Chapter 8 | Sansa
Sansa stood before the long mirror in her dressing room wearing only her linen nightgown. She used to stare at herself in this very mirror for long, endless hours when she was a girl, brushing her red hair until it shone like fine spun silk. She'd been such a silly girl.
But now her own reflection frightened her. She rarely looked at herself, and when she did she never met her own gaze. Looking at herself in a mirror made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, like she was far outside of her own body looking down.
Her eyes were hers, but they weren't hers. Her body, a woman's body now, was also somehow foreign. She had a vague fear that her reflection was now somehow separate from her. At night sometimes she would dream that it was moving without her — not breathing when she breathed, not blinking as she blinked.
She had gotten that same sensation of falling when she was waiting for Ramsay in his chambers. The floor would give way beneath her when she heard his boots deliberately stalking toward the door. She would fall and fall as he circled her slowly, gasp for air as he touched her. And on the good nights a great wind would take her before the pain came, and she would float outside of herself, watching the as red welts appeared on her skin.
Ramsay had loved how easily her pale skin flowered with bruises. He told her that she made him feel like a great painter. Her body was his favorite canvas.
It seemed impossible to her now as she looked at her reflection that those bruises had disappeared. She still felt them. When Ramsay had painted them onto her, they'd become a part of her. She wasn't sure who she was now that they were gone.
She regarded her reflection in the mirror stoically. Her face was flushed from the silent tears that still fell at intervals from her eyes, but there was nothing to be done for it. And on this night her immense vulnerability was probably her greatest strength. She let her tears flow.
Jon was lost to her. Of that she was certain. His honor would keep them apart. His honor would compel him to marry another, and his honor would marry her off as well. His honor would protect The North against every threat — including the threat of himself.
And even if she could convince him to lay down his honor, that would keep them apart as well. It would cut him too deeply, and not even the Red Woman would be able to bring back the part of Jon that would be lost. To have him would be to kill him. She could see that now.
Jon was right. They should have gone south, but she'd insisted on Winterfell. They'd taken it back together. But now she was home behind the great walls that she loved so dearly, and she was with her own flesh and blood once more — so how was it that she was more powerless and alone than when she'd started?
She was so weary. She wanted to throw herself on the floor and weep for Jon and weep for herself until she had nothing left, but there was no time for that now. She had the rest of her life to weep for Jon — she had no doubt that she would — but Little Finger would be leaving with the Knights of the Vale in less than a fortnight. She needed to act.
She needed power — enough to be safe, enough to have some control. She'd spent so much time in close proximity to power, she'd studied it even as she'd suffered at its hand. But she'd never had any for herself, and she knew how hard it was to come by, especially for a woman. After all, though Jon was a bastard it was his duty to lead and hers to be sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Even a true born lady of a great house had no real option but to bow to her lot.
But Sansa had an option.
"Everyone wants something. When you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him."
The words Little Finger spoke to her back in the Eyrie echoed in her mind as she grabbed her wolf skin cloak. She knew what he wanted, at least. She may not have had the power to move anything herself, but if she could move him she could move the Seven Kingdoms.
It was no real plan. There wasn't any shape to it, but she would worry about that later. First, she needed to see if she could move him.
Was she wrong about what he wanted? Was his declaration of love just another chess move? Could she convince a man that she both feared and despised that she could fall in love with him? He was a dangerous man, and more than that, he was the one who taught her how to play the game. Did she have any true hope of out maneuvering him?
There was only one way to know for sure. She was stepping into deep waters now. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders.
She considered herself briefly in the mirror once more before turning to the door. Her cheeks were a light shade of crimson, her eyes vulnerable and glistening, the pink discs of her nipples were visible through her night gown, and between her thighs she still felt the heat and slickness from her encounter with Jon. She hoped it would be enough.
Sansa woke from a deep and dreamless sleep still wrapped in furs and in Petyr's strong arms. The first light of morning was just creeping through the windows and the fire had burned itself down to a few sputtering embers. There was a chill in the air, but Petyr's body warmed her deliciously — only her face was cold.
The night had not gone as she expected. She didn't quite know what she expected, but she hadn't expected…that.
She hadn't expected that he would believe her so readily. Petyr had been right — when you know what a man wants, you can move him. And in giving herself to him, he seemed moved to near madness, all of his cold calculation evaporating like morning mist in the heat of his desire.
And she certainly hadn't expected how it would feel to give herself to him. He wasn't Jon. He would never be Jon. And despite the dark attraction that she'd always felt toward him, she knew him for the snake that he was. She'd hoped that after it started she would float outside of her body like she had during all those nights with Ramsay — but she hadn't.
Petyr's expert touch, his wicked tongue, his cock, the rough sound of his voice in her ear speaking heated words of praise and love — "So beautiful…I need to see you come, Sansa." — all of it had overwhelmed her senses and grounded her deeply inside of her body. She felt present in her skin. She felt possessed of herself.
And the way that he'd held her, his hands pillowing her head, skimming over her body reverently, the way he'd kissed her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him — it filled a hole inside Sansa that she hadn't even really known was there. She luxuriated in his attentions and basked in the warmth of his joy as he'd made love to her.
Aside from her brief encounters with Jon, all that she'd ever known from a man's touch was fear and pain. But in Petyr's arms she felt treasured and protected. And it felt…good.
She knew she had to tread lightly. The game had only just begun, and there was not a more cunning opponent in all of the Seven Kingdoms than Petyr. She couldn't let the pleasure cloud her judgement if she wanted to keep the upper hand.
Sansa turned languidly in Petyr's arms and buried her nose in his chest hair, warming it against his skin. She felt his arms tighten around her and his hand stroking the back of her head gently.
"Good morning, my love," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She peeked up at him, still blinking the sleep from her eyes, and was surprised to find him awake and alert.
"Good morning," she said tilting her head back to his receive kiss. It was sweet and slow and caused Sansa's pulse to quicken through the fog of sleep.
"Did you sleep?" she asked him as his kisses strayed to her jaw, making their way lazily to the spot behind her ear that made her shiver.
"Only a little," he said against her skin, as his tongue found its destination causing her sigh in his arms. "I didn't want to sleep. I was afraid I'd wake up and it would all have been a dream."
"Mmmm, I'm pretty sure it was a dream," she purred with a smile as she nuzzled herself deeper into his arms. He pulled back to seek out her eyes, seeming almost surprised at her answer. She pushed away her fears and let her face radiate only the peace and tenderness that blossomed under his touch. It was almost too easy.
Sansa gazed up at him, one hand tangled in his chest hair, and the other reaching up to smooth a lock of hair that fell across his forehead. As he regarded her she could see the hunger growing in his eyes that echoed in her core.
Slowly he shifted his weight over her, tucking her under him, cradling her head with one hand as the other skimmed her thigh. Without breaking her gaze, he moved to kiss her.
"Wait," Sansa said through the fog of her own growing desire. Petyr looked down at her questioningly. "You can't distract me again. We need to talk."
"About?" he asked, cocking one eyebrow.
"About us. About this," said Sansa.
"I'm yours. Everything else is just logistics. I'll deal with those later, but right now I'm going to kiss you."
"No," said Sansa pushing him off of her with a firm, but playful shove. "I have conditions." Petyr rolled to his side and propped himself up on his elbow, one hand absently playing with a strand of her hair as she turned toward him. Everything about him was calm and smiling, but behind his eyes she saw something dark begin to coil.
This was it. There was clearly still doubt in him and she needed to eradicate it. She would need to plot her course carefully. She bought time by catching his hand with hers and lightly kissing his knuckles.
"If we're going to have a negotiation, you should at least let me put on some pants," he said lightly, but she thought she could hear a tinge of apprehension in his voice.
"Oh, my dear Lord Baelish," she said, looking up at him, "this is not a negotiation."
"Isn't it?" he asked.
"No. There are things that I need from you in order to feel safe, and they are all non-negotiable." Sansa said, resting her hand against his chest.
"Tell me," he said, setting his jaw.
"First, I want us to be partners. What you said a minute ago about handling all of the logistics — that can't be how it is between us. We'll handle it together. We'll plan together. I'm not going to give up my power to you in the hopes that I'll find it somewhere else. I've done that before, and I won't do it again."
Petyr's eyes flashed with something unfathomable as she spoke, but he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the back softly.
"I know I have a lot to learn," she continued, "and I'll take your lead, and as long as you never give me cause not to, I will trust you, but you can't cut me out. You can't make decisions without telling me. We do this together or we don't do it at all."
"Done," he said, with a smile. "All I want is for you to be by my side in all things. What else?"
"Jon," she said, "You can't hurt him. Jon is safe no matter what. He's all the family that I have left in this world, and I won't have him harmed. "
"Of course, my love," he replied, "of course." He caressed the side of her face gently, but for a brief instant she swore she something sinister flash in his eyes, but it passed before she could even be sure it was there. She turned her face into his touch, kissing his palm.
"I have one more condition," she said shyly, "but I don't know if you're going to like it." Petyr raised an eyebrow at her. Sansa caught her lower lip between her teeth and did her best to look embarrassed.
"Tell me," he said as she looked away. He caught her chin in his fingers and slowly turned her face to his until their eyes met. "I'm far more inclined to give you what you want than you seem to know, Sansa."
Sansa steeled herself for what she was about to say, the weight of her words bringing a natural color to her cheeks that she didn't have to fake. Casting her eyes down, she took a deep breath.
"I don't want you to be with anyone else," she said rushing forward through her anxiety. "I know that you've probably been with lots of other women, but if we're going to be together this way I only want you to be with me. I couldn't stand the thought of it and — " her voice broke as her tears threatened to fall. "Last night was the first time I — I mean, besides Ramsay, but — "
In one swift movement, Petyr had her under him once more, his hands on either side of her face as he kissed her deeply.
"Never, my love," he said against her lips as he kissed her. "There will never be anyone else. I swear it."
Sansa had played it perfectly, but the triumph that filled her chest was quickly displaced by something else as she felt the thickening weight of Petyr's manhood against her stomach. Petyr settled between her legs, hitching one of her thighs up over his hip as he sought her out. A rough moan escaped him as his fingertips gently rimmed her cleft.
"Sansa, my love, you're still so wet." She moaned lushly against his kiss and shifted her hips to meet his. It was all the invitation that he needed. He guided his cock toward her entrance, sliding the thick head through her soft, slick folds.
"Yes," Sansa sighed, her head tossing to the side in her pleasure as he kissed her neck and entered her with one expert roll of his hips.
The sun was peeking over the treetops before he was done with her.