licked her lips – a quick movement, one that Petyr’s eyes
were drawn to. He forced his gaze back up to her eyes. She asked, “Do all your
coworkers touch you like that during  company dinners ? Or just the pretty
ones?”
            If he didn’t know better, Petyr would think Sansa was  enjoying
getting him riled up.
            “It’s different when it’s between adults, Sansa. You’re still
legally a child.”
            “Good to see that you know that.”
             What is that supposed to mean . Petyr narrowed his eyes at her.
Let his gaze travel down her body – she was wearing Kella’s clothing, that was
obvious from the excess size of the sweatshirt the shortness of the pants.
Sansa was still wearing her heels (Petyr found himself momentarily entranced by
her painted toes, by the smooth curve of her ankle unhidden by the pants). Her
hair was down, her makeup off. Hardly a sight for fashion magazines. But it
wasn’t the makeup or the clothes that drew his very soul towards her. It was
Sansa . Just, Sansa.
            One breath. Two. Three. He desperately needed to calm himself
before he did something rash. He needed to confirm those terrible thoughts in
his head – kill them before they killed him.  Did you let him fuck you . Petyr
took another step forward.  Where did you let him touch you . They were in the
middle of the kitchen now, cabinets to one side and the island to the other.
Will you let me fuck you . Behind Sansa, the landscape of King’s Landing shone
through her hair. “Did you go home with that fu-, that boy, last night?”
            Sansa didn’t move back, not until Petyr tested her with another
step. So, she was brave up until a point. If she was willing to push his
buttons, how far was Sansa willing to go.
            “No, I didn’t,” she said. And the weight of dread sitting in his
stomach burned up in the fire. A fire, he realized, that was burning more and
more not from the fear that that fucker touched her (or worse), or from the
seething anger at seeing her there with someone else. A fire, he realized, that
craved to be extinguished between her legs.
            If she was willing to let that piece of shit asshole  touch her  in
a restaurant, in the eyes of strangers, how willing would she be in the secrecy
of their home-
            Petyr shook his head.
            “Then why,” he began, closing in on his niece. Petyr backed Sansa
against the counter, one arm on either side of her. Sansa gasped at that. Petyr
clutched the granite hard enough that either it or his fingers were going to
break. Because that fire was urging him to be rash and foolish. Because this
closeness  – the fact that he could see where she had missed specks of mascara
on her eyelashes, the fact that he could smell the faintest whiff of her
perfume from last night – this closeness was driving him mad.
             She wants it , a vile voice whispered in his ear.  She would have
told you no if she didn’t want to feel your cock between her legs .
            He moved his head an inch closer, wondering if he could smell need
on her. Wondering if she was  lying  about not going home with that douche.
Petyr dragged his stare from the join between her legs, up the thickness of the
sweatshirt (which he could see she wasn’t wearing  anything  save for her bra
beneath, the dress likely in one of the bags she helped Kella bring up). Up her
neck, smooth porcelain free from claiming marks. Good – the only person Petyr
would allow to  claim  Sansa was himself.
            Finally, her eyes (it was an effort not to get caught on her lips,
on wondering if they were as soft as they looked. If they looked as pretty
wrapped around his cock). Sansa, all the while, stared back.
            “Then why,” Petyr repeated, releasing the death-grip on the counter
with his right hand, “did you let him  touch you  here last night.” He gently
touched the top of Sansa’s knee with his fingers. His other hand gripped
tighter – it was all he could do to keep rationality in check. No matter how
desperately the rest of his body was screaming at him to let go and dive into
the sweet waters of her sin.
            Sansa wasn’t  shocked  at the revelation. At least, not at his
words. That was...interesting. Had she  meant  for Petyr to see? Had she let
the boy touch her,  kiss  her (was that her first kiss?), all to make Petyr
jealous ? Because, gods, if that was her goal, then she better wish she was
prepared for the fire she willfully stoked inside him.
            She was, however, shocked at his boldness. At the firm touch on her
knee. “I…” she began. Licking her lips again, lick suddenly everything had gone
blank save for where Petyr was touching her.
            He moved his head closer, an inch further. The clean whiff of soap
tickled his nose. Petyr was not daring to move his right hand now – not
trusting what wicked things it would do.  Wanted  to do. “You  what ,
sweetling?”
            “I just–" she licked her lips again, and gods if Petyr couldn’t
help but imagine his cock between them, "–wanted some  experience .”
            Experience… Petyr lifted an eyebrow as he trailed a, “Because…?” in
the short space between them, not even hiding the pull of the smirk at his
lips.  Is she…  Petyr cocked his head at her, wanting her to finish.
            She did, after a few seconds. “Because I, um, don’t have much.”
            It was  despicable , he knew, the flurry of thoughts that plagued
his mind at the revelation.
             She’s a virgin .
            It would have been  cute  had it not set that fire blazing hotter.
Did Sansa know what she was doing to Petyr, truly? Because if she did, she was
far too wicked for even him. But if she didn’t...it was madness, having someone
so deliciously innocent at his fingertips.
            “So you wanted  experience , sweetling…” He let his hand rise a
fraction of an inch higher up her thigh. Petyr swore he heard the voiceless
hitch of her breath at the movement.
             What sort of experience do you want, Sansa .
            Because Petyr was more than willing to be a  kind uncle  and teach
her. Show her. All the ways a woman can orgasm. All the ways she can bring a
man to his.
            Between those wicked thoughts, he heard Sansa’s breathy voice: “And
what do  you  want.”
             Everything . He wanted to show her  everything .
             We can begin right now , he heard himself say. Watched as he
hooked his fingers in the waistband of the pants and tugged them down in one
fell swoop. Watched as he snaked one hand beneath the baggy sweatshirt to toy
with her breasts, as the other hand spread her legs apart. Pinched nipple and
pinched clit. Heard Sansa moan out – for the  first time . Felt Sansa shudder
beneath a man’s touch – for the first time. Watched as Sansa, full with need,
pulled his head in for a devouring kiss  –  not  for the first time.
            That, Petyr regretted.
            Still, if he couldn’t have her first kiss on her mouth…
            Petyr pushed and lifted Sansa to sit atop the counter. Kept her
legs spread for him with his own legs.
             You’re so wet, Sansa. To think you won’t be a virgin in a few
minutes…
            Watch as understanding spread across her face: this was it. She was
about to let a man touch her, fuck her, and she was going to enjoy every
fucking second of it.
            But first.
            Petyr zipped the sweatshirt off of her, admiring the delectable
nakedness of her body. Explored her arms, her sides, her back, her neck.
Mapping all of her curves and all of her moles before she breathed out a
please . Then he would memorize the shape and feel of her breasts in his palms.
Kneading them, flicking the nipples to beautiful hardened peaks.
             Please .
            And how could he deny his niece that was so  willing  to learn?
            Petyr kept her thighs apart with his hands as he kissed his way up
from her knee (sanctifying the spot where that douche had defiled her skin with
his touch) up to the join of her legs.
             Watch closely, Sansa,  he murmured against her cunt, drunk on just
the smell of her desire.  Watch very, very closely .
            He wanted to consume her until there was nothing left.
            “Petyr...”
            He blinked. Breathed in a single, shuddering breath that shattered
the vision.
            Sansa was still dressed, breaths falling against his face. A face,
he realized, was mere inches from hers. She was still leaning back into the
counter, though that hadn’t stopped Petyr from invading her space. His hand was
still on her leg – squeezing, unmoving, but higher than he remembered. Petyr
tried to breathe, but the lump in his throat was too big. His lips were dry.
His heart felt like it was going to explode, shrapnel killing him from the
inside.
            He wasn’t sure whether he loathed the rationality that halted his
hand on her thigh, or praised it.
            Only, Sansa didn’t stop him. Not when he was lost in such a
delicious fantasy. It felt more real than the million others.
             Petyr , she breathed. As if she, too, was wanting.  Aching  for
this.
            But...
             I’m not supposed to…
            “...to what?”
            Shit. Did he say that outloud? Petyr must have. But whether he
could truthfully answer what he  wasn’t  supposed to do...because damn if there
weren’t a hundred, a thousand. And half of them he just crossed, touching her,
leaning into her.
            Petyr must have voiced that thread-thin conflict between logic and
desire, because Sansa tilted her head just a fraction. Petyr could have sworn
the faintest hint of a  smile  tugged at her lips.
             Did she want it
             Did she want this
             Did she want him
            No.
            Yes?
            Petyr couldn’t tell anymore what was the truth, and what was his
mind (and heart, and cock, and the essence of his soul) wanted the truth to be.
He didn’t really know. And he wasn’t prepared to test out the theory by staying
here longer than he needed to. Gods knew what would happen if he let that image
consume him. If he took Sansa, here – then on the sofa, the hallway, her bed
and his.
            He wouldn’t ever want to leave.
            Still – logic won. Petyr let go of the counter, taking a
considerable step backwards. Cleared his throat. “I’m not supposed to be here.
I’m...I’m supposed to be at work.”
            The lie was so plain, Petyr knew even  Lysa  wouldn’t have believed
it, if she were still alive. Sansa obviously didn’t either. Not with the way he
acted last night (she had seen him staring at her. She must have heard that
animalistic growl when that fucker touched her).
            And especially not now, not with Petyr barely holding on to his own
sanity.
            He flexed his fingers, his left hand aching from its grip on the
counter. The right...buzzing, from the feel of her beneath his touch.  Let her
go , the last sliver of rationality echoed in Petyr’s mind.
            “Go on another date with that boy.”  Don’t you fucking dare  “Get
your so-called experience.”  Don’t fuck him . “I don’t really care what you
do.”  Yes I do. And if he so much as touches you I’ll rip his balls off .
“Just… I need to go,” he repeated in a flurry of his mind yelling: get the hell
out before you do something you’ll really, really, really regret.
            He didn’t look at her, couldn’t bear to. Petyr shuffled around the
living room, trying to remember what he needed. His phone? That was in his
pocket. His shoes? On. His...there was  something , he thought he was missing.
But all Petyr could think was the awful, repeating mantra of  she’s a virgin,
and  she’s practically begging me to take her .
             Do it .
            Was he a coward? No. A coward would have taken Sansa already
against her will. That first night, when she strode into his life with the
scent of lemons and autumn air.
            Petyr was only a desperate, foolish man, if anything.
            “Sansa, dear? Can you come help me move the desk?”
            Petyr froze waiting for the elevator. In those minutes (how long
was it?), he had forgotten about Kella. A wonderful woman, but still. Wouldn’t
that be a sight? To be caught touching his niece, eating her out, in front of
his housekeeper.  Fucking  his niece. He could trust the older woman, yes, had
for many, many years. But everyone had their limits. And Kella was almost as
much a master at keeping secrets at Petyr was.
             If Kella wasn’t there…  he reasoned, slamming the Close Door
button over and over until he was alone. It wouldn’t fucking matter whether or
not Kella had been here, because Petyr had forgotten she even existed.
            It was a flimsy excuse, if that.
             If I didn’t have fucking Tywin to deal with…  That was a better
excuse. It was near nine-thirty already, and the walk would do wonders to ease
both the hammering in his chest and the hardness in his pants.
            But  experience . If that’s all Sansa wanted…
            Petyr wondered – and not for the first time, and certainly not for
the last –  what  sort of experience she was looking for. Kissing? Petyr would
gladly show her that. Touching a man’s cock. Oh, very, very gladly. Being
touched by a man. Being fucked by one.
            All he needed was a pretense. A lie. The disguise of a kind uncle
helping out his darling niece. Oh, what a sight for the presses.
            Excuses and lies: that’s all he was good at, anyways.
 
Chapter End Notes
     [OKAY so I totally forgot about this chapter and the next, so I /do/
     apologize for all the teasing, (but like, it’s so much fun tbh). BUT
     something good is definitely coming in the next chapter (and it’s
     probably gonna be Petyr lmao ;) )]
***** sansa *****
Chapter Notes
     [I am a liar re: getting this up early (I /know/ I’m so sorry! but
     life). The good news though is that I’m back on schedule!
     And in case you had any doubts: this story is still trash! And we're
     all trash together for reading it!! ;D]
 
             Stop him .
            Petyr’s hand rose slowly higher. She knew she  should  stop him.
They were related – not by blood, no. But by the tenuous thread that was Lysa
Arryn née Tully. A thread snipped months ago, and whose grayed ends now wrapped
around Sansa’s heart. At the  least  she should stop Petyr’s hand roving higher
and higher (inch by agonizing inch) not because they were (semi-)related, but
because she was still  seventeen .
            It was wrong. In every account, viewed from any angle or through
any skewed filter. Wrong. So very much wrong.
            There was a thought, though, a single one that echoed against the
thrum of her heart and batted away the pervading thoughts of wrongness. Sansa
shouldn’t listen to it. Shouldn’t let it’s vileness whisper its way through the
haze of desire. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. But she did:  What if I don’t want him to
stop?
            “And what do  you  want?”
            Her question hung in the space between them. The small space,
hardly inches separating their bodies now. Petyr’s mouth twitched, like he
barely managed to hold back his answer.
             What do you want , she asked him again in her mind.  Do you want
me?
            His body was moving on its own, moving to the rhythm in his
imagination. Sansa saw how distant his gaze was now. Like he was trapped in his
mind. What were they doing there? What was  he  doing to her. Nothing good.
Nothing at all remotely good.
             This is wrong . The edge of the counter was biting into Sansa’s
back, grounding her in reality. Which was: her uncle cornered her in his
kitchen, and was moments away from taking her, here and now, like his brain was
screaming at him to (it  had  to be, of course. A mirror of the improper things
running through her own imagination: nothing good. Nothing at all remotely
good. Wrong, so wrong.)
            It took all her effort not to place her hands against his chest. Or
throw them over his shoulders and  lean in  to his closing movements. Or even
thread through black-and-grey curls (as much as she couldn’t help but wonder
how soft they were. They looked soft. And perfectly coiffed –  begging  to be
disheveled. By her fingers. As he kissed her. And as he…)
            Petyr’s hand trailed slowly up her thigh, skimming the bottom of
the oversize sweater Kella loaned her. Sansa could feel the warmth of his
fingers through the material, feel the heaviness of his fingers pushing against
her leg. He grew closer to her, close enough that Sansa felt the brush of his
need against her thigh.
             This is it , she thought.
            He leaned in and out, his need grazing against her, growing harder
with each passing moment. His face was close. His hand digging into her thigh.
She closed her eyes. Sansa could barely hear the wicked things her mind was
saying over the beating of her heart.
            “Petyr…” The word came out on its own, a breathy sigh. A pent-up
reaction from the pulsing ache between her legs. From Petyr’s ache, pressed
against her.  How far is he going to go?  she wondered. Sansa could taste the
mint coming off of his own breaths, mixing with the subtle cleanness of
aftershave and cologne. It was a  good  smell, she realized. She wondered if he
could smell her, too: the soap she used at Kella’s, the lingering perfume from
her date, the building need between her legs…
            Did he like the way she smelled? Would he like the way she  tasted
?
            But Petyr blinked, a sharp intake of breath the only sound or
movement. He came back to reality. Came back to realize how high his hand had
moved up her leg, how close he was – and Sansa couldn’t help to continue that
vile, wicked whisper that echoed in her mind.  Would he have continued if I
didn’t stop him .
            She wouldn’t know, of course.
            It was only a few seconds, in truth, but it felt like a lifetime
passed in those breaths. Like both of them revealed deep, dark secrets about
themselves; like they had spread open the skin of their chests and shown the
other their very souls.
            Black as pitch. How else could someone like Sansa – with these
wicked thoughts and desires, who was very much promised to another man whilst
caving under some lewd desire for her  uncle  – describe her soul.
            Petyr’s was too. Of that, she was sure.
            “I’m not supposed to…” he uttered, so quietly Sansa couldn’t help
but wonder if it was part of her imagination. Because hadn’t her own mind been
saying those exact words to her, too?  I’m not supposed to feel like this. I’m
not supposed to want my uncle. I’m not supposed to catch the eye of someone who
isn’t my betrothed . But it wasn’t part of her imagination. The words hung
between them, heavy with truth and longing.
             I’m not supposed to…  “...to what?” she whispered. Hoping (and
perhaps dreading) the vocalization of the truth, of reality.
            Petyr cleared his throat, taking a single step back. The chasm
created felt a lot bigger than a couple of feet. Still: darkness clouded his
gaze. He wasn’t  looking  at her, not really. Perhaps Petyr was still trying to
drag himself back from the wicked things his own mind concocted. “I’m not
supposed to be here. I’m...I’m supposed to be at work.”
            Sansa watched him flex his fingers.
            “Go on another date with that boy,” he continued, taking another
step out of the kitchen, as if trying his best to remember what he was doing
before Sansa showed up. Moved about the living room, looking for  something ,
but also not really looking for anything. Waved his hand at Sansa as he said,
“Get your so-called experience. I don’t really care what you do.”  Don’t you?
She thought, a sharp stab slicing through her ribs. “Just… I need to go.”
            He headed for the elevator, slamming the button. Staring at it,
feeling the rumble of the car rising beneath his feet. Oh, wasn’t this a sight
too common: her standing flustered in their (his, she reminded herself, this
wasn’t her home) kitchen, Petyr anxiously waiting for the elevator to whisk him
away. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether him going away was for Sansa’s
sanity, or his.
            “Sansa, dear? Can you come help me move the desk?”
            Petyr slipped through the doors. She stood there, listening to the
rumble of the elevator descend. Her heart rumbled in her chest, a ceaseless,
pounding thing that wouldn’t quiet, no matter how many breaths she took.
             Gods, what’s wrong with me?  A question Sansa repeated to herself
over and over these past few days. A question that echoed in the beating of her
heart.
            She took her heels off, a chill rushing up her feet. Sansa headed
towards the sound of Kella’s voice, thankful for the much-needed distraction.
She wasn’t sure  what  exactly she would do were she alone with these wicked
thoughts and a frantic heart. And a devilish thrumming between her legs
whispering all sorts of vile things to her.
            “What do you need help with?” she said, turning in the threshold of
the study.
            “This, dear,” Kella said, motioning to the solid wood desk that she
stood beside. Sansa glanced about the room – the boxes were stacked on one side
of the room, and the dust once clinging to the window shades was gone – as she
moved to the other side of the desk. WIth a  one two three  they hoisted it a
few inches above the ground. It leaned down towards the housekeeper, but they
managed to maneuver it over enough. It fell with a resounding  thud  on the
carpet.
            “Oof,” Kella said with a heaving breath, leaning against the desk.
“I forgot how heavy that thing was. Thanks, Sansa.”
            Sansa smiled. “Of course. Do you need help with anything else?”
            The woman nodded, waving her hand about the room. “If you don’t
mind. You know you don’t actually need to help me, you know? You’re a guest
after all.”
            She knew, but this would be a lot better than being alone with her
thoughts. “It’s fine, I don’t mind. I rather like cleaning.”
            “Good for you,” Kella said with a wry laugh. “But, since you’re in
a helpful mood. Petyr wants all of this stuff out by the month’s end, and it
wouldn’t hurt me, or I guess  us , to get a head start. I’m sure he told you
you could take whatever of your aunt’s you want?” Sansa nodded. “Good. And
since he’ll be leaving tonight – I think? – I figured it’s a good as time as
any to start figuring out what in the seven hells is in here.”
            That gave Sansa pause, though she wish she knew why she  cared .
“Oh. He’s leaving?”
            Kella nodded with an  mm-hmm,  as if the news as ordinary. Which it
might as well have been. Sansa knew Petyr was constantly busy with work.
Business trips were obvious. So why  did  she care? This was  good , wasn’t it?
His uncouth gaze, and fingers, and thoughts… Petyr being gone for a couple days
would – should – be a blessing.
            Sansa tried to ask with as much of an  I don’t really care but I’ll
be polite and ask about it  aura. “Do you know how long he’ll be gone for? Or
where he’s going?”
            The woman shrugged. “Can’t say, dear. He’s always out and about on
trips. Though, he hasn’t been since Robert passed away, the poor thing. And
then Lysa… But I’m sure Lannister has been itching to get Petyr back out doing
what he does best. With any luck he won’t be gone more than a few days.”
             Interesting .
            They worked together in silence, shuffling boxes to each wall of
the room based on what was in it: Robert’s things went to the wall beside the
window, Lysa’s to the wall opposite. There were a fair amount of boxes with
papers and folders from old cases (or so Sansa gleaned just from looking in
real quick). And a few others with miscellaneous things. All those went on the
last wall, and it was a towering heap. The bookshelves remained untouched,
though they were crammed with more books and folders and work things. Sansa
went ahead and dusted the higher shelves.
            By then, Kella asked, “Are you ready to talk about your date?”
            Sansa had called Kella last night after Harry dropped her off.
Kella was kind enough to pick her up and offer her modest apartment for the
night (Kella even offered to swing by a coffee shop, but Sansa declined. She
couldn’t help but wonder if the period lie was true, but her underwear was
clean). The older woman was kinder, still, in letting Sansa ruminate in silence
on all of the things that had happened in the restaurant.
            But Kella could only wait for gossip for so long. The only thing
that kept Sansa from spilling everything (well, there was more than one reason)
was the fact that she didn’t know how closely Kella kept secrets to her chest.
Was it Kella who told Petyr about Sansa’s date at the restaurant (at Kella’s
recommendation, too. Harry asked her what sort of food she would have liked,
and Sansa offered up some of the places the housekeeper recommended. Granted,
Harry made the final decision, and who knows how long Petyr had his fuck-date
(it was, of course. Sansa  smelt  the lingering headiness of what he and that
woman had done the moment she stepped out of the elevator doors. Sansa tried
not to let her imagination wonder about  where  they did it, and how many
times, and how Petyr preferred to take a woman). Still. The coincidence was too
blatant for Sansa to dismiss.
            Sansa moved to the other side of the desk, trailing her fingers
over the clean surface. “Kel. If I tell you about my date,” she began, tracing
a knot in the wood. “Then you have to tell me something about Petyr.”
            Kella laughed at that, a reaction Sansa hadn’t been expecting.
“Quid pro quo… You sure you two aren’t  actually  related?” she said with a
shrewd smile.
            Sansa tried to ignore the comment, but it sent (what? She wasn’t
sure she knew exactly) a bit of lightness through her. “Is that a yes?”
            “Yes, yes. But you go first.”
             That’s fair . So Sansa told the housekeeper the brief of her date
last night, opting not to disclose exactly what she had let Harry do to her, or
what Myranda did to Petyr. Sansa had wondered whether to tell Kella about
Petyr’s own date, and figured it couldn’t be something the woman didn’t already
know.
            She was right about that. “I haven’t met Myranda yet, is she a
looker?”
            “I...guess?” Sansa didn’t really care to talk about her uncle’s
date. And especially didn’t care to talk about how she leaned into him, or
rubbed her leg against his, or stared at him all night with a look of  I’m
going to fuck you senseless . Which she (or he) did.
            “So Harry was a no-go?”
            “He just… Yeah.”
            “At least you tried it out,” Kella reasoned. They had stopped
cleaning now, leaning on either side of the desk. The window was open, letting
in the chill winter air. Sansa could faintly hear (or thought she could) the
sound of waves crashing in the distance. “Was it the fact that he just wanted
sex that made you say ‘no’? Or
             It’s because 1) I’m engaged and 2) I couldn’t keep my thoughts
away from my uncle . “I suppose. I think he just wasn’t my type. Though I’m
worried he won’t take no for an answer.”
            “Ah,” the housekeeper muttered, as if she had her own slew of men
who didn’t understand what  No  meant. “Has he messaged you yet?”
            Sansa checked her phone. He  had , sending her a few texts last
night. They weren’t creepy, but his persistence was...a bother.
“Unfortunately?”
            Kella laughed. “It’s up to you, really, whether to end it or not.
But if you do, tell him as soon as possible. Boys like that will hound you for
forever . I just hope he’s not too eager to bed you.” She said it with a
disgusted face. Like she definitely had too many of those in her own past.
            Talking about it helped. And didn’t. Because Sansa still had so
many lies weighing her down. Her engagement (of which, Sansa needed to reply to
Margaery. There was so much left to do, and she still needed to get Willas her
wedding gift. Margaery kept dangling what Willas got Sansa, but never gave
Sansa more than a “You’ll see~”). Her unreliable heart.
            Sansa shook those away. “Thanks. Now it’s your turn, if you don’t
mind.”
            Kella moved to sit on the edge of the desk, stretching her legs
out. “Fine, fine. What’s your question?” She looked at her watch. “And make it
quick, I’ve a doctor’s appointment in a bit.”
            Sansa chewed on her bottom lip, wondering if she could weedle out
more information later. They had a bond now, however small. Not to mention
Sansa knew it was always easier to get people to open up if she told them
truths first.
            Such as: “How was my uncle’s relationship with Lysa?”
            Kella stared at her. “That’s bit of a loaded question, dear.”
            “That’s why I’m asking you, and not Petyr.”
            The corner of Kella’s mouth twitched up, but she didn’t let the
smile overtake her. Sighed. “The  truth , then. I’ll make it short and sweet.
Their relationship was…not uncommon around here. Half the people in King’s
Landing hate their partner, though those people are the ones running the
businesses and like.  Normal  folks like me, eh, we’re fine. But Petyr and Lysa
got along well enough, to the public. He wasn’t mean or abusive or any of that.
He just...didn’t care too much. About her, or little Robert. Though between you
and me, he seemed to like the boy a lot more when Lysa wasn’t around.”
            And that was that. Kella rebraided her hair, tucking in the
flyaways behind her ears.
            There were truths Kella was holding back on, that was obvious. But
Sansa worried that asking for those would need payment on her end. And the
secrets Sansa had to offer...well, those she would prefer not to share. “Ah.
Thank you.”
            “Of course. Now, I’ve got to go,” Kella said, grunting as she
lifted herself off the table. Her knees cracked as she stood. Before she left,
she turned to Sansa, holding up a finger. “Now, dear, don’t go telling Petyr
about none of that. Or, at least not where you heard it from.”
            Sansa motioned zipping her lips. “Of course, Kel.”
            The woman gave her a wink. “Clever girl.”
            And Sansa was alone again.
            She thought about flipping through the boxes and seeing what
exactly her aunt had left after her death. But the idea wasn’t very exciting.
Nor was the idea of just sitting around doing nothing all day. Harry’s messages
were still left unanswered, and Sansa knew she should reply back.
            Her phone read  9:45 . There was too much time left in the day. Too
much time, and too many thoughts.
            Sansa hated her feet for walking herself back to the kitchen. That
she found herself pressing her stomach against the counter she had been had
hardly an hour ago. If she closed her eyes, Sansa could see Petyr. His own eyes
heady with the thoughts clouding his mind. A wicked smile turning up one corner
of his mouth.
            And in her imagination, Petyr’s hands weren’t clutched against the
counter’s edge. Nor did they stop just beneath the sweater.
            She imagined her fingers to be his, and let herself sink down into
the darkness of her mind.
             And what do you want , she asked him.
             You. Haven’t I made it obvious?  he said. Closing in on her. There
was nowhere to run.
            She snaked her hand beneath the waistband of the sweats, trailing
her fingers against her mound, up and down her inner thighs. Teasing herself.
Imagining her fingers to be his.
            In her head, she heard herself say to him:  Please.
            Sansa slowly dipped one finger between her lips, sighing as she
sunk in all the way. Slowly she rolled her hips against her finger, moving
faster and faster with each pass. Sansa moved her free hand beneath the
sweatshirt to clutch a breast, toying with the nipple that was already hard.
             You like that, don’t you?
             Yes . Her breaths were long and hot, mirroring the in and out of
her finger and the twirl of her hips.
            Petyr leaned against her, the hardness of his need pressed against
her ass. He didn’t reign in modesty now – moving his hips against her own.  Can
you feel that , she heard him say, his mouth next to her ear.  That’s what you
do to me, Sansa.
            Sansa gasped. Her fingers rolled against her clit, finding the
perfect rhythm that sent her heart beating faster and faster.
             Oh sweetling,  he cooed into her ear. She could smell the faintest
whiff of mint on his breath, mixed with the headiness of her need. And his.
You know we shouldn’t do this. It’s wrong. So, so wrong...
            Sansa replied back, through her breathless gasps (she was so close
now, nothing existed save the roll of her fingers inside her and the wicked
image of Petyr, his blackened eyes and sinful words, the feel of his hand
against her thigh):  I know. But it feels so good .
            There was a  ding  at the elevator.
            Sansa jumped. She hadn’t heard the telltale rumble of the car
rising, too lost in her fantasy to know anything else. She brushed away her
need on the sweatpants (no luck giving them back to Kella). Tried to calm her
ragged breaths. Smashing her hair down, running her hands under the faucet and
splashing her bright-red cheeks with cold water. All the while wondering
whether Kella had forgotten something. Or Petyr.
            The last thought sent a spark throughout her. It shouldn’t have.
            The doors slid open and – no. Not Petyr. Or Kella, for that matter.
It was someone Sansa didn’t recognize: a boy with blond hair and lightly tanned
skin. The suit he wore was impeccable, though a little wrinkled at his joints.
Short strands of his hair stood up, despite his best efforts to flatten them. A
robber, maybe, though fancily dressed for one.
            “Oh!” the boy startled, noticing her peeking up above the counter.
“By the Seven, you nearly gave me a heart attack…”
            She wondered if she looked as mad as she felt. Were her cheeks
still as red as her hair? Redder, likely, from the embarrassment of nearly
being caught. What if she hadn’t heard the  ding . What if some poor boy walked
in on her pleasuring herself, to the imagination that it was her own gods-
damned uncle?
            She was in too deep.
            Sansa couldn’t help her manners, even in her nearly-caught-
touching-myself embarrassment. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to.”
            He waved it off, laughing. “No, no it’s fine. I should have
knocked.” Winked at her playfully, though Sansa didn’t take it as such. A few
seconds passed before he snapped his fingers. “Ah, right. You’re the niece,
aren’t ya?”
            Sansa furrowed her brows. If he was a robber, he had an odd way
about it.
            He must have caught on to Sansa’s train of thought, raising his
hands up in an  I’m innocent  gesture. “Sorry, my bad. I’m Mr Baelish’s
assistant. Well, intern assistant. Still. But he left some paperwork and sent
me running here to go pick it up. I’ll be outta here real quick!”
            As he darted for the hall, Sansa blurted out, “What’s your name?”
            He shot her a smile made of perfect teeth. There was a single
dimple on his left cheek. “Olyvar. And sorry if I’ve forgotten your name…?”
            Sansa lifted her left hand for him. Answered, “Sansa,” as he shook
it, though awkwardly. He wasn’t left-handed either (it was a small courtesy not
to shake a stranger’s hand with the fingers that were just working to make her
come seconds before).
            “Nice to meet you. Now, let me see if I can find that folder…”
            Olyvar rushed through the hall, and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder
if Petyr had left work files here before. He must have, since Olyvar returned
with a small manila folder, flipping through the sheets.
            Though Petyr likely hadn’t forgotten files before because he was
too busy  not  taking his niece in the kitchen.
            “Hey, Olyvar,” she began, and cursed herself for the idea that
bloomed in her head.
            He turned to her, finger trailing over the elevator button. They
were manicured. “Yes?”
            Was she going to regret this? Probably.
            But Sansa couldn’t stop feeling the ghosts of Petyr’s fingers
riding up her thigh. Trailing around her core, and inside it. Fondling her
breasts. The way he looked at her, ravenous. The way her body  ached  for those
stilled fingers to rise higher – and work over her, inside her.
             There’s something wrong with me . Sansa knew that already, true.
But gods if this doesn’t feel…  What? Not  right , of course (a niece egging on
her uncle for uncouth actions? There was no universe in which that was  right
).  Good . But the same turmoil with  Right . A niece (and an underage girl at
that, she reminded herself, her birthday just over a week away now) should not
be feeling  good  about being touched by someone at least twice her age.
            She felt...something. Something that was decidedly right and good –
but for reasons that weren’t.
            Sansa gave Olyvar the sweetest smile she could, even sweeter than
the ones she gave Harry. Olyvar (being obviously not into her, but knowing his
manners) smiled back. “Would it be alright if I go with you? I won’t be in
King’s Landing long, and I’m curious where my uncle works, since he’s never
home.”
            The boy only smiled back at her, oblivious (she hoped) to her
motivations. “Sure thing. Though I’m in a bit of a rush. Mr Baelish has a
meeting in–" he checked is watch. Silently swore. "–eleven minutes.”
            Sansa glanced down at the sweats she borrowed from Kella (“They’re
old and don’t fit me right anymore,” the woman said. “You might as well keep
‘em. Or throw ‘em away, gods know I will eventually.”) Back up to Olyvar,
another sickly sweet smile. “Of course. Give me two seconds to change.”
                                     * * *
            “And over there I once saw a lady squat down in the middle of the
street and just shit.”
            Sansa half-laughed, half-gagged. “Oh gods…”
            “Yeah. I know.” Olyvar scrunched his face, as if that horrid memory
was happening right now. (Of which, Sansa wouldn’t be surprised if it  was.  at
least in a different street. The center of King’s Landing was an interesting
place, so unlike her home for the past several years. Highgarden had its bouts
of unusual and odd, of course, but  this  topped anything her and Margaery had
run across).
            Speaking of interesting: Olyvar was an interesting boy (he couldn’t
be more than a handful of years older than her, maybe as old as Harry was), but
not once did he stare at her like Harry had. Of course, it was painfully
obvious Olyvar wasn’t interested in Sansa. Sansa wondered if the boy would have
been Loras’ type.
            They took the subway, only because they were short on time, and
thankfully it hadn’t been too crowded this late in the morning. The gods were
on their side, too, when it pulled up just as they got to the platform.
            Olyvar checked his watch every three seconds (give or take). He was
in a rush, and Sansa didn’t mind keeping up with him. She wisely chose to wear
flats, and a simple dress beneath a cardigan Kella helped her pick out. There
hadn’t been time to do her makeup or fix her hair more than toss it up into a
loose bun. Sansa pulled loose strands on either side of her face, hoping to
make it a  look .
            “Here we are,” Olyvar said, opening the door for Sansa. She thanked
him, following behind as he navigated their way through to the elevator. Sansa
wished the officer a good morning.
            It wasn’t until the doors closed and Sansa watched the numbers
steadily rise up did it finally hit her:  this is so foolish .
            “I need to go run these to Mr Baelish,” Olyvar said as they rose up
higher and higher, checking his watch again. It was one minute to ten, and her
heart was racing. Because of how quickly they walked, she told herself. “But
wait for me in the lobby and I’ll give you a quick tour of the office? I don’t
think  his meeting should be long, but…” He simultaneously rolled his eyes and
shrugged. Sansa laughed, though didn’t quite understand the meaning of it.
            “That’s fine,” she said, though it wasn’t. She wanted to come here
for him. And if she had to wait, Sansa wasn’t sure if the butterflies wreaking
havoc in her stomach would return. She could already feel the flutter of their
wings brushing up against her insides.
            “Good. Be right back!” Olyvar jogged out of the doors the moment
they slid open. She listened to the patter of his footsteps fade away.
            Sansa stepped out of the car. Right in front of her was a massive
steel letterwork of  Lannister & Baratheon  plated in gold. It shone in the
hall lights. Sansa saw her distorted self in the reflection.
            The butterflies returned. And not just because of Petyr, but
because of the name. Lannister & Baratheon. She should have  known  Petyr
worked for them.
             You can do this , she told herself. Steeling herself with a
single, long breath. Praying she wouldn’t run into either.
            The lobby was huge, glistening tiles and modern furniture lining
the area. No one sat at the reception desk, though she could hear the chatter
and movement of people beyond. On the wall was the company logo again, set atop
a faint silhouette of a stag and lion.
            “Aren’t you a cute thing…?”
            Sansa turned. A  Sorry  already forming in her throat (it was a
natural reaction, to anything and everything). Only, it caught in her throat,
leaving her mouth open.
            It was  her . The woman from last night. And from the first night
Sansa stepped into her uncle’s life.
            She wore a simple black dress that was borderline scandalous (was
that all she had?) Her breasts were covered, but the fit of the dress did
nothing to hide how big they were. Her face was done with heavy eyeshadow.
Heavy brown curls framed her face. She could have been a movie star in another
life. Sansa wasn’t entirely convinced she wasn’t – how could someone that
pretty work in a law firm?
            The woman cocked her head, slanting her eyes. As if she was trying
to remember Sansa. She did eventually, snapping fingers. The nails were painted
bright red. “Oh! You’re his niece, right?”
            Sansa had shut her mouth, and didn’t want to open it again, afraid
the butterflies would fly out of it. Thank the gods they didn’t. “Yes. I’m, um,
visiting his office. With Olyvar. I was just curious where he worked, is all…”
And if I had known I would run into you...
            The woman approached, her heels clacking on the tiles. She offered
a hand and a devilishly sweet smile. Her lips were painted red, too, though a
fraction muted than nails. “I’m Myranda. Sorry, I don’t think I ever caught
your name?”
             So Petyr has talked to her about me. How much else has he said.
How much else has this woman taken from him . Sansa didn’t know where this
jealousy came from. It was the same burning thing from last night. The same
thing that (were she a lesser woman) would have sent her fist colliding into
that perfectly-painted face. But, Sansa couldn’t forget her manners, taking the
woman’s hand and offering her her own practiced smile. It felt a lot different
than the ones she gave to Olyvar hardly minutes earlier. “I’m Sansa. Nice to
meet you.”
            “ Sansa ,” Myranda said, as if testing it out. She licked her lips,
letting another smile hang on them. Sansa didn’t like that. “What a pretty
name. And you’re so much prettier than her, too.”
             Her?  “Oh, you mean my aunt?”
            Myranda nodded. “I don’t think she ever was as pretty as you. Loud,
yes, and definitely not ever too proud to say what was on her mind.” She
laughed at some memory or other. “Oh, my condolences.” She added that as an
afterthought to an afterthought. Sansa wondered if  anyone  truly loved Lysa
Arryn. Which (though it shouldn’t have, not after what she put her siblings
through) made her sad.
            “Thanks,” Sansa said, suddenly wishing (again) to be left alone.
            “A pity you’re his niece though.”
            Sansa couldn’t feign the confusion that crossed her own face. This
woman was not someone to be taken lightly, she realized. “Why?”
            Myranda leaned in, that horrid smile still turning her lips. Sansa
hated it. “Oh, because I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
            Ice filtered through Sansa’s veins.  Does she know . The
butterflies multiplied, until they filled every possible crevice inside her.
How does she know .  What did she see. What did Petyr say. Does she know and
how and why and-
            “But–" the woman began, leaning in so close Sansa felt drowned by
her perfume. It smelled of flowers and vanilla. "–between you and me, Petyr
much prefers a girl who knows what she’s doing. Though I do hope you had fun on
your date last night?”
            Sansa clenched a fist, feeling her nails dig deep into the palm of
her hand. It was all she could do to bring herself back from the cold grip of
fear. Of  course  Myranda didn’t know. Of course. She was just saying things to
rile Sansa up. Yes. Of course. “It was fine.” Sansa didn’t feel like offering
up anything more, even asking back  How was your date .
            Sansa knew, from the way Petyr’s bedsheets were tossed. From the
way this woman was smiling at her.
            Footsteps echoed off the tiles, though Sansa could barely hear them
over the roar in her head.
            “Oh, it’s you. Finished with your errand?” Myranda said lazily.
            Sansa blinked. Twice. The ice melted, slowly, a fraction. She felt
like throwing up.
            It was Olyvar who replied, “I have. Made it in the nick of time,
thank the gods.” He glanced at Sansa when she looked at him, and smiled. Back
to Myranda, he said, “Don’t you have  actual  work to do today? With the
Yonson’s trial? I don’t think they pay you to sit around looking pretty...”
            “I’m sure that’s what they keep you for,” Myranda laughed. “Oh
fine, keep Sansa to yourself then. See you later,” she said with a wink. Sansa
felt the butterflies in her stomach recoil at that. She watched the woman
saunter away, her hips swaying unnecessarily. Her heels too high, too, or so
Sansa thought.
            “What a piece of work she is, isn’t she…” Olyvar murmured. He
clapped his hands. “But never mind her. Your uncle’s in a meeting right now,
hopefully he’ll be out by ten thirty. In the meantime, you still up for that
tour?”
            Sansa dragged herself back from the jealousy and fear at running
into  the other woman . It felt so...cliche, thinking Myranda as that. Since
Myranda wasn’t the one with taboos. Since Myranda was the one who already
staked her claim into Petyr.
            Still. She smiled again, hoping Olyvar didn’t catch anything amiss.
“Sure. Show me around.”
            The office was bigger than she was expecting, taking up the whole
of the floor. There were different departments based on the types of casework
or job, and Sansa asked not to be introduced as Petyr’s niece (she  should
have, she thought, because telling everyone of the relation would help cement
the wrongness in why she was here), and rather as a friend of Olyvar’s from
college. Most people didn’t care one way or the other, she felt. They were busy
enough that they could only say a simple  Hello  before going back to calls or
flipping through books. Only two or three people asked about her: are you going
to KLU, and how did you and Olyvar become friends, and are you looking for an
internship right now. Basic pleasantries.
            “Let’s see if he’s out yet…” Olyvar said as they finished the
circuit and wandered towards the conference rooms. There were several, all of
which were set up against the wall. Sansa could see the hazy shape of
neighboring buildings through the fogged glass.
            “Oh, perfect!” he said after dipping his head past one of the
smaller rooms. To Sansa, he said, “Looks like they finished already. Mr Baelish
is still in there, if you want me to tell you you’re here?”
            The butterflies’ onslaught was murderous.  Go before he knows
you’re here , they were yelling at her.  Go before you regret it . “No, it’s
fine, I think I’ll surprise him.” She bit her lip, hiding a smile. “Thank you
so much, Olyvar. You make a wonderful tour guide.” He laughed at that with a
half-confused  Thanks . Waved him goodbye. She was so thankful Olyvar was
Petyr’s assistant and not Myranda. Gods knew what sort of terrible things Sansa
would imagine him and his fuck-date doing if they worked so close together (it
was difficult not to think of her as that. For all Sansa knew, maybe the other
woman really was a good person. But...likely not). Sansa shook her head.
            Turned towards the conference room. Inhaled a single long, deep
breath.  Now or never .
            Never was looking very enticing, with each step she took towards
the room. The elevators were just over there – hardly a sprint to them, and
back down to the lobby, and out of the office before Petyr ever knew she was
here.
            The sound of glass beneath her rapping knuckles sounded so much
louder than it should have been. Petyr looked up from writing notes down. There
were a few folders lying on the dark wood conference table. The TV monitor was
on but not plugged in. Two chairs opposite Petyr were askew.
            A crease formed between his eyes. “Sansa… You…?”
             Something  urged her to close the door. To lock it. Turn the
blinds completely closed (slowly, so no one outside would notice. Sansa watched
the neighboring conference rooms fade away into slits, and then into nothing).
            She turned back to him. He had been staring at her all the while,
the pen in his hand motionless. “Sansa…?”
            “Hi.” She managed. It sounded weak, pathetic. But it was much
better than unleashing the hundreds of butterflies wreaking havoc inside her.
             What in seven hells are you doing?
            “Hi…” he repeated, still trying to figure out how and why his niece
appeared at his work. Slow blinks.
            “I,” Sansa began, leaning against the door. She knotted her fingers
in the hem of her dress behind her back.  Courage , she told herself. Hoping
thinking it would will it into her voice. “I was curious where you work, since
you’re always busy. And, um, Olyvar swung by the apartment. To pick up the
folder. And I asked if I could come along, and he said yes. And then whilst you
were in your meeting he showed me around the office – it’s very nice. And now…
Hi.” She was rambling, she knew, but the words wouldn’t stop once they started.
            Petyr dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. It  squeaked
from the movement. “I see.”
            Silence filled the air. In it, Sansa heard his unspoken question of
Why are you here?  The truth of it – not this rambling excuse of a lie.
            She took in another deep breath. Stepped towards him, one step.
Another. Pressing her legs against the side of the conference table. Petyr
didn’t move. Even his gaze; he managed to keep it glued to her own. Sansa
couldn’t help but wonder if everything was a lie, all that he had done and said
(and thought). But, no. Petyr’s hand was gripping the edge of his thigh, hard.
As if to control himself. Sansa bit back the smile. “I was thinking about what
you said earlier.”
            He blinked, trying to remember the conversation they had just this
morning. Were the wicked thoughts in his mind clouding the truth? Sansa hoped
so. “And what about it was so urgent you had to discuss it  here  instead of
waiting?”
            She licked her lips. She hoped (prayed) that the harshness in his
tone wasn’t directed  at  her, but at the fact that this was reckless. That
they could be  caught . “Because you won’t be home tonight. Kella says you’re
going away, and I didn’t know when you’d be back.”
            Was that too desperate? She hoped not. But Sansa saw the twitch of
his lips. Good. “Alright, Sansa. And what did you need to tell me?”
             You can still back out now . Yes. But, she was so focused on the
grip of his hand, on the way his words were slow. Petyr was close, too. Sansa
wondered – hoped, and thrilled  just a bit  – at the prospect of breaking him.
            She shook her head. No, she didn’t want to  tell  him anything.
Sansa worked her fingers around the hem of her dress, and Petyr’s gaze finally
shifted to watch.
            “What are you…” Petyr began.
            Sansa smiled down at him. Tilting her head just a fraction. “You
wanted to see it earlier…” she trailed off. Her fingers gripped either side of
the front of her dress, and slowly, began hitching it up along her thighs.
            Petyr’s breath caught, his chest stopped moving. Sansa lowered her
gaze down to between his legs – she wondered whether it was a trick of the
light, or the sight of her, that toyed with the front of his slacks. Up she
dragged the dress, a quick movement that revealed half her thighs.
            “I’m your  uncle , sweetling,” he said finally, reaching out to
stop her hand. His grip was strong, warm. It shouldn’t have sent a shiver
between her legs, but it did. Though Sansa couldn’t help to think it was to
reassure himself, and not her. “I’m not supposed to want to see it.”
            Her breath caught in her throat, but Sansa managed to push the
question out. She batted her lashes down at him, pouting her lips. “So, you
want  to see all of me?”
            Petyr shook his head – a mistake of words on his part, definitely –
though his eyes… No matter how desperately Petyr tried to shake the idea (and
how  sinful  were the images in his mind? As bad as the ones that began
creeping into Sansa’s an hour ago as she touched herself in his kitchen?), no
matter how urgently she could tell Petyr wanted to be rid of this similar
desire… Petyr’s eyes remained on her. On the join of her neck, the collar of
her dress, where the fabric ended on her thighs.
            Sansa couldn’t draw her gaze away from Petyr’s. She  felt  the
desire in each sweep of his eyes. Burning burning burning, searing a path upon
her skin. It was an effort not to trace the motion of his gaze with her
fingers.
            He managed to swallow, to tear his gaze (finally) back up to hers.
Shook his head one more time, a small movement. “You’re seventeen, Sansa.
You’re not even  legal . You should remember that, before you go offering
yourself to strangers.”
            There it was again. That jealousy that set him on her this morning.
Was this all because of Harry? Because of an innocent little date?
            No. Of course not – there had always been  more  to it.
            “You’re not a stranger,” she countered.
            “But you  are  a minor,” he counter-countered.
            That was true. And being in the offices of a law firm didn’t
instill in Sansa the fear that it should have. It made the truth of her
age...sinful.
            She licked her lips. Gently tugged at her hand to make him let go.
He did (hoping that she would finally realize how reckless this is?). She took
a step back, just one this time.
            “What are you doing?” he growled, and it echoed throughout her
chest. Just like last night.
             What am I doing?  Sansa asked herself, lifting her dress an inch
higher. Another. All the while watching – staring, really – as Petyr’s eyes
followed the hem up. As anxious as she was (and nervous, and terrified, and
exhilarated), Sansa knew her uncle was feeling the same. Or his own
amalgamation of wracking thoughts: was Petyr yelling at himself to  Stop , too?
Was Petyr yelling at Sansa to  Stop  just as much as he was yelling  For the
love of the Seven go faster?
            If he wanted her to stop, truly, he would have already. If he
didn’t  want  her, if that ache between his legs wasn’t at the sight of his
niece baring herself for him – well, then Petyr was a liar.
            Sansa licked her lips. She wondered… “Tell me to stop, Petyr.”
Another inch up. There wasn’t much left of the dress. “Unless you don’t want me
to?”
            Playing with fire. Oh, how she was definitely going to get burned.
            But that look. That look, that fire within Petyr’s eyes as he
momentarily moved from her thighs up to meet her own gaze. A fire that would
burn and burn and burn.  Don’t play with fire , came a thought that might have
been her mother’s, or father’s, or Madame Nysterica’s. Or any one of the
infinite people in her life that wanted Sansa to be perfect. To be good. Always
good, always perfect. Always.
             Or else you’ll get burned .
            One more inch, and the dress barely covered the join of her thighs.
Sansa’s heart hammered in her chest. Her breasts hurt – because of
anticipation . Because they  yearned  to be touched, by the man standing in
front of her.  Touch me , she asked him in her mind.  Touch me like you wanted
to.  By those hands (were his fingers always that long?), one on his thigh and
the other on the armrest of the chair. His knuckles were white. His need hard
and plain between his legs.
            Up those final inches. Sansa wore the lingerie she had bought for
Harry – white silk, patterned whorls covering skin where lace didn’t. They were
wet, from this  game  she played with Petyr, and from her vile fantasy earlier.
            “You wanted to see it, right Petyr?” she trilled, well aware of the
heaviness of her uncle’s stare. She clutched the fabric of her dress with one
hand and let her other trail up her leg, from where she could still feel the
ghost of his fingers earlier. Only, Sansa didn’t let hers stop where his had.
“You wanted to  touch  it. Right?”
            Something escaped Petyr’s lips: not quite a growl, but Sansa didn’t
know what else it  could  have been. The sight of her, of what she was wearing,
of how  wet  she was. Petyr trailed his hand from his thigh and pressed it
against his aching cock. Stroked it, slowly, trying to ease what Sansa had done
to him.
            A spark laced through Sansa’s ribs, causing her heart to beat
frantically.
            “You need to  stop , sweetling,” he said. Even though Sansa didn’t
stop moving her fingers towards her core. Nor did Petyr stop running his hand
languidly up and down his need. Did that help, touching himself like that? Or
did that just make it worse?
            Sansa reached the silk and lace, tucking the tip of a finger
beneath the fabric. Petyr’s hand froze for a second – his breath, too, and his
eyes, glued to where her hand was teasing with the underwear.
            “If you want me to stop,” she began, dipping her finger further
into the silk. It was so wet, Sansa wondered if Petyr could see it. Could see
what this game, what  Petyr , did to her. “Then stop me.”
            He didn’t. Not when Sansa trailed her finger along her slit, or as
she circled her opening, or even as she finally, slowly, pushed her finger
inside her.
            Petyr sat there, touching himself, watching as Sansa slid her
fingers in and out of her. Imagining all the while they were his.
            She bit her lip to keep from gasping. Gods knew what this did to
her. She was so close already. Sansa was rocking her hips into the movement,
even if she tried not to. She couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help the growing ache
that squeezed against her finger. Couldn’t help the hammering of her heart, or
the lightness in her head. Couldn’t help the weight of Petyr’s gaze on her,
never once moving away from the sight of her pleasuring herself.
            So close, so close – but Sansa stopped herself. ( Don’t  her body
cried out). It took all her effort to slide out of herself. But  gods  if it
didn’t feel infinitely better here: touching herself in a place where she could
be caught. Petyr watching her. She watching him. Neither of them truly
satisfied with their own hands (she thought). But neither of them willing to
cross that final boundary between barely-proper and absolutely-wicked. At
least, not yet.
            There was still time.
            “Here,  uncle ,” she said, plastering the stickiest, sweetest smile
onto her lips (one that would make even that other woman – Myranda – jealous).
She slid the soaked garment down her legs, shivering at their loss, all the
while watching him. Realization dawning on his face. Sansa gently tossed the
garment onto his lap.
            “What are you-?” Petyr began, swiping away the underwear into his
pocket. Hiding the  damning  proof of his desire, and hers. Their shared sin.
            The smile tugged the corner of her lips higher. Sansa couldn’t help
but wonder if she still looked the sweet little  innocent  thing, or a devil.
Maybe a bit of both. “It’s a gift. Unless you don’t want it…?”
            Petyr shook his head. His eyes were so dark still. And his own need
– he hadn’t come, either. But at least she gave him a  delicious  image for the
next time he touched himself. She wondered how long he would last.
            “Have fun on your trip.” Sansa’s voice rang. She left the
conference room without looking back. Down the elevators, down to the lobby,
and through the streets of King’s Landing. It was brisker than on her journey
here, and Sansa was careful to keep her dress down from showing the world what
she had just shown to her uncle moments ago.
            She smiled into the wind.
             This is reckless .
            Sansa whispered back to the voice in her head:  I know. And it
feels so good .
 
***** petyr *****
Chapter Notes
     ;)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
            Petyr barely made it up to the twenty-fourth floor. Excusing
himself to all of the people that bothered him on the way to the elevator (why
in seven hells did everyone need him all of a sudden? With his cock straining
against his pants and the feel of Sansa’s need clinging to her underwear deep
in his pocket, the fabric intertwined between his fingers...  Get the fuck out
of the way , he growled in his head). Petyr supposed the only godsend in all of
that, while impatiently watching the numbers rise and gently easing the ache,
was not running into Myranda. It would have a  nightmare . Her devil smile
staring at the bulge between his legs. Her hands automatically closing in as
she offered to kindly  help him out . Worse, was the Petyr wasn’t sure he would
have been in any condition to say  no .
            He slammed open the door to the bathroom of the empty floor. It
took no time at all to come. Petyr listened to the ringing of his heartbeat in
his head mixed with the fading echo of his moans off the walls.
             What in the Seven hells was she doing?
            He stared at his reflection.  Gods , he looked wild. Mad. Unhinged.
Even through the haze of lust that (ever so slowly) was seeping out of his
body, Petyr couldn’t help but see it staring back: that monster, that shadowed
thing that had almost taken Sansa in her bed. The thing that he reigned back
just enough to  only  jerk off whilst he watched her sleeping (at least, he
hoped she’d been sleeping the whole time. Her faint murmuring  Hello  still
haunted him). That  thing  staring back at him: wild eyes, shallow breaths, the
white lace of Sansa’s lingerie gripped painfully tight in one hand with his
other wrapped around his cock. A wicked creature that crept up from the deepest
level of hell – that’s who stared back at him.
            Still.  Still , Petyr couldn’t hide the smile that crept upon his
lips. It was a wicked thing, a terrible thing, one to match the thoughts (and
the sight of her) that plagued his mind for nearly a week.
             Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing.
            Petyr closed his eyes. Pictured the slow rise of her dress (who
except the Starks would wear a dress in the middle of winter?) up her thighs,
up up up up. Not nearly fast enough, but also too fast. Petyr  wanted  this as
much as he knew he shouldn’t. The minute she
            “I’m your uncle, sweetling,” he began. “I’m not  supposed  to want
to see it.”
            Even Sansa saw it for what it was: the thinly veiled truth. She
batted her lashes (ever so sweetly), pouting her lips (gods, he wanted to bite
them) as she asked, “So, you  want  to see all of me?”
            Petyr couldn’t say anything. He wanted to, he should have.  Of
course I don’t want to, you’re my niece and you’re still a child and we’re at
my fucking job for gods’ sakes. Put your hands down and get out before you or I
do something we really regret .
            Only, the words took too long to come out. Petyr had to shove them
out, really, along with shoving out some animalistic urge to bend her over the
conference table and take her every which way. She was practically throwing
herself at him; how could Petyr think anything else, with the only thing
stopping her was his hand on hers?
            More empty excuses. Of Sansa throwing herself at strangers, of her
being underage. None of it deterred her (as it should). And yet
            “What are you doing…?” It came out more like a growl, and hardly
with the tone to  stop . Would he let her, really? When her dress was inching
higher (too slowly) and Petyr’s heart was beating heavily between his ribs (too
fast). He could feel the strain of his cock as the fabric revealed more and
more of her smooth thighs. They were unmarred; in one blink, Petyr saw them
covered with countless circles, mapping where he gripped her as he ate her
cunt, as he pounded deep inside her. They were gone the next blink.
            The moment Sansa revealed those lacy underthings, Petyr nearly lost
it. His soul eventually found his body again, one that was stroking his cock as
he watched his niece. As Sansa dragged her fingers around and along her core
(of which, her desire was already soaking the fabric).
            “You wanted to see it, right, Petyr?”
            His eyes shifted to hers – they were hardly blue anymore, shaded by
lust. As dark as his must be. Words failed him, but not her. A wicked thing
crossed her lips as she asked, “You wanted to  touch  it, right?”
            “You need to  stop , sweetling.”
            She didn’t. “If you want me to stop…” And then.  And then , the
little nymph had the gall to finger herself. Stared at him all the while. “Then
stop me.”  Do you like this , she was asking with her eyes.  Of course you do.
Look at the way you can’t stop staring. You can’t stop touching yourself.
You’re a terrible person, jacking off to your underage niece .
            And he knew it. Petyr couldn’t entirely reign in the moan that
escaped his lips, watching her fingers dip in and out of the lingerie. Every
now and then he caught the sight of dark auburn curls, and (definitely his
imagination) the edge of her lips. Could  smell  her.  Fuck . Was she really
doing this? Here? In front of him?  For  him? Petyr was either the luckiest man
in the world, or this was an incredibly elaborate dream (one which he did not
want to wake up from).
            He was so close to coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. He
should be embarrassed of himself (likely he would be in about half an hour, the
weight of exactly what they had done finally cresting the weight of desire that
pumped through his veins). Only, Sansa stopped. She had the audacity to slip
her underwear off and toss it onto his lap. Petyr had the twisted mind of a
madman to keep them. Hold them, smell them, as he jacked off upstairs.
            He was stroking himself again. And  fuck it , honestly. Petyr let
his mind wander through that delicious vision – a  memory , not a dream, not a
fantasy, but the truth – whilst up and down he stroked himself. It warped, the
memory. Turning from the innocence of Sansa  only  lifting up her skirts and
playing with him, to something darker, baser. By the time he came again, Petyr
had lost track how many positions he took her in his mind.
            He  needed  more of his niece.
            The worst of it was the fucking trip. What Petyr wouldn’t  give
right now to dump everything and rush back to his apartments, and take Sansa
then and there. Maybe in the kitchen, where he had been  so  close to taking
her (that morning! How was it barely  hours  ago that Petyr had her cornered
against the counter, his hand on her thigh). And now. And now: Sansa was
teasing  him,  using  him. Coming for him here, at his work, and leaving Petyr
with so much more than a hard on.
            Petyr splashed his face with cold water, over and over again until
he could get rid of the delicious way Sansa’s hands slid up her bare thigh. The
briefest peek of her wanting cunt as she slid fingers inside herself. The way
she stared at him (it took all his effort to look up from her covered cunt,
once, half a heartbeat. And  gods  if the determination in her gaze made him
nearly lose all control. The way her own eyes were hooded with desire. The
little peak of her tongue as she watched him watch her).
            Deep breath. Folding the soiled undergarment into a neat square, as
if that could cancel out the truth of what it was, and why Petyr would never
throw it away.
             Fuck.
            Another. Tucking the damned thing in his back pocket. Petyr could
almost not feel his heart’s hammering through his veins, or an echo of it
pulsing between his legs.
             Fuck .
            He  hated  his niece right now. Hated his job, and Tywin, and the
retrial, and everything that was keeping himself from going home to plunge deep
inside of her. Hated himself, too, for this thing he was (it took Petyr by
surprise that at the end of that list was himself. Oh, how low he had fallen!
How high that monster, raging and writhing inside him, clawed out rationality
from his mind). But! But if she was willing to come to his own office and tease
him like that...well, Sansa was going to regret it.
            At least,  after  Petyr had his fun.
                                     * * *
            The rest of Thursday was a blur.
            There might have been another meeting. Tywin probably came in to
confirm the information that Petyr had to find out. Myranda probably (read:
definitely) had tried to weasel her way back into his pants; she didn’t, nor
did she make a (loud) assumption of what Petyr had just done upstairs. He must
have wondered if everyone could smell the sin reeking off of his skin. It had
always been there, since the moment he laid eyes on Sansa. But, Petyr could
remember none of it.
            But the way Sansa spread her legs apart, eased her finger inside
herself – oh, Petyr would  never  be able to forget that.
            “And, here’s your copy of the paperwork.”
            Petyr blinked, choking back the growl that threatened to break
loose at the loss of that wondrous memory. He could die a happy man right now.
Though, Petyr would much, much rather die a happy man  after  he had his fill
of Sansa (rather, after he’d filled her).
            It wasn’t until the flight attendant announced their destination
late Thursday night (or maybe it was early morning Friday?) that Petyr
remembered where he was going, and why. Dread sat uneasily in his stomach for
the short flight, hardly an hour to the Reach. Barely had time to shower and
take a quick nap in the hotel before driving out to the office. There were
other stops he needed to make, ones that he planned to spread out. It was
suddenly paramount that Petyr finish everything as quickly as possible.
            So, here he was. Too many miles away from where he wanted to be. He
was meeting with the defense lawyer for the retrial, and though they’d been
talking for several minutes Petyr heard exactly seven words of it.
            Petyr glazed over the document, noting the name and date of
issuance. Nothing looked out of order there (sometimes, the defendants didn’t
understand the fact that documents were a precise thing, needing to go through
the right channels. Those were the best, though, when they fucked up. Petyr
could throw away an entire argument. A pity this wasn’t one of those). He gazed
across the table at the man in question.
            Petyr leaned back in his chair. Remembered Sansa’s dress rising
high as he leaned back and let her do it (despite the protests, which weren’t
protests of  her  but of him). Shot back forward. Cleared his throat,
pretending to examine the chair as if it had bit him. “I see. And you  are
aware what this alleged evidence would mean should you bring it to court?”
            The man was about to speak but the lawyer shook her head. He sat
back, rubbing an invisible ring around his finger. Curious. Who was he having
an affair with? Or rather, who was he trying to hide his marriage from? Petyr
dragged his gaze away over to the woman, whose hair was pulled back so tightly
Petyr could see the outlines of where her bones met. “My client has been made
fully aware of the charges and the consequences of this evidence. And he still
wishes to proceed with the retrial.”
            Petyr loathed the lawyer, only because the way she held her head
and the simplicity of her dress (honestly, who would wear that shade of fuschia
with a navy blazer?). It all screamed that she wasn’t willing to bargain. The
man would have been easier to work on. Deals not to tell on his wife (or his
mistress). A hefty sum of money to conveniently make the new evidence
disappear. He might be able to before the day was done. Petyr would need to
keep watch and corner him, preferably when the lawyer went to the bathroom. A
pity they weren’t in King’s Landing – there were no fewer than ten good
prostitutes (of every gender and kink) that could work on him. On both of them.
A pity indeed he was here.
            Petyr laced his fingers atop the table. Confidence; that was half
the game. “I see. Then, I should have you know that upon first inspection, this
evidence is rather thin. Between you an me – and with full disclosure – I can’t
imagine it holding up to the judge.” (Of whom Petyr had bribed. Not one in
specific (they wouldn’t know who was presiding over the retrial for a few
weeks), but all of them in King’s Landing. They didn’t  know  it was Petyr,
granted, but they always conveniently voted in favor of his clients).
            The lawyer woman (Petyr wished he remembered her name. It was too
late now to ask, or to scan through the papers beneath his hands to find it.
That wasn’t professional at all) straightened in her seat. “I suppose we’ll
see, then.”
            Petyr gave her a half-smile. “I suppose so.”
            He wondered if she and Tywin went to the same person to shove a
stick up their asses.
            Petyr’s phone buzzed just then. Pretended to ignore it, but the
buzz wouldn’t stop (a call, then, instead of an email). Petyr casually filched
it out of his pocket, and he couldn’t deny a certain thrill at thinking
(hoping) it was Sansa.
            It wasn’t of course. But look who it was! The fucking lion himself,
ass stick and all. Petyr excused himself, slipping out of the conference room
and walking down the hall towards the elevators. He looked at the glimmering
logo of the firm, his finger wavering over the  End Call  button, before he
answered. “Hello?”
            “It’s been moved to the twentieth.”
             Not even a hello?  Petyr bit back a colorful rainbow of insults,
at least half of which would have him fired on the spot. One day… “The
twentieth?” He checked the calendar app on his phone as quickly as he could.
Gods knew the Lion didn’t like to be kept waiting. “That’s a week earlier than
intended, but I’m sure we should be able to have our stories and evidence in
line by then.” Not to mention the amount of ass-kissing and bribes to all of
the witnesses, the jury, the judge...
            “No, Baelish. The twentieth of  this month .” Tywin said it as if
it was the most obvious thing in the world.
            “The…” Petyr coughed, hoping to hide the surprise. Another quick
check of the calendar. “That’s  next  Monday. Are you sure you mean this
month?”
            A stupid question, by far. But Tywin (by some divine intervention
of the gods?) didn’t chew Petyr’s ear off for being so  stupid . Either that,
or there was something else bothering the old Lion that doling out punishment
for the tiniest things was above him at the moment. That’s new. “I’m  sure ,
though loathe I’m to entertain the sudden change, as are you. Because of it, I
expect you to be back in King’s Landing tomorrow. I need you to coach him on
what to say in court.”
            Petyr bit his lip.  Maybe if you had raised your grandson better…
But as much as he  yearned  to say that – and a slew of other things, a list so
long he’d be long dead before he reached the bottom – (preferably to his face,
but through phone would do), Petyr knew better. Knew that as much as the firm
needed him and his talents, they would be just as happy to throw him away for
anyone else . Even the ruse of having been married to Lysa with her good names
(Tully  and  Arryn) only worked so far. And with her dead...
            He shook his head. Best not to dwell on his late wife, lest he say
something to Tywin he would really,  really  regret. “Of course, Sir. I’ll need
to book a red eye back–"
            “Then do it.” And the line went dead.
            “You fucking asshole,” Petyr breathed. Passersby gave him a single
look of confusion, but kept walking by. Lawyers more than anyone else were just
as well versed in swears as they were in bullshitting their way through court.
            Petyr slid back into the conference room. The men looked up at him,
a curious expression on his face. The woman was flipping through a folder of
documents, making notes in the margins.
            “Now, where were we…” Petyr began, smoothing his jacket as he sat
back down.
            All the while, Petyr’s mind played over the consequences of the
retrial moving up a month. He didn’t say as much to them (though he should
have. If they  didn’t  know yet, then better for Petyr).
            He didn’t say much, either, because Petyr only saw the delicious
memory of his niece.
            Still, despite how much this was going to fuck him, Petyr hid the
smile. He’d be back in King’s Landing  tonight . This was so much better than
original plan (well, his other original plan.  The  original was flat-out
skipping the trip altogether. That would have gotten him fired for sure. The
other plan was slipping back to King’s Landing in the middle of the night and
back here before anyone realized he was gone. He would have had to pay for the
flight or car with cash, and been dead tired, but that’s what espresso was
for).
            Still. Petyr would be able to finally  repay  Sansa.
            All that was left was to find his niece the perfect gift before he
flew back home.
                                     * * *
             This is madness.
            Petyr pulled up beside Oswell, who was working late tonight (Petyr
knew the doorman preferred the night shifts; less chance of running into people
who wanted to  talk ). The man gave Petyr a curt nod when he handed him the
keys, making sure not to forget the lovely wrapped box (with a bow) sitting on
the passenger seat.
             Is she here? Is she still seeing that piece of shit? Has she asked
about me? Is she waiting ever so patiently for me to come home and finish what
she started?
            All questions – and a million more, at least – fighting to tumble
out of Petyr’s mouth as he watched Oswell slip into the silver Jag. Petyr was
sound of mind (for now) not to say anything or show his concern.
            Or, rather  obsession .
            That’s what it was, really. An obsession with his niece. An
obsession with something beautiful, something that (he hoped) would get out of
his system once he had a single taste. Just one. Just a touch, and a taste, and
he could relieve himself of this heavy, clawing madness at just  thinking
about Sansa.
            Petyr was a grand liar, and damned the gods if that wasn’t his
biggest one.
            The only thing  problem  to this plan was Sansa not being home. Was
Sansa (gods forbid) entertaining that lout from the restaurant? As much as
Petyr relished the idea that her little  act  on Thursday at his work had been
an admission of  I don't want that douchebag, I only ever wanted you, Petyr  (a
string of words he wasn't ashamed to admit began many of his impure fantasies
that got him through his brief lonely night at the hotel). At least, that's
what he told himself as he stroked his cock, wishing –  waiting –  for when it
would be her hands that did it.
            Petyr strangled a chuckle. It came out like a mutilated cough.
Oswell knew better to pretend there was nothing amiss (Petyr would need to
throw in a little bonus at the end of the month. Just to be safe).
            Gods.  Gods .
            Now, Petyr couldn't stand how  slow  the elevator rose. He stared
at the numbers, idly rising. Listening to the echo of his foot tapping against
the steel floor –  taptaptaptap . It was almost as frantic as his heart.
            And now, Petyr was  giving up . To that lurking hunger that dwelt
deep inside him, startled awake the first time he spied Sansa. Growling,
roaring for much more than a single touch or taste (see? He was a damned liar
who couldn’t keep it straight for five minutes).
             It's her fault , he told himself .  Sansa’s fault that  this  was
who Petyr was now. Her fault for teasing him, with her aching cunt, with her
fingers, with never backing away as Petyr cornered her. Right. Right?
            Oh, didn't he sound rather perverse then? Blaming Sansa for what he
wanted to do, which was a lot. What he was  about  to do, whenever this gods-
damned elevator got to the top floor.
             Taptaptaptap  
            There was still time to back out, but who was he fooling, truly?
Not with the package in his hand, or the growing ache between his legs as he
grew closer and closer to her. Imagine that: Petyr just going straight to his
bed, and sleeping, and pretending like he wasn’t obsessing over the fact that a
wall separated him and the object of his obsession. Hells, there had been half
a country between them, and  still  Petyr couldn’t keep his mind from wandering
here, to her.
             What if she’s out on another date with Douchebag?  (Petyr tried to
remember if Sansa ever said that boy’s name. Maybe. But it was too late to
think of him with his damned smiles and wandering hands as anything other than
Douchebag McFuckface. It fit). Worse still was the mirror of his own date. What
if Petyr stepped out of the elevator to the sight of her bent over the couch,
the gross slapping of him as he took her? Or if they were cuddling in her bed,
the fucker pretending to shower her with promises of love and marriage and
children, all while easing himself between her legs?
            At least, Petyr was  honest  with his desire.
            He strained his ears, wondering if it was merely the groan of the
elevator, or something else.
            When the doors slid open, the apartments were mercifully dark and
quiet.
            Petyr left the lights off, toeing off his shoes and loosening his
tie by the light filtering in through the window. It was a mix of silvery
moonlight and the golden hues of a city that preferred not to sleep.
            All the while, his heart hurt. His cock, too, though that was a
given.
            What if she wasn’t home? What if she  actually  was on a date,
taking Petyr’s advice to heart, wrapped in the arms of Douchebag?
            At least Petyr had a few acquaintances he could call favors in
from. Lothor could find that fucker’s address. And Petyr could plant drugs in
his house ( he  wouldn’t be the one to do it, of course). Seducing and selling
drugs to a minor – McFuckface would be in jail for a long time.
            He wandered to the edge of the hall. All the doors were open,
casting abstract swaths of light against the floor and walls. Petyr held his
breath as he took a step forward, another.
            Part of him said to keep walking. Go to his room, close the door
without turning around, and go the fuck to sleep. Nothing had happened between
them (really). He could save himself.
            Petyr’s feet froze in front of her doorway.
            The moonlight cut across her body beneath a blanket. She was turned
towards the wall, nothing but sheaths of auburn greeting him as Petyr stood
there, watching. Beneath the heavy drum of his heart, he heard her breathing.
            His cock betrayed him, remembering the same sight only a few nights
prior.
            With slow, quiet steps, Petyr entered the room. Sat down on the
foot of the bed, listening to the quiet groan of the springs. She hadn’t moved.
Hadn’t noticed him yet.  You can still save yourself , said one voice again,
tugging his arm away from madness. The other voice had him gripping tightly to
the wrapped box in his left hand. Petyr set it beside his thigh and reached
over, shaking Sansa awake.
             To hell with salvation .
            “I...what… Petyr?” Sansa scrambled back against the headboard,
clinging to the blanket in front of her. It was cute. So cute, Petyr had to
fight against the itch in his fingers to rip it from her. To touch her, every
single inch, outside and in. There  was  a horrid whisper in his mind telling
him to. To take, and take, and take.
            But why  take  when Sansa had proven she was so willing to  give ?
Inch by inch, she was relenting, and whether it was her body that wanted Petyr
or something else (something as dark and twisted as what Petyr felt clawing up
his throat, suffocating him), at the moment he didn’t care. He was doing this,
and there was no turning back. That, and there was no point to force himself
onto his niece. Not when she hadn’t stopped his wandering hand tracing up her
leg. Not after that little  show  she had given him in the conference room. So
no, there wasn’t a reason at all for Petyr to rip the blanket off (and her
clothes) and devour Sansa with his hands and mouth.
            All of that isn’t to forget the fact despite her newfound
confidence in herself, in playing with Petyr, there was the truth (which was
the bigger of them all, and one that possibly he  should  have taken more heed
in) that Sansa was still underage.
            Petyr glanced over at the clock. It was just past midnight.  Only a
week left . The thought shouldn’t fill him with a wicked glee.
            “Good night, Sansa,” he said quietly, scooting ever so slightly
closer towards her, but still very much away. He kept his hands off from her,
no matter the itch. “I hope you didn’t miss me…?”
            She rubbed the wayward flecks of sleep from her eyes, still holding
on to her blanket for dear life. Petyr wished there was more light in the room
– whether that was merely a trick of his imagination, or actually the
silhouette of a hardened nipple pressing against the fabric, he couldn’t say.
He  could  say which he would have preferred. That was obvious. “Good night.
I...I thought you were on your trip?”
            Petyr (tried as he did) left his eyes on her lips. The slight part
of them, the way the moonlight traced the curve. “I was. Am. There have been
some  changes , but things like that happen all the time.” An effort, but Petyr
dragged his gaze away. “I would have thought you’d be excited to see me.”
             Excited  in more ways than one, at least.
            Sansa was wide awake now. Petyr saw the understanding (and fear?)
slide over her face. She schooled them away with a few blinks. “I am. I just, I
thought Kella said your trips usually last a long time?. I hadn’t thought you
would be home this soon?”
            “Why, sweetling?” Petyr traced a hand atop the blankets, roaming
along the side of her leg (but not touching it). “Did you have  plans  while I
was away?” Down, around towards the inside of her shin. “Did you have another
date with that boy?”  And did you let him touch you again?
            Sansa eventually shook her head. “No, there hasn’t been much time
for a date. You’ve only been gone a day.”
            Petyr didn’t get rid of the little smile crossing his face. “Good.”
Despite the words that she  should  date other people, and other people her
age. He might come to regret that admission in the future, but right now, Petyr
had to focus on dragging his hand back down towards her foot. “Unless, you had
other plans… Did you touch yourself while I was away, sweetling?”
            When Sansa didn’t reply immediately with an embarrassed  No! ,
Petyr knew. She  must  have touched herself after she came home that afternoon,
like Petyr had. The thought turned his smile twisted.
            “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he began, clenching his roving
fingers, shoving the fist into the mattress. The spring groaned beneath. “It’s
a natural thing, and a  wonderful  thing. Wouldn’t you agree?”
            Slowly, Sansa nodded. Petyr could see the flush of pink staining
her cheeks. Was it embarrassment, or need that colored her face? Likely both.
But by the end of the night…
            Petyr turned slightly, lifting one leg so it sat at an angle atop
the bed. Sansa watched him move, perhaps  waiting  for him to pounce. She
didn’t relent the hold on the blanket. “Do you remember what you said to me,
sweetling? About wanting experience…?”
            Was that recognition clouding her eyes then? And maybe a dash of
fear, too. Of what she wrought by toying with her uncle, by teasing him with
her words and her hands and just existing. Petyr watched the column of her
throat rise and fall with a swallow (oh, how he wanted to mark that, bruise it
with his mouth and fingers). “Yes, I…” Was she about to back out now? Petyr
would  hate  that more than anything (his cock would hate it most). But, and as
much as he regretted the thought (though he  shouldn’t ), Petyr would abide by
her wishes. If she backed out now, even after all of her teasing… He had a hand
and a wicked imagination.
            “Yes…?” he trilled after her. “Who did you want the experience
for?”
            He’d be a liar if he didn’t desperately want Sansa to say  You .
            She licked her lips first, a sight Petyr’s gaze was drawn to. He’d
be a liar, too, if he didn’t desperately want her pretty pink lips wrapped
around his cock. Sansa shook her head slightly, perhaps dispersing her own
terrible thoughts. “For my… For no one in particular. I just thought, since I’m
off to university soon, it would be best to know things.”
            Petyr knew a cop out lie when he heard one. There was something
Sansa wasn’t willing to share, at least not right now. “What sort of  things
would you like to know?”  I’m a very good teacher .
            She looked around the room, outside the window, the open door. “You
know… Things.”
            “Sansa.” He said it sternly, like a father might when just about to
scold his child. Petyr had absolutely no intention of being or doing either. He
waited until she met his gaze. This was cute, too. Her innocence when finally
confronted with the truth that  this was going to happen . Unless she stopped
it, of course. But Petyr had a feeling she was both too stubborn and too
curious to do it. “You can think of this as  my  gift to you. But, if you want
me to teach you, you have to be specific.” Petyr unclenched his fist (his
fingers were sore), letting them drift up beside her leg again. “Would you like
that, sweetling?”
            It wasn’t quite like pulling teeth, this tension between them that
was strangling. But gods if Petyr didn’t secretly thrill in it. In watching
Sansa squirm. Despite her brashness in his office (which was a hell of a turn
on, Petyr couldn’t deny), this coyness was just as good too.
            Again, slowly, Sansa nodded. “Yes. Please.”
            “Please what?”
            Again, she licked her lips. Again, Petyr imagined them around him,
sucking him off. “Please teach me.”
            He could have come right then and there, with the way Sansa’s voice
was quiet, with the way she stared at him through her lashes and with her
cheeks stained a heavy pink. Petyr swore he heard the hammering of her heart,
too, matching his own.
            A smile far from kind played at his lips. “Of course, sweetling.
Anything.”
            Realization dawned on Sansa then. What she just asked. What Petyr
was prepared to give.
            “I was wondering if you could  show  me again,” he began, gently
tugging on the blanket. Not nearly with any strength (though there it still
was, that vile thought to rip and take). “I don’t think I got a proper look
last time…” With that, Petyr lifted himself atop the bed, knees straddling the
lump of her legs.
            “What are you–?”
            Petyr bent in close, propping one hand on the pillow beside her
head (his fingers, on their own, wrapped auburn curls around and around before
letting go). Closer, lips  so close  they were practically touching, but they
weren’t. He wanted to – gods, he wanted to. “As long as I don’t touch you,
Sansa, then we haven’t broken any laws.” Lies, of course. Petyr wasn’t
completely versed in the laws dealing with minors, but he  knew  this
definitely crossed several lines. At the least, if Sansa’s willingness was
consensual, well...the guilt would sit easier in his stomach tomorrow.
            Sansa took the lie and swallowed it. Slowly, she lowered the
blanket from her chest. Petyr moved back, allowing her the room.
            She was dressed, of course (a pity, when his fantasy on the plane
had been Sansa completely naked and completely willing to give herself to him).
Sansa’s fingers paused at her waist. There were goosepimples covering her arms.
            “Lower, sweetling.” She complied, tossing the blanket the last bit
so it sat bunched atop her feet. Petyr, meanwhile, couldn’t stop tracing the
growing expanse of her revealed to him.  Clothed , of course, but the shirt and
shorts couldn’t stave off the rampant imaginings in his mind.
            Petyr was well aware he was licking his own lips. Hungry. Had he
always been this hungry, this ravenous? Likely not. He didn’t bother looking at
her as he said, “And your shorts, sweetling.”
            It took her longer to comply with this, though that might also just
have been a distortion of time. Every millisecond felt like an eon. Each
centimeter of stomach, then hip, then thigh was slowly, painfully slowly,
revealed to him.
            Being  diligent  as she was, Sansa had gripped her underwear along
with her sleeping shorts.
            He couldn’t stop staring: the pretty curls of auburn a stark
contrast against ivory skin. The curve of her lips, slightly parted, as if
waiting  for him. He saw how they glistened already; she was aching, too. It
was then Petyr cursed himself for not turning the light on, but at the same
time, reveled in the darkness. Would Sansa stop if she saw the truth depth of
hunger in Petyr’s eyes? Would Sansa realize what a frightful man he was, truly,
when stripped bare of pretenses?
            If she wasn’t afraid, she was a fool.
            Petyr’s hand moved on its own, aching to touch her. Reason caught
up with him just in time, stalling his hand inches above her thigh. Granted,
Petyr had touched her before, but that was with the barrier of clothes. Skin to
skin was different (right?)
            He remembered, too, the pretense of why he was here. Dragged his
gaze up to meet Sansa’s. “What would you like me to show you?”
            Sansa blinked, seeming to remember the lie, too. If they were a
kind uncle showing his niece the ways of the world – well, it was a much easier
thing to swallow. Easier than the fact that they were two wicked people toying
with their wicked thoughts, afraid they would burn before they realized there
was no end to them. “I… We can’t touch?” Though she asked it as clarification,
it almost sounded like an upset plea.
             Oh, I fucking wish . Petyr shook his head, not tearing his gaze
from her. “No, not yet.”  Not until you’re eighteen. And then…
            Sansa dragged one hand up the outside of her thigh, lying just
above the tangle of curls. “How...how does a man touch himself?”
            Petyr bit back a smile. Either she had never watched porn before
(he could see that, though), or she was improperly curious about her uncle.
“Would you like me to show you?”
            Her fingers moved slightly towards her opening. Nodded. “Please.”
            “Okay, sweetling. But in return, you have to touch yourself, too.”
            Petyr leaned back on his legs, toying the belt free from the loops
(oh, how he wondered if  she  wondered what it felt like? The sting of leather
against her skin, or the biting of the edge as she struggled against them bound
across her wrists. If she ever asked, what kind of monster was Petyr to deny
her?). He tossed it aside, aware of it slithering off onto the floor as he
undid the button and zip of his pants. Sansa was eager to learn: not once did
her eyes move away from his hands.
            He supposed it was good his cock was already hard – it was a much
prettier  sight than a flacid one, though that was his opinion. Who knew, maybe
Sansa had a thing for his cock regardless of how hard it was (though, it would
be a rare moment when he would be around her without being hard). Petyr gave it
a few short strokes, to ease the ache.
            “Have you seen a man’s cock before, sweetling?”
            Though she was staring at it, following the slow movement of his
hand up and down, Sansa shook her head. Gods, there was something so terribly
delicious about Sansa’s innocence. It shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t be this turned
on by it. But he was. And who wouldn’t be?
            “Do you want to touch it?”
            Sansa’s eyes widened. Because  yes  she wanted to, or because this
was in violation of their one rule:  no touching .
            She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.
            Instead, he said, “Touch yourself, sweetling. I can’t be the only
one having fun tonight. I can tell you’re as aching as I am.”
            Her hips rolled slightly at his words, and oh, that was good. Sansa
– the prim and proper thing she was expected to be – getting off to his dirty
talk. Petyr smiled; or, his smile grew worse, not really a smile any more than
he was a saint.
            Sansa lowered her fingers, teasing around her opening as she
watched Petyr, and Petyr watched her. He slowed his strokes to the movement of
her own fingers, up and down her slit. When finally she dipped one finger
inside her, Petyr groaned along with Sansa.
            He bent over her, fisting the bedsheets by her thigh. Not touching
her, far from that. Too focused on watching her pleasure herself, on the little
sounds that escaped her lips, on the rolling of the mattress beneath as Sansa
pushed and pulled her hips to the rhythm. Too aware that he could come right
now if he wanted. But what sort of man would Petyr be if he came first?
            “Faster, sweetling.”
            She did, ever so eager to please. Sansa had one hand beneath her
shirt, playing with a nipple. Petyr could see the outline of the other,
straining hard against the fabric. Back down to her cunt, to the wicked sound
of her fingers (she had two now) sliding in and out of herself. The way they
glistened in the moonlight.
            Petyr tried to match her rhythm, rolling his hips into his hand,
imagining it was his cock that was thrusting in and out of her cunt instead of
her fingers. Imagining it was his name that escaped her lips in little pants
and breathy moans. He watched her, followed her, waiting. But eventually his
own need was too great. He was clenching his muscles, his teeth. Staving off
his own orgasm until she came first.
            Her other hand had snaked down to meet the other, rubbing her clit
in punishing circles until Petyr heard her breath hitch, saw her hips lift off
the bed.
            She came with a breathless “Fuck.”
            Petyr couldn’t imagine a scene more beautiful, or a girl more
perfect.
            As for his own orgasm. It would be a  waste  to come in his hands
again.
            “Lift up your shirt, Sansa.”
            Her own fingers paused, her eyes hooded as she tried to parse his
command. Petyr looked up from where they were dipped between her lower lips and
stared at her confusion. Gritting his teeth, he added, “Just your stomach.
Hurry.”
            Like everything else, she did so. Uncertainty clouded her own
desire, that was plain. And perhaps there were thoughts in her head screaming
at her that  this is wrong  and  stop before you regret it , too.
            Thank the gods she was too deep in her pleasure to listen to
reason. Petyr came, his seed coating her stomach as he pumped out every last
drop he could. Some trickled down her hips, her thighs. A terrible glee filled
him as he watched his come tangle in her curls, slowly finding its way to her
own need glistening her lower lips.
            They sat there in the darkness, listening the their breathing for a
long while.
            Petyr swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He knew what he wanted to
slate it with – and couldn’t help stare at her cunt all the while. “Did you
learn everything you wanted, sweetling?”
            Sansa swallowed the lie, nodding though her thoughts remained
shadowed by moonlight.
            It helped, the orgasm. But as the heavy buzz of silence began
overtaking the heavy thrum of his heart, Petyr heard it echo in his veins, a
steady rhythm of  more more more more . Lust not eased by this bout of
impropriety, but  stoked  by it. Aching for so, so much more than this. Aching
for  everything .
            What did he say? A liar, through and through.
            Petyr tucked his cock back into his pants, half afraid that he
might do something (more) reckless should he keep it out. He slid off the bed,
picking up and folding the belt in his hands. Perhaps that could be another
lesson, one that Petyr wasn’t sure if he wanted to be before or after her
birthday.
            “What’s that?” Sansa said, and Petyr had completely forgotten his
other  gift for her.
            “Oh, this?” he said, picking it up with his free hand. One of the
ribbons had gotten crumpled, and there was a slight tear at one corner, but
otherwise the wrapping was intact. Petyr slid his gaze from it to her, drinking
in the way her face was still flushed and the tangle of auburn framing her
cheeks.  Gods  she was perfect. He weighed the box, as if debating whether or
not he was going to give it to Sansa (and by the gods, Petyr did his best to
bring his stare away from Sansa, who was staring at it with a renewed innocence
and glee that Petyr was  this close  from asking for another round). He tossed
it in the tangle of sheets, landing with a quiet  thump . “It’s for you. A
gift, for the one you gave me.”
            Of which, Petyr didn’t specify. Was it the gift of her soiled
underwear, which Petyr still had tucked in his back pocket right now? The gift
of her teasing herself with the fear of being found only heightening that
damning ache between his legs? The gift of her absolute and complete (though
not freely given. Yet)  innocence?
            All of the above.
            Sansa picked at the ribbon. Would she be so  eager  if she knew the
truth behind the gift? Of course not.
            The innocent excitement was replaced first by confusion, and then
by a panicked sort of embarrassment. Of which he couldn’t help the small
chuckle.  After what she had just asked me to show her…?  Gods, he was a
glutton for her innocence. Petyr sat back down on the edge of the bed, not at
all wanting to leave, but well aware it wasn’t his choice. At least, not
entirely. Asking, with a crooked smile pulling at his lips, “If you want,
sweetling, I can help show you how to use it.”
            The darkness couldn’t hide Sansa’s blush as she held the dildo in
her hands, staring at Petyr with (what he thought, and more: what he hoped) was
renewed lust.
            His smile grew wider.
 
Chapter End Notes
     [I'm trash, and so are you]
***** sansa *****
Chapter Notes
     [ I'm so sorry this is late!!! This chapter just would not end D: D:]
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
            His smile was anything but  kind .
            Part of her (the rational part, at least) knew that she definitely
should not  have taunted him in his office. Sansa thought back on it often in
the short time Petyr was on his trip – and Sansa couldn’t help thinking that
Petyr himself had shortened the trip to do  this . The way that he couldn’t
keep his eyes off of her here or in that conference room. The way that his
fingers ached to touch her. The inches (too few of them and too many) that
separated them as they came.  This  – Petyr demanding to watch her touch
herself without the thin shield of her underwear, Petyr giving her this  thing
– this was entirely all her fault.
            And part of her (the damning part that made the ache between her
legs throb the longer Petyr’s darkened gaze stared at her, or when he licked
his lips after she dipped her fingers inside herself) liked it. Liked it  so,
so much .
            Sansa had still been high on her orgasm to not register that
unkind, wicked smile until after her fingers undid the wrapping.
            “If you want, sweetling, I can help show you how to use it.”
            Embarrassment flooded her at Petyr’s words. It was a completely
different heat than the desire that was slowly ebbing out of her system. It was
a completely different blush than waking up to the sight of Petyr sitting at
the foot of her bed. It was...shame, perhaps? Because Petyr was practically
flaunting  the fact that Sansa was a virgin. That Sansa had never done anything
remotely close to  this  in her short life.
             “Did you touch yourself while I was away, sweetling?”
            The  No!  caught in her throat. She should have yelled it and
shoved him out of her room. No gentleman would ever ask a woman such things,
nor would a gentlemen thrive on the way Sansa was silently squirming (she saw
it plain in the smiles that kept trying to tug on his lips. Saw it plainly,
too, in the briefest glance of darkened eyes to where her thighs joined beneath
the blanket. Sansa tightened her hold on it, the only thing separating her from
this monster. When Petyr continued, clarifying how  wonderful  touching herself
was, Sansa knew Petyr wasn’t going to relent unless she told him to. It was
like that morning in the kitchen – Petyr was testing her. Pushing her, seeing
how far Sansa’s mask dug into her very existence.
            Slowly, Sansa nodded. She wanted to regret that. Felt the regret
staining her cheeks as bright as her hair. Petyr shifted to move one leg half-
on top of the mattress, and Sansa felt her heart hammering faster. Was he
positioning himself to pounce on her? Moving slowly into place that the blanket
she held on to for dear life would mean nothing?
            When he asked about Sansa’s need for  experience , she nearly
spilled the truth of her marriage. How keen would Petyr be to fantasize about
her – to touch her, to fuck her – if he knew she was already claimed by
another? Not physically, and sometimes not emotionally, but the stake had been
set long ago.
            She didn’t believe herself when the words easily slipped past her
lips: “Yes, please.”
            “Please what?”
            Good gods, Petyr was horrible. He  knew  full well that Sansa had
little to no experience, and was relishing in that fact. But on the other hand:
if Sansa said  Please fuck me like you’ve dreamed , would he? If Sansa admitted
Please touch me and kiss me and hold me like I’ve dreamed , would he do that
too? What  was  Sansa to him? She didn’t know how deep this infatuation went,
if it was just the touch and taste of Sansa that he wanted, craved, or
something more.
            She didn’t want to risk anything spilling, choosing simply to say,
“Please teach me,” hoping that was enough.
            It was.
            Petyr smiled, but it was so far removed from anything kind. “Of
course, sweetling. Anything.” Those words sent a warming fire burning inside
her, stretching throughout every inch. In tandem to her heart was the quiet
throbbing between her legs.
            “I was wondering if you could show me again,” he began, fingers
tugging on the blanket, though not nearly hard enough to pull it free. “I
didn’t get a proper look last time…”
            Petyr lifted himself up, straddling her legs, startling her. He
bent in close, so close they were practically kissing. She tasted mint on his
breath, smelled the faint traces of his cologne. Sansa held her tongue – there
wasn’t enough room to lick her lips, not without accidentally touching his too.
Could Petyr hear and feel the frantic melody of her heart? She swore it was
going to explode from the closeness. It was almost like in the kitchen, but
there was something about night and the silvery lines of moon tracing Petyr’s
face, that made the closeness now so much worse.
            “As long as I don’t touch you, Sansa, then we haven’t broken any
laws.”
            And they hadn’t, not by  that  definition of wrongness.
            Sansa swallowed the lie (it  was  a lie, anyone could see that. But
it was a boundary, a  Do Not Cross  line that Petyr was willing to set, and all
Sansa needed to do was nod and assent. Or, shake her head, tell him to get out,
and forget that her body desperately wanted to try this thing, to give herself
up to someone). The lie settled too comfortably between her ribs.
            When she nodded, Petyr moved back, silently motioning and waiting
for Sansa to take the first step into depravity.
            She did.
            Petyr wanted to see what she only teased at, and with her consent,
Sansa knew he would stop at nothing until he did. Still, there was that barrier
in her mind screaming to  Stop . Even as she followed the path of his eyes when
she shoved the blanket down. Even as she watched every feather of muscle in his
face when she looped her fingers in the waistband of her shorts (and her
underwear, no point in prolonging the inevitable, she thought), tugging them
down.
            His breath caught. His eyes glued to her, tracing over every inch
over and over again until Sansa imagined the sight was ingrained to every part
of his brain. She didn’t need the full truth of the light above to see the
hunger  in Petyr’s stare. She could taste it, so thick and heavy and cloying,
coating her tongue. Swallowed it, letting his desire overcome those nagging
voices of rationality.
            She had already come this far tonight. There wasn’t any point
stopping until she did come.
            Petyr seemed to remember the game, pulling his mind and gaze back
for only a moment. “What would you like me to show you?”
             Everything . Sansa reined back on that thought, hated herself for
thinking it. This wasn’t the man she was promised to, wasn’t the man who would
– by the time she was wrinkled and grey and smelled stale like Olenna – show
her everything, from the wonders of Westeros, to the small gardens where he
might steal away a first kiss as she stared at the flurry of colors in the
setting sun. Petyr was only...a means for all the experience Sansa wanted,
needed.
            He shouldn’t be anything more than that.
            He stayed true to his word, admitting that, no, they couldn’t
touch. Though Sansa would have to have been deaf not to feel the intensity with
which Petyr’s  yet  lingered in the space between them.
            “How...how does a man touch himself?” The truth sounded so
innocent , Sansa couldn’t help but hold her breath, waiting for the laugh. It
never came. There was a smile (perhaps the same smile that greeted her awake,
just as unkind and full of wicked mischievousness).
            His voice was quietly full of eagerness as he asked, “Would you
like me to show you?” Sansa saw his fingers twitch. Guilty.
            Sansa left her own on her stomach. Her skin felt so hot, she
worried she was seconds of way from self-combustion. Were the gods watching
her, watching them, waiting for the time to unleash their wrath? And if so,
what would be the final straw. She teased her finger an inch closer towards her
center. Another inch. The gods hadn’t set her ablaze yet. If they were kind,
perhaps they would wait until after they came.
            “Please.”
            It looked like Petyr had been thinking the same. He nodded, moving
his hands to undo his belt. “Okay, sweetling. But in return, you have to touch
yourself, too.”
            It wasn’t until now that the thought of  This is really happening
dawned on Sansa. It wasn’t until she watched the belt slowly slither free from
each loop, wasn’t until she watched him watch her as Petyr folded the leather
in half and tossed it aside, that Sansa understood what she had wrought.
            He was being  deliberately  slow with the belt, Sansa thought.
Because it took no time at all for him to undo the button and zip, and his cock
was resting in one hand whilst his other was fisted in the sheets beside her
legs. It jutted upwards, the curve of it catching silvery moonlight. Petyr gave
it a few short strokes; she didn’t miss the quiet sigh slipping from his mouth
after the first.
            “Have you seen a man’s cock before, sweetling?”
            She felt another flush of heat touch her cheeks. Gods, seeing it
should have made her more embarrassed than his words. Watching Petyr’s hand
moving up and down. Seeing something so intimate, so personal, and so wrong.
            “Touch yourself, sweetling. I can’t be the only one having fun
tonight.” He gave her a wink.
            Sansa trailed her fingers down the plane of her stomach, feeling
hotter with each passing second, with each passing stroke of Petyr’s hand
around himself. She dipped one finger inside herself, surprised how wet she
was, and shuddered. Imagining it was Petyr’s long fingers touching her,
exploring her inside and out. Sansa moved to the motions of his hand, slowly
adding a second finger.
            Petyr bent over her again, eyes focused entirely on the join of her
legs. Hers were too focused on his hand, on the way his cock responded to each
thrust. She couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr thought it  was  her hand around
him – or something else. Sansa’s free hand itched to help him out, to feel the
weight and throb of his cock, help him tease out his own release.  As long as
we don’t touch –  she moved that devious hand over to her cunt, feeling her
orgasm coming close. Teasing her clit with one hand as the other continued
moving in and out. Sansa rolled her hips in rhythm with Petyr’s, and she knew
he  was  imagining it was her hand or her cunt that he was fucking.
            The thought sent a pulse through her. And then, sneaking up on her
when she dug her fingers in as deep as she could, hips pushing down greedy for
more, she came with a breathless, “Fuck.”
            The world went silent as she felt her body give up beneath the warm
sensation of her orgasm.
            In the haze of her release, she heard, “Lift up your shirt, Sansa.”
            It was the use of her name that caught Sansa off guard. Like even
Petyr knew this act was treading that boundary of propriety (and legality) way
too closely. Still, that didn’t stop him as he grunted his release, his hot
come coating her stomach. Sansa felt beads of it trickling down her sides,
slithering down towards her own core.
            Sansa blinked back into the present. It was only  minutes  ago that
they came. It was only seconds ago that Sansa began to regret it. The weight of
his gift too heavy in her hands (Sansa couldn’t bring herself to toss it aside
disgusted, because in truth she wasn’t, not entirely. It was...thoughtful? If
not completely impure, if not completely  wrong  for this facade of niece and
uncle). Petyr’s come was still warm on her stomach – she had forgotten about
that, too – and he laced his fingers in his lap as a means (Sansa thought) to
keep from doing anything worse.
            Her brain swam back out from the haze of lust, whispering
rationality to her.  Don’t do anything that you’ll regret , it began. Corrected
itself:  don’t do anything else that you’ll regret .
            Except from actually fucking her uncle, Sansa wasn’t sure there was
anything else to regret.
                                     * * *
            “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
            Sansa looked up at her friend, hoping the truth wasn’t obvious.
            Petyr was gone when she woke up in the morning. There were several
seconds as she listened to the quietness filling the apartment, as she watched
the thin slits of light spreading across the floor, that Sansa was certain all
of that was a dream. It  had  to be. There was no way Sansa – good, pure,
innocent, about-to-be-married-in-a-week Sansa – had just let her uncle do  that
to her. When she blinked, she could see the silhouette of him, moonlight
highlighting half of his face and the dark glint in his eyes.
            There were so many things that proved otherwise. One: the tangle of
her sleeping shorts low on her thighs. Two: the heady scent of their mixed
desire. Three: the heady  proof  of Petyr’s desire dried on her stomach (Sansa
scrubbed her skin until it was red and clean. Though, she couldn’t help the
fear that his need for her would stain her permanently, proving to Willas that
she had been impure and unfaithful).
            Four: the dildo that sat unwrapped on her nightstand.
            She had a shred of sense not to take Petyr up on his teaching offer
last night. Though she  thought  about it. And Sansa wasn’t sure if the thought
itself was worse.
            She snapped back into the present. The warmth of her coffee seeping
into her fingers, the sweetness of the crepe tickling her nose. The light
breeze off of the Blackwater. The heavy gaze of her friend, who’s soft brown
eyes were too good at knowing when someone was keeping a juicy secret.
            Only, this wasn’t a secret Sansa would  ever  tell. Not to
Margaery; not to her future sister-in-law. “Sorry, I was just dozing off.”
            “No you weren’t,” Margaery said through a mouthful of ice cream and
strawberries. She pointed her fork at Sansa, a bit of cream falling off the
tongs. “Whatever it is, girl, you  need  to tell me. Besides, I’ll keep
hounding you until the day you die if you don’t.” She left it with a wink and a
smile.
            Sansa was suddenly regretting inviting her friend for a girls’ day.
Petyr wasn’t supposed to have come home early; he wasn’t supposed to be back
for days, she thought. Plenty of time to pretend like that wicked urge to touch
herself in his office was nothing, a by-product of loneliness and curiosity.
            But he was back. And they had done so much worse.
            “I...went on that date a while ago. I think I told you about it?”
            Margaery leaned in, her gaze plain of  Tell me every detail .
            Sansa did, and didn’t. She reminded Margaery how Harry had ran into
her her first official day in King’s Landing, and how he (essentially) asked
her out then and there by giving Sansa his number. And then going shopping with
Kella for something nice to wear, since Sansa hadn’t packed anything properly
nice. It wasn’t a coincidence that Sansa forgot to mention the lingerie (the
first foolish attempt at seduction? Sansa still hadn’t decided  what  exactly
compelled her to buy it. She was thankful Kella had been so open). Then there
was the restaurant, and their conversations, and the food. Sansa also forgot to
mention her uncle was there, on a date with his busty coworker. There was also
the way Harry’s hand lingered on her own, and traveled up her thigh. Or the
fact that Sansa was too occupied with thoughts of what her uncle was doing to
really appreciate her own date.
            “Good thing mother nature swept in,” Margaery said with a wink. She
had mentioned how her cousin – Elinor, maybe? Or maybe it was Alla – got her
period the day of her wedding. And subsequently, all of her bridesmaids got it,
too. They made it through the wedding without incident, but Elinor’s husband
was rightfully peeved at the sudden change of their wedding night plans.
            Sansa smiled weakly. “Yeah. Though, between you and me, Harry was…”
she shrugged. Harry was  alright , if she was being honest. And he was closer
to her age than either Willas or Petyr. Surely an ideal match for Sansa, had
she not been swept into Highgarden at Lysa’s dismissal of  dealing  with her
late sister’s children. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder at the sort of man she
might have fancied and married had her parents not passed away.
            Margaery laughed. “Not that good, then?” There was a bit of cream
on her lip she swiped away with a tongue. Leaned in close, again, whispering,
“Tell me, Sansa. Was he a good kisser?”
            Sansa shot back, waving her arms. “What? No– He– No, we didn’t
kiss.”
            Her friend tilted her head, raising an eyebrow as if she knew
otherwise. Which she might as well have: Sansa wasn’t helping her case by being
so obviously guilty.
            “He…” Sansa began, chewing the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t
look at her friend, gaze roaming over the small cafe. “He was okay, I think.”
            “I knew it!”
            “Please don’t tell Willas!”
            Margaery’s laughter filled the air with a warm sweetness not unlike
their crepes. “Oh, trust me, Sansa, that’s not my secret to tell. Besides, if
it was just a kiss, then there’s no harm in that. Here,” she said, grabbing
hold of Sansa’s hand in a gesture meant to soothe. “Honestly? Willas has had
some girlfriends before, and I’m sure they’ve kissed too.”
            “But we’re–" Sansa lowered her voice, until it was barely a push of
breathe out of her lips "–going to be married soon.”
            “I know, girl.” She petted Sansa’s hand with her free one, like one
might do with a frightened cat. “I promise. Sansa. Look at me. I promise you
that Willas won’t break off the wedding because you went on a date, or shared a
kiss.”
             What if I did something so much, much worse?
            Margaery added with a final pat, “And besides. The wedding’s in a
week. If Will thinks he’s gonna mess up all of the work I’ve done…” She trailed
it off with a light laugh, and Sansa followed along.
            That never bothered Sansa, not as much as it should. Being married
the day after her eighteenth birthday. It almost seemed like a fantasy, once.
Being swept off her feet, being loved and cared for by someone who actually
wanted  her (and not at all being so  sick  in love like her aunt Lysa. Sansa
saw the massive ring on her aunt’s finger, and was glad her own was bare). It
was always just a quiet displeasure that Sansa was willing to endure for the
sake of belonging. Not until now.
            Although, there were too many preparations for a sudden change of
plans, anyway, regardless if Willas broke of their engagement because Sansa had
kissed another boy. Not to mention whispered words behind hands:  Has she been
unfaithful?
            Sansa couldn’t bear that shame. Or the guilt of shaming Willas,
either.
            They left the bayside cafe, strolling through the streets of
central King’s Landing. Sansa carefully avoided Guild Plaza where Harry had
first saw her, and realized it wasn’t because of Harry that she was wary to go
there. It was because Petyr had been there, too, after she had that mess with
her gyro. And the restaurant Harry took her to; Petyr had been there, too.
            She couldn’t help but wonder about coincidence.
            They walked along the beach, gossiping and laughing until their
chins started to get sore. That didn’t stop them from continuing to talk, nor
from daring the other to jump into the water. It was winter, and Sansa didn’t
want to walk all the way back to the apartments soaking wet.
            Sansa didn’t know too much about King’s Landing to show Margaery
around, except for looking up touristy things online and following the list.
They walked the streets, taking pictures of and at the Sept of Baelor (which
Sansa balked at the sheet size of it). It cost money to go inside, so they
didn’t.
            They tried on clothes in the shops. Makeup, too, and sunglasses and
handbags. There was an entire street lined with stores, and so many people
crowding the street it was difficult to squeeze by. Sansa was glad of it when
she spied a bridal store, saw the glittering white dresses in the window, and
felt something uneasy. Margaery was too busy pulling her forward past a circle
admiring dancing buskers.
            “Do you  have  to go so soon?” Sansa said, staring up at the sky.
It was winter, but the sun was still bright and warm. She loved her friend
(soon-to-be sister-in-law) to death. And right now, she loved how she forgot
about the  things  that had happened the night before. It wasn’t until now,
with the heavy weight of goodbye hovering above them, did Sansa’s mind
remember.
            Margaery sighed. “I know. But the next train is too late, and I
already promised grandmother that I’d be home to take her to the doctor’s.” She
pouted, not at all ready to say goodbye, either.
            “I wouldn’t want to keep Olenna waiting.”
            Margaery made an  Oh I know  face, and they both laughed. Olenna
was, admittedly, the coolest older person Sansa knew, especially compared to
some of the Madames at school. She once dropped bottle rockets from the highest
window of Highgarden, and through flattery blamed it on her friends. But when
kept waiting, Olenna’s ranting would never end.
            Reluctantly, they wove their way north to the train station,
stopping only once at a sweets store. “For when I get hungry on the way back,”
Margaery explained, even though Highgarden wasn’t that far and they had just
ate a late lunch. Still, Sansa couldn’t help the pull of lemon drops and wedge-
shaped sugary lemons. Margaery snuck a huge chocolate in the shape of a rose in
her mouth when the staff wasn’t looking, choosing to keep mute as she paid and
waited for the chocolate to melt. Sansa’s bag was just as full as Margaery’s
when they left.
            At the station, they hugged goodbye, with plans to meet again next
week before the wedding. “I  promise  you’ll love everything I’ve picked out
for you!” Margaery said, her arms still loosely around Sansa. She leaned in
with a whisper, “I think  I’m  more excited than you are, Sansa. My brother
won’t admit he’s excited, but he is.” She sighed happily. “Oh, Will doesn’t
realize how lucky he is.”
            The smile Sansa gave her felt like a lie.
                                     * * *
            Sansa sat the bag onto the counter with a heave.
            The apartments were blessedly empty. Neither Petyr nor Kella nor
the movers were around, though from one glance at the study Sansa saw they had
been busy. Half of the boxes were gone, making the room feel so much bigger
already. Most of it had been Lysa’s old artifacts, and Robert’s, too. Sansa
couldn’t help but wonder at the implication of getting rid of his late wife’s
and child’s things.
            She read through the recipe on her phone again (Sansa, embarrassed
to admit it, couldn’t figure out how to get the printer in the study to work).
It seemed simple enough, and the grocer’s down the street had everything except
for the exact pasta type.
            It wasn’t a  gift , per se (and not at all in response to the gifts
they shared last night). Sansa couldn’t help but feel that in the week she had
been here, her and Petyr hadn’t done anything properly of an uncle and niece.
Granted, they only just met a week ago. But Sansa had the need to keep whatever
relationship they had level. And besides, no one could say no to food.
            It wasn’t a gift, but it was...what, exactly?
             It’s for when I am married , she told herself, washing and
preparing the vegetables as she waited for the water to boil. That’s all it
was. That’s all  this  was: this teasing with her uncle, this mockery of a
domestic life. Sansa – being almost eighteen – hadn’t much experience in any of
the wifely duties expected of her. And Sansa – being married in one week – kept
telling herself this to make it easier to swallow.
            Willas was always busy with either work, or reading (for work), and
always a little uncertain in showing affection because of their age difference.
Sansa once tried to sneak up on him in the library, flinging her arms around
him and pressing her cheek against his. His soft curls tickled. Willas jumped
in his wheelchair, and (kindly) shoved Sansa aside. He placed a chaste kiss to
the back of her hand and gave her a small smile.
            He  did  love her, she knew. And Margaery (and Loras) would always
assuage her fears. Only, Sansa sometimes felt like he didn’t love her. That he
didn’t love her the way Sansa wanted him to: with all of his heart, and with a
dopey smile every time she walked into the room (that was because of all of the
cheesy romances she watched).. Or if he did love her, truly, Willas was only
waiting until she was of age to show it.
            Her knuckle scraped the zester. She hissed, licking the well of
blood forming. It stung from the lemon peel.
             It’s going to be okay , she told herself for the umpteenth time,
bandaging her finger and testing the bend.  I’m going to be happy with Willas .
            Sansa didn’t want to think anymore, so she lost herself in the
cooking. Checking the pot of water constantly (she kept thinking she heard it
boiling). Toasting the breadcrumbs, cooking the veggies, making sure there
weren’t any stray seeds in the lemon halves. And finally tossing it all
together in a pan, proud that none of it spilled over onto the immaculate
counter.
            The sun was nearly set, casting the buildings in either brilliant
orange or pitch darkness. Sansa arranged the place settings on the island,
carefully making sure to avoid the middle seat (Sansa could only  imagine  with
wicked clarity would Petyr would do should she have sat them side by side. And
Sansa hated that she could imagine it. That a budding ache formed at the idea).
Petyr only said he would be home early today – though compared to his previous
showings of ten, eleven, twelve at night, ‘early’ could have been anything.
            From helping Kella, Sansa knew where enough of the things were:
plates and utensils and napkins. Even wine glasses and the small fridge of
drinks. Sansa (legally) couldn’t drink, so she poured water for herself and
left the bottle on the counter. She hoped that’s what Petyr would like to
drink.
            Sansa plucked off the small leaves of mint, collected them in a
pile on the corner of the cooking board. Something told her fingers to bring a
leaf to her nose, to nibble at it. It tasted like what Petyr’s lips would have
tasted, if he closed that hardly-an-inch between them gap last night. The taste
of it alone in her mouth sent an unkind shiver down her body. And an unkind
thought: would Petyr’s lips leave traces of mint as he kissed a path down her
mouth, to her-
            She shook her head.
            On cue from devious gods, the elevator rumbled up the building.
Sansa was suddenly stricken with the idea that Petyr wouldn’t be happy with her
for cooking dinner. Was this assuming a certain closeness between them? But
after what they showed each other last night, it only seemed apt that they
share more than base desires. A meal seemed both nothing and too much.
            There was no going back when the doors slid open with that familiar
ding .
            “Oh.”
            Sansa turned, plastering a smile on her face. She hoped it wasn’t
too sweet.
            Petyr was dressed like always, and the sight of him in the suit was
too perfect. She wondered if he tailored his clothes – they fit him exactly,
not like some of the suits she’d seen men wearing, with pants legs way too big
or sleeves too long.
            She brought her stare back up to him, that smile still tugging her
mouth. “Hi. Um. Welcome.” Why was she stuttering all of a sudden? “I hope you
don’t mind, but I made dinner? And I, um, if you haven’t eaten yet I was hoping
maybe we could?”
Petyr seemed to realize that there was something else in the room aside from
her. He looked over at the sink filled with dirty dishes, to the pot with
leftover pasta (there was so much of it), and finally the two sets of dinner
sitting on the counter, with a second plate sitting between them with
garnishings. His gaze finished the circuit, finding her again. There was a
smile on his face, too. “It smells delicious. You made it yourself?”
            Sansa beamed at the compliment. “Yes, actually. I just followed a
recipe but…” she trailed off.
                        They sat down and added the cheese, extra lemon, and
mint to their pasta (would Petyr presume something about the mint? Or was he
too busy thinking of something else?). Sansa knew it was good – she couldn’t
help but take a small sampling bowl earlier, and then a second because it was
that good  – and watched Petyr from the side of her eye. He seemed to like it,
too. Good.
            They ate through half of it in silence before Sansa started to
worry about the quietness. She had the sudden urge to fill it with something
else; if only because she was afraid Petyr could hear her heart.
            “Did you become a lawyer because of your parents?” An innocuous
enough first question. That was something she knew happened a lot, at least.
Children doing what was expected of them of their parents, not necessarily
where their hearts lay. Gods knew if Sansa was intimately acquainted with that
feeling.
            Petyr ruminated as he chewed. “No. I actually don’t remember what
my parents were. They died when I was very young.”
            “Oh,” was all that Sansa could manage to say at first. She was
dying  to ask more –  how young were you , and  is that why you and Kella are
so close , and  does that gaping hole ever fill in  – but she knew better than
to pry at a wound.
            Petyr, maybe having read her mind, said, “I’m sorry. About your
parents.”
            “It’s okay.” It wasn’t.
            She twisted the fork around the pasta, twisting her thoughts. Sansa
wanted to yell at her uncle, her aunt, for all the heartbreak they put Sansa
and her siblings through. Sansa hadn’t had contact with most of them; the last
she heard was Bran was hospitalized, and Rickon was still with him. There
wasn’t news that Bran had passed away, which Sansa took to mean he was alive
still. Arya was...somewhere. And Sansa was here.
             Why did you willingly break apart my family .
            She wanted to confront her uncle when she first got here. To ask
him in lieu of Lysa what made Sansa and her siblings so  undesired  that they
not only were thrown away, but split up. Sansa choked down the thought that her
uncle was responsible for her parents’ death, too. That would be too cruel to
assume they were responsible for everything.
            Only, this conversation was weighing too heavily. Sansa needed to
change it, else she drown in her self-made sorrow. “What’s the wildest case
you’ve worked on?”
            Petyr didn’t see the question coming, either. He lowered the fork,
pasta still intertwined in the tongs. “Hm.” He stared at the wall behind Sansa
as he thought, licking his lips as he did. She tried not to look at that. “I
don’t think there’s  one  case that tops them all. Although a coworker of mind
did have to settle a custody over a parrot once.”
            Sansa cocked her head, not sure if she heard him right.
“A...parrot?”
            Petyr finally ate the bite off his fork, nodding. “King’s Landing
is full of some very interesting people. And some very dumb ones.”
            They made idle conversation, nothing at all serious: what wild
things Sansa had done (which was nothing, except for the thing she had done
last night); if Sansa was liking the city; last movie watched. Simple things.
Impersonal things.
            It was nice getting to know Petyr. And if she ignored certain
memories and fantasies, she could pretend like they  were  a normal niece and
uncle doing normal niece and uncle things.
            Except, Sansa was too aware of the empty chair between them. She
couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr noticed it, too. Saw it instead as a forced
distance on her part. That what they did last night was  too much  – and in
some ways, it was. In no world should it have been okay for an uncle to barge
into his niece’s room and  demand  to see her private parts. And then, get
himself off as she touched herself. And in no world should it have been so
exciting  for Sansa. To see how wild Petyr got from her stunt in his office.
Even the momentary dread at his second gift (which she couldn’t bring herself
to use yet. It felt like an admission of what  this  was. At least, a more
finite admission). She wouldn’t be in the wrong to ask for more room. She
wouldn’t be wrong to ask him to  stop .
            If Petyr did think that, though, he didn’t make mention of it. “Are
you excited for next week, Sansa?”
            The pasta froze inches from her mouth.  He knows . Sansa
simultaneously felt her fingers clench around the metal, and loosen. And then
she remembered her own lie. And remembered to chew the pasta first without
speaking through a mouthful of food (always the lady). “Oh, yes. I’m undecided
as of now. Though I haven’t quite decided what I want to major in.” At least,
she hoped this was the lie Petyr was referring to.
            “A word from the wise,” he said, spearing a noodle. Bits of cheese
flew off. “Stay away from law. It doesn’t do you any good knowing how corrupt
people can be.”
            Was he talking about the people he worked with – coworkers and
clients – or himself? Sansa felt she knew the answer already.
            They finished their food, sipping slowly on the rest of their
drinks (or in Sansa’s case, water). She couldn’t help but think Petyr didn’t
want this comfortable dinner to end, either. “Do you have tomorrow off?”
            Petyr shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I’ve a big case coming up
soon, and there’s a lot of details that need to be ironed out for it.” He took
a small sip of wine, though his eyes didn’t leave hers. Not roaming her body,
like they usually did. But just staring, admiring whatever it was he saw in
her. It was better (and worse) when they were eating – too focused on the food
and not this  shadowy thing  they were currently tip-toeing around. Was he
expecting her to make the next move? Waiting for her to barge into his room and
demand he show her everything?
            Sansa looked away first. “Oh, that’s too bad.” And then with her
fingers of her free hand twisted in the hem of her shirt beneath the counter,
she asked, “What is it about? Your case?” She knew he was a lawyer, and
apparently a good one to be able to afford an apartment like this. Sansa didn’t
have to know anything about money to understand the sheer exorbitant value of a
place like this, in a city like King’s Landing.
            He took another sip of wine (or perhaps it was the same sip, long
and slow and dragged out). His long fingers were slowly twisting the stem, as
if debating what to say. “It’s confidential, I’m afraid,” Petyr finally said.
When he saw Sansa’s deflation, he added, “It involves someone who, let’s say,
thought the law didn’t apply to them. Only, there’s been new evidence that
might say otherwise.”
            “Oh,” Sansa said. “That sounds exciting.”
            Another small sip of wine and a shrug. “I suppose. What are your
plans next Monday?”
            Next Monday? She would be eighteen, and waking up from a blissful
wedding night. She would be Sansa Tyrell. “I’ll be back in Highgarden. Why?”
            Petyr set the glass down gently. It didn’t make a sound on the
granite. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
            That was all he seemed to be willing to share in the business of
his job. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder how horrible the case must be, if it
was so confidential and Petyr couldn’t even spare her more than the smallest
nibble of information. Was it a serial murderer? Was it a family that kept
their children locked inside their house for years? Was it a man who abused and
murdered his lover in a crime of passion?
            It was probably none of those. Still, the mystery of it all
intrigued Sansa.
            Petyr checked his watch. Sansa remembered that one morning when she
touched his hand, how her tummy fluttered at that brief contact. It seemed to
scandalous  at the time. And now, look at what they’ve done. That touch with
the smell of eggs and mushrooms in the air seemed like  nothing  compared to
waking up with his come on her.
            “Thank you for dinner,” he said with a smile, a genuine one (she
thought). “It was delicious.”
            A warmth unlike the one that filled her yesterday spread throughout
Sansa. She felt her cheeks flush at the compliment. “You’re welcome. It was
nothing, really.”
            He opened his mouth, closed it. A creeping smirk tugged on the
corner of his lip. Disappeared. Opened it again, “You’ll make a fine wife one
day, I’m sure.”
            Sansa felt her blood freeze. She knew he didn’t know, but,  did  he
know? Did Petyr somehow figure out Sansa’s truth? Were her lies unconvincing?
(Margaery often teased her that the Madames could see right through her). Was
that why he was so comfortable with this space between them, when last night he
had barely been able to keep his lips from brushing her. She had felt a finger
twirl in her hair for a moment. Or perhaps she only wished it had.
            She brushed it off, forced herself to take in small breaths (though
her lungs felt completely devoid of air). Of course he didn't know. If he did,
Sansa thought Petyr would have the decency to understand that she was  taken ,
instead of doing  that . She mindlessly twirled an invisible wedding band
around her ring finger. “Thank you, Petyr. I...I hope so.”
            He smiled, only Sansa thought it might have been sad.
            “Do you have plans tonight?” Sansa began, pushing around stray bits
of pasta and peas around on her plate. Without looking up and without giving
Petyr the room to answer, she added, “I heard it might rain. And I… I thought
we could…” She caught on  spend time together , because she knew Petyr would
take it the wrong way. Though,  would  it be so wrong to have another bout of
desire like last night? The answer was obvious: of course it was.  I’m to be
married in a week . “...I thought we could, I don’t know, watch a movie. Unless
you’ve work to do!” She countered herself. Petyr said he was swamped with this
case, after all. Why would he want to spend time with her?
            Only, Petyr had his head propped on one hand, staring at her. His
own plate was clean. “Of course I’m busy, Sansa.” She felt her heart drop,
sink, tumble all the floors down the building to the cracked sidewalks below.
            “I understand–"
            “But,” he interrupted. “I think I could find time enough for  one
movie.”
            “Oh. Oh! Great!” Sansa smiled, widely, unexpectedly happy.
            Across from her, Petyr’s expression froze between delight and
wonder. It was almost the same look Petyr gave her last night, only without
eyes shadowed in darkness and lust. Something like disbelief? Something like
awe, like he was mesmerized by the sight of Sansa smiling.
            Like how she always imagined Willas staring at her.
                        Petyr stood then, collecting Sansa’s plate and glass.
She moved to stand, to take her own dirty dishes back in an effort not to seem
useless. “No, stay,” he said, demanded. Sansa slowly lowered herself back into
her seat. “It’s only fair that since you made dinner, I should clean up.”
            It was an innocent thing, but somehow Sansa couldn’t feel there was
a hidden meaning behind it.
            She only knew her uncle for a week, but  of course  there was a
hidden meaning behind everything he did, he said.
            She watched him in silence, wishing she still had her glass to sip
on for want of something to do. It was...surprisingly intimate (or so she
thought, she wasn’t too experience in any of this. Intimacy. Relationships.
Sex. It was all so new, so exciting. And terrifying). Sansa watched him, the
way his dress shirt clung to his body (he’d carefully tossed his jacket off
before eating). The small curls at the nape of his neck. That belt he slithered
free just before undoing his pants, pulling out his cock, stroking himself.
Touch yourself, sweetling .
            She stood up, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. “I’m
going to go find something to watch.”
            If Petyr turned to watch her go, Sansa didn’t have the courage to
look back. That, and she was sure her face was bright red; damning evidence to
the memory she couldn’t rid herself of.
            The couch embraced her as she sat down. Sansa quieted the TV. Water
on glass, fabric on glass, quiet shuffling of steps. She listened to Petyr move
from where she sat on the couch. He  had  to be smirking all the while, that
way only half of his lips tilted upward, and the way it made his cheeks
asymmetrical. That knowing glint to his eyes. Sansa mindlessly flipped through
the movies on the TV, not able to settle on anything in particular. Nor was she
able to settle the butterflies in her stomach. She shouldn’t be so flustered,
but gods-damn it if she was.
            “Have you settled on something?” he called from the kitchen.
            Sansa blinked, trying to focus her gaze and mind and thoughts on
the television and the feel of the remote in her fingers. “Not yet,” she called
back. Petyr didn’t reply, but she heard his footsteps fade down the hall and
finally the quiet  click  of his door closing.
            What if she followed him? Did the same as he did to her (twice, she
remembered). This was a game they were playing. An adult game, with
consequences made abundantly clear: on Petyr’s end, she was still legally a
child, and any  actual  touching would have him sent straight to prison (or
worse); on Sansa’s end, she was (unofficially) engaged to the eldest Tyrell
son, a marriage she vaguely knew had implications more than the flutter of her
heart.
            It was a very tenuous game they played. Sansa should stop.
            If she did sneak into his room, what would she even do? Ask him to
undress so she could stare at him like he did her. Tell him to touch himself.
Watch torn between the way his hand moved up and around his cock, and the way
his eyes quietly demanded her to do the same. They couldn’t touch, officially,
unless she figured out a way for Petyr to touch her, taste her without breaking
the rule. There was a way, she knew. She wondered if Petyr knew it, or was
waiting for her to make the next step in their game.
            Gods, how Sansa knew she should stop.
            The other side of the couch dipped down. “Have you settled, yet,
sweetling?”
            She hadn’t, but Sansa couldn’t say the truth: No, I was too busy
thinking about all of the horrible things we did, and how much I want them to
continue. Her fingers stopped flipping through, settling on a random movie.  A
Night to Forget . Sansa vaguely remembered the trailer for it when it came out
last year. Some romance movie based off a book. She and Margaery were going to
go, planned to sneak out (it came out on Valentine’s which was on Wednesday or
Thursday). Except they got caught and had to clean all of the erasers on the
fourth floor. Sansa urged her friend to go with Megga for fear the next time
they got caught would be worse. Margaery and Megga hadn’t, a first.
            “Are you alright with this?” Sansa asked, not sure if Petyr was the
sort of man to balk and throw temper-tantrums at chick flicks.
            He only shrugged. “If it’s what you want to watch.” A smile, hardly
pure, though none ever were she thought. Sansa hit play, but couldn’t keep
staring at her uncle. At the loose shirt he wore, showing off bare arms. Sansa
traced the path of the veins down to his hands. The collar reveal a peek of
hair. Petyr wore jeans (not what she would consider comfy clothes), and Sansa
wished she had seen him walk in.
            “I’m cold,” she said to no one in particular, moving to grab a
blanket and tossing it over her legs.
            The movie opened with the main character’s friends trying to
convince her to forget her horrible ex and have a fun girls’ night out. Sansa
was suddenly wishing she had landed on a horror movie instead.
            During the scene where the main character and her friends are
dancing and enjoying themselves, Petyr asked, “DId you enjoy my gift,
sweetling?”
            The butterflies in her stomach flew about wildly. It was something
about the innocuity of it all. The  gift  could have (should have) been
something like a new sweater, or a ticket to the movies, or even a bar of
chocolate. The gift  should not  have been her uncle, inches away, pleasuring
himself at the sight of her fingers dipping into herself. Or the warm feel of
his seed on her stomach, the echo of his grunt as he came on top of her. Or the
devilish way he smiled as she undid the ribbon and tore away the paper.
            And, Sansa couldn’t deny the flutter at the use of that nickname.
Sweetling . It was  endearing , she thought. Something a kind uncle might
actually call his niece. If only those two syllables didn’t bring back the way
his voice was dangerously heavy with need. The way his own fingers had to
clutched tightly the sheets to prevent them from dipping inside her.
             Touch yourself, sweetling .
            She squeezed her legs together. Gods, this was a bad idea. At
dinner, at least there had been the physical chair between them, guarding any
impure actions as they ate. Here, on this sofa, there was nothing but air and
heavy longing.
            Vaguely, she remembered Petyr had asked a question. Sansa licked
her lips, trying to figure whether to lie or not. “I… It was very  thoughtful
.” Such empty words.
            “Yes, I try every now and then.” He smiled, his gaze on the movie.
Was he actually watching it? “But did you  enjoy  it?”
            “I...no. I…” Sansa stammered with the revelation caught in her
throat:  I’m not sure how to use it . “Not yet, but. Maybe when...you’re not
too busy with work?” The rest was left to their imaginations – one Sansa knew
Petyr was enjoying immensely. She was putting off the inevitable regarding
Petyr’s move in this wicked game of theirs, and they both knew it. Petyr still
had the upper-hand.
            In the movie, some boy was trying to work his way into the main
character's dress (Sansa kept trying to catch the girl’s name but missed it).
The girl was reluctant at first, but her friends jumped in and  literally
punched him. Which caught the attention of security.
            “What about you?” Sansa asked, adjusting the blanket over herself.
She couldn’t help but think this was the same tactic she used last night. The
allusion of protection from what Petyr wanted to do. He glanced at her,
eyebrows drawn. “Did you enjoy your date? I saw that you and–" she scrunched
her face trying to remember, "–Myranda, I saw that you two left early.”
            Petyr’s eyebrows moved from confused to curious. “We did. Would you
like me to share all of the sordid details? I can tell you where we did it, and
how many times–"
            Sansa clapped her hands over her ears. Through it, she heard Petyr
laugh.
            The girl in the movie lost her friends. She went outside, feeling
uncomfortable in her low dress and high heels.
            “I can tell you mine,” Sansa said, lowering her hands.
            “Your…?” Petyr began. He turned himself so he was leaning angled
against the arm and the back, one arm resting along the back of the couch, one
leg crossed over the other. It was so casual, and yet Sansa couldn’t stop
staring.
            “My  own  sordid details.” She tried to remember how much she
revealed to Petyr about her date with Harry, and whether or not Petyr would
even believe her when she said (lied) about all of her other boyfriends.
            Except, Petyr  did  look peeved. He was digging the pads of his
fingers into the couch arm.
            Interesting. Sansa knew he was  jealous  during the date (she
sometimes heard his growl, louder and in her ear, and often as he touched her.
In her dreams, of course). But Sansa was surprised the allusion of Harry did
this  to Petyr.
            Sansa knew she would never bring up Willas. Gods, what kind of
things would Petyr do to her, to him, if Petyr knew she was engaged?
            They continued watching the movie. The girl was in someone’s car
now, but it didn’t look hostile. Neither of them were talking save for the
quiet directions interspersed between the music and the rumble of the car.
Streets passed by. There were flashes of memories – a boy and the main girl,
slowly falling out of love until she was sobbing on a bathroom floor somewhere.
Suddenly, she leapt out of the car and threw up on the side of the street.
            “Eugh.” Petyr made a face. He was still angled facing her, and the
hand that had been digging into the couch was now propping his head up. His
free hand sat beside him, trailing nonsensical shapes into the cushion.
            The man (Sansa realized that the person who was driving the main
girl home was definitely older than her. Though not as old as Petyr. And not
her ex, not from the way he patiently waited for her to clean herself) helped
her back into his car. Eventually they made it to a building, one which the
girl was staring at with worry. Sansa understood that her friends left her and
she was hoping they had gone back home. The man followed the girl into an
apartment building. She knocked on the door: no one answered. He then (very
kindly) offered his place to wash up and wait for her friends.
            “Of course…” Petyr  tsk ed.
            Sansa looked over at him. “What?”
            That earlier jealousy was gone (or at least, reined in). Petyr was
smiling sheepishly, motioning to the TV with his chin. “Of course she happens
to get locked out. And of course he just happens to live nearby…”
            Sansa pursed her lips. “And?”
            “ And  it’s too coincidental, don’t you think? Real life doesn’t
work that way.”
            “It’s not real life though. It’s a  movie , Petyr.”
            The look he gave her said that he wasn’t buying it. So much for him
being into chick flicks.
            She shrugged, gathering the blanket in her arms into a makeshift
pillow. Sansa buried her chin into it. “Sometimes that stuff happens… Two
people happen to meet each other  coincidentally , and they fall in love.
Besides, it’s a chick flick, what else would you expect.”
            Petyr’s smile faltered for half a heartbeat before he said, “I
suppose so.”
            The movie cut to the girl snooping around the man’s apartment a
little (where did he go? Sansa missed the cue), before she got into the shower.
Thankfully, the camera didn’t focus too much on her – no slow panning up the
legs to her butt, or shots where people would analyze frame by frame whether it
was  a nipple or a trick of the light. Just a girl, with a lot of anxiety and
angst, trying to will them down the drain.
            Still, Sansa shied away from the TV. She reached over to the coffee
table, keeping one hand pressed against the blanket over her chest, and plucked
the bag of sweets. She plopped a sugary lemon wedge into her mouth, offering
Petyr the bag. His gaze moved from the TV to her then finally the bag. If he
realized it was  all  lemon sweets, Petyr was kind enough not to tease her
about it. It wasn’t Sansa fault lemon-flavored  anything  tasted so good. It
was something she missed: there weren’t any fruit trees in King’s Landing, and
barely any trees at all. Sansa sometimes entertained the idea of staying here,
just a little longer. But she convinced herself it was the lack of trees that
made King’s Landing unsuitable.
            Petyr’s fingers wavered over the opening of the bag, silently
looking at the not-really assortment of candies. He had a choice of lemon,
lemon, or lemon. Sansa caught the slight chuckle at the  variety , plucking a
lemon drop from the top of the bag. He placed it gingerly between teeth,
leaving lips parted as his tongue swiped at the candy back into his mouth.
            Sansa felt a jolt run through her veins.
            He smiled, rolling the candy from one side of his mouth to the
other. “Thank you, sweetling.”
            She blinked back to look at him, surreptitiously pressing her legs
together. “Of c– You’re welcome.”
            The girl was scrolling through her phone (it had died at the club),
and now she was scrolling through missed texts and calls from her friend. She
waited for the man to return, though there was doubt forming that he wasn’t
telling her  something .
            “Are you cold?”
            Petyr looked over at her. The candy softly knocked against his
teeth as he shifted it from side to side. Sansa couldn’t concentrate to much on
the movie – she saw the way Petyr’s tongue deftly captured the sweet, and
couldn’t help imagine what else he wanted to taste.
            Couldn’t help but imagine it was Sansa he was savoring.
            “I’m alright, Sansa. What about you?”
            Instinct had her shaking her head, but Sansa stopped the movement.
She lifted the blanket a few inches from her side, as if in invitation. “Yes,
actually. Did you want to share the blanket?”
            “Sansa.”
            She looked over at him. Petyr’s mossy eyes were narrowed; the hand
resting in the abyss of cushion between them was clenched so tight the knuckles
were white. Had it always been clenched? And had it always been that close to
her? Sansa glanced back up. “What? Is something wrong?” Part of her wished she
had taken a lemon drop, too. Try and play him at his own game, and see where
that led them. Only, this was how Sansa was going to move her piece.  Check .
            “We can’t touch each other.” A pause, one where Sansa knew Petyr
meant to restate the fact that she was still (legally) a child. “You know
that.”
            “Yes, but…” Sansa nibbled on her bottom lip. Somehow, she would
have expected Petyr to jump at the opportunity. It’s what he was  begging  to
do last night. And the day before that. And the night when he touched himself
thinking she was asleep. Maybe that was the problem: it wasn’t late enough for
that devil to appear. Unless she coaxed it out… “It’s what family does, when
they’re cold. We’re  family , after all. And if we’re  just  sharing a blanket,
then there’s nothing wrong with that.”
            Either Petyr didn’t feel like arguing, or he was curious to see how
Sansa’s move was going to play out. Sansa heard the silent  clack  of her piece
in this wicked game of theirs. His clenched hand unfurled, fingers slowly
patting the cushion beside him. Sansa could still back out –  Just kidding!  or
something – but she didn’t as she sidled over that endless chasm of a few feet.
            “Keep the blanket,” he said when Sansa motioned to drape it across
both of them. At her confusion, Petyr added, “I’m alright. It’s not that cold.”
            It was a lie, one that Sansa parsed out as she quietly brought her
thigh (shielded by the blanket) against his, her shoulder leaning in the crook
of his arm that he slung over the back of the couch again. This might be
something a niece and uncle do (or even father and daughter). But nieces and
uncles didn’t have the weight of seeing each other pleasuring themselves.
Nieces shouldn’t know what their uncles’ cocks looked like, or how a vein in
his neck pulsated as he neared his orgasm, or how sticky and warm his come was.
            Sansa sighed at the memory. Pressed her side just a little bit
harder against him. Petyr gave a small growl of  Don’t , which only made Sansa
snuggle closer in a defiant  Make me .
            On her free shoulder, Sansa felt the lightest brush of his fingers.
Petyr wrapped a lock of it around one, tugging gently. Reiterating his  Don’t .
            “I’m just cold,” she reasoned weakly. Sansa was far from cold: a
fire was starting to consume her mind (granted, this unaccounted lust had began
slowly eating away her logic days ago. Sansa didn’t  let  it consume until
recently). Even the tips of her fingers and toes were warm.
            “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Sansa looked up at
Petyr, who wasn’t at all interested in the movie any more (there were voices
and a crescending soundtrack, but that’s all Sansa could make of it). The tip
of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were unashamedly
tracing the lump of her body beneath the blanket – he’d already seen most of it
already. Sansa hadn’t been wrong in thinking Petyr was memorizing the shape of
her last night.
            As to his question: she wasn’t sure. Hadn’t been all week. This was
the  experience  she wanted, if not that allusion of reason to do these things.
            Sansa knew one day she would look back at  this , and either miss
or regret what she was doing.
            It came out of nowhere: sex.
            It had just been a brief touch of hands at first, as the girl
realized she could forget all of her worries if she just let them go for a
night. A touch of hands. And then a touch of lips. A kiss that went on forever,
their souls intertwining from that single, simple contact. A missing half found
in a mirrored lonely heart. Pulling back, the man whispered  Are you sure ,
before the girl gave in completely with her admission of another kiss. And
then... Sansa gasped as she watched.
            Tried as she might, Sansa couldn’t stop staring at the movie. At
the way their hands never stopped exploring the other’s body. At the loving way
he touched her, teased her, tasted her, and she (though she only knew him for a
few hours) cried out with a smile on her lips.
            If Sansa squinted, the man was Petyr, and the girl was her. They
even had the hair right.
            “I take it you like what you’re seeing, sweetling?”
            Sansa jumped, half-forgetting the person sitting beside her.
Petyr’s wicked grin was back – those reluctant questions of minutes ago
completely forgotten. The devil was back.
            “I…” She licked her lips. Perhaps it was the movie that brought to
life the wicked thought (or perhaps it always existed inside of her, waiting to
be uncovered and devoured). Sansa tore her gaze away from the sight of the man
languidly thrusting inside of the girl, to Petyr. She felt him tug again on
that strand of hair wrapped around a finger. He  technically  wasn’t touching
her.
            Sansa continued, “As long as we don’t touch, right?”
            Petyr tilted his head. The crooked smile remained.
             Good gods, what am I doing?  She felt her mind fighting against
her desire. Maybe if it wasn’t for the constant stream of warmth seeping from
Petyr’s thigh, or the quiet moans beneath a shuddering violin playing in the
background, Sansa might have realized the implication of what she was about to
do. A pity she left her reasons somewhere not in King’s Landing. With two
fingers, she plucked at the blanket above her stomach. “As long as I  only
touch the blanket, and not you, then it’s fine?”
            Petyr’s eyes widened as realization (or just a terrible fantasy)
hit him. “Sweetling, what you are planning…?”
            Nothing good.
            Carefully and following this gossamer logic, Sansa shucked the
blanket off of her and laid it atop of Petyr. Petyr, meanwhile, let her,
curious where this was going to go. And turned on, evidenced by the jut of his
jeans between thighs. Was it because of the movie, too, or had it just been the
proximity to Sansa? Or, had he just been playing their previous encounter over
and over again, praying to the gods that something  more  would come of this?
            Granted, Sansa hadn’t much experience, and since Petyr couldn’t
guide her with his hands as per his rule… With a deep breath, Sansa hoisted
herself on top of her uncle, knees straddling him. At full height, the join of
her legs was only a few inches away from where his cock lay beneath the
blanket.
            Petyr’s hands shot out to hold her, to help her, but he remembered
his own rule just as the heat of his skin caressed her bare arms. It was a
dance, trying to find a place to settling his hands without breaking and laws,
real or otherwise. He decided on laying them on his thighs. Still, Sansa could
see the wriggle of veins as Petyr fought against a base urge to touch her.
            He slowly dragged his tongue from one corner of his smirk to the
other. Eyes even more unashamedly drinking her in. Sansa had changed into
comfortable clothes: a loose t-shirt, shorts, socks. Not the same shorts from
last night. And to her dismay (or unrealized luck?) Sansa had foregone a bra.
Petyr’s gaze were stuck on her breasts, tracing the outline of them over and
over. Silently  begging  her to take off the offending shirt. And if she did,
might as well remove the shorts, too.
            Sansa didn’t, though. This was her move, not Petyr’s. Damned be her
future self when he would retaliate for this.
            “I want you to show me something. Teach me another lesson.” Damned
be her present self, too.
            Petyr eventually found his way up from her breasts, taking his time
all the while. He leaned back into the couch, stroking his cock once before
lacing fingers atop his stomach. Sansa caught that, and she caught the way his
smile tilted. Petyr blinked at her slowly through half-closed eyes. “Oh? I
thought I had taught you everything last night.”
            There was so much, too much, that he  hadn’t , and they both knew
it.
            “That was last night,” Sansa clarified, hoping not to sound too
desperate . A numbing ache sat between her legs all day, one that she tried to
ignore. Still, it persisted. And still, it demanded to be taken care of.
            “And tonight…”
            Sansa stared at the peek of his tongue. Remembered how the man in
the movie languidly stroked around and around the girl’s nipples. Trailing down
to her core, before dipping in and devouring her. A blink, and Sansa saw
Petyr’s head between her thighs, his wicked smile disappearing as he tasted
her. Her core throbbed.
            No. By their rule, Petyr couldn’t do that.
            “I want you to touch me.”
            He tilted his head in a  Didn’t I just say…?  motion. Sansa
interrupted him by placing her hand just to the side of the bulge of his cock.
Petyr hissed, whatever retort instantly forgotten. She continued, “I know you
want to touch me, too.” Slowly, she crept her hands towards his need. Petyr’s
attention was focused there, quietly urging her on with a slight roll of hips.
“But, like we agreed, it has to be through the blanket.”
            “That’s not as fun…”
            Was Petyr willing to throw away that semblance of a rule – and the
worse consequences behind it – for a single night of touching and tasting?
Sansa wondered how deep the shadowy tendrils of depravity held Petyr in their
grasp. Or, if perhaps there was nothing but a depraved  thing  in the shell of
a man.
            Sansa found his cock then, resting her palm across the length of
him. Petyr released a cracked breath. His need pulsed beneath her skin through
the fabric. As her fingers languidly moved up, she said, “Well, if it’s not as
fun, then we don’t have to do it.”
            His eyes shot up towards hers. “Fine. Do you want to go first,
sweetling, or shall I?”
            She ignored the fact that she hadn’t offered to touch him, but
Sansa knew (deep down) that she would have either way. It was  curiosity ,
nothing more.
            “You do me first.” She pretended to ignore the way his smile seemed
to grow more devilish. Sansa added with a waver of uncertainty to her voice,
“And if you do it good, I’ll touch you.”
            “Is that a  challenge , Sansa?”
             Might be . She didn’t say anything.
            Her fingers trembled less this time when Sansa maneuvered her
shorts and underwear off one leg, not bothering to remove them completely.
Still, she took her time finding Petyr’s eyes: dark, heavy, hardly blinking as
he stared at her core. It was different without the help of faint moonlight.
Sansa could pretend that hungry look she’d seen had been a trick of the light.
That Petyr hadn’t transformed into something so base, so primal, he was
constantly keeping himself in check from having her completely.
            “Please,” she said, trying to divert Petyr’s attention from
staring.
            “Anything, sweetling.”
            Carefully, Petyr slithered a hand beneath the blanket. Testing out
the movements of his fingers (motions and positions Sansa had used on herself
not even twenty-four hours earlier. Right in front of him). Petyr pursed his
lips, obviously disappointed as Sansa was at the  actual  touch. But right now,
Sansa just needed to get rid of this ache.
            She didn’t want to admit it, but right now Sansa wanted Petyr.
            When Petyr nodded  Ready , Sansa carefully lowered herself down
onto his awaiting hand. With each closing inch, she forgot about the
butterflies that had once filled her stomach, had forgotten  who  Petyr was and
why  she was even here in the first place.
            The moment she felt the hardness of his fingers through the
blanket, Sansa could think of nothing else.
            “Fuck,” he swore. “I can feel how wet you are already.”
            His words sent a new surge of need down to her core. Sansa’s hips
buckled, and she gripped onto the couch for support. She tried not to move,
letting him explore her. Petyr trailed a single finger along the slit of her
opening, made wide by the way her legs were straddling his. Up and down the
length of her, not at all daring to dip into her yet.
            But Sansa couldn’t help the roll of her hips the longer Petyr
teased her. It felt  too good .
            She heard somewhere a  tsk , and then Petyr’s finger was inside
her. Sansa gasped.  Fuck . She’d played with herself before, but having someone
else do it made the briefest touch so much more electric. Sansa imagined she
could come here and now, with barely a single dip of his finger.
            He didn’t let her come, though. Pulling out for a second to drag
around her opening again. And again. Too many times she had lost count, a
grumble clawing up her throat to  Hurry up  and  Please, Petyr, please .
Neither escaped her lips; Petyr slid back inside her, thrusting in and out
without rhythm. Sansa let out a shuddering breath.
            “Play with your breasts, sweetling.”
            She was too lost in the feel of him, of this, to remember Sansa was
meant to be in control tonight. Sansa didn’t care, couldn’t remember to care.
She dipped her hands beneath her shirt and grabbed both breasts. Toyed with the
nipples with her thumbs. Imagining they were Petyr’s hands touching her. If she
closed her eyes, she could pretend he was.
            “That’s it, sweetling.” Sansa’s hips were moving in tandem to his
fingers, pushing when he was, taking him in further. And even then, it wasn’t
enough. Sansa craved the feel of him, skin on skin. Craved so much more than
this farce of  not touching .
            There was only a week left until then. A slithering thought
wondered if she would make it.
            Her hips moved faster and faster as she felt her orgasm building.
The world grew silent, empty save for her body and Petyr’s, and where they were
joined.
            When she came, Sansa’s head fell on top of Petyr’s shoulder. He
smelled good.
            Even then, Petyr’s fingers continued to lazily stroke up and down,
in and out. Letting her ride out the final waves of her pleasure. All before a
crashing realization that they  were  touching, and Sansa’s head shot up.
            She leaned back, freeing herself from his tortuous touch. Sansa
adjusted her shirt, fixed her hair, as she waited for her heart to settle.
Petyr looked just as flushed as she did.
            “I…” She inhaled a long, deep breath. It did nothing against the
constant hammering of blood through her veins. So heavy she felt it pounding
throughout every part of her. “I’ll do you, now.”
            “No.” Sansa’s hand wavered an inch above his cock. She looked up at
him, suddenly afraid she was doing something wrong. Or, suddenly afraid that
Petyr realized this  was  wrong, that they crossed too many lines. Only, Petyr
flicked his gaze from her hand, to her core, to her face. “Where’s the fun in
using your hands?”
            She furrowed her brows. “But–"
            “Trust me,” he began, motioning for her to move. Not away, but
down . “I promise it’ll feel a lot better.”
            Sansa did as she was instructed, lying down on the couch, tucking
her hands in the crevice between the arm and the cushion. A glance at the TV
told her the characters were long past their steamy night; the girl was
standing slack-jawed in the back of a lecture hall. Sansa had no idea what was
going on in the movie anymore. She didn’t rightly care what happened to them.
They weren’t real.  This  – wrong, yes, and the furthest thing from innocent –
was real.
            Petyr draped the blanket over her lower half, not without first
admiring her cunt that was still wet from her orgasm. From the way Petyr licked
his lips, Sansa knew he was  dying  to taste her. Dying to break their rule for
one lick between her lower lips.
            Unlike that reluctance, Petyr shucked off his own pants and
underwear in one swoop. His cock was hard, jutting up against his stomach.
Reaching behind his head to do the same with his shirt.
            Sansa startled “What are you–?”
            “I told you to trust me,” he said with a wink, taking off his shirt
with a single pull.
            Sansa looked away. She had never seen a man naked before, and
certainly not with the intent of fucking her. This was too many lines crossed.
She just wanted to stroke him with her hand through the blanket and call her
move done. Wait to see when he would counter her piece, and what that would
entail. Something absolutely wicked, for sure.
            Unless...this was it?
            “I promise I’ll go easy with you, sweetling.” The couch dipped down
as he kneeled beneath her, positioning one hand on the back and the other by
her head. Sansa couldn’t keeping staring at the TV; slowly, she pulled her gaze
from it, to the man that was going to rut against her.
            He was lean, as evidenced by how his clothes sat against him,
tailored and slim. The smattering of hair on his chest was just as littered
with grey as the curls on his head. Sansa thought she saw a line out of place,
trailing the length of his chest. But Petyr positioned himself between her
legs, bent over. Too desperate to have what Sansa was (foolishly) giving away
so easily.
            “I’m going to fuck you now.”
            Petyr waited for her to nod, or say anything. He might have been
wicked, the devil incarnate made flesh, but he  always  waited for her, Sansa
realized. If she wanted to, she could say  No  and be done with their game for
the night.
            Except, gods knew she didn’t want to. “I’m ready.”
            Something twinkled Petyr’s shadowed eyes. It was gone the moment
Sansa felt the press of his cock through the blanket.
            Her head lolled back against the couch arm. She was glad her hands
were sandwiched – they had the sudden urge to grab hold of Petyr. His arms,
whose muscles and veins were strained with a similar effort to keep away. Hers
had the sudden urge to wrapped around him as he moved up and down the length of
her cunt. They had the sudden urge to tangle in his hair as the head of his
cock nudged her clit.
            “Oh, fuck.” The swear was hardly a word. Sansa pushed and pulled
herself against him, rolling her hips, letting her body move and take control.
It knew what it wanted; it knew that this, that Petyr, felt fucking amazing.
            He leaned over her, his curls dancing in tune to his thrusts. His
body was so close to hers, she felt him brush against her, against her breasts.
There was a wicked gleam, and then-
            “Petyr!”
            She still had her shirt on, but her left breast tickled from the
trace of his tongue around a nipple. Petyr nippled at it with his lips first,
then bit it softly. He pulled back just as quick with a smile, sweat lining his
brow. Winked. “Pretend like it didn’t happen.”
            To emphasize that, Petyr thrusted his hips up against her, and
Sansa forgot everything else but the way his cock rubbed against her cunt. He
moved fasted, the couch creaking with each thrust. Every time his rubbed over
her clit, Sansa moaned. And Petyr growled every time Sansa moaned, drunk on the
sound of her as much as what he was doing to her. He didn’t relent, not even
when Sansa’s hips moved frantically, her mind going hazy with the cresting
release just there, almost there.
            “Come, sweetling.”
            She bit her lips closed as she came, stifling the word but not the
moan. Just behind hers, she felt and heard Petyr come, bits of his seed finding
their way atop her stomach again.
            Gods. It was even better than the first time.
            Sansa listened to the buzz of her orgasm fade away into the silence
of the world. Only, it wasn’t silent. She recognized the patter of rain on the
roof, quiet, unsure drops before the relentless downpour. She recognized the
voices of the actors, though Sansa couldn’t bother to care what was happening
in the movie anymore. She recognized the heavy panting of Petyr, who managed to
keep himself from falling on top of Sansa.
            She opened her eyes. He was staring down at her, mouth open, eyes
lidded. Sansa had the sudden urge to smile at him – because, gods, that was
fantastic, and euphoria filled her veins as much as blood did. She didn’t,
though. Just as Sansa managed to stifle the cry as she came.
             Petyr!
            There was half a frantic heartbeat before her orgasm ripped through
her that Sansa knew what she had been about to shout. And it took all her
effort to keep her mouth closed, to keep the truth trapped in her lungs.
            She loved the feeling of the orgasm, the way it made her forget
everything but the way her body craved more. The way everything seemed softer,
duller. Like if she closed her eyes a second too long, Sansa would open them
hours later.
            But that’s all Sansa loved.
            She hadn’t recognized whether Petyr shouted her name or not. Or if
he had that half a heartbeat of clarity to understand what a single word could
mean.
            Slowly, finally, Sansa’s breathing slowed. She could still feel her
heart pounding throughout her body, but it was dull.
            Petyr wrapped the blanket around her arms, nudging them free from
the crevice. They felt numb, pinpricks dancing along each finger. Petyr
repositioned the blanket around her wrists, wrapping his own hands around them,
before pushing them against the couch arm. Trapped. Sansa could smell his
breath beneath the headiness of their need – he tasted of lemons and mint.
            Like last night, he was so close. Too close.
            “You need to be careful, sweetling,” Petyr began, leaning
reluctantly away, only an inch. Then another. But not completely removing
himself from her, or his hands off his wrists. Either because he forgot they
were there, or Petyr couldn’t dare break that heated contact. Sansa swore she
felt his thumbs run over the veins at her wrists. Swore his blood pumped to the
same, frantic beat as hers. Told herself it was a trick of the blanket.
            Petyr continued, licking his lips. “If you offer yourself like this
to the wrong man, he might just take and take and  take .”
            So slowly, he leaned back onto his legs, releasing his grip on her
wrists. Sansa could see how his cock was still semi-hard, as if Petyr wasn’t at
all satisfied with that farce of a fuck. He wanted more, wanted all of it – and
Sansa, though she tried to deny it, wanted it to.
            The question caught in her throat:  Are you the wrong man ? Sansa
didn’t have to ask it, of course. Petyr wasn’t the man she was to marry in a
week. Petyr wasn’t the man who kept her family together and happy. Petyr wasn’t
the man she loved.
             This  wasn’t  love . This was a sick sort of desperation. That’s
all it was. All it could ever be.
 
Chapter End Notes
     [First things first: here’s the recipe for the pasta Sansa made,
     which is A+ (https://www.blueapron.com/recipes/creamy-lemon-pasta-
     with-english-peas-mint-garlic-breadcrumbs)
     Second things: I hope that sin was worth the wait (and the length
     lmao)!! Pretty sure we’re still trash and proud ;) ]
***** petyr *****
Chapter Notes
     [ First things first….I know this is really late, and I’m so sorry!!!
     :( I wish I had an excuse but I really don’t. But at least it's long
     again, so, you're welcome?
     Also: I know I’ve gotten a little bit carried away with the
     ‘flashback’ scenes, and I do hope they haven’t been too much?? I’m
     trying my best to not let them get /too/ out of hand, but please let
     me know if you think they are too much or whatnot! :)
     Now without further ado: enjoy the sin~! ]
 
            It was a dream. It  had  to be.
            The wafting smell of something delicious as he ascended the
elevator to his apartments. Then Sansa, standing there (in what he will admit
was  more  clothing than he would have liked), offering a freshly cooked dinner
with a sweet smile. Petyr had wanted to  kiss  her, and ask if he could have
his dessert first. Knowing that there  would  be a dessert to come that
evening, whether Sansa initiated it or not. Petyr was so fucking glad she did.
            Petyr was even more fucking thankful when he woke up to  memories
of last night.
            The dinner was superb. Petyr hadn’t been lying when he said Sansa
would make a wonderful wife. Didn’t think on it further, no matter how lovely
the dream was: ascending to this every night, dinner and Sansa and the promise
of losing themselves in each other.
            Something cold clutched his heart.
            “Do you have plans tonight?” Sansa began, shoving stray bits of her
dinner around the plate with her fork. It left light  eeeeeeek  noises in the
space between them. Petyr opened his mouth (propriety be damned, he  needed
more of Sansa right now.  Have you anything planned for dessert , he wanted to
ask, and a tad less subtle  Can I have you tonight? )– “I heard it might rain,”
she interrupted. He saw a light blush color her cheeks, evidence of the fact
that even  she  wanted something wicked for dessert. Petyr wondered where she
might take this night, and half-prayed to the gods it would end in a bed. “And
I… I thought we could…” A pause. “...I thought we could, I don’t know, watch a
movie? Unless you’ve work to do!”
            Sansa added the last line so quickly, as if hoping it might undo
the implication of her offer. It wouldn’t, of course. After last night, Petyr
couldn’t imagine  not  indulging himself on Sansa every night until her
birthday. And then when she finally was eighteen, well, neither of them would
getting a wink of sleep.
            Petyr had his face propped on one bent hand, watching her. It was
cute, the way she suddenly grew embarrassed. It was cute, too, the distance she
willingly put between them as they ate. For her own safety? Or for Petyr’s
sanity? He wasn’t sure, but gods if those short distance felt like an abyss
between them. He left his other hand lying on his thigh beneath the counter,
feeling the sting of his fingernails digging into the meat of his palm. It was
an effort keeping that devious hand from stretching over that abyss and
touching her. Swiping away a curl that feel forward of an ear. Caressing her
cheek, her jaw, her lips. Pulling her forward into a kiss.
            Not now. Not yet.
            “Of course I’m busy, Sansa,” Petyr began. Interrupting her
interruption. How quickly she was trying to free herself of this hole she had
willingly dug. Unless Sansa meant for tonight to be  just  a dinner and
conversation. In which case, she shouldn’t have dressed down to such measly
clothes. As much as it was an effort not to reach over and pull her face into
his, it was an effort not to slip beneath those simple shorts and see whether
she’d been thinking about his lesson from last night. “I think I could find
time enough for  one  movie.”
             And I hope we don’t watch any of it .
            Sansa smiled, and Petyr felt something – something baser than that
primal need to lift her atop the counter and take her, with mouth and cock –
twitch inside him. He wondered about it as he saw Sansa starting to collect her
dishes. He ordered her to stay,  insisting  that he would take the duty of
cleaning up after her. Slowly, she lowered herself back down. Petyr wondered,
too, about whether Sansa was willing to obey other orders just as willingly.
            Halfway through washing the pan, Sansa excused herself to find a
movie. Only the wall saw his smile. What thoughts were drowning his niece that
she  had  to run away before something wicked urged her on? Were they was
delightful as the ones Petyr swam through? Well, as delightful as an innocent
girl could dream. Certainly there were boundaries even Sansa wasn’t aware
existed; not to mention all the different positions Petyr could (would) take
her.
            There was so much Petyr wanted to teach her. And he had the feeling
Sansa would be the dutiful, wide-eyed student and swallow every lesson with a
smile.
            He went to his room to change, choosing comfortable clothes that
would imply he had  absolutely no intention  of anything happening tonight.
Plain shirt and jeans. Gods, how would Sansa react if he just showed up stark
naked with a hard cock? Petyr laughed.
            As he neared on quiet feet, Petyr stood at the edge of the living
room, watching Sansa. She wasn’t doing anything really. And yet, Petyr had the
sudden thought that  this  alone was crossing some sort of boundary that he had
no qualm of crossing last night. Observing his niece just sitting there, lost
in her thoughts as the movies flickered aimlessly on the screen. It
was...unusual, to say the least. That Petyr simultaneously wanted to keep Sansa
as she was – pure (mostly) and untouched and innocent – and at the same time,
drag her deep, deep down into the furthest level of hell where he resided. If
only he could have both. If only he didn’t have this insatiable  need  to have
her, every way, mentally and physically.
            Too bad he was weak.
            Petyr walked towards her on soft feet, settling on the furthest
edge of the couch. Another illusion of  there’s nothing happening tonight .
Sansa startled as he sat. The flickering carousel of movies stopped. It was
some romance movie. Lysa had been raving to watch it, dragged Petyr to it in
hopes of rekindling their lust. Speaking of nights to forget...
            “Are you alright with this?” Sansa asked, regret visible on her
face. Had Sansa seen the movie, too, or was she basing her Petyr-isn’t-going-
to-want-to-watch-a-dumb-chick-flick regret solely on the name and the cleverly-
raunchy cover? It honestly didn’t matter what the movie was. It could have been
a documentary on watching paint dry, because Petyr had no intention of watching
it. Not when Sansa sat there, legs curled up beneath her, shorts riding up just
enough on her thighs that he could make out the bottom swell of her ass.
Unfortunately, her arms were crossed over her chest. That didn’t stop him from
picturing hardened nipples, or how she might squirm when he played with them.
            Petyr only shrugged. The facade of a bored parent willing to suffer
through their child’s interests. “If it’s what you want to watch.” Smiled,
hoping to ease away Sansa’s regret.
            The beginning (like any movie, really) was slow to start, and Petyr
couldn’t help but thinking about the way Lysa had clutched onto his arm the
entire movie. How she was reliving her years through the main character (of
whom, if Petyr squinted, looked an awful lot like Sansa. Not as pretty. But
neither were the girls in the porn he’d watch to sate himself this week). Petyr
hadn’t been able to  listen  to the movie from his wife’s droning comments
filtering in through one ear. Blithering comments about her own university
years. The clubs where she and Cat and their friends danced. The boys she
swore  gushed around her, clawing for a turn.
            And now, Petyr wasn’t able to pay attention as the girls were
heading out to their own nightclub, because the girl sitting beside him (though
too far away) was stealing glances. Sansa wasn’t even  trying  to be
inconspicuous. Which only made his cock harder. He’d assumed jeans would be a
safe bet if Sansa truly had no intentions for any  fun  tonight, and only
wanted to watch a movie. But they were comfortable to sit in, and equally
comfortable to take off to take her here and now if she only asked.
            “I’m cold.”
            Petyr watched as Sansa slid her legs off the couch (they were so
long, so beautiful, Petyr reigned in the urge to reach out and stroke them,
from ankle up to knee, up and up until he lost himself in the junction of her
thighs). She dug through the cabinets for a blanket, soft wool he reserved for
the few actually cold days in King’s Landing. Robert had loved that blanket,
and it hadn’t been used since. Now, though, Petyr reigned in the groan of
frustration at the sight of it. At the realization that those beautiful legs,
the peak of her ass, the impure thoughts– all of it would be lost to his own
stolen glances.
            Unless he slithered beneath it and had his way, consequences be
damned.
            Maybe it was that thought that had Petyr thinking about last night.
The way she pulled down her shorts and underwear in one fell swoop. The glisten
of moonlight on her fingers as she dipped in and out of her cunt. The little
moans she made. The way her back arched up as she came. The glint of his own
come splattered over her stomach.
            He adjusted his seat.
            It  definitely  were those thoughts that pulled the question from
his throat: “Did you enjoy my gift, sweetling?”
            Because he  had  to know.
            Petyr went out of his way, of course, to get it for her and smuggle
it onto the plane without alerting the firm that he was indeed carrying a dildo
back to King’s Landing (to shove up the Lannister’s ass in lieu of that stick
shoved up there? Maybe). Like a good uncle, he brought his sweet niece a gift
back from his travels.
            And like a good uncle, Petyr was dying to know if her little cunt
had the pleasure of trying it out.
            Sansa squirmed on her side of the couch, and Petyr saw the way her
knees pressed tightly beneath the blanket. It wasn’t a damning  yes  or  no .
But it was all hells fun watching her struggle. Had she even  seen  a dildo
before? Probably not, if his own cock was the first she’d seen.
            The first she would touch. Taste. Allow deep into the sweet folds
of her cunt.
            Through a breath, she answered, “I… It was very  thoughtful .”
             That’s not what I asked . Petyr fought – and lost – against
restraining a smile. She shrank just that much further into her embarrassment.
“But did you  enjoy  it?”
             I’m not going to stop until you tell me if you’ve fucked yourself
yet .
            Sansa seemed to figure that out, too. “I...no. I…” From the corner
of his eye, Petyr was  loving  the way her cheeks were  now  properly flushed.
The way she toyed with the edge of the blanket, trying and failing to fight
against her own emotions. A pity Sansa was so easy to read. Imagine the sort of
ruin she could sow if she knew how to lie! If she worked her face calmly and
said,  I have, uncle, and I can’t imagine your cock to be any better than it .
            Petyr would be out of his pants and on top of –  inside her  – in
seconds.
            She persisted through her embarrassment. Admitting that no, it lay
unused. Better than that was the permission that Petyr could teach her how to
use it. Tonight? Maybe, depending on what happened. Tomorrow? For sure. Even if
that fucker Tywin had him fly all the way to Essos, Petyr would find a way to
make it back here and revel in debasing his niece.
            The rest was left to their imaginations, and  gods  what a
gloriously wicked imagination Petyr had.
            Sansa asked if Petyr had any  sordid details  from his date, to
counter him. As if Petyr wasn’t going to relish in telling Sansa every single
detail, and see which parts of it made her breath hitch in anticipation.
            Only, she clapped her hands over her ears, and it was too adorable.
            Then: “I can tell you mine.”
            Petyr turned fully to look at her. He’d been careful not to look
too eager  sitting on the one side of the couch. But now, those few words had
his senses on edge. Petyr let one hand drape across the back of the couch,
closer to his Sansa but still so far. He crossed one leg over the other,
wondered if it made his erection more or less noticeable. Regardless, Sansa
would have to be a blind fool not to understand that just being near her was
enough to make him hard. Sansa would have to be a bigger fool not to understand
how easy she could use her age against him. Anything – anything in the world! –
and Petyr would give it to Sansa, just for her consent at a single touch, or
kiss, or press of fingers against her breasts. Lower. Granted, Petyr was going
to be  gentle  with Sansa was she was legal...only for a while.
            Petyr shoved the thoughts out, focusing instead on what Sansa was
implying. Focusing, too, on the quiet fury that was bubbling low in his chest
at it. “Your…?”
            “My  own  sordid details.”
            Either his fingers were going to break, or the couch was, from how
hard he was pressing them into the arm. He saw him: doucheface. Leaning in to
press a kiss to Sansa’s lips. Scooting his chair over next to her so he would
have easy access. The slow climb of his grubby little fingers underneath
Sansa’s dress, desperate for a single touch.
            Petyr didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not with the sorts of he
things he wanted to scream (not  at  Sansa, of course). Instead, he mashed his
teeth against each other until his jaw hurt from the pressure, forcing himself
to look at the movie and pretend to find it suddenly fascinating. Pretend not
be affected by the possibility that  there were  sordid details Sansa wasn’t
telling him. Secret lovers from school? Secret rendezvous here while Petyr was
slaving away at work? Who knew how many boys Sansa had, looking to add Petyr to
that endless list. She could be lying. She could be the best damn actress this
side of the Narrow Sea. She could be playing Petyr for what he was – a
desperate, depraved man – silently collecting tabs of data to use against him
when the time was right.
            Only, Petyr wasn’t willing to believe any of that. Sansa  was
pure, innocent, as perfect a specimen for even the most devout followers of the
Seven to worship beneath. There was no way this girl sitting next to him  had
anything against him.
            And if she did, Sansa’s list was far, far smaller than his own.
            Bit by bit, the world came back into focus. The ache in his fingers
as he pulled them away from breaking. The ache in his jaw, loosening the
muscles before his teeth shattered. The beautiful girl sitting beside him,
covered in a blanket and a light flush.
            The scene he came back to in the movie, though, was one he wished
he hadn’t. The camera work was clever not to show the vomit  too horrendously ,
but Petyr swore he could smell it. “Eugh.”
            And then, like all romantic movies, the man lives just so happened
to live across the street. And he just so happens to be even more chivalrous in
letting her stay until her friends come back, even offering her a shower. Sansa
was having none of it when Petyr voiced his disbelief, though. It was
endearing, how tightly she held onto the idea that  true love  existed. And the
idea that coincidences like this were as common as, well, the coincidence that
the niece you were never acquainted with suddenly showing up in one’s life and
filling your thoughts with her night and day.
            Petyr swallowed away  that  bit of disbelief.
            More minutes passed. Quietly, Sansa reached over to the coffee
table – smart to keep the blanket pressed against her chest, because like hells
Petyr  wasn’t  going to try and sneak a glance – and grabbed a small white bag.
Carefully examined its contents before popping a sugary sweet into her mouth.
Offering the bag to Petyr. There wasn’t much choice: lemon, or lemon, or lemon?
He smiled at the selection, choosing a hard candy.
            Was this what she tasted like? Sweetness and citrus and sin.
            “Are you cold?” Sansa eventually asked, trying to fill the silence.
Petyr looked over at her, rolling the sweet in his mouth. Sansa tried her best
not to watch it – was there a throb in her clit, jealous of Petyr’s tongue
ravishing the candy and not her? He hoped so.
            When he acted as though she was nearing that imagined boundary,
Sansa went playfully defensive. Claiming it was only for the most innocent of
reasons that she would offer to share a blanket. Was that why she was pressing
herself against him, as if hoping the blanket might disappear (their clothes,
too, until there was nothing separating them, not even air). Was that why she
looked up at him with pouty lips and excuses, even as Petyr warned her. Because
she was  just cold . As if.
            This was it, then. Sansa’s move.
            It wouldn’t be any fun to let her have her way (no matter how easy
that would have been, or how at her offer Petyr’s cock pushed against the front
of his jeans, more than ready for release.
            Then there was sex. Petyr rather enjoyed the way it was filmed: as
a romance movie, it didn’t focus on the sorts of trite things he would see in
porn. There was  feeling , a connection (if only for a night, or so the girl
believed) between two souls. There was, of course, a good amount of sex, and a
well timed piano crescendo as the man brought her to orgasm.
            That’s what Petyr remembered of the movie. Because for the life of
him, he couldn’t stop staring at Sansa, who’s own gaze was transfixed to the
movie. He saw – and felt – her reactions. He didn’t have to ask the question to
know: “I take it you like what you’re seeing, sweetling?”
            She did. Lost for words, torn between the movie and the fact that
she only needed to  ask  and Petyr would do the same. Would do so much more.
            “As long as we don’t touch, right?”
            Petyr couldn’t control the smile that spread across his face. A
devil’s might have looked kinder.
            Her  plan  was simple: fuck each other with the blanket between
them, as if that would ease the guilt of what she was doing. As long as they
don’t touch, then it didn’t really happen. As long as they don’t give in to
their mutually base urges...
            He agreed, though not sure if he would be able to control himself.
            Slowly, Sansa lowered herself onto his fingers, sighing at the
connection.
            “Fuck.” Even through the blanket, he could feel Sansa’s need,
soaking the material. It was difficult to maneuver his fingers and the blanket
inside her, but Petyr was determined and Sansa was needy. How awful would he be
not to address his wanting niece?
            It was an effort not to touch her. Petyr ordered her to play with
her breasts because he couldn’t, admiring this last shred of propriety of not
showing him her breasts. Petyr  tsk ed at it, but didn’t stop his
ministrations. Her need had the blanket plastered around his fingers, and with
every thrust (short as it was inhibited), Sansa’s breathy sighs grew louder,
shorter. It didn’t take much to make her come, and Petyr wondered if she would
come the minute he fully sheathed his cock inside her.
            When she came, Sansa collapsed atop him, head on his shoulder.
Petyr inhaled: the sweet scent of her shampoo, the heady scent of her come. It
was even better than the candy.
            “I’ll do you now.” The words sounded so wicked coming from her
pretty lips. But Petyr needed much more than her stroking through the blanket.
It was an admirable loophole to his rule, but gods if Petyr wanted to tear it
away.
            “No.” Sansa looked at him confused, worry crossing her flushed face
that maybe she had done something wrong. As if she could. A lazy thought
realized that Sansa could take someone’s life, and Petyr would be there to help
muddle the evidence. After all, that’s what he was good at. Lies and deceptions
and bribes.
            “Trust me. I promise it’ll feel a lot better.”
            Petyr watched her get into position: prone on the couch, hands
above her head, one leg smashed against the back of the couch and the other
dangling lazily off the edge. Fuck.  Fuck . It was so much better than all of
his fantasies. Sansa, naked (well, almost), giving herself up to him
completely. Looking up at him not with fear or disgust, but  excitement , and
lust, and (maybe?) foolish, schoolgirl love.
            When he moved to remove his clothes, Sansa shied away. It was
comical, her sudden embarrassment, even though she was nearly as naked! Even
though her legs were spread wide enough that her inner lips were parted. Her
cunt glistened with her come.
            Lowering himself back onto the couch, reluctantly shielding her
with the blanket, Petyr said, “I promise I’ll go easy with you, sweetling.”  At
least, until you’re bored of that and want something rougher . He couldn’t help
but add, “I’m going to fuck you now.” Gods, how he’d wanted to say that for a
week now. And this was as good as fuck to satiate him until he could. Fuck his
niece with absolute abandon.
            The minute his cock touched her cunt (by proxy of blanket), Sansa
lost it. She wasn’t going to last long, Petyr knew, and neither was he. But
damn if he wasn’t going to enjoy himself.
            He gaze roamed over her. From the part of her lips, breathy moans
escaping it. Up to where her hands were straining to keep away from touching
him. Down to her breasts, moving in tandem with his thrusts. Still beneath the
shirt; Petyr frowned at that.
            Well, if the blanket meant they weren’t technically touching, then…
            “Petyr!”
            ...the shirt meant he wasn’t  technically  biting her nipple? He
winked at her. Pulled back and thrust quickly against her cunt, all thoughts of
the nip gone from Sansa’s mind. Petyr was drunk on the sight of her, the little
sounds she made. The way her hips – so unused to sex – found their rhythm
against him. Petyr didn’t slow, not even as Sansa’s body started to move with
the frantic motions on the cusp of her orgasm. Good. Because Petyr’s hands were
tired of gripping onto the couch, reigning in his own release, not wanting to
be  that guy  that fucked a girl without making sure she came first.
            “Come, sweetling.”
            Because if she didn’t right now, Petyr would be that douche.
            She did, and gods it was just as lovely as last night. As ten
minutes ago.
            A haze filled Petyr’s mind, his body, and he fought off the urge to
collapse atop her. This was too much, gods. He wasn’t sure how he was going to
survive when he would fuck her properly.
            Carefully, Petyr repositioned the blanket to wrap around her arms.
Pinning her against the couch as he leaned in. Sansa’s breath hitched. Her
heart quickened, breasts rising and falling just shy of his own chest. What an
effort not to crush his body against hers.
            “You need to be careful, sweetling,” he began, slowly leaning back
away from Sansa no matter how much his body was screaming to stay, to go on.
She was  right here , after all, a cunt dripping wet with the flimsy excuse of
a barrier lying atop her. Would she even object to Petyr having his complete
way with her? Would she even object to her first time being on his couch, half-
naked, and with her uncle diving between her underage folds? He shook the
thought away. Better to stop now before his mind got too carried away. Before
his body took over again, and his mind regretting the waves of pleasure echoing
hers. “If you offer yourself like that to the wrong man, he might just take and
take and  take .”
            Petyr saw the unspoken question forming in the slight crease of her
brow, in the way her tongue slowly licked lips Sansa left parted.
             Are you the wrong man .
            Of course he was.
            With half of him screaming to stay, Petyr stood, fetching his
discarded jeans and shoving his legs through them. The zip, the button, and
just like that reason flooded come back. The movie was still playing: the girl
standing open-mouthed as – surprise – the man she just fucked was her
professor. His smile said he  knew  all along. Knew of the wicked things he
did, enhanced by that forbidden boundary between student and teacher.
            “You should go clean up, Sansa. Leave the blanket, I’ll take care
of it.” Petyr (for all of his high and mighty talk of being  better  than the
lowest possible madman) didn’t let his eyes wander away from his niece as she,
too, shucked her shorts on and made her way to the bathroom. He smiled at the
shudder in her legs, at the trail of wetness down a thigh. At the way Sansa
turned to look back at him, uncertain if, yes,  that really did happen .
Wondering if she might wake up to a dream of fucking her uncle.
            Thank god it wasn’t.
            Petyr knew the proverbial ball had been in her court after he had
barged into her room and  demanded  to see her cunt. Half of Petyr wondered if
she would up his ante and ask to use the dildo last night (he wouldn't deny
that idea alone kept him from strangling anyone at work). But  holy hells . By
all the gods, new and old and ones he'd never swore curses at… That was not at
all what Petyr would have expected from his Sansa (there he went again, using
his ).
            It made him proud.
            It made him hard.
            Petyr reigned in his groan as he came in the shower Sunday morning,
wishing his hand could wrap around Sansa’s soft thighs instead of being pressed
against the frozen hardness of the tiles. The cold shower did nothing to stave
off his erection. Nor had the flurry of memories he had awoken to, suffocating
him in wonderous lust. And by the gods Petyr was finding how easy it was to
willingly drown in them.
            In her.
                                     * * *
            “Is there a reason you haven’t shaved since I last saw you?”
            Petyr turned to look at Varys. The man sat down beside him, a cup
of steaming tea seeming to appear out of nowhere. The bald man had been
assigned to the wondrous  fun  of auditing – a task that had him shacked up in
the small conference room all week, going over trite details of everyone in the
office – and Petyr could see the relief in Varys’ soft features that he was
glad to be free of it. The man brought his cup to his lips, gently blowing the
heat away. Petyr wouldn't be surprised if he had a working coffee press tucked
in his sleeves somewhere; there wasn’t a moment he  wasn’t  drinking tea. Varys
took a tentative sip as Petyr replied, “I don't think you've shaved, either.”
            “Funny.”
            Petyr scratched his chin, feeling the short hairs poking through
skin. Wondering if Sansa would sigh at the feel of them as he kissed his way
down from her lips to her lower lips. A trail of fine red lines up and down her
skin, outlining his path across her. Marking her. He dropped his hand.
            “Do you think he'll be ready?” Varys asked in a tone free of
interest or enthusiasm. Granted, that was just how the man always sounded. Made
him a great liar.
            They stared at the glass wall and the blinds that hid them from the
boy inside. Another pair of legs wafted past the bottom half of the wall, shoes
shined to a pristine onyx.
            “If he knows how to keep his damned mouth shut…” Petyr began, not
willing to finish the sentence for fear that Tywin (somehow) was monitoring
them. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he was. Though if so, then Petyr was doubly
surprised that Tywin hadn’t fired his ass for what Sansa had done in that same
conference room. Were there lingering traces of her come on the floor? Would
the walls echo the awful things she taunted him with? Petyr hoped not.
           The boy, however, wanted to brag. As if what he had done was a
trophy of sorts. He couldn’t even remember half of it, and still he strutted
around behind closed doors singing praises of his crime. It was a wonder he
hadn’t slipped up in the past several years. Petyr didn’t want to imagine how
much money – and whores, and luxury cars, and so much mundane crap – he would
need to shell out to keep the truth hidden. Again.
            Varys sipped his tea. Petyr could smell spices wafting through the
air: cinnamon and nutmeg and something else. He couldn't help but wonder if
Varys’ blood was just spiced tea at this point. “And your niece? I hope Sansa
hasn’t been giving you much trouble, either.”
            Just the sound of her name brought back wicked thoughts, fantasies,
memories.  In the darkness of a blink, Petyr saw her flushed face as she came,
hands straining back from touching him, holding onto him as he rutted against
her. Sometimes, in blinks that were even darker, Petyr was fucking her without
the blanket, and Sansa was screaming his name.
            Petyr adjusted his seat, hoping his erection wasn't so obvious to
the bald man. Whether Varys knew or not, he looked only to care about his tea
and this facade of coworkership.  He’s just making smalltalk , Petyr told
himself, willing the flutter of his heart away, willing (and failing) to
control his cock.  He doesn’t know a damned thing . “She’s fine.”
            A disinterested  hmmm  from Varys filled the silence, then more
careful sips. “That’s good. Then you’ve figured out what to do with a, I quote,
fucking seventeen-year-old girl?”
            The way Varys said it screamed that he knew. But he didn’t. He
couldn’t. He was just trying to play on Petyr’s nerves, that’s all. Besides,
what would Varys know about love or sex anyways? “I guess. She’ll be off to
university in a week, anyways. Won’t need to worry about her then.” Only, that
thought made him sad? Disappointed? Something.
            Another sip. “I’m sure you’re  dying  to get her out of your
apartment. Though I hope not to the same degree as your late wife, gods bless
her soul…”
            Varys took a too-careful sip, watching Petyr over the rim of the
cup.
            Like any deranged maniac hellbent on fucking his niece, Petyr
couldn’t help the way his muscles froze at the thought that Varys  knew . He
was a clever man, had to be if he managed to get into a position at Lannister &
Baratheon without fucking his way to the top. One day, Petyr wanted to know
what he did, or who he bribed, to get here.
            Maybe it was just the  illusion  of knowing something. People often
told more than they should when they thought they were found out. Petyr knew
that. Petyr knew he shouldn’t let Varys rile him up.
            But he was.
            He also realized the bald man had been talking (and sipping) for
some time now, waiting for an answer. Petyr heard none of it. “And we’re
talking about….?”
            “The case? That you have been on for, well,  years  now I suppose.”
Varys gave an incredulous look as though Petyr had suddenly gone mad – and
hadn’t he? Exactly one week ago whilst his hands had been all over Myranda, and
Sansa walked through those elevator doors, an angel and a devil. The look was
shrugged off, another sip of tea taken. “Had I known you weren’t listening I
wouldn’t have bothered with the smalltalk.”
            “Right. Well, it’s as you would expect. Too much evidence to deal
with, with too little praise from...” They knew who. Sometimes, people didn’t
appreciate how much effort it took to get witnesses to lie properly, or false
experts to pretend to know the right specifics.  Especially  if they were
repeat testifiers. Once they realized Petyr would bend backwards to get them to
say what was necessary, they tried to test him. As if they owned Petyr. As if.
            “You’ve done it already. It’s much easier the second time, is it
not?“
            A shrug. “Yes, and no. So long as we can dismiss the evidence
properly, then there isn’t much of a case against us. I have a feeling this
upjumped lawyer isn’t going to let the truth slide so easily.”
            “Are we talking about you, now?”
            Petyr fought against the urge to knock the tea cup into Varys’
face. He continued. “Not to mention he has a hard time corroborating his own
story… If only–"
            They stopped, stood straight. Tywin walked out of the conference
room, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the door swung close behind him with a
silent  swish . The Lion didn’t look pleased; though, he never did.
            “Baelish,” he said – commanded – with a voice as dry as the skin of
his hands.
            Petyr nodded a curt farewell to Varys. “Sir, I–"
            “He’s fine.” Tywin interrupted, clasping his hands behind his back.
He chewed on his inner lip, stopped a second later. Stared out of a window, and
forced the impression that everything  was  fine. Even in front of Petyr – who
knew far too many Lannister secrets, many of which he would like to forget –
Tywin was incapable of relaxing, of lowering his steely front. The stick was
really shoved up there today. “I’m more concerned about the new evidence. You
said yesterday it would be of no concern to us.”
            Petyr stared out the window, too. “It won’t be. Discrepancies in
years’ old reports should be easy to dismiss–"
            “Has it been dealt with?”
            Petyr clenched his hands inside of his pockets. To keep from
strangling the old man, he told himself. It was only ever about  results  –
something that Petyr didn’t mind much, except for when there weren’t positive
results, or the results weren’t instantaneous enough for the Lannister. In
which case, Tywin was exceptional at making anyone feel inferior.
            Granted, it had only been a few days since the other firm brought
up the evidence. A short list of information not matching with reports or
testimonies. Things that hadn’t been brought up during the original trial, and
barely enough to open a new case. Petyr wondered if maybe there was something
else they weren’t sharing. Regardless, it wasn’t a problem. Lies were easy to
fabricate, and someone was always looking for an easy way up the ladder. A
misplaced document here, a forged timestamp there. Easy. Except for the fact
that the trial date had been pushed up several weeks (a reason Petyr had yet to
ascertain). Weeks of work to be done in  days . Not impossible, just a pain in
the ass.
            Tywin was convinced nothing was astray, and that they would be able
to convince the judge and jury of the boy’s innocence – again. So long as the
new evidence could be overturned, overlooked, and misrepresented. It was a
careful process that Petyr thrived in. People were so easy: a lustful night
with whores, or a heavy purse of money, or protection from future judgement.
Everyone had a limit, and everyone had something they would break the limit
for. Petyr had yet to find what this small-time lawyer wanted, but it existed.
“It’s in process.”
            Tywin  harrumphed  at that, though Petyr imagined he would have
harrumphed , too, if he said the evidence was already dismissed and doctored to
sway in their favor. Tywin probably  harrumphed  when he was fucking, too.
            “You said you have a niece….” the old Lannister began, words
trailing off as his gaze shifted through the glass walls into the largest
conference room. Sunlight poured in through the slits in the blinds, catching
Joffrey’s golden hair. In a different world, Petyr couldn’t help but think –
worry – that Sansa might have swooned after him. Assuming he didn’t open his
mouth, Joffrey was a picture perfect teenage girl fantasy. Like she might have
for that boy she went on a date with. In another world, Sansa might have loved
the boy. Married him, had his children, and withered beneath his corrosive
habits.
            But in  this  world, Sansa was slowly coming undone by her uncle.
            Petyr was glad for this world.
            But Petyr wasn’t fond of the way Tywin brought up the fact of her.
He followed Tywin’s gaze, feeling the dig of his fingernails into his palm as
he wondered about every possible way the conversation could go. Hating that he
let slip that Sansa was here, and his.
            Tywin only said, “I would hate to see something happen to that
girl. She’s already lost her parents.”
            Petyr restrained himself. There was no use in revealing himself to
Tywin, not when he’d slipped up last week. “Sucks to be her.” Petyr hated that
answer, but there were few that wouldn’t arouse the Lion’s suspicions.
            Tywin turned back from his grandson to Petyr. There was no
grandfatherly twinkle to his eye, or even the barest hint of a smile, kind or
otherwise. “See that the trial goes in our favor again.”
            Hanging in the air between them was the unspoken  Or else.
                                     * * *
            Was it better or worse that Petyr still had Sansa’s first gift with
him? A sick sort of reminder of what she had done – and all on her own! – kept
snuggled in his back pocket, or carefully buried in his suitcase, or clenched
tightly as he worked through the pent up stress and lust upstairs that
afternoon. There wasn’t anything better than the momentary relief and blissful
forgetfulness of jacking off. Like nothing else mattered or existed in the
world save for the ache in his cock and the wild imaginations – no,  memories .
            Was it better or worse that Petyr wanted to buy Sansa so many other
gifts? A new set of lingerie since he had so unceremoniously  ruined  half of
this set (of which, after a bit of coercing, Kella revealed that she  had  went
with Sansa to buy it. “For a special someone,” the housekeeper said with a
devilish smile. Petyr prayed to the gods it had been for  him  and not that
fucker). There were other gifts, too: the continuing advancement of her
lessons  in sin; the promise of a wonderful first time, and then even better
times thereafter. And other gifts, too, like making sure she was happy, that
she was safe.
            Petyr didn’t know when those thoughts crawled in between the thick
sludge of sin.
            It wasn’t the first time Petyr had thought of gifts (he  did  go
out of his way to buy her a dildo, after all, which some might say was a level
worse than lingerie). And he had been keen to peruse the store in Highgarden
just before he flew back, if he hadn’t bothered to book the earliest possible
flight. Looking through lingerie and imagining Sansa in them, or spending time
with her watching her come as he stroked his cock? Not a difficult choice.
            Petyr craved a much-needed distraction from the fuckery that was
his job, knowing that he would need to go in to work early tomorrow. So much
for taking his time with her. Slowly, thoughtfully, Petyr flipped through the
assortment of barely-there bras and panties, taking care to analyze how each
would accentuate Sansa’s curves, or tease him with the prospect of the goods
hidden beneath soft silks and lace. It didn’t take long for his cock to get
hard.
            The attendants eyed him curiously. One (unfortunately) eyed him
with a glimmer in her eye. Petyr only smiled at her as she purposefully brushed
near him to show where the garish pink sets were for Valentine’s Day. They
wouldn’t know him – Petyr never took Lysa here (he shivered at the thought. And
again, at the horrid memories of Lysa  trying  to be someone much younger and
much prettier. If it weren’t for her name, Petyr couldn’t imagine anyone
willingly taking her as wife). Petyr flashed them sly smiles and warm
platitudes, with excuses that he was looking for a gift for his  special
someone  come Valentine’s Day, which was approaching nearly as fast as Sansa’s
birthday. It did well enough as an excuse.
            Better than the excuse was his imagination. Walking into the store
with Sansa on his arm, letting her browse through all of the options available
to her, and not at all caring when she balked at the price tags. Nothing was
too good for her, Petyr knew. He would stand beside her, one hand possessively
on her waist or thigh or ass (would Petyr allow her to wear underwear? Likely
not. Too much fabric to bother with for access her cunt). Watching the subtle
changes on her face – the little scrunch of her nose at lingerie she deemed
too much ; the lick of her tongue as her eyes traced the lines of the fabric,
picturing herself in it, picturing Petyr admiring it.
            With an armload of ones to try and a generous tip to the attendants
to  look the other way  (at least, until they got used to Petyr’s antics,
because by the gods would Petyr make this a recurring errand for them), he’d
follow Sansa into the dressing room. She would definitely object at first. Call
it outright  improper  – even after the things he’d done to her! – before
realizing it was a lost cause on her part. Petyr would make her try on every
single one. Slowly, meticulously trace over every inch of skin and lace, as if
Petyr had never seen Sansa’s beauty before.
            And then fuck her senseless in them.
            Petyr would have to buy them all, how  ruined  they would be with
their frenzied desire.
            Of course, there would need to be better excuses for  that . A girl
less than half his age, and a man with eyes (and hands) unable to keep
themselves off her? Oh, the stories these attendants would whisper the second
Petyr and Sansa left the store. Petyr would need  very  good excuses. Or, just
a lot of money.
            He was too high on his wicked imaginings to even consider  not
doing that. Perhaps as part of his birthday gift to her, in addition to taking
her for the first time. As a belated and well-deserved  thank you  for all the
sin Sansa willingly let Petyr perform, and leave stained on her skin.
            Oh, the  fun  they were going to have.
            Petyr glanced up from a particularly naugty set of bright red
lingerie (the cups were sheer lace, more holes than fabric, in truth) to see a
young couple walk past him. The boy reeked of fresh money, too willing to spend
it on the first thing with big breasts and a receptive mouth. At least the girl
knew how to use what she had.
            Through the window, Petyr saw him. Sandy-colored hair, leering at
the mannequins in front. How long he’d been there just outside the store, Petyr
couldn’t say. He subtly stroked his cock through his pants (thinking no one
could see him? Or was that just the sort of terrible person he was?). With a
pained expression, he turned and left.
            Cautiously, Petyr followed the boy, avoiding the attendant’s
pressing request to  come again soon .
            He wasn’t being covert at all. Part of it must have been drink –
footsteps swaying  just enough  that he wasn’t in his right mind, but also just
enough that he wouldn’t give Petyr a second look should he realize someone was
following him. The boy checked his phone, once, twice, staring at the street
signs. Lamps flickered on as the sun lowered in to kiss the ocean off in the
distance.
            Petyr nearly lost him crossing the streets, swearing at the influx
of cars. No one in King’s Landing knew how to drive. At least, well. They knew
how not to crash into each other, but even that was a low bar.
            Rushing past the intersection, Petyr caught sight of the boy over a
crowd of smartly-dressed men bragging about some project win. He turned into a
an alley, footprints from a puddle (hopefully water, likely not) lining his
movements.
            Another turn at the next street, and down a serpentine alley. Petyr
pressed himself against the building’s wall, doing his best to pay attention to
the boy and not the sudden reek of human piss. Petyr already decided to throw
away this suit, not willing to trust that the vapors of backstreet depravity
could be removed with a thorough dry cleaning or five.
            “There you are,” the boy said, running his fingers through his
hair. He definitely was drunk, the trailing sound of his  are  slurring into a
hiccup.
            A woman stepped out from a cursory alley, cigarette smoke following
her short footsteps. The dress she wore barely covered her ass. Deep red curls
bunched up around her shoulders. Likely wearing makeup that made her look
younger than she actually was (and hiding all of the horrors she’d been paid to
do, all for the sake of mens’ twisted fantasies). She took another long drag of
the cigarette, eyeing the boy.
            Not Sansa. But if Petyr squinted, or drank a few too many whiskeys,
the whore was just as beautiful. Maybe more so, depending on how desperate
Petyr was for the briefest touch or taste of her.
            The boy (whatever his name was, Petyr was growing tired of not
remembering who he was, but didn’t care enough to ask his name) passed the
whore a small wad of bills. As she counted them, she asked, “Who do you want me
to be tonight, sugar?”
            “Just…” he began. Douchebag finally had the common sense to look
down both sides of the alley. Shadows covered Petyr, and against his better
judgement, he pressed against the wall harder. Gods, it smelled so bad. “No
one. Yourself, I guess.” He reached out to touch her hair, suddenly overcome
with the notion that he  owned  her.
            She let him, though not without disgust lining her body. He was
fresh meat. The woman saw this was going to be an easy night, tucking the bills
in her bra. Stubbing out her cigarette with a tall heel, her voice matched the
sickly sweet smile. “My place or yours?”
            Douchebag shook his head, fingers unbuttoning his pants. So
helplessly eager. “Here’s fine.”
             At least go to a cheap hotel , Petyr thought. Less regrets when
he’d wake up with a hangover, a half-flaccid cock, and several hundred bucks
poorer.
            With practice, the woman bent down on her knees and finished
pulling out Douchebag’s cock. It took a few strokes before she began sucking on
him, the wet sounds of her mouth and the boy’s mangled moans echoing off the
walls.
            Interesting.
            Petyr tried to remember whatever scant details Sansa had indulged
Petyr when he had confronted her about her date. Nothing in particular. All he
could remember was the way the boy was touching her. The way the boy made her
smile, laugh. The way the boy was  this close  to having her for himself.
            Because she was  Petyr’s . She didn’t belong with some random,
upjumped university student that wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a
woman in bed. Who took her smiles and charm at face value, and itched to get
beneath her dress. Throw her away once he had his fill.
            Douchebag groaned as he came. Must have ordered the whore to
swallow it all. Seconds later, he led her down a street, finally to a hotel
where he’d live out the rest of that failed date.
            Very interesting. It wasn’t the act itself that Petyr cared about.
Hells, he might have been desperate enough to do the same, if Sansa hadn’t been
so responsive, so interested. As much as Petyr detested what the fucker was
doing, there was a part of him that just  knew  how deep the ache sat within
his very soul. No, it wasn’t a back-alley blowjob that Petyr cared about. It
was this ramshackle facade that any street whore  could  match up to the truth
of Sansa. It was this absolute desperation in the boy to have the slightest
taste  of what Sansa was like.
            Petyr laughed as he made his way back into the throng of people
headed home from work. Laughed as he was already thinking of what he was going
to make Sansa do – the  real  Sansa, not some cheap copy of her filtered
through money and alcohol and drugs. Still, Petyr would make sure he knew what
exactly the douchebag asked of the whore, and whether his desperation was a
concern or not. Better to have dirt on him  just in case . And why stop there?
Better to get rid of the fucker and keep Sansa all to himself.
             Mine mine mine.
                                     * * *
            “Did you have a good day without me?” Carefully, Petyr shucked out
of his coat, folding it backwards so the filth of King’s Landing wouldn’t
tarnish anything else in his home. He’d decided against burning it. It was a
particularly delightful shade of charcoal grey, and the tailor put in extra
care to make sure it fit Petyr along every seam. Would be a shame to get rid of
it that easily.
            Sansa looked up from her phone. She had a towel wrapped around her
hair and loose-fitting clothes. Petyr felt the soft mugginess of warm air. He
tried not to purse his lips at the fact that she’d cleansed herself of their
shared sin. Though, it might be too much to ask her to keep his come on her
forever. It was better this way. Petyr would have a reason to take her every
night: to mar her, claim her as his. Untainted, perfect skin waiting for his
marks.
            But more than that, Petyr had the sudden urge to go to her, lean
over the couch, and kiss her on the lips. Like how he should have done as a
loving husband. He might have with Lysa – it was hard to remember – putting on
a facade for her  just enough  to keep the woman from screaming into the void
about the truth of their relationship. It had always been a game with her.
            But with Sansa? With his niece? Petyr had to fight against such
notions he never willingly would have done to the woman his same age. Often he
thought about that.
            And often, he thought about less  tender  things. Petyr did go up
to the couch, leaning against it, the bunch up coat in one hand and his other
resting lightly atop the back cushion. He scratched at the seam with a
fingernail. Smiled at his niece, as though nothing was astray, and him coming
home to ask her trivialities was a norm. He repeated his question.
             Did you miss the feeling of my cock rubbing against your aching
cunt?
            Petyr managed to keep the second question from passing his lips
(though he was incredibly tempted to, just to see the spreading flush taint her
cheeks pink at the memory).
            “My day was...uneventful,” she said flatly. Sansa was clever to see
the hidden question, treading lightly with her words. Which made him wonder
just how carefully or not it was hidden on his face? In the lazy motions of his
fingers? Likely not hidden at all. “How was yours?”
            Petyr was growing restless at the small talk (really, it had only
been a sentence),  needing  her already. His fingers pressed against the
cushion in a petty attempt to keep them from jolting out to touch porcelain
skin. Was it a trick of his perverted mind, or had Sansa’s legs parted just a
fraction more? For him, as needing as he was. “It was the same as always, I
think? Boring cases and boring bosses.”
            Sansa noticed his jacket then. “Is there something wrong with it?”
            A shrug. “It just got a little dirty, is all.” Not a lie, of which
Petyr was proud of.
            “I see.”
            Enough of this. Petyr rounded the couch, perching atop the same arm
that Sansa had her hands dug into as he humped her through the blanket. Would
that could happen again... “Have you touched yourself today, sweetling?”
            Sansa stared at him with wide eyes, the tip of her tongue peeking
out from the corner of her lips. She did that a lot – to tease him? Petyr liked
to think so. She was so innocent, but she was a fast learner. Still, the sudden
change of conversation caught her off guard. “I…”
            “I was thinking tonight would be perfect to teach you how to use
your new toy, hm?” The smile he gave her was the furthest thing from kind. The
furthest thing an actual kind, loving father or uncle might bestow. Because
kind, loving fathers didn’t imagine doing wicked things to their daughters or
nieces – especially not with the thought of  preparing  her for when he would
take her in a week.
            Sansa blushed. It was a different shade of pink from the one that
overtook her skin when she came. Nonetheless, it was beautiful. She was
beautiful.
            “I…” she repeated, dumbstruck.
            Petyr lowered his free hand, dragging it along the cushion beside
her leg. He could feel the heat of her seep into his fingers. “If you don’t
want to, sweetling, we don’t have to.”  But I would prefer it if you do .
            It was the  illusion  of choice, of course, that made it easier for
Sansa to swallow the sin Petyr was oh-too-willing to feed her. The illusion of
power that Sansa had over him. With a shake of her head, with a simple “No,”
she could shove Petyr’s desperate ass through the window down to the streets
below. Though, he wondered how much of it truly was an illusion. Look at him!
Look at the fucker who paid a mockery of Sansa for the taste of what those
pretty pink lips might feel like around his cock. Or what those pretty pink
lips might say when he went balls deep in her pretty little virgin cunt.
            He licked his lips. Tightened the grip on his jacket. Waiting.
            It  definitely  was the scene he saw that put him so on edge right
now. That, and the fact that what he and Sansa had done yesterday was  just the
beginning . That with precise wording and gentle coaxing, Petyr wouldn’t have
to wait in desperate solitude for her birthday.
            What had he called himself? A monster? Yes, that was fitting. What
sort of monster preyed on his niece like this? Sure, she might  consent  to the
sin, even initiate it, but by the Seven Petyr knew he should be a better man
than to let his cock lead his actions.
            Too bad he was past that point tonight. Tomorrow morning, maybe
he’d find that guilt, that shame, and regret what he was doing. Maybe.
            Sansa, meanwhile, struggled through her own turmoil. One hand had
been lazily dragging upwards towards a breast (on its own, though not without
reason. Sansa likely couldn’t stop thinking about the way Petyr’s cock felt
rubbing against her. Nor wondering what it might feel like inside her). She
stopped her hand before it found its destination atop a breast. “If...If that’s
what you want, Petyr.”
            He silently sighted at the sound of his name. Gods, imagine the way
she would say it when she came?
            Petyr maneuvered his roaming hand around her right leg and up
between the part of her legs, as high as he could willingly go knowing instinct
wouldn’t take over. He didn’t fail to notice Sansa’s breath hitching as he
trailed higher. Only to her knees. A pity. “It’s not about what  I  want,
sweetling.” Teasing her an inch higher. Would she tell him to stop if he
continued? Testing it with another inch. Sansa only parted her legs, just
enough that there was a lewd measure of propriety between his wandering fingers
and her skin.
            Reluctantly, Petyr pulled his hand away, resting on the back
cushion. Far enough away that he wouldn’t be tempted. Again.
            “You need to use your words, Sansa.” Because it would only make
that shadow of guilt less darker, if Sansa said she did want it. And it would
only make his cock ache to be deep inside her, as she begged and moaned and
pleaded for him to finally let her come.
            That, and watching her squirm with the truth was too delicious an
opportunity to pass up. Sansa  wanted  it. This. Him. Having to speak the truth
of her wicked mind only cemented the fact that she wasn’t nearly as innocent as
demure smiles would have fools believe.
            Licking her lips, she found her voice. “Yes, I. Please, Petyr.
            He offered her a hand and a terrible smile. “Come, sweetling.”
Taking her hand, he argued, wasn’t sexual, so it was fine. Taking her hand so
he could lead her to her bedroom and show her how to use a dildo, however? A
little less fine. But for now it was fine, so long as Petyr managed to keep his
hand from finding purchase anywhere else. Then there wasn’t a problem with
taking her hand.
            The only problem was doing just that. His skin itched to roam
freely over the expanse of her skin, beneath clothes, up and around and inside.
Carving every inch of her into the memory of his fingers.
            He instructed her to get the gift as he made a quick detour to toss
his jacket unceremoniously beside the hamper, toeing off his shoes too. If he
wasn’t so eager, he might have changed clothes.
            When he returned to her room, Petyr watched as Sansa slowly undid
the bow to her gift. She’d tossed her towel by her pillow, half-wet strands of
auburn clinging to her cheeks, her neck. Cautiously, Sansa pulled her gift out,
as if it was some alien specimen. She acted that way, and it was laughable.
Petyr remembered the glint in her eye as he jacked off in front of her. She had
been eager, interested, in touching his cock, and now? Suddenly afraid of a
replica.
            But in a few minutes, Sansa would be aching for more than it.
            “Best to wash it first.” He followed her into the bathroom, letting
her get accustomed to the shape as she innocently cleaned it with lewd strokes.
Petyr mimicked her motions, suddenly jealous of plastic.
            Back in her bedroom. Sansa was still dressed in her pajamas, and
Petyr felt his cock straining against his suit pants. She sat cross-legged on
the bed, the dildo in her hand, and a blush across her face.
            Petyr cut straight to the lesson: “Would you like to use your
hands, or your mouth?”  Or your cunt?
            She twirled the plastic in her hand, unable to fathom that  this
was happening . Neither could Petyr, but for a different reason. He stared at
her delicate fingers, the way her thumb unknowingly traced circles over the
head. How she scratched a line down its length. When he finally broke his gaze
to look up at her, she was focused on him. So much for unknowingly touching it.
And so much for pretending that Petyr wasn’t excited as all hells. Didn’t even
bother containing the smirk he felt pulling on his lips. Especially as her
voice filled the quiet spaces between heartbeats. “What would  you  like to
teach me?”
            Oh, Sansa was  clever , he would give her that. If Petyr wasn’t
certain she had absolute reservations against it, Sansa would make every man
beg at her knees just for a taste of her cunt. She could make a lot of money in
a single night, more than most people made in a year.
            Petyr sat down beside her, too close to make-pretend about
propriety. There was no point in lying, not anymore. Petyr leaned in, one hand
hovering over an exposed thigh, the other just above where her own paused their
ministrations. Closer, until he pushed away strands of her lovely curls away
with the tip of his nose. “Everything, sweetling.”  And so much more .
            He felt the sliver of air between their cheeks shudder. A strand of
auburn tickling his jaw. Petyr leaned back, just enough to stare into her eyes.
Darkness met him, a likely mirror of his own. She might be  innocent  and  pure
, but Sansa desperately wanted this – him – too. Of that, Petyr was certain.
And even if he  wasn’t  certain, the slight peaking of her nipples or even the
heady scent of her desire solidified her need for this. “Though, I think I know
what I want to show you tonight.” He added for no other reason than because he
wanted to: “But you’ll need to ask nicely.”
            Sansa licked her lips. Sapphire (or what remained of it) never left
his. “Please.”
            That was a sound he would never tire of. The sweetest, most wicked
syllable in all the world.
            Petyr leaned back just enough to give her space. “Take off your
clothes, sweetling.”
            Her hands stopped. Lips parted just enough to see the tip of her
tongue pushing against her teeth. Sansa had to  know  that Petyr wasn’t going
to be playing coy, not anymore. Not after last night.
            Seconds passed, and he said, “Unless you don’t want to learn,
Sansa. Then I’ll leave now.” He motioned to move. A hand shot out and grabbed
his. Petyr slowly lowered himself back down onto the bed.
            Sansa released her grip on him, tucking the dildo between her
thighs as she lifted her shirt up and off, tossing it beside the discarded
towel.
            Her breasts were just as lovely as Petyr imagined. Big enough to
fit in his hands, with nipples as pink as her lips, and already peaked. There
wasn’t a hint of his teeth around the nipple he nipped yesterday. A pity.
            Petyr saw the restraint in her arms not to cover herself up. Was
this the first time a man saw her chest? Maybe. Petyr was probably the first
man to see her cunt, too. It was almost funny how he went  backwards . “Good.
Now, your bottoms.”
            Sansa swallowed her fears, and slipped the rest of her clothes off,
sitting back down with her hands in her lap and the dildo in her hands.
            Stunning. Breathtaking. Beautiful.
            Petyr was upset there wasn’t a word just for Sansa. Nothing could
compare to her curves, to the stark contrast of her rich hair against ivory
skin, or the startling blues of her eyes (so very dark now), staring at him as
if perhaps she suddenly could see his soul. It was swirling darkness.
            He’d forgotten to breath in those heavy seconds, taking in a
shuddering gulp of air. Fuck. Sansa was too much, he wasn’t sure he would
survive fucking her. But what a way to go.
            “You’re beautiful, sweetling…” Petyr murmured, gaze sweeping over
her body once more, slower this time. Sansa’s fingers clutched the dildo
tightly, not used to being  leered  at so obviously. But the compliment eased
the unease.
            Sansa lifted her gift up, tilting her head. “And this? What should
I do with it?”
             Stick it in your cunt in preparation for my cock .
            Petyr coughed, breathed. This was going to be so difficult not to
touch her, not when that’s all his hands wanted to do. There should be an award
for this: Not Touching Your Underage Niece While She’s Stark Naked In Front Of
You And Literally The Most Stunning Person In The Entire Planet. There was,
technically, and it came with a horrid orange jumpsuit and stiff sheets. “Suck
on it, sweetling. Imagine it’s my cock in your mouth.”
            She licked her lips, flitting her gaze between it and him (or
rather, between it and his cock). “But I…”
            “...don’t know how to give a blowjob?” Sansa jumped at the word (so
innocent, it was going to kill him). Petyr leaned one hand on the bed, lazily
stroking his cock as he watched her inexperience play out across her face. “You
stick it in your mouth, and use your lips and tongue. You can try and take it
all in, but I’d rather you not choke.” Sansa startled at that. Petyr had an
idea. “Unless you want your first blowjob to be with my cock?”
            That got her. Sansa instinctively raised the dildo to chin-height,
staring at the bulge between his legs (one that honestly had been there all day
from memories). Petyr chuckled. “Or I can show you some videos. Though granted,
those cocks might be, ah, bigger than that one, or mine.”
            “I…” Sansa began, trying to parse whether he was saying truths or
jokes. Even Petyr wasn’t sure.
            “Try licking the tip, sweetling. That’s a good place to start.”
            Sansa stared at him all the while, lifting the dildo an inch from
her lips. Petyr watched, transfixed. Even if she was inexperienced, and even if
it wasn’t actually his cock she was about to taste…
            She lapped over the tip with her tongue, and Petyr swore his heart
stopped for a second.
            That gave her confidence. Sansa did it again, slower this time. The
tip of it dragged over her bottom lip. Again, tentatively sucking on the first
inch of it before pulling out.
            “Like that?”
            If Petyr didn’t know better, he would have sworn Sansa was playing
him. Good gods.  Good gods . He knew it was going to be sexy as all hells,
but...nothing prepared him for the reality of watching his niece suck a dildo.
            He remembered she asked a questioned, tried to think what it was.
“I...yes. Just like that, sweetling.” Sansa smiled, pleased that she was doing
it right. “Try and take it in a little further. And use your hands.”
            She was listening intently, nodding. So attentive, so curious. And
so sinful.
            Sansa did as she was told, combining the newness of her mouth with
the memory of Petyr jacking off in front of her. She was much too slow for
Petyr’s taste, but damn if it wasn’t seductive. Damn if Petyr couldn’t feel the
ghost of her tongue running along the length of his cock, or the pull of her
lips as she wrapped around the head, pushing it in another inch, and another.
            She watched him all the while. Smiling when his breath caught.
            “Give it.”
            Sansa slowly pulled the dildo from her mouth, a trail of saliva
connecting her lips to the head. A crease sat heavy between her brows. A throb
pulsed along Petyr’s cock.
            Petyr stretched out his hand. This was a  terrible  idea, but gods
if he wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. He was already going to hell,
anyways. “Trust me, sweetling. Like last night.” A wink.
            She did, wiping away the errant saliva with a thumb. It was then
that Petyr realized she had parted her thighs, and between her legs sat her
lovely pink cunt already glistening with need. Sansa had been as turned on as
he was.
            Good.
            “Spread your legs further, sweetling.” Sansa tilted her head, but
did as she was told. Petyr meanwhile trailed a finger along the length of the
dildo, still warm from her mouth and hands. He watched her lower lips spread
open, waiting and wanting. “Good, just like that.”
            “What are you…?” she began, eyeing his hands, his cock.
            Petyr gave her a wicked smile. “There’s another hole dildos are
good for.”
            It wasn’t hard to understand where he was going. Sansa blushed.
“Oh, I. Will I–"
            "–you can stroke my cock, Sansa. Since I stole that from you last
night.” He winked at her, the flurry of memories washing over him. What he
would give to live in that moment forever, just him and his Sansa and endless
time to fuck.
            Wheels turned in her head. “But… If I’m, um, touching you, then…”
            The smile grew wider. “Yes, sweetling. I thought it only  kind  to
show you how to take a man’s cock. Or, I suppose it’s only a dildo.” For now.
            Sansa’s lips parted further, disbelief washing over her face. She
should have  known , or at least  expected  such depravity from Petyr. What
else was he good for? Besides, it was (as it had been) her choice. Sansa could
say  No thanks  and Petyr (thought upset) would quietly leave her to sleep.
            But something inside him  knew  that Sansa wouldn’t give up.
Especially not when her cunt was aching.
            And she didn’t. Sansa slowly nodded, in too deep to back out.
            Petyr positioned them, Sansa slightly leaning back to allow for
better access, and him kneeling in front of her, her hand resting just to the
side of his cock. He made sure to find a dildo that wasn’t  bigger  than him,
because: one, he didn’t want to scare Sansa away; two, he wanted to  prepare
her, of course, and wouldn’t do go to get her cunt anxiously hopeful for
something bigger than he could provide.
            “Just like you did earlier,” he instructed, as Sansa cautiously
placed her hand atop of his length. Petyr bit his lip, trying to contain how
many hitched breaths he was going to have tonight. But, gods. Just, just gods.
            “Good, a little bit faster, sweetling.”
            Once Sansa found a rhythm, Petyr began dutifully working her to
completion.
            He teased her entrance with the head of the dildo, twirling around
and around her outer lips, listening to Sansa’s breathing as he neared the slit
and Sansa’s disappointment when he pulled away.
            This was too much fun.
            “I’m going inside you now.”
            Sansa nibbled the tip of her tongue, looking up at him from where
his hand toyed with her cunt. She nodded. Waited, only Petyr wasn’t going to
enter her until he heard that delectable sound again.
            “Please.”
            There it was.
            “It’s going to be bigger than your fingers, and it might feel
uncomfortable at first. But trust me, sweetling, it’ll feel good.”
            She nodded again, and Petyr didn’t feel like chiding her for the
fact that her hand had slowed to a crawl over his cock. No matter. He wanted to
take care of her first, anyways.
            Petyr dragged the head of the dildo up and down her slit, gently
pushing into her with each pass. Sansa’s gasps grew heavier the deeper Petyr
went. Her hips were starting to roll, matching the slow, steady pace of the
head. In, out, up, down, over and over. Petyr watched as her lips greedily
wrapped around the head of the dildo, greedily let go as he pulled it away.
            His cock strained in his pants, desperate to replace the dildo in
his hand. And by the gods, he was tempted. He could tell Sansa to close her
eyes, and have himself deep inside her. He could relish in her cunt pulsating
agianst him, with him, their hips moving in tandem to a unified orgasm.
             Not yet .
            But Seven hells was  not yet  feeling so much longer with each
passing day.
            Another inch Petyr went in. Pulling out, pushing in, making sure
Sansa was comfortable by the sounds she made, by her own rhythm that she was
slowly succumbing to.
            “You’re doing great, sweetling,” Petyr murmured, running the head
along her slit again before dipping back inside. “Just a little bit more.”
            Sansa nodded, too lost in the feeling to process anything else.
            Again, in and out. Again. Petyr’s fingers were drawing dangerously
close to brushing against her inner thighs. He forwent the last third for the
sake of keeping alive that damn tule –  no touching  – even though  this
crossed at least a hundred new lines. At least.
            He fucked her with the dildo, picking up the speed. He fucked her
hand, too, desperate for friction as much as he was desperate for her release.
            Sansa was close. He heard it in the short gasps, saw it in the roll
of her body. Petyr caught his free hand before it made contact. Fuck, this was
torture. “Sweetling.” Sansa drowsily blinked her eyes open. She was barely
here, too caught up in the build up of her orgasm. Her body was in control,
now, not her brain. It’s only purpose was to urge on that sweet release, hips
rolling back and forth in tune with Petyr’s hands. “Sweetling,” he said louder.
            She made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to pull herself down from
her release.
            Which was fine, Petyr only wanted to  help  her with it. “Touch
your clit, sweetling. I want you to come.”
            Sansa used her free hand to touch herself, Petyr careful not to
touch her hand. Her other remembered its task, pushing against Petyr’s cock as
he fucked her, with cock and dildo. A combination he would  certainly  repeat.
            “Oh… Oh  fuck .”
            Sansa came with only a few strokes to her clit, her hips frozen
down against the dildo that Petyr was relentlessly dipping in and out of her,
wanting her orgasm to stretch on as long as possible.
            After reaching its peak, Sansa slid down and against the headboard,
hips beginning a continuous, slow roll against Petyr’s ministrations. Riding
out the remaining waves of her pleasure, too content to bother opening her eyes
or closing her lips. There was a hint of a smile there.
            Petyr removed the dildo from her cunt, marveling in how wet she
was, how her need trickled down her thighs and staining sheets. He trailed the
head of it up the crease of a thigh, over her stomach, around one breast, then
the other. By the time he arrived at her collarbone, Sansa’s eyes were open,
staring at the mess he was painting on her skin. Petyr raised it, hovering the
dildo inches from her parted lips. “Taste your need, sweetling.”  Taste how
wanton you are for me .
            She did, opening her mouth and lapping the head of it with her
tongue. Sansa made a face – not at all a taste she was expecting. Maybe she
would like it more if it were his cock, their shared come coating the length.
Regardless, Sansa sucked on it for as deep as Petyr inched it into her mouth.
He would have gone further had he not worried she might choke. Petyr smiled at
that, at her gasping for air as he fucked her face. Oh, Sansa would learn to
take all of him, to swallow all of his come.
            “Good job, sweetling.”
            Sansa smiled up at him. In her afterglow, she reached up with her
hands, as if to hug.
            That was a line too far, wasn’t it? Intimacy after sex. Yes, too
far past that crooked boundary whose edge had been redrawn countless times in
the past few days. Petyr wasn’t sure where it was anymore.
            Instead, he stared at her left hand, at her need coating the tips.
            He snatched her fingers, pulling her arm towards him, placing her
fingers in his mouth. Sansa gasped. Watched with wide eyes, unmoving. But
didn’t stop Petyr – or question him – as he suckled her need off of her. Tongue
wrapping around one finger, then the other. Pulling her hand deeper into his
mouth to lap lingering come from the webs.
            It was a step over that imaginary boundary, probably a massive
leap. But Petyr couldn’t help himself. It was  torture . This was worse than
not having Sansa at all: an endless tease of what Petyr was dying to have –
literally inches from him! – and being bound by a shred of morality not to take
and take and take. A lesser man would have already. And each passing day,
passing hour, Petyr was wondering if he would stoop that low.
            Because by the gods, she tasted divine. Petyr couldn’t stop sucking
her fingers, desperate for any taste of her. Marveling at the mix of confusion
and newfound need on Sansa’s face as she watched all the while.  It’s not her
actual cunt I’m tasting , he thinly rationalized. Which was good, and bad.
Good: there was still morality to him to keep from diving between her thighs.
Bad: it only made him hungrier to dip inside her, tongue and fingers and cock.
            There was only one more week. Only six more days.
            Reluctantly, Petyr slipped his mouth free of her fingers. Placed a
chaste kiss to the pads of them, so at odds with the sin he just cleaned off of
them. “I don’t think you know how good you taste, sweetling.”
            Sansa’s gaze flickered from his eyes, down, and back up again. “Can
I… Do you taste as .”
            Petyr had a terrible vision: pulling Sansa down onto his cock,
hands fisted in her hair, as he fucked her mouth without care. Listening to her
gags as he thrust deeper and deeper. Hoping the taste of his seed imprinted
itself deep on her tongue that she would wake up every morning knowing the
taste and feel of his cock.
            Instead, he asked, “Would you like to taste it, sweetling?”  Taste
what you do to me.
            The struggle was plain on her face: this wasn’t something a good
girl like Sansa Stark would do,  ever . Petyr could feel the frantic echo of
her heart where his hand grasped hers. Still, they both knew Sansa was far, far
too deep in this charade to  pretend  she was a good girl. An innocent girl,
yes, but not good, not anymore. There was no going back now to the sweet, pure
thing that walked into Petyr’s life a week ago. Not as if he was going to
willingly let her go.
            With a knowing lick of her lips, Sansa nodded. Petyr opened his
mouth to remind her to  use your words  when she added, “Yes, please. I want
to...taste you, Petyr.”
            That terrible vision magnified ten-, twentyfold.
            He shook it away. “You’ll need to finish me, first, sweetling.”
            Embarrassment mixed with desire, realizing that Petyr had given her
a(n arguably) fucking great orgasm, and she had shucked her duties in lieu of
losing herself. Sansa sat up straight, determination replacing her features.
She stroked him once, twice, before stopping, Glancing up at Petyr, then
wandering her fingers north. Undoing the clasp, and the zip, letting it free
one tooth at a time.
            Oh, now Sansa wanted to play with fire. Petyr watched her fingers
work, counting down the breaths until the zipper was fully undone and she
stared at the bulge of him beneath black briefs. She ran one finger down the
length, and the feel of it sent shivers curling his toes.
            Finally, Sansa looked up at him, as if asking for confirmation a
little to late. “It’s...as long as I don’t  touch  you, right?”
            To hells with it.
            Petyr nodded.
            Sansa blinked back down to her task. She trailed her finger back up
the other side. Grabbing hold of it through the thin fabric – Petyr gasped at
the pressure, afraid he might come already like a fucking teenager. Sansa
remembered more than he gave her credit for, stroking and grabbing, pushing and
pulling, with a similar speed and pressure that Petyr had shown her. It made
his cock twitch just thinking about the fact that his Sansa had been so
curious, had memorized the way he jerked off in front of her.
            Petyr was getting close, had already been on the edge. He countered
her movements, hips rolling against her. Needing the friction. He stared at her
parted legs, at the pink cunt wet with need – with need that  he had fucked out
of her  – and that was it.
            He groaned as he came.
            Fuck.
            Fuck, it was going to feel so fucking good once they could touch
skin to skin.
            Petyr waited for his heart to settle into a moderate beating before
pulling his cock free of his underwear. A sticky trail of his come clung to the
fabric (a pity, he rather liked this pair). He pumped himself once, twice,
coating his fingers with his need. Lifted them out for Sansa, a wicked gift he
never thought he would give his niece.
            Sansa took it, copying his motions from earlier. Her tongue was
fucking divine, so soft and explorative. There was more come on his fingers
than there had been on hers, and Sansa dutifully licked up every single bit of
it.
            Petyr swore he was  this close  to coming again.
            She let go of his fingers, wiping away stray bits of saliva and
come from her lips with her tongue. And she fucking  smiled .
            “You taste good, too, Petyr.”
            It was a heavenly act of self-restraint not to take his niece right
now. Something was pulling him towards her. Something (many things) were
yelling at him to do it, to hell with all the consequences. He wanted it. She
wanted it.
            Sansa was a fucking piece. Too angelic, too beautiful; and so
wickedly sinful, she didn’t even know half of the thoughts and desires that
plagued Petyr. That pulled him further and further down in the sea, watching
the waves lap above him.
            For lack of knowing what to say (other than “I’m going to take your
cunt now”), Petyr nodded. Tried to smile too, but wasn’t sure it had the same
weight.
            A final thought whispered its way into his mind. Petyr leaned in
and placed a single kiss on Sansa’s cheek, feeling her smile fade and muscles
gasp at the innocence of it. “Good night, sweetling.”
            That’s what loving uncles did, right? Leave soft kisses of goodbye
and wish sweet dreams of their nieces? Petyr could have gone a step further and
tucked Sansa in – but he didn’t trust himself not to tuck himself beside her,
too. And gods knew exactly where the night would go, then.
            A loving, chaste kiss on the cheek. Nevermind the taste of their
desires on their tongues.
 
***** sansa *****
Chapter Notes
     [ Take it. I’m tired of working on this chapter, so I hope I don't
     regret not editing it lmao. ]
           When Sansa heard the telltale ding of the elevator, every part of
her was on suddenly fire.
           When she saw her uncle standing over her, one hand clutching his
jacket and the other the backrest, Sansa wondered if he had brought her another
gift. One that he expected her to use now (and not later, not still poking out
beneath her sweater on the desk. Not still taunting her or haunting her. Or
proving to her that the innocent girl that entered these apartments will not be
the same innocent girl that goes back home).
           When she watched Petyr  – the way his hand pressed hard against
backrest of the couch, veins dancing beneath skin, all in an attempt to keep
himself from reaching out and touching her (where? Her legs, between them,
digging beneath her clothes? Sansa’s legs parted a bit on their own, as if
anticipating just that) – and couldn’t help but fear that he was reading her
mind.
           He smiled. A smile unkind. It reached his eyes, but his eyes were
dark, torn between her own gaze and roaming over her body. “I was thinking
tonight would be perfect to teach you how to use your new toy?”
           Sansa felt her body stiffen. Now. Now was when he wanted to show her
his gift. Now was when he expected her thanks for it, in ways that were so
wrong. If last night was anything to go by... Words bubbled up her throat, but
they were little more than choking sounds past her lips.
           All the while Petyr stood there. Watching. Waiting. Sansa swore his
body was leaning in slightly more now. Swore that his fingers had moved half an
inch closer to where her legs lay (she closed them, but that was only worse,
because then Petyr knew).
           And the rue of it all: Sansa could say No . Sansa could jump away
and run out and call the police on this depraved man that so clearly and so
desperately wanted to take everything from her. Take and take and take. That’s
what he said last time (or maybe it was the time before?). She shouldn’t trust
him with anything: with her body or her life or her future. Petyr wasn’t a man
she should willingly be beside, let alone willingly let his hands slide over
her.
           And the truth of it all: as much as Sansa knew she should say no and
tell on him, part of her so clearly and so desperately enjoyed it. Just a
little. Just enough to silence the waves of reason and logic ( he’s your uncle
, repeated over and over again. And: he’s so much older than you . And: how far
would he take things if you weren’t still underage?)
           Petyr watched Sansa in her turmoil. He did that everytime he asked
her something. Did he delight in the struggle between what her body wanted and
what her mind feared? Of course he did (that devilish smile twitched). Because
there were fears, far too many to ostensibly fit inside her mind. So much more
than the legal implications of flirting with and fucking (though not
technically) your uncle. What of her marriage to Willas? He was kind, and would
never kindly let Petyr live should he know the things he did to his (future)
wife. What of Petyr? He had a job and a life outside of this apartment, outside
of coming home each night to fuck her. He couldn’t do the same in jail.
           What of her own future?
           Say no, came a tiny shred of reason through it all. Sansa foolishly
ignored it. When she snapped back to reality, she realized one of her hands had
been moving on its own towards her breasts, as if to physically demonstrate
what her thoughts had been about. She stopped herself, but it was too late.
Petyr had seen it, and likely imagined a hundred or thousand scenarios. “If… If
that’s what you want, Petyr.”
           Perhaps if Sansa acted as though it was Petyr’s doing and Petyr’s
wicked mind, then maybe she wouldn’t feel so guilty about it all. Or about
leaving him in a week.
           Unfortunately, he saw through her farce. Use your words , he
insisted, time and again. Preying on Sansa’s turmoil. Preying on the fact that
he needed it to be Sansa’s doing and Sansa’s wicked mind. She hated him for it.
She hated herself for even entertaining the thoughts and wild imaginations. She
hated how much she loved those terrible fantasies. “Please.” And she did her
best to contain her own desperate desire.
           Before she knew it, Sansa sat on her bed (still dressed, but not for
long, not if Petyr was going to have his way tonight), with that terrible bit
of plastic in her hands. It was simple, hardly an exact replica of the real
thing. Sansa lazily twirled it round and round, trying not to think of the
implications of having seen an actual cock first. Of having touched it (through
fabric, yes, but that didn’t at all mitigate the heat of Petyr’s desire).
Surely there were whispered words of a girl’s standing in society who let men
do such things. Gods knew her own mother had been against even dating boys back
in Winterfell. What would the late Catelyn Stark say now, knowing that her
daughter – prim and proper and the epitome of a lady – was sitting here about
to learn how to touch a man? Lessons from a man she’d entinced with words and
actions, with pleas to scoot closer, with terrible a quid pro quo of getting
each other off instead of watching a movie? Lessons from her own uncle, no
less.
           When Petyr came back, he was still dressed. To think Sansa
entertained the idea that he might barge in naked, already stroking himself to
her embarrassment.
           That isn’t to say that the things he said and did didn’t make her
cheeks burn red.
           He sat beside her, watching her. Did merely touching the dildo get
Petyr off? There was no doubt he was imagining (or remembering) the touch of
her on him. He’d managed to keep his own hand to himself. For now.
           Sansa turned his question against him, asking what he would like to
teach her. After all, what did she know of pleasing men? After all, there was
something about her naivete that turned Petyr on, that had been painfully
obvious from their first foray into impropriety in the kitchen. The grin he
gave her then was just as wicked as the one pulling on his lips now. Maybe it
was worse.
           And then: Petyr leaned in towards her. One hand hovered over her
thighs, so close Sansa could feel the heat off his fingers. Thought she felt
fingertips brush against her skin (likely the ghost of his touch). His other
hand moved to join where she’d been fidgeting with the dildo – to take it from
her? – stopping himself before making contact. Upholding their no touchingrule
for the sake of useless propriety. There was no one else but them to know if
they followed it. Or broke it.
           Closer. She thought she felt the ghost of stubble against her cheek
as Petyr brushed away the strands of hair around her ear. His breath was hot on
her skin. Sansa tried her best not to imagine the feel of it – and his lips –
as he trailed down her body.
           “Everything, sweetling.”
           The words tickled her cheek. The words tickled her soul, sending a
jolt down from where he was hardly a hair’s breadth away from her, down her
neck, slithering down each vertebrae of her spine until it pooled between her
legs. Sansa clenched her thighs closed. She swore she could feel Petyr smile.
Saw it as he slowly, eventually, moved away, just enough to look into each
other’s eyes. There wasn’t a thing called personal space in his vocabulary.
           “But you’ll need to ask nicely.” Damn him. She tried to turn his
game on him – and nearly had with the charade of the blanket. But each time,
Petyr flipped it back around so he was in control – like he literally flipped
her on her back and straddles his legs around hers. Sansa licked her lips. He
won. Sansa gave in with a Please (one of many instances, and likely many more
victories would be his in these next few days).
           Somehow, his smile crooked further as he instructed her to take off
her clothes. His eyes never once left her body, tracing the motions as she
lifted her shirt off, discarding it beside the damp towel. Petyr watched, too,
as Sansa fought not to cover her breasts. Cold air tickled her nipples. Would
Petyr believe her if she lied that it was the air that made them hard, and not
him?
           Her shirt wasn’t enough. Petyr needed it all.
           Her thumbs paused for a heartbeat, hooked beneath her pajama shorts
and underwear. Down, off, and completely exposed. There wasn’t enough room for
a heartbeat before Petyr’s eyes were all over her body.
           She felt naked. She was naked, but this felt so...personal. The way
Petyr’s gaze devoured more than her skin, more than the dampness between her
thighs or the way her breath hitched. Sometimes, she could feel his touch where
his eyes lingered, as if his wicked imaginations were made real.
           What wouldn’t Petyr devour had she been of legal age?
           She had her answer already. Everything, sweetling.
           He wanted her completely.
           Seconds, minutes, hours. It was hard to tell how much time actually
passed beneath his stare. Sansa had nearly forgotten why she was here, naked.
Petyr called her beautiful (a quiet murmur, perhaps an involuntary reveal of
his thoughts). Sansa shivered at the compliment. Shivered at the warmth it sent
coiling through her ribs.
           What if we weren’t related?
           Sansa shook the thought away as quick as it came. Focusing instead
on the reason she was here. An unconventional lesson in love. Or so she told
herself. She needed experience, and Petyr was willing to step in and be her
guiding hand. Even if he looked to want to guide her hand upon his naked cock.
           He was entranced. Petyr leaned back, smiled at her innocence as
uncouth words spilled easily from his lips. Lazily, he stroked himself through
his pants. All the while, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if maybe – maybe –she
could somehow turn this back on him. At least for a moment.
           She lifted the dildo to her lips, watching Petyr watch her. Sansa
had an idea of what to do, but ideas and reality were more separate than she
realized. That, and ideas didn’t have a man sitting within arms’ reach of her,
watching so intently she wondered which of them was going to combust first. As
her tongue lapped over the plastic – warm from her ceaseless fidgeting – Sansa
thought it might be Petyr she was tasting. For the first time.
           His own hand paused, his heart too. Petyr was more than entranced.
He was mesmerized, gaze frozen on her mouth. He might have died had a
shuddering breath not loosed itself between parted lips.
           She fought against the smile tugging her own mouth. Fought against
the growing ache between her legs as she moved to lick it again, slower this
time, suckling on the tip before pulling it out with parted lips. All the while
hoping it wasn’t her imagination that had Petyr’s body stiffen at her actions,
that had his cock growing harder beneath his hand.
           It wasn’t.
           Sansa tilted her head to look at him, letting that smile finally
play over her lips in a curious turn. “Like that?”
           Her heart was hammering from the excitement of playing her uncle
like this. And also from the fact that they were just getting started tonight.
Who knew what horrid things Petyr was going to do to her, with her? At the
least she would be able to feel that crushing, overwhelming sensation again. It
was too addictive; being able to feel everything and nothing. A weightlessness
that tore away everything from her mind save for how good it felt. Still, even
with her heart pounding faster and faster, there were so many beats before
Petyr found his voice.
           He continued to instruct her, and Sansa oh-too-innocently (and
willingly) complied. She sat with her legs bent beneath her, thighs parted
enough for Petyr’s view, with the dildo worked between her hands and mouth. It
was strange, if not incredibly sexual.
           In the span of those minutes, how often had Petyr imagined himself
in the dildo’s place?
           Sansa worked her mouth over the head, taking it in one slow inch at
a time. Keeping her gaze locked on her uncle, who couldn’t for the life of him
look away. He barely brinked, hardly breathed, as Sansa took it in further.
Stroked the free length with her fingers – because they desperately wanted to
slink between her own legs had they not been busy doing this. It was an effort
not to roll her hips, not to show how much she was turned on, too.
           Petyr’s breath caught as she pulled it in another inch. It was near
the back of her throat, and she could feel her body rejecting it (just a bit
further and she would be coughing and gagging. Not at all seductive). Petyr’s
hand stilled his stroking for that same heartbeat, as if he had died from the
sight of her doing something so lewd.
           Sansa smiled at him with the dildo wrapped around her mouth.
           He practically came undone at the sight of her. She heard it in the
heaviness of his voice: “Give it.”
           She tried not to let her smile falter as she pulled it out, wiping
her mouth with a thumb. There would have been more than saliva had she been old
enough. Petyr thought the same, watching every single movement she made.
           Instinctively, Sansa thought No . Because as strange as it was, she
was drunk on the reality of what her actions could do to him. How on the brink
he’d been all night each time they debased themselves in their desires. How on
the brink he’d been since he first laid eyes on her! Sansa saw it when she
walked in with his hands and face all over Myranda. Maybe she didn’t know what
it was that had been simmering inside her, but now, oh now how she knew. And
gods if it wasn’t the best feeling in the world, no matter how loud her logic
was screaming at her.
           But, the moment Sansa would give it to Petyr, she would lose all of
her power over him tonight. He did have a limit. Like last night, when she’d
been above him and in control, about to touch him. Petyr stole that heady power
and played her at her own game. Well, it was his game, always had been.
           But. It felt fucking good.
           Seeing her turmoil, Petyr added, “Trust me, sweetling. LIke last
night.” And a wink, as if knowing full well the extent of her thoughts.
           Flustered with face red from embarrassment (how could she be
embarrassed when she was literally naked in front of him? When she literally
just gave him a show?) and from the burning heat flowing through her veins,
Sansa relented. Petyr’s fingers brushed against hers as she handed him the
dildo, the power, and a small thought worried that she made the wrong choice.
           He positioned her (not with his hands): her legs spread wide enough
that any further would be uncomfortable. Petyr’s gaze was glued between her
thighs. Doubtless he enjoyed the sight. More than enjoyed it.
           She knew what to expect (what else would happen with her in this
compromising position?). Still, she asked. And still, she couldn’t help but
blush at the brusque way Petyr stated that he was going to fuck her with the
dildo. And in turn, she was going to get him off with her hands.
           Sansa placed her hand on his cock, and she felt him twitch at the
contact. Cautiously she worked the length of him, slow strokes, finding more
and more confidence as she moved. Until he urged faster. She did, squeezing him
tighter, too. His breath caught. Sansa listened to them, figuring out a rhythm
that made her chest ache every time Petyr momentarily lost himself to her
touch.
           But, Petyr was relentlessly evil. Toying around her entrance and
along her slit with the head of the dildo (still wet from her mouth). Not once
daring to dip inside of her. Not until he said as much, and waited for her
consent. He trailed the head along her opening, and Sansa felt a shudder run
from the top of her spine to the bottom. Good gods, she wasn’t going to survive
the night.
           “Please.”
           Gentleman wasn’t a word she would use to describe her uncle. At
least, it wouldn’t be one of the first words that came to mind. But it was
gentlemanly in the wicked sense that he always waited for her Please’s.
           Half of it was for Petyr’s amusement. She noticed each time his body
stiffened as she said it, as if it was the magical word that would undo him
completely. It worked now. But half of it was also for herself, because gods
damn it if Sansa wasn’t so turned on right now, she couldn’t imagine not
coming. And if last night was any indicator, then Petyr knew exactly what he
was doing. She couldn’t deny how much better it felt him touching her (even if
it was through a blanket, or now through proxy). She couldn’t deny how much she
wanted him.
           He’d been right about it being different than fingers. Sansa lolled
her head back as Petyr dipped the head inside of her. Pulling out, and pushing
back in just a bit further.
           She forgot about his own cock for a while, losing herself in this
push-and-pull rhythm. In the filling sensation of the dildo as it dipped in
further and further. Just when he pushed it in far enough for it to start being
uncomfortable, Petyr would pull out, let her adjust, and slide it back in. It
felt like no time and forever until Sansa felt the faint brush of his knuckles
against her skin, and wondered if Petyr was just as aware of that connection as
she was.
           Use your fingers. Please.Sansa opened her mouth, the words lost in a
breathy moan.
           But their whole facade of propriety (or what was left of it,
shattered to smithereens nights ago) would crumble to dust. As much as she
wanted it – and as much as she entertained another idea – Sansa bit her tongue.
Letting her hips move with Petyr’s hand.  Letting her own hand work along his
cock, his own hips moving in tandem with hers. They were in sync. Even their
breaths hitched at the same time.
           She was vaguely aware of his compliments: You’re doing great,
sweetling, just a bit more. They sent a different sort of warmth coursing
through her, not nearly as hot as the desire that had her moving faster. She
was so close.
           “Touch your clit.”
           Her free hand moved between her legs. Sansa didn’t bother being
demure or careful. She just wanted – needed – to come, now, right now.
           Close, so close. She couldn’t imagine it feeling any better than it
had last night.
           But it did.
           Sansa collapsed back against the bed, letting her hips ride out the
waves of her orgasm. Gods. Gods. Gods. She tried to find a single coherent
thought in the haze of her mind, but there wasn’t one. Not even the usual: You
shouldn’t have let your uncle fuck you with a dildo.
           Warm wetness trailed up and up her stomach, around a breast, before
she smelled the sharpness of her need. Sansa managed to open her eyes, finding
Petyr above her, holding the dildo slick with her need just above her lips.
Petyr asked her (told her) to taste herself.
           She did, her mouth taking in the head of the dildo and the
bitterness of herself. It was a strange taste, not one she could place. A
worrying thought finally broke through the haze: that in these vulnerable
moments after her orgasm, she would allow him to do anything, if he managed to
get her to do this.
           If Petyr asked her to fuck her with his cock, she wasn’t sure she
would say no.
           “Good job, sweetling.”
           Sansa smiled. His words felt as good as her release, filling her
with another lightness. She suddenly felt warm, content. Something had her body
moving before she could pull herself back. A hug. She wanted a hug, wanted to
wrap herself around Petyr and tell him...what? Thank you for the orgasm? Thank
you for being a terrible, wicked, horrible uncle and debasing your niece like
this in her own bed? Or maybe nothing. Maybe it was just a hug, the warmth of
another person, that she craved.
           She didn’t get that far. Petyr snatched her left hand before it
managed to wrap around him. The warmth of his tongue snapped her out of her
haze.
           Don’t-! Caught on her lips.
           His tongue was thorough, exploring every bit of her fingers as he
could. Cleaning her come off of them, going so far as to lick between the webs.
Sansa tried to remember how to breathe, but she couldn’t. She stared at him,
felt the wet heat of his tongue. Tried not to imagine it trailing over the rest
of he body. Or inside it.
           A smile – not quite wicked, but far from kind. “I don’t think you
know how good you taste, sweetling.”
           She suddenly wondered what he tasted like.
           Petyr instructed her to finish him off, and she did, going so far as
to undo the fly of his pants and stroke him through his underwear. It was so
much different than touching him above the pants. Sansa could feel the shape of
him beneath her fingers, felt his cock twitch under her ministrations. Her
thumb trailed over a vein on the side of his cock as she moved up and down,
faster and faster. Petyr had been close already; he didn’t last long.
           Per their rule, she couldn’t touch him directly (a sham of a rule!
What did a flimsy bit of cloth matter in the end). Regardless, Petyr pumped
some come onto his hand. Lifted up sticky fingers for her. Sansa copied him,
taking them in her mouth and licking his fingers with as much care and
meticulousness as he offered hers. His come was saltier, still strange to
taste. But she did her duty and worked until it was all gone.
           Petyr was as reluctant to move away. The loss of his fingers was
something Sansa tried not to dwell on (or the fact that she felt them move,
exploring her mouth). There was a stray trail of his need on her lips. She
wiped it away with her tongue. Smiling afterwards. “You taste good, too.
Petyr.”
           Was it her smile that undid him? The taste of his skin and come on
her tongue? Or his name, echoing in the quiet breaks between their frantic
hearts?
           Petyr stared at her, suddenly miles away.
           He only managed a nod, and that was good enough for Sansa. She might
not know what to say to make him flush like he did to her (how many times
tonight had his wicked words undid her? Sent a flurry of fantasies through her
head?). But Sansa didn’t have the experience or skill to play Petyr at his own
game. So, innocence, then. She was innocent and inexperienced, and all of that
turned Petyr on. So she would amplify it until his own heart skipped beats and
his cock strained under the pressure of not being able to sink inside of her.
           Sansa listened to her heavy heart. Trailed her tongue lazily over
her bottom lip as she watched her uncle struggle with the same doubts and fears
and desires that threatened to drown her.
           Finally, Petyr leant in, the scent of his cologne and the ever-
present mint lingering between the heaviness of her desire on his lips. Sansa
thought she knew what to expect: a lewd comment about how wonderful it would be
to finally take her. Or, an offer to show her a new position, a new trick with
the toy. Or, a plea to push back that boundary of No Touching until there was a
gossamer thread between that and Touching. Anything wicked, really.
           Softy, gently, tenderly: a kiss to her cheek. “Good night,
sweetling.”
           Sansa stared at him, hand hovering over where she could still feel
the ghost of his mouth. Petyr didn’t turn back to look at her as he left,
leaving the door open behind him. A flash of light before his own bedroom door
closed with a quiet clack.
           It was a kiss. Just a kiss.
           Something relatives gave each other. Something that Sansa would have
given Petyr had they met under different circumstances: had her parents still
been alive, and she and her siblings came to visit Petyr (and Lysa) for a short
jaunt in King’s Landing. Sansa would have reluctantly given her aunt a kiss
with the fakest smile plastered onto her face (and ignoring that gaudy ring,
and the heavy layers of her perfume, or the fact that her thick makeup would
have stuck to her lips). And the same to Petyr, fake smiles and promises to
visit again. Something so innocent. Hells, Sansa pulled the same thing only
yesterday under the ruse of sharing a blanket.
           But this was...wrong. She didn’t have a word for it other than that.
Wrong. Inappropriate. Impossible. Made all that wronger by the fact that Sansa
had the taste of his come in her mouth, and he hers. And that she sat naked on
her bed, evidence of his wicked machinations between her legs. The dildo set
aside be her thighs, the head glistening.
           She realized seconds (or minutes?) had passed, and she was still
staring at the darkness of the hall where Petyr had left. Her skin was damp
with sweat and come, her tongue tasted like their need, her fingers tickled
with the ghost of his own tongue lapping around them.
           And her cheek still burned with his kiss.
                                     * * *
           Sansa stood on the platform watching the flashing lights of the
train pulling out of the station. Rain pattered lightly on her umbrella,
catching the tips of her boots. Standing with her, waiting, was a sturdy army
of squat trees. Their dropping green leaves swayed this way and that against
the wind and rain.
           They reminded her of home. This home, at least, one she built for
herself after being tossed aside. It helped tremendously that the Tyrells were
warm and kind and wanted her. What of the family that took in Arya? How bad had
they been to have her run away at the first opportunity? Sansa thought she
could contact her sister (her true sister. Not devaluing the bond she'd made
with Margaery over the years, but there was something deeper to be had with
siblings growing up that gets lost when older). Only, she didn’t know how. Last
she knew, Arya had been set up in Acorn Hall. But the Smallwoods had no idea
where she ran off to, and why.
           Lysa made it so easy to hate her: she took away their phones and did
the bare minimum before splitting them apart. Sansa wondered – time and again –
why her aunt had been so deliberate on getting rid of them at the first chance.
           Sansa wondered – time and again – if she was making the wrong choice
. If doing all of those things with Petyr (even the less improper things) was
going to hurt her when she had to say goodbye. Because without Petyr (and that
gaudy ring), Lysa would have huffed and dealt with her sister’s children.
Terrible, but together.
           I want to find them. Sansa had no intentions of going to university
yet. She wanted to, needed to, at some point. To make her way in the world and
repay her new family for their time and love – at least, repay them in a way
that wasn't her own love (or her family’s estates. Robb panicked when their
parents died, joining the military with help of Jon. Even though Robb had been
just shy of eighteen. And now, with him gone, Sansa was the oldest). Arya and
Bran and Rickon, out there somewhere, alone. And Sansa's husband could help
with it.
           A ghost kissed her spine. Her husband. Gods, it was so soon. She
worked that invisible ring around her finger, wondering how heavy it would sit
there. Forever announcing to the world that she was taken. That she wasn’t a
naive child anymore.
           The only consolation was Willas promised her ring would be small,
delicate. Not ever a gaudy thing like her aunt’s.
           A rapid honhonhonkkkkk stole Sansa’s attention. The car pulling into
the station narrowly missed a pair of walking umbrellas, whose curses were lost
in the rumble of tires over the wet asphalt. Margaery pulled up beside her,
careful of the puddles, reaching over the passenger seat to unlock the door.
           “Sorry about the rain!” Margaery said by way of hello, fiddling with
the dials until Sansa felt her toes start to warm. She stretched them inside
her boots, wishing she’d worn another pair of socks.
           “It's alright.” Sansa closed her umbrella and tossed it in the back
seat. It wasn't nearly as fine a car as Petyr's, but it was far from a piece of
junk. It had been Loras' before he moved in with his boyfriend. They preferred
public transportation to save the environmentand all that. Which worked fine
for Margaery – free car.
           It took several minutes to make the loop back out onto the street,
Margaery doing much better this time avoiding people. The train station was
just outside of the city, surrounded by endless green that sometimes threatened
to swallow the roads meandering through them. They were slick, but Margaery was
good enough behind the wheel. Only once Margaery took a turn too fast and they
spun around, landing in the shoulder and staring at the cars driving towards
them. Remembering that, Margaery let up on the gas a bit when she realized how
fast they were going.
           It took no time at all before the comforting (and only sometimes
confining) shapes of Highgarden peeked through the trees, before the green
faded into the background. The buildings were by-and-large off-white, specks of
color on their roofs, and endless colors surrounding their bases. Even from
here, Sansa could make out the gardens that occupied the city. Vines wrapped
around the tallest building, climbing higher and higher with each passing day.
           The streets narrowed the further into the center of town they got.
Sansa missed how clean the city was, and how trees stood side-by-side with the
buildings and street lights. They were citizens of the town, too.
           The streets of the Promenade were narrower, such that everyone was
forced to park outside and walk through the rows of shops – some way too
expensive for either of them, but it was fun pretending they had thousands of
dollars to throwaway on purses and shoes and dresses. As long as it wasn’t
busy, the store attendants didn’t so much mind. Some were thankful they didn’t
have to plaster a smile and try to convince them to spend too much money.
           Good thing it was a workday. Margaery had the pick of the spots,
parking just outside a frozen yogurt place they frequented often on their way
home from school during holidays. Or during the summers, which would have been
unbearable save for the abundance of trees lining streets and breezes that
meandered between buildings. Sansa couldn’t help but think how much worse
summers would be in King’s Landing. Without trees, and without that stench...
           Margaery linked her arm in Sansa’s, catching her off guard. Their
umbrellas layered one on top of the other above them as they walked towards the
shops. “Girllllll, I'm so excited to show you everything!” She squeezed Sansa's
arm. “And you better say you like it all, or I'm getting Will to divorce you.”
           Sansa laughed, hiding her unease. She supposed she always had a
sliver of it, had always known that this wasn’t an ideal situation. But it was
much better than it could be. “But if we divorce, then I won’t have to deal
with you anymore?”
           “Don’t even. You know you’d miss me.”
           “Would I?”
           Margaery looked fake-offended, clutching her heart. Sansa did laugh
at that.
           They took their time looking through the shops’ windows. Last time
they were here, the displays were heavy in winter fashions and trimmed with
fake snow (it never snowed this far south, but it could get icy). Now, spring
was starting to filter in between all the winter, despite being a month away.
Margaery pointed out a flowy forest-green dress that she was dying to get, at
least once she had hundreds of dollars to throw away on that instead of her
university books. She envied Sansa choice not to go to school, even if Sansa
was envious of Margaery to have the luxury of not being married at eighteen.
           Few people crowded the streets. They waved good morning as they
passed each other. That was another thing Sansa missed: no one in King’s
Landing was friendly. They would rather pretend she didn’t exist than to spend
a second smiling and wishing her good day.
           That was another strike against staying in King’s Landing. She
wished she had better, more concrete things than that.
           What about your uncle?
           Sansa shook her head. “Did you have plans for lunch?” Sansa said,
eyeing the second-level restaurants. It was too early for most (especially the
fancy ones), but Sansa hadn’t eaten since last night. She’d been too shocked
when she woke up that morning to eat: the layer of sweat and desire sticking to
her skin, the forgotten dildo lying between her sheets, the smell of Petyr, the
kiss. Her body moved mechanically, and had gotten as far as peeling a banana
open before heat flooded her. She tossed it in the fridge. “I was thinking
Bertha’s? Something nice and warm.”
           “Oh.” Margaery scrunched up her face. Sansa feared she said
something wrong? “Actually, I kind of have plans. For–" she fished for her
phone– “right now, actually.” They made a sharp u-turn, heading towards an
offshoot street that was still technically part of the Promenade. Less people
loitered around here.
           “That’s fine,” Sansa said. She tried not to think about the bread-
bowl soup she’d been craving. It was perfect for rainy days, and no one made
them better than the chefs at Bertha’s.
           “Next time, I promise!” Margaery said by way of knowing exactly what
Sansa was craving. “But we gotta do the wedding things first! And then we can
finish doing all the fun stuff.”
           The wedding.
           Another thing Sansa knew she’d been actively trying to forget about.
The wedding, her husband, her future with a man other than the one who had seen
her naked last night.
           “Is it… It’s going to be a small wedding, right?” Sansa knew a lot
of the details hadn’t been ironed out yet, and Margaery was too happy to take
on the task of most of the planning work. Which was good. The idea of planning
her own wedding had her stomach twisted in knots.
           Margaery tilted her head back and forth, neither a yes or a no. “I
suppose. Besides, we’d need a lot of money if we want to throw you the most
lavish wedding this side of the Narrow Sea! One fit for someone as ah-may-zing
as you.”
           Sansa felt her stomach tighten. A huge wedding might have been
something she dreamed of when she was younger – halls crowded with singing and
dancing and laughing, flowers hung on the walls, her and her husband lost in
the happiness of each other that the hall might as well have been empty save
for the two of them. Now, Sansa would have been fine with going to the city and
getting ordained there, just her and Willas and Margaery. Round and round that
invisible ring spun. “I’d rather not it be a big wedding.”
           “Not now, at least.”
           Sansa entertained her friend’s idea. “Besides, where would all that
money come from?”
           Margaery tsked. “You’re too practical sometimes, Sans. But who
knows. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find a couple million lying on the floor
somewhere.”
           Sansa balked at that. “A coupe m-million?” She didn’t even feasibly
know how much that was. “Who has that sort of money to throw around for a
wedding?” A thousand for a dress was one thing, but Margaery’s fantasy was too
much.
           She shrugged. “Maybe it’s not just a wedding? Maybe you’re
celebrating, too.”
           “Celebrating what?”
           “Oh look, the cakes!”
           Sansa stared at the display of cakes and pastries sitting in the
window. All heavenly decadent she could already taste their sweetness. Macarons
piled and twisted into a tower, each one a different color. Slices of all sorts
of cakes: triple chocolate with abstract shards lining the thick frosting, and
fluffy sponges layered between bright fruits. Multi-colored pinwheels and
chocolate-covered strawberries and bite-sized tarts. Sansa managed to tear her
eyes away from the window, finding her friend smiling evilly. If there was one
thing that made Sansa weak, it was sweets.
           “Please don’t tell me you bought some big fancy cake?”
           Margaery closed her umbrella beneath the canopy, fluffing out her
scarf. “Gods no. If we’re trying to be subtle, that’s not really how to do it.
But Grandma is friends with the owner, so we got a good discount. Not to
mention if I know you, you’d get a towering wedding cake that’s all lemon
flavored.
           Sansa pursed her lips. “But lemons are so good.”
           Margaery laughed. “You’re so predictable.”
           The door made a light jingalingas they entered. Sweet smells
overtook Sansa, filling her with such warmth and joy that she wondered if
heaven was a sunlit bakery in the middle of a city filled with swaying trees
and splashes of color. It must have been. Her mouth was watering even more. She
looked at each dessert in the display case. They looked better than the ones in
the window. It would be impossible to pick just one.
           “Ah, Tyrell?” the lady behind the counter said, flipping through an
order book. The corners were marred with frosting. “Here to confirm your order?
Graduation, right?”
           “Yup!”
           Graduation? That finally brought Sansa out of her sweets-daydream.
She gazed at Margaery as she went over the order of cakes. Only, it made sense.
She must know what she was doing if Margaery was going through the ruse that
they were holding a graduation party this weekend. That, and there must
definitely be some sort of taboo against working for a wedding for someone
underage (even if technically Sansa would be old enough when she was getting
married. Technically).
           “Alright. And before final payment you wanted to do a final taste
test?”
           Margaery nodded. “Yup. Me and my sister want to make sure our
Grandma ordered the good stuff for us.”
           “Of course. The other in your party arrived already, said to wait
for you. If you’ll follow me right this way, please.”
           Sansa snapped away from a tantalizing fruit cake with candied sugar
shards, staring at Margaery in confusion. Her friend meanwhile gave her a wink
and followed the attendant into the back. Oh no. Sansa reluctantly followed.
           Sure enough, he was there. Willas waved as they entered a small
balcony jutting out of the back of the bakery. In the distance was a
splattering of colors: reds and oranges and whites, the few flowers that
survived winters and would continue to thrive long into spring. The sky was
still grey. They sat far enough away from the edge to avoid getting rained on.
           “How are you?” her fiance asked, reaching over to pull out her
chair. His wheelchair was positioned in the center of the table, and Sansa sat
to his left whilst Margaery pulled out her own chair on his right.
           “I’m… Fine. I didn’t expect to see you here.” I didn’t expect to
face you until our wedding. Sansa shot a look at Margaery, who was pretending
to ignore her on her phone.
           Willas looked over at his sister. “Always setting people up, aren’t
you Marge?”
           Margaery pretended not to hear, but she smiled.
           “Anyways,” he said, turning back to look at Sansa. There were bags
beneath his eyes, and his hair looked like he hadn’t had enough time to slide a
brush through it. Specks of rain stuck to his glasses. “How have you been?”
           It was so banal a question, but Sansa was glad of it all the same.
Much better than asking if she’d been faithful, or if she’d got a good night’s
sleep last night. “I’m alright. Just a little...surprised that it’s all
happening so soon.”
           He smiled at her. “I know, me too.”
           Are you happy? Sansa teased the question in her mouth; it taste
bitter. Did she want to know the truth of her fiance’s thoughts? Did she want
to know if he wanted this, if he would rather have someone his own age or
profession, and not a child? Did he even like Sansa?
           Thankfully, manners took her down a different route. “How have you
been? Oh, wait you asked that already. Sorry.”
           He let loose a light chuckle. “It’s alright. I know, I’m feeling the
same.”
           Sansa desperately wanted Willas to elaborate on that, but she
couldn’t bring herself to do it. Especially not if he would turn the question
on her. How tight-lipped could she keep her own secrets?
           “So, a graduation then?” Willas said to neither of them, finding his
place-setting in need of reorganizing. From their shape, Sansa knew he’d moved
them at least twenty times before they showed up.
           Margaery set her phone down. “Of course. I mean, we can't really say
that it’s a, you know.”
           “Then technically we’re lying,” Willas piped up. “But technically,
not. You two didgraduate high school after all.”
           “True. And it's waaaaaaycheaper than a cake. At least for this
wedding.”
           This wedding ?
           The attendant came back just then with a loaded plate of small,
bite-sized cakes. There were three of each flavor. A bright yellow with a
slightly paler shade of frosting. A layered white– and chocolate– cake with
dark red ganache in between, a single raspberry on the end. And a carrot cake
with a thick layer of cream-cheese frosting piped in little stars.
           Sansa immediately went for the lemon one. It tasted divine, melting
on her tongue and leaving a pleasant sweet/sour on her tongue. The others
laughed at her predictability, even though they were quick to admit that the
lemon was good (“I told you so,” Sansa said, sticking her tongue out at her
friend).
           “How’s work going, Willy-o?”
           WIllas almost snorted out frosting. “That’s the worst nickname
you’ve got for me yet.”
           “Is it?” Margaery bit the tines of her fork, smiling devilishly.
           “Don’t. Even.” He gave Sansa a Why do we put up with this loser
look, and Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. Even if it made her wish she had her
own siblings to joke around with, too.
           “But it’s...going,” Willas said, answering his sister. “Busy of
course. Still learning all of the ins and outs. And my boss, gods, she’s been
on my ass ever since I asked for her help. But I mean, it’s going. It’ll be
worth it in the end.” He turned to give Sansa a smile.
           “That why you look like you haven’t slept in weeks?” Margaery leaned
in and sniffed. “Or showered?”
           “I have showered.”
           “But you haven’t slept?”
           Willas sighed. Sansa thought back to her own siblings: the petty
arguments like this she and Arya would get into. The who shot first on mornings
after it snowed, resulting in a bloodbath of snow.
           Sansa scraped up a trail of chocolate frosting with her finger. It
was a hair’s breadth from her lips before she wiped it off on her napkin. It
was shame that now coursed her. Shame that she had done terrible things with
another man, and was now sitting here beside her fiance. She squeezed her legs
tight beneath the table, thankful for the cooling rain behind her. How flushed
were her cheeks?
           Thankfully, they were too busy bickering to notice. Sansa looked at
her future husband as he rolled his eyes at something Margaery said. “I'm
sorry, but, um. Aren't you supposed to be at work right now?”
           “Supposed to be doing a lot of things,” Margaery butted in before
her brother could answer. She leaned her head on a hand, nibbling on the
raspberry. “Not like he has big important things to do. Or the fact that his
boss will have his ass over her mantel when she finds out he’s meeting with his
fiancee.”
           “Marge.”
           Margaery pouted her lips. “Oh fine.”
           Willas turned back to Sansa with a smile. He reached over the table
to grab her hand. It was soft, warm. A bit of frosting was stuck to his
knuckle, and Sansa wasn't sure about the urge to wipe it off and lick it.
Should she? That's something she imagined couples did. She’d seen it often
enough in movies: one person has a bit of sugar or something on their cheek,
and the other plucks it off with either their fingers or with a kiss. So
cheesy. Sansa wouldn’t admit how cute she found it, especially when the first
person lost their train of thought.
           She didn't do anything in the end, if only because she was met in
her mind with a wicked smile and a lilting We can’t touch . Gods, she knew
exactly where things would have led had it been another man sitting beside her,
holding her. His smile would have been far, far different. Willas stroked her
hand with a thumb. “Don’t worry, being here won’t actually get me in trouble.
Besides, I’m on my lunch break. And my boss isn’t that much of a witch, not
matter what Marge might say.” The girl in question harrumphed as if to say she
knew better than her brother.
           Sansa couldn’t help but stare at their joined hands. Her fiance
never touched her for so long. So intimately. It felt like the kiss Petyr gave
her last night: sweet, and loving, and wrong. Sansa wondered what brought about
Willas’ sudden love for her. “And this big job of yours?”
           Willas tilted his head this way and that, the exact way Margaery had
done earlier. “It's no big deal. Just a lot of work. But I promise I'll tell
you all about it. Soon.”
           And soon, we’ll be married. Irrevocably entwined together.
           There, on his ring finger, was the invisible band Sansa would place
on it in a week’s time.
           When they'd finished, Margaery went to go make final confirmation
for the cakes. Sansa made small talk about what she'd been doing in King’s
Landing, how it was compared to Highgarden (though Willas made note that he'd
been there before, a while ago, and was going to go again soon). She admitted
it was pretty if you don’t look at it too closely (carefully avoiding some of
the less kind sights she’d seen – some in plain daylight!). Being right next to
the water was nice. Sansa said she’d like to go visit again when it was warmer,
and Willas promised to take her.
           The truth of the rest of her time spent in the city caught in her
throat. Margaery claimed that Willas wouldn't care, but Sansa couldn't bring
herself to say any of it. No sensible fiance would react calmly to the fact
that Sansa had been seeing someone (two someones! If her brief stint with Harry
was anything). And no sensible human being would be calm at the idea of Sansa
doing wicked things with a man twice her age.
           Not to mention the fact that only twelve hours ago she’d instead had
Petyr’s come coating her tongue instead of lemon and chocolate.
           Margaery returned, tucking the receipt into her purse. They walked
Willas to the bus stop, waved goodbye as the lift raised him aboard.
           “He’s excited, you know.”
           Sansa felt the ghost of his thumb brushing the back of her hand. It
tickled. “How are you sure about that?”
           “Uh, because you’re amazing?” Margaery counted off on her fingers.
“You’re pretty, almost as pretty as me. You’re smart. You’ve managed to learn
your manners instead of ditching etiquette classes like some people. Honestly,
girl, I don’t know how many times I gotta say it before you believe me.”
           A few more times, at least. “You’re just being a kiss-ass right
now.”
           “Yeah, so? Otherwise I won’t be able to eat those delicious cakes.”
           They walked through the streets towards their next destination.
Margaery listed off all of the things that they had to do today, and Sansa
wished she was anywhere but here. She didn’t know why. Willas was nice, and
kind, and if today was any indicator, he would have been everything that Sansa
needed. Smart and loving and gentle. Older than fifteen-year-old Sansa would
have pictured, but handsome all the same.
           She wished she never went to King’s Landing.
           It was all legal things she either couldn’t understand, or people
didn’t bother telling her. Why couldn’t she have just stayed here in Highgarden
if it was for only two weeks? Maybe in that time, she would have grown closer
to Willas, and wouldn’t have anyone else to compare him to.
           Sansa inhaled sharply. Margaery stared at her, confused. “Sorry, I…
It’s nothing.”
           “Girl, you’re just nervous. I know. But it’s going to be fine. More
than fine.”
           They checked in with the flowers next. Margaery confirmed with the
clerk the order and the shipping, like she had with the cakes. They couldn’t
get roses because that wasn’t something normal for a graduation party (were
flowers normal for graduations anyways? Sansa wasn’t sure. Maybe in Highgarden,
since there were flowers at every corner inside and out). They were to have
geraniums in every color imaginable (at least, in their budget), and a small
bouquet of white roses that Margaery said was to be split for the table
decorations. Sansa could already feel their thorn pricking her skin.
           There were other flowers, too, but Sansa didn’t catch them.
           The rain let up as they meandered back into the streets. Margaery
insisted that they would eat after all of their chores, promising that soup,
but Sansa didn’t feel up to eating anything else. The cakes started to sour in
her stomach.
           She nearly turned around and walked back into the streets as they
entered the next store. The rings smacked Sansa in the face of this is
happening. She’d used to love browsing them, trying them on as if she had the
money for it. And not just rings: the necklaces and earrings and bracelets, all
the kinds she remembered her mom used to wear. Cat had too many given as gifts
from her husband and children (which were picked out and wrapped by Ned
anyways). Legally, they belonged to Sansa. Including her mother’s wedding ring.
           “Close your eyes. Or just turn around.”
           Sansa clutched the small bag in her hand. Margaery twirled her
finger, waiting for Sansa to do the same. When she didn’t, Margaery elaborated,
“I need to pick up, well, Willas’.”
           My wedding ring.
           Sansa had tried to ask for her mother’s, but they insisted that for
now a new one would be best. To symbolize the new family she made, and the new
bond here in Highgarden.
           She wondered at the eagerness of her new family to don her Sansa
Tyrell.
           There were only a few more stops to make, none as claustrophobic as
the rings. Sansa could pretend like the one she picked out for her husband
wasn’t sitting heavily in her purse.
           For a few minutes, the sun peeked out between the grey. It set the
town glimmering. The flowers looked happier in the sun, too. And just like
that, the clouds closed again, still grey and growing darker.
           “Whatever happened to that guy you kissed?”
           Greying curls and mossy eyes flashed in Sansa's head. The soft press
of his lips – and the lingering scent of mint – against her cheek. Sansa
blinked it away, trying to remember what color Harry's eyes had been. Blue, she
thought. His hair was ruffled, a sandy brown. And there were dimples in his
cheeks whenever he smiled. Of courseMargaery wasn't talking about Petyr. Of
course Sansa wouldn't harbor anything but a deep-seated hatred for the uncle
who's lavish attention separated Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon.
Of course.
           She wondered why Margaery never asked about Petyr.
           “I thought I already told you about Harry,” Sansa said, leaping over
a puddle onto the sidewalk. King's Landing made her wary of anything lying in
the streets.
           “Yeahhhh,” her friend drawled, linking their arms again. This time,
she pressed closer into Sansa. “But I'm a sucker for gossip. You should know
that by now.” They turned down a street, still deep in the Promenade. “Was he
anything like that boy last semester? Oh, what was his name…”
           Sansa tried not to think of boys (or men). Besides, there weren’t
many in her life when it came to showing romantic (or not-so-romantic) interest
in her. “Which one?”
           “Greg!” Margaery snapped her fingers. “Wait, no, that wasn’t it. But
it was like Greg?”
           Nothing came to mind at his name. Margaery might have just gone out
of her mind for a second. “What’s so important about Greg?”
           “No, that’s not it. Anyways. Do you remember that guy who was trying
to talk to you last semester? Might have been at Winter Formal. And he was all
sweet and stuff until I said you already had a boyfriend?”
           Sansa tried to think who her friend was talking about, but all the
faces blurred into Harry. And she was sure she would have remembered if it was
Harry who had been bugging her during school. “Not...really… Why does it
matter?
           Margaery shrugged her shoulders. “Eh, no reason. I’m just trying to
get a feel for what your guy was like. If I had to picture Henry–"
           “Harry.”
           "–yeah, I’d go with him. That guy totally would have freaked if you
said you’re on your period.”
           “He only wanted to, you know, do things. It’s bad enough that he had
his hand under my–" Sansa clapped hers over her mouth.
           “Girl!”
           Sansa bit her lip. Crap. She didn’t mean to let anything uncouth
slip, whether it was between her and the boy or her and her uncle. But like a
vulture, Margaery wasn’t going to let this go.
           “You can tell me anything. I promise I won’t tell Will if you don’t
want me to.” To emphasize, she zipped her mouth shut. Though it didn’t stay
shut, a smile poking through.
           Tell her what? Of the men who wanted Sansa because she was pretty?
One of them was already back at university, and the other...well, Sansa had no
plans to tell Petyr about Willas anyways. She knew exactly how Petyr would
respond to the news of Sansa’s hand having belonged to another long before she
stepped into his apartments.
           Not to mention the jealousy at Harry having stolen a kiss.
           “Well…” she began, lowering her hand from her mouth. Damn that, it
was proof of something having happened.
           Soft and gentle. A burning peck on her cheek, hotter than all of the
desire that coursed through her. “He kissed me.”
           Margaery huffed. “Girl. I swear to my gods and yours, you’re trying
me right now. If there are things you aren’t telling me…”
           Sansa didn’t know how much she should say. She could go with the
truth: that Harry did lay his hand on her thigh while they ate, and did want to
do so much more that night. So, Sansa did it – told her friend the truth of the
night (save for the other couple that sat tables away, and the man who
doubtless was wishing he was in Harry’s place).
           “And…?”
           “And…” Sansa looked away, hating herself for letting this slip.
“And, nothing happened. ‘Cause, you know, he was grossed out. But he told me
the things he wanted to do. Like, um, go back to his place and Netflix and
chill, or suck him off, or you know, do it…”
           Margaery frowned in disgust. “Ew, doing it on the first date? What a
total sleaze.”
           It was her mind come to life, that single sentence. Sansa’s knew
exactly the depravity of her uncle, and still – still! – she went through with
it.
           They continued walking in silence. Or rather, Margaery was
chattering about this and that, and Sansa was trying to keep up with the “Oh”,
“What happened?”, “Really?”. It wasn’t a coincidence that Sansa accidentally
revealed all of the things that Petyr and her had done. Or – in terms of doing
it – had thought about. Petyr never took her out on a first date, so did that
really count?
           Sansa laughed at herself. Debating the morality of her uncle.
           To say that he even had any.
           “We’re here. Last stop of the day.” Margaery said, reaching her hand
out for Sansa’s. Her fingers wiggled in the space between them.
           It was a dream, a flurry of movements that felt like an age and a
blink of an eye. Hands were on Sansa, tugging fabric down her waist and over
her arms. Someone pinned her hair up, a cool breeze tickling her naked neck.
They told her to turn one way, the other, spin around, and she did.
           “Perfect. Have a look, miss.”
           Sansa stared at herself in the triple full-length mirror. It was
just gaudy enough, just austere enough, just young enough – a perfect
combination of what Sansa remembered of her mother’s, and of what she and
Margaery had giggled about whilst walking through the Promenade months before
the plan was set. To think Sansa would be standing here, a few years later,
with all intention of getting married.
           The other girl squealed when she entered the room. Sansa turned,
careful of the material wrapped around her legs. She couldn’t see the podium
she stood on, suddenly feeling dizzy from the height. At least, that’s what she
assumed the nerves were from.
           Not from the giddy way Margaery looked at her, hands clasped, grin
impossibly wide. “Oh, Sans, you’re so beautiful ! I knew the dress would look
great on you!”
           Sansa threaded her fingers through the silk and lace, admiring the
feel of it against her bare skin. Margaery did have good taste, wonderful
taste.
           A wedding dress.
           Sansa looked back at herself in the mirror. The top was lacy, diving
up from a V just beneath her breasts up and over her shoulders (it wasn’t a
slutty V, as Margaery put it). The lace continued down her arms, stopping just
beneath her wrists. From her waist it transformed into a heavier white, pooling
at her feet. Stark white flowers coiled on vines played over all the lace,
dancing down her arms, and even getting lost in the folds of the skirts.
           Sansa couldn’t deny she felt like a princess.
           The two attendants circled her, muttering about minor alterations
that needed doing before they gave her the gown. Margaery had Sansa try out
some out months ago, back when the marriage had seemed more like a wistful
fantasy and not a shocking reality. There wasn’t one that Sansa liked best. The
neckline of this one, the lacy flowers of that, the swooping trail of that
other one. Margaery outdid herself, combining all of the parts that Sansa liked
and managing to convey it to the attendants without spoiling a thing to Sansa.
           She wondered how Margaery managed to bribe the dressmakers to finish
it so quickly, and without Sansa there. She’d thought it perfect when she tried
it on, but as they went about pining the hem here and pulling on the neck
there, it went from gorgeous to stunning.
           Her friend said as much, barely containing her glee as she watched
the women circle Sansa. Sansa looked at her through the mirror. Margaery gave
her a wink. Don’t forget, she seemed to say.
           Don’t forget that this is all a lie.
           It always helped that with a bit of makeup and the right shoes,
Sansa could pass for someone well into university, or even older. Exhibit A:
Harry not balking at her lie of being in university. Exhibit B: Petyr
forgetting himself (willfully or not) as he pulled back from diving into her.
Exhibit C: this, the dressmakers speaking common platitudes of Sansa going to
be a gorgeous wife, even if she was getting married just out of university.
           Of course, neither of them told the truth to the dressmakers. The
same what if they’re against sending girls off to get married the moment she’s
eighteen . Even though the women here were equally known for their discreteness
as they were for their tailoring. Not to mention the cost itself of the work
(Sansa couldn’t dare ask). Olenna joked that it was in payment for putting up
with Margaery for years. Regardless, Sansa felt obligated to pay the Tyrells
back for all of it: the wedding and the dress, yes, but also for taking care of
Sansa when her own family didn’t want her. It was a pity thank you (though she
was loathe to admit it more and more the closer to the wedding it got).
           One dressmaker left to get more pins, the other holding the pieces
of the back shut. Sansa felt the woman’s warm knuckles rap against her shoulder
blade.
           Sansa twisted her hips one way, the other, small enough movements
that the woman wouldn’t scold her for it. The fabric swishing along her feet.
“Does… Does it have pockets?”
           Margaery tilted her head, giving Sansa a half-smile. The dressmaker
was probably doing the same. “Pockets? For what? Girl, it's a wedding dress.
Unless you want to shove in some ‘em full of extra cake for after the
ceremony.”
           Sansa took in a deep breath, tried to pass through a laugh (but even
to her, it sounded fake). Was the dress getting tighter? She suddenly felt
breathless. “I know I'm just. I’m just nervous.”
           Her friend walked around the podium, collecting Sansa’s hands in
hers. They were soft, and likely left traces of the rose lotion she so loved
(and bought in bundles whenever there was the four for three sale. Honestly, no
sane person needed that much lotion). Margaery coerced Sansa’s gaze down to
hers. A smile sat on her lips, soft crinkles at the corners of her eyes that
tilted her winged mascara. “Girl. Listen. I can only imagine how nervous you
are. But I promise you, everything is going to be fine. The wedding is going to
be spectacular, you’re going to be gorgeous. You already are. And! I bet you
will look back on it as the best day of your life. Okay?”
           It helped. But, it didn’t. “Okay.”
           If anything, the butterflies in her stomach just flew around in a
different pattern, tickling every bone and muscle with their wings of fear and
uncertainty.
           The other woman came back with a pillow full of pins. One of them
accidentally pricked Sansa’s back. They stood back, debating whether that extra
inch made the look complete.
           “Can you give us a second?” Margaery’s smile was sickly sweet.
           The dressmakers pursed their lips, but nodded, continuing to mutter
to themselves as they went to the back. Something about what if we moved the
neck higher and the like. No mention of she looks too young to be married,
don’t you think?
           “Girl, what’s wrong?”
           “It’s…”
           Use your words.
           Gods, she hated that here, in a moment so personal and open, she was
thinking of him. Not to mention she remembered a horrid idea that passed
through her head a week ago. That she knewsomeone in particular would love to
see her in a wedding dress; but, only if he was the one to meet her at the
altar.
           His motives were wicked, but right now his words were true. “I’m
kind of scared.”
           Margaery feigned shock (or, that’s what Sansa thought it was).
“About what?”
           She waved her arms (her hands were still pinned between Margaery’s).
“Just...everything. I don’t know if I’ll be a good wife. And I am kind of young
for marriage? Not to mention I don’t really know Willas as well as like you do,
even if you are brother sister. And who’s to say he’ll love me? Truly? That he
won’t look back and regret me and–"
           “Look.” Margaery held both of Sansa's arms until Sansa calmed down
her babbling. She bit her lip, trying not to let the tears ruin her makeup.
Gods, she shouldn’t have let any of that out. She should have smiled and said
Nothing’s wrong and been the dutiful fiancee they expected her to be.
           Gently, Margaery ran her hands down the length of Sansa’s arms,
careful of the pins at the wrist, until she laced their fingers together. The
warmth was comforting, Sansa admitted. But having a breakdown in front of her
best friend and future sister-in-law? Not comforting in the slightest. “I can’t
really imagine how nervous you are right now. But Willas is a good man. And
you’re a wonderful friend. I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone better to join
our family. Even if you end up eating all of our lemons.”
           Sansa tried to fight against a smile, but lost.
           “Sunday will be here and gone before you know it. It’s just going to
be a small thing. With delicious cakes and a gorgeous couple. And then,”
Margaery squeezed her hands. “Maybe in a few months or a year, when people see
you two really do love each other and you can't imagine being with anyone else.
Thenwe'll do the stuffy wedding with all the old folks. Okay?”
           Sansa sniffled. “Okay…”
           “Unfortunately, Grandmother will want to be at both. So you’ll have
to suffer with one cranky old lady Sunday, at least.”
           Sansa laughed at that.
           Margaery smiled up at her. “Do you feel better?”
           Sansa took in a deep breath. Another, another, until they didn’t
break. “A bit, yeah. Thanks.”
           “Anytime.” Margaery smiled, squeezing her hands one last time before
letting go. “Oh, hey girl, watch my purse? I need to go to the bathroom real
quick, and then we can have them take you out of the dress.” Margaery said the
last bit with a wink, as if to imply that Sansa just needed to stare at herself
in the mirror for a little while. Let the weight of what she was going to do –
in six days! – settle the butterflies in her stomach.
           Honestly, she wasn’t sure if these butterflies were as wild as the
ones when she braved the elevator to Petyr’s work and gave him a show.
           “Yeah, sure,” she said, carefully wiping the tears from her eyes and
watching Margaery leave. Thankfully, there weren’t black spots on her fingers.
           The attendants came back for a minute, remeasuring the hem and
deciding on taking the pin in the back out. They talked to each other, debating
whether to round to the nearest quarter inch or half inch, ignoring Sansa as
she stood there. Which was fine by her; had she opened her mouth, she might
reveal even more doubts about the wedding and the dress.
           “Hold this for a second.” The taller of the ladies had Sansa hold a
bouquet of flowers. The two of them stood back, gazing Sansa up and down,
muttering about the sleeves and hem. Sansa knew she had grown a little since
the last time she tried on dresses. And even then, the wedding seemed like a
thing of her imagination. She wondered if it was because she never had the
experience leading up to it: dates and cutesy things, hugs and kisses,
and...all of the things Petyr showed her. It never felt real because it never
added up to the romances she read and watched. It never felt real until now.
           “Thank you.” The lady took back the flowers. “Your sister is
handling the payment, correct?”
           Sansa nodded, afraid of her voice.
           “Great. We’ll go talk with her for a second, make sure everything is
in order. If you don’t mind waiting a little while and then we can help take
you out.”
           “That’s fine.” Even though it wasn’t. Margaery’s words helped, but
Sansa desperately wanted to go outside and breathe in fresh air. She thought
she was suffocating.
           She twirled back so she was facing the mirrors. Right in front of
her was a woman about to marry the love of her life. Too bad it wasn’t the same
child that was standing there in the dress with doubts weighing her down.
           In the right mirror, Sansa could see passersby walking the streets,
umbrellas in hand and heads tilted down. It was hardlyrain, not at all like the
frigid storms that would hound Winterfell.  Bran used to love the rain, said it
made climbing an actual challenge. Rickon would try (and fail) to follow along.
He had more bruises and scrapes than Bran did. Arya tried a few times, but she
gave up after spraining her wrist.
           Still, the rain here was much better than back in King’s Landing.
That rain was just plain gross. She tried not to think about what filth got
cycled back into the clouds, and was glad to be in Highgarden instead. Among
the trees and flowers, with her new family and all of the emotions it brought –
even if so many of them now were drowning.
           And in that mirror, someone was staring through the bridal shop
window. At the wonderful dresses and the gossamer veils. And at her.
           She turned just as the little bell over the door chimed, silks
spinning around her feet.
           “What the fuck is this shit?”
           The dress felt tighter, tighter. The skirts, like snakes, twirled
between her legs.
           He tucked his phone in his back pocket. His face was fuming beneath
the rain that plastered darkened curls to his forehead.
           Sansa tried to step away, but the podium was too small and the dress
too tangled around her to maneuver. Her heart beat franticly beneath the coil
of fabric around her chest. “What are… What are you doing here?”
           He strode towards her, one two three, until he was standing in front
of her. He was tall, but not tall enough with her standing on it. Sansa glanced
around: Margaery was still in the bathroom, and the dressmakers were elsewhere.
She could scream? But he wouldn’t like that; Sansa knew enough about boys
           Harry grabbed a handful of the dress. “You’re fucking getting
married?”
           Sansa opened her mouth-
           "–and you were just fucking leading me on?” He flung the fabric
away. Swore when a pin nicked his finger. Clenched his fist, tight tight tight.
Gods, if he was going to hurt her…
           “Look,” Sansa got out, trying to make sense of why he was here and
why he was so furious. Sansa never returned his texts (that was true, and
eventually he did catch on that she wasn’t interested. Or, so she assumed).
Sansa did promise him to meet up after her period, but that was plainly obvious
a lie she couldn’t imagine Harry thinking it true. Sansa did lie about her age,
and about where she would be going to school after the break.
           Oh.
           She had told him she was at university. He must have been here
looking for her. Expecting to continue from their date. Persistent to have that
night alone.
           And from the look of him, Harry wouldn’t stop until he had her.
           Sansa backed as far away as she could on the podium. The balls of
her feet kissed the edge. “I– I think you have me confused with someone else–"
           “The fuck you on?” She wasn't on anything, but from his swagger and
the stench that emanated off his clothes, Harry wasn’t in his right state of
mind.
           “Please. Just, go, I’m not–"
           “Oh, let me guess .” Harry took a step back, arms wide. “You’re not
like all the other girls that fuck on the first date. We’re in the fucking
twenty-first century, bitch. If I take you out somewhere as nice as that, you
better at least blow me.”
           “Get out.”
           They both turned to see Margaery standing in the adjacent doorway.
She feld a fire extinguisher in her hand, the nozzle aimed at him. Harry stared
at her, squinting his eyes as if he couldn’t quite tell there was someone else
in the room. “Who the fuck…”
           Margaery approached Sansa, but was still far enough away. Probably
because she was bluffing. She looked at Sansa with a knowing look, and Sansa
nodded. Yes, this is the infamous Harry . Though, he was a lot more charming
when I met him.
           “Listen. You better get out of here before you make a scene.”
           “The fuck you are? I came here to get, well,” he trailed off, as
though suddenly forgetting how to talk. “I expected something, and I’m here to
get it. I don’t wanna wait weeks or gods-damn monthsuntil I can have her.”
           “So what?” Margaery lifted the nozzle higher, and the boy had the
good sense to take a step back. “You think you deserve something after you
bought a girl a nice dinner, and after you slipped your hand beneath her dress
to cop a feel of her boobs? Get bent.”
           Sansa’s own words echoed in her head: he had his hand under my–
           Margaery wasn’t lying when she accused someone of touching Sansa
inappropriately. Unfortunately, the accusations fell on the wrong boy.
           “What !?” Harry jerked backwards like he'd been shot. His eyes – she
once thought they were pretty – stared at her with such an intensity, Sansa
worried the dress would catch fire with her tangled in it, so hot and bright
not even that fire extinguisher could do anything. “I never even touched her! I
mean, I kissed her, but that’s not even… I asked her out. I bought her dinner.
And now I find out she lied about being single. What, anything else you’re
fucking lying about? God, I bet you lied about being on shark week, too?” His
laugh was splintered. “Lemme guess, lemme guess. I got you all nice and ready,
and instead of at least thanking me, I dropped you back home to your husband ,
and you let him fuck you? Even though Itook you out? Fuck you, bitch!”
           “Get out!” Margaery was fuming. She was smaller and slighter than
Harry, but there was no doubt the girl was seconds away from forgoing the
extinguisher and pouncing his ass with her fists. “My brother’s a lawyer, and
he can get send your ass to jail for touching a m– For threatening violence.”
           Harry looked between them, clenching his fists tighter. Somehow,
that shut him up.
           He took a step towards Margaery.
           “Sir, we’ve called the authorities,” one of the dressmakers said.
She was poking her head out from the doorway. In her white-knuckled hands was a
clunky phone. She was smaller than either Sansa or Margaery, but her face was
surprisingly calm. How often had she seen bouts of rage like this before?
Likely often, to the point where Harry realizing Sansa was betrothed was hardly
any news to her. She must have seen so much worse. “If you don’t leave now, you
will be arrested.”
           The world was miraculously kind then. Quiet sirens whistled through
the streets beyond. Harry eventually heard them, brain too heavy with whatever
alcohol or drugs. “You’re gonna fucking get yours, you fucking hoe.” He swore
loudly and profusely at each of them, flipping them off before slamming the
door shut behind him.
           Sansa crumbled on the podium and cried.
           Margaery was there, her hands warm. Waiting for Sansa to get all of
the unspoken emotions and fear and dread out through her tears.
           “I don’t mean to be rude,” someone said, “but it would be best not
to, um, do that in the dress.”
           With the help of the dressmakers and her friend, Sansa peeled the
wedding dress off of her. It was like a second skin, one that left her standing
there in her underwear bare and shivering. She clasped her hands on her
shoulders – a sign of unease taken by the dressmaker that Sansa didn’t feel
comfortable standing there nearly naked in front of a stranger. Only, that was
far from it.
           They left with the dress in tow, mumbling about wrinkles.
           A long time passed until Sansa’s tears became quiet sobs. They were
choking her. Margaery – her hands still comforting, rubbing warmth into her
back – asked, “Are you okay?”
           Am I?
           Sansa shrugged, not sure what to say. She didn’t know why Harry’s
words hurt her so much. Maybe she thought she just wouldn’t have to see him
again. Like her brief date was a thing of her imagination, and his kiss, and
the feel of his fingers sliding up her thigh. It was something she could close
her eyes and pretend it was over.
           Like what she knew she was doing with Petyr.
           No matter how tightly she could close her eyes, her clamp her hands
over her ears, there was no denying what she did. And with whom. And how many
times.
           There was no denying that if Margaery or Willas or literally anyone
knew of the truth, they would never look at Sansa the same way.
           They would never love her the same way.
           Margaery asked something, but Sansa’s heart was too loud to hear it.
“Wh-what?”
           She looked up at Margaery, and her friend was chewing on her lip.
Likely thinking about what Harry had said, too, and the way Sansa never denied
the things that happened. Because, well, Harry wasn’t telling lies. Sansa did
let him touch her (nothing serious), and she did let him drive her back home
(not to her husband, but to Petyr), and she did mean all of the things she had
alluded to earlier.
           What if Margaery asked about the truth? The actual truth, not the
one that Sansa pared down for her? Sansa thought she was too destroyed at the
moment to lie. Because the lies were what was killing her, pulling her down
into the deep, murky depths of darkness. And the lies had the unmistakable
scent of mint.
           Margaery shook her head. “Are you...we can cancel, if you really
want to.”
           Sansa stared in shock, mouth agape. That wasn’t at all what she was
expecting her friend to say. “I…”
           “I can’t imagine everything you’re going through. With this , and
being so young, and, well, I guess me being pushy?” She let out loose a breathy
laugh. “If you really don’t want to get married now, I’m sure Willas will wait
for you.” Margaery smiled, but there was heat there beneath her soft
countenance. She was furious. At Harry for that stunt he just pulled? At Sansa
because she so obviously lied even though they promised to tell each other
everything? At herself, for not seeing the truth as false?
           Regardless, Sansa didn’t want to say anything else to warrant
probing into secrets she wished she didn’t have. Things she’d done, and said –
and for what? Sansa truly knew for a long time that there was more to that
thing she had with Petyr than the illusion of getting experience. There
was...something much deeper, much more worse.
           Sansa felt a ghost: that soft, gentle press on her cheek.
           And that same, gentle stroke of thumb over her hand.
           Margaery continued. “Whatever you’re feeling… Just let me know soon.
Okay?”
           It wasn't, and Sansa wasn't either. But she nodded. “Okay…”
           Even after Sansa stood there, alone, staring at her reflection in
the arc of mirrors, she didn’t feel alone. Margaery’s words echoed in her head
in tune with her confused heart.
           “What if…” she said to no one, clutching tighter to her skin.
Wishing for a moment (and not for the first time) that she could disappear.
“What if he won’t wait forever?”
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