Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11923443.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&
      Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark, Alayne_Stone, Myranda_Royce
  Additional Tags:
      Daddy_Kink, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, gratuitous_use_of_a_mirror,
      damn_those_qartheen_gowns
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-27 Words: 1719
****** Ill Fitting Intentions ******
by ariannenymerosmartell_(somethingmoo)
“Come now, sweetling,” Petyr says through the oak door that blocks is entrance
to Alayne’sroom. “It can’t be that bad.”
A sob echoes through the door, and Petyr barely manages not to roll his eyes.
He had not been one for teenage histrionics, even when he was a teenager. He
fingers the scar on his chest absently. 
“It’s horrid,” Sansa-- no Alayne,shrieks. He must remember that she is Alayne
now, his daughter, his. 
She had sent away her maids when she saw the thing, not wanting anyone to
witness the monstrosity of a dress she had been bidden to wear at tonight’s
feast.
“It was a lovely shade of blue,” he supplies, but he knows she has the right of
it. The dress sent for her by the Royces was terribly hideous-- ruffles, and
lace, and beading that didn’t match. Undoubtedly, the Lady Myranda had chosen
it, sharp as she was. She wasn’t going to let a beautiful bastard outshine her
at the feast. 
Not that it would matter. His Alayne would shine in anything, the same way her
mother had. 
He doesn’t bother to correct himself this time. 
“Let me in, Alayne,” he says, commanding, now. She needs someone to take
charge, he imagines and is pleased when the door opens, Alayne clutching the
gown to her chest. 
The thing is too big by half, and hangs on her like a sack. The ruffles down
the front give the impression that she’d been sick all over herself. It looks
both matronly and something meant for a child of eight, not a maiden of four-
and-ten. 
Myranda Royce was a cleverer woman than he had given her credit for, it would
seem. 
“Oh, sweetling,” he says softly, and she cries in earnest then and flings
herself, somewhat unexpectedly, into his arms. 
He strokes her hair gently as she cries. 
“It’s not fair,” she wails into his chest. “I have to wear it, else it will
insult them, but it’s awful. Surely Myranda knows this is terrible,” she
sniffles and Petyr envies and curses her naivety. 
“Perhaps she merely looked at the color,” Petyr says lightly, not wanting to
upset her further. It’s a strange emotion. 
In his arms, his Alayne doesn’t say anything, and her sobs have quieted some.
He takes her by the arms and steadies her, lifting her chin to look into her
blue, blue eyes. 
“You’ll still be the most beautiful maiden at the feast, sweetling,” he says,
and Alayne looks away. 
“Not in this,” she says, voice wretched again. Then, after a pause, “She’s
upset about Harry.” 
Petyr nods, pleased she has sussed out Myranda’s motives.
“Yes. And when we are upset and let emotion rule us, we make our greatest
mistakes. Tell me, sweetling, what has our dear Lady Myranda forgotten.” 
Alayne looks at him wide-eyed. The shoulder of the gown has slipped down her
arm and he can see the top of her creamy breast. His fingers twitch with the
desire to tug the sleeve down a little more and expose that fine breast to him.
To take her nipple into his mouth, the way he had done to her mother years, and
years ago.
“I--” she starts off, unsure, and he allows himself to take her hand and trace
her fingers. 
“My daughter is a gifted seamstress, is she not?” he asks, softly, and gently
tugs down the other shoulder of the gown to match the fallen one. 
The effect is marvelous. Her pale shoulders bared to him, he can see the
smattering of freckles along her shoulders and the tops of both of her breasts.
He stands and circles her, tugging the material of the dress back to tighten
around her waist, admiring how it pushes her breasts out further. 
Holding the fabric in one hand, he smooths the skirts over her backside, and
hears her sharp intake of breath. He steers her this way toward the full length
mirror that used to be Lysa’s. 
“See, sweetling,” he murmurs in her ear, pressed as close to her back as he
dares. He enjoys the picture they make, reflected in the mirror. Her blue eyes,
so wide and innocent, his hands pressed on her. “Some quick stitching and all
will be well.” 
“You don’t-- you don’t think this is too... immodest?” Alayne asks, tracing the
low neckline, and in the mirror he can see his hungry eyes tracing his path her
slender finger takes along the top of her breasts. 
“Immodest would be a dress in the Qartheen fashion,” he says laughing, and
moves the hand at the small of her back to her left breast. “They leave one
breast bare in all their gowns.” 
His fingers make quick work to push the material down, to bare her left breast
for him. It is just as lovely and full as her mother’s had been, tipped in the
same shade of pink. He stops himself from pinching the nipple between his
fingers and pressing a kiss to her neck. 
“Father,”she hisses, scandalized, but he smiles at their reflections in the
mirror, noting that she makes no effort to cover herself. 
“It’s true, sweetling. The Qartheen believe in celebrating our bodies, as they
were made by the gods. Perhaps we should alter the gown this way, just to see
the look on Lady Myranda’s face.” 
His Alayne laughs at that, an act that causes her expose breast to move gently.
He cups it then, and Alayne sucks in a deep breath. 
“The Qartheen believe it is good luck to view and touch a beautiful woman’s
breast.” 
A lie, he knows. She doesn’t.
“Why?” Alayne asks, but her eyes in the mirror are not suspicious. They are
curious, and, he might be imagining it, a little darker with desire.
“It brings pleasure to both a man and a woman,” he answers, honestly. “Shall I
show you, sweetling?” 
Now she does look confused and makes to turn, but he keeps her facing the
mirror. 
“No, no. You need to look, to see.” 
He squeezes the breast in his hand gently, and watches, delighted, as a flush
blossoms over her face, and neck and chest. 
He rolls the nipple between his fingers then, and hears his Alayne’s breath
stutter. 
“Oh,” she breathes. “Father, I...” but trails off when he pinches it sharply. 
He keeps up his ministrations, rolling, and pinching until the nub is hard and
tight. Alayne keeps up a steady flow of soft moans and sighs.
“It is better when it is both,” he says softly, and tries not to react too much
when she pulls down the material covering her other breast herself. 
He cups them both, squeezing them together, watching himself in the mirror. 
Alayne is flushed and panting, and he has no doubt that were he to slide a hand
up under her skirts, and press a finger to her center, he would find her wet
and wanting. 
The thought makes his cock twitch in his breeches. 
He pinches both nipples at the same time, hard, harder than he has before, and
Alayne moans and sags back into his arms. 
“Father,” she whispers softly, and she is so flushed and beautiful in the
mirror it takes all his self control not to rip the gown off her and bury
himself in her cunt. 
“Father,”she says again, more urgently this time, and she looks terribly
embarrassed. “I--- my smallclothes are wet but I didn’t--” 
Alayne looks terribly mortified and she cannot meet his eyes or her own in
their reflection. 
Petyr thanks all the gods for the gift in his lap. 
“That is the pleasure the Qartheen talk about, sweetling,” he says gently, and
this time he does tug the gown down so that she is bare before the mirror, save
the white cotton of her small clothes, where a wet spot is clearly visible, and
spreading.
“When a woman gets wet like this,” and he keeps his left hand on her breast,
but brings his rigt down and presses his thumb to the spot and revels in her
hiss, “that is when we know she is close to her pleasure.” 
“Close to?” Alayne asks, all innocence, and Petyr bites back a moan. 
“Oh yes. This is just the beginning. Shall I show you?” 
Alayne nods. 
“You’ll need to take off your small clothes.”
She blushes further but does, and he uses his right hand to tip her face up to
look into the mirror. 
“Watch now, Alayne. This is important.” 
With his left hand on her nipple, he brings his right down and uses his index
finger to slide up and down her slit. 
Alayne shudders and moans, eyes falling shut, and he gives her nipple another
sharp pinch.
“Watch, Alayne,” he says sharply, parting her nether lips with two fingers,
enjoying how pink they are in the reflection. 
“Yes, father,” she says breathlessly and leans against him, pushing her breast
into his hand. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to feel the
press of his hard cock against her. 
There will be time for that later, he decides and presses his thumb agains her
clit, while his index finger explores her slit gently. 
“Oh, father, there,” she keens, and he obliges her, putting more pressure on
her clit, rubbing it with her own moisture. 
She comes apart quickly, and when he legs shake he lets her sag against him,
still rubbing her clit gently. 
It’s not until she half moans, half cries that he stops. 
There is wetness dripping all down her thighs and the horrid gown is crumpled
on the floor beside them. 
Alayne is flushed, and glassy eyed in his arms. She is lovelier than her mother
ever had been. 
“Do the Qartheen do that allthe time,” Alayne asks, and Petyr had almost
forgotten the lie. 
“Before and after every feast,” he says. “For luck.” 
“Then after...?” Alayne asks, eyes meeting his in mirror and Petyr gives her a
genuine smile. 
“For luck,” he agrees to her silent question, and presses a kiss to her
temple. 
“Will you sew your dress like a Qartheen maiden?” He teases, giving the breast
in his hand a squeeze, and his Alayne giggles sweetly. 
“No, father,” she says, and giggles. “That’s our good luck only.” 
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!