Chapter 7 | Petyr

With one foot propped on the table before him, Petyr sank back into the high backed chair before the fire, staring into the flames. In one elegantly manicured hand he held a crystal chalice full of the best sweet southern wine. It shone ruby red in the firelight as he raised it to his lips.

The North was a savage place. He regarded the rough-hewn walls and the bear skin rugs with a quiet disdain. Even his bed — the best that could be procured aside from that of the new King himself — smelled dank and musty. There was no escaping the decay of this place — it was everywhere.

He wouldn't let Sansa rot here, as Cat had. She was born to be a queen. She should be sleeping on satin sheets, not bedding down in a straw-filled bed like an animal.

Thank the Gods for Southern wine.

He'd brought barrels of it from the Eyrie. It was that or drink the murky swill that these Northern lords had the gall to call wine. It was a place so bleak that not even wine offered comfort.

He thought of Sansa. He was always thinking of Sansa. She was a deep groove in his mind that grew ever deeper as he retraced his steps again and again. Her red hair, her quiet strength, the fierce way that she had set her jaw against him and turned, her skirts circling, swaying around her hips.

She was with Jon now. He was almost certain of it. Her eyes had met his again and again throughout the day, as he lingered nearby, giving her a wide berth, but keeping her in view — but he knew that it wasn't his eyes that she was searching out.

When she'd left him in the Great Hall, he knew that was where she was going next. He'd pushed her toward him, telling her where he was, pushing away the image of her in Jon's arms. He only had a fortnight, maybe less, before it would be time to leave Winterfell. He had to know where he stood before he could plan the next step.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to find the steely, detached center that was his normal resting place. From there he could see every option, every possibility, the moves and the countermoves — the Great Game. But his center alluded him as a deep sickness rose in his chest.

He couldn't picture what might happen in that room without imagining her in Jon's arms, his lips on her skin, his name on her lips. It was only one possibility, but it was the only one he could see. It seared him, coloring his vision, quickening his pulse until he couldn't see anything else. If she offered herself to Jon, could he refuse her again?

Petyr hoped that his words in the Godswood had been enough. The boy certainly seemed prone to self-torture — the honorable so often were — yet he had a hard time imagining any hot-blooded man finding the strength to deny a woman like Sansa twice.

Let's hope that this White Wolf has ice in his veins.

A knock came at his chamber door. He stood quickly in one graceful motion, not bothering to close his robe over his bare chest as he opened the door.

"Ser Dandrick," he said to the young knight standing in the darkened passageway, "what news?"

"King Snow turned away all guests tonight, save one — his sister, Lady Stark. She stayed for just a few moments. I heard their voices raised near the end, but I couldn't make out their words. She left soon after in tears, my Lord."

"Anything else?" asked Petyr.

"No, my Lord," said Ser Dandrick.

"Thank you, Ser Dandrick. Let me know if there are any other developments."

"Yes, my Lord." Ser Dandrick took a deep bow as Petyr shut the door and then made his way to stand before the fire.

It was better than he'd hoped. A wedge had been driven between Sansa and Jon, he needed now only apply pressure and the two would be split apart. A small smile played on his lips.

He shed his robe, tossing it over the back of the chair. Standing in just his finely tailored leather britches, his feet bare again the wolf skin rug, the heat of the roaring fire prickling against his skin. It would be another long night. He needed to think, to plan, but he was closer to his goal than ever before and the exhilaration of that thought flooded his veins, driving out any thought of sleep.

There was a knock. Ser Dandrick again, surely. He opened the heavy wooden door once more.

"Ser — Sansa…" She stood outside his door in a shapeless linen nightgown, a fur cloak thrown hastily about her shoulders.

"Lord Baelish, I —" her eyes met his, full of anguish, and then swiftly went to the ground. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come." He caught her wrist as she tried to turn.

"You can always come to me, Sansa. Don't you know that by now?" She looked up at him through dark lashes, still wet with tears. He could hardly comprehend her beauty as she stood before him more undone than he'd ever seen her, and somehow more perfect.

"Come in, Sansa." She hesitated, then nodded, stepping into his chambers. Petyr turned quickly and reached for his robe, putting his arms quickly through the sleeves.

"Don't," she said quietly. Petyr reached to tie his sash around his waist.

"Don't what, my love?" He'd barely spoken the words before his breath caught in his throat. His eyes met hers, and in their icy blue depths there was fire.

"Don't cover yourself," she said, stepping toward him slowly.

"Sansa…" She dropped her cloak, the fur pooling behind her. Underneath she was naked under the thin white linen of her night gown. The light from the fire betrayed the outline of every soft curve, every smooth flank. He was instantly and painfully hard, the blood rushing in his ears as desire filled him.

"You were right about my father," she said, her face grave, her eyes unfathomable.

"My love, I shouldn't have —"

"Yes," she said her voice strong through the threat of the tears that pooled in her eyes, "you should have. I needed to hear it. And you were right about him and about Jon — you're right about all of it." Her brimming tears rushed suddenly down her cheeks, causing his chest to constrict painfully, but still he remained frozen. He couldn't trust himself to move. He couldn't trust that this wasn't a dream.

"Did you mean what you said to me in the Godswood?" she asked, closing the distance between them. She stood just inches away, the hem of her night gown a whisper against the tip of his toes. His eyes searched hers, as his answer fell from his lips.

"Yes, my love. Every word."

"Can I trust you?" she asked, hot tears coursing silently down her cheeks. "I've been alone for so long. I have enemies around every corner. I need to know if I can truly trust you, or if this is just another game." Petyr could hardly breathe. He reached up with both hands to cradle her face, hot and wet and perfect against his fingers.

"My love for you is true, Sansa. It's the only fixed point that I have in all of this chaos. I will never betray you. I will never let anyone hurt you again. I swear it, my love." His words were steeped in his deepest truth, but they poured from him quickly and without reservation. A small sob escaped her as she melted into his touch.

He took her mouth hesitantly, gently savoring her heated lips with the slightest sweep of his tongue —but this time was different. Instead of remaining cold and impassive as he took his small liberties, Sansa sank into the kiss, her lips yielding deliciously to his. He drew her to him, the soft crush of her breasts pressed against his chest as his robe parted, the burgeoning thickness of his manhood against her hip.

He cupped the nape of her neck, holding her close as he fed reverently on her lips, his other hand gripping her hip, flexing his fingers almost unconsciously against her warm flesh. To his almost mad delight, her hands sought out his exposed chest, raking her fingers through the salt-and-pepper smattering of his chest hair, running down across the taught muscles of his stomach, his sash falling away and his robe parting under her touch.

He was old enough to be her father, but he was a disciplined man, and unlike many older lords who gave themselves over to food and drink, Petyr still had the chiseled form of his youth. Her hands roamed the hard slabs of his flesh hungrily, her head tilting back as he licked and nibbled his way down the elegant column of her neck.

"Petyr…" she sighed and his heart nearly stopped. She had used his name so seldom, and not once since he'd left her with the Bolton's. To hear it now on her lips, full of pleasure and surrender, shattered him utterly. She ran both palms flat up his stomach, his chest, and then finally up over his shoulders, pushing his robe off of him and onto the floor.

As soon as his arms were free, and with desire thundering through him, he swept her up into his arms, carrying her swiftly to the wolf skin rug in front of the fire. He lowered her slowly onto the soft bed of the fur, reaching with one hand to pull a pillow off of a nearby chair for her head.

She curled into him as he settled beside her, his body partially covering hers. He wanted nothing more than to take her, but the suddenness of her arrival, the way that she had so completely changed in just a few hours time had him on edge, even the through the fog of his need for her. He knew that if he gave into the fantasy now that he could be denying himself the reality of having her like this, so warm and soft in his arms. He had to tread lightly.

He slowed his kisses and reared up over her so that he could see her face. He smoothed back her hair, his thumbs wiping her tears from her cheeks.

Smiling down at her, he raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. "What do you want, Sansa?" he asked.

With one hand tangled in his hair, she drew his lips to hers. Summoning all of his strength he placed his index finger over her pink lips just before they reach his and he chuckled, hoping that she couldn't hear the strain in his voice.

"No, my love," he said knowingly, the tip of his nose lightly nuzzling hers. "That's not what you came here for. You're going to tell me what you want, and then afterward, if you still want me to kiss you, I will kiss any part of you that you like until well after the sun comes up. But first, you talk. What do you want?"

Her eyes cooled in that icy northern way that set a fire in his blood. She regarded him for a moment, seeming to struggle with something. He waited quietly until the uncertainty in her eyes seemed to resolve itself.

"I want The North," she said with a note of the ferocity he'd heard up on the battlements playing along the edges of her words, "and The Vale. I want The Iron Islands and The Westerlands and The Riverlands. I want the Storm Lands and The Reach. I want them all, all Seven Kingdoms. Will you give them to me?"

His chest swelled at her words, imagining himself giving her all that she wanted, seated on the Iron Throne with her by his side. But still he restrained himself.

"And what changed your mind?" he asked, running one hand down her side from the soft swell of her breast to the delicious curve of her hip. He knew the answer, but he needed to know her game.

Her hand rose to his face, lightly tracing the hard angle of his jaw, her eyes, fixed on his, were full of emotion. "It was what you said to me in the Godswood. And what you said to me this morning. I want to be safe. I want my home back. I want my enemies to die screaming. And I want to be Queen."

"And me?" asked Petyr his voice tinged with sadness. Sansa's eyes locked with his, as her hand moved from his face to cover his hand that still rested on her hip. She pushed it down the smooth flank of her thigh, her hand gliding over his until it caught the hem of her night gown. Her thighs parted as she drew his hand back upward her naked sex.

"Touch me, and feel how much I want you." Blinding desire crashed through him as he felt the heat of her. With their eyes still locked, he gently parted her folds, his middle finger dipping down to the source of her wetness. Her sex was drenched, and he could feel her tight entrance quiver as he gently traced it.

"Sansa," he breathed. She was searingly hot and impossibly soft and the slick, wet evidence of her desire coated his fingertips. Every last reservation was gone. He was lost to her. Whatever came next, he didn't care. The only thing that mattered in the world was this moment. And in this moment, he needed to see her come.

Carefully he spread her wetness upward, his fingers gliding through her folds, deliberately avoiding the swollen bundle of her clit. I small mewling sound escaped her, and she angled her lips toward him in a silent plea, but Petyr would not break their gaze to kiss her. He thrust his free hand into the hair at the nape of her neck securing her in place.

His wicked fingers continued to tease her as she gasped and squirmed beneath him. Her eyes were wild now with their silent plea. He lowered his lips to her hair, his tongue gently tracing the shell of her ear, creating gooseflesh that he could feel on her sweet inner thighs.

"I'm going to make you come, Sansa," he whispered roughly in her ear, his voice thick with desire. "You're going to give yourself over to me and let me make you cum. And when I'm finished, I'm going to make you cum again. And then again. Understood?"

Sansa nodded weakly, as a sheen of perspiration appeared on her skin, her face radiant in the firelight. Petyr's fingers traced ever smaller circles around her clit until his fingertips finally danced across it causing Sansa to moan and throw her head back against the pillow. Her hips angled upwards towards his fingers begging for more. Petyr obliged her, circling with a firm and building rhythm.

"Please…" Sansa let out a mindless gasp as her nipples hardened into aching points beneath her nightgown. Petyr caught one in his mouth, sucking her between his lips creating a wet circle of fabric that clung to her nipple. He flicked his tongue over it as he looked up at her. She was lost to her pleasure, and so very close.

"Look at me, Sansa," he commanded, his voice full of an almost violent passion, "I need to see your eyes when you come." She opened them and that sight alone nearly slew him. Her hooded eyes were a storm of desire and emotion. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Quickening his pace, and with a few more artful flicks of his tongue across her breast she came. As she did he thrust two fingers deep inside of her, the hot velvet walls of her sex trembling and tightening around him like a vice.

"Petyr!" she cried out, and his heart swelled with an exultant joy.

In one graceful movement he sat back on his knees and dragged her into a straddling position across his lap, her eyes still dazed. She was so soft and pliable in his arms as she quivered with the small aftershocks of her pleasure. He kissed her deeply, with long, soft strokes of his tongue.

"My love," he whispered against her lips. He reached behind her searching out the hem of her nightgown and lifted it slowly over her head. He thought that she might stop him but she languidly lifted her arms making his work easier.

The first view of her naked body was the closest thing to a spiritual experience that he'd ever felt. His eyes devoured every inch of her. Her pale and perfect breasts, the soft, flat expanse of her stomach, the red tuft of hair that just hid the lips of her sex from his view — every inch of her was exquisite.

Reverently, he lowered his lips to her pink nipple alternating between suck it and flicking it with his tongue. One hand captured her other nipple rolling it deftly between his fingers. He was rewarded with a deep moan from Sansa as she arched her back to give him greater access.

He was thrilled by her responsiveness. She was every fantasy he'd ever had made flesh. She was a goddess in his arms, and she was moaning his name, every movement of her body a silent, yet unsubtle plea for more.

He switched his mouth to her other nipple, giving it the same attention as his other hand teased the other, still wet from his tongue. Sansa undulated in his lap, her sex unable to find the friction she was looking for as she straddled his splayed thighs. He could feel the desire mounting in her, and it caused his cock to swell almost painfully now, trapped inside his pants.

As if reading his mind, Sansa's hands reached for the laces, fumbling clumsily, clearly disoriented by the unrelenting pleasure of Petyr's mouth on her breasts. He didn't stop his ministrations, letting her struggle, drawing out the moment.

At the very last second before his cock would be freed into her hands, Petyr shifted forward moving her onto her back, his hand pillowing her head against the floor. He reared up over her, her thighs still spread over his as he knelt between her legs. He sat back on his heels and looked down at her cleft, finally spread before him. Her lips, dripping with her desire, were parted like the petals of a flower, and the rich, womanly smell of her filled his nose, making his mouth water.

"Gods, you are so beautiful, Sansa," he murmured to her, transfixed by the beauty of her most intimate parts.

Gently he ran the fingers of one hand between her sensitive folds as the other thrust itself into his pants finally retrieving his cock. It was thicker and darker than he had ever seen it. It curved upward almost harshly, bobbing under its own weight. He fisted it roughly, pumping his cock as his other hand sought out her clit, teasing it slowly.

Sansa's hooded eyes were trained on him as he stroked himself filled with naked lust, her hips mindlessly thrusting against his fingers.

"Petyr, let me touch you." Her voice was a plea, and brought a fresh rush of pre-cum from his cock, which shown lewdly in the firelight as he pleasured himself.

"Not yet, my love," he replied through gritted teeth. "I need you to come again."

With that Petyr moved off his heels, lowering his head down between her slick, parted thighs. His mouth sealed over her cleft as his tongue dragged upwards through her folds.

"Petyr…" her serrated cry and her hands that fisted now in his hair drove him onward. She bucked her hips shamelessly, her hands directing his head exactly where she wanted him to go — and he was all too happy to oblige her. The taste of her was divine and he ate at her quivering sex like a man possessed.

Without pausing, he gently pushed one finger inside of her and then another, her hot, slick walls clinging to him as they thrust inside of her. Expertly, he sought out the small mound deep inside her, applying a rhythmic pressure as his tongue lapped her clit.

Sansa cried out incoherently, her screams surely echoing down the passageway outside, but Petyr didn't care. He drove onward as she came over and over again until her hands in his hair finally pulled almost painfully at him, begging him to stop.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Petyr looked up at Sansa filled with a primal masculine triumph. Her skin was flushed, a small bead of sweat dripping down between her breasts. Her fingers reached out to him wordlessly, her eyes unseeing, still overwhelmed.

Petyr slid up beside her, kicking off his pants. He drew her to him, pulling her back up against his chest, pillowing her head on his bicep and wrapping his arms around her. His hands skimmed her breasts and stomach, and she sighed wiggling back against him trying to get closer. His still painfully erect cock settled in the delicious seam of her ass.

"You are so exquisite, my love," he murmured against her neck as he brushed her hair away giving him greater access. "So beautiful."

Sansa made a deep sound that was almost a purr and slowly rolled her hips back against his causing his cock to pulse against her. Reaching one hand up to his cheek, she looked over her shoulder until their eyes could meet.

"Make love to me, Petyr," she said, her voice full of emotion, "Please. I need to feel you." Petyr could scarcely breathe. To hear her say those words —

"Are you sure, my love?" he asked her, gently cradling her face as she cradled his. He brushed his lips softly against hers then pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "There's no rush."

"Please," she said again, her voice a whisper against his skin.

Petyr was helpless to refuse. He reached down and guided his cock between her thighs as she spread herself for him. They both gasped as his manhood found the wetness of her core, gliding between her slick folds. With a trembling hand he notched the head of his cock into the entrance of her sex, his lips seeking out hers. Then slowly he thrust himself up into her.

A rough sound escaped him. Being inside of her was almost more pleasure than he could bear. She rippled maddeningly around him, her hips grinding down against his. He knew he wouldn't last long. With one hand he captured her nipple while the other dove between her thighs, roughly circling her clit.

"You are my queen, Sansa," he growled roughly against the pale skin of her throat as she threw her head back against his shoulder. "I will give you The North. I will give you the Seven Kingdoms. I will give you anything you desire. It's all yours as I am yours, I swear it."

Sansa came with a scream, her sex clamping down on him causing him to spiral over the edge after her. He pulled out of her swiftly and with one pump of his cock spilled his seed against her thighs. He lay panting against her shoulder for one long silent minute listening to Sansa's ragged breathing begin to slow.

With one hand he groped behind himself on the cold stone floor until he found his robe. Gently, he used it to wipe away the slickness between her thighs, and then quickly wiped his own cock before tossing it away.

Sansa moaned in protest as he stood, but he returned quickly with the thick fur blanket from the bed. Tossing it over her, he laid back down beside her and pulled her back against his chest. He brushed the hair away from her neck so he could see her face and pressed a line of soft kisses across her shoulder.

Her eyes were closed, but she nestled back into his chest with a small sound of contentment. Within seconds her breathing slowed and she was asleep.

Petyr stayed awake for hours watching her sleep in his arms, dreaming of the wars to come.

Author's Note: /gifs/haters-nene-hi-RWWG3J2ksrYI