Chapter 11 | Sansa

Sansa couldn't be sure how long she'd been asleep, but it was still dark when she opened her eyes. The last thing she remembered was the boneless, wordless pleasure of Petyr pulling her against his chest, his hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her lazily, both of them still breathless and panting.

She opened her eyes to him crouched in front of the fire wearing only his britches, the muscles of his back rippling as he stoked the flames. She stayed silent and still, watching him, fascinated. In more ways than one, she felt like she was seeing him for the first time. He rose in one languid movement, retrieving a glass of wine from the table behind him without looking. He raised it to his lips with a ringed hand, and drank deeply.

The difference between Lord Baelish and the man who now prowled her chambers was so profound that Sansa had found herself feeling suddenly shy around him. She knew Lord Baelish well. Lord Baelish moved with a courtly grace, his movements and mannerisms refined and austere. He had the deliberate, studied air of a priest.

But the man who'd stalked through her door that night, sweeping her into his arms, the man who had ravished her so entirely, was not that man. This was not Lord Baelish, but Petyr who moved like a shadowcat, all of his lines elegant and deadly. She watched him from under the furs as he poured himself more wine and then reclined on the chaise, one arm hitched up over the back, one foot propped up on the table before him. Even in this state of languid repose, he seemed coiled and ready to spring.

He was beautiful, the picture of decadent masculinity. And Sansa saw in him, perhaps for the first time, a king.

He wasn't Jon. Jon was warmth and peace. He was the gentle sound of snow in the Godswood. Jon was home. And like her home, it seemed that she could never have him. Some things, once lost, could never be regained.

But Petyr offered the promise of something else — a new life, power, protection, and a searing love that, if true, could be a safe place for her broken heart to land. But could she trust him? Was he true?

She rose quietly, wrapping herself loosely in a silk robe the color of midnight. Petyr must have heard her coming, but he kept his eyes on the fire. She approached him from behind, running one hand down his chest, leaning forward to let her hair whisper against his back and shoulders.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asked, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Not often, and never for long," he said raising her hand from his chest to his lips. "Night is when I'm at my sharpest."

"Now there's a terrifying thought," she said teasing as he pulled her around to the front of the chaise and into his lap. Sansa lowered her lips to his, kissing him sweetly, her hair falling around his face as he ran his hands down her sides, hitching his hand behind her thigh, pulling her closer to him.

"You," he said with a dark hum of appreciation, "should only ever wear silk robes." His hands roamed her body, feeling the liquid smooth fabric ghosting over her warm skin. Sansa smiled against his lips. His naked desire for her, as always, bringing a flutter to her chest.

It was so tempting to give in to him, to bask in his attention, to lose herself to his touch — and too often already, she had. But she knew that she needed to keep her head clear now more than ever. She needed to know for certain what his intentions were, and the only way to do that was to raise the stakes — to force his hand and see what cards he played. She caught herself hoping a little too hard that he played the right ones.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," she said sliding down further in his lap so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

"Only you," he replied, stroking her hair, his lips skimming her forehead.

"That's very sweet," she said, taking his wine glass out of his hand, "but we both know it's a lie." The southern wine was tart and cool on her lips as she drained the last of the ruby red liquid from the glass.

"You promised we would be partners. We can't be partners if I don't know what's going on. So tell me what's bothering you," Petyr regarded her for a long second.

"You're right, my love," he said, reaching for the pitcher on the table beside them to refill the glass.

"I sent a raven to High Garden, to Olenna Tyrell pledging the Knights of the Vale to her service in avenging the loss of her family and removing Cersei from the throne, and I have yet to receive a reply. I've heard rumors that she's left High Garden, but no one seems to know where she has gone."

"Perhaps she went into hiding?" Sansa handed him back the glass, and he took it with an almost boyish smile, the familiar gesture of sharing one glass between them seeming to warm him. That a man like Petyr Baelish could be touched by such a small thing caught Sansa off guard. Was there anything about this man that was what it seemed?

"Olenna? Never. She still has the biggest purse in the Seven Kingdoms, one of the few armies left of any note, and her house has been reduced to ashes. She has nothing to lose, and all of the means to exact revenge at her fingertips. She's not hiding anywhere. It's Cersei who should hide."

"And she has no heir," said Sansa, straightening herself to look at him.

"Exactly," he said, "and I've taken great pains to build that relationship, to prove myself to be a true and loyal friend to House Tyrell. I've removed Lannisters from the Iron Throne for them before. It seems natural that we should partner to do it once more."

"Well, where could she be?" Sansa asked, her attention rapt. He'd never spoken so candidly with her before, and this information was far more than she had expected out of him.

"I'm not sure," he replied lacing one hand with hers as he returned the glass to her fingers. "She could be coming to the Eyrie, or to Winterfell if the news of the battle has reached her. Or there are — other possibilities…" his voice trailed off, a darkness settling into his eyes.

"Like what?" asked Sansa, searching him.

"The last I heard of Varys he was across the narrow sea," he replied absently twisting a strand of her hair in his fingers.

"What does Varys have to do with anything?" she asked, suddenly feeling the weight of her own naiveté.

"Ah," he said, lifting the wine to his lips, "you can always find Varys near at hand when it comes to matters of succession. I'm sure he'll make his presence felt soon."

"And what does he want?"

"Now there's one question that I've never been able to fully answer," he said. "Eunuchs don't want the things that other men want."

"So what will we do?" she asked him. Petyr looked at her, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"We'll wait," he said.

Sansa lifted her mouth to his and he took it slowly, gently, savoring her as he had savored the wine. Her heart thrummed in her chest, her head feeling suddenly light from more than just the glass in her hand.

"Thank you," she said when he finally broke their kiss. "Thank you for being so open with me. It means more to me than you know." She meant it. Petyr raised their laced fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her hand.

"I meant what I said, Sansa. I want you by my side in all things." Sansa could feel the glow in her cheeks as she looked up at him. The pretty picture that he'd painted her began to seem real.

She knew couldn't let herself get lost, but she could feel her grasp slipping. Still she moved forward. She could find her composure in the morning.

It makes it easier to lie if it's not entirely a lie.

"I've been doing some thinking, too," she said smiling up at him over the rim of the wine glass in her hand.

"Have you," he mused, his fingers tracing her jaw as she raised the glass to her lips.

"I have," she replied. "I've been thinking that I should speak to Jon about arranging a marriage for me — to Robin."

"To Robin Arryn, Defender of the Vale?" he asked, his obvious amusement mixing with mock surprise on his face. "Should I be jealous?"

His hand fisted in the hair at her nape, exposing her neck to him, which he kissed roughly letting her feel the scrape of his teeth.

"No," she said playfully fighting him off, "I don't imagine it will be a long marriage."

"Won't it?" he asked his eyes flashing dangerously down at her as a wicked smile curved his lips. Sansa found herself suddenly almost breathless at his dark beauty.

"No," she said placing the wine glass on the floor so she could touch him, tangling her fingers in his chest hair. "I'm afraid that while you're off winning back Riverrun for me, Robin will be thrown from his horse or be taken by sickness or some other such tragedy."

"But he's only a boy," said Petyr, suddenly serious, his eyes searching hers.

"He's not a boy, and he'll be a man soon enough," she said raising one hand to his face. "A weak man unfit to rule — a man who will love nothing more than to throw people through the moon door on a passing whim. I've seen the horrors that both war and a cruel, undisciplined ruler can visit upon the realm. I'd choose a little poison over either."

"I can't say that I disagree," replied Petyr, one eyebrow raised, "but don't you think that the people will suspect the truth?" Sansa realized that she was telling him nothing that he hadn't thought of before. He wanted to know if she had thought about it and where she stood. He was testing her.

"Of course they will," she said, "but the Tully name still means something in that part of the realm, and honestly, which of the great houses can truly want Robin as their liege lord and protector when Cersei rises against them? If they are tended to and made to feel properly involved, they'll look the other way. I know that they will. It's our marriage that will be harder to sell."

"Our marriage?" he asked flipping his body so she was beneath him, his eyes locked with hers.

"Yes," Sansa said with a smile, hitching one leg around his waist. "We'll be married shortly after you return from Riverrun. People will talk, of course, but I'll play the broken widow. I will have been married to the Imp, to a madman, and then to a sickly boy. Then the man who was a childhood friend of my mother's, a man who has been like an uncle to me will swoop in to take me under his protection to prevent me from suffering any other unfortunate marriages."

"We'll position it as a political marriage, as a defensive maneuver to ensure my safety and the safety of the Vale. Given time, I can sell that. They'll see that this arrangement is in their best interest, as well. After all, you will have already lead the Knights of the Vale to two important victories — who better for me to wed?" An exultant triumph filtered through Petyr's eyes like smoke.

"Who indeed," he murmured, cradling her head in his hands. "Are you proposing to me, Sansa?"

"Do you accept?" she asked, feeling suddenly shy, her bottom lip catching between her teeth.

"Do I accept the most romantic proposal imaginable from the most beautiful woman in the world?" he asked, his lips ghosting against hers. "Yes, of course I do. I'm powerless to resist." He took her mouth with a searing kiss that left Sansa panting in his arms.

"You would think that was romantic," she said with a laugh as he trailed kisses down her neck, her robe parting beneath his hands. With one quick flick of his fingers her breasts were bared to him, her nipples beading into aching points. She gasped as he took one between his lips, applying a torturously sweet pressure with his teeth. She wanted to surrender to the pleasure, but she knew she wasn't done yet.

"I have a condition," she said, and she felt Petyr's body tense. He raised his eyes to hers, and they flashed at her in the firelight with an unknowable but undeniably menacing look.

"Tell me," he said evenly. "What do you want, Sansa?"

"Jon keeps the North," she said. Petyr's eyes grew hard. He sat up, leaving her feeling suddenly cold and bereft. She sat up, too, not bothering to close her robe across her chest as she did so.

"The North should be yours, Sansa," he said. "It's yours by right. Jon is not a true born Stark. Why are you handing it over to him?"

His demeanor had changed so entirely, and it cut Sansa in a way that she wasn't expecting. Had she overplayed her hand? Had she moved too fast? Sansa began to feel a panic rise in her chest.

She refused to accept the sudden distance between them. She rose up on her knees and straddled him, allowing her robe to part fully as she settled onto him.

"I made a mistake," she said, letting all of her sadness at his sudden rebuff cover her face. "I should have taken the North when I had the chance. But Jon is king now, and the North has rallied to him. They love him. He looks like my father and he sits in my father's place, and those men who served my father and loved him like their own blood will follow Jon unto the ends of the earth. You can't know what he means to them." She thrust her hands in to his hair and pressed her naked flesh against his, trying to warm him to her.

"Even if we could find a way to move against him, even if I could bring myself to go to war with the last living member of my family, the North would never yield. It would go on for years. We have enough wars to fight." Sansa lowered her lips to his and kissed him gently. He accepted her kisses placidly, but the heat that had filled him only moments before was gone.

"I should have listened to you," she whispered against his lips. "I'm so sorry, Petyr. I won't make that mistake again." To her relief, she felt him soften under her touch, his arms wrapping around her as he returned her kiss.

"I'll win it back for you, my love. There's always a way," he said running his hands beneath her robe to slide along her naked back.

"No," she said her forehead resting against his, "I can't rise against him now. If I do, the Stark name will cease to have any meaning." Petyr remained silent, his eyes dark, his hands roaming her body possessively. She pressed forward. She had to make him see that they could not go to war with Jon.

"It can be better this way," she said deliberately pressing her breasts against his chest as she draped her arms around his neck. "Jon will be your brother by law and our natural ally. He won't be thrilled by our marriage, but he won't fight me if he believes it's what I truly want." The truth of those words threatened to knocked the wind out of her, but Sansa couldn't let herself think of that now.

"Jon will keep the peace in the North, and will fight beside us when we need him. We could be free to rule instead of fighting endless wars. We could bring a true and lasting peace to the realm. They'll write songs about your reign for a thousand years." She could see that her words were beginning to have an effect on Petyr. A smile flickered across his lips, as his hands cupped the curve of her buttocks pulling her forward onto his thickening hardness, desire coiling in his eyes. She almost had him. Sansa reached down between them and freed his cock.

"And the North will not be truly lost to you," she said raising herself to notch his wide crown with the entrance of her sex. Petyrs hands flexed against her hips, his lips parting, the heat of his desire flashing in his eyes. Sansa lowered herself onto him slowly, locking her eyes with is as took him inch by inch, letting him see the way that the feel of his cock affected her.

"Many things can change with time," she said, kissing him. "After all, your children will have Stark blood." Her words had the intended effect. With a low growl Petyr thrust himself up into her until he was buried to the hilt, a hand on her hip and one at the nape of her neck capturing her. He held her in place as he worked his cock into her, his mouth taking hers violently.

"Say it again," he commanded roughly, his voice darkened with unhinged lust.

"I will bear you children," she said gasping against his lips as her climax brewed within her like a storm. "I will be your wife. You will be my king. I'm yours, Petyr."

Petyr came inside her with a roar, pumping his cock into her as he filled her, the feel of it sending Sansa spiraling over the edge as she trembled in his arms. Before her own climax had even subsided, Petyr stood, lifting her easily in his arms, his cock still hard and pulsing inside of her and carried her to the bed.

He reared up over her as he lowered them both down onto the furs, cradling her head in his hands. His eyes searched hers, his face so full of passion that he looked almost anguished.

"And I'm yours, Sansa. I love you," he said. Tears pricked in Sansa's eyes, rushing up unbidden and spilling down her cheeks. She wanted to believe his words so badly. She hadn't meant to risk so much in this game, but as he said the words her heart constricted painfully. She'd lost so much. She didn't want to lose this, too. She didn't want to lose him.

"I love you, too, Petyr," she said, her voice breaking with emotion. An exultant smile broke over his face as he covered her with ardent kisses, and even through her tears Sansa couldn't help giggling in his arms at his joy.

He stayed inside of her, making slow, gentle love to her, whispering promises of his devotion into her skin until dawn. Sansa couldn't remember ever having been so happy.

Sansa stared anxiously at the door to her chamber. She'd just seconds before ushered Petyr through it with a lingering kiss. She hoped that she had timed everything perfectly — Brienne was usually so punctual — but she couldn't be sure.

She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Wearing only her silk robe her lips were swollen to a deep crimson, her skin flushed, her hair a wild tangle. She was the very picture of a freshly ravished woman — which was exactly her intention.

The knock came at the door, and Sansa smiled. Brienne must have passed Petyr in the passageway looking uncharacteristically disheveled and in entirely the wrong part of the castle for so early in the day. Now Sansa needed only to paint the rest of the picture for her.

She opened the door in a rush, looking embarrassed.

"Lady Brienne! Is it 9 o' clock already? I apologize. I must have overslept. Please, come in. I'll only be a moment."

"Of course, my lady," said Brienne stepping through the door, her face suddenly grave as she took in the sight of her. Sansa swept her way to her dressing room, leaving Brienne to take in the scene in her chamber. It was not a subtle tableau: the furniture around the fire askew, the fine southern wine still glittering half-drunk on the table, pillows scattered across her bed, and moon tea on her night stand.

Sansa dragged a brush through her hair trying in vain to straighten it, but quickly abandoned that effort gathering it up into a hasty chignon. She dressed herself quickly and returned to her chambers to find Brienne still standing dutifully by the door, her face filled with concern. She was as trustworthy as she was predictable, and Sansa found herself filled with a sudden swell of fondness.

"My lady," said Brienne hesitantly, "is everything…all right?"

"Yes, of course," Sansa replied airily securing a choker with the Stark seal around her throat. "What could be wrong?"

"It's just that I— " she halted her words, clearly at war with herself, uncertain whether she was honor bound to ask the question on her lips or to not ask it.

"What is it, Lady Brienne?" asked Sansa turning toward her with a smile. Brienne regarded her for a moment and then straightened herself, setting her jaw.

"I saw Little Finger in the hallway, and I find you now like this, and I have to ask, my lady, if you are…in any danger." The blush that rose to Sansa's cheeks at her words was not counterfeit. She knew what Brienne must think of her, lying with the man who she had only weeks before been ready to have cut down for betraying her.

"A lot has changed in your absence, Lady Brienne," she replied. "Lord Baelish has proven himself to be a true and loyal friend. We wouldn't be here in Winterfell without him. I was wrong about him. I was wrong about a lot of things."

"I'm not sure that you were," said Brienne.

"I'm not willing to discuss this private matter with you, Lady Brienne," Sansa replied, "You're just going to have to trust me."

Brienne nodded her ascent, but Sansa could see in her eyes that she was not convinced — which was exactly what Sansa was counting on.

She was in far too deep with Petyr now. She knew how his mind worked. It was a dangerous game they were playing, and even as he swore his love to her, she knew that he wouldn't make a move unless he knew for certain that it would get him what he wanted. At least a part of him would be as deeply suspicious of her as she still was of him. He'd have her every move watched, which meant that she couldn't be watching him.

But Brienne could. And having her work seemingly behind Sansa's back was the best way to assure her safety should she be caught.

If she found something of importance, she knew Brienne would come to her. And if she found nothing…well. Sansa pushed down the swell of hope that rose in her chest.

"Come," she said, "Jon will be waiting. He wants to speak to you about the role you are to play among his advisors."

Together they stepped out into the hall, closing the door.