Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7153610.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark, some_Harrold_Hardyng/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark, Harrold_Hardyng, Lothor_Brune, Various
      Characters, Original_Female_Character(s)_of_Color
  Additional Tags:
      Manipulation, Mind_Games, Honeymoon, Possessive_Behavior, Obsession,
      Underage_Sex, Eventual_Romance, Non-Consensual_Voyeurism, Forced
      Marriage, Non-Graphic_Rape/Non-Con, for_some_reason_there's_no_"spousal
      rape"_tag_but_if_there_was_i'd_put_it_here, yikes_these_tags_look_scary,
      i_swear_it's_a_good_fic_y'all_it_just...sounds_fucked_up, like_this_ship,
      like_my_life_tbh, Ambiguous/Open_Ending, Older_Man/Younger_Woman
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-06-11 Completed: 2016-07-16 Chapters: 11/11 Words: 38382
****** Run Me ******
by moffnat
Summary
     "Honesty? That is all you want?" He stepped closer, invading her
     space as he so often did, his fingers taking a strand of her hair
     between them. Petyr's eyes met hers. Fire burned bright in his gaze
     of gray-green, stoked by desire so raw she could choke on it. "Then I
     shall give you honesty."
     Sansa Stark is set to marry Harrold Hardyng, much to her dismay.
     Petyr Baelish has plans, however, that involve her willingness no
     matter how manipulated, and a bloodied dagger in the dark. Based on
     show/book canon up through season four & AFFC. Reader discretion
     advised.
***** Father's Warning, Suitor's Smile *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
I tripped headfirst into the Petyr/Sansa fandom. Sorry if you were expecting
Sansan. I'll get back to them soon, but cravings come first. I'm a sinner
through and through.
Yeah, I title my fics after song lyrics. Sue me. Here's_the_song that makes me
think of this pairing like none other.
This fic does feature a minor fade-to-black rape scene in chapter three. I'll
make it obvious so you can skip if need be.
This (obviously) came out before TWOW, so if you're reading this in that
distant future and don't think Harry's characterization lines up, it probably
doesn't! I just used him as I needed to. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Make sure to read the tags!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
She remembered the kiss. It would not be easily forgotten, stolen from her on
the whim of a madman in a castle in the sky. His lips had taken her soul from
between her teeth and left her with nothing but the air between them. Sansa
could not forget that moment, the ruined snowcastle and soft flakes along
cloaked shoulders and skin. But most of all, she remembered what it was like to
be wanted. How long had it been since she’d felt a lover’s touch? It was
foreign and strange, but no stranger than Petyr Baelish’s desire, locked away
so deeply with patience even the gods would envy. To be the focal point of
something so sinfully unspoken was too much for her to bear. Sansa kept her
heart under lock and key, all while Alayne Stone kept watch for the predator.
Alayne had taken over where Sansa once was. She was happy in the Eyrie, pleased
to further her potential and influence under the guidance of a wise father.
She’d found friendship in unlikely places and comfort from a past of fear.
She’d even mourned Sweetrobin genuinely after his passing. She was home here,
as close as she could be, but memories of a different home conflicted with her
joy. A home of Stark smiles and Tully hair, Robb’s hugs and her mother’s love.
No, thought Alayne,that is not my home anymore. He asked me to be his daughter
in my heart, so I must.
Time was a cruel mistress. The longer she kept the act, the more she missed
what was lost.
Alayne’s façade trembled in the face of her wedding date. Three days’ time
would see her wedded and bedded with Harrold Arryn, a spoiled brat of a boy she
wholly disdained. Alayne knew she should be strong. Her father would not be
afraid. But the more she gave thought to the coming ceremony, the more her
resolve began to waver. She was not a frightened girl by nature, the shell of
her heart having hardened over time, but there was something to be feared in
another marriage. Harry would not be as kind as Sansa’s lord husband.
Regardless of her father’s plans, Alayne remained skeptical and nervous, vowing
not to proceed without some level of caution.
“Lady Alayne?” called a voice behind her door. She jumped as a serving woman
knocked. “Are you still awake?”
“Y-Yes,” she stuttered. “Come in.”
The woman entered as Alayne turned in her chair. “Your father has sent for you,
dear. At once.”
At once? She bit her lip. “Thank you. I’ll go to him.”
“Best be quick, my lady. The hour is late.”
Alayne nodded as the door closed again. Why would her father have need of her
now? She couldn’t find a logical reason, but there was no immediate logic
behind many of the things he did. It was all for the sake of something bigger.
Whatever his motives, she dare not refuse him. Alayne grabbed a candle and
placed it securely in a bronze holder, lighting it with a match she struck to
life. The flame illuminated her dark hair like the shade it used to be. She
slipped on a nightrobe and exited her humble chambers, ascending the stairs to
her father’s tower.
She did not knock. Alayne never had to. She stepped into the room and closed
the door behind her, clearing her throat when she faced the open solar. It was
mostly empty, save for a pile of ledgers on a desk and shuffled paperwork here
and there. More of his games, more of his tools. An open window brought cold
air through the room like water seeping through a crack. It refreshed and
chilled her all the same, that familiar chill of anxiety she thought she’d
chased away.
“Father?” Alayne called to the darkness. “Where are you? I was told you
summoned me.”
Moments passed before he emerged from the adjacent room. He was still dressed
from the day, highly fashionable as always with his trademark mockingbird pin
resting at his throat. A smirk passed his lips when he saw her. “Alayne,” he
said in greeting, approaching her swiftly. “I trust I did not wake you?” He
pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek, one of many ways he liked to show fatherly
affection.
“You didn’t,” she replied. “The nights are hard. I don’t sleep well.”
“Shame. You should rest while you can.” He removed his hand from her and walked
about the room, lighting candles where there once was darkness. Alayne didn’t
know what he’d been doing elsewhere, but it seemed he planned to stay a while,
at least in her company. “I suspect your nocturnal loneliness will soon be
cured.”
Her face flushed. “I suppose.”
“Come. Sit with me.” Her father gestured to the hearth filled with embers of a
dying fire. Not nearly enough to keep her warm, but her blood was of the North;
cold would not spite her. Alayne obliged and crossed the room to sit in a chair
by the fireplace. She placed her candle on the table between them and watched
as he approached the mantle, grabbing a pitcher of water and two glasses. “I
have something to tell you,” he said while pouring. “Something important.”
Alayne took the cup of offered refreshment. “At this hour?” she asked. “Could
it not wait?”
He chuckled. “Plans wait for no one, sweetling. Those who hesitate fall
behind.” Her father took his goblet in-hand and sat in the chair across from
her, watching her, until urgency begged him to speak. “There are the plans you
let the world know.” He gestured to the door, representing the unimportant
people beyond. "A marriage to shift power in the Vale, arranged by the man
seeking it. An old tale, oft repeated, that none would question. Then there are
the plans you keep quiet, but just loud enough for others to hear if they know
how to listen." He leaned forward in his chair, taking his tone barely above a
whisper. "A mysterious daughter of an ambitious man turns out to be more than
she seems. A marriage used to seize far more than just one of the Seven
Kingdoms. Tales the pawns will never hear, nor most of the players, but the
most observant of the lot will think they've learned it all. Perhaps you
thought the same when I told you of those plans."
Sansa watched his eyes flitter toward the door. He was not speaking to Alayne
anymore, having read between the lines of her mask enough to guide it off with
words of the future. He seemed worried about eavesdroppers, so she leaned in
closer to hear him better when he spoke.
"The truth is never so simple. Reserve that only for those who matter, those
who are neither pawns nor opponents in the game, those you trust." Sansa’s
breath hitched as he moved even closer to meet her, voice lowered so far that
any listener would have to sit between them to overhear. "You need to
understand this before your wedding day. The truth is that Harry the Heir will
never win the North. He will dither and promise to move soon, but there will
always be pressing business at home to worry about. I have known this from the
first, but he and your wedding are vital to my true plans to see you returned
safely to your home. It would be…unfortunate for you to put your faith in his
hands only to see it crumble to dust. That is why I tell you now, before he has
a chance to disappoint you." 
The confirmation of her fears brought doubt. Sansa had always known Harry would
be less than helpful in her quest to reclaim Winterfell, but to hear it from
the mouth of the puppetmaster made her sorrow grow. She sat back in her seat
with a frown on her lips, eyeing the hearth's red coals and wishing they were
fire again. “He reminds me of King Robert,” she admitted. “In his later years.
Drunken, spoiled, whoring. I shouldn’t be surprised by what you’re telling me,
but I thought you wanted me to make him mine. Make him see.”
“You may yet,” he replied, returning to his typical posture. “But it is his
title and his heir you need, Alayne. Nothing more.”
His heir. His child. That was her duty, a woman's duty. Sansa unknowingly
placed a hand over her abdomen, imagining what it would be like to feel life
beneath her skin. She'd always wanted to be a mother, before notions of prince
charmings and happily ever afters were stripped from her like the many dresses
Joffrey tore. She would be a good mother, too. Taking care of her children's
needs above all else, giving them gifts of confidence, intelligence and
grace. I would be like my lady mother. But with a father like Harrold Arryn,
she knew her children would not grow to see true love exampled for them like it
was for the Starks. Sansa remembered her parents' fond kisses in the middle of
dinner, how they'd snuggle in bed every night, how their occasional
disagreements were always calm and collected discussions. Sansa would never
have that. Those were memories of happier days, days gone by. Was it foolish
for her to desire them still?
Sansa wished Petyr was crafting a lie. She said nothing. After a time, he broke
the silence again.
"I wouldn't subject you to his attentions for long. He needs an heir from a
wife of meaningful connections, and afterward I'm sure he will be content to
leave you be. Certain bargains have been struck to assure it. Political
marriages needn't be a horrible burden."
“That doesn’t make them pleasant.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap and
fumbled with them nervously. “But I suppose I will have to face it.”
"If everything goes to plan, you won't need to ask anyone outside this room for
help in achieving your goals.” Petyr’s crooked smile grew. “They will offer
their assistance gladly and you need only accept. Perhaps that thought will
make the nights to come easier for you." It wasn’t paternal assurance she saw
in his gaze, nor was it devilish enough to be considered a fraud. But it lacked
innocence, of that she was certain, and Sansa took a moment to contemplate his
meaning.
"Will everyone in this room promise to help me and my family go home?" She
faced him then, not asking as his bastard daughter. This was Sansa's concern
and hers alone. "If I'm to bear children, I will see them safe and protected.
From anyone." Including you, she added with her eyes, leaving those words
unspoken.
Her meaning was not missed. His smile took a turn of amusement. “From anyone,”
he agreed. "All I've done for you has been to help you go where you belong.
That courtesy will of course extend to your children, and I would see them safe
as if they were my own. Whatever you may think of me, I would not lie to you
about this."
He would, though. He had lied about lesser things. Sansa kept his gaze and
tried to decipher the horrible mystery buried within that might give her some
inkling to his true agenda. Once again, she came up empty. Petyr stood in a
manner more akin to a wealthy suitor than a gallant father, and offered his
hand accordingly. “You should rest, my dear. It is late and there is much work
yet to be done. Go, get some sleep, and we will speak of this another time.”
Alayne took her father's hand. There was no sense in opening an issue when he
had closed it, but she still felt unprotected somehow, unclean, as if she'd
been spoonfed lies and her body was rejecting them. Still, he had not laid a
hand on her in punishment, nor had he asked her to do things she wasn't
entirely unwilling to do. Whether or not Catelyn Stark's resemblance kept her
safe was unclear, though it mattered little in the end. Alayne's focus had
shifted from the past with Joffrey to the future with Harry the Heir.
"Goodnight, Father," said Alayne as she exited the room with her candle. When
she finally entered her chambers again, the anxious girl did not sleep a wink.
Chapter End Notes
     bruh
     this fic....it gon be good
     HOLY SHIT my first fic in a whole year, here I am, yes hello, moffnat
     has returned
     I took a year off because of, like, 800 family deaths (not really,
     more like 6) and I just lost the desire to update. But it seems that
     summer is my fic-writing season, so we'll see what I can do in 2016.
     *cracks knuckles* READY 2 GO
     I'm always a slut for comments. As an aspiring novelist, it'll help
     me when I've got my degree done, blah blah, all my veteran readers
     know the drill. (Credit to my forum husband who's helping me write
     Petyr. You know who you are. <3)
     Oh, and as always, WEEKLY UPDATES. I'll be updating every Saturday
     and Tuesday until this fic is complete, and then I'll start another
     one. (Not unlike what I did with Sansan last year. I guess I've got a
     pattern.)
     See you soon lovelies, and here's a quick welcome to all my new
     readers! <3 I hope you love my work as much as I do!
***** To Cage a Songbird *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The quill scratched along the surface of fresh parchment, a pleasant sound
leading to pleasant plans. His handwriting was intentionally sloppy. A few
rushed notes here, a few miscalculated numbers there and gold filled his
pockets to the brim, unquestioned. Subtle tricks Petyr learned in Gulltown.
They would be much needed in the days to come. Trips across the Narrow Sea
weren’t cheap, nor were the secret happenings that came along with them. Months
of eager planning had led to this moment. Petyr wore a smile as the last line
was written, a signature of finality on a fantasy made real. Only time would
give him what he wanted. All that remained was the slow agony of waiting, a
restraint crafted carefully over many years of practice.
As scheming as Petyr was, his mind fell back to the coming marriage. How
quickly time had passed. By twilight the following day, Sansa Stark would face
the world again, trueborn and noble, to marry Harry Arryn and set Petyr’s plans
in motion. One piece after another, dominoes falling in a twisted shape. He
would certainly relish in the ripple effects, but an odd sense of uneasiness
washed over him. He eyed the parcel containing Sansa’s maiden cloak where it
rested on a vanity. The thought of her wearing it, on his arm to be given to a
useless boy made his stomach turn. Sansa was becoming a pressure point. Her
smile, her beauty, her quick wit and cleverness. Littlefinger knew he had to
purge her before the infection was too deep to cut out, but Petyr wanted her
near, wanted her as his own. Lord Arryn would not be a generous husband, nor
would he cherish her as Petyr longed to. The plans, unfortunately, could not be
halted. Petyr hoped he’d prepared her enough to handle what was to come.
A knock came at his door. Short and quiet. “Come in,” he said, rising from his
desk and closing the financial ledger before him. To his mild surprise, Alayne
entered the study in that meek, shy way of hers, less his bastard daughter and
more a girl she wasn’t supposed to be. The girl he craved. Petyr took full
advantage of the sight of her, clothed in the colors of House Baelish with a
silver mockingbird pendant dangling around her neck. The vision gave him pride.
He straightened his back to greet her. “Alayne, is something the matter? I
thought you’d be with your intended.” Petyr moved around the table to come to
her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It is the eve of your wedding, my dear.
You should be celebrating.”
“I know. I know I should.” Her voice was not pleased, not bright and upbeat
like the one he so enjoyed listening to. Petyr raised a questioning brow.
“Tell me what troubles you.”
“I…” Alayne sighed. “I came to ask if you would dine with us, Father. I would
like to have you with me.”
A strange request. Petyr narrowed his eyes, fixated on those Tully rivers he’d
fallen for long ago. She was playing him, she had to be. Manipulate the teacher
to alter the assignment. But her marriage to Harry Arryn was set in stone, no
matter how much she—or he—resisted.
“Are you still nervous?” asked Petyr gently, grazing the back of his hand along
her cheekbone. “You will be Lady of the Vale, a position far beyond that of any
other baseborn girl. The envy of every maid in the Eyrie. This step is
necessary to achieve what we’ve set out for.”
“I know.” Sansa, not Alayne, shied away from his touch. She walked over to the
balcony and wrung her hands, a gesture he recognized during her times of fear.
“He’s not the most enjoyable person. His jokes are crude and all he talks about
is his stupid knighthood, one he barely even earned.” She turned to him, eyes
begging for that which he’d surely give. “Will you come with me, Father?
Please?” Her unspoken words hung in the air; I’d rather not go without you.
Something in the way she asked broke his refusal. A subtle crack in the mask,
nothing more. He drew a deep breath. “I suppose I can step away from my work
for one night,” said Petyr in consent, unable to hide how pleased he was at the
idea of her needing him. He blew out the candles on his desk. They flickered
before fading into smoke. “Shall we go?”
Sansa gave a grateful nod as she took his arm, and together they walked to the
dining hall.
Harry was perched at the head of the long table. He was dressed in the colors
of his House, a name regrettably given by Robin’s death. Sansa stepped into the
role of Alayne and beamed at her intended. It was as if she’d never been
worried at all. She has learned well. “Lord Arryn,” said Alayne upon entry,
executing her best curtsy. Petyr followed suit with a bow.
Harry soured when he noticed his unexpected guest. “What’s he doing here?”
“I invited him,” Alayne replied. “I wanted to dine with my father tonight. It
was him who helped arrange the marriage, after all. Shouldn’t he be here to
celebrate with us?”
“I am touched, of course, to be cherished so.” Petyr placed a hand over his
chest. “It does my heart well to see you happy.”
Harry did not respond. He waved a dismissive hand and Alayne took a seat at her
future husband’s right side. Petyr took the one to his left, ever-observant,
ever-calculating. The pair was far less talkative than usual. Either Petyr’s
presence had dampened whatever friendliness Harry had, or Alayne was too
anxious to speak. He did not know which option he preferred. Both were equally
amusing.
Meaningless small talk saw them through to dinner. Roasted boar seasoned with
rosemary and thyme, potatoes with butter, cheese with boiled eggs and red wine
to share. The three of them ate in an awkward silence that filled Petyr with
frivolity. His eyes lifted to Alayne now and again, wondering why she’d
insisted so heavily on his attendance if the evening would lack event. She was
always confident before. What does she fear? It wasn’t until Harry spoke that
Petyr turned his attention away from her.
“Where will you go when Alayne and I are married, Baelish?” Harry took a bite
of boar and continued talking with his mouth full. “Surely you won’t stay here.
The Vale has a new Lord now, no need to slither about.”
Petyr’s irritation was thinly veiled. “Pentos, my lord. I have business in the
free cities that requires my immediate attention. I will leave the Eyrie
shortly after you and my daughter depart for your honeymoon.”
“So you’ll be in Pentos with us?” Alayne sounded hopeful.
"For a time, yes.”
Harry sighed. “I meant afterthat. Permanently.”
Petyr’s mouth twitched. How ironic, that I'm unwelcome here. “I still have
things to attend to in the Vale. If you’ll permit me, Lord Arryn, I had hoped
to stay until winter at the very least.”
“Of course you can stay,” chimed Alayne quickly. Too quickly. She smiled from
across the table, but Petyr was enough of an expert in Sansa to read between
expressions. Her fingers fumbled with her dinner fork. Anxious, fearful. “You
can even stay through winter if you like. It’ll be much safer here than the
Fingers. Warmer as well.”
Petyr thought for a moment, eyes never leaving hers in a gaze both charming and
challenging. “Would you like me to stay, Alayne?” he asked with a grin. “I
shall leave the matter up to you.”
She paused, unaware that he would give her such power. He hadn’t, in truth; the
plans he’d made were already bearing fruit whether she willed it or no, but he
was curious to see what she did with her answer. Her discomfort brought him
sinful delight. Alayne pushed the potatoes around her plate and chewed her lip.
“I would,” she decided. “Very much.”
“I will stay, then. For you.” Nothing was sweeter than that.
Harry didn’t share his intended’s declaration. He straightened in his seat,
trying to assert authority. Petyr was reminded briefly of a rooster. “Do I have
no say in this?”
“What would you like to say?” Alayne set down her fork and wiped her mouth with
a napkin, preparing to speak at length. “My father is one of the smartest men
in Westeros. He is accomplished in finances, politics, marriages, negotiations
and trade. He already improved the Vale in the short time he was Lord
Protector. Sending him away would be foolish, Harry. I know you’re new to being
a lord, but you should take advice wherever you can get it. He will stay.”
Alayne flashed her father a nervous look. “I want him nearby.”
Do you? Petyr smirked in that dark way of his, taking another drink of wine and
eyeing her over the rim of his glass. Her defense of him was flattering and
bolstered his ego considerably, but there was also warmth there, a comfort in
her words. How strange it was, to be wanted. “Don’t worry. Lord Arryn is no
fool, Alayne, he’ll make the right choice. I will never be far from your door.”
Her smile was small but genuine, leaving Petyr feeling oddly disadvantaged.
The rest of their dinner passed without much protest. Harry dragged on about
his knighthood and belittled Alayne, mentioning his two bastard children and
how his first woman got “fat as a cow” during pregnancy—naturally, he hoped
that wouldn’t happen to her. Petyr listened intently. Alayne didn’t stand for
many of Harry’s japes, but she was not at ease in her defenses and her eyes
pleaded with Petyr for mercy. He could not oblige. He could, however, steal her
away from her husband-to-be for perhaps a final night of solitude. The first of
many gifts to come. When the wine ran out and Harry was half-drunk, Petyr
offered his hand to her, assured in knowing she preferred his company. “Come,
sweetling. You should get your rest. Tomorrow will be a long day, and a young
bride’s weariness foreshadows ill union.”
“Yes, Father,” said Alayne eagerly. She kissed Harry’s cheek before he could
protest, and the shock of her initiative silenced him into submission. Petyr
offered his arm again. She took it gratefully, and the two left Lord Arryn to
return her to her chambers.
Father and daughter turned down an empty hallway. When she was certain the
knights wouldn’t hear her, Sansa exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath
for ages. “My future is with that,” she said under her breath. “I’d rather
marry a toad.”
“You’ll make a man out of him yet,” chuckled Petyr. “Don't underestimate
yourself.”
“That’s the problem. He thinks he already is a man.” Sansa glanced over her
shoulder to ensure they weren’t being followed, but regardless she knew better
than to shed cover so openly. “Being a man is all he talks about, but he’s
still just a boy.”
“And what do you know of manhood, my dear?” Oh, what a question. He eyed her
provocatively, certain she would catch his double meaning. “It is so very hard
to pin down.”
Her flushed face was its own reward. “I know a man when I see one,” she
replied. “As for manhood, it is far less complicated than womanhood. I’m sure
you’re well aware.”
Petyr stopped at her door. Sansa’s words were forward, so blunt where she was
normally shy, and it pulled at something in his core that spurned a deep
hunger. He stared at her. She felt small; he could tell by the way she shrunk
back against her door, like she was prey. His eyes must have let loose a desire
not meant for the moment. He grabbed it and clutched it to his chest, smirking
to distract her from another momentary crack. “Harry is not a man to you, then.
Who is?”
“…other men,” she said. Her coyness stoked his lust. Sansa fumbled with her
fingers, her voice lowering so only he could hear. “I don’t know how to make
him mine.”
“Yes you do. Think hard.” He closed the distance between them, so close that
their chests nearly brushed. Petyr smiled as her breath hitched and hastened, a
rose color rising to her cheeks. “You are skilled, Alayne. You’ve learned from
the very best. Now it is time to put those lessons into practice. I’m sure you
will find something in your husband worth shaping.” He lifted her chin with his
finger. “If not, however, you needn’t worry. There are other ways you could
learn. Better ways.”
Petyr’s tone caught her off-guard. She looked at him blankly as nothing but
Sansa, nothing but the way he wanted her. Moments passed before she gently
pushed his hand from her face. “I believe that is between me and my husband,
Father.” She spoke with confidence, but her chest rose and fell with every
breath. Only after reading the heat in his eyes did she deliver her secret
dagger. “I know you want me to succeed, but I’m afraid. You didn’t ask me what
I wanted when you decided to marry me off. You have all these plans, but you
assume I’m going to follow them like some pawn and not a player. You said you
would bring me home and then tangled me up in your foul web, and now—“
She stopped abruptly. Petyr frowned as he caught the sorrow in her stare. Her
feelings on the marriage were known, but never thought of. He had always
remained focused on his own ambitions. But how would those goals be reached if
his final target was unhappy? He wanted her willing. He was selfish,
inconsiderate, and his resolve wavered in knowing that it may cost him in
gaining her affections. Sansa must have seen the fire fade from his eyes. She
softened as well, her shoulders lowering from their tense incline. “Goodnight,”
she said briskly, slipping to her room and closing the door. Petyr was left on
a tightrope, struggling to find the balance between success and failure that
Sansa thrust him on. Where was his true fault? Where did he misstep?
He stood at her door many moments too long. After hardening his walls, Petyr
returned to his chambers to reconsider what it meant to cage a songbird.
Chapter End Notes
     bah
     for some reason this chapter feels really weak to me??? I think I've
     just been staring at it for too long. I've never written Petyr's
     perspective before, so it was a strange and weird experience.
     Shoutout and thanks to Megan, Connie and Amanda who helped me out,
     because I'm a feedback whore and I just can't get enough. WHO CARES,
     HAVE THIS CHAPTER. I promised weekly updates, so weekly updates I
     shall give. I hope the finished product isn't too terribly awful (but
     i need to grow up and get used to it considering rotating POV's are
     my thing). Why do I do this to myself? The world will never know.
     See you Saturday, lovelies! <3
***** Clipped Wings *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
This is the chapter with the non-con scene. You'll know when it's about to
happen, so when it gets near, feel free to skip (though it is very mild and not
graphic, so there's that).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The parcel lay open on her chamber floor. Sansa had stared at it for a full
hour, hesitant and wary. Her wedding gown was no small spectacle. Made
specifically for the future Lady of the Vale, it was decorated with goose
feathers and sashes of white silk, making any young bride appear like a
songbird at rest. A younger Sansa would have been thrilled to wear such a
garment, convinced it made her a princess in her own right. Time had changed
her. The naiveté had long since died, replaced with disillusion.
Sansa feared the pain that lay in her future with Harrold Arryn. This is just
temporary, she thought, searching for comfort. I will have Harry’s children and
then I can go home. To Winterfell where I belong. She could almost taste the
ice in the air and feel the snow on her long lashes, sprinkled on her skin just
so, but that distant possibility was far from her here-and-now. She sat
pensively at the edge of her bed. The natural color of her hair had returned,
auburn curls pinned back in a suitable style for a southern bride, and Sansa
was naked as her nameday, sitting. Waiting. Courage, come back to me.
This was her course. This dress, this place. Sansa stood and pulled
the gown from its wrappings, slipping it over her curves and pale frame. She
looked in the mirror when the laces were tied and saw an elegant Lady Stark
looking back, a woman with vigor and stamina and scars that had thickened her
skin to steel. She straightened her posture. Mother would not have been
afraid, thought Sansa. Robb wouldn't be, and Father wouldn't either.
Mytruefather. I must be brave for them.
Sansa slipped her delicate feet into crystal shoes that clicked when she
walked. Unsure of what to do, she paced about her bedchamber before coming to
rest at the edge of the open balcony. Sunlight sparkled overhead. Distant
mountains glowed with frost, and for a moment she could close her eyes and feel
a touch of home again. The image gave her peace. Despite knowing it would
shatter, she clung to it, keeping the memory of Winterfell as the rock she
would stand on.
“Sansa,” came a voice. She hadn’t heard him enter. “It’s almost time.”
She couldn’t face him. Not yet. Sansa remembered how vulnerable he’d made her
feel, a mouse caught in the sweetest trap. She could never pinpoint her meaning
to him, never decipher what she was worth. His plans claimed to benefit her and
the North’s retribution, but she’d yet to truly see it, as much as she trusted
his skills in playing the game. When would he abandon her for some greater
goal? Sansa fidgeted. Silence and tension passed between them, unacknowledged
but certainly felt.
Petyr spoke again. “Come. Let me have a look at you before the cloaking. We
must make sure nothing is out of place.”
With a deep breath, Sansa obeyed. She lifted her cream-colored skirts and
turned. Her eyes remained on the floor at first, counting the stones as she
passed them, but her gaze met his when she stopped a few feet from him. Grey-
green eyes wore an expression of buried lust. He examined her appearance from
her shoes to her braided hair, searching for a flaw, anything he could
rearrange. He walked around her in a slow pace. Sansa could sense him stripping
her bare in his mind, not for the first time, but today she did not care. It
was almost comforting, sickeningly so, compared to the treatment that may await
her at Harry’s hands. Color rushed to her cheeks when Petyr faced her again.
“You will make many a jealous lord today.”
“Those lords will only catch a glimpse.” Sansa returned his smile, though hers
was less confident. Uncertain. She outstretched her hands to straighten the
mockingbird pin on his shoulder, one that kept an emerald sash hooked around
his fine black clothes. "The people of the Vale will remember me until they
die, but they will also remember the man who brought the last surviving Stark
back into the world. You must look perfect too, even if you're only in the
background.”
“You will find no protest on my part.” Petyr smirked as he looked at her hands.
When she was done, they returned to her side.
“Last night,” Sansa blurted. “The way I spoke to you.”
“Think nothing of it, my lady.”
“I do, though.” She sighed. “I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have said those
things to you, I was just—“
“Sansa.” He silenced her with a hand on her shoulder, warm and comforting. His
touch on bare skin made her heart flutter. “Enough. I can tell you are nervous,
but there is nothing to fear. I told you that you wouldn’t suffer Harry’s
attention for long, didn’t I? We must play our parts, however unfortunate.”
Petyr brushed his thumb along her shoulder before removing his hand entirely.
“I have a gift for you.”
Sansa raised her brow. “What is it?”
Petyr took half a step back and lifted his left arm, draped with a white and
smoke-colored maiden's cloak. Stitched direwolves pranced along the sides with
fox fur trim on the collar, but the cloak was not his gift. Turning up his left
palm, he exposed a diamond brooch of pristine craftsmanship, shaped in the form
of a leaping trout. Sansa softly gasped as it glittered in the sun. “Letting
you wed without a mark of Tully on you would be an insult to Catelyn’s memory,”
said Petyr. “I’m sure it’s not like the one she often wore, but it will suffice
I hope?”
A sentimental gift would be expected if Sansa had been paying attention. But
she was still young and vulnerable to the Stark way, the heartfelt way. Perhaps
that was why he’d bothered with such a present at all. She picked up the brooch
and held it in her hands, still warm from Petyr’s palm, and brushed her fingers
over the silver. Though her mind forbade it, Sansa’s eyes began to water. “It’s
beautiful. You’re right, it’s not like the one she wore, but this is more than
a wonderful substitute.” Sansa beamed at the memory of her mother’s pin, always
on her gown no matter the occasion. “She wanted all five of us to have
something like this for our weddings. I wonder if she gave one to Robb too,
when he married Jeyne…”
Petyr did not reply. Sansa didn’t need him to. Her smile was gentle when she
looked at him again, though her warmth was not reciprocated. A hint of
melancholy lurked in his stare. “Thank you, Petyr,” she muttered. “Can I keep
it?”
“Of course.” His tone was thin, deep. “I hope it serves to remind you of better
days.” Petyr extended his hand to take back his offering. “May I cloak the
bride, my lady?”
She nodded. Sansa handed him the brooch and watched him unveil the maiden’s
cloak from his arm, shaking it out gently. It was a sight to behold, purity
taken form. Petyr moved behind her to drape the cloak over her shoulders. His
right arm reached around her, and then the other, fastening the fox fur with
the diamond fish. A shiver raced up her spine, so quick he was sure to notice.
Sansa allowed herself a second to yield. She melted into the security of his
chest mere inches from her back, his fingers at her throat, closing the gifted
pin just barely touching her neck. This was all a part of the game, wasn’t it?
There was no room for her heart on the chessboard. But if he could hold her a
moment longer and chase the unbidden fears from sight…
He did not. Petyr pulled away, leaving her crestfallen and more vulnerable than
before, and spoke words that shoved a stake in her heart. "Are you ready to
face your soon-to-be husband?"
No. Sansa wished she could say the word, but she couldn't. Not now. Instead of
taking his arm, she faced him. Her eyes were filled with fear, a saddened
curiosity. “My husband will not be kind,” she said, soft as silk, barely above
a whisper. “Would you have been kind?”
Petyr stood in silence. His mouth hung agape. He seemed lost, stripped of all
expectations and made speechless by her innocence. They stared at each other,
fire blazing between them that neither could comprehend. Longing, that was what
she saw. Petyr longed for her. Sansa began to realize how much she longed for
him as well, made fiercer by the prospect of another man’s touch.
“Sansa…” His voice was hoarse and woeful. He cleared his throat. For the first
time, she watched him struggle to find the right words. “Were I to stand with
you before the septon today…yes, I would be kind, though perhaps you would not
see it at first. Kindness can live in the darkest of hearts, after all." He
took a short step forward, closing the distance as he had one early morning not
long ago, the day of the snowcastle. Sansa’s throat tightened. She was certain
he would pull her in for another kiss, a brush of lips on lips to seal a secret
marriage of their own, but instead he quickly withdrew. Petyr offered his right
arm, a proper gentleman ready to escort a lady to her wedding. "It wouldn't do
to dwell too long on what might have been, sweetling. A different path lies
before us today. Your unkind husband awaits."
Something broke inside him; she could see it in his eyes, like glass. Sansa
couldn't decide if she believed him, but as he'd told her once before, the best
deceits bled from truth. His eyes were never as open as they were now. There
was no trace of Littlefinger anymore, merely Petyr Baelish, a boy with nothing
grown into a man with everything. Except me, Sansa thought. She slipped her arm
in his and resigned to what lay ahead. It seemed a monster's kindness was all
she could find, but it was still as sweet a kindness as any.
Petyr led her from the bedchamber. While Sansa was certain the day would be
remembered, the most haunting part was the way he'd said her name. 

 
The ceremony and the following celebration were as magnificent as Petyr had
promised. Every lord fawned over their new Lady of the Vale, Sansa Stark by
blood and birth, and the gifts and cuisine were fit for royalty. Sansa thanked
those who approached her and offered apologies for her late family, promises of
revenge and devotion to her cause. She was gifted with tea to encourage
fertility, beautiful silk gowns and hair combs, crystal shoes and perfume. She
was showered in adoration from the knights of the Vale who’d loved her father
and Jon Arryn, but there was sorrow mingled among each gift she was presented
with. Sansa pitied her younger self for thinking marriage was what life was
for. Harry Arryn sat drunk to her right side and made crude comments throughout
the party, truly the prince charming she’d dreamed of. "A man ought to drink on
his wedding feast!" he'd said with great laughter. "A toast to a noble bride, a
toast to destroying our enemies!"
Sansa was pleased with none of it. She acted her part and entertained the
guests, but each time she sought Lord Baelish's company, she never seemed to
find him. She could use the comfort of a presence she was familiar with. Was
this another test? Was Petyr gauging how she functioned on her own? On any
other day, Sansa would have welcomed the challenge with an open mind, but Harry
continued to stare at her like an object and she wanted Petyr near. How many
times did he promise to protect me? He can't tonight, but he could ease my mind
a little. The tremble of her hands told her it was needed. Without any
prompting, Sansa stood from the dias to search the ballroom.
Many faces came to greet her. Sansa met them all with a smile, with grace and
poise and ladylike charm, but she wasn't interested in conversation. Polite
distractions kept her away from unwanted people. She kept the Tully pin
clutched in her palm as she moved through the happy crowds. Where is he? Sansa
thought in panic. Where has he gone?
"M’lady Stark!” shouted Harry from behind. Sansa jumped at the sudden voice in
her ear and whirled to face him. He grabbed her waist and pulled her close.
"The hour is late. Would you do your good husband the honor of letting him
escort you to our chambers?"
"You're drunk," Sansa blurted. Harry snorted in reply, struggling to stay
balanced.
"Of course I'm drunk. But I can still perform. Anyone could perform with a
bride like you."
Sansa did not accept the compliment. A few knights of the Vale scowled at their
lord's behavior. "I was looking for Lord Baelish," she calmly explained,
writhing from his grasp. "I'd like to speak to him."
"Do it tomorrow." Harry snatched her arm. "We have business to attend to. The
good part."
Sansa bit her lip. There was no refusing him; she knew that look in a man’s
eye. She turned to the nearest knight, Ser Lothor Brune, who looked at her with
pity. "If you...if you see Lord Baelish, would you tell him I was looking for
him?"
"Of course, Lady Arryn." He frowned at her. "Should I escort you to your
chambers?"
"That would be—“
"No, I've got it." Harry gripped Sansa’s waist possessively. "Thank you for the
offer, though. Tell this rabble that we’ve gone to bed." Before she could
reply, Sansa was whisked away, disappearing from what remained of their wedding
celebration. Her heart felt heavy. She followed Harry silently to the chambers
of the Lord of the Vale, decorated in blue and silver and white and black, all
elegant and regal, but not all hers. Sansa entered the room and wrung her
hands. Candles illuminated the shadows in a dull glow, but she could not
appreciate their beauty.
The door shut behind her. She dared not make a move, waiting to see what kind
of man Harry would prove himself to be.
"Tell me," he said after a long silence, pouring himself a glass of Dornish
sour. "How does Alayne Stone become Sansa Stark? Or, vice versa."
"Hair dye and falsehoods," she replied, regretfully setting the Tully brooch
down on a table. "And protection from Lord Baelish."
"Slippery man, that one. I want him gone." He swallowed the wine in his glass
whole and poured himself another. "Littlefinger. What a stupid name."
"I don't want him to go anywhere." Sansa pulled her courage together, what
little remained, and faced him. "You've had too much to drink. It’s making you
angry. You're saying things you don't mean, but it’s important to remember that
I am Lady of the Vale just as you are Lord. I want him here, as I said at
dinner, so he will stay."
Harry's eyes widened larger than she'd ever seen them. Sansa watched him drink
as he eyed her with a more immediate, primal lust. With a deep breath of
resignation, she spoke again. "Just…be kind," she asked. "That's all I require
of you."
"Kind? Where’s the fun in that?" Harry finished the second cup of wine and
slammed it on the table. “It’s my wedding night too, you know. You don’t get to
'require' things just because you’re some high-and-mighty Stark of Winterfell.
You’re no better than me.”
Am I? But Sansa did not challenge him. Her resolve had already faltered. He
grabbed her by the arm and yanked at the laces of her gown. Sansa clenched her
eyes shut and prayed until it was over, until she was naked and bare before her
lord husband as the gods made her. He removed the pins from her hair. Auburn
curls fell to the base of her spine. Sansa covered her chest, always modest,
but it was not enough for a man with wine in the belly. Harry turned her to
face him and eased her arms away, soaking her in like the liquor he loved. It
wasn't like the way Petyr looked at her. He would drink from the sight of her
clothed body, but his lips never touched the glass, save once. Harry's mouth
would be all over her by the time the night was through.
"Sansa Stark," he muttered, astonished, not looking at her face. "You are
beautiful."
She did not thank him. Harry yawned and pulled away, unbuttoning his tunic
casually as if she was a tavern whore and he was late for an appointment. "Lay
down," he said, "and spread your legs. This wedding night’s gotta be good for
both of us, and I’ll get my share." He hiccupped. "If you want me to go north,
Lady Stark, I've got to see if Winterfell is worth it."
Her temper flared, but not nearly as much as her fear. For Winterfell, she
thought. For home. Sansa did as he requested and laid back upon the bed, but
kept her knees touching. Only when Harry approached, his breeches around his
ankles, did he force her legs apart with a jerk. Sansa whimpered when his lips
met her neck. She couldn't find it in herself to be obedient, couldn't be the
dutiful wife Petyr wanted her to be. She was so young, so innocent. Was there
no place for purity in the world anymore? She closed her eyes and tried to
pretend Harry was someone else. Anyone else. Tyrion Lannister, Sandor Clegane,
even Petyr Baelish in the flesh. Still, Harry's kisses were not a comfort and
they did nothing to arouse her. He removed his tunic and came down for her
again. She felt sick, filthy. Impure. Please, she begged to whatever gods still
listened. Please let this be over soon.
“Eugh,” groaned Harry when he looked down at her. “If you’re not going to enjoy
yourself, at least turn over so I can pretend you are.”
She wasn’t given time to object. Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but her words
were cut by Harry’s hands gripping her hips to turn her. “Wait,” she begged as
he rolled her on her stomach. “Harry, wait, I need to—“
Pain ripped through her body when he filled her. She wasn’t ready, wasn’t
prepared, and Sansa cried out at the unexpected fire. He did not stop thrusting
and ignored her protests. Harry was persistent, stinking of wine and muttering
things about the North and how Saffron had pleased him more. She wept
helplessly into the blankets. He was finished long before Sansa could find a
comfortable position, but there wasn’t one, not when he’d violated her so
carelessly. Harry said nothing as he passed out minutes later on their marriage
bed, her blood on the sheets, and she felt empty. Sansa lie still for what felt
like hours. She trembled when she tried to stand. She reached for her
nightgown, a simple folded shift at the end of the bed, still feeling naked
when she draped it over her. The image of Winterfell had been her rock, but a
falcon had come and stolen it away.
When the midnight hour passed, Sansa slipped into bed at her husband’s side and
ensured her back was facing him. She would not let him see her tears.
Chapter End Notes
     what a FUCKING BUMMER
     Angst on the horizon. SORRY. I CAN'T HELP IT.
     Tuesday's chapter might hurt more than this one. What can I say. I'm
     a cruel mistress. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
     See you then! <3 As always, feedback is appreciated!
***** The Heart Tree *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The growing void between himself and Sansa was the only unplanned obstacle. It
haunted his path to power like a wrathful ghost, and Petyr did not sleep well
because of it. He had hidden from the wedding celebration to work ceaselessly,
cementing the final steps of his plans, but even that small satisfaction did
not bring him peace. Only emptiness. He slept restlessly and dreamt of nothing,
and when he woke, he felt as though he’d risen from the grave. What kind of
woman was Sansa to affect him this way? She had looked at him with those
irresistible eyes, her mother’s eyes, but he didn’t think of Catelyn when he
saw them anymore. Sansa, only Sansa. “Would you have been kind?”
Petyr rose from silk sheets, feeling uncharacteristically weary. He bathed and
dressed as routine demanded, and when the first fingers of dawn touched the
Eyrie, he was hard at work. He felt unrewarded. The successful union between
Sansa and Harry should have sparked a smugness in him, knowing the dominoes had
fallen in the right place, but it didn’t feel right somewhere deep in his
chest. Somewhere broken. Even Petyr would not traverse that inner waste, so he
sealed those feelings away in the darkness. Sansa would not pierce his walls;
he was determined on that front, at least.
Petyr scribbled away with ink and quill on a strip of fine paper, one among
many. The carriers of his messages arrived not long after daybreak. His study
was more akin to the tent of a battle commander than a solar, and while there
was not yet a war, there was plenty to accomplish before the ships sailed for
Pentos. He stayed busy for the sake of ambition and to keep his mind off the
girl he’d given away. A plate of uneaten breakfast sat to his right side. Petyr
ignored his growling stomach. Morning led to high noon, and when the last of
many couriers came and went, he began drafting a final letter despite his
cramping hand.
“You should eat that,” said Ser Lothor Brune. Petyr looked up as the knight
entered the room. “Doesn’t do any good just sitting there.”
“In time.” Petyr dipped his quill in the inkwell and began writing again. “Is
something the matter, Lothor? I thought you’d be overseeing the guards.”
“Lady Stark was looking for you last night, m’lord.” Lothor’s tone was sour.
“She didn’t seem happy.”
Petyr’s quill paused for a moment, only a moment, before moving again. “She did
her duty. Obviously the matter was not of immediate concern if you waited this
long to bring it to my attention.”
“You ordered no one to disturb you last night, m’lord.”
Did I? Petyr sighed, irked by his momentary weakness. “Very good, then. I will
see Lady Sansa when I am finished here.” He dipped the quill again. “Will you
fetch her fool husband for me? I’ve need of him.”
“At once.” Ser Lothor obeyed and exited the study, leaving Petyr alone.
It was strangely uncomfortable to know that some green boy had been with Sansa
in the most intimate way. Petyr felt like something had been stolen from him,
which was absurd considering he’d given her to her husband. It was a necessary
step to achieving his goals. The feeling of loss was completely irrational, but
that did not make it go away. Another regret to add to his hidden collection.
Petyr paused his writing to consider what Sansa may have wanted from him, but
it was hard to contemplate without feelings muddling the way. He pushed them
aside to focus on drafting more orders; the lesser of two different pains.
“Lord Baelish,” said a voice from his open door. Harrold Arryn walked into his
study, fatigue and nausea written on his face. Petyr was pleased to see it
there. “You’re working hard, aren’t you?”
“The work does not wait,” Littlefinger replied with a grin. He stood from his
desk and folded his hands in front of him. “One must start early to finish the
race.”
Harry merely nodded. He walked around the solar, examining the countless books
in their respective shelves and dragging his fingertips along the titles. You
have touched enough of my belongings. Wanting him gone, Petyr stacked the
important papers requiring a signature and crossed the room. “Here is what I
summoned you for, my lord. Some instructions for running the Eyrie while you
and Lady Arryn are away in Pentos.”
“That’s all there is?” Harry took the papers and lazily skimmed over them.
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” Petyr lied. “When you’ve finished signing them, I will see that
they find their intended destinations.”
Many of the orders were a slow drabble to keep Harry occupied, if a bit
annoyed, but none of them were objectionable; a request for Lady Waynwood to
oversee the Vale, authorization for the Eyrie's stewards to stock the winter
food supply, potential marriage arrangements for lesser lords and ladies, and
so on. Menial things. It was all very tedious, but among the orders Petyr was
able to slip in items of a more personal interest. Harry began to read the
first few. As expected, he eventually became bored and signed them one after
the other. Littlefinger took the completed letters with a smirk of triumph. How
easy it is to manipulate fools. He thanked Lord Arryn and had half a mind to
let him leave, but another thought crept to the forefront of Petyr’s mind. “How
was your wedding night?” he asked. “I’m told the bedding was examined?”
“It was,” said Harry. “In truth, I don’t really remember it. Drank too much
wine. Alayne—I mean, Sansa—she’s something else. A spectacular beauty. But she
didn’t want to speak to me this morning, can’t imagine why.”
Petyr didn’t like the sound of that. “Where is our lady now?”
“The godswood. She said something about wanting to pray.” Harry scratched his
chin. “For someone who pretended to be her father, I thought you’d know that.”
“I’ve been quite busy with other matters,” said Petyr, narrowing his eyes in
spite. “The Vale can’t run itself. I’ve yet to see her since the wedding.”
“Ah. Shame. Well, I’m sure she’ll make a good Lady Arryn for whatever it’s
worth.” Harry eyed him skeptically. “Where were you last night? I remember your
toast, then nothing.”
“Busy,” Petyr repeated. “I was—“
“Oh, nevermind. I’m not sure I care that much.” Harry patted him on the
shoulder. It took an immense amount of self-control not to smack his hand away.
“Until later, Baelish.” Lord Arryn left without another word, and Petyr
released the aching hand that had been clenched in a fist.
He was too restless to stand there very long. Once his hand regained a feeling
other than pain, he grabbed his winter cloak and left in search of Sansa. It
was a relief to know that she'd consummated her marriage, but he wanted to see
how she was handling it, how she was handling Harry. If her husband’s words
were anything to go by, her reaction to intimacy was less than enthusiastic. If
he brought her harm, I will take care of him myself. I’ve no room in my plans
for Sansa’s sorrow.
The godswood of the Eyrie had no heart tree. Petyr was never one for religion,
especially since youth taught him that the gods did not answer prayers, but
Sansa still visited the so-called godswood regularly. A small smirk passed his
lips at the memory of her, red-cheeked and freezing, when he helped her build a
castle from sticks and snow. Petyr found her there again. She was sitting on a
long stone bench, next to the place where her castle had once been. Her hair
was a vibrant shade of auburn, sprinkled with falling snow and glowing in the
afternoon light. Hers was an image more beautiful than a dream. It seems Sansa
is the heart tree here.
"Lady Arryn,” said Petyr as he approached her from behind, slipping on his
unseen mask. “I'm told you were looking for me. Unfortunately I was entangled
in important business. How are you enjoying married life?"
She looked at him. Her dismal expression brought a crack to his walls. Sansa
was subdued, mournful even, and her strength was based in bitterness instead of
pride. Petyr’s planned words fell from his lips to the point where he forgot
them, and was left abandoned when she turned away. “Marriage is unkind,” she
said.
His chest felt twisted. He dragged his tongue over his teeth, mulling over a
reply. Petyr sat on the bench beside her and his voice fell low. “Did he hurt
you?”
“What does it matter? I am the Lady of the Vale.” Sansa held her arms.
“Everything happened as you wanted it to.”
“It was not my intention to have you harmed, Sansa.”
She scoffed. “I’m not sure you cared, so long as I married him.”
Petyr furrowed his brow, refusing to hide his profound irritation as this girl
who’d seen so much of him and judged him wrongly. How could she believe her
pain was his intent? If anything, it was an unfortunate possibility that he’d
faced and weighed and considered before making the marriage contract at all.
Sansa stood from her seat. She faced him with eyes that read of betrayal. “What
do you really want, Petyr? Why did you come here?”
He frowned. Hers were good questions, questions that struck at the heart of the
matter whether she realized it or not. Snowflakes fell on his skin as Petyr
stood, reaching. He took her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and
eyed her with surprising affection. He picked his words carefully. “I want many
things, Sansa, and one of them is for you to be happy. Not the passing
happiness of a day where you might forget your troubles, but truly happy. Your
family avenged and your home restored and your safety assured. Never would I
wish you harm, for if I did, harm would have befallen you by now.”
Sansa averted her eyes. She seemed conflicted, so Petyr did not push her. Frail
hands lifted to touch his wrist and guide his hand away. Once again, she
shattered his expectations. Sansa took his hand in both of hers and softly
moved her thumbs over his knuckles, a romantic gesture that puzzled him. “My
pain is your doing,” she said, “but you don’t control Harry. You didn’t make
him drink. Try as you like, you can’t move people without knowing there’s
always a risk. You’ve told me as much.” Petyr’s composure was rattled. She
continued before he could speak in his defense. “I am my mother’s daughter, I
know you see that, but I am my father’s too. I value the truth. Nothing you
could ever teach me will overwrite that. I want honesty from you, Petyr, as
much as you’re willing to give.” Sansa’s Tully eyes lifted to meet his. A fist
in the gut. “Here is my truth; I have nothing in this world without you. My
family is gone. My home is overrun with monsters and my husband has no love for
me. There are hundreds of things I could ask you for, but…” Her words wavered,
sweet as the woman who spoke them. “Don’t leave me here alone.”
Sansa knew precisely where the seams of his skin were, knew how to untie them
and spill his soul onto the floor. She drove him mad, drove him wild, but he’d
always remained composed enough to hide her effects from the naked eye. Not
today. Sansa had unmade him. Her gentleness took the shriveled heart in his
chest and pumped something like life back into it, a dead thing that should
have stayed buried. He pursed his lips. Perhaps allowing her to see him
wouldn’t be such a bad idea, so long as it eased her obvious fears. Petyr drew
a deep breath, resigning to gamble.
"Honesty? That is all you want?" He stepped closer, invading her space as he so
often did, his fingers taking a strand of her hair between them. Petyr's eyes
met hers. Fire burned bright in his gaze of gray-green, stoked by desire so raw
she could choke on it. "Then I shall give you honesty. I left your wedding
party because I didn't trust myself to keep calm after we spoke in your
bedchamber. You've managed to find the space between me and the façade, Sansa,
which few others have ever done. None of them managed to crack and pry it open
like you do. If others had seen me looking at you after you'd knocked the mask
askew, or saw my spite for Harry when I looked at him, it may have ruined
everything. That is why I hid away, and agonized over every moment I knew that
oaf would be touching you." Petyr lifted his hand, pulling hers up with it, and
planted a kiss on her delicate skin. "I told you that you would not see
kindness in my actions. I let last night happen as it did in order to see you
through to the true happiness I know you long for. Nothing worth taking is ever
free, and the cost is sometimes measured in pain rather than coin. This will
not be the last time the blame for your suffering rests at my feet, but it is
what must be done if your hopes, and my own, are to come to fruition. That is
my honesty for you."
Petyr waited to see how the cards would fold. For many tense moments, Sansa
stood under his gaze and searched him for any sign of a lie. Doubtless she
would see how he craved her, searing at the surface. He didn’t know what else
she would see. Petyr’s soul held so many dead things, Sansa was sure to see the
waste. Would she see his ambitions, too? Would all his life’s work be spoiled
in naught but a single glance?
Her eyes suddenly changed. Danger, he read. Fear. She withdrew her hand from
his, letting it hang. Petyr’s heart seized. She trembled and her breath became
uneasy, as if she expected him to slit her throat then and there. “Lord
Baelish,” came her whisper of departure. Like a rush of wind, she was gone.
Petyr watched her retreat as his hand sank down to his side. Once again he’d
misjudged Sansa, but this time he hadn’t a clue how. She wanted his honesty and
he’d given it, moreso than he had to anyone since... Catelyn, perhaps? And here
history had repeated itself. A highborn lady with fire in her hair rejecting
him when he was most vulnerable. Something about his honesty had pushed Sansa
away. She seemed afraid of him. There had always been fear in her, a fear born
of not knowing what he wanted, but had he not spoken the truth as she asked?
Was it so hard for her to believe?
Petyr gathered his pain, the new pain and the old pain and the honesty and
everything else that spilled. He shoved it back inside the carcass that might
have been left behind. What was the Ironborn saying? What is dead may never
die, but rises again harder and stronger. So it would be with the creature
called Littlefinger, the shell worn by Petyr to hide his weaknesses and
vulnerabilities. He'd stepped outside of it in the vain hope that Sansa would
accept him, but there he was, left only with a dead godswood for company.
Sunlight fell on his shoulders, but he felt winter’s chill in his heart.
Pentos would not be kept waiting. When he turned to leave, Lord Baelish vowed
to rebuild his walls so high that even Harren the Black would weep with envy.
Chapter End Notes
     I'M SORRY I DIDN'T LET UP ON THE ANGST
     Wow, this chapter hurts me. Whoops.
     This is the first chapter I've been entirely on my own as far as
     character checking. If Petyr seems off or whatever, please let me
     know I guess? I always worry about authenticity. I'm a perfectionist
     when I write, what can I say. I'd love to hear from you!
     See you Saturday my dears <3 *dances away on the hell-ship train*
***** Carefully-Laid Plan *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Harry’s snores drowned out the sound of ocean waves. Sansa tried sleeping in
different positions, her head under multiple pillows and blankets, but no
matter what she tried his volume disrupted her. She groaned and pushed back the
covers to glare at her unruly husband. He was shirtless with his mouth agape,
looking like the idiot she saw him as. Sansa tentatively reached over to close
his mouth without waking him, but Harry merely stirred and rolled over,
continuing to snore. There would be no rest for her, it seemed. Another
sleepless night. Her only true desire was to be away from him. Sansa crept over
Harry’s sleeping frame and slipped on a robe when she met the cabin floor, and
stepped out into the hull in search of solitude.
The Falcon’s Wing was a large ship, a two-masted schooner with sails of blue
and gray silk. Sansa admired everything about it, from the intricacies of the
woodwork to the labor of the seamen. Something about sailing relaxed her.
Surrounded by the glittering ocean, it was hard to stay wallowed in grief. Her
time with Harry left her dejected, his greedy hands barely leaving her when
they retired for the night, but while he slept there was time for reflection
without him. Time to feel whole again. Perhaps that was the greatest gift the
Falcon's Wing could give her; peace.
Sansa padded barefoot along the open deck, eyes cast to the fading sunset on a
gold and navy skyline. Darkness swallowed the clouds and stars sparkled
overhead like jewels. Sansa closed her eyes, taking the salt sea air into her
lungs and the wind through her messy curls. There was harmony at sea, sweeter
than any song. She thought of Petyr’s words in King’s Landing. “I always wanted
a ship,” he’d told her. Now she could see why. Sansa opened her eyes again and
walked to a crate by the railing, ignoring the confused stares of late-working
sailors, none of whom thought they’d catch a glimpse of the Lady Arryn at this
hour. Sansa climbed atop her wooden perch and hugged her knees close, toying
with her wedding ring. Maybe if she prayed hard enough, mercy could accompany
the peace she’d found.
“You shouldn’t sit up there, m’lady.” Sansa recognized the voice of Ser Lothor
Brune, and did not turn to face him. “If we hit a reef, you’ll fall overboard.”
“Maybe I will.” Sansa sighed. “That wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?”
“Lord Baelish would have my head.”
Would he? Thinking about Petyr made her heart sink. How foolish she’d been, to
see him as nothing but himself and run away in fear. Sansa pulled her legs
closer. “Will you sit with me, then? Maybe you could catch me if I fall.”
Lothor paused. She didn’t hear him move at first, but after several seconds he
heeded her request. The massive knight pulled up a barrel and sat across from
her. He was unreasonably tall, not ugly like the Hound had been, but just as
gentle. She felt reassured by his presence and offered him a smile of
gratitude. Lothor returned it earnestly.
“Is Harry snoring again?” asked the knight. He offered her a mug. Sansa knew
what it contained, and took the fertility tea in hand.
“Does he ever stop? It’s much too loud.” She took a long drink, grateful the
tea didn’t taste like bile. “He can’t stop once he’s started either, especially
when he’s drunk.”
"I used to think it was bad standing guard at his door all night,” said Lothor.
“Can’t imagine how you feel. Must sound like a great big horn in your ear.”
Sansa chuckled. It was small, a shadow of her happier self, but still a chuckle
all the same. She swirled the liquid in her cup. She paused and watched it move
with the slow tilt and turn of the ship, and Sansa’s mind wandered back to
Petyr against her will. Thoughts of him would not stop haunting her. “Ser
Lothor?” she asked. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something since we
left the Eyrie. Something important.” She rested back against the wall of the
captain’s quarters, trying to settle her nerves. “You’ve been Lord Baelish’s
man for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Aye,” he said. “A few years now.”
“Do you…” She bit her lip. “Do you keep council with him?”
“The man doesn’t have many friends, if that’s what you mean.”
“No. I suppose he doesn’t.” Sansa drummed her fingers along the side of the
cup. Her voice fell quiet, meek. “Do you think he hates me?”
“Hates you?” Lothor outright laughed, so sudden he frightened a nearby sailor.
“Seven hells, girl. Are you soft in the head?”
“That’s not polite, ser,” she scolded. “Petyr didn’t even see us off. He barely
spoke to me in the days before we left. He’s never been like that. Not once.”
Lothor shook his head. “You know him. How he is. If he hated you, Lady Stark,
you’d be dead in the ground by now.”
That’s certainly true. Sansa finished her tea, fidgeting with her fingers as
she tried to work out the possibilities. It didn’t feel right, the way her and
Petyr had left things. So much remained unsaid. Poison in the air. Lothor must
have seen the darkness in her eyes, for he leaned closer, concern written in
the lines on his face. Sansa felt her sigh tremble. “I made a mistake,” she
told him. “I think I’ve ruined everything.”
Lothor Brune was no fool. If he’d kept council with Petyr for years, been a
part of his most dangerous schemes, then surely he knew the ties between the
wolf and the mockingbird were stronger than they seemed. The knight breathed
out through his nose. “You’ve a tender heart, m’lady. Baelish’s business runs
in breaking tender hearts.”
“But it’s different with me. It’s always been different,he’s different. He—“
Sansa chewed her lower lip. Her throat began to tighten. “I think I broke him.”
“And how did you manage to do that?” asked Lothor. “He’s not a man who breaks.”
“I was afraid of him.” Sansa stared down into the cup, ashamed. “His eyes…I
could see every desire he’s ever had. Maybe not what lurks deepest, but I could
see his desires for me. So many of them in one stare. And I was—I was
frightened, I was…” Her voice cracked. Sansa looked up to the rising moon,
hoping he would not see the glisten in her eyes. “He gave me the truth and I
ran from him.”
“Now you think he hates you.” Lothor cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable,
but he did not refuse her need for guidance. “You’re not dead or dying. You’re
the Lady of the Vale and he sent me to personally oversee your time in Pentos.
He gave you the fastest ship in the fleet.” Lothor scratched his chin. “I’m no
expert, m’lady, but that doesn’t sound like hatred to me.”
Sansa fell deep in thought. Lothor’s small list of reasons seemed meaningless
compared to Petyr’s recent behavior, but they did not lack merit. Why send her
with the captain of the guard? Petyr had business in Pentos, didn’t he? Did it
have something to do with her? A week had passed since their departure from the
Vale, yet already Sansa found more questions for a mentor who gave nothing but
silence. It’s all my fault. I could have known his plan, but I ruined it with
my stupid fear. I ruined everything.
“I should get some sleep.” Sansa extended her legs and slipped off the crate
she’d been sitting on, wanting nothing more than to put her troubled mind to
rest. The sorrow had returned. “Is there another cabin I can sleep in? Or a
hammock, maybe?”
“Don’t think a hammock’s a place for a lady,” said the knight.
“I don’t care. I don’t want to be with Harry longer than I have to.” Sansa’s
sweet face turned sour. He reflected her frown. “I’ll sleep on the floor if I
must.”
Lothor sighed heavily, a sigh of submission. “Gods, you’re a persistent one.
You’re learning from Littlefinger. Take my bed. I’ll find a hammock.” He
gestured with his chin to the stairs leading below deck. “Go on. We’ll reach
Pentos tomorrow, you’ll want your strength. Your lord husband wants to see the
city and—“
“—‘all the beauties within it,’” Sansa finished for him. She chuckled
humorlessly. “I remember. Thank you, ser. I’d appreciate your cabin for the
night.”
“Third door on the left. Goodnight, Lady Stark.”
“Goodnight.”
Sansa left the tranquility of open sea in exchange for a bed to lie in. She
found Ser Lothor’s cabin and curled up atop the blankets. Sleep came quickly,
and for the first night in many she had a bed to herself without a trace of her
husband’s hands to touch her.

 
The Free City of Pentos was as wonderful as she’d hoped. Since her arrival
three days past, Sansa had been a guest in every merchant lord’s home and
attended several exquisite parties. Lord and Lady Arryn were popular among the
people, two powerful Westerosi come to spend their honeymoon in a foreign land.
Even the Prince of Pentos offered his time to speak with them, visiting them
personally in the small manse he'd let them occupy. Bright tapestries, sweet
incense, magnificent gowns and jewelry alongside the richest foods she’d ever
tried; Sansa felt like a queen. But even queens suffered, she knew that to be
true, and Pentos would not see her suffering end.
Days of women and wine did not slake Harry’s lust. He took Sansa every night,
ignoring her whimpers and riding her like a horse until he was through. She
found no pleasure in his touch. Each time he took her, a piece of herself
slipped away. It shouldn’t have been so easy. Sansa was supposed to make him
his, make him see, but Harry was rarely sober when he stumbled into bed and she
knew better than to argue with drunken men. She obeyed. She waited. She
tolerated what he put her through, the unpleasant nights and frustrating days,
until the morning brought her moonblood and the horror that came with it. The
fertility tea hadn’t worked. Weeks of suffering had been in vain. Tears were
her only company when Harry deemed her unfit to leave the manse, and Sansa
hoped Petyr would come soon enough for her to apologize. I’d slap him if I had
any sense, she thought, but I’m certain I’ve lost my mind.
Sansa lay in bed after a long day of nothing, glancing over to the empty space
by her side. Harry had not returned. He was said to have taken his men out for
a night of drinking and lechery, but hours had passed since sundown and Lord
Arryn was nowhere to be seen. She tried to sleep without him near, without his
blasted snoring, yet she couldn’t stop her aggravating worry. Sansa needed
Harry. Needed his child, his affection, or enough of it to be able to ease her
burdens and convince him to march North. Sansa rolled over on the featherbed
and tried to push the thoughts from her mind. It wouldn’t do any good to hope
for promises he’d yet to make, but they would not be made at all if he wasn’t
alive to swear them.
She heard a noise. A slam against the wall, followed by laughter. She lifted
her head and climbed out from under the blankets. “Harry?” Traces of fear
trickled down her spine. Sansa lit a candle and carried it with her when she
approached the bedroom door, opening it. “Harry, is that you?”
The laughter grew louder when she stepped into the hallway. Sansa followed the
noise to the open foyer, dimly lit by dying candles and lanterns. Her drunken
husband stood in the center of the room with a smug grin, groping the hips of a
whore. A wealthy whore. Her skin was dark, rich, and what little clothing she
had was dotted with gems and gold. The woman turned at the sight of Sansa’s
candle. Dark braids swirled when she moved, and a smile crossed lips thicker
than any Sansa had ever seen. “Is this Lady Arryn?” asked the woman with a
playful smile. “My, my. She is very beautiful.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Harry sneered at his wife. “Too bad she’s bleeding,
otherwise I’d ask her to join us.”
Sansa’s temper flared. It was enough pain to know she’d yet to take seed, but
to be mocked so openly was salt in the wound. She did not marry Joffrey. Sansa
slammed the candle on a nearby table and crossed the room. The whore backed
away before the palm of Sansa’s hand smacked across Harry’s cheek so loudly
that it echoed, and he stumbled. Harry touched his face where she'd struck him,
staring at her with his mouth open as if she’d turned into a beast he could not
slay. Perhaps that’s what she was. Sansa no longer cared.
“The Vale shouldn’t suffer someone like you,” she said fiercely. “I am a Stark
of Winterfell. I am not some bastard girl you can use at your leisure. I amnot
someone to be mocked or humiliated, and I won’t share a bed with a man who
takes other women when he gets tired of me.”
“At least the girls here appreciate my company,” her husband spat, entitled as
ever. He straightened his posture and acted as though he hadn’t just been
slapped. “I’m the Lord of the Vale. Women would line up to be in your shoes. To
be pleased by me.”
“Perhaps, but you lack the grace to please a woman. I should know. Whores are
paid to fake it, my dear, and you pay plenty.”
“Is something wrong, m’lord?” Three of Harry’s guard stepped into the foyer,
armed but not armored. Sansa turned to observe them. The noise must have woken
the house. Sansa drew a deep breath and tried to remember who she was—an
actress with a part to play in a show she never wanted. Anger would not suit
her now, despite how wonderful it felt.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, sers. I was just scolding Lord Arryn like the boy
he is.” Sansa glared at Harry before marching over to a cloak by the manor
entrance, one she’d worn two days past. She retrieved a small purse and counted
five gold Pentoshi coins, a generous offer, and approached the dark beauty on
the other side of the room. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said Sansa.
“Please, take this as compensation. My husband won’t bother you again.”
The woman looked at her with eyes that read only of amusement. A familiar look,
one she’d seen so many times. She tapped her finger under Sansa’s chin and
leaned close to speak cryptically. “Not much longer, sweetling,” she whispered.
“It will all be over soon.”
Sansa’s mouth fell open. The whore’s smile grew wider as she took the coins and
placed them back in Sansa’s palm, along with something else. Something cold.
She moved away, taking all the beauty in the room with her and snatching Harry
by the arm. He did not look at Sansa when they left. She could hear them
talking about sexual perversions and other unrelated things, even as the door
closed behind them. Their words faded to nothing. When Sansa opened her hand to
count the coins, a small vial of blue liquid rested in her hand.
“Lady Arryn?” said one of the knights. He approached her with care. “Should we
escort you back to your chambers?”
“No. I’m alright on my own.” Sansa moved past the three soldiers and clutched
the vial in her fist. She fought back tears when she entered her room again,
leaning against the door, feeling more hopeless than she had since King’s
Landing held her prisoner. Petyr was playing his games with her. A present from
one of his whores, mysterious words meant in sick assurance. She wanted to
break the vial and curse at him, to scream and lay her pain at his feet, but
the look of pure heartbreak in his eyes was stained on her memory. Sansa slid
to the floor and wept as realization fell upon her. She was only a piece on the
board now, a means to an end, and if Sansa wanted to flee the game she would
have to win or be taken. Playing Petyr was a dangerous task, but what other
options remained?
Sansa crawled back into bed. She placed the vial beside the Tully brooch on a
sidetable, and fell asleep wondering why she bothered to keep either of them.
Two tokens of her own defeat.
Chapter End Notes
     Whoops. I did the angst thing again. But I figured I had to patch up
     a small plot hole, so this chapter ended up being more filler than
     anything. I still hope it's to your liking!
     TUESDAY, LADIES AND GENTS. Tuesday is when things change. Stay tuned,
     you won't want to miss it. <3 I finally pull my head out of my
     masochistic asshole and give you some quality content. PROMISE.
     'Till then! *sprinkles glitter on your crops*
***** Her Gift of Fragility *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When his ship docked at the port of Pentos, Petyr did not feel accomplished.
Cawing seagulls and a busy harbor would have put him in a better mood, once. A
mood for negotiations. Despite what many lords of the Vale believed, Petyrdid
have business in the city, important matters of delicate nature that needed to
be dealt with. But there was a method to his madness, far from visible to those
who looked and even farther from those who looked closely. He hoped that with
time and passing transactions, he could deceive the disbelievers and feel like
Littlefinger again. It wouldn’t be long before he won. Arrogance would be his
shield, as it had always been.
The satisfaction of a game well-played had yet to sink in. It was blocked by a
heart tree made flesh. Sansa was a part of everything he did whether she knew
it or not, and the possibility of his goals being tainted with fear soured the
spoils. He craved her approval, needed it to breathe, but it was no longer his
to exploit. Her marriage to Harry had likely ruined the willingness she’d once
shared with him. Sansa’s consent was as much his goal as any, and he would have
it no matter the cost.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Petyr had found his final
destination. The apartments were quite small. Comfortable and well-decorated,
the height of Pentoshi architecture, but small. Petyr had expected Mayana to
take better advantage of the pay he’d given her over so many years, but it
seemed she was doing other things with her coin. It did not worry him. He
stepped across the open threshold when two servants offered him entrance, and
Petyr thanked them when he was brought a goblet of wine. Erotic paintings lined
plum-colored walls and dark shutters obstructed the moonlight. He stood in the
candlelit foyer and placed his cup on the table. He did not have a thirst, not
for liquor at least, and he wanted his wits to remain unclouded. His work here
was too important for anything else.
“Lord Baelish,” came a sultry voice. Petyr turned. She was standing at the
mouth of the hallway, barely clothed and smelling of perfume. She was just as
he remembered. Tall, dark, beautiful. A grin passed his lips as she walked to
him. “I never thought I would see you again.”
“Mayana,” said Littlefinger, taking her hand and kissing it. “Indeed, neither
did I. Yet here we are.”
“Here we are.” She pulled her many braids over one shoulder. Golden bells and
bracelets jingled together when she moved. “Out,” she said to the servants.
“Lord Baelish and I have much to discuss, and nothing meant for you.” The two
bystanders fled the room on her order, and Mayana gestured to a plush couch for
him to sit on. Petyr did so, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back.
His respect for her was why she remained the best candidate for the job he
offered. Business had finally begun.
“I trust our Young Falcon has not been difficult?” said Littlefinger with a
knowing smirk.
“Not at all. The boy is young and feisty. He will not want his red-haired
beauty anymore. I have spoiled him.” Mayana reached over and took a long drink
from the goblet Petyr had been given. She was never one to ask for things,
which made working with her so exquisite. She took what she wanted when it was
smart to do so. Not unlike him.
“Spoiled?” asked Littlefinger. “How so?”
“It is nothing you did not see when I worked for you, my lord. Old tricks.” She
chuckled darkly. “I daresay he will return again tonight.”
Petyr furrowed his brow. “Seeing him nightly was not a part of the plan.”
“No? It does not matter. I have him wrapped around my little finger.” Mayana
rested her arm on the back of the settee, eyeing him with a spark of mischief.
“Now is your time to strike. The Arryn boy will leave his pretty wife alone if
I am here to distract him.”
“Not yet.” Petyr shook his head, firm on the subject. “There was a
miscalculation in her cycle. She has to share his bed. It must be believable.”
“She has been bloodless for three days,” informed Mayana. “You are wasting
time. She suffers.”
Good, he almost thought. Almost. “Harry is not a generous boy. I did not intend
her pain, but it is a means to an end.”
“You cannot fool me, Lord Baelish. I know what you came here for.” Mayana
placed the goblet atop the table and scooted closer to her former employer. He
was always pleased by her forwardness, and now she had intrigued him. How could
she possibly know what he wanted? “I delivered the tonic, but I do not know
what she has done with it. She refuses to leave the manse. That does not bode
well for you. A sad girl is not a willing girl.”
“A sad girl is not stupid, either. Not her.” Littlefinger folded his hands in
his lap, a clear gesture of impatience. “Am I paying you for advice, Mayana, or
to do as I ask?”
“You should pay me for both.” She stood from the sofa, see-through silks from
her gown trailing on the floor. She moved gracefully to the window and tested
the shutters, seemingly satisfied with how tightly they closed. “When should I
take him? I have a soft spot in my heart for women, my lord, and he talks about
her silence and tears. You did not mean to break her, did you?”
“Of course not,” replied Petyr casually, though the news troubled him. How far
had Harry gone? “You know me, Mayana. I would risk everything to get what I
want.”
“Even the heart of a girl?” She raised her brow at him. “A girl you love?”
He chuckled softly. A method of defense. “The only person I love is me,” he
assured, uncertain if it was the truth. “The rest is of no concern to you.”
Littlefinger stood, brushing out the wrinkles in his tunic. “Take the boy in
three days’ time and alert me when he’s here. You’ll have your pay when the
deed is done.”
“So I shall.” Mayana opened a drawer underneath an erotic sculpture, retrieving
a glass vial of cerulean liquid. “Take this. In case she has lost the last
one.”
“Three drops?” he asked, taking it for examination.
“Three drops. With water only. No wine.”
“Lady Arryn doesn’t like the taste of liquor. There should be no problem.”
Petyr pocketed the substance and placed both his hands on Mayana’s shoulders.
Meaningless gratitude would help his effort to keep her silent. “You do me
proud, my lady. I am humbled to have seen you come so far.”
“As you should be.” She placed a friendly kiss to his cheek. “The last time I
helped you win this girl, you killed a king. Now you will ruin an ancient
bloodline. As repulsive as your methods are, perhaps you can make her happy. I
hope you get what you want.”
Petyr removed his hands from Mayana, turning to leave her den. “As do I, my
dear. As do I.”

 
He shouldn’t have come. Sansa would be expecting him, waiting for someone to
rescue her from the supposed hell in which she lived. Petyr should resist, he
knew he should, but staying away from Sansa was an unexplainable problem. He’d
kept his hands off of whores in his employ, kept celibate for many years in
hopes of achieving her love, but not even sexual need had driven him here.
Something far more troubling moved Petyr, deeper than the desire he craved her
with. Petyr walked to the manse’s arched doorway and entered without
announcement, pretending as though his heart wasn’t rampant in his chest. It
felt like years since he’d seen her last. What sorry state would he find her
in?
Ser Lothor Brune was not far inside. He stood guard at the end of a twisted
hallway, arms folded across his chest with a frown on his lips. Petyr was
prepared to greet him and ask for Lady Arryn’s whereabouts, but the knight
jerked a thumb toward the door he was standing beside. He offered no
explanation. Lothor knew they would need privacy. Petyr took a small breath and
gave the knight a nod of acknowledgment, taking the doorknob and twisting. He
stepped into the room without a sound.
Petyr found her sitting in a chair by the window. A book rested in her lap, but
she was not reading. It was obvious that Harry had not treated her kindly. A
faded handprint on her arm, spilled wine in a spattered shape on her gown. It
was not a sight that pleased his eyes, nor a thought that warmed his heart.
Sansa stared through the stained glass to where the sea met the horizon, and as
much as Petyr wanted to feign indifference, her beauty still struck him. Her
hair was down, just the way he liked it, tendrils of Tully red spilling down
her back. Her dress was a light pink shade, arms exposed in Pentoshi fashion.
She was beautiful. If he wasn’t insistent on speaking with her, he’d be content
to leave her alone and keep the image pure, but the game of thrones demanded a
move. He tempered his sympathy with the cold memory of rejection.
“Lady Arryn,” said Littlefinger, bowing respectfully. Sansa turned her head to
look at him.
“Petyr!” Sansa jumped from her chair and set the book on the table, but her joy
fell quickly, remembering their last encounter. Her initial excitement was
expected, he supposed. Petyr had never treated her harshly. He was a welcome
sight, but her body language said it all. The fading smile, the downcast eyes,
the way her hands wrung nervously. She was a wreck. And she was playing him.
“I came expecting Lord Arryn,” Pertyr lied. He straightened his back and
replaced all concern with an arrogant smirk. “My business in the city is near
completion. I thought I might speak with him to discuss what I’ve
accomplished.”
Sansa’s frown deepened. “My husband is not here,” she told him. “We fought this
morning. He left. If you’re searching for him, I’d suggest looking in a tavern
or brothel. He likes those places best.” Sansa cautiously approached him,
crossing the room one timid step after another. Each advance was a hazard.
“Would you not speak with me instead? Or have I earned your contempt already?”
She’s trying to manipulate me. I let her see behind the mask, and now she uses
it as a weapon. He clasped his hands behind his back. Even now, there was
temptation to reach out and touch her. “No,” said Petyr flatly. “If Lord Arryn
is not here, I shall let you return to your book. Escapism can be quite
attractive when all we have in the world is gone.”
“I wasn’t reading it. Not really.” Sansa gestured carelessly to the book behind
her. “Just a tome about Pentoshi government. Nothing too interesting.”
“All the same, I shall search for your lord husband.” His smirk grew. “Perhaps
I will join him. I hear the brothels are irresistible.” With a turn of his
shoulders, Petyr made to leave. His hand reached for the door to escape her
presence, but Sansa’s soft voice called him back.
“Petyr,” she begged. “Wait. Please.”
He paused. Every instinct in the game told him to leave, to put Sansa Stark
behind him and never look back, but she was too deep in his soul to simply
purge her by walking away. Petyr lowered his hand and faced her. She had gained
her extra minute of his time, and he hoped she used it wisely.
“Before you go, can I apologize? Explain myself?” Sansa came closer to him,
still several feet away. “Then you can leave, I promise. You don’t even have to
return. Not ever.”
Not ever? Now, that was tempting. How sweet it would be, to be rid of her and
move on before she swallowed what remained of him. But before he realized his
actions, Petyr moved closer to her. He stopped with his hands clasped behind
him. He couldn't resist playing this game with her, even knowing he was already
at a disadvantage.
“You wish to explain?” He nodded, expression neutral. “Make it quick. I’ve
business to conclude, my lady, very time-sensitive.” He met her eyes, wondering
if she knew how honest that statement was.
Petyr saw relief in her. He prepared himself. Sansa was skilled at the game,
but did she know how easy it was for her to get under his skin? To burrow where
nothing ought to be, spreading her sickness through his flesh?
Sansa took another step. Meeting his eyes, she spoke.
“That morning in the godswood, I saw nothing but hunger in you and it
frightened me. I felt like an object, like something you craved rather than
someone, an image of my mother instead of Sansa Stark. In your eyes I saw
things you've never done to me but wanted to. You want me, I know it. I don't
know what for or why, but never have I seen desire so dominant, and
so many desires in a single stare. Not even Joffrey had that look, not Cersei
or anyone else who hurt me before. And somehow I thought you would be like
them, even though you never have been. How could you not? Everyone who wanted
me for their own gain abused me like I was nothing. It hasn't stopped, Petyr!
Even my husband, he takes me like a whore and falls asleep right after, and I
drink my tea and pray that somehow his child can bring me home again.”
He saw her tears before they fell. There was no game-player in her anymore.
She’d flipped the table and scattered the pieces. Sansa closed the distance
between them, inches apart, and his breath nearly stopped. “'You've managed to
find the space between me and the façade.' That’s what you said, I remember. I
will not forget it. Not even if you kill me. But should it come to that, should
you consider your ambitions above whatever affection you ever had for me,
consider this a parting gift.”
Sansa cupped his cheek with a trembling hand, placing a kiss to the other.
Petyr’s heart shivered. She lingered a fleck of a moment too long, and then she
retreated to the balcony, her back facing him. The only sound in the room was
the ocean’s gentle waves.
Petyr was left grasping for a foothold. The hands behind his back were clenched
to the point of pain. They mirrored what Petyr was feeling; everything was held
tight, but something was surely broken. When had it snapped? When she spoke of
her hateful unions with Harry? When her tears began to fall? When she touched
his cheek? When she kissed the other? Perhaps all of her words brought new
cracks in his walls, the very thing he never wanted. Perhaps the damn things
had already crumbled and he simply refused to admit it. She was Aegon the
Conquerer to his Harren the Black, demolishing his defenses. Sansa was waiting
for him to abandon her. His hands slowly released from their tension behind
him, and he began his path forward. A final test.
"Yes,” he said carefully. “I desire you. Not as an object. Once, perhaps, but
no more. Joffrey, Cersei, Harry, all are fools who saw you as something to be
used. You saw more in my eyes because there is more there." He took one step
toward her, then another, slow and heavy. She did not turn to face him. “I was
drawn to you because you looked so like your mother, I cannot deny it. You were
a pale reflection of a candle, but you've become more. A fire, an inferno, the
sun. I loved her and she rejected me. You did the same." His voice shook as he
avoided saying the words directly, but the implication screamed aloud. He moved
closer and closer until there were no more steps to take. He could see the
goosebumps on her arms and knew she felt him there, inches away from her. Too
long had he resisted. Peytr took her by the waist and pulled her flush against
him. Eager hands slid around her, gripping her tight. He was certain Sansa
could feel his heartbeat in her spine. Petyr’s left hand slid up the front of
her body, over a flat stomach and curved breasts to take her neck in his grasp.
He did not squeeze. His thumb brushed along her jawline as his lips met her
ear, and when he spoke, his voice was raw.
“I can’t kill you, Sansa.Fuck my ambitions. Never offer me a parting gift
again, and I won't leave you alone here."
She sank back against him. Petyr could hear her shuddered sigh and the smile on
her lips, and he knew he’d won; or had she? Sansa touched his hand and nuzzled
the side of his face with affection. “No more parting gifts,” she whispered. “I
promise, I promise.”
Sansa sent a chill down his spine. How long had he hungered for such sweet
words? She was finally, willingly, his. Even in this success he was coming
apart at the seams, an intoxication he was not prepared to feel. Sansa melting
in his arms unraveled him. His lips were everywhere they could reach, her
temple, her cheeks, her sweet-smelling hair, and she tilted her head to the
side to invite him. He chuckled into her skin as she cringed, tickled by the
hair on his face when he kissed her pulse. She fell so sweetly into his embrace
as if she belonged there, and Petyr knew she did. Who else could enthrall him
so deeply?
Sansa turned in his arms. Petyr felt a profound loss, but it dissipated as he
realized she was there to stay. She faced him, fingers toying with the silver
mockingbird at his throat. His hands gripped her hips as they met. Petyr tried
to tame the rapacious fire that flared inside him, knowing there would be time
to feed those flames later. Her presence was all he needed for now, and he had
her in his grasp.
“What about my husband?” asked Sansa. “We can’t do this behind his back. He’ll
know. He hates you.”
"You needn't worry about Harry anymore. I said I would not subject you to his
attentions for long, didn't I?” Petyr nearly added more, nearly told her how
this had always been the plan, but instead he left her wondering. "He will
never hurt you again, Sansa. This I promise you." He wrapped his arms more
tightly around her, drinking in the dual bliss of having her and knowing his
promise would be fulfilled in days. Petyr lifted his hands to cup her cheeks.
He pulled her face close and whispered teasingly against her open mouth. “Not
much longer, sweetling. It will all be over soon.”
With a devilish grin, he pulled away. Petyr turned to the open door, drunk on
the vision of Sansa gasping, feeling more victorious than the conqueror who'd
overthrown him.
He left her there. He did not return for three days.
Chapter End Notes
     YOOOOOOOO
     AHH this chapter FILLS me man, good shit good shit
     Are you starting to figure out the plan yet? This beast has got all
     sorts of truth bombs. What a mess. I'M A MESS.
     Saturday's update will be b a n g i n '
     See ya soon, sweetlings! <3 Oh, also, I hope you don't mind the
     addition of Mayana. I kinda just made her up on the fly for this fic,
     but she's pretty rad imo??? The series needs more badass women of
     color, what can I say. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
     Ah, the more I think about it, the more self-conscious I've become
     about this chapter. I hope Petyr seems in-character enough! I try to
     go for a mix of both book and show characters when writing them,
     so...idk. I did what felt right.
***** Be Kind *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It was dawn before she heard the news. One of the many Knights of the Vale came
rushing to a halt before the long table, where Sansa was breaking her fast with
Lothor Brune. He wore a worried look. She knew the fear; it was the same Septa
Mordane had given her before the Lannisters killed her father’s household.
"What's the matter?" Sansa asked. "What happened?"
"It’s Lord Arryn, my lady. He's gone missing."
"What?" Ser Lothor barked, his fork slamming down. "Who the hell was with him
last?"
"He left for a brothel last night and never came back, ser. We searched for him
throughout the night and all morning, but he's—we—“
"Agh, damn you.” Lothor angrily stood from his seat, a warm breakfast long
forgotten. "Get all the men together and search the city, every whorehouse and
tavern. Bloody idiot's likely gone and made an un-lordly mess of himself."
Lothor took his helmet from the chair and turned to Sansa, awaiting her order.
His eyes asked an impossible question: will you be alright without me? Sansa
bit her lip. She didn’t know the answer, but her expression lied as she’d been
taught. She nodded. Lothor ordered guards to watch each of the manse’s exits
and left in pursuit of Harry, and Sansa sat with her uneaten meal, all appetite
lost.
One day turned to two, and two to three. Sansa was writhing with apprehension.
She had seen Petyr only once, quite briefly on the day Harry went missing, and
not a single moment since then. Ser Lothor’s knights rotated their dutiful
watch for Sansa’s safety, yet she didn’t feel safe at all. She felt trapped.
Reading and sewing lost their attraction. She spent hours pacing, praying and
pacing some more. Her husband wasn't kind, wasn’t honorable or gentle, but she
never intended for Petyr to harm him. The thought that he might've had a role
in Harry’s fate made her sick. The feeling worsened with a secret trace of
relief, a mark of shame on her pure spirit.
The sun fell behind the sea on the third day. Fatigue took the best of her
worry. Sansa blew out the candle and buried under soft blankets, trying to keep
her troubling thoughts at bay. She lay in her bed, a bed once shared with
Harry, and prayed he would return for the sake of the North.For Winterfell. I
can’t reclaim it without him.
After a long struggle, Sansa finally fell asleep. She dreamed of Winterfell, of
her mother and father and a happiness long gone. She did not want to wake. It
felt like only minutes had passed when morning came to revive her, the sun on
her eyes, warmth on her face. She groaned and rolled over, content to sleep in
as she had the previous morning, but the light only grew brighter. “Sansa,”
said a voice. “Sweetling. I’ve returned.”
She woke. The touch on her face was real. Sansa opened her eyes to see Petyr
sitting on the edge of her bed, his knuckles gently brushing her cheek. His
mockingbird pin reflected the candlelight. “Did I take you from a dream?” he
asked. “Apologies, my lady. I would not have done so if it wasn’t important.”
“Petyr,” she whispered, still half-asleep. She glanced to the balcony.
Starlight dotted the night sky. “What time is it?”
“Past midnight. The hour is late.”
He’s here. On my bed. With me.Sansa rubbed her face and sat up, the shoulder of
her nightgown falling. She caught it before it exposed her. Petyr’s eyes held a
spark of the same lust she’d fled from in the Eyrie, but it was restrained
somehow, as if he’d taken her fear to heart. A cup of water rested in his other
hand. Her eyes moved to his, uneasy. “What are you doing here?”
“Waking you,” he said with a chuckle. Petyr placed the goblet on the table
beside her candle. “It is time to discuss the future, my dear. To reveal my
plans to you.”
Sansa fell victim to his gaze. Her heart beat faster, watching the corners of
his mouth rise in a devious smirk. She glanced over to the empty space beside
her, absent of her snoring, foolish husband. “Harry,” she muttered. “Is it
about him?” Her face fell. “Is he dead?”
“Harry is still missing, and the search continues. The Pentoshi are not as
optimistic as we are, however. They say that no contact in three days means our
Young Falcon likely ran afoul on less savory elements of the city.” His tone
was frank, casual. “But I’m certain Harry is alive somewhere. We will find him
if we can.”
His response was cryptic. She would not get the truth from him, not yet, but if
Harry wasn’t dead he would be soon enough. Hadn’t Petyr told her as much? “He
will never hurt you again, Sansa.” She drew her knees to her chest and hugged
them, raising a barrier between herself and the man who lied to breed trust.
“You needn't worry yourself about that now. You are the Lady of the Vale, and
the legacy of House Arryn must continue with you.” Petyr’s hand rested on the
bed beside her feet. “In the likely event that Harry perishes here in Pentos,
you must take his place.”
“Me?” Sansa frowned. “Ruling the entireVale?”
“You will not be alone, and on the rare occasion which you are, you will be
strong without me. I will be there as much as I can.” He paused. “For you and
your child.”
“I’m not pregnant,” she said. “I can’t be.”
“Yes. We are missing a piece of this puzzle, aren’t we?”
Petyr stared at her.
Oh.
The pieces fell into place.
Sansa felt very small, like an ant under the foot of a giant. She bit her lower
lip and pulled her knees closer, aching for protection, naked despite her
shift. “You planned this,” she muttered. “All of it. Even before my wedding,
didn't you? Since that night you called me to your room.”
He nodded, the ghost of a smirk still present on his lips. “The line of
succession is frayed too thin. The lords of the Vale have no choice but to
accept your heir as the next Warden of the East. The parentage will not be
disputed. Bargains have been struck to assure it.”
Sansa sank back against the headboard as the corpses lined up in her mind.
Joffrey, Marillion, Aunt Lysa, Harry; how many had he killed to bring her here?
How many lives were destroyed for daring to stand in his way? As disgusted as
Sansa felt, she was in awe of him, of a man who could manipulate people and
time like he was a god. Better not tell him that though, lest he believe it.
“You…” She cleared her throat. “You came here…came here to…” Sansa chewed her
lip and fidgeted with her fingers. Petyr remained silent, not forcing her
conclusion, yet neither did he encourage her escape. She could not look at him.
Even with Petyr, even here, she had no desire for sexual intimacy. Not after
what Harry had done. But if she didn't give herself, what were the
consequences?
"If everything goes to plan, you won't need to ask anyone outside this room for
help. They will offer their assistance gladly and you need only accept.”
Oh, what a fool she’d been.
“I'm not going to be used by you." Sansa's words were not spoken with malice,
rather in fear that he would do the opposite. "You don't know what you're
asking of me. A family, Petyr. A child. I won't let you use them for your own
gain and I won't let you cast me aside after we…”
He chuckled, amused. “I have had hundreds and thousands of opportunities to
take you against your will, my lady. That is not my desire. Nor has it ever
been." Petyr leaned forward, placing a finger under her chin and lifting her
eyes to meet his. “Think of everything I have done that confused you, all my
plays in the game that seemed chaotic and without purpose. You couldn't see it
then, but now? They were all meant to amalgamate in this moment, or one very
much like it. If I simply wished to use you, why go through all the trouble to
make you Lady of the Vale? If I only needed a child to manipulate for power,
why remove Harry before he finished the job himself? You are smart enough to
work this out. You, Sansa, were what I wished to gain.”
Petyr removed his hand from her face. He reached out and swiped a hot dribble
of wax from the candle, rolling it into a cooling ball between thumb and
forefinger. Sansa’s eyes widened as his lip twitched from the pain. “I have
never forced you to do anything, my lady. Pushed and convinced, yes, but never
forced. This has not changed. Don’t you know how much I care for you?” He
waited for her response. Sansa nodded, and he continued. “Neither you, nor a
child of our union would be pieces in a game to me if I get what I want.
Believe me, I know what I am asking of you. But if you refuse?” Petyr crushed
the ball of wax and flicked it away. “I will not lay a hand on you, not unless
you want it. If you say no and decide to accept the uncertain future that comes
after, so be it. Know that I will not stop pursuing you, not until my last
breath, but I will never share your bed unless you will it. That, Sansa, is
what I’ve truly wanted from you after all.”
Sansa's eyes followed the wax on the floor. What would become of her if
she did refuse? The Vale would scramble for another heir, or vote for which
line would take over. A vote Petyr would corrupt. If he became Lord of the
Vale, would he still have her for his own? Even if he didn't take the Eyrie,
how could she escape him? He had spies everywhere. He owned people. "I will not
stop pursuing you, not until my last breath." Sansa may not be a pawn in his
game, but she was being played like one. “What is the blue potion for?” Her
voice faltered. “The one you gave me.”
“It encourages conception.” He picked up the vial and carefully poured three
drops into the goblet of water. “The tea you were given at your wedding feast
is useless, and I’m sorry you’ve been drinking it with high hopes. Supposedly,
this tonic is the strongest fertility supplement in the world. Highborn ladies
pay their weight in gold to have a small swallow.” Sansa watched the clear
water fade to a deep blue, dark as night and ocean waves. Petyr capped the
bottle and took the cup in his hands. He offered it to her.
Sansa straightened her back, determined for answers. She was not as naïve as he
liked to think. “Why notlet Harry give me a child?”
Petyr chuckled, as if she should know. “I don’t fight those in power, Sansa. I
fuck them. Consider this the foreplay.”
“What if I miscarry?” she asked. “What if the baby is stillborn?”
“You will not miscarry. I will arrange for you to have every maester in the
Vale at your beck and call, the healthiest foods, the sweetest comforts. Every
need you have will be attended to. As for a stillborn…” His expression turned
suddenly vulnerable, sadder than she’d ever seen him. Melancholy took his eyes.
“I wouldn’t think on such things. Logic says it is a possibility I must
consider, but truly, Sansa? I do not think a woman like you could bring death
into the world.”
Her heart cracked. Sansa was thrown by his sorrow, by his mask slipping away.
Committing this act with Petyr would give her a family, security, the comfort
of a lover, all things she’d wanted before but never had. Did he want them,
too? Was she witnessing the aftermath of a life of destruction, one not so very
different from her own? Even when spilling his heart to me, he’s always playing
the game.She realized then that he would do anything for her. Kill for her. Lie
for her. Die for her. Petyr may not have seen it in himself, but Sansa did when
she looked in his soul.
Somehow, it was all she needed.
Sansa reached and gently took the goblet from him. He met her eyes as she drank
the water in full. It was tasteless and went down without a hitch, and when she
was done she placed the cup back on the table where it belonged. Her legs slid
away from her chest and swung over the edge of the bed, bare feet pressing
against the cold floor. She felt sick. Dizzy, overwhelmed. But there was
something deeper too, an ache, a longing for what he offered. A promise to be
loved, even in his strange way of loving. When Sansa searched her heart, she
found the dry ink where he'd signed his name long ago. Petyr. His signature
would be there forever. So would he.
She stood on her feet. Sansa moved in front of him, watching the cold
calculation in his eyes melt to a slow-burning flame. “Be kind,” she whispered.
Petyr’s sigh was small, yet sudden. Like a coil finding release after being
wound too tight. He rose from the bed and came to her, their bodies inches
apart, and she could hear the slight tremble in his breath. “I told you that
you may not see kindness in my actions, but tonight you will, my love. And
every night you desire it.”
Petyr reached for her. She inhaled, prepared for his touch, but he stopped
before he made contact. He shook his head and smiled. Petyr ignored Sansa’s
confusion and redirected his hands to unhook the mockingbird from his collar,
setting it down beside the Tully brooch. He’s undressing for me, she thought
with a shudder. Paving a path for me to follow. Sansa bit her lip. The buttons
of his tunic came undone one after the other, his hands moving without guidance
as he kept his gaze locked with hers. Silk rustled as he tossed his clothes
aside in a careless heap on the floor, tunic, shoes and breeches alike. He was
all she saw. Petyr stood before her, shorn of all defenses as the gods made
him. He was not heavily muscled, nor was he soft and doughy as many men became
in their older years. His body, bearing a horrid scar running vertically along
his chest, was not all that remarkable. Compared to Sansa's knightly husband,
he was nothing to be considered desirable. But Sansa knew better. There was
strength to his arms, a dexterity she could see just by looking at him. Black
hair grew in the center of his chest, around where the scar began, but Sansa
dare not look any lower. His nudity was a gesture of the kindness he’d
promised, giving her control he'd normally be loathe to surrender. She would
not return his favor with lewd action. Not yet, at least.
Eyes still chained to hers, Petyr gestured to her. “Your shift,” he said. His
eyes were dark, words thick with need.
Sansa broke his gaze to lift shaking fingers to her collar. She was frightened
and scared, but not of him, which was a foreign feeling. Sansa pulled the
string at the top of her gown and pushed the fabric to the floor. Where Petyr
was average, Sansa was not. Her shape was more like an hourglass than most
Northern girls, and her skin was soft, pale and unblemished despite the
countless beatings she'd endured. Her breasts were even and shapely, not too
large or too small, and her hair framed the figure she'd been hiding all these
years. Did she look like he imagined? Did she surpass some expectation within
his rattled, magnificent mind? She wrung her hands and smiled shyly to him
again, the light of the candle flickering like the final wall between them. One
last breath and it would be gone for good.
She couldn’t stay still. Keeping him at arm’s length, Sansa’s fingertips traced
delicately over his scar from collarbone to navel. It was a horrid thing, red
and raw and rigid with past pain. A different encounter with a different Stark.
She felt his muscles tense. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. Could he hear her?
She could barely hear herself. “What my uncle did to you was needlessly cruel.
It should never have happened, and I'm sorry.”
Sansa’s skin tingled when he touched her face, light as a feather, cupping her
cheeks in his hands. Little room was left between them. The space was bridged
by his hardened length pressing against her stomach. Sansa gasped to feel him
there, ready to take her, to cross the finish line of this hard-won race. "Your
apologies are kind," he said, “and I thank you for them. But I would leave the
past aside and focus on the present, my dear. I hope you will not be upset if I
take my time returning your kindness tonight.”
“I won’t be.” Sansa did not nod or verbalize consent. She let her eyes do the
talking, and he responded in kind.
His thumb hooked under Sansa’s chin to gently tilt her head. He moved her hair
away and planted his lips on the skin where neck met shoulder, sending waves
through her every nerve. Soft kisses trailed along her pulse and her lips
parted to release a sigh. His mouth spread fire through her veins. Petyr’s
other hand rested on her hip, holding her tight and keeping her there, slowly
introducing her to what intimate touch should be. She rested her hands on his
shoulders and moved toward him when his lips met her cheek. Petyr’s hands slid
up her back. There was safety in his arms, and he drew her closer as his mouth
devoured hers in a fluid motion. Sansa barely reiterated his advance until the
flames in him began to grow in her. Petyr cradled the back of her neck with an
iron grip, gentle but firm as their lips moved together. Languid. Slow. It was
strange to Sansa, that it took months of maneuvering and the deaths of their
spouses to lead them here, to a place where they’d both yearned to be. Sansa
knew it was a wholeness he’d gladly kill for. Perhaps she would too.
Petyr’s tongue slipped between her teeth. Her heart pounded when he gripped her
tighter against his body, bare chests pressed together, his cock trapped
between them. Sansa’s arms wrapped around his neck and he clutched the back of
hers, holding her exactly where he wanted to deepen their heated kiss. Any
words she may have said, he swallowed. He tasted of mint and desire. Sansa
sighed as his fingers slid into her hair, a place she never knew to be
sensitive, and his gentle tug at her roots pulled a moan from her mouth. Her
head tipped back and he kissed her exposed throat, greedily moving to her chin
and cheeks and lips again. She could feel his arousal against her, ever
insistent as their kiss burned. Time seemed to stop. When Petyr finally pulled
away, both of them were left gasping.
“Have you never been properly kissed?” he asked with a wicked smile.
Sansa shook her head. She blushed just looking at him.
“You’re still as shy as a maid.”
“That’s not bad, is it?”
Petyr softly laughed. He cupped her face and dipped her head, kissing her
crown, suddenly quite paternal. “No. Not at all. I will drag you into the filth
with me someday, though perhaps not tonight.” He took her hand and gestured to
the bed. Sansa’s heart was beating so hard she feared it would rupture. She
stepped toward the mattress, letting go of his hand to crawl atop the sheets
and lay timidly on her back.
He was on her in seconds. Petyr was kind with his movements, as promised, but
the lust in his eyes was beginning to seep through. He hovered over her, at her
side, capturing another kiss with eager lips. Sansa was weak for him. She
cupped his face and succumbed to his possession. He was all tongue and teeth,
aged hands and heated skin, and when his mouth moved down her neck she was
truly lost. His thumbs brushed over the peaks of her breasts and the first of
many moans escaped her. Soft and light, like air. Petyr responded with a low
laugh into her open mouth when he came up to kiss her again. “I like those
sounds,” he told her. “I will have more of them.” His hand slid down the front
of her body to her knees, which were held together on instinct. Her kneecaps
were ticklish and she giggled at his touch. Watching her laugh made his face
brighten, almost boyishly. Sansa felt her anxiety wash away at the sight, of a
killer turned child when he looked at her. He’s quite handsome, isn’t he? she
thought without shame. In his own unique way.
Petyr noticed her lack of fear, and when he guided her legs apart, she did not
fight him. Sansa bit her lower lip as his fingertips glided down her inner
thigh, caressing her, until he found her sex and touched her there. She gasped
and leaned her head back when his motions became intentional, planned, and he
stroked her until she was throbbing. Soaked with desire. Two fingers slid into
her without warning and she whimpered, clutching his shoulder and the sheets
with useless hands. Sansa could hear the wicked smile on his breath as he
kissed down her chest, down her stomach and lower still. She almost asked what
he was doing until his tongue met her center and Sansa whined, biting her lip
to stay quiet. Oh, he was sinful. Petyr did not stop. His mouth moved with near
expert practice, working her inside and out. His free hand pressed against the
flat of her stomach to keep her in place, but Sansa did not want to go anywhere
and instead rolled her hips into the strategic flicking of his tongue. He
absorbed her. Sansa felt dizzy, on another plane of existence if such a thing
were real, as if he’d taken her by the throat and dragged her through the
sweetest of the seven hells. “Petyr,” she gasped. “Petyr stop, I’m—“
But he did not. Sansa clutched the sheets in the balls of her fist as pleasure
made her body quake. Her carnal cries could not be withheld. Every nerve was
shocked and tingled with whatever Petyr was giving her, an exquisite high that
was slow to recede. He left her gasping and unable to think. She was panting
when he removed his fingers from her and slipped them into her hair, pulling
her close when he came up for a kiss. It was deep and demanding, tantalizingly
sweet with the taste of him and her combined, but the pressure of his body was
almost too much. She’d nearly forgotten that the purpose of their intimacy was
to conceive. To have Petyr inside her, like Harry had been. She was still
breathless when he settled between her legs. Sansa felt him, hot and heavy
against her thigh, and some horrible feeling came to choke her.
Fear.
“Petyr, wait. Wait. Please.” Sansa pushed desperately against his chest. He
froze, and in a fraction of a second his lust disappeared. She covered her face
with her hands, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Give me a moment, I’m sorry.”
Get over yourself, Sansa. You need this child. You need him. Still, likely
without intention, the motions had reminded her of Harry and tainted the
moment. She was certain Petyr would be displeased, perhaps even cross, but her
expectations were discarded when he kissed the top of her hands.
“A moment, two, three, as many as you need.” Petyr's voice was still deepened,
but not insincere. Sansa slowly removed her hands from her cheeks in favor of
his. His eyes read of honesty, and she accepted it gratefully. “You needn't
apologize. I would wait a thousand years for you to be ready to have me.” He
turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist, then pressed his cheek
against her shaking hand. "You've no need for fear. When you're ready, my love,
I will be kind.”
My love. When had he started calling her that? Sansa felt loved by him now,
even under the ruthless, rampant desire flooding those gray-green eyes. An even
more frightening thought than Harry or Joffrey came to mind; Sansa wanted to be
loved by him. She wanted to be cherished, to be his, to never be left alone in
this world again.
Her hands began to steady. "Would you really wait a thousand years?"
"Only the chance of my wait being over tonight keeps me from proving those
words true. And mortality, I suppose."
She chuckled at that. “But you owned a brothel. You could've had anyone without
waiting at all. Why me, why now?”
Petyr's smile grew broader, a purer sort of amusement. He adjusted himself on
hands and knees to stay comfortable as he hovered over her. “I owned more than
one brothel. Women of every imaginable shape and color and temperament kept men
coming through the doors. And some women too, my establishments passed no
judgment. There were women who drove men to sell their lives away for a single
night in their bed. Some of those same women tried to seduce me, seeking to
curry favor, and I never touched a single one. So why am I here with you, now?"
He paused again to kiss her cheek. When he pulled away, Sansa saw an
immeasurable amount of vulnerability in his eyes, and its presence seemed to
make him nervous. “I sought a woman who would make my cock quiver and my heart
shiver. You first caught my eye, Sansa. Then you enthralled my mind, and how
could you not after remaining strong in your circumstances? And finally you
captured my heart once I saw that you could rise above the game, above being a
pawn for anyone’s use. Even mine.” He stared down at her in silence for a long
second, and Sansa’s lips parted. “The timing was never important to me, and I
will continue to wait if I must. But why you? Oh, Sansa. There could be no one
else.”
Petyr made her ache. Ache for intimacy, ache for him. Perhaps he could see it
in her eyes, the way he ravaged that final barrier of fear. Who could love her
more than this selfish man who considered her his equal? Who could love her as
much as he loved himself?
She whispered his name. The sound was soft, shy, meek. Humbled by his rare
declaration. Sansa lifted her head to kiss him and his lips tasted so much
better now that she knew they were hers. She cupped his cheeks with utmost
care, as if Petyr was glass far too precious for her to break. “We can survive
this world together.”
And she kissed him again, content to never let go.
Their passion was given new life. New fire. Petyr kissed her hard and she
whimpered into his mouth, providing the consent he seemed desperate for. The
space between her legs became an uncomfortable throb that couldn't be sated by
anything else but him, and it drove her mad. It wasn't until he guided himself
inside her that Sansa stilled again, closing her eyes and gasping. It was
bizarre at first, this pressure inside her that was not invasive or unwanted,
but Petyr knew how to move when he began to do so. A slow thrust brought
friction that made her sigh. She wrapped her arms lazily around his shoulders
and moaned again with another push. When Sansa opened her eyes, she saw that
same look. That insatiable, lustful hunger in his grey-green stare. No part of
her would deny him. 
In, out. In, out. Much like the tide of the sea she loved. Petyr explored her
with a calculation she'd come to admire, meticulous and greedy. Every move he
made changed depending on her reaction, on her subtle notions of which places
felt best. Not unlike the game that led them here. Petyr raked his nails up her
side, not enough to bring pain but enough to leave a mark. Sansa arched her
back when his hand slid into her hair and gripped again, claiming her mouth
with his and drawing her pleasure on all fronts. Sansa rocked her hips against
him as their speed increased. He growled something in her ear, something about
how good she felt or how sweet she was. Sansa didn’t notice. The sound of his
voice was enough to fill her. It was a weak spot, she'd discovered; the slow
drape of nails and a hand on her scalp, the moans in her ear. Each thrust
granted incredible pleasure and his groans drove her higher, a sound that would
have frightened her hours ago. Sansa tried to keep quiet, keep her whimpers
restrained behind a closed mouth until Petyr opened it again with his tongue
and angled her hips the right way, and—
"Ah!" Sansa gasped, clutching his shoulder and the back of his head. Petyr knew
he’d found the key and accommodated for her, hastening inside to a speed that
would send her spiraling again. Sansa kept a desperate hold on him, parting her
lips to sigh, his hands in her hair, on her body, everywhere she wanted them.
He was taking mental notes, Sansa could tell by his eyes, the ones that never
left her face. She managed to affectionately stroke his hair, just over the
graying patch on the side of his temple, and his forehead touched hers before
it became too much to bear. Petyr’s name fell from her lips, once, twice, and
Sansa quivered as pleasure pulled her through the most
sensational something she'd ever known. Her toes curled into the sheets. She
cried out in the sweetest way, her muscles contracting, uncontrolled by an
erratic mind. Her whole body tingled and was set ablaze, and Petyr did not
stop, so neither did she. He slowed his movements when her high began to fall.
She was panting and tired and trembling. Sansa cupped his face again in that
fragile way, like he was glass, and lifted her head to kiss him. 
“Petyr,” she whispered. He smiled against her lips. “If this is kindness, your
love will kill me.”
"I think not, my dear. You're stronger than you know." His voice was blatantly
smug, amused and confident. “But we’re not done yet.” Petyr quickened his pace,
seeking the perfect spot that had set Sansa near to wailing with approval. Her
body responded despite exhaustion and she clung to him again.
Sansa had lost her mind. She kept his face between her hands, kissing him every
so often and nuzzling him the next. Sansa watched his face as he had watched
hers. Petyr was in control at first, but his body gave way to whatever
sensation he felt and he buried his face in her neck with the rhythm of each
push. His broken breaths made her smile; she was doing this for him, something
not even the prettiest of his whores could dream of. Groans of ecstasy from
Petyr vibrated through her neck and hair, and she felt pride when he said her
name, “Sansa.” She couldn't feel his release inside, but he held himself deep
within to encourage what they’d set out to do. It was an emotional sensation on
top of the physical; barely down from a high so powerful she'd nearly forgotten
herself, yet here they were, trying to create life for the sake of a fatal lie.
Petyr had destroyed one of the most ancient lines in Westerosi history just so
he could manipulate her to be here, with him, just the way he wanted.
House Arryn would continue on with one of the greatest scandals of
Littlefinger's legacy.
Sansa could breathe again when he finally pulled away. She was panting, already
sore and so sweetly broken. Sansa took a moment to lay in peace and catch her
breath. Petyr lay at her side, maskless and content. She felt lonely again
already, watching him with his eyes elsewhere, already plotting his next move
or reflecting on the one he'd just committed. She didn't know which. Perhaps it
didn’t matter.
Cautiously, Sansa rolled on her side and snuggled up against his arm. She
rested her head on his shoulder, giving him enough room to pull away if he so
desired. She didn’t say a word. He'd told many lies in his life, so many that
they might outweigh the truths, and Sansa couldn't deny that she was worried he
would find a new goal. He was fickle like that. Everywhere and nowhere, present
and in the shadows. It was entirely possible that he could be with her and
abandon her, too.
Sansa laced her fingers with his between them. A gesture of innocence, but one
that displayed her affection equally. To her relief, his chest shook with a
light-hearted laugh and he reached for her. His free hand was placed just above
her hip, keeping contact with her as he pulled his trapped arm free of her
grasp. It returned to Sansa immediately, snaking under her and wrapping round
her torso to pull her into his arms. Petyr rolled his head to the side and gave
her a lazy smile. Her fears had been misplaced. The mask of Littlefinger lay
forgotten for the moment, and Petyr Baelish was all that remained.
Sansa drifted to sleep with thoughts of happiness. If there were seven hells,
surely there were seven heavens too, and he had shown her all of them.
Chapter End Notes
     ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
     Okay so like, I know it may seem hella weird that this is so
     ~romantic, but is it really? It's a fucked up situation, man. And
     Sansa always narrates things romantically, so I had her do that here,
     too. *throws hands in the air* WHO CARES, TAKE MY SMUT
     See you Tuesday! <3 I hope you enjoyed my first shot at Petyr/Sansa
     bangin'. I'm always a slut for feedback.
     (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧
***** Choke on the Apple's Core *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
For the first time in decades, Petyr slept peacefully. He did not dream, as
even the most tireless mind falls silent sometimes, but when he woke he felt
well-rested and alive. Petyr stirred just before dawn. The bruise of a morning
sunrise covered the sky, and he lay there with Sansa in his arms, watching. She
was still asleep as the sun climbed over the tip of the horizon. He preferred
it that way. It was relaxing to feel her curled up in his arms, sighing against
his chest with her hair draped over his shoulder. Petyr kept a hand on her hip,
the other toying with an auburn curl as daybreak came upon the world. There was
work to be done. There always would be, and while he regretted leaving her
before she had the chance to wake beside him, there were important matters that
demanded his attention. That doesn’t mean I can’t spare a moment. He sighed
into her hair and allowed himself time to hold her, this naïve child grown into
a woman he could conquer the world with.
Only for Sansa Stark would he ever call himself a fool.
When the sun had fully risen, so too did Lord Baelish. He carefully removed
himself from her embrace. Sansa hummed in her sleep as he pulled free, choosing
to snuggle a pillow instead when she came to rest once more. He stood at her
bedside. Gods, she was beautiful. Sansa was tangled up in the sheets, naked and
perfect and pale and his. Petyr wanted nothing more than to crawl back to her,
to take her under the morning sun where lazy thrusts and sleepy moans were all
they knew, but that would have to wait. Tomorrow, perhaps. He had come too far
to squander his plans for more intimacy with Sansa. There would be decades
enough for that.
Reluctantly, he moved away. Petyr bathed and dressed as quietly as he could,
shaking out his clothes and mumbling about how he should never have thrown
them. He slipped on his shoes, the shoes of a rich man, though the soles were
beginning to wear. Lastly he reached for the mockingbird pin on the sidetable,
resting beside Sansa’s Tully brooch.
He stopped. Petyr remembered his words to her; I won’t leave you alone here.
Sansa was an anxious girl, despite how she tried to hide it, and disappearing
without warning could frighten her into disbelief. Contrary to what others
believed, he never wanted her to be hurt. Sansa’s happiness benefitted him.
Politically. Strategically. Emotionally. Petyr sighed as he let the pin remain
on the table, giving her another glance before retreating entirely. He had a
will of steel, but Sansa was a fire strong enough to burn him down. It was only
a matter of time.
“Lord Baelish,” said Lothor as Petyr stepped out into the hall. He smiled at
the knight, a loyal man if there was one, and closed the door behind him. “I
was looking for you.”
“Were you?” Petyr looked up at him, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I
suppose I am a bit later than usual. Slept in, I’m afraid.”
“I can see that.” Lothor glanced to the door, knowing who was on the other
side. “She alright?”
Petyr narrowed his eyes.
“I’m not askin’ like that. I’ve no interest in the girl.”
“No,” said Petyr. “Just a different bastard girl named Stone, I’ve heard.”
Lothor huffed, folding his arms across his chest. He was trying to hide how
flustered he was at the mention of Mya. Did he think Petyr didn’t know? “I care
about Lady Arryn, m’lord. She’s been through enough.”
“That is why you’re going to stay and watch over her while I attend to
details.”
“Details.” Lothor looked to the door again. “Does she know?”
“Not yet. Nor will she, not until the time is right.” Petyr clipped the cuff
link on his sleeve, straightening his back. “Make sure no one leaves the manse.
Clear all the staff, except the two women I’ve paid to tend Sansa while I’m
away.”
“And the guards? The ones that aren't looking for Lord Arryn.”
“Outside. Not in.” Petyr smirked. “Can’t have anyone walking in at inopportune
times.”
Lothor scoffed, half rolling his eyes. “Just warn me before you start so I can
go very far away.”
“When I return, you can take residence in the other side of the manse with the
rest of the guards. Lady Sansa will be safe under my protection. I don’t intend
to leave her side for many, many days.” His tone was all too suggestive and
Lothor caught the hint. Petyr turned on his heel and walked down the hall to
leave, the line between arrogance and confidence eternally blurred. He left
promptly.
Petyr didn’t intend to be out for long, only to ensure that business was going
as planned. He took two of the Arryn soldiers with him to ensure a tale would
be told. The markets of Pentos were beginning to bustle, weary workers and
farmers offering their foreign wares, and he was briefly reminded of the chaos
of King’s Landing. He almost missed it, but Petyr ignored every merchant he
passed in exchange for haste. He did not want to be away from Sansa longer than
he needed to. If he was lucky, perhaps he could wake her with the possessive
touches he’d been imagining, his mouth on her neck as she moaned in his ear.
The thought made his pace quicken. He had waited too long for Sansa, but just
long enough, and he would savor her with every second available to him.
Littlefinger found her on a bench by the docks. Mayana glowed in the sun, as if
she were its daughter and belonged nowhere else. She was kissed by fire, too,
though not like Sansa was. Mayana was exotic. Golden instead of red. He
approached her when she stood to meet him, a tailored smile on his face. She
was taller than Petyr by no small amount, but she knew how to let him greet her
without wounding his pride. “You are brighter than the sun, my lady.”
Littlefinger took her ebony hand and kissed it. “All of Pentos is envious of
you.”
“You are no small spectacle yourself, Lord Baelish.” Mayana’s voice was
teasing. Knowing. She slipped her arm in his and walked with him along the
docks, past freshly-woken sailors who could never afford her. The sea lapped at
the wood planks and lifted salt breezes into the air. “Why do you only have two
guards? It seems a small detail for a man of importance.” She looked over her
shoulder to the Arryn men a fair distance behind them. “You should bring more.
Pentos is not a safe place these days.”
“So it seems.” Littlefinger smirked to himself as they rounded a building, down
another stretch of harbor. More witnesses. He raised his voice slightly. “I
have missed you. You were always my favorite, out of all the whores who ever
worked for me. None can warm my bed as you did.”
“Of course not.” Mayana laughed, taking Littlefinger by the hand and giving him
a flirty look. “Oh, Lord Baelish, you must need comfort after the disappearance
of your nephew. Enough of these little games. Come with me. I can take your
stress away.”
“I’ve no time, my dear.” He placed his hand on her hip, sparing a small glance
to the knights behind him. They looked irritated by his lechery. “You have
grown more beautiful since you left my employ, but my niece needs me. Lady
Arryn so misses her husband. I must be her strength until he is found.”
“Do not worry. I will make quick work of you.” She slid her finger down the
front of his chest, pulling him into the small alley on their right. “Your
guards can stay behind. It will not take long. I am expensive, you know, and I
do not offer this to everyone.”
“No. You’re too smart to waste your talents in such a manner.” Littlefinger
turned to the two soldiers, a lustful smile on his face. “Forgive me, sers.
Wait for me, and don’t watch.”
Mayana giggled and pulled Petyr closer. He wrapped an arm around her as the
guards grumbled something about wasting time. Good. Let them ponder.
Littlefinger walked with his prized whore into the darkness of an alleyway,
where shadows were more common than rats and city filth. He waited until they
could no longer be seen before letting go of Mayana entirely.
“Well played,” he praised when their act was dropped. “I trust our mutual
friend has been treating you well?”
“Well enough. He is not very good at pleasure, but I can change that.” Mayana
leaned against a wall and draped her long braids over her shoulder. “Give me
time. You will be sad to see him go when I am through with him.”
“I doubt that, my lady,” said Littlefinger. “But I will take my time waiting.
I’ve a woman back home, you see, one I’m very eager to return to. I should like
to make this little diversion as quick as possible.”
“Of course. Follow me.” Mayana waved a finger at him, summoning his obedience.
Littlefinger let her take his arm again as she guided them down an adjacent
alley, not too far but not too close by. Just as planned.
Standing at the dead end of the alley were four massive thugs, armored lightly
with knives at their belts. They were bearded and burly and smelled of rum, but
the calculation in their eyes told Littlefinger that their minds weren’t
entirely gone to waste. He took them in for a moment before making his
approach. He had dealt with their kind before. Child’s play.
“Gentlemen,” said Littlefinger with a small bow. “I thank you for coming
promptly. Men who arrive on time are the only ones worth dealing with, I’ve
found.”
The largest man looked him over from head to toe, and then Mayana. “Who’s she?”
“Your commission.” Petyr took a pouch of gold Mayana offered him from between
her breasts and tossed it to the nearest criminal. She knew her role. Mayana
took the collar of the third brute from the left and harshly kissed him,
pulling him back until she hit the wall. Littlefinger did not watch them; he’d
seen her in action enough to know what she would do. He folded his hands and
focused on the expression of the thug leader instead. Shock. Awe. Desire. All
signs of a successful first impression. Littlefinger wore his trademark smirk
as Mayana began to moan behind him. Hopefully the Arryn guards would hear.
“Who are we killin’?” asked the leader, counting the coins from the velvet
pouch. “Seems gen’rous to pay us before we’ve done anythin’.”
“Oh, I haven’t paid you for a death. Just your silence.” Littlefinger stepped
closer, wielding intimidation like a blade. Mayana’s wails of false
pleasure—Petyr knew the difference—added vitality to his words. “I don’t like
working with men who break the silence I pay them for. Those who talk don’t
keep their voices for long. Do you understand?”
“Aye.” The thug leader stroked his beard, considering the offer. “There’s more
pay?”
“More than you can imagine.”
“And ‘er?” He gestured to the moaning Mayana, her long legs wrapped around the
con who was railing her hard against the wall. “We get to keep ‘er?”
“She is not a woman to be kept,” said Littlefinger, turning his gaze back to
the criminals. “She has agreed to service you on my coin. Consider it a gift.
Mayana is one of the most desired women in Pentos.”
“How many times you payin’ for?”
“Once each.” Littlefinger was growing impatient. Men were foolish where their
cocks were concerned. “No more.”
“Or all at once,” laughed Mayana as she approached his side again. Petyr looked
over to her, watching her adjust her gown into a more appropriate state. The
man she’d drained wore a giant, silly grin, one that didn’t belong on the face
of such an impressive brute. Mayana took Petyr’s arm. “Have you forgotten the
tricks, my lord? I could take them all at one time.”
She could. He’d seen it. Littlefinger clicked his tongue, shrugging lightly. “I
stand corrected.”
“Deal.” The warrior smiled, and his companions chatted excitedly about the
things they were going to do with Mayana the whore. “So, foreigner. Who are we
killin’ for you?”
“You will learn soon enough. I’ll send word in a fortnight.” Without giving
explanation, Littlefinger took his leave with the dark beauty on his arm.
Pride filled him. The final pieces were in place.

 
Petyr returned to the manor in high spirits. A morning of achievements left him
aching for Sansa, but the ache was also similar to that of hunger, which had to
be heeded. He stopped in the kitchens. The lack of servants was enticing to him
and he took note of all the places he wanted to have Sansa screaming. Dark
thoughts. Delicious ones. Petyr took a clean knife and began chopping select
fruits to break his fast, watermelon and pears and fresh mangoes off the vine.
He’d read that they were good for pregnancy in a book he couldn’t remember the
title of. Petyr placed them on a platter after licking the juices from his
fingers, wanting Sansa to refresh herself for the days ahead. He took a few
slices of pear for himself before balancing the platter on his palm, leaving
the kitchens and more carnal thoughts behind.
Petyr crossed the open halls to enter Sansa’s chambers. The silk sheets on her
bed were a jumbled mess from their night of passion, but she was no longer
tangled in them. He didn’t find her by the window or standing at the balcony.
Petyr stepped further into the room and opened his mouth to call for her, but
he lost his words when her voice caught his attention from behind a paper
screen.
Sansa was bathing. He could see her shapely silhouette behind the divider and
knew the sight he was missing, but it was her song that truly captivated him.
Sansa sang of gentle mercy from the Mother, an old hymn of the Seven he’d heard
in his childhood. Cat, Petyr thought suddenly. She loved this tune. He
remembered her singing it in the sept at Riverrun when she would stop there
daily to pray. It had been an endearing memory once upon a time, but now Petyr
found no joy in thoughts of Catelyn Tully. Sansa’s voice was much softer.
Prettier. Her loveliness was more tangible than the air around him, and he
shamelessly moved around the screen to see what the shadows could not show him.
Sansa sat in a tub of steaming water, scrubbing her slender arms with flowered
soap. Auburn hair snaked down her naked back. Her skin was glistening and
beautiful in the sunlight that came pouring in from the open window, reflecting
off the water droplets, making her sparkle. Petyr stood in awe of her. She was
delectable, an apple with a golden core just waiting to be eaten. Her curves
against the light of day, water dripping from her hair and pert breasts to pool
in the scented surface of the bath…Petyr felt his chest tighten. “We can
survive this world together.” Sansa had said that to him. Him.
She could rule him if he damned well let her.
Sansa rose fully from the tub after rinsing. Water dripped down the length of
her body, over her tantalizing hips and skin, but she covered herself with
linens as she began to dry herself off. It occurred to Petyr too late that she
would turn. Sansa wrapped the towel around her bust and tied it before stopping
dead at the sight of him standing there, watching her without permission.
Their eyes met.
“Petyr…” She was shocked, and rightfully so; he had not announced himself. He
had watched her many times before, but never so openly, and he'd never been
caught. A rare feeling of foolishness washed over him.
“Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to stare.” But he had, and she knew it.
Sansa did not move, keeping the towel around her frame. Her mouth hung slightly
open. If Petyr was a sane man, he’d cross the room and take her before she
could utter protest, but he knew better. Her consent was delicate, like
porcelain balancing on the edge of a table. He would not shatter it and ruin
all the ground he’d gained.
Petyr set the platter of fruit on a table. “I brought you something to eat. You
will want to keep your strength up.”
“Th-that’s…” Sansa stuttered. “Strength?”
“Yes. You had quite the night, my dear, and there are many more to come.” He
eyed her with a hint of mischief, trying to brush off the small mistake he’d
made as if it wasn’t a mistake at all. “I will leave you to dress.” He bowed
low and took his leave. Petyr had no desire to make her uncomfortable, and the
longer he stayed, the less likely he was to resist her.
Petyr entered his own given chambers, strategically placed right across the
hall, and resigned to accomplish more work. He took to his ledgers and pushed
Sansa from his mind. He wrote meaningless letters of courtesy, established
contact with a local apothecary and calculated the gold expenditures he’d made
for the four hired criminals. He used a wax seal to stamp the mockingbird’s
authenticity onto the many letters piling up at the edge of his desk. It was a
meticulous, peaceful place he took himself to when the game was being played
from the shadows. Tranquil, almost. This was how it had all began; a little boy
with a quill and parchment, ready to make men behave. He was in the middle of
another letter when he heard his door open without a knock.
Petyr glanced up. Sansa slipped into the room, bringing all the beauty in the
world with her. Auburn hair spilled over her back and shoulders, barely
concealed in a sleeveless silk nightgown. In her hands, she carried a cup of
dark blue water. Her hair was dry and the sun was at a different angle than it
had been earlier. How long had he been working?
“You look radiant, my lady.” Petyr leaned back in his chair, quill and ink
forgotten. I’ve done diligent work with an orgy happening around me, but still
Sansa manages to turn my head.“I did not think you would come to visit me so
soon.”
“Oh?” Sansa’s tone was light. Happy. “Did you think I would just sit in my room
all day? You dismissed the servants. You’re the only other person here.” She
paced the room, draping her fingertips along the spines of many books in his
shelf. “I know why.”
“Do you?” He raised a questioning brow, but a smile was present. Sansa drank
from her water and paused to look at him. Whatever confidence was bubbling in
her slowly faded, and she drummed her fingers along the side of the goblet.
“I do. I do know.” Sansa quickly finished the medicinal liquid and set the cup
on a nearby table. “I know more than you think.”
He narrowed his eyes, smirking at her little challenge even if she didn’t
intend it. “Tell me what you know, sweetling. I’m intrigued.”
She carried something with her when she came to him. Sansa reached out, his
mockingbird pin between her fingers, and began trying to fasten it to its place
at his throat. He was glad that she’d found it, but Petyr chuckled and moved
her hand away, kissing the inside of her wrist. “No need for that,” he told
her. “It will come off again in a matter of minutes.”
Sansa bit her lip. His meaning was not missed. She met his gaze bravely, and he
knew there was a spark of his desire in her somewhere, just waiting to be set
loose. She placed the pin on the table behind him, leaning over his chair. How
great an opportunity. Petyr gently took her by the hips and pulled her into his
lap, her knees on either side of him. Sansa gasped but she was not displeased.
She steadied herself with her hands pressed against his shoulders, resting back
on his thighs to sit. The light behind her made her look like a painting of the
Maiden in a sept, which was fitting to him. She was innocence. Purity.
Everything Petyr no longer believed in.
He reached for her. Sansa smiled when he cupped her neck, brushing her
beautiful hair away and pulling her in for a kiss. It was sweet, slow and
without command, lips moving together to create something sinless. Petyr pulled
away to meet her eyes. Her smile was content, joyful beyond any he’d seen
before, and it struck him as equally odd and well-deserved.
“I know that you dismissed the servants to keep anyone from seeing us.” Her
hands lifted to his cheeks, kissing him lightly. Petyr was weak for her touch.
“I know you’ve been planning this for a long time. I know you’ve killed people
to make this happen, and I know you want me all for yourself.”
Her kiss took his mouth again, deeper than the last time, but not as sure-
footed. He ran circles on her hips with his thumbs, encouraging her to take
whatever pace she felt was right. She had never initiated before and he was
utterly enthralled with the idea. Sansa pulled away to kiss down his neck. Her
movements were experimental if anything, but Petyr was happy to indulge them.
“All correct,” he told her. “What else?”
Sansa lifted her head. “I know that you don’t intend to let me go, even if I
want to leave.”
His lip twitched. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Do you want to leave?”
Sansa caught the knife in his words. She pulled away, brushing her thumbs along
his cheekbones. “I want to go home, Petyr. I’ve always wanted to go home.”
“You will. Believe me when I tell you that you will.”
“Will you let me go afterward?” Sansa let her fingertips fall down his cheeks
and neck. Softly, like rain. “Or will you stay with me?”
Hurt. He felt hurt. Petyr removed his hands from her hips in favor of the arms
of his chair, and he looked at her with a frown. “Which do you prefer, my
lady?” His tone was stern. “You are no prisoner. You must think me a barbarian
to even entertain the thought.”
“No. No I don’t, I just…” Sansa sighed, her hands falling to the center of his
chest. “You told me in King’s Landing that once we get what we want, then we
want something else. You said that. You’ve had me and you’ll—you’ll have a
child, you…” She huffed, fingers toying with the laces at the front of his
robes. “You’ll have gotten what you wanted. A new goal will await you, as far
as I’m con—“
Petyr snatched the back of her head and captured her in a harsh kiss. He kept
her locked with his lips and she struggled initially, but Sansa melted to
compliance as her arms wrapped around him. She whimpered under his power. He
was relentless, pressing into her mouth with his tongue. Her shiver only fueled
him. Petyr left her gasping when he pulled away suddenly. “You are a beautiful
fool, my love, to think I could ever stop wanting you. How many years did I
wait? For you to be old enough? To be free of Joffrey’s engagement? Sansa,
Sansa.” He shook his head and roughly took her mouth again, her lower lip
between his teeth. Her eyed widened when he pulled back. “Don’t insult me by
suggesting the impossible. I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone. I meant it. I
know life has given you so many reasons to doubt good things, but I’m not
asking you to trust life. Trust me, and everything you want will be yours.”
Sansa’s breath was heavy when she pressed their foreheads together. He could
feel her muscles relaxing under his hands. “Even Winterfell?” she asked. “Even
you?”
“Both,” he replied, “and more. An Arryn heir. Stark heirs. Baelish heirs. The
power of the North and the Vale together, under our guiding hands.” Petyr’s
voice had become a low growl, laced with a desire he could no longer cage. “I’m
not concerned with that at present, however, and would prefer my hands go to
better use. Take off that gown before I’m tempted to tear the silk.”
Sansa laughed. The sound travelled straight to his groin, and he wore a devious
smile as she pulled the dress over her head and tossed it aside. She was naked
underneath, her skin so irresistible that Petyr was touching her before he
could make a conscious choice to. His hands slid from her hips to her breasts,
a bit too large for his hands, but not even the gods would hear him complain.
He buried his face in her neck and ravished her with kisses. Her hands roamed
his back, stoking his ardor. Sansa whimpered as he moved down her chest to the
valley at the center, and pulled away to take a nipple into his mouth. The way
her body shuddered was a sign of her arousal, and she clung to his shoulders,
whining softly when his other hand massaged her opposite breast. His left hand
slid up her spine and held her in place when Sansa’s head tipped backwards, a
curtain of auburn hiding her body from the sun. She slipped her fingers into
his hair to encourage him. Not that he needed it. Petyr would service Sansa
when and wherever she desired it, and he would never again allow her to
question the integrity of his lust.
His mouth left her breast with a “pop” and Sansa struggled to move her head
down to meet him. She kissed him gently, because she was sweet and pure and
ethereal and incorruptible. Petyr never knew if he wanted to crush her
innocence and help her rebuild or cherish the perfection which he’d fallen for
in the first place. By the laws of his beloved game, Sansa should not exist.
Yet here she was. His.
“Do you doubt me now, Sansa?” Petyr leaned back in the chair and brought her
with him, kissing her with an iron grip at the back of her neck. “Tell me. Tell
me you understand my desire for you.”
“I understand,” she panted.
“No. I don’t think you do.” Petyr slipped his hand between her thighs to pet
her sex until it was sopping, but he found she was already wet for him. Sansa
giggled into his ear.
“I think I do, Lord Baelish.”
Fuck. Petyr couldn’t help but laugh, his breeches suddenly much too tight.
“What did I tell you about dragging you into the filth with me?” He kissed her
cheek, her jaw. “You were nervous to touch me just a night ago, and now you’re
initiating what you were so scared to face.”
He hadn’t intended his words to bring pain, but somehow they had. Sansa’s smile
fell and her eyes were distant. “It’s liberating,” she told him, barely above a
whisper. “To come to you like this. To choose.”
Petyr understood. Not to the degree Sansa did, but he knew. He brushed his
fingers against the sensitive nub between her legs, watching her smile and
squirm. He didn’t want to see her frown anymore. “You will never suffer that
again, and I will be here for you to choose whenever you decide to. So long as
propriety allows.”
Sansa nuzzled his face with affection. Much to his delight, it was her who
initiated the next kiss, deep and prolonged, accentuated by the roll of her
hips on the hand between her legs. She tried and failed to form words. Petyr
was content to satisfy her in whatever way she wanted, but when Sansa moaned
into his ear, both hands on his shoulders as she rocked her body against him,
Petyr knew he wouldn’t last like this. She was too good. Too much. He opened
his mouth to speak until she took it with her lips, kissing him eagerly,
greedily. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe he didn’t care.
To his back’s dismay, Petyr moved his hands to her sides and gripped her
thighs, lifting her in his arms as he stood. Her gasp and giggle was a precious
reward. Sansa was slightly taller than him, making the motion look awkward, but
she was lighter than she seemed and the journey to his bed wasn’t a long one.
Petyr fell on top of her when they reached his destination, his lips
immediately finding her sweet-smelling neck to suck at the slope. Sansa hummed
and worked his robes as he made his marks all over her chest, claiming her as
his own, careful to place them where not a soul would see. He shrugged off his
tunic when she untied it and came for her again, their chests together, the
softness of her breasts against him making Petyr groan. He was uncomfortable
with her seeing the scar, but Sansa did not seem perturbed by it at all, having
said her apology the night before and moved on. If she did not mention it,
neither would he.
Petyr didn’t bother to push his breeches all the way down. Just enough to set
his cock free, hard as he’d ever been and ready to bury in the saccharine
warmth Sansa offered. “Let me show you how much I want you,” he growled in her
ear. “Tell me I can. Beg me.”
“Please,” came her reply. He could hear the smile on her breath and lifted his
head to see it for true. “Please, Petyr.”
He was not cruel enough to leave his lady waiting.
Petyr entered her without delay. He was slow at first, assuring she was alright
before he removed himself and pushed in again. Sansa sighed and touched her
forehead to his, an intimate gesture she was becoming fond of. He understood
why. When they connected like that, he could almost feel Sansa reaching for his
soul with hers, and while Petyr was never one to believe in such things he
could see the merits in the moment.
His thrusts quickened in speed and force alike. He didn’t have to be as gentle
with her this time, for her fear of him had dissipated to nothing, and he could
give in to the animalistic side of his desire so long as she responded
positively. Petyr could still feel the raised skin where he’d dragged his nails
on her the night before. He chuckled, kissing her before propping himself up on
his hands to thrust hard into her. Sansa’s moan was dark and desperate.
Watching her sweet face contort in bliss almost spent him then and there, and
he had to look at her slender neck to keep from falling off the edge of ecstasy
before she did. Petyr would always make it a goal to see her peak first. If it
wasn’t for a child or a small hint of selfishness in the act, he’d forget his
climax altogether to focus solely on her. But Petyr wanted to fill Sansa with
his release. Not just for the sake of their lie, but because he wanted to claim
the deepest parts of her with a trace of himself. To remove Harry entirely.
When he reigned himself under control, Petyr pushed into her again and again to
a speed that would please them both. Sansa’s cries of pleasure were the
sweetest song she could ever sing. All for me. The idea that her husband had
never heard her this way, experienced her compliance like this pulled something
dangerous from the darkness of Petyr’s heart; possessiveness. She was his.
Fully, physically, mentally, emotionally, even down to the science of it. He
would make sure she knew. His drive to please her ran wild. Sansa responded in
kind, taking his lower lip between her teeth in a testing measure that made him
purr into her open mouth. Biting him as he’d bitten her intoxicated Petyr
beyond recompense, and he knew for the millionth time that she would be his
undoing. Sansa’s delicious moans were becoming his favorite sound in the world,
made better by the knowledge that only he had ever heard them. Her pleas met
his ear. “Petyr,” she whimpered. “More.”
His growled response was immediate. “Anything for you.” His muscles ached and
his back protested, but he complied for Sansa, anything for Sansa. He gripped
the headboard to support himself as he fucked her relentlessly, always watching
for her signs of fear or disapproval, but they never came. He could feel her
inner walls clenching around his cock as he filled her fully time after time
after time, a rhythm all his own. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her
hands kept his face affectionately. Sansa’s breaths became shallow. He could
feel her on the edge, teetering above the floating world and all he had to do
was pursue her fall. Sansa clung to him. Her nails dug into his aching back and
his name fell off her lips until she quaked and quivered beneath him. She was
left mewling, clutching Petyr as her walls squeezed and released him within.
Her moans, oh how she moaned, soft and sweet and all for him. He would have
been smug if Sansa’s body hadn’t taken him with her, and his pleasure followed
hers. Petyr sucked in a breath and drained into her. He heard himself say her
name in the crook of her neck, grunting and gasping into her flower-scented
hair. His release shook him so deeply that for a moment, he feared it was all a
dream. But that couldn’t be true. No dream he’d ever conjured had been so
flawless.
His hand slid from the headboard. Petyr stayed inside her despite his receding
hardness, content just to stay joined. A few lazy thrusts caught the last stray
whimpers from her throat and he kissed the lips they fell from. Sansa weakly
laughed as he rolled over on his back, exhausted beyond imagination. I will
feel this in the morning, he thought, but it would be the most satisfying ache
of his life. Sansa did not stay away for long. He opened his arms when he felt
her moving, and she curled up at his side with her head on his shoulder, every
inch of her wrapped in his embrace.
Petyr didn’t know how long they lay together. His fingers tangled in her hair
and brushed along her arm, eyes closed to savor her touch. She made wreckage of
him. All the songs and stories he’d longed for as a boy, Sansa had made a
reality in a handful of days. I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in
her hair. Petyr scoffed at his own childish folly; who was he to think of
romance? Sansa snuggled closer before lifting her head. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, my dear. Just amused.”
“By?” Sansa nestled her forehead against his neck, trying to get as close to
him as possible. He drew her deeper.
“Myself,” he admitted. “You. Us.” Language came naturally to him, but Sansa
unraveled even that basic talent. Petyr rested his chin atop her head. “You are
an enigma, my love, and I’m glad that I’ve conquered you. But never have I let
someone gain power over me before. Not unless I was playing the game.”
“And you’re not now?”
He sighed, conflicted. “No. I’m not.”
Sansa smiled. He could feel the rise of her cheeks on his chest. Petyr kissed
the crown of her head and settled his lips there, prepared to sleep until she
spoke again.
“I don’t want you to play the game with me anymore. Not the way we did.” Her
fingertips traced shapes over the center of his scar, and it made him frown.
“When it’s just us, together like this, put the board away. No matter your
intentions.”
No matter my intentions? Oh, sweet Sansa, you would not dismiss them if you
knew. The game was inside him. In his lungs, in his blood. It was how he
survived a life of cruelty, not unlike her. Yet in that moment, holding Sansa
so close, he wondered if he could truly allow her into the wasteland of his
heart. She was a woman, a giver of life who wanted him. Perhaps she could grow
a garden where there was nothing but death. The thought alone was terrifying.
Petyr sighed into her Tully hair, a drape of fire over their bodies. What was
it the red priests always said? Death by fire is the purest death. He couldn’t
give her a definitive answer, for her question was far too troublesome, so
instead he settled for the honesty she claimed to value.
“For you, my love, I will try.”
Chapter End Notes
     YAAAAAAAAS. Back-to-back smut? Why, of course! Give me a reason not
     to.
     *cue the wrath of God telling me how much of a sinner I am*
     I didn't have a beta for this chapter so don't throw rocks at me if
     it's the worst thing you've ever read.
     I think it's really interesting in this chapter how like...idk, it
     just kinda happened this way but Petyr basically has this twisted
     view of Sansa's purity and like, IDK, I THINK IT MAKES SENSE???
     Listen. It's smut. Take it and be joyous. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
     I made room for another somewhat fluffy update on Saturday before
     shit gets real on Tuesday and the story finally ends NEXT Saturday.
     Damn, it went fast. I'm thrilled to see your reaction to the ending,
     and to start working on my next story!
     See you Saturday, nerds. <3
***** Where the Flower Grows *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
A wicked fortnight passed. Weeks of nothing but euphoria claimed her in the
arms of Petyr Baelish. Sansa woke exhausted and went to sleep exhausted, hours
of lovemaking leaving her sore and weary. Sometimes Petyr would wake her in the
middle of the night for slow, lazy sessions under the stars. Other times he
would take her to different parts of the manse; the library, the hallway,
various bedchambers, even a closet. Sansa lost track of how many times he'd
taken her, how many times she'd cried out in pleasure from his continued
pursuit. All the sweet little things he'd say were stuck in her mind,
accompanied by those that were equally filthy.
And he was filthy.
My mother is rolling in her grave. The thought made Sansa frown, and she sat up
in bed with thoughts of her family. None of them would approve of what her life
had become. She could hear her mother scolding her, scolding Petyr for dragging
her into a life of depravity. Hadn’t she raised Sansa to be better? Where were
these transgressions coming from? Sansa knew she was a good person, believed it
in her heart, yet the Stark in her was not fully at peace with her recent
decisions. It had to be done. This was preservation of the realm and the North.
Sansa was no fool, and she wouldn’t let herself believe that her choices were
made solely on nefarious desire. That may be Petyr’s way, but it isn’t mine. It
never will be.
Sansa’s foolish husband was still missing, according to Lothor Brune. The
Knights of the Vale had searched every nook and cranny of Pentos, and still
they were unable to find him. Rumors chased Harry around the city. A sighting
in a brothel here, a purchase in a tavern there, but never any physical
evidence to match the claims. “He’s here somewhere,” Lothor had assured her.
“He’ll turn up.” But there was no longer any question of finding him alive.
Harry Arryn was gone, Sansa was certain of it, and she only hoped Petyr had
planned this well enough to keep himself out of suspicion. She didn’t know if
she could face the future alone.
Sansa slipped on a nightgown and left her bedchamber in search of Petyr. He
always checked his books after bathing and breaking his fast. Sansa had become
an expert in his morning routine. She found Petyr in the library, writing
something down in his ledgers as she’d suspected, the feather of a quill moving
quickly with his handwriting. Littlefinger was hard at work. She admired him
for it, despite knowing what despicable plans he could be hatching or carrying
out with just a scratch of ink on paper. The thought no longer terrified her as
much as it once did. As it still should.
Sansa padded silently to her lover. Petyr looked up as she approached. “A
beautiful sight on a beautiful morning,” he said with a grin, turning back to
his ledger. “You slept late, my dear. Apologies for not waking you sooner.”
“You’re forgiven.”
It was Littlefinger she spoke to now. Sansa could see the way he focused on his
game after giving her acknowledgment. She waited until he was finished writing
before plucking the quill from his hand and dropping it in the inkwell. Petyr
chuckled and leaned back in his chair, lifting his eyes to her. “You mean to
deprive me of my work?”
“Only for a moment.” Sansa came to him, sitting in her claimed seat on his lap
and wrapping her arms around his neck. Her legs draped over the arm of the
chair and his hands were quick to find her waist and outer thigh, pulling her
tight against him. Sansa watched the mask of Littlefinger slip away under the
soft assault of her affection. He cupped her cheek and kissed her sweetly, a
gesture she was all too willing to return, and Sansa settled her head in the
crook of his neck when they parted. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.
“I would sleep well through a Wildling raid with you by my side.” Petyr
straightened his back as if his words gained him some great victory. Perhaps
they did; Sansa smiled, and she was certain he would consider that a triumph.
“You’re still tired, though. I can see it. You should start blowing out your
candles before midnight.”
“I would,” Sansa replied, “but the strangest thing keeps happening. Oh, Lord
Baelish, you’d pale to hear the story. A man sneaks into my chambers and
ravishes me every night before I can close my eyes.” She felt his laugh, a
shake of his chest and a rush of breath. “Maybe you should talk to him about my
sleeping arrangements.”
“So I shall.” Petyr’s moustache tickled her forehead when he kissed her crown.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your attention this morning, my lady? I know
when I’m being manipulated, and I also know when I’ve lost. Do you have a
request for which you toy with my desires?” His tone was playful. “I fear I
could do naught but concede to such fiendish machinations.”
Sansa giggled. She found it funny, how mere months ago she couldn’t decipher
the difference between Petyr and Littlefinger, but the answer had always been
right in front of her. It was in his eyes, his words. When he was alone with
her. She lifted her head and leaned in to kiss him. “Fiendish indeed,” she
said. Her fingertips lazily stroked the gray patch of hair at his temple. “I
did have a request, actually. If you want to hear it.”
“Mm. Tell me, then.” Petyr leaned his head back, relaxed by her touch, so she
did not stop.
“I was thinking we could spend the day outside the manse,” said Sansa. “In the
markets. The city. I only got to see Pentos’s wealth when I was with Harry. We
went to parties and soirees, met all sorts of highborn lords and magisters, but
I never got to see the heart of this place. I’d like to.” Sansa looked at him.
“If you want.”
Petyr considered her, walking his fingers up her thigh. “Everything I want to
do involves staying indoors,” he said deviously, “but I cannot keep you here.
If you wish to see Pentos, so be it. Your happiness makes me happy. But there
will be conditions.”
“Conditions?” Sansa blinked. For a moment she thought his meaning was sexual,
until he laughed at her conclusion and clarified.
“Not those kinds of conditions, my dear. We must be discrete. Your husband is
still missing and the guards are a bit tense, to say the least. Necessity
demands that the knights in our attendance are not all bought and paid for. We
must be nothing more than an uncle taking his niece away from her sorrows.” He
brushed a finger along her jaw. “It will be good practice for returning to the
Vale, as regrettable as it is.”
“I can do that.” Sansa was not pleased, however. She didn't fancy hiding him
from the world, and frowned in remembering that was her fate. She slid off of
his lap, but his touch lingered at her hips as if he regretted letting her go.
Sansa was pulled back by a tug at her hand. She knew what he wanted. As if
offering an apology for their plight, Sansa placed her lips delicately against
his in a kiss that was more pure than most. She kept them there and kissed him
thrice, smiling against him. “I can’t go to the markets in a shift.”
“Unfortunately.” He released her with a sigh. “Dress yourself, then. I will
meet you in the foyer. Don’t be long.”
“I won’t.” Sansa took her leave, feeling Petyr’s eyes on her all the while.
He was always touching her. Sansa had gotten so used to his constant presence
that being without it made her feel unsafe. Uncertain. Petyr’s hand at the
small of her back, on her cheek, a kiss on her head or an unexpected embrace
were things she would come to miss. He’d trained her body to want him.
Sometimes she wondered if he touched her out of fear she would slip away, but
who was Petyr Baelish to practice fear? Sansa knew this deceptive, arrogant man
better than anyone. If ever he feared something, it must be truly terrible
indeed, but Sansa found she would face any of those monsters for him. He was
her only family, now. In more ways than one.
Sansa spent a quick amount of time in the bath, making sure her door was
locked. Petyr wouldn’t catch a glimpse. The less he saw, the more he’d crave
her later. She was becoming quite good at their little game. Sansa chuckled at
the love bites and bruises she found all over her naked skin, blushing at the
ones between her thighs. He's ravenous, she thought with a smile, but he is
mine. When she slipped from the bath and dried, Sansa dressed in a gown of
flowing green silks with a woven gold bodice, the height of eastern fashion.
Why didn’t Westeros have sleeveless gowns? She slipped on a pair of sandals and
pinned back her hair, the final touch, knowing Petyr would appreciate her
efforts to appear ladylike. She gave herself a nod of approval in the mirror
before leaving to find him.
Sansa stepped into the foyer. Petyr was dressed sharply as always, prepared for
the day with five loyal members of her absent husband’s guard. Ser Lothor was
there too, and it was comforting to see him filling a protector role that had
long been void. “Lady Arryn,” said Petyr in a respectful tone.
“Lord Baelish,” she replied. The desire in his eyes was not missed, the way he
absorbed her from head to toe, soaking in her beauty. “Thank you for taking me
out today. It will do good to get some fresh air.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” With a slow blink of his eyes, he offered his arm. She
eagerly accepted. Accompanied by Arryn soldiers, they left their manse of
misbehavior in favor of the Pentoshi sun.
The heart of Pentos was more wondrous than any soiree she’d attended with
Harry. Massive brick towers stood at the corners of the bustling market square,
pale against the high city walls in the distance. A light-hearted foreign tune
combatted the chatter of bastardized Valyrian, creating a new kind of sound
unique to the city she was coming to love. Sansa was enchanted. Never had she
seen so many men with their hair forked and dyed in strange colors, women with
beautiful dark skin or so many hues of silk and satin for sale. Incense flooded
her senses and relaxed her, and children’s laughter eased her weary heart.
“It’s beautiful,” said Sansa in wonderment. “I’ve never seen a market like
this. It’s so…busy.”
“Yes. Quite colorful as well. High in contrast to Winterfell, I imagine.” Petyr
kept his distance despite their locked arms. “I will let you be the guide
today. Go where you wish, my lady, and I will follow.”
There were so many things Sansa wanted to do. She wasn't sure where to start,
but as they walked further into the marketplace, she felt herself unwind. Sansa
spoke as best she could with those who understood the common tongue, marveled
at the handmade wares and blabbed to Petyr about what each trinket reminded her
of. A cloak like the one she made Robb, a wolf pelt that looked like Lady's, a
bit of silk that made her think of Shae. She even sampled a delectable Pentoshi
delicacy she couldn’t pronounce the name of. It was succulent and savory and
melted off her tongue, and she found herself wishing the Vale could make it
too.
Despite her surroundings, Sansa didn't purchase much. She preferred to take
memories as her souvenirs of choice, having learned long ago that material
possessions could only be left behind. That didn’t stop her from examining the
options, though. She picked up a strange violet flower with large petals and a
yellow center, only because it smelled so sweet. She put it in her hair and
beamed at Petyr when she turned to him. "How do I look?" asked Sansa with a
giggle.
Petyr took one glance at her before averting his eyes. “The flower suits you,
my lady.”
Sansa’s smile fell. Oh, she’d been careless. Petyr wanted to tell her how she
truly looked, she could read the answer in his face, but he couldn’t voice it
aloud and that hurt him. It’s all spiraled around me. Sansa knew she couldn’t
reach out to him or apologize, so instead she removed the flower from her hair
and placed it back on the table.
There were many other items of interest, at least. Sansa saw jaded combs,
intricate pottery and blown glass, jewelry boxes and herbal tea, but something
less expensive caught her eye. She reached for a plush toy, a small thing meant
for a child, and grinned when she felt how soft it was. The toy was a little
stuffed sheep with a brown face and white wool body, with floppy ears and big
black button eyes. A pink nose was stitched above the mouth. Sansa remembered
Rickon having something similar, though his was a direwolf instead of a sheep
and was forgotten the moment Shaggydog came to him. Oh, Rickon. Sansa smiled at
the thought of her brother’s face, always asking if his direwolf could play
with her dolls.
“Merino,” said Petyr, pulling her from her reverie.
“Hm?”
He gestured to the toy in her hands. “Merino wool. Said to be among the softest
in the world.” Petyr chuckled when she looked confused. “There was little else
to do in the Fingers but chase sheep, much like the one whose wool crafted
this. We made a game out of it as children, you see. When the old hounds tired
from chasing the flock, the shepherd’s children and I would—“
Petyr stopped. Sansa met his eyes, grey-green orbs of regret. He looked as
though he’d let slip a dangerous secret and she could feel his discomfort in
the air between them, growing larger by the second. “You would…?” Sansa asked
gently. “It sounds like a fun game.”
In a blink, Littlefinger returned. Sansa frowned as the mask took her lover
away. “Ah. I would not bore you with childhood stories, my lady.” He addressed
the toymaker instead. “Skorkydoso olvie?”
“Izula.”
Petyr retrieved a small purse from his pocket and handed four Pentoshi coins to
him. The merchant bowed to them in gratitude when he took his payment.
“Kirimvose,” said Petyr in Valyrian, offering his arm to Sansa again. “The toy
is yours. Save it for a child, Lady Arryn. Hopefully one of many.”
One of many. Sansa knew his meaning and felt her cheeks flush. Not wanting to
draw attention to herself, she slipped her hand around his forearm and walked
further into the marketplace, along with his gift.
Tension settled between them for the remainder of the day. Petyr was distant,
not cold and heartless, but not himself either. Sansa tried to involve him in
the festivities she chose, from dancing to conversation to sampling what was
offered. Either he was very knowledgeable in his role, or he was hiding
something. Sansa was too good at his game to let it slide. She nearly asked him
what was wrong, until Petyr abruptly stood from the bench they were sitting on
and announced his leave. “I’m afraid I must part from you here, my lady.
Business matters require my attention. I will see you back at the manse.”
“What? But—“
“Ser Lothor and the knights will remain with you,” he interrupted, “though I
hope you’ll forgive me for taking one of them off your hands. I am not nearly
half as important as you are, but I do believe you would fret over my loss.” He
placed a chaste kiss to her cheek. Sansa hoped he would whisper something to
her, some inkling of his intentions, but Petyr did nothing of the sort and left
before she could call him back.

 
It wasn’t until the sun began to set that Sansa returned to the manor. Pentos
had treated her nicely, but the charm was lost without someone to enjoy it
with. Lothor was only so talkative. She watched the red priests and priestesses
begin their fire rituals to summon the dawn, their chanting accompanying her
through the manse’s front door. Their song was eerie at first, uncomfortable to
listen to, but there was something beautiful about the arrangement that made
Sansa ache. She dismissed the soldiers in her attendance and brought that ache
with her to the outer gardens, searching for peace.
Uneasiness swept over her. Sansa didn’t know why, but sitting in the gardens
under twilight made her suddenly anxious. Pentos had been a place of
recuperation for her, recovery and happiness, among other things. But something
ate at her core. Instinct, perhaps, telling her that terror lay ahead. She
remembered the feeling, as if she were back in King’s Landing and had never
left at all. Nervous thoughts were her company. Sansa stood to reeneter the
manse in search of the only person who could calm her, stopping when she
turned.
Petyr was leaning against the door frame, watching her. In his hand was a
purple flower. “Did I disturb you?” he asked coolly.
Sansa shook her head, just grateful to have him near. His eyes were heavy with
concern when he observed her, likely reading the fear she’d tried to hide. She
crossed the distance between them. Before Sansa could speak, Petyr stole a kiss
from her lips and settled his hand at the small of her back, and she smiled.
“You didn’t disturb me,” said Sansa. “You never could.”
“I doubt that, my dear.”
Sansa hummed when he cupped her cheek. Petyr could never seem to take his hands
off of her when they were alone, not that she minded, but Sansa knew she was
beginning to rely on that touch for happiness. A dangerous line to cross. She
took him by the hands, pulling him back with her to the bench she’d been
sitting on. Petyr sat at her side and placed the flower in her hair like it had
been before, contrasting the Tully red. “You left so suddenly,” said Sansa when
he curled her hair behind her ear. “Why?”
“It was business, Sansa. Placing the pieces, nothing more. I would have left
the manse too, if we’d stayed in.” Petyr glided a finger along her cheek before
removing it. “I was reluctant to take time away, but I’m glad we did. I look
forward to a day when we can do this again without a need to hide our
familiarity, when I can tell you that you look like a sun-bride with a lovely
flower in her hair and not care who hears it.”
“A sun-bride?” Sansa laughed, her cheeks turning pink as she looked away. How
could she still claim innocence? He’d said fouler things to her than
confessions of beauty. “Now you’re exaggerating.”
“I manipulate the truth, Sansa. I never exaggerate.” Petyr pulled her chin
toward him to catch her eyes again. “And I want to kiss the sun-bride as much
as I did the snow maid.”
Sansa was weak under his gaze. She did not resist when he pressed his mouth to
hers. Petyr’s kiss was slow and weightless, lips moving so sweetly that it
pooled desire at the pit of her stomach. He pulled away after seconds had
passed. “I have news from the Vale,” said Petyr in a low voice. “From Lady
Waynwood.”
Sansa felt fear grip her heart. She didn’t say anything as Petyr removed his
hand from her chin and placed it on the back of her shoulder.
“We will be leaving Pentos before the moon turns. The magisters say that Harry
is surely dead, and it is best that the Lady of the Vale returns home.”
“Without Harry?” Sansa blinked. “Not even…not even with his body?”
“Half of the knights you brought with you will stay here in search of him, or
whatever remains. You and I must go back to the Eyrie to finish preparing for
winter. Without your husband, all of the Vale will look to you for guidance.
You must be there for them.”
The Lady of the Vale. Sansa parted her lips to sigh, fumbling with her hands in
her lap. So many thoughts came through her mind at once—fear, bravery, careful
calculation—but she only gave voice to one. “Did you mean it?” asked Sansa,
looking to him again. “What you said about not having to hide.”
A small, frustrated sigh escaped him. “Sansa, sweetling. I did tell you that I
wanted you to be happy. Having to hide your feelings and sneak around the Vale
to be with me would not bring you happiness, nor would I be content with the
need for secrecy." Petyr lifted her chin with one finger, directing her eyes to
his. “You are the Lady of the Vale, and in time you will be the Lady of the
North as well. Who might say what such a powerful woman chooses to do? After
enough time passes for proper mourning and to leave no doubt to the bloodline
of your child, perhaps you will see need for another marriage. Who could speak
against you choosing the Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident as
your husband?” He chuckled and removed his hand from her. "Who can say what the
future holds?”
Sansa’s beating heart leapt to her throat. He spoke the words so casually, like
he was describing a vase he wished to purchase, yet somehow he brought as much
security as he took. Sansa wanted so badly to be loved ever since she was
little, to have a family and a husband, to be taken care of like a true wife
should be. Marriage wasn’t something she wanted again until now. Contrary to
his teachings, all she wanted was Petyr and Winterfell. The thought made her
distressed. I haven't learned anything at all.
“You're not just saying that, are you?” she asked meekly. "Not some power play?
Using my deepest desires to 'know how to move me'?" Her tone was not
accusatory, but fearful, for she had yet to put her full trust in him. She had
been crushed too many times before.
Petyr’s laugh took her off-guard. She looked at him wide-eyed, afraid he was
mocking her until his hands found either side of her face, pulling her close to
him. “Sansa, once again you are a beautiful fool. What use is power without
someone by my side? I've had one goal in mind ever since I first set foot on
this path, and while the target changed the general shape of it remained the
same. Power is only worth so much alone.” His eyes wore an intense focus she'd
never seen in him before, as if he was trying to force her to see the truth
through him. His touch left her face to take her hands in his, and kissed her
knuckles gently. “You are the goal which all this power was meant to achieve,
for the sake of helping me foster it. Not just for a tryst in a foreign city. I
will make you mine in the sight of gods and men, and I will be yours. I will
crush those who stand in my way like the worthless gnats they are.” He faltered
then, leaving Sansa on the edge of his next words, but they formed before she
could inquire. “I have loved you, Sansa. Too long have I kept that love
distant, away from you to watch you grow, but now I leave it at your feet for
you to take and shape in any way you will.”
There was no barrier in those gray-green eyes, no filter through which lies
were told. Sansa saw only him. She could feel the tension in his hands, for he
had gambled in confessing to her, but he’d manipulated her so well to the point
where refusal would be fruitless. Sansa knew she was with child. It was far too
early to feel the babe inside her, to physically see any evidence of her
pregnancy, but in her heart she knew. He knew. And he had crafted this moment
to his advantage knowing she was so very like her mother, that barring him from
her life forever was no longer an option.
She did not want it to be.
A smile spread across her face, contradicted by tears. Sansa pulled away from
his touch out of embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'm sorry. I
just..." She wiped her cheeks with both palms, feeling like a slave shackled to
a master, yet a queen in her own right. Perhaps she was one. Petyr was king,
holding the board to the game of Westeros, and he'd chosen her to stand at his
side. He'd made her. But something in her spirit was enough for him to be
satisfied, to seek her through bloodlines and social status. Sansa wept. It was
all she could do, the husk of a broken girl given the sustenance she needed to
survive. Tainted love was better than no love at all.
Petyr looked unraveled by her tears. “I did not mean to upset you.”
"No. You didn’t, I promise. I am a fool," she said in confirmation. "You taught
me not to be, but here I am, undone by you. Not the knight I always wanted as a
girl, but we both know the songs aren't always true. Love, though…” Sansa
beamed. "Maybe those songs have merit."
She extended a hand to touch his cheek, soft and gentle. Like he was glass. If
Petyr had never been loved in his life, Sansa would surely fix that. She leaned
in to kiss him. Petyr brought out the child in her, the one who felt giddy at
the prospect of happily ever after. How ironic; was that not what he'd tried to
purge from her to begin with?
Petyr was the one to pull away first, but he remained close with their noses
almost touching. “If that's enough to be named a fool, then I am a fool as
well. The heart can do strange things to you if you let it.” He smiled wryly,
voice holding a bit of silliness. “Perhaps I should discard the game and take
up the craft of a minstrel. Would you come with me if I took to traveling the
world, singing for my supper?”
"I will go wherever you go." Her answer was kind where he was playful. "I know
your scheming and your plans take you many places, but you have my heart, so it
travels with you. Always." Sansa lifted her eyes to his. "You've already won on
that count."
Petyr wore a smug grin. "And I would happily name it my greatest victory yet,
my love, perhaps the greatest I will ever know. Wherever my schemes and plans
may take me, what remains of me will have a place in your hands. Always."
Why did it all sound so familiar?Ah,she thought suddenly.Marriage vows. Sansa
recognized the parallels and did not mind in the slightest, not even as he
kissed her to solidify them. She was not left wanting. Petyr took her with
fire, his hands grabbing her hips and pulling her into his lap. She straddled
him and kissed him heatedly until he lowered her to the ground, her back
pressing into the garden grass, and the lovers claimed each other as their own
beneath the eastern stars.
Chapter End Notes
     booooooo @ this chapter omg, my beta isn't here to help me with NOT
     BEATING MY HEAD AGAINST A WALL
     BUT AT LEAST SHIT'S ABOUT TO GET REAL so I can finally set this thing
     up on the path toward my delicious ambiguous ending! Hooraaaaay.
     See you Tuesday for an update that might actually be worth your while
     oeignaoeigmjaoirng but at least this has some of them being cute, so
     I guess it wasn't entirely a waste of your time. Again, no beta on
     this chapter so sorry if it's shitty garbage.
     Love you!!
***** Bloodied Dagger *****
Chapter Notes
     THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:
This chapter has some content that might disturb people. Read at your own risk.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
He never meant to fall in love with her. Sansa Stark was supposed to be a means
to an end, an apprentice to his mentor, but she’d become more. A pinnacle of
everything he’d abandoned. Purity. Kindness. Acceptance. Grace. Things Petyr
lacked, but never truly missed.
Had Petyr ever known love before Sansa? He thought that he’d found it in
Catelyn Tully long ago, a woman with red hair who gave him the gift of her
time, but his heart became a twisted thing in the aftermath of her. No, love
was Sansa’s sigh against his lips. Love was the smell of her skin, her genuine
smile, her honeyed moans into his open mouth. Love was being with her. Ruling
with her. Fucking her. Killing for her.
Petyr would know, for he’d done exactly that.
Watching her sleep had become a favorite pastime. Sansa was so peaceful when
dreams took her away, so unaffected by the pain she’d suffered. Petyr grinned
and turned away from his sleeping girl in favor of the hearth he stood beside.
He rested his hand on the mantle, watching the flames that so reminded him of
her hair.
Almost midnight, he thought with a grin. Almost time.
He didn’t know how long he was there, but Petyr’s grip on the mantle tightened
as he felt slender arms wrap around him. Sansa’s hands slid upward and met at
the center of his chest. Petyr felt her lips graze his neck as her body pressed
against his back, and he closed his eyes, exhaling slowly to stop the shiver in
his spine. “Why are you out of bed?” asked Sansa sweetly. “Is something wrong?”
“A chill took the room. I didn’t want you to get cold.”
“Oh.” Sansa rested her head on his shoulder. He couldn’t stop himself from
brushing his cheek against her soft hair. “I can feel your heartbeat,” she
said. “It’s so fast.”
“That is because of you, my love.” Petyr took one of her hands and lifted it
for a kiss. “Did the fire wake you?”
“Mhm. It’s really bright.”
“I will douse it, then.” But he did not move to do so. He kept her hand in his
and stood there. For a second, Petyr fooled himself into thinking he was the
one holding her, but he wasn’t. Sansa was being the caregiver, as was her
nature. Petyr felt oddly calmed by her intimacy.
Sansa’s fingertips grazed along the front of his shoulder. Her voice was very
small when she spoke. “I’m pregnant.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
Petyr chuckled, kissing her hand again. “That was the plan, remember? We’ve
done nothing but work quite diligently for this outcome. With the addition of a
fertility supplement, you would have to be barren to not be with child at this
point. And I am certain you’re fertile.” He toyed with her fingers
thoughtlessly. “Most Tullys are. Even the Starks were known to have large
families. You were one of five, your father was one of four, and your mother
would have been one of six had her three brothers survived infancy.”
“A comforting thought,” shot Sansa.
Petyr smirked. “Don’t worry. I assured you that every maester in the Vale would
be at your service, and more if you wish. You will bear a healthy child.” I
will make sure of it.
“Mm.” Sansa hugged him close and placed a kiss on his shoulder. She was such an
affectionate girl, always pulling him back from whatever path of thought he was
barreling down. “Are you sure I’m pregnant?”
“You are sure.”
“But it’s different to have someone else notice, too. I haven’t been examined
or anything. I don’t know for certain.”
Petyr almost laughed. He turned in her arms, taking her face in his hands as he
so liked to do, admiring the innocence in her eyes. “For such an intelligent
young lady, you are prone to witlessness. The Stark in you, I imagine. Your
breasts are tender to the touch. You get dizzy upon standing, and this morning
I heard you vomit. You smell different. You taste different.” He kissed her
slowly, so she might feel his earnest intent. “Exhaustion must be causing these
doubts, for you know as well as I that you are with child. You need to sleep,
my love. Go back to bed.”
Sansa yawned, as if her body was proving his point. She smiled afterward. That
smile. “Alright, alright. You win.” Sansa took him by the hands and pulled
Petyr to bed with her, a sight that was precious to him. She crawled to the
middle of the mattress and Petyr landed on top of her, ending her laughter with
gentle kisses. He ached to please her further, to hear her sweet sounds and
fill her completely, but there was no time. He would have to wait until the job
was done. Petyr gave her a long, final kiss before lying down and opening his
arms for her. Sansa snuggled up at his side, and fell asleep quickly in his
embrace.
Midnight came and went. Petyr waited until Sansa was deep in slumber before
untangling her from his arms. A night of passion had left his rich garments
discarded about the room, but he did not reach for them. Petyr returned to his
own chambers across the hall and removed a set of black eastern clothes from a
box under his bed. He grabbed a patchwork cloak from the closet and returned to
Sansa’s side long enough to place his mockingbird pin on the bedside table. If
she woke, she would know of his inevitable return. He leaned down to brush her
hair from her face and kiss her forehead tenderly, wondering if she knew her
place in his black heart, knew the things he would do for her. Sansa stirred
under his touch, but remained asleep. Oblivious. He left shortly after.
Littlefinger slipped silently from the manse. He was nothing more than an
indistinct shadow among many, and preferred to keep it that way. He hurried
along the route he'd mapped, staying to dimly lit streets until he passed
through darkness. Subtle markers littered the walls of alleyways to indicate
safe passage through the dark maze of Pentos. The magister who ran the
underbelly of the city had decided years ago that rampant crime was bad for
business, so cryptically labeled pathways were established to allow wealthier
criminals their unhindered work, and the scummier class had free reign over the
rest. Petyr was delighted to see what could be accomplished by a ruthless
visionary with work ethic and diligence. Maybe that was why Petyr chose Pentos
to begin with. It didn’t matter where the death occurred, only that it must,
but there was charm in using coin to support a magister so very like himself. I
shall have to come here again,thought Littlefinger, long after this is behind
us.
A ramshackle home sat on the crest of a hill, coming into view when he rounded
the corner. The red-tinted lantern marked his destination. Petyr opened the
locked door, to which he held the key, and climbed down into the cellar below
that smelled of sweat and incense. The sight that met him was quite pleasant.
Nothing but a bed, some food and water and wine, Mayana’s favorite “equipment”
and Mayana herself. She stood against the wall beside a bare-skinned girl with
a caramel complexion. Her smile spread wide. “It seems we have a guest, Lord
Arryn.”
In the center of the cellar, Harrold Hardyng was on his knees. His arms were
chained above his head and a gag clogged his mouth, and he sat naked as his
nameday, delirious and half-conscious. Harry obviously hadn’t recovered from
his last dose of nightshade that had been used to keep him asleep and helpless,
but he recognized Littlefinger at once. The fool tried to shout something,
perhaps a plea for help, but the gag muffled it into useless grunts. Petyr
ignored him and turned to Mayana instead. “This is a nice arrangement,” said
Littlefinger. “As always, I am impressed.”
“You should be. I have gone through great lengths to make it comfortable for
him.” Mayana poured herself a glass of purple wine and offered it to the second
girl, who declined. By candlelight, Petyr could see bruises on her bronze skin
in some interestingly indicative spots.
“And who is our lovely friend here?”
“This is Jhaka. Half-Dothraki. Loyal girl, innocent enough to leave your
soldiers without any doubt.” Mayana gently pulled Jhaka’s long hair over her
shoulder. “Doe eyes, you see. Pretty thing.”
“Yes, very pretty.” But Petyr had no interest. His eyes returned to Harry, who
began struggling more as the sedative wore off. "Tell me, Jhaka. Have you been
taking good care of his lordship?"
“Yes, m’lord. And all his parts.” She shot Petyr a suggestive grin, one that
undoubtedly won her many wealthy admirers.
Mayana chuckled as she approached Petyr to kiss him on the cheek. A friendly
gesture. She paused as she got close to him, tilted her head to the side, and
let out a low laugh. "You smell like sex.”
“Do I? This room itself has the same musk.” Littlefinger smirked. “Are you
certain I carry it too?”
“Were it not the scent, I would see it in your eyes. I know that look in a
man.” She took his chin in her hand. “You got what you wanted, did you? The
girl?”
“And more.”
“Wonderful. I am glad.” She patted his cheek, almost like a mother. How lucky
she was, to be allowed to touch him. She took a sip of her foreign wine.
“Mister Harry has been eager. I do not like forcing people, but Jhaka never had
to with this one. All his marks, all his abrasions, all of them are genuine.”
Littlefinger turned his attention to Harry. It was an embarrassing position,
really, but Petyr did not pity him. He observed all the bruises and scrapes and
faded scars in admiration. "You made it look real, yes?"
“I think so,” said Jhaka. “The rest is easy. People saw us together.”
Petyr continued his distant examination. “And you, Mayana? Your part is done?”
“Many in Jhaka’s little corner of Pentos have complained about the sounds at
all hours of the day. You remember teaching me how to moan?” She laughed. “It
came in handy.”
“Good. Good.”
Mayana walked over to Harry, patting his side like a swineherd proudly showing
off her stock. "I gave him some of my own attention as well. Take a look for
yourself."
Littlefinger grabbed a lantern and brought it over to inspect his captive. He
paced around Harry, examining his battered body at the many angles available to
him. Harry’s wrists were bound in manacles lined with velvet to ensure there
would be no marks of confinement, but that was the only unmarked skin Petyr
saw. Bruises dotted his neck and collarbone. Red trails lined his sides and
back and legs, a mix of old and new, the tracks of nails and leather digging
into flesh in the heat of passion. Harry’s backside was similarly marred in the
shape of a firm grip. As he rounded the front, Petyr noticed that Harry's
genitals were red from chafing. Littlefinger quirked a brow at his faithful
Mayana, a smile pulling at his lips to meet the grin she was still wearing.
“You said to make it look real, so I made it real. The poor boy was confused,
but he was very willing, I give him that. He looks like he has been fucking a
wildcat, no?" She gestured to Jhaka’s body. “More evidence. I will make sure
she rehearses the story. And you will make sure we are paid.” She phrased it as
a statement of fact, as it was. Littlefinger was happy to pay this debt. Mayana
was one of the few he trusted with a secret.
“I will pay you extra for a job well done. Excellent work as always.”
Littlefinger moved to Jhaka and placed his free hand on her shoulder, ignoring
how she flinched. “Look at me,” he said. “Has Mayana told you what I do to
those who betray me?”
“Yes.” Jhaka smiled, but it was not reassuring. “She chose me well, m’lord. I
will do this thing as she says.”
“Smart girl.” He removed his hand from her. “Now, dress and send in the others.
You know your part to play come daylight. I expect you to be suitably
bereaved.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Jhaka swiftly left the cellar to do as Littlefinger bid. Petyr
placed his lantern on the floor beside Harry and sighed, not speaking until the
latch closed behind her.
“Dispose of her when this is done,” said Petyr. “I’m not fond of loose ends.”
Mayana clicked her tongue in disappointment. “Come now, Lord Baelish. I like
this one. She is quite talented, and some of my clients like the idea of
fucking a savage.”
“Find another. There are plenty, I’m sure.”
She sighed, finishing her drink. “As you say.”
Littlefinger took the lantern again as his four hired thugs climbed down into
the cellar. They quietly dressed poor Harry in a simple tunic and breeches. The
shirt was a bit of a challenge as he began to struggle, but with four men
against one there was nothing he could do. After a few minutes of hassle, Harry
was dressed but still chained, eyes beginning to close again.
“Wake him,” Petyr spat.
Mayana gave Harry a pitying pat on the head. She grabbed a bucket from the
other side of the room, filled with ice and water, and dumped the contents on
Harry’s broken frame. Littlefinger watched the boy jolt to a waking state,
breathing over the gag in his mouth as though he were drowning.
His eyes found Petyr’s and narrowed in anger.
“Oh, Lord Arryn, there's no need for that.” Littlefinger stood straight,
forcing Harry to crane his neck to look up at him. "You would have been rid of
me the moment we returned to the Vale. You were standing in my way. It's
business. But I do take a certain pleasure in being rid of fools, especially
those who hurt the ones I love.”
Littlefinger yanked the rag from Harry’s mouth. The young lord gasped and
struggled for breath, but Petyr did not care. “All you had to do was bed my
daughter, Harry. A simple task. Surely the mothers of your bastards were bedded
properly instead of raped. Or did you force them as you forced my Sansa?”
“Not…not your daughter,” coughed Harry. “Stark. Sansa Stark.”
Petyr laughed coldly. “Who raised her up from a prisoner of war? Who cared for
her? Taught her? Saved her? Killed for her? Surely not her true lord father,
who would have seen her wed to King Joffrey. I was doing Sansa a service,
bringing her to you. And you tainted my purpose with violence.” Littlefinger
pulled the dagger from his belt and teasingly examined the tip of the blade.
“What was I just telling Jhaka about people who betray me?”
“Lord Baelish—“
“I asked you a question.” Petyr’s voice took a dangerous dive, and Harry
stopped his frantic pleas. He knew his life was over. Finally.
“You were…telling her about the things you do to them.”
“Yes, I was. And now you will find out firsthand.” Littlefinger gently pressed
the blade against Harry’s throat, moving mere inches from him. He visibly
cowered under Petyr’s intimidation. “Who is your heir, Harry?”
“I—I don’t—“
“You don’t have one. I wonder why that is. So many accidents over the years, so
many lesser Arryns meeting their fates. Well-armed tribesmen here, sickness
there, a fatal fall…yes, it’s all quite tragic.” Petyr looked away, faking
concern. “Now it all comes down to you.”
Harry huffed in defiance. “You won’t get what you—“
“Quiet.” Petyr nicked the blade on Harry’s skin. Blood dripped down his neck as
he cried out, small droplets as a warning. “I don’t want to hear you beg for
your life. You won’t get it. But I do want you to understand that Sansa was
never yours to harm. She was alwaysmine. In King’s Landing she was mine. In the
Eyrie she was mine. Here in Pentos, she is mine. You hurt what belongs to me.
And soon, dear Harry, that debt will be repaid.”
Petyr pulled away and nodded to the hired thugs. Harry tried to shout, but a
massive hand returned the gag to his mouth as the men began to beat him. Not to
the death, just enough to make Jhaka’s story believable. Broken ribs and a
black eye. They dragged him backwards up the stairs, and Petyr followed with
the lantern, watching Harry’s weak struggles with amusement. Oh, revenge was
sweet. One of the men left to ensure their route was clear, and when he gave
the signal the other three continued pulling Harry into the night. They did not
have far to go. A shadowed alley between two large buildings constituted the
quickest route from Jhaka's home to the nearest tavern; a perfect location
indeed. The thugs pushed Harry up against the brick wall, holding him securely,
and Littlefinger approached with the blade from beneath his cloak.
There was no ceremony. No last words. Petyr rammed the dagger into Harry's left
side and buried it to the hilt. Blood rushed over his fingers as Harry began to
gasp and grunt, his body begging for help, and Petyr would not oblige. Harry
fell to the ground when he pulled away. Littlefinger watched in triumph as Lord
Arryn bled out into the dirt, knowing his debt was paid.
The writhing stopped. Harry was dead.
“Well done,” praised Mayana from behind. Littlefinger wiped his blade on
Harry’s breeches as the four brutes set about staging the robbery. The gag was
removed, Harry's empty coin purse tossed aside, his pockets turned out, and a
skin of wine was dropped at the scene.
“Well done indeed.” Petyr was impressed with the criminals’ work. It was almost
a shame that they had to die, too. Almost. “Mayana, my dear, see that our
friends are paid for their hard work. I do believe you promised them quite a
night.”
“I did,” chuckled the whore. “Come. Once Jhaka alerts the city guard, I will
see you are paid in full.”
There was nothing more to say. Littlefinger took in the sight of Harry a moment
longer, a useless piece flicked off the board, before gathering his pride and
disappearing into the shadows of Pentos once more.
Chapter End Notes
     DROP THAT MIC PETEY
     Ah, this chapter is so satisfying from his perspective. NICE. He's so
     happy. I love it when Petyr is happy.
     On top of all the endnotes I could put here though, I think it's
     absolutely important to know that Petyr walked out into the hallway
     buck ass naked and Lothor was probably on guard like "FUCK, WARN ME
     PLEASE"
     One more chapter! Can't wait to finish this up and start on my next
     fic. Let me know your thoughts on this ~development. I'm interested
     to see your reactions/opinions on how I took care of business.
     See you Saturday for the grand finale!
***** Fruition *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Bring her to me.”
“But my lady—”
“Bring her to me.” Sansa’s patience thinned. She stood in the foyer, dressed
like the widow she was, clutching a goblet of water in her hands. The taste of
bile from earlier sickness poisoned her mouth. Not even the water could wash it
away. She glanced down to the beaten body of her husband lying atop a covered
table, eyes closed forever, and her stomach twisted and flipped. I’m going to
be sick again.
“Meeting her would not be wise in your grief,” said the knight. “She will offer
you nothing that she did not offer us.”
Sansa huffed angrily. “I have been through worse things than widowhood, ser,
and this will not break me. You will bring the girl here as I command.”
The knight who’d defied her bowed in submission, though his frown was not
missed. He left the foyer promptly. Sansa stood alone with Ser Lothor Brune and
a small company of soldiers, and Petyr leaned against the wall at the back of
the room, watching. Waiting. She did not look his way. Sansa was disgusted and
frightened of him, this man she loved so deeply, to whom she’d promised
everything. She had made the dire mistake of forgetting what Petyr was capable
of and the reminder was laid out before her. Lothor seemed to sense her
distress and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Sansa placed her hand
over his, letting him be the rock she stood on.
The knight retuned with the Pentoshi whore who’d been with Harry before he
died. She had bronze-colored skin and dark hair, and eyes of innocence that
Sansa knew her late husband must have adored. She collected herself as one of
the soldiers announced Sansa. “You are speaking to Lady Arryn of the Vale,
Wardenness of the East. Give your respects.”
“It’s alright, ser. Let her speak.” Sansa cleared her throat, sounding more at
peace than she felt. She addressed the nervous girl with a mix of pity and
sorrow, temporarily ignoring the body of her husband between them. “What is
your name?”
“J-Jhaka, Lady Warden.” The girl bit her lower lip. Her eyes were focused
solely on Harry. “My name is Jhaka.”
“That’s a pretty name.” Sansa should have felt awkward offering courtesy, but
it never crossed her mind to do otherwise. “I want to know what happened to my
husband, Jhaka. What truly happened.”
Jhaka hesitated. She began to whimper until tears fell down her cheeks, and she
hugged herself close for comfort. Sansa’s heart softened as the girl spoke. “I
was his, Lady Warden. He found me in a tavern. He told me we’d run away
together. Somewhere far.”
Of course he would hate lordly life enough to leave it. Sansa masked her
contempt for the dead. “Were there others apart from you?”
“Three, m’lady Warden.” Jhaka blinked up to her through the tears. “He said
he’d take us all away. He paid us well at first, but we kept him and he kept
us, just because we liked him so much.”
“Three of you?” Sansa clutched the cup in her hands, feeling nauseous all over
again. “You spent two weeks in the city with him doing nothing but—nothing
but—” Nothing but the same thing I did?
“It was weeks,” sobbed Jhaka. “We drank. We smoked. We fucked. We lost track of
time. Even my employer fired me, I stopped coming to the brothel to work, but
my lord paid me so much that I didn’t have to go anymore. He was so generous.”
“Generous.” Sansa nearly scoffed. She drummed her fingers on the side of the
goblet and cast her eyes to some distant nothing. “How did he die?”
“We were on our way back from a tavern. Our favorite place. These—these
robbers, these big men, they…” Jhaka’s breath trembled in oncoming panic. “I
ran away when they attacked and I came back and my lord was dead. They took all
his money. His life. Everything.” The girl shook and wept, great heaves of
tears spilling from her broken form, and Sansa felt a familiar stroke of
sympathy. Jhaka had been given riches no doubt, maybe she even loved Harry in
their adulterous tryst, and maybe he loved her too. But his death was surely by
Petyr’s design. For that, Sansa pitied her. She pitied everyone who’d stumbled
over his ambition.
“I’m sorry you were involved in all this,” said Sansa calmly. “No one deserves
such a fate.” She walked around the table and wrapped her arms around the
crying girl. Jhaka wept into her shoulder and Sansa shushed her, stroking her
hair with a pinch of her mother’s grace. “You can keep whatever Harry gave you.
Try to forget what you’ve seen if you can, and if you can’t, take comfort in
those you love. That’s the sweetest way to survive.”
Jhaka nodded, wiping her tears when she lifted her head from Sansa’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Lady. You are so kind.” With a few ushered apologies and farewells,
Jhaka was led from the room, and Sansa felt emptier than before. She placed her
goblet on a table and took steady breaths, trying to keep her nausea under
control.
“This cannot be true,” muttered one of the knights. “Our lord, spending all
this time in the company of whores? Disrespecting the daughter of Ned Stark?
It’s an embarrassment.”
Ser Lothor laughed, though the sound was so bitter that Sansa flinched. “He’s
been drinking and fucking and dancing long before he came to his new position.
He’s been disrespecting Lady Stark since their wedding night. Now you’re gonna
talk about it? As if you didn’t know before?” Lothor folded his arms across his
chest and scoffed. “He wasn’t meant to lead, and we all knew it. But at least
he had the sense to marry some who can.”
Sansa let out a slow sigh. She appreciated Lothor’s gesture of faith, but she
couldn’t take the praise, not when she wasn’t the responsible party. She
glanced up to Petyr, the viper across the room. His hungry stare captured her.
A smirk grew on the lips she loved to kiss, and Sansa knew she was going to be
sick again.
“I’d like some privacy, please.” Sansa placed a hand over her abdomen where her
child was growing, already protective. Her other hand rested on Harry’s cold
arm. “Leave me with him.”
One by one, the knights nodded respectfully and filed out of the foyer, Petyr
among them. He’d taken the hint in her icy stare. Lothor made to follow, but
Sansa reached out and caught his wrist, needing someone trustworthy by her
side. Lothor paused and remained with her until the last of the soldiers left
them alone.
“Petyr did this,” Sansa whispered. “I know he did.”
Lothor awkwardly adjusted his stance, his arm limp in Sansa’s grasp. “How do
you know?”
“He told me. He said Harry would never hurt me again, but I didn’t think it
would be like this.” She ran her fingers gently over nail markings on her
husband’s arm. “It’s disgusting.”
“I’m sure the boy was willing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I hope so.” Sansa sighed, removing her hands from Lothor and Harry in favor of
the table. “Did you know about this?”
He cleared his throat. "I knew of Lord Baelish’s affections for you."
“Don't hide things from me.” She turned to him with a piercing gaze. “You were
there when Petyr stole me from King's Landing. You knew I was Alayne the whole
time. There's not a single part of me that thinks you never knew about his
plans for Harry.”
Lothor scratched the back of his neck, a submissive look in his eyes. “You’re
too smart for your own good, you know that?” His demeanor reminded Sansa of
Sandor Clegane, so much that her heart ached, and she gave a small smile at his
words. She looked in Lothor’s eyes and saw sincerity when he looked back. “I
heard your cries in the night when your husband took you to bed. Your fighting.
Your protests. And I told the Lord Protector about allof it the moment he came
ashore in Pentos. I don't claim to know what goes on in that brain of his and I
don’t ask questions, but I know you want to be safe. He can bring you that
safety. Everyone who stood between you and him are now rotting in the ground.”
Sansa knew. Her heart knew. She'd known all along, but like her father, she was
too naive to confront it before. Tears stung her eyes. “I never meant for
anyone to die.”
“Then you fell in love with the wrong man.” Ser Lothor handed her a
handkerchief to wipe her tears. She took it and did so, and when she'd calmed
enough, Sansa straightened her posture and summoned her last reserves of
strength. She said not a word to the knight and left him in the foyer with what
remained of Harry Arryn, searching for the man, the monster who'd made a mess
of her life.
She found Petyr in the solar. Sansa closed the door behind her, feeling sick
and weary, not wanting to confront him. Petyr was cutting a pomegranate and
turned to look at her with a smile, but it faded when he saw her face. She
approached him without ceremony. Without greeting.
“Be honest,” she demanded. “Why?”
“Because he hurt you.” Petyr furrowed his brow. He and Sansa stood in mutual
surprise at his answer, but he recovered before she could comment. “Because he
was in the way. Because everything I want, and much of what you want, required
Harry to die and nobody to question it.”
Petyr split the pomegranate in half and placed his dagger back on the table,
taking the fruit in his palm. He licked the juices from his fingers before
speaking again. “A simple stabbing in the dark would bring questions. An
unfortunate accident would bring more. But a tale of a broad search for a
missing man who turned up in very dishonorable circumstances? Nobody who cared
for Harry will want to probe too deeply into that story. It won’t be long
before our friends in the Vale revert to mentioning your late husband in
whispers versus the open discussion one would expect.”
Sansa’s breath wavered as nausea came over her again. She felt the familiar
clasp of Petyr’s shackles on her wrists. “All of it was you? Even the girl?
Jhaka? And the woman who gave me the blue tonic…”
“Mayana,” said Petyr. “Both girls work for me, as did the men who staged the
robbery.”
Sansa clutched her stomach. She didn’t know if she should be relieved at his
words or revolted and disturbed. Harry had been taken as a slave for sex on
Petyr’s orders, yet instead of mourning the loss of his soul, Sansa mourned
what Harry could have been. What he should have been. What she could have made
him to be. Anxiety came to choke her before Petyr cupped her cheek, pulling her
back to the present, and lifted her head to meet his gaze.
“You have a tender heart, my love, but I did what I must. I took his life
myself for what he did to you. Normally I would let others do the unpleasant
work, but there was a debt I needed to pay on your behalf.” He brushed his
thumb along her lips, tainting them red with pomegranate juice. She could taste
the sweetness on her tongue. Petyr’s voice was a low growl, not unlike his tone
of arousal, and she felt it infect her. “Harry’s death was necessary for you
and I to take control of the Vale, and the Vale is necessary to retake the
North. I did it for you. For me. For the future.” His hand fell from her face
to rest over her low stomach and the child they’d conceived. “I grew up under
the Tully banner, Sansa. I know what it means to let a river run me. Yours are
the waters I chose to drown in, and I will defend that right by any means
necessary.”
Sansa’s heart swelled and sank all at once. She hesitantly placed her hand over
his, her thumb making slow circles over the back of his palm, an affectionate
gesture made against her will. Petyr had won. Harry was dead, she was pregnant
with a bastard and the Vale would not question the nature of their lord’s
demise. Everything had happened according to his dark plan. When she looked in
Petyr’s eyes, she knew there was more to come.
“You need to eat something.” He pulled his hand away and offered her half of
the pomegranate he’d cut. The fruit was ripe, perfect and full of delicious
seeds that glistened with juice. It was so messy, but he was right; she needed
to eat. She needed to take what he offered. She needed play the game to see her
family safe, and pray she didn’t fall in love with Petyr Baelish along the way.
With a deep breath, she accepted his gift. Petyr unclasped the mockingbird pin
from his throat, working the buttons of his doublet and watching her bring the
pomegranate to her blood-red lips.
She took a bite.
Chapter End Notes
     aaaaaaaand that's a wrap! I love the deliciously ambiguous ending
     here, because I'm a cruel bitch. I might be coaxed into writing a
     sequel by popular demand though, but it'd happen after I finish my
     next fic. Probably.
     Speaking of which, my next thingy will start Saturday, August 13th!
     It's a PxS modern thriller/crime/murder fic that's got some good
     nasty shit. It'll be long too, so strap in for a crazy ride. I'm
     anticipating 100k words this time around.
     You can contact me on tumblr if you like! Please, I thoroughly
     encourage you to comment/review and tell me what you thought of this
     story; your feedback helps me more than you know! I'm open to
     constructive criticism as well. Toss it at me, sinners.
     See you in August! <3
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