Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story.
Warning: Season 7 spoilers and smut. Don't like it, don't read it. _(ツ)/
"Sometimes, when I'd like to understand a person's motives, I play a little game." Littlefinger retreated from the window to face Sansa, seated at the table, the message from Jon still clutched in her hand. She stared up at him with eyes as blue and cold as an early morning snowfall and waited for him to continue.
"I assume the worst." He sat himself in the chair across from her, his eyes never leaving Sansa's. "What's the worst reason they could possibly have to say what they say, do what they do?" She did her best to keep her gaze measured. She needn't remind herself that she was in the presence of Westeros's finest liar. Surely any false thought she harbored he would see plainly on her face if she was not careful.
"Then I ask myself, how well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?" His dark eyes poured over her face just as they had so many times before. There were only two reasons he looked at like that: when he was searching for weakness and when he was trying to see Cat in Sansa's more angular features. She knew how he felt and hoped to use that to her advantage. It had been her idea to wear her hair like her mother's so that when he looked at her, he saw only Catelyn and not the lie.
"So tell me, what's the worst thing she could want?"
Sansa looked away as if in thought. Littlefinger was silent, waiting for her to come to the conclusion that he had designed for her. And she didn't disappoint. "She could want me dead because she thinks I wronged my family."
The smallest hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. If she hadn't been looking for it, she might have missed it. "Why did she come to Winterfell?"
Sansa recited the lie as Arya had coached her to do, as if it were the truth. "To kill me for marrying our enemies, betraying my family."
"Why did she unearth the letter that Cersei made you write?"
"To provide proof of my betrayals, to provide justification after she murders me."
"And after she murders you, what does she become?"
Sansa's eyes met his once more and she knew that he had never looked away. She prayed that he had not seen through her deception and that the soft light and her mother's silver brooch fastening her cloak closed at her throat was enough to cloud his usually perceptive vision with desire.
"Lady of Winterfell."
Littlefinger sat back in his chair, his dark eyes glinting with the reflection of the fire. He had erected a labyrinth of lies, each corridor building and turning on the one before it and Sansa had followed every path he had lead her to until she'd come to the very center of his carefully constructed edifice of deceit.
What's the worst reason they could possibly have to say what they say?"He wants the throne. He wants us dead."
Sansa remembered Arya's words as she, Bran, and Arya had sat beneath the Weirwood tree the afternoon of their reunion in Winterfell. Her sister's voice was firm and honest. She had almost forgotten to what it felt like to have people on her side that she could trust implicitly. Littlefinger had done a wonderful job of convincing her that she would never have that again.
"Not all of us," Bran said measuredly. He turned to Sansa, his face expressionless. Arya's gaze followed his. Sansa swallowed and looked down at her gloved hands, saying nothing. They all knew the implication of Bran's words but waited for Sansa to speak.
"He called his banners for me," she said. "And I promised him my hand once the war is won for the North."
Arya stiffened. She had been turning Littlefinger's dagger in her hands, tossing it up and catching it by the hilt as they'd talked, but now she threw it at the ground by Sansa's feet. It lodged itself solidly in the half-frozen earth. All three Stark children stared at it.
Sansa was the first to break the silence. "We were going to lose," she continued, her tone pleading. "I did it for us, for our home." She looked at each of her siblings in turn. Only Arya spoke.
"You've learned well from Littlefinger."
"Would you rather Winterfell remain in the hands of the Boltons?" Sansa snapped back. "They betrayed us, killed our brothers and our mother." She needn't speak of her time as Lady Bolton; both Arya and Bran knew enough. "Jon would have died, the battle would have been lost, and Ramsay would have seen to it that there were no more Starks left to challenge him."
Arya nodded in thought. She reached down and pulled the dagger from the ground. "Littlefinger is not a generous man," she said, repeating the words Sansa had spoken when Bran had first presented the dagger to Arya.
Sansa sighed, relieved that her sister seemed to understand the dilemma she had faced then and the one that she continued to face every time Littlefinger's eyes roved across her body. The only thing that had prevented him from holding Sansa to her word was Jon: Littlefinger hadn't counted on him surviving the battle. Without Jon, the North would be her's. And she was Littlefinger's in more than just a promise.
He had a hold over her that she tried desperately to deny. Despite everything, she still felt like she needed him which had been his goal all along. She often lied to herself that it was safer to allow him at her side, to keep an eye on the enemy, so to speak. But Sansa had many enemies and she would have never willingly sought Cersei's counsel in the middle of the night.
What's the worst reason they could possibly have to do what they do?
Littlefinger's voice brought Sansa's attention back to the candle-lit chamber in which they sat. "Why do you try to look like your mother, Sansa?" he asked her, his eyes narrowing as her name slipped off his tongue. "Is it for me?"
Sansa was taken aback, which had undoubtedly been his intention. Her mouth opened and shut as her mind raced, searching for an answer that would satisfy him without giving away too much.
A raven landed on the sill of the open window, his head tilting side to side as he looked into the room with an inquisitive eye. Sansa stood, thankful for the distraction, and shooed him away, shuttering the window against the darkening sky. She stood gripping the sill, her head lowered in what she hoped Littlefinger would interpret as thoughtfulness when really she was avoiding his calculating stare.
She heard the chair scrape across the floor as he stood. His footsteps were light on the well-worn floorboards. Sansa only knew he was right behind her when he felt his breath on her neck. He was just an inch taller than her but he could make her feel so small. She could sense him chipping away at her with his gaze until she stood before him, naked, the spitting image of Catelyn Stark.
His slender fingers brushed against her cheek as he grasped a strand of her hair that had fallen over her face. He pulled it back and tucked it behind her ear, letting his fingers trail through her ginger tresses. Her body reacted when he touched her, a combination of loathing and desire that she did not quite understand. He leaned into her gently and inhaled the scent of her hair. Sansa took a deep breath and willed her heart to slow its erratic beating.
"You're not Catelyn Stark," he hissed in her ear. "You'll never be Catelyn Stark."
His words stung more than she thought they would. She knew that he had once loved her because of her resemblance to the woman he had admired in his boyhood, but part of her – the part that he himself had created and corrupted – demanded that he loved her because she was herself and not the younger reflection of a dead woman.
Sansa turned to face him, resolute. She had conspired against him with her siblings and made him believe that he had been successful in driving a wedge between the Stark girls so that he wouldn't see his own end quickly approaching. The sentence had already been passed in their eyes, all that was left was to swing the sword. Sansa had no intention of changing her mind. There was no denying that Petyr Baelish was a detestable man, but if he were to die before Sansa had the answer that she sought, she would never be rid of him inside her head and heart.
"You style your pretty hair like her and wear her things," he trailed off, his eyes falling from her face to her chest. He reached out and deftly unfastened her mother's brooch. Sansa did not move to pull away.
The cloak loosened from around her shoulders and the heavy material began to slip. She let it fall from her body to puddle around her feet. Her dress underneath was one of her own design: all black with silver threads woven into the bodice so that when she moved in the light as she did now, she seemed to glisten.
"But you're not her." He took a last look at the brooch. It was an old one that her mother had lost many, many years before and Sansa had by chance found wedged between two floorboards in the bedchamber that used to be her parents' but was now her's. Then he flung it onto the table behind them. It landed and clattered across the wooden surface, coming to a rest just before skidding off the edge.
"You're better than her, Sansa." His sibilant voice was thick with desire. She hated the way her name sounded in his mouth, as if by using it enough he could cast a spell over her with merely those five letters.
She did her best to remain emotionless but he must have seen something flicker in her eyes.
Littlefinger's lips curled back into an expression that on anyone else might look like a grimace, but Sansa knew the look well. It was the same look he always had on his smug, little face when he thought he had someone figured out. "Is that what you've been wanting to hear?"
Sansa huffed and pushed past him, worried about what he could discover if he studied her face any longer. She approached the hearth and stared into the fire. "I didn't ask you to join me tonight to listen to you flatter me, Lord Baelish," she said haughtily.
"I know you didn't, Lady Sansa," he said, subtly mocking her use of his formal title by using her own. "I'm only speaking the truth."
What's the worst reason reason they could possibly have to say what they say?
"The truth?" She turned to find that while she had stared into the fire he had once more crossed the room to stand closely behind her. "Then you must think me a fool."
He held his hands out, palms up in a gesture of resignation. "I think you are wise to seek my counsel." He took another step towards her and was now close enough to reach out and touch her, which she wanted desperately for him to do. Guilt flooded her. She knew he should die, that he must die, but just once, she wanted to plant an idea in his head, watch his face collapse in pain as she turned on him, use his desires against him just as he liked to use others' against them.
"Well if that will be all, I must consider your counsel," she said in dismissal.
"Sansa.."
She stiffened and did not reply.
"We made an arrangement," he continued. They were eye to eye, both unblinking. "I upheld my end."
Sansa had been dreading this conversation, but knew that he would eventually bring it up. She had known when she promised him her hand that he only accepted because he didn't think Jon would survive the battle, but he had. Jon was the only reason Littlefinger hadn't held Sansa to her word immediately, and the only reason she wasn't Queen of the North. And if Petyr Baelish had her hand, then he would have the North. Since Jon had traveled south to meet the Dragon Queen, Littlefinger had done all he could to spread his influence amongst the northern lords and hopefully gain their support for when he finally did become Lord of Winterfell.
Sansa sighed and began, "But Jon – "
"Jon Snow is no longer any concern of mine," Littlefinger interrupted with another small smile. His words and expression gave Sansa pause. She wondered what scheme he had concocted to get Jon out of his way permanently. Surely he had already set in motion something terrible. Her heart seized in her chest at the thought of losing Jon and at the thought of being wed to Littlefinger. Now more than ever she realized the urgency with which she had to condemn him.
He saw that she had become distressed and raised his hand to cup her cheek in his palm. She kept her gaze steady and allowed his touch, telling herself that she was only playing his game. He was inches away. Her lips still felt the pressure from that day at the Eyrie when he had kissed her in the garden. The memory was so vivid, he might be kissing her now and she would not be able to tell the difference.
Littlefinger had manipulated her, hurt her, tricked her, convinced her that she needed him, taught her that there was no one she could trust, all the while professing nothing but love for her and his dearly departed Catelyn. Ned Stark had always said that whomever passes the sentence must swing the sword. She intended to honor her father's memory, but first, Sansa wanted to play her own little game.
What's the worst reason they could possibly have to do what they do?
She lifted her chin so that she was looking down at him again, trying to appear more confident than she felt. His hand fell from her cheek and rested on her shoulder, giving it a good squeeze. She parted her lips to speak and his eyes followed their movement. "Petyr," she breathed.
His name had no sooner left her lips than his mouth crashed into hers with none of the gentleness of the kiss in the garden at the Eyrie. And instead of simply standing there and permitting him to control her body as he was wont to do, she pushed back against him with equal amounts of passion and anger.
He was surprised by her reaction, but quickly tried to regain the upper hand. One hand he tangled in her hair at the base of her neck and grabbed her waist with the other, forcing her against him. He pulled on her hair roughly, yanking her head back as their lips parted. His eyes were dull, clouded by lust. He wanted so much more than she was willing to give him.
She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back. The backs of his thighs met the edge of the table and he collapsed heavily on the wooden surface. Sansa was upon him, her arms wrapped around his neck and tightening as she kissed him. She could feel him struggling, gasping for air but only relented when she felt his hands on her hips, guiding her into his lap. She climbed onto the table, her knees on either side of him and her chest level with his face. He hugged her, his face pressed against the bodice of her dress. She could feel his breath through the fabric, hotter than the fire at her back.
"I only have your best interests at heart," he whispered. She glared down at the top of his head. Her arms were draped over his shoulders, her hands close enough to choke the lies from his throat.
What's the worst reason they could possibly have to say what they say?
She could feel the weight of the lie in his body, still rigid beneath her, not yet willing to submit to her, but she ached to rectify that. She was under no illusions that her best interests wouldn't fall by the wayside as soon as they conflicted with his own. And he would say anything to get what he wanted. He wanted her, mind and body. If she had to give him one of the two to save herself from his hold over her, she would choose her body because there was nothing left there to sacrifice.
His fingers explored her back where the laces of her bodice had been tied tightly earlier that morning by one of her handmaidens. Swiftly, he began to unlace the cording, being far more careful not to strain and rip the fabric in his haste than Sansa would have expected. She wanted him to undress her. She wanted to be naked before him so that he could see all of her. She kissed him again, roughly, as he bared her back and allowed his hands to slip beneath the fabric to touch the cool skin of her back.
Sansa felt his cock pressing against her leg through her skirts and shifted in his lap. He broke the kiss and began to take his lips lower, peppering her neck with kisses and bites. Her stomach turned. She knew she was coming to a point from which she could not return but part of her, the part that seemed to be in control at that moment, no longer cared about anything except getting what she wanted for once. And what she wanted was the ruination of Petyr Baelish.
She helped him slip her arms out of her sleeves and pushed the bodice of her dress down to her navel, exposing her breasts. Her freckled skin was pale from years spent behind castle walls and confined in the trappings of a highborn lady. Though the fire still blazed, a chill swept through the room, causing her nipples to harden. Exhilaration shuddered through her body and she fought to keep her body still against his. His hands disappeared into the back of her skirt as he cupped the round apple of her buttocks, lifting her so that his cock pressed more urgently into her leg. She could feel his lips against her skin curl in a sly smile. He thought he was getting exactly what he wanted.
What's the worst reason they could possibly have to do what they do?
Sansa put her hands on his cheeks. The day's stubble there pricked her palms. She raised his face to her's and stared down at him from over the crest of her bosom. Something in her expression made his mask slip just enough for Sansa to have a peek behind his façade. She didn't know what he'd seen there, but it was enough to prompt more dialogue from the bothered Littlefinger, not that he needed much prompting to hear his own voice.
"My love for your mother drew me into your service," he said. "But my love for you has kept me steadfast by your side, my lady." He said this with none of his usual causticity and for a brief moment, Sansa felt only relief. Her feelings weren't twisted, her thoughts were her own. She had been a fool to doubt his affections for her. He smiled, a genuine smile that made Sansa tremble with a sudden and overwhelming need to be closer to him, to know him as well as he knew her.
But as his hands slid up her back, a terrible thought began to form in the back of her mind. She looked into his eyes, finally seeing the unspoken truth within them and he permitted her that privilege, undoubtedly thinking it would play in his favor. He was allowing Sansa to see true weakness in him as a means to maintain her devotion to him, much like she was in turn doing to him. Arya was right; she had learned well from Littlefinger.
Sansa hardened her gaze and gripped his face harder. He made no move to shake her grasp. His hands froze where they were, palms pressing into her shoulder blades. "Say it," she commanded him.
What's the worst reason they could possibly have to say what they say?
"Sansa Stark of Winterfell, I love you."
How well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?
Petyr Baelish was the cause of every misfortune that had befallen Sansa from her father's death to her marriage to Ramsay Bolton; all of the awful things that he did he did only to satiate his hunger for power and with no regard for anyone except himself. If he loved her – and looking into his eyes now, she believed him when he said that he did, though his version of love was a twisted, perverted one that couldn't fairly be called love at all – it still didn't explain anything. How could one do the things he had done to someone they claimed to love?
Confusion turned to burning anger and her nails dug into his skin. His eyes shone with want. She knew he relished in the pain of others, be it physical or emotional, and this role reversal did nothing to quell the throbbing in his manhood. She hated him. She wanted him punished like the tortures he had – unwittingly or not – subjected her to.
Sansa released one hand from his face, the red crescents her nails had left behind fading to white as she reached beneath her skirt and rubbed the bulge between his legs. Littlefinger was too dignified to moan, but his mouth opened slightly, causing Sansa to dig her nails harder into his skin. He winced and then exhaled with pleasure.
There was a knife still on the table, the one Sansa had used to pry the wax seal from Jon's letter. It was just an arm's length away from the hand she used to work his cock inside his trousers. His next breath could be his last if she wished it.
Sansa moved her hand faster and he arched into her, throwing his head back suddenly and causing her nails to carve jagged red lines down his cheek. He watched her face intently through lidded eyes. Her hand stopped its pleasurable ministrations and forcefully squeezed his cock. He winced and a chuckle escaped from deep in his throat. Sansa met his lustful gaze with indifference.
After a moment, she released his cock and climbed from his lap. She kept her eyes cast downward as she turned from him and pulled her arms back into the sleeves of her dress, not because she was ashamed or afraid to meet his gaze, but because she didn't want him to see the fire there. What place he had held in her heart and in her head he no longer occupied. Instead, a searing loathing for the man had taken residence in the empty space. Sansa need only to play their little game a bit longer. His dying breath would feel to her as if it were her first.
"Sansa…" he breathed her name quietly, like a prayer.
Outside the shuttered window, Sansa heard the wind picking up and an unkindness of ravens squawking as they circled in the grey skies over Winterfell.