"You called, my Lady?" Petyr Baelish stood at the threshold of her chambers, hands clasped behind his back. He was, as always, perfectly on time and perfectly in order- his hair, moustache, robes and jewels all set just so. It had long perturbed Sansa. Beauty and the achievement of elegance had always been important to her, but the way he did it- it made her wonder whether he ever did anything that wasn't expected of him, anything that wasn't necessary, anything just because it felt good.
"Yes, thank you." She motioned for him to step inside, and he did, quietly closing the door behind him. He took a few steps inside, then stopped. He was not a man who took invitations for granted.
"How may I be of service?" He struggled to stifle a wry smile. In the months since her engagement to the King, Sansa had come to meet with Petyr on a nearly daily basis, and it was not unusual for her to seek his counsel on the elements of royal life which still perplexed her. Their relationship had become increasingly familiar, and he found he had grown an affection for her which rivaled- if not eclipsed- what he had once felt for her mother. Since her wedding, just two weeks ago, her quests for his knowledge had come later and later in the evenings, when she knew they might speak more privately. These chats had become something of a treat to him, to be savored at the end of each long day.
Sansa sat on the bed, long flowing emerald robes lighting the red strands she pushed out of her face now, nervous, a bit of business to stall off words. It was clear to Petyr that she struggled with what she wanted to say. "My lady, you needn't be afrai-"
"It's about Joffrey." Considering how to safely proceed with such a dangerous subject, Petyr approached her slowly, hands still clasped, eyes on the ground.
"Surely, our young queen does not question the gift of her station… or the magnificence of her king?"
"No, no, of course I love His Grace-" Sansa was quick to wave this off, eyes flicking up to him, visually acknowledging the code of lies they must use when speaking of the reign of the little monster. "It's… I'm… there's a question I have about…" she trailed off, blushing violently. Petyr sat on the bed beside her, gently slipping his arm around her shoulder in a display of care.
"You mustn't be afraid of me, Sansa. You are safer with me than anyone in King's Landing. I will not betray your trust, and I will not hurt you."
"I know. I know you won't. It's just… this is so… shameful, and I-" Both of his hands pressed on either side of her jaw, lifting her face to look at him. He smelled warm, sharp and sweet- like spice berries for the mulled wine at feasts in Winterfell.
"Whatever you have to say, I will not judge you and I will not shame you. In my line of work, I've seen many more embarrassing things than you could ever tell me now, and you've never heard of them. Because keeping secrets is what I do." She took a breath to herself, then, in a whisper no stray ear lurking behind her door could hear,
"It's about… the marriage bed. I… I don't think Joffrey… understands… how it works."
"Oh! ...has he lain with you?"
"Yes, but I don't think he's… um… doing it correctly. I mean to say… I don't think that we will beget any children, or that I will please him properly, the way that it's been. I suppose… I'd just like to know what's expected of me. If I don't, he may become unsatisfied with me, and…." She trailed off, the implied threat of that possibility palpably heavy between them.
"And you… you would like to know how to do it? If it's to be done properly?" She nodded, her azul gems holding him in a dulled gaze. Though this topic was not unfamiliar to him, he would have liked to have a bit of warning before this conversation. Figuring out what was and was not wise to say, with no preparation, was harrowing even for the crafty lord. That, coupled with the fact that he could now only picture that sniveling little wretch incompetently stabbing his prick gods-know-where on poor, delicate Sansa, her beauty and grace wasted on him, like a freshly opened flower stomped under a tantruming child's boot… a deep heat began to form in Petyr's stomach. The unfairness of losing Cat to the Starks, and now her daughter, serenely beautiful and bright in her own right, to the tow-headed anklebiter that was Joffrey, twisted his heart. Still, he knew his place. "Well, you were right to ask me, my dear. I know just the girl to instruct you in the ways of-"
"No, not a whore, please." This brought a bit of a shock to Petyr.
"Now, what do you mean by that?"
"I know. That you keep whores, I mean. Shae told me. My handmaid. I know that you own brothels here in the city. That's why I am asking you. Someone so… experienced with these matters... would surely be able to instruct-" His mind was reeling.
"Sansa, I am glad you came to me, but I assure you, I have several who are excellent teachers for just this sort of problem."
"And I am sure they are very nice, but… I really wouldn't feel comfortable talking about these things with a stranger. Especially with a woman… like that. I would really very much like if you would help me. Yourself. I… I trust you." A brief silence hung between him as he weighed the potential consequences of being found out as the man who introduced vulgarity to the innocent queen (she was a terrible liar, and surely Joffrey would ask her where she had suddenly acquired the skills of pleasure), and the shining rewards of solidifying her trust in him, ensuring her safety as a useful and pleasurable partner to King Joffrey, and… (though he barely dared think it) speaking the most deliciously obscene words with a most gorgeous, coveted young thing. The latter option won out.
"Very well, my dear, I shall be your font of knowledge." He flashed a small grin: comforting, he hoped. "Let us begin with the problem- what exactly does our brave king do?" Sansa's blush deepened at this, and she stared at her knees. Silence passed. He could see that she'd never get through it like this, paralyzed with embarrassment. So, he took initiative. "Does he touch you?" She nodded vigorously, still not looking up. "Where?"
"My… my breasts," she mumbled.
"Not anywhere else?"
"And, sometimes… my… my bum."
"Does it feel good?" She looked up at him, genuinely perplexed.
"Is it supposed to?" He could help but let out a small laugh.
"Yes, of course. Does he touch you… intimately? Your sex?" She'd never actually heard it referred to by name before, except in vulgarities by drunken soldiers and sailors.
"No." Lord Baelish looked bemused, and it almost made her shrink away again in shame. But, his next question gave her dignity back.
"Doesn't he try to please you at all? With his mouth, or his touch?"
"I… I don't think so. I mean, I don't think he tries."
"Do both of you undress?" She nodded. "And does…" he searched for a delicate word, "he touch you with any other part of himself?"
"Yes."
"Does he… penetrate you?"
"I don't think so."
"You'd know." He smiled softly. "So, what does he do with it?" She looked down, paralyzed with shame again. "Remember, sweet, who I am. I have dealt with every perverse obscenity you can imagine in a bedroom. You will not shock me." She looked reassured, though she kept her gaze trained on her lap, and answered with half a nerve,
"He just… sort of rubs it against me. Lots of places. Sometimes down there, but…"
"Inside of you?"
"No. I think he thinks he is, but he's not. It slipped in deeper once or twice, and it hurt very much- it was so dry, but he kept pushing. I bled and he thought he had done it fully. But then he just went back to rubbing, but very hard… and then he uses his hand, and…"
"Does he hurt you to cum?" Her eyes went wide; she'd never heard such a word used anywhere near a royal court. She flicked her gaze up to him to find his grey one locked on her, unapologetic and deadly serious. Strangely, she didn't feel afraid. Sansa felt it was not she his narrowed glare accused- it was as if it were Joffrey he stared down now, on her behalf. That sweet-warm smell, the rich spiced musk that reminded her of wine from home, burnt in her nose and ignited something deep in the back of her belly. She felt a warmth she'd never quite felt before, an urge to do something though she could not understand what it was. She liked it. She was braver with her words now.
"No. I mean, he finishes, yes. In his hand. But he does not hurt me. At least, he's not trying to."
"And he believes that he has consummated with you?"
"Yes- he tells his mother that he's planted his seed in me many times, and that we shall have sons soon. I heard him brag to the other boys, the day after we were wed, that he had broken my wall and had me many times."
"I see." He paused, then, diplomatically, "In order to be in a position to bear his child, you must take control of the situation. In order to take control, you will have to get his attention." She nodded, understanding. "So, do you have any idea what he likes?"
"What he… likes?" She looked perplexed.
"What excites him? What sort of things arouse him?"
"I have no idea." He let out a sigh.
"Alright, when you're kissing him-"
"-I don't kiss him."
""You don't-! Why? Has he forbid you to?"
"No, I just…. it never really comes up."
"My dear Sansa, you must kiss a man you go to bed with. It's just more enjoyable for everyone. Men not only expect it, it helps them to become aroused." His voice got quiet and a bit husky. She had to lean in to hear him better, and that scent wafted up to warm her again. It made her feel safe and alarmed, all at once. "As well, the kiss- I mean a good kiss, a deep kiss-" He was right in her ear now, and she could smell the faint mint on his breath as their puffs fell against her cheek, "-Can unite two people. A single passionate kiss can do more to make you one with the man you share it with than an entire night of rutting, no matter how well it's done." He moved his face away so she could see him in front of her, and wore a small, knowing smirk. "You might start by trying that. Ought to get his attention."
