Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7468677.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms, A_Song_of
      Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      post_season_6_finale, Oral_Sex, Cunnilingus, Post-Traumatic_Stress
      Disorder_-_PTSD, Smut, Power_Dynamics, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, not_sure
      of_show-Sansa's_age_so_I_tagged_underage_to_be_safe
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-13 Words: 3746
****** What is Owed ******
by equipoise
Summary
     "There are," he cleared his throat, "acts which can be performed with
     only the lips and tongue, for example."
     She looked at him sharply. "I do have some experience of kissing. As
     you would know," she added archly.
     The corner of his mouth twitched and her eyes flicked to it. He
     schooled his expression back to total neutrality, easing his voice
     into a somewhat scholarly tone. Learned. Detached. And far more
     disinterested in her reaction than he truly felt. "Not upon those
     lips, Sansa."
"You summoned me?" Petyr swept an elegant bow.

Sansa turned in her seat, inclining her head in greeting. From where he stood,
her back was partly to the window, auburn hair haloed by the gray morning
light. She was ethereal, despite the small frown with which she studied him. To
the guard at the door she said "You may leave."

The guard, a strapping lad not much older than Sansa, eyed Petyr warily.
"M'Lady... Jon - beg pardon - King Jon said -"

"I am aware of my brother's orders. You may stand watch at the door. Make sure
we are not disturbed. I have a private matter to discuss with... with
Littlefinger."

Petyr nearly flinched at the sound of that name on her lips. Not that he had
any right to expect familiarity, now. He satisfied himself with a twist of the
mouth as the hesitant soldier left the room.

"My queen?" He enquired politely, once they were alone.

She gave him a distasteful look. "None of that. Jon is King in the North and
all our forces have declared for him. I am returned to my place as Lady of
Winterfell and sister to the King."

"Half-sister," he needled, probing for her anger. He could feel it there,
simmering below the placid surface. Whether it was at him, still, or her
brother, he could not tell. It was a risk he was willing to take.

Her eyes flashed and then narrowed. "That matters little, now. At least we are
united."

Petyr moved further into the room and leaned one hip against the wall, crossing
his arms over his narrow chest. "And you would be satisfied with so paltry a
position? You, who would once sit beside the Iron Throne?"

"I may yet," she replied enigmatically, allowing the words to hang in the air,
twisting in the wind. She raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge the
assertion.

He ignored her gambit, casting his gaze to the woven rug at his feet, instead,
before looking back up. "Then, if I may be so bold, why call me here, my lady?"

The smallest quirk of her lips, a suppressed wry laugh. "Indeed, what use is
there for an audience with Littlefinger if not to discuss treason."

He fought back a flare of temper. Petyr was not a man easily vexed but Sansa
Stark knew exactly how to bait him. Of course she did; he'd been the one to
teach her. He met her eyes, coldly. "Is it my lady's wish to see me suffer?"

She lifted her head, her shoulders rigid. An attempt to look more assured than
she felt. "It would only be payment in kind."

"I delivered you an army, Sansa," he reminded.

"You delivered me to Hell, first," she countered, evenly.

Petyr's jaw tightened. He could not deny it.

It had been a severe miscalculation on his part, thinking Sansa too valuable a
pawn for that monster Ramsay to risk playing his horrific games. He'd never
meant to leave her there long but he knew now that even a single second had
been a mistake. He'd never fancied himself a Ser or a hero but in betraying
Sansa, he'd made himself the monster. Bringing her an army wasn't enough.
Perhaps nothing ever could be. That did not mean he would stop trying.

His eye caught a shiver of movement, Sansa's hand gripping at the fabric of her
skirt, plucking at a seam.

Ah, there it was. She was nervous. But why? Of everyone in the kingdoms, surely
she knew she had the least to fear from him.
"What would you have of me, Sansa?" He asked, the weight of too much meaning
infusing those words.

She hesitated before speaking again, her eyes darting away from him. "You owned
a brothel. In King's Landing."

He was taken aback by the question but saw no reason to demure. "I did."

"You sold women to the men of the city."

He shook his head. "I provided a building and creature comforts to women - and
men - who sold sex to their patrons. Sometimes with the illusion of lust."

She huffed slightly, cheeks tinging pink. "They gave their bodies for coin."

His brow furrowed, curious as to her intent. "They leant the use of their
bodies for coin. And sometimes pleasure."

Her nose wrinkled, reflexively. "Pleasure?

He considered his reply carefully, his mind sliding the pieces of the puzzle
into place. "If ... the woman was lucky enough to be chosen by a... considerate
partner. Yes. There is a great deal of enjoyment to be found in... carnal
acts."

Her eyes fixed upon her hands, now laying still in her lap. "So it... it
doesn't always hurt."

The haunted look on her face, the hollow sound of her voice were twin knives to
his gut. He'd done this to her.

Bile rose at the back of Petyr's throat and he choked it down, his face still
an impassive mask. "No. Not always."

Sansa's gaze shifted to the window as she digested this. Petyr clenched his jaw
around the unspoken words that bloomed and died by the second. Apologies were
no use. She'd never believe them. She'd told him as much. Ramsay had tried to
break her but it was Petyr, himself, who'd dealt the crushing blow. Trust, once
lost, was not any easy thing to regain.

Still, she would let him in a room with her, unguarded. Perhaps his confession,
rasped into the quiet snow-filled evening, had held some sway after all. He was
nothing if not a determined man.
"There are," he cleared his throat, "acts which can be performed with only the
lips and tongue, for example."

She looked at him sharply. "I do have some experience of kissing. As you would
know," she added archly.

The corner of his mouth twitched and her eyes flicked to it. He schooled his
expression back to total neutrality, easing his voice into a somewhat scholarly
tone. Learned. Detached. And far more disinterested in her reaction than he
truly felt. "Not upon those lips, Sansa."

She blinked slowly, her face registering an array of emotions just subtle
enough that they might be undetectable to one who did not know every set of her
brow, one who had not memorized the shape of her mouth and the curve of her
jaw. Petyr caught every single one of them.

Their eyes locked as silence filled the space between them, growing heavy and
thick.

Petyr swallowed hard, resisting the urge to lick his lips as his mind wandered
just a little farther past discretion than it ought. Always the case with Sansa
- she brought out something of the foolishly impulsive, lovestruck boy he'd
spent so long trying to bury.

"I could... show you," he murmured, breath catching as Sansa's lips parted, her
chest rising and falling rapidly. He took a step toward her.

She raised a hand to halt him, eyes widening slightly. "Have you not taken
enough from me, Petyr?"

Despite her words, her voice was breathless and low, pupils large and dark,
though the room was well lit. It was only then that he allowed himself the
smallest of smiles, softening his features into something non-threatening. The
cat who would woo the canary, he thought idly.

"Then allow me to balance the scales by giving something back,” he replied,
chancing another step toward her.

Her face closed to him, mouth going tight. "You may show yourself out. I thank
you for... answering my question."

He took a long breath through his nose, holding her gaze a moment longer, until
she turned away. Exhaling slowly, he bowed toward her again, though her back
was to him. "As you will… my queen."

She stiffened but did not watch him take his leave.
***
Sansa remained seated by the window for a very long time as Petyr took his
leave, his final words echoing in her mind.
My Queen.
It was ridiculous.
It was repulsive.
She fisted both hands, blunt nails digging into the flesh of her palms. She
ought to have risen from her perch and slapped his face. Slit his smug, lying
throat. Lording the army he’d brought as though it could ever replace what
she’d lost through his betrayal.
Yet, here she sat. Returned to a station she’d never expected to hold again in
full. She was not safe, no, but far more secure than the last time she’d been
in her childhood home. It felt different now; the ghosts it held had
multiplied. The fear crawling in her belly at the slightest provocation,
thoughts scattering at the sight of a particular color or shape, the edge in a
man’s voice, movement at the corner of her eye turning her bowstring taut. She
closed her eyes, willing her mind not to paint nightmares against the thin skin
there. There were times she was no longer in her own body, a ghost herself,
floating above the fray. It comforted and frightened in equal measure.
She sucked in a breath, feeling it fill her lungs until they could expand no
further against the fabric of her dress. Holding the air until it ached, she
pictured herself flying away. A little bird, the Hound had called her. With
bones so delicate they could be easily snapped and discarded, picked clean by
bigger, uglier birds. The breath escaped through her parted lips and her eyes
opened.
She was no bird, now. Her body was heavy with grief and hardened by anger. She
hated the very sight of it, at times. Hated the soft, yielding parts of her
that allowed men to take what they wished and leave her bruised and bleeding.
Tears sprung to her eyes and she blinked them back.
Summoning Petyr had been a mistake. Jon would ask her questions that she was in
no state of mind to answer. Yet the need to see him had burned deep within her.
The same hungry gaze that once made her so uneasy had become a perverse
comfort. Or perhaps it was simply how his attentions could be kept at bay by
merely the strength of her words, of her refusal. It was a reversal of how
they’d begun, with his silver tongue always in the lead. He’d revealed his hand
to her, that day by the Weirwood, and in doing so, given her the rope with
which to hang him - if she so chose.
The question she’d asked had been foolish, but she had wanted an answer, and
more, she had wanted to see his face when he realized what she meant. She’d
been prepared very little for the marriage bed, gone to Tyrion with only the
knowledge that she should expect duty to cause her pain. The imp had spared her
that but what good had it done, in the end? He’d promised to wait until she
came to him, willingly. She’d sworn she never would. If only she’d known then
what luxury choice could be.
Petyr spoke of pleasure as though it were not a foreign concept to her. The
little thrill that ran up her spine the first time he kissed her had been
mingled with fear. He’d proven then that her lips were not her own to give. The
Lannisters and the Boltons had proven over and over that her body was not her
own. Sansa Stark, the naive child of Winterfell, had been torn to pieces, burnt
to a cinder. And yet here she sat, risen from the ashes, stitching herself
together bit by bit. She tightened her fists, drawing blood in the shape of
little half-moons on each palm. Tears no longer threatened to fall, her eyes
clear and full of ice.
She hated them all. With her whole being, she allowed herself to feel it, fire
in her belly, roaring down each limb. Petyr had been teaching her how to
channel her hate, to use it to her advantage. Despite everything that followed
she felt grateful to him for that. She felt many other things, as well, but she
dared not give them names. Hate was safer because it was a tool, a weapon in
the right hands.
Rage would keep her whole, keep her real and grounded in this all too tender
flesh. No wounded bird, used and broken, but a feral animal that prowled in
shadow. Sansa Stark was a wolf. Her jaw clenched, a savage smile curling the
corners of her lips. The Lady of Winterfell would have her own.
***
As she tossed and turned fitfully in her bed, Sansa’s mind swam with images she
could not quite place. She was warm, safe, without a care in the world. Hands
on her body, gentle and smooth, tracing her small breasts, cupping and
caressing. She leaned into them, feeling herself ignite from within and craving
more. The hands explored further, dipping downward, to those places she could
no longer bring herself to touch. Her legs fell apart, welcoming the sensation
of warmth. Wetness pooled at her center, hot and aching.
The dream changed. She was in the snow but felt no cold, flesh still heated
from the phantom hands that had touched her. She smiled up at the moon, full
and nearly bright as day. The flash of teeth turned to the bared fangs of a
muzzle, dripping in blood. Hands grew razor sharp claws and her winter furs
grew slick with sweat, heart pumping as she bounded over the snow. Everything
smelt white and pure and clean, the trees pungent even through the chill. Then
the coppery tang returned and she was sticky with it, she could taste it,
running down her chin. It was delicious. She opened her mouth and tilted back
her great head to howl…
And her eyes flew open to the canopy of her bed, the room illuminated by a
single candle burning very low and nearly extinguished. She felt feverish and
kicked off the blankets. Her blood was pumping faster than she could ever
remember, heart pounding fit to escape her chest. She’d never felt so alive.
Every inch of her skin was tingling, her pulse centered between her legs.
In that moment, halfway between euphoric dream and dreadful reality, she came
to a decision. Hands shaking, she pulled on her robe, cinching the waist, and
slid her feet into soft slippers.
There was a different guard outside her door when she pushed it open. He was
tall and stocky, a bushy beard covering most of his face. He bowed politely and
asked if she needed anything. She declined, claiming a trip to the kitchens. He
offered to accompany her but she told him firmly that she could safely navigate
her own home. He had the grace to look abashed as he tried to insist. She'd
have none of it.
In the end, Sansa took off down the hallway on her own, her body still
thrumming and needy. She knew which room Petyr was in. She'd chosen it herself,
placing him at the far end of the Keep. Isolated.
It served a different purpose now, the stillness all around her as she tripped
to his door. There was light within, a sliver escaping under the door. She'd
barely knocked when he swung it open.
His mouth fell open but he said nothing as she brushed past him and into the
room, only closed the door behind her. He was also in nightclothes, a silk robe
thrown overtop. A small fire was alight in the fireplace, a book propped open
at the table before it.
“Sansa…” he breathed, closing the space between them with a few strides. His
head tilted, intent on claiming her mouth.
She halted him then, hand to his chest in a dance that was beginning to feel
all too familiar. “No. You take nothing.”
His heart was pounding erratically against her palm as his eyes searched her
face. He raised an eyebrow and she narrowed her eyes, meeting him stare for
stare until he ducked his head in acquiescence. He pulled back, arms going
slack at his sides.
“As you command.” His voice was rough, even lower than usual. It sent a
pleasant shiver through her
She slid the hand on his chest up over his shoulder to the back of his neck,
stroking the skin just at his hairline. His eyes fluttered closed then
reopened, reminding her of a barnyard cat who'd once let her scratch its belly
as it lazed in the sun. The cat had then sunk needle-sharp claws into her wrist
gouging thin lines of blood. She'd been wary of cats for some time after that.
But she knew it was only an animal and only following its nature.
As all creatures do, after a fashion.
She leaned in, their breath mingling but lips not quite touching. She felt his
shoulders set as he fought the urge to take what he wanted. Her mouth curved
upward ever so slightly. A tentative brush of her lips against his, tasting
mint. Then a firmer press, warm and dry. She traced the seam of his mouth with
her tongue and he opened eagerly. Her hand still at his neck, she explored him
leisurely. He met her tongue with his but never asked for entry, following her
lead as she plucked at his lips. Finally, she caught his bottom lip between her
teeth and tugged. He groaned deeply, hands flexing at his sides.
“Sansa,” he murmured hoarsely, once she'd freed his lip. It sounded almost like
a plea.
Sansa pressed her thighs together as the thought of him begging shot straight
to her core. Pulling back, she whispered, “Only the lips and the tongue, you
said. Show me.”
He swallowed and nodded, eyes half-lidded and dark. He sunk to his knees in
front of her, holding her gaze as he lifted her nightdress. She knotted it to
keep it from falling back down as he deftly removed her smallclothes. She
realized she ought to feel exposed. Shameful. But under the heat of Petyr’s
gaze, the throbbing need that shuddered through her, all she felt was
anticipation coiling in her belly. It was not unlike fear, but edged in
something far more pleasant.
His eyes shifted to her uncovered sex and he released a breath, tickling the
hair at her pubis. Then he pressed a kiss there, just at the apex of her sex.
She jumped slightly at the sensation. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he
opened his mouth, hot and wet against her and she felt the first flick of his
tongue. It nudged something that sent a spiral of pleasure down both legs. She
pressed her lips together, breathing through her nose as he repeated the
motion. And then again. Soon, her breath was coming short and her knees began
to buckle.
He caught her as she nearly toppled, hands steady at her waist. Standing, he
motioned toward the bed. She eyed it- and him- warily.
“Here,” he lay back on the mattress. She could see he was hard, the outline
rigid against his lower abdomen. He showed no notice of it, himself, as he
beckoned to her. “If you hold onto the headboard, you can put your knees here
and here,” he indicated the spots on either side of his head.
Gingerly, she straddled him as he indicated, her sex directly above his mouth.
He licked his lips again, his gaze ravenous. He lifted both hands to frame her
hips, not quite touching. She could feel the heat of his palms through the
fabric.
“May I?” he asked.
Sansa nodded.
He held her hips gently and she sucked in a breath, remembering the hands from
her dream. He lowered her down until his mouth could reach her easily, tongue
sliding between her folds. A little sound escaped her, then. The tip of his
tongue swirled over that sensitive nub he'd found earlier then swept down the
length of her slit. Her hips juddered as that knot in her belly tightened. He
traced patterns across her slick flesh that had her panting and mewling,
pleasure building higher and higher. His tongue teased her entrance before
sliding inside her and she bucked her hips. He made a low sound, deep in his
throat, and lapped at her again.
Sansa was molten heat, surging and roiling, climbing an invisible precipice.
Her legs were shaking, sweat soaking the front of her nightdress. At some point
she must have thrown off her robe but she could no longer recall. Her entire
world was centered between her thighs, on the scrape of Petyr’s stubble and the
relentless work of his lips and tongue. Her head thrown back, she keened,
falling at last over that edge. Her body undulated, hands gripping the
headboard so hard her knuckles creaked.
Beneath her, Petyr drank her down with greedy delight.
Limp and thoroughly wrung out, she sprawled on her side, feeling Petyr shift on
the bed behind her. For a perfect blissful moment, her mind was blank, a tabula
rasa on which any number of pretty pictures could be drawn. She sighed into the
emptiness, feeling oddly at peace in her skin for the first time since leaving
Winterfell as a child.
It did not last. Something began to stir, an itch at the back of her mind,
breaching the imaginary sanctuary. Memories pouring in from all sides, both
good and bad, a maelstrom of all the things she did not want to let herself
feel welled up, threatening to flood her from the inside out. Before she could
stop herself, she began to weep. Deep, heavy sobs wracked her body and she felt
Petyr reach for her. He pulled her, unprotesting, into his chest and let her
tears soak down his front. It was the first time in a very long time that she'd
allowed herself the luxury of tears. In a way, this release felt even better
than the first.
But when Petyr’s arms wrapped tighter around her, his mouth seeking out hers,
she slipped free of the embrace.
“You take nothing,” she reminded him, though her voice was no longer so steady.
His mouth was hard, nostrils flaring, but he said nothing as she gathered up
her robe and lit a taper to take back to her room. The silence was an uneasy
one and she fled it gratefully.
She still hated him, after all. She had to hold onto that because it was one of
the only things she knew to be real.
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