"So where is he?" asked Petyr, his voice low and laced with menace.
"In the Godswood, my lord, with Lady Sansa. The direwolf was with him. We couldn't follow him without being detected." Ser Dandrick stood outside Petyr's door, his voice a whisper, his face stricken with fear.
"So they're alone, and we have no way to know what they are saying?" asked Petyr, his eyes flashing.
"Yes, my lord. I'm sorry, my lord."
"Not as sorry as you will be if this ever happens again," he replied. "You'll watch the Godswood and report to me the instant that Lady Sansa emerges, is that clear?"
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." Ser Dandrick backed away from the door with a bow just as Sansa rounded the corner, her face flushed and her eyes wild. Whatever had passed between her and Jon in the Godswood had been quick. Petyr wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved.
"That will be all for tonight, Ser Dandrick," said Petyr as she approached.
Sansa rushed through the door without sparing a glance for the knight and buried her face in Petyr's chest. He closed the door, wrapping his arms around her.
"My love," he said breathing in the scent of her hair. "What is it? What's the matter?" Even through the thick haze of his jealousy and suspicion, the feel of her in his arms softened him. Her presence cut him as ever.
With a gentle hand he lifted her chin so he could see her face. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she looked up at him. She was so beautiful, even like this — exquisite. Petyr couldn't help himself from pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. The salt from her tears was mixed with the heady taste of brandy.
"You've been drinking," he murmured against her lips. Sansa nodded.
"I'm sorry, I just—" He silenced her with another kiss, this one deeper more demanding, the brandy mixing with the taste of her in a way that ignited his blood. He pulled her deeper into his embrace, his hands roaming her body possessively, needing to claim her.
Sansa melted into him, moaning softly under his kiss. His fears began to dissipate as his desire grew. She was still his, at least in this way. Whatever happened in the Godswood hadn't changed the way that she surrendered to his touch.
He wanted to carry her to the bed and demonstrate to them both how entirely he could possess her, but he knew he needed to play his hand carefully. He couldn't afford to be reckless when so much still hung in the balance. Slowly, Petyr broke their kiss, pulling back to brush his lips against her forehead, trying in vain to calm the rushing of his blood.
"You never have to apologize to me, Sansa," he said, brushing the hair back from her face. "Come. Sit with me." Sansa followed him wordlessly to the chaise.
As Petyr sat she curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder, reaching for his hand to lace her fingers through his. Petyr was only too happy to oblige, cradling her against him.
"Sweetling, why are you so sad?" he asked again, smoothing her hair, gentling her with his touch. He searched her face. Would she tell him where she had been? Would she tell him the truth?
"When can we leave?" she asked. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't an answer.
"In a fortnight. Maybe sooner, depending on a few different things, not the least of which is getting your brother to agree to the arrangement of your marriage to Robin."
"He'll agree to it," said Sansa, the bitterness in her voice cutting Petyr to the quick. "He's getting married to a child, too."
"To the Mormont girl?" asked Petyr, his voice not betraying the darkness brewing inside of him. Sansa looked down at her hands.
"Did everyone know but me?" she asked.
"It was just a guess. This is the first I'm hearing of it," his free hand toying with a tendril of her hair. "It's a terrible match. She has an old name, but no real lands or men to contribute. Although, I guess it makes sense in some sort of honorable way — as much good as that will do him. I'd suspect Davos is behind it."
"She's only a child," said Sansa, her voice suddenly full of venom. "She's only a child, and soon everything that should be mine will be hers."
Including Jon.
The thought snaked like black tar through his veins, filling him. Was it truly Winterfell that she was afraid to lose or was it that fucking wolf-jawed fool that she called brother? Sansa reached for his glass of wine of the table, and took two long swallows. Petyr didn't try to stop her.
"I'll take it back for you," he said bringing her face up to his, needing to see her eyes. "You need only say the word. Our men outnumber his five to one, and they're already inside the castle walls. It could be yours within the hour."
Shock passed over her face, but was slowly replaced by a radiating warmth.
"I love you," she said fiercely, reaching up to touch his face. "I know that you would, and I love you for it. But I can't go to war with Jon. Not now. Not after everything that's happened. Please try to understand. He's all that's left of my family." Her voice broke on the final word, her eyes suddenly betraying an unfathomable sadness.
"Of course, my love," he said, kissing her gently. "It's your decision. Whatever you want. I only want to see you happy."
He spent the next hour doing all that he could to prove it. He lowered her back onto the chaise, tucking her under him, kissing her slowly, whispering his love against her skin as she sighed beneath him. She allowed him to open the front of her dress, exposing the swell of breasts to his languid ministrations, but she didn't move to take things any further, and Petyr didn't push her.
He sensed a deeper need in her — for comfort, for the assurance of his devotion — and as he tended to her he could feel her luxuriating in his attention, soaking it in. Her pleasure drove him onward tirelessly, his lips roaming her skin as her eyes grew distant and dreamy. He just needed time and he knew that could drive out the thought of any other man.
Jon was reckless with her — clumsy. He hurt her so easily, so thoughtlessly. He wouldn't take her, and he wouldn't let her go. And now here she was again, in Petyr's arms, her cheeks stained with the tears that Jon had caused to fall, all in the name of maintaining his honor.
An honorable man can only be trusted to protect his own honor.
He couldn't be trusted with Sansa's heart. Petyr wouldn't allow it. She was his.
Nestled now against his chest, Sansa's eyes began to close as her breathing slowed. Petyr stood, lifting her easily in his arms, and carried her to the wide four post bed on the other side of the room. Pressing kisses against her shoulders as his hands worked, he quickly helped her shed her gown and slide naked beneath the sheets.
"Thank you, Petyr, for being so sweet and good to me," she said touching his face as he sat on the edge of the bed, her eyelids heavy. "I know I'm not great company tonight. I'm sorry."
"Hush now, my love," he said kissing her. "I told you not to apologize to me. I'm the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms to have you naked in my bed. What could I possibly have to complain about?"
Sansa smiled at his words, and nestled down into furs. Her eyes were closed before he even stood.
Petyr returned to the fire and poured himself more wine. Taking a sip, he sat in the chair that faced the bed, watching Sansa as her hair fell across her face, her shoulders rising and falling steadily in her sleep.
She looked so peaceful. He could make her happy. She would see.
His thoughts turned darkly to Jon. The announcement of his betrothal would change things significantly. It would solidify Jon's claim, and it was clear that the devotion that the North felt toward him could now only be rivaled by the child he intended to wed. He felt his plan begin to shift and change shape. He would need to act — and soon.
But what about Sansa? He was closer than ever to his goal, which made each foothold more tenuous, each move more fraught with danger. He gladly accepted the risks, setting up contingencies where he could and living with the rest. But Sansa — he couldn't risk her. If he failed, he needed to know that she was safe. He stared into the fire as his plan began to form.
It was mid-morning as Petyr stepped into the study that was now the small council chamber. As he bowed his head to Jon and took his seat, he couldn't help the small smile that played on his lips. He'd left Sansa sleeping in his bed with heavy guard at the door, her red hair splayed against the pillows, her lips still crimson from the ravishing that he'd visited upon her.
His blood stirred as his mind turned back to her. He'd awoken to her warm and already wet in his arms, her kiss eager. By the time he was finished with her she had fallen back asleep, exhausted.
He wished he could tell Jon, then and there. Petyr wanted to see his face when told him how Sansa quivered beneath his touch, how she tasted even better than she smelled, like clover and honey, how she'd gasped as he entered her and cried out his name as she came.
Instead, he took his seat quietly, waiting to be acknowledged, to be told why he'd been summoned. Jon was already deep in conversation with Tormund, discussing the lands that had been set aside for the wildlings to settle a day's ride from Winterfell.
Petyr had been the mastermind of the plan, expertly assessing the complex interplay of politics between the houses of the North and finding a solution that left everyone more or less satisfied — or at least not angry enough to fight about it. Of course, both sides would balk if they knew that this plan came from a southerner, so Jon had done the negotiations.
He watched the two men as they talked to one another, heads inclined, a true and obvious camaraderie between them. Petyr didn't know much of the wildlings, but it was obvious that deference and respect were not something that they were accustomed to paying anyone, particularly to those from south of the Wall, but both were apparent on Tormund's face as he spoke with Jon.
To Jon's right sat Ser Davos, nodding gravely, his eyes twinkling with an almost fatherly pride as Jon spoke. That both men loved him was clear. They would gladly fall on their swords for him. Like Ned Stark before him, Jon inspired that sort of blind allegiance.
He had the noble, unstudied air of the heroes of old, and men and women alike responded to him instinctually. He'd been made Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at only twenty. He'd shown up at the gates of Winterfell, a bastard and a deserter, with Petyr's army and his sister's name and they'd bowed to him, naming him King in the North.
In all of Petyr's years not one shred of influence or power had ever been handed to him. He'd fought tirelessly for all that he had, and barely slept at night for trying to protect it. And now Jon had been handed an entire kingdom to rule, a kingdom that he had no right to by name or by merit, and Petyr was expected to help him keep it.
But Jon was far too like the other Stark lords, like Ned and like Robb, and their downfall would be his, as well. Honorable men could only truly rule over other honorable men, and there weren't that many honorable men left in this world. Petyr certainly wasn't one of them.
"Lord Baelish," said Jon, turning to him. "Thank you for joining us. I'd like to ask your assistance in this matter."
"Of course, Your Grace," said Petyr inclining his head. "I'm at your service."
"Good," said Jon. "I need you to take twenty of your best men and ride for the new settlement with Tormund in the morning. The Free Folk will begin making their homes there immediately. Winter is here so there is no time to waste."
"You call this winter?" asked Tormund, his voice booming. "You don't know what cold is until you can't take a piss without it freezing before it hits the ground."
"Maybe I'm just tired of seeing your ugly face every day," replied Jon. A smile was on his lips, but his eyes flashed with obvious warning. Tormund grinned at him, and went silent.
"I know you understand how delicate this situation is," Jon said, turning back to Petyr. "The lands have been cleared of what few people called it home, but there are likely to still be hold outs." Petyr nodded.
"I need to have a presence there in case things go awry, but I also can't have this feeling like an invasion. You and your men should hang back and not get involved unless it is absolutely necessary. Provided there are no major incidents, I only need to you to stay for a day or two."
"Of course, Your Grace," replied Petyr.
"Good," said Jon. "We'll pray that you have an uneventful trip, and when you return there will be a great feast. I hope to announce my betrothal in just a few days' time."
"Congratulations, Your Grace," said Petyr, feigning surprise. "And might the lucky lady be?"
"Lyanna Mormont," said Jon. "And don't congratulate me yet. She hasn't said yes, and she's one of the few ladies of the great houses who has yet to express an interest."
"I knew I liked her," said Tormund. "Smart girl."
"That she is," said Jon. "She could very well deny me. I'll make my intentions known tomorrow, and we shall see."
"I wish you luck and every happiness, Your Grace," said Petyr. "Now if you'll give me leave, I need to go start preparations with my men."
"Yes, of course," said Jon.
Petyr smiled to himself as he made his way down the passageway back his chambers. Everything was falling into place even better than he'd dared to hope. It was time to get to work.
Author's Note:
Hi guys. Sorry this update took so long to get posted. I had a crazy week. I'm also way behind in responding to PM's and reviews. I'll try to get caught up this week, but if you haven't heard back from me, just know that I truly appreciate all the awesome notes and reviews I've been getting. I read them all, and they seriously make my day.
P.S. I started a Tumblr for this story awhile ago as a way to keep track of some of my inspiration. If you'd like to follow along you can find it here: of-fire-and-snow dot tumblr dot com. Follow me and I'll follow you back.