She had not wanted to be bound there, at that bed. She imagined the pain of a flogging. A near-death beating. She knew it would escalate from last time. But one cannot say no to the king.
For his part, he had very much enjoyed ordering her to stand still, watching the bonds being tightened. He had dreamt for weeks, months even. About how the last time had stirred something deep in his belly that he had always longed to rustle. How it fluttered and hardened when he had caressed his crossbow with his bethrothed. How the power made him feel like a man.
And she had begged, as he had wanted her to, and he enjoyed it. And she cried and screamed, like he had wanted her to, and he enjoyed it more than he could imagine. He had loved the end, after she had given up, and the dull and hollow sounds the bolts had made resonated throughout her body, and she went more and more limp, though still thrashed at the pain of each new wound. After she had died, he remained there for a long time, basking in the elation that he had dreamed of, but never before felt.
Petyr had looked her once over before closing the door and leaving. Sometimes it's hard to tell a bad investment from the packaging, but at least he had cut this one loose before it had become a problem. Her eyes had been desperate and fearful, but that was not something he could understand - when one is in change of the pieces, they aren't afraid of being swept away.