"Would you like some, my sweet?" Petyr asked, as he held up half of his pomegranate to his wife.
"Oh, no! I'm stuffed. I couldn't eat another thing."
"Not even a seed?" he asked, as he dug his valyrian dagger into the inner casing of the pomegranate. The juices dripped off the tip of his dagger as he suspended it in the air in front of his wife. If I had not seen the three seeds at the very edge of his blade, I could have sworn his silver-sheened blade was covered in blood.
"Not even a seed," Lysa said, and waved the dagger away from her face with her long, bony hands.
"Alayne?" Petyr asked, his grey-green eyes freezing me in place. "Would you like some?"
"Yes, father," I answered in the sweetest of tones.
"Just a seed?" he asked, while pointing his dagger towards me. "Or would you like to share half?"
"I will share it with you," I answered him, eagerly taking the freshly cut pomegranate in my hands. The seeds had a sharp sour taste to it, something I hardly expected as I plopped several into my mouth. The juices ran down my fingers quickly, so I had to lick them away with my tongue.
"Yes, they can get messy," Petyr drawled, as he licked his own fingers as well. Ever so slowly he dragged his tongue over the tips of his fingers, sucking them dry before he went for more. Blood-red lips curled into a smile while he watched me, enjoying the sight of my tongue gliding across my lower lip.
"Would you like this as well?" He asked, as he held up a small orange with a darkish complexion. "I've had it delivered straight from Dorne."
"What is it?"
"A blood orange," Petyr said with amusement. He wiped his dagger clean with a napkin before he sliced it in two. Immediately, the dark juices began to drip down his hand and pool around his pearl-white plate. "Eat it quickly, before it turns bitter."
Petyr lifted it above his mouth and squeezed the orange till the juices squirted all over his tongue. I in turn, used the dainty dessert spoon to scoop out the tender pieces of the blood orange, making sure not to eat the pale white seeds.
"Do you like it?" he asked, as he dropped the crushed peel down on his plate.
"It's sweet."
"Yes," he said with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. "It is."
Petyr took a sip of his wine, it had been the first and probably the last time he would enjoy the sweet savoury taste of Arbour Gold for the night. The event from yesterday evening made him want to abstain from the intoxicating substance. His wife on the other hand, was drinking it with gusto, topping it up at regular intervals. Since I was so low in spirits, I had opted for Robert Freyes' light amber coloured ale, a delicious tasting beverage to wash down the wild quail and autumn veggies.
"Have this," Petyr instructed, while he held his goblet of wine before me. "It will bring out the full flavour of the blood orange."
I did as he bid, placing my lips where his had been to sip the berry flavoured wine, relishing the bright citrusy taste.
"It is good, isn't it?" Petyr remarked, as he purposefully brushed his fingers against mine when I handed back the goblet.
"Yes, but I've tasted something finer this morning," I said slyly, as I licked the last of the blood orange in front of him.
Petyr bit his lip down hard, as he tried not to think about what I was implying. Seizing the opportunity of his involuntary weakness I stretched out my leg and ran it down the length of his outer leg and thigh.
Petyr looked down at the table, as if he could see the stealthy movements of my leg. He made no movement for me to stop, rather he leaned further in to my incessant movements. Poor Lysa, oblivious to our wicked gestures and sinful thoughts. Petyr caught my foot with his left hand, and slowly glided his fingers up the smooth grooves of my leg. It was my time to suffer, as he applied more pressure till I wriggled in my seat.
"Shall we dance now?" His wife asked in between her sips of wine.
"In a minute love, let me enjoy these last few moments," he said smoothly, while his eyes continued to burrow into mine. He plunged both of his hand beneath the table now, massaging the length of my leg till I let out a small groan. If only he could do that to my whole body, I thought, as I bit down on my crimson-stained lips.
Petyr's chair scrapped in, the sound slightly muffled by the singer's lyre. "Petyr, please," Lysa bemoaned, wishing her husband was moving away from the table, and not towards it.
"A moment more, love," Petyr shot back, his tone unexpectedly rough in manner. "I need more time for my stomach to settle, that's all. I'm sure the honourable Lord Royce would not object to dance with the Lady of the Vale."
"I would not," said the stout, grey old man who sat at her elbow. "It would be an honour."
"Dance with him," Petyr instructed. "I will be there before you know it."
Lysa was not exactly pleased, but she did as here husband ordered. The minute they were gone, and it was just Petyr and I seated at the table, did he finally look at me lustfully. "Now," he drawled, as his hands fled up both of my legs. "Where were we?"
I gasped as his hands reached my inner thigh, the length of my dress bunched up in folds beneath the table as Petyr continued to push it back. "Ah, there we were," he breathed, once his fingers were just inches away from my core. At last, it was the table that was his greatest foe- he could reach no further. He grunted in frustration, which made me laugh, my chest heaving up and down as I desperately tried to muffle my cries.
"I'm glad someone is enjoying this," he said bitterly, which made me laugh even more.
"Maybe another time then, hmmm," I taunted, before I pulled my legs back to my side.
"I should invest in a shorter table," he mused, as his hands returned to view. "One where I can reach all of you."
"Oh, Petyr. You never learn," I said sassily, noting the looming figure of Lord Royce fast approaching.
"Your wife insists you dance with her. She'll have nobody but you."
"As it should be," Petyr noted. He rose from his seat and smoothed out the wrinkles in his emerald coloured doublet. He was adjusting his golden sash when he mumbled, "I must go now, Alayne. Only a fool would keep his wife waiting."
And he is no fool, I thought, as I watched him saunter off. I turned to Lord Royce, half expecting him to aske me to dance, but he busied himself with refilling his goblet of wine.
It's probably because I'm a bastard, I deliberated, noting he was most careful to avoid my eyes. If he knew I was Sansa Stark then he wouldn't be so quick to ignore me. I remembered him as a child, the day he payed my father a courtly visit. But that was a long time ago, and Alayne Stone wasn't suppose to know that.
Alayne Stone was supposed to be a promiscuous bastard. A threat to married men and holy religious leaders alike. No one dared to ask me to dance, and so I sat at the dinner table, gingerly drinking my flask of wine and nibbling on a cold piece of bread. Those who did have a partner were singing and and dancing with light feet in time with the music. Lysa was the loudest of all, her cries of "Oh, Petyr! Petyr!" echoed throughout the room till I feared my ears would bleed. I let out a sigh of relief as the last note died away, and the newlyweds appeared.
"I don't know where your father gets all his energy from!" she exclaimed, after she took a long sip of Arbour Gold.
"How about you sit down and rest for a moment," Petyr suggested.
"Will you sit with me?" she purred, and patted the seat next to her.
"No, love, I was about to ask my daughter to dance," he said from the corner of his mouth. "It saddens me to see that no one has asked her for her hand."
"Yes, shame on you, Lord Royce!" Lysa said, before she smacked the poor man on his forearm. "Neglecting, Petyr's daughter."
"My Lady, I-"
"It is no matter," Petyr interrupted, "Come, Alayne." He held out his hand for me to take it. I placed my hand in his, and let him lead me to the dance floor.
"We're alone at last," he said, a smile threatening to cross his lips at the mere mention of it.
"Are we?" I insisted, feeling Lysa's hawk-like eyes hovering over us.
"You needn't worry about her," he pointed out. His hands slipped down just below my waist, it was a danger to go any further. "Your safe with me. I promise you that."
"I know," I said truthfully, while trying to catch up with his quick steps. Petyr was a skilled dancer; his performance last night put him to shame. His feet were nimble and swift, as he led me around the floor. My glowing green dress with rose-coloured embroidery spun effortlessly in the air. Green upon green blended together into a whirlwind, as black upon black mingled into one. We were the same, Petyr and I, I could see that now.
"Your mother taught you to dance," he observed.
"She did."
"She taught me as well, but that was very long time ago," he deliberated. " I loved your mother, but I love you more. You are far more than she ever was."
But what could I say to that? How does one respond to so queer a statement. I was left speechless under his heated gaze.
"Come, I have something to show you," he said, before he pulled me out of the crowd of dancers. "Look at this, " he murmured, and pointed at a withered shield nailed against the wall. It was faded and old, but you could still make out an iron giant plastered upon the shield. Flames of fire shot out of the holes where the figure's eyes would have been.
"A bit fierce, isn't it? I much prefer my mockingbird," he noted, and tapped at the silver pin placed upon my breast. "This shield belonged to my grandfather's father. He was a sellsword from Bravos, and when he entered this country he made a name for himself and created this coat of arms: a giant. So, you see I am a self-made man, whose come from a long line of self-made men. But you are different… you come from a great house, and blessed with a great name."
"I'm sorry."
"There is nothing to be sorry about," he assured me. "That is how this game works. The game of thrones, I mean. The important thing to remember is before you can build a better world, the old one must be demolished first. And that is where you and I come in."
Petyr paused to look at me, instead of the faded shield. His eyes studied me for a moment before he continued, "I want to build a better world with you. I want to rule it one day, and I want you by my side."
"Do you mean like a King and Queen?"
"That is exactly what I mean."
"But- but your married," I pointed out, half amazed at what he just said.
"I am," he said matter of factly. "But my wife looks so old and frail. It is only a matter of time till she falls ill, or worse…" Petyr cut himself off to look at me. He ignored my passive face and searched my eyes for any signs of weakness. "You needn't worry, Sansa, I wish her no real harm."
"Yes, but what you suggest is-"
"There is no armour against fate," Petyr jested. "Every instinct in my body down to the very last bone tell me this won't be a very long marriage."
He leaned into my frame, breaking our safely appropriate distance so he could whisper, "Believe me when I say, you and I won't have to suffer for very much longer."