
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12049344.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Canon, Sleazy_pete_being_his_usual_sleaze_self_-_what_else_would_you
      expect?, Tagged_as_underage_because_it's_book_sansa
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-10 Words: 8962
****** Dance With Me ******
by lady__sansa_stark
Summary
     Petyr watches his daughter dance with Harry and wonders if he could
     have a dance with her too.
Notes
     Prompt: dancing (instructor), for @catladyofthecanals on tumblr. The
     title comes from the song 'Tanz mit mer' by Faun (which is v good!)
     [This is during/after the TWOW Alayne chapter. Ended up waaaay longer
     with a lot more plot and a little less dance instructing than I
     originally thought (oops). But I think my Petyr is sleazy enough to
     make up for that.
     I hope you like it!!! :D ]
 
           The feast was lovely. The food – sixty-four dishes from all across
the Vale, a sight and smell to rival that of the  waste  at the beloved purple
wedding – cooked and seasoned perfectly. The dessert: a giant Giant’s Lance,
twelve feet tall, requiring more lemons than the Vale had. For  Robert , the
cooks were told. (Robert was ecstatic when it had been wheeled in, but Petyr
paid the boy no mind. It wasn’t his reaction to the  subtle  cake that Petyr
delighted in). The musicians were splendid, and they were directed not to sing
(poor little Robert had grown terrified of singing since Marillion pushed his
dear mother out the Moon Door. A wonder no one else had done that sooner).
Their fingers deftly plucked strings to all the cheery renditions of beloved
tunes. Cups were constantly filled. Dancers took the floor in a flurry of
skirts and gossip. All of it, lovely.
           But his daughter was the loveliest thing in the hall that night.
           Petyr couldn't take his eyes from her.
           Being a  bastard  (with none of the looks of a bastard save the
crude dye that transformed her from Stark to Stone) meant Sansa had to sit
below him and the high lords and ladies that came for the tourney. Though being
the Lord Protector’s daughter meant she could sit above the rabble. Some place
in the middle, a place she wasn't used to during her time in Winterfell or
King's Landing (or even in the few months up in the Eyrie. Petyr always made
sure his daughter had more than everything a bastard could ever hope for). But
Sansa had to get used to it, like the brown hair, like the woolen dresses.
           Like the plot that was slowly knitting together, wrapping her in
threads of grey and green and red.
           The two  boys  sat as far as possible in the hall. Which would have
been less ridiculous had one of them not been eight years old and wet himself
this morning (Petyr instructed Maester Coleman: “A pinch of sweetsleep, to help
calm the little lord with the crowds.” Maester Coleman, like always, wrung his
hands, gave complaints, and did what he was told).
           The other one – a pity he wasn't as uncomely as Petyr might have
hoped. Tall and strong with a well-defined jaw. Strong hands, soft hair, a
kindly smile whenever he managed to find something entertaining. The image made
flesh of gallant knights from songs.
           Petyr sipped his wine, gaze moving back to his daughter. Watched
flamelight flicker above her – whispering the truth beneath the brown. He'd
imagined the day of her wedding more times than even  Sansa  had. The lofty
halls of the Eyrie bedecked in tapestries of sky blue and cream. Oranges and
purples and blood reds of the fading sun filtering through the narrow windows.
The gasps of the crowd as she entered, fiery auburn hair a stark contrast
against her maiden cloak of ivory and cream and opal. And beneath that: a
delicate dress of lace and silks, hugging her body, ivory of Stark and sapphire
of Tully (and, should he have his way, a bit of silver for her  current lineage
of mockingbird). A sight to behold.
           Sometimes, after a few too many cups, Petyr imagined himself in
Harry's place.
           He was with his daughter now, Sansa finally allowing the boy the
honor of her dance (Petyr delighted in the Falcon’s disappointment when she
rejected his first advance. As if he wasn't used to  pretty little things
saying no. Which, given his parentage, was likely). They danced, getting lost
in the throng of other pairs. Stepping and twirling with grace Petyr expected
of her, and was disappointed in him. She had said something that made Harry the
Heir laugh as he spun her.  Good.  Not that Petyr was afraid Sansa  couldn't
bewitch the Young Falcon. Sansa could bewitch a sack of potatoes into life for
the chance of her attention, that was sure. But this was only the first night
of many that she would need to prove herself as more than a baseborn daughter
of a disliked lord (people were warming up to Petyr, but they would never let
him forget the small strip of rocks and shit that was his  true  home. Not the
lofty seat of the Eyrie - which to be honest, wasn’t as comfortable as the Vale
lords whined about).
           Harrold laughed again, and Sansa was smiling, too, though mirth was
hidden behind a momentary  fear  that she said something wrong. That, and when
she spun around again, Sansa glanced at Petyr.
           Did she know he had only been looking at her the whole night?
Probably. Where  else  would Petyr’s focus be drawn to than the most beautiful
maiden in the room? Her skirts swirling about her legs. Loose strands of her
chestnut hair coming undone and framing her warm face. Arms glistening from the
torches. Laughter spilling from her lips.
           The loveliest thing in all the seven kingdoms.
           Did she know he was also imagining her with him? Probably not. Her
skirts bunched at her waist, baring her smooth, creamy legs for him. Loose
strands of her chestnut hair coming undone from where he threaded his fingers
as he tasted her lips, pulling her face into his. Arms glistening with the
effort to pull Petyr into her, too, as he worked dutifully between her legs.
Pleas of  more  spilling from her lips.
          No, she probably didn’t. Nor could she imagine the unfathomable depth
of these pretty picturesthat plagued him.
           His cock twitched. Petyr adjusted his seat.
           The song closed on a one-two beat. Laughter and clapping in the hall
fading into the quiet silence as feet shuffled along the stone and the
musicians stretched fingers before plunging into the next tune. Harry the Heir
parted ways with a kiss to Sansa's hand, and words likely: “May I wear your
favor in the lists tomorrow?”
           “You may not,” Petyr read on Sansa's lips. “It is promised
to…another.”
           “Who?”
           Sansa casually (or as casually as she could make it appear) glanced
about the room. Petyr spied her doing this during the last notes of the song –
likely trying to figure out  who  a bastard like her would favor in the jousts.
Any one of the sixty-four combatants aside from the one in her arms. And for a
heartbeat, less than that – Sansa met Petyr's gaze.
           Wouldn't that be a sight? Sansa kneeling before the dias, presenting
her lord father the gift of her affections, of her heart, of her love. And to
seal it with a kiss as a  dutiful  daughter would?
           The love the Vale had for him would collapse, what little there was.
           “I still think it would best to sell the grains  now  whilst the
lords are begging to spill their purses for them,” Lord Grafton complained,
drawing Petyr's attention from his daughter and the brave knight she chose. It
wouldn't matter  who , so long as it wasn't Harry. He trusted his daughter
chose wisely.
           Petyr drained the remainder of his wine. He’d hoped to silence
Grafton and Belmore on the issue of keeping their stores until the lords were
truly  desperate. But it seemed they wanted to prove they knew better than
Petyr (better than the man who restored Gulltown it’s purses all those years
ago? Or the man who was Master of Coin for the King for several years? Granted,
Petyr was a  terrible  Master of Coin in secret logbooks, only because he made
sure the crown would owe thousands upon thousands of dragons to every kingdom
and bank east and west of the Narrow Sea. But no one knew that, least of all
the lords of the Vale). So Petyr spent the final dances confined to the dais,
going on and on about the banal grainary conversation with the Lord Grafton
beside him and his lovely daughter in his sights.
           The revelry soon petered out. Jousting would begin before noon
tomorrow, and the knights didn't want to tire themselves out too terribly with
dance and wine when there were honors and wings to be won. Little Robert had
gone to sleep hours ago, the Maester claiming he had an altitude sickness since
coming down from the Eyrie (over a month ago, and still the lie stuck. It was
either that, or the revelation of their gallant Lord Arryn’s true sickness).
Petyr decided Robert had enough of the sweetsleep for the night.  Too much  and
too soon  would be…problematic.
           Petyr wished the knights good luck in the lists and the lords and
ladies good night.
           The musicians had filed out of the hall, and serving men and women
remained to right the tables and chairs and clear away cups. Someone had
retched their sixty-four courses in the corner, the stink of which couldn’t be
drowned by wine and sweat. Petyr pitied the serving hand that mopped it away.
           “Alayne, I’d like to go over the tourney logistics for tomorrow.”
           His sweet daughter had been directing the serving hands along with
Myranda, both of whom were coming off of a bout of giggles when Petyr addressed
her. Sansa bid her  friend  goodnight with a hug. Her friend, meanwhile, kept
her eyes on Petyr. Petyr didn’t know what to think about of Myranda Royce other
than she was – despite her genial and warm appearance –  dangerous . He’d told
as much to Sansa, but still. The softness of laughter and hugs would make it
easy to lull Sansa’s tongue loose. Too long had his daughter been away from any
womanly companionship – well, companionship that didn’t involve her death. A
pity it had to be  this  girl.
           Petyr detested the way Myranda smiled at him as he awaited Sansa.
Petyr smiled back, too, because it wouldn’t bode well to disappoint Nestor or
his daughter.
           He wrapped an arm around Sansa’s shoulders as he led her out of the
hall and towards their chambers. Not the  same  chamber, but in the same wing.
Close enough (and  not  close enough). Worse, was the proximity of Robert. His
cries at night were fewer now, with the weekly sweetsleep lulling pleasant
quiet from him. But they were bad enough when he did have latenight fits that
Petyr stopped bothering to try falling back to sleep.
           “Might I ask whom my daughter has favored tomorrow? Or shall it be a
secret?” Sansa’s body was warm, her cheeks rosy with wine and mirth. Petyr
wished to stare at it all night.
           “You can  guess  if you wish, Father, but I will assure you it
wasn’t Harry.”
           “Good. I can only imagine he was rather upset at that?”
           “Upset enough.”
           “And what do you think of the Young Falcon now? Still think him as
cruel as before?”
           Sansa kept quiet for a minute, thinking. Their footsteps echoed
against the stone walls, following them up the stair as Petyr led them to their
wing. The guard posted at Robert’s door glanced at them with boredom as they
stepped onto the landing. Petyr entertained the idea that any one of the lords
or ladies or knights could murder the young Arryn before Sansa had a chance to
weasel herself into the family line. And wouldn’t that be a sight of chaos?
Everyone accusing each other – everyone pleased, finally, to depose the
mockingbird sitting upon a throne far too large for his ass?
           Sansa finally said: “He is easily swayed by beauty.”
           Petyr delighted in her answer, not failing to note the certain
avoidance  of whether or not the Heir was still cruel or not. Likely not. But
that’s what Sansa imagined of her princely Joffrey in a lifetime ago.
           That’s what Petyr imagined of his own Harrold upon the shores of the
Trident.
           “That he is, but so is any young knight or lord. The gods were kind
to give my daughter a pretty face.”
           She didn’t say anything to that, nor did she comment when Petyr
unlocked the door to his rooms and offered her to enter. As if she  knew
exactly where Petyr wished to lead her tonight.
           “If you will, sweetling, bring me the wine. I’m rather thirsty.” Not
truly – there had been ample cups at the feast. But  something  made his throat
itch at the sight of Sansa. A thirst quenched by the sight of her. The feel,
the taste.
           Petyr poured two cups of Arbor gold and offered one to Sansa. She
took it, but did not drink.
           “Do you have any guesses who might win their wings tomorrow,
Alayne?”
           Sansa went through her list of the knights, paring down the possible
winners to a dozen. Harry was one of them of course. When prompted if any of
the knights she listed to win was one she gave her favor to, Sansa merely
shrugged and took a sip of her wine.
           He stared at her throughout. The hidden softness in her eyes that
she kept away from prying eyes. The nervous way she twirled the stem of her
goblet as she expressed her thoughts, afraid perhaps to be  wrong . The rare
smile when Petyr acknowledged her ideas as clever. He stared at her so
obviously  that it wasn’t a matter of whether or not Sansa caught his lingering
gaze, but when and how often. She said nothing, moved nothing to block his
view. Waiting, watching. Her own eyes – when Petyr had finally returned his
gaze to her perfect face – watching him with a certain curiosity. Wondering,
perhaps,  how far  Petyr would go tonight. A peck on the lips? Fingers through
her hair? Hands roving over – or under – her skirts?
           Petyr drained his cup and held out his hand, a smile pulling on his
lips. “Dance with me, sweetling. Show me how you bewitched Harry with song.”
           Her brows furrowed. “There isn’t any music to dance to…” Sansa said,
her lie as weak as the resolve she was fighting against. Petyr could see it in
the momentary twitch of her arm towards his – pulled back against her side.
           “Then we’ll have to make our own, sweetling,” he said, not bothering
to hide the smile that caught his lips. It was the wine, perhaps, loosening the
restraints on his thoughts that night. And just the  sight  of Sansa. Her
presence. Something about her always loosened a thread in his chest.
           Sansa was perfect.
           Harrold did not deserve her.
           But Harry the Heir had advantages that Petyr did not. A good name,
for start. The adoration of the Vale. Youth.
          But he didn't hold – could never hold – Sansa's true affections.
           Those were  Petyr's.
           She took a small sip of her own Arbor gold before placing the cup
beside his, taking Petyr’s hand in hers.  As a lady’s courtesies required .
They danced about the room, carefully avoiding the large desk in the center.
Petyr hummed one of the tunes the musicians had plucked earlier. If Sansa
caught on that it was the same song she graced Harry’s presence with, she said
nothing. Petyr only wished there had been  singing . Some songs sounded so much
better with words. Especially the bawdy ones.
           Petyr had watched her the entire night, permitting his attention
wasn’t snagged by someone  annoying , like the blundering Lord Grafton, or the
haughty sneers of Breakstone or Waynwood who understood full well the kindly
gifts  bestowed upon the lords and knights from Lord Royce. All ideas given to
Nestor by Petyr, of course, who in turn thought them his own splendid ideas.
           But Petyr had watched her the entire night, especially during her
dances with the Young Falcon. How she made him laugh, how he twirled her and
managed (surprisingly) not to step on her toes. Petyr watched her dance with
nearly every knight who entered the lists, and a slew of lords, too. But
watching Sansa with Harry had him gripping his goblet tight. Imagining,
perhaps, it was the boy’s throat between his fingers instead.
           He saw the realization in Sansa’s face as Petyr twirled her then,
just as Harry would have, to the same tune that they had danced to.
            Am I better than your knightly husband-to-be?
           “Beautiful,” he murmured as the dance brought her body against his,
back to chest. Petyr swiped away the curls from the back of her neck with his
nose, inhaling the scent of her. Sweet and sweat and the unmistakable citrus
that always clung to her skin, as if she had been born in a copse of lemons and
oranges. Petyr planted a kiss to her nape – humming the notes into her skin –
 just before the song had them breaking apart.
           They were panting when they’d finished. Sansa looked even  more
beautiful with her face flushed, with curls sticking to her cheeks.
           “You like dance and song, don’t you sweetling?”
           Sansa smiled then, something small. “Yes. The last I danced this
much was....was at Lady Lysa’s wedding.”
           He remembered that, though Petyr hadn’t the chance to spy Sansa
dancing with his once-wife’s retinue of knights with how much Lysa  demanded
his attention. Petyr better remembered what came after: the meagre serving
ladies and Sansa leading him up to the bedchamber for the bedding. He had to
keep a level of  propriety  when undoing some of Sansa’s laces – what good
would it do to have gossip of Petyr’s wandering fingers over his beloved
daughter? Oh, but Sansa’s wandering fingers and eyes had gotten their own fill
of Petyr. He couldn’t help but smile – then, and now. “And back home? Did you
dance much”
           There was a wistfulness in Sansa’s eyes – a flash, gone just as
quick as it had come. “Yes, Father. Mostly lessons with my Septa and friend.
Although…”
           “ Although …?” He usually didn’t press for her past, because there
wasn’t much  to  press that wasn’t in the typical Lady-in-waiting structure of
courtesies and thank yous. And because it never was  safe  to ask about her
past. She was clever enough to mask her lies with vagueness. But among throngs
of shrewd lords and ladies waiting for any lie – Sansa would need to be very,
very clever these coming days.
           Her gaze had fallen to the wall behind him, slowly finding its way
back. “Although, no one had ever danced with me like  that  before.”
           Petyr poured himself half a cup of wine, suddenly thirsty. And to
mask the overpowering need that thrummed in his veins - the scent of her alone
did wicked things to his cock. “If you don’t need to retire to your chambers
just yet, I wouldn’t mind teaching my sweet daughter a thing or two to bewitch
men further.”
           Sansa, it seemed, had gone thirsty, too. She drained whatever
remained of her first cup, though didn’t need any additional courage. She
lowered the goblet upon the table, fingering the rim. Petyr couldn’t help but
watch the motion. “What will Harry expect of me? I  am  a bastard, after all,
and Myranda talks about how brazen bastards should be.”
            Myranda  was a conversation for later. Petyr needed to understand
the depth of that girl’s shrewd understanding. Of how far she weaseled her way
into Sansa’s head with smiles and laughter. “A bastard girl usually is brazen,
true. That’s the nature of children who don’t grow up sheltered by expectations
and Septas.” Not a jab at Sansa, necessarily. Petyr wasn’t surprised that she
took it that way. “But my girl… There’s something  enticing  about innocence
that any man – Harry included – is drawn to.”
           “Why?” Sansa blurted. Petyr realized that she had stopped circling
the rim of her goblet, that her gaze had been focused on his.
            Innocence and experience make for a perfect marriage , he
remembered telling her once. “Well, for one, it helps him think he’s  better
than he actually is, if you have no one to compare him to.”
           “I see.”
           It was the wine. The wine, the countless cups of wine. The way
Sansa’s fingers resumed trailing the lip of the goblet, slow, sure circles. The
dart of her tongue over suddenly dry lips as she mulled over his words. The
errant brown curls that stuck to her cheeks. It was the wine and the heady
scent of her skin still lingering in his nostrils that made Petyr ask, “Would
you like a means of  comparison , sweetling?”
           Again, her hand stopped.
          It wasn't a no, he assured himself. Were Sansa truly appalled by the
notion of dancingwith her dear lord Father, she never would have entertained
him in his room tonight. Nor would she avert her eyes.
           Petyr held his hand out an inch in front of hers, itching to trail
his fingers over her smooth skin, as he said, “Come, Alayne. I'll show you a
new dance you might try with Harry.”
           Sansa – after a moment's hesitation – took his hand. She let out a
small cry when Petyr pulled her into him, leading Sansa into a dance that
required  absolutely no space between their chests. It was something from
Dorne, though the name eluded him. Dornish dancing was  sinful . Usually more
so than simple fucking. Hands moving over bodies, faces close, bodies pressed
against and between and atop - so close, a loose strand of hair couldn’t pass
between them.
           As Petyr again hummed a quick tune for their movements, he felt
Sansa relax against his grip. Even as he explained the low-dip of his hands
over her waist as being the  normal  for Dornish dances. Sansa wouldn’t know,
either way.
           “Certainly you've been  informed  about how a woman can use her body
to bewitch men?” They were still dancing – Petyr sent Sansa spinning out for a
beat. She likely hadn't the opportunity to learn new dances ever since she
stepped foot in King's Landing those many moons ago. Still, she kept up with
his steps, adjusting any errors with a certain fluidity that made Petyr forget
how young she truly was. But here, at arm's reach, her flushed face caught by
the wall sconce – Petyr couldn't ever forget her youth. Or her beauty.
           “Yes, Father. Myranda especially is fond of trying to make me
blush.” Petyr led her around him, careful not to step on her skirts, until
Sansa was once again trapped beneath his hands. He trailed fingers down her
sides – from shoulder to waist, curving around to her ass – which elicited a
small gasp of surprise (or of want?). Either way, it was the sweetest sound.
           “What  sorts  of things does Myranda say?” He hoped Sansa understood
the  things  Petyr was interested in. Especially the things he was very, very
interested in doing with, to, and for his lovely daughter.
           A pause, in which Petyr wound their dance down into a simple sway.
He would have liked to keep going, but gods if he wasn’t tired. Petyr kept his
fingers firmly pressed against her waist, waiting.
           She understood his game – Petyr wasn't going to release her until
she spoke (well, Petyr would release her if she asked. Sansa could ask for
anything  and Petyr would give her it. And more, so much more. He had yet to
decide whether it was a pity or a blessing Sansa hadn't caught on to how  deep
his affections lay). Sansa inched her hands from their  proper  place upon his
shoulders. Up and up, until her arms rested on either side of his neck. Her
fingers found their way just beneath the edge at the back of his collar,
scratching skin in small strokes. The movement sent shivers down Petyr's spine.
           “Just… things .”
           The simpleness after such a long, drawn-out pause… Petyr pressed his
fingers harder into her hips. He hoped there would be ten brown circles
painting her skin come dawn. “Perhaps my daughter isn't the  brazen bastard
everyone expects her to be, if she can't talk gossip with her own father.” He
tsk ed at her, egging her own, letting his lips curl up into a smile.
           Except Petyr didn't allow Sansa to respond. Spinning her around so
again her back was to his chest. One hand laying flat against her thigh,
pushing her into him. The other upon her stomach, just beneath her small
breasts. Not  firm  enough to force her, never like that.
           Besides, he could feel her body relaxing against his. Even as his
cock strained in the spaceless gap between them.
           “Was it something like this, sweetling, hmm?” Petyr trailed his hand
slowly up and down her thigh, the movement inhibited by her skirts. Much
better  were it skin on skin, true. Petyr had half a mind to lift her dress up
and off her completely – and half a mind to understand not to. Besides, Petyr
wanted Sansa to ask for it. To beg for it.
           When the journey had his hand swiping over her core, lingering
there, he felt her hold her breath. Waiting. Hoping? But Petyr let his hand
fall back in its path.
           “Sort of.” Sansa finally said, as if forgetting there had been a
question left in the air for her. Petyr couldn't help but smile.
           “Perhaps Randa talked about the pleasure derived from her breasts?”
His hand upon her stomach crept up and around, knuckles grazing the side of her
breast. “Hers are ample enough for every woman in the Gates, surely.”
           “Do you prefer her breasts, Father?” Sansa asked, though it was more
breath than voice. He could tell she was  trying  to pay attention to his words
with the same focus she gave to his hands. All he had to do was press a little
harder, swipe just a fraction closer to her nipple. Sansa was so innocent and
responsive – Petyr couldn't help the twitch in his cock.
           “They are large, yes. Many a man enjoy drowning in a woman's chest.
But I'd much rather have my daughter’s.” Petyr punctuated it by finally swiping
thumb over her nipple through her dress. Even through the fabric, it was hard.
           That seemed to make Sansa happy.
           “A good thing to remember, sweetling,” he began, not forgetting to
give her attention with his other hand, which drew dangerously close over the
the join of her thighs again with every climb.  That  would have to wait,
despite how  aching  Petyr was to touch her. Taste her. “Is to give something
with the promise of  more .”
           Sansa took a few moments to respond. She always did – not used to
being touched with  care , with  love  (or whatever twisted thing this was
between them. Petyr hadn't thought it was  pure  enough to be love). “What will
you be giving me tonight?”
            Everything you could ever want, could ever need.
           Petyr answered her by parting the brown curls draping over the back
of her neck. Running a trail down her exposed skin with lips, tongue, teeth.
Sansa shuddered beneath him. Petyr pulled her body into his – could she feel
his  desire  for her? she must – as he pushed his mouth just below the bone.
Biting and sucking at her flesh until he was sure his  mark  would remain.
           As he moved to admire the angry red claiming Sansa as  not so
innocent,  he added, “My favor to wear.” A thought crept into Petyr's mind. “Do
you imagine Harry being upset were he to see a love bite someone left you?”
           “Maybe.” Petyr could hear Sansa was fighting to pull words, to pull
coherence, out of her lips. “Although I think he would be  most upset  if he
found out who gave it to me.”
           “Then you best not tell him,” lathing over the bruise with his
tongue.  The Vale would despise me more than they already do if they knew what
I did – what I want to do – to my ‘daughter’. And when I reveal you as the
Stark you are…
           No good would come from this improper relationship.
           But gods if it didn't feel good.
           Petyr bit the join of her neck and shoulder. If he could  consume
Sansa completely - heart and soul and flesh - he would.
           “ Father .” Not a question. Yet. Petyr didn't relent his hands as he
waited for Sansa to collect her thoughts. The hand beside her breast grew the
courage to travel across her chest to fondle the other, rolling and pinching
the nipples through her dress. Thumb swiped at the collar where her chest was
modestly covered – and wondered how immodest she was willing to go.
           His hand traveled higher, across the expanse of her chest exposed by
the neckline, trailing up her neck with fingernails digging lightly at the
porcelain skin. Higher: across jaw, chin, until finally circling her perfect
lips. Petyr wished he could see her face – how Sansa was torn between  wanting
this and pushing him away. Petyr could feel it, though, that uncertainty.
Except it was drowned out by base need; by the the rocking of her body into
his, the way she pushed her breasts into his hand.
           Silently Petyr asked her permission as one finger ran along the line
of her lips. Would she open up to him? Would she open up to him  of it weren't
his finger  that wanted access to her mouth?
           It could go either way.
           So when Sansa – who had been, knowingly or not, rolling her hips
back and forth to the rhythm of his other hand, and whose own hands reached
back for his purchase upon his body –  did  part for him… Petyr entered her
mouth slowly with one, slender finger.
           He debated telling her what to do. Myranda might have explained
brusquely how a woman could use her mouth to please a man, but Petyr was
curious. How much did Sansa know, truly? How much  teaching  was Petyr going to
have to do?
           Sansa closed her mouth around him, asking silently  Is this right?
Petyr answered with his lips pressed against her neck and his finger sliding
slowly in and out. Exploring her (in preparation, he told himself, of his
other finger ). He didn't linger long, removing himself after only a few
seconds. “Good job sweetling,” he said into her neck, casting it off with a
short kiss.
           Petyr oh so  patiently  waited for Sansa to collect her thoughts.
And whatever thoughts Sansa was imagining, Petyr hoped he was firmly in the
center of them.
           When she adjusted herself against him, her ass rubbing against his
cock, it took all his willpower not to take her then and there.
           “Father…” she gasped.
          “Yes, sweetling?” An innocent question. Asking whatever is the
matter? Placing his lips against her neck again, inhaling her and tasting her.
Thrusting very slightly against her. Relishing in her cries, in the way she
tried to move back against him. As if he wasn't the causefor her struggle.
           And then Sansa pulled away against Petyr's encircled arms. He let
her go ignoring the upset whispers in his mind. But he listened instead to the
whispers that something might be wrong.
           If Sansa denied him now and forever, he wouldn’t stop her leaving.
It was her choice, after all.
           She turned then, her hair a wave of beautiful tresses caught in the
faint torchlight. Sansa’s face was pink, her eyes dark, her breath short gasps.
           But Sansa was smiling. “If I say  good night  now, Father, would
that be a  promise of more ?”
           The momentary fear that he'd  gone too far  dissipated the moment
her lips turned into a mirror of his own. Petyr collected his breath pretending
like he hadn't been seconds away – hadn't been one more push of her ass against
him, or one futile plea of  Petyr please –  from losing himself. “Yes. Very
good, sweetling. Although Harry might not be willing to stop.”  Gods know I
don't want to .
           He had half a mind to  reward  her for her performance. Granted, a
lot of it might not have been acting, but still. The fact she had the courage
to do so was cause for reward. And were she to actually say good night, well,
Petyr would just need to imagine his hand was hers.
           “Maybe  this  would be better?” Sansa asked, closing the gap between
them and placing her soft, warm fingers atop his hardness. Petyr's breath
caught. He clenched his fists to keep them from doing something irrevocably
rash – no matter how  desperately  he wanted to.
           “Maybe. Let's play a game, then, shall we?” His fingernails were so
close to drawing blood from palms. “Imagine I'm your brave, tall, gallant
Harry, and you need to  seduce  me. Clearly you managed well enough with your
tongue-” he didn't bother biting back a smile, “-but Harry will  expect
actions, not words. Especially were he to win tomorrow. What would you give our
Young Falcon?”
           Teaching. That's what this was, the whole of it. Perhaps that's how
Sansa was rationalizing her uncertainty.
           Petyr didn't need to rationalize it. Only to keep it in check.
           He thrusted into her hand, just enough to make Sansa’s eyes widen.
           “I never gave him my favor, though.”
           “No. But this would be his  proof  that you should have. And after
your performance tonight, surely he will seek you out tomorrow.”
           Sansa thought on it. Courtesies of a lady warring with the brashness
of a bastard. Petyr wished she could see how beautiful she was, lost in her
thoughts. The way her brows knit a small canyon between them. The faraway look
on splendid blue eyes, casting them  darker . Or maybe that was the lingering
desire? Probably.
           She spoke: “Congratulations, Ser. I never thought you had the
bravery to win, let alone best every other knight. A pity I hadn't given my
favor to a knight that  would  win their Wings.” She stepped forward and placed
a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. “May you fly high above the Vale.”
            Platitudes with a bit of bite . He smiled at her. “Good. Although I
must ask: you will be saying all these compliments whilst your hand is on his
manhood?”
           Sansa realized she'd left her hand there and tore it away, blushing.
           Petyr chuckled. “Oh, but I assure you, if you  did  keep your hand
there, it wouldn't matter what you say. You could call Harry an oaf. The worst
knight in all of the seven kingdoms who smells of rotten meat. And all he would
care about is when you finish talking so he could take you, if he bothered to
wait.”
           That made Sansa blush harder. It made Petyr laugh again. And made
him miss the roaring waves of auburn that much more.
           But Sansa found her hidden bastard boldness when she asked: “How
would  Harry expect me to deal with his…with his manhood?”
           Were they still talking about gallant Harry the Heir? It didn't
matter – they could be discussing Moon Boy or some other fool. So long as the
truth  was understood between them.
           Besides, Petyr rightly didn't care, not when he had an opportunity
to be a doting father and teach valuable life lessons to his daughter. It would
be  rude  to deprive Sansa of important learning.
           “As a bastard, you need to remember not to be  embarrassed  by
saying or doing such things, even if you are my daughter.” Or pretending to be
a dutiful follower of the Seven. But Sansa wasn't  so religious  if she was
curious about such matters. “There's nothing shameful about  cock  or  cunt  or
fucking .”  Says the man who ran a brothel .
           Sansa ran through them, punctuating each word with a slow stroke
over his cock. When she finished, she took her hand away, staring at him,
asking  Is this okay?
           The words somehow sounded  dirtier  coming from her pretty pink
lips. He couldn't help but imagine what else he could bring from her mouth –
begs and moans and the cry of his name. “Good,” Petyr breathed.
          He grabbed hold of her wrist, startling Sansa. Calming her with slow,
certain strokes up and down his hardness. Showing herhow to touch a man. To
make it feel good. It took a considerable effort to keep the pace steady. His
voice, too. “Men like different things when it comes to their pleasure,
sweetling. A good thing to remember should you ever seduce someone else.”
Don't. “But…”
           “But…?”
           “But, nearly all men get off on the thrill of debasing a pure woman.
Of taking her innocence, and being the first to fuck her.”
           Sansa wasn’t fighting his grip, which was a good sign Petyr hadn't
gone  too far  yet. “Is it truly special? A woman's…first?”
           “I've only a cock, so I can't say. But according to whores, no. They
much prefer it when they and their partner know what's going on. Makes it that
much more  pleasurable  when there's experience involved.”
            Innocence and experience.
           “Would Harry…”
           “…know that you are as innocent as they come? Of course.” Petyr ran
his tongue over his lips, fully away that Sansa was watching the motion from
his periphery. “If my sweet girl would like to go into her match with
experience, I would be more than happy to teach her.”
           Because it  had  to come from Sansa's own lips. What fun would it be
to  take,  when the thrill existed in breaking her down bit by bit?
           She turned her gaze to the side, biting her lip, thinking. Debating.
Wondering, whether this was a  good  idea. Which it wasn't, not if she still
cared about moral standing with herself (because no one had to know  who  she
got the experience from).
           When she spoke her teeth had left little crescents on her bottom
lip. “Can you teach me?”
           Petyr's heart skipped a beat, two. Because the blood had rushed out
of it. “Teach you  what ?”
           She stepped a foot closer, hand still resting over his cock. Blue
eyes penetrating the very marrow of his bones as Sansa said, “ Please,  Father.
Please teach me how to please a man.”
           Something tugged at Petyr, more than just the need that thrummed
between his legs. He’d imagined those words from her sweet lips more times than
he could count - and gods if it didn’t sound better in real life.
           “Only because you asked so sweetly.” He leaned forward and placed a
chaste kiss to the edge of her mouth – the innocence of it tasted almost as
sinful  as what he was about to teach her. Almost. “Though it is late, so I
must ask you: would you prefer to use your hands, or your mouth?”
            Or your cunt?
           A flash of realization – that this was actually happening, that she
had quite literally  begged  her father for it – shadowed Sansa’s face. Was she
about to back out now, with the act just before her? Petyr wasn’t sure if he
would survive the  tease  of it all.
           “I… I think hands would be good for tonight.”
           Petyr grew giddy at her use of  tonight . If he didn't scare her
off, there  would  be more lessons. In things far more sinful than even his own
daughter could conceive. He smiled at her without any shred of fatherly
kindness to it. “Good.”
           Petyr lightly grasped her arms and led them to his bed, sitting down
whilst Sansa stood (which was horrible – all he would be able to think of was
lowering her onto him and taking her innocence. If he were lucky the lesson
would last longer than a few seconds).
           He continued. “You've already gotten me hard, sweetling, so
congratulations on completing the first step. Were it Harry, you'd want to
tease him with the  idea  of more, especially if you plan on giving him just
that. Kiss him, touch him, make him yearn for you and what pleasure you could
give him. The longer you keep it up, the easier the rest will be.”
           Sansa nodded. He waited to see if she had any questions or
clarifications, but she didn't say anything. Only worried at her lip again. It
was cute.
           “Take my cock out, Sansa.” She started at the use of her name – but
Petyr didn't want the facade of her, not when she was finally giving in to the
darkness. When she hadn't moved, Petyr motioned to it with his chin. “Unless
you've forgotten where it is…”
           She didn't. Sansa undid the laces of his breeches with a certain
meticulousness that Petyr knew was nerves. Sometimes fingertips brushed over
his bulge – whether intentional or not – and Petyr gripped the furs to center
himself. How easy it would be to ruin her newly-found courage.
           A pause when the laces were all undone. Sansa trailed a finger from
the bottom to the top edge of the breeches. Stared at her hands as they dived
beneath fabric to free him.
           Petyr’s breath hitched when her flesh found his. He watched intently
as Sansa lifted his cock out, running her fingernails lightly up the length.
Exploring what it was that made a man a man.
           Gods, this was going to be a short lesson.
           She spoke quietly enough that Petyr knew he wasn't meant to hear it:
“It's not that little…” But he did.
           “I'm sorry sweetling?” That startled her. “Have you many men to
compare me to that I don't know of?”
           “No! I…!” She out her hands up defensively. “Myranda often jokes
about, erm, the  size  of your  finger  and whether or not it truly is  little
...”
           Myranda was a dangerous creature, yes. But – well, Petyr couldn't
ignore the implication that because of her, Sansa had thought of his  finger
more than once. He smiled at the thought. “Well unlucky for her, she isn't the
first person to craft the joke. I must admit it's gotten quite stale over the
years.”
           His words eased the embarrassment from her cheeks. Which was quickly
replaced with a new flush of  I'm going to give my Father a hand job . A
deeper, fuller shade of red painted her face.
           A deeper, fuller shade of pitch black perverted Tully blue.
           Petyr eased her into it with as much fatherly wisdom as he could
muster. “Wrap your hand around the shaft. Just like that sweetling, good. Use
your thumb to wipe seed from the tip to ease your motions. Yes, perfect.” Sansa
adjusted herself between his legs. Stroking timidly, not sure what to do. Not
yet. “As you move up and down you'll want to adjust the pressure. But not too
much – then you'll instill fear that you might rip it off. And no man gets hard
from that.”
           Sansa followed his instructions, up and down, slowly working at his
cock with a slowness that was driving him mad. Up and down. Petyr’s toes
clenched in his boots as he struggled against the urge to thrust against her
hand.
           He took several breaths to calm his voice. “Good, good. A little
tighter. A little faster.”
           She did as she was told. Learning with each stroke up and down,
catching the small changes in Petyr's breath when she squeezed just right. Did
she catch how tightly his hands gripped the mattress? How intent his gaze was
where her slender fingers moved around and over his cock? How  often  he
dreamed of this? She must have.
           “ Gods ,” escaped his lips when Sansa found that perfect rhythm,
pumping his cock faster with more courage. He began matching her rhythm,
thrusting into her fingers as she went. She startled at first - then moved
faster, tighter. Watching her dear father crumble beneath her touch.
           Petyr's fingers hurt clutching the bed, imagining instead it was
Sansa's hips that he clung to. Leaving marks on her skin. Claiming her hips and
body as his, as he had done to her neck.
           Petyr thrust sharply into her hand. “I'm going to come sweetling.” A
warning – because this was likely the first cock she had touched and seen in
the throes of pleasure. It took only a few seconds before his release found
him. When he came, Sansa jumped back. Not fast enough, his seed shooting onto
the front of her dress where it wasn't blocked by her hands. Just the sight of
his come coating her fingers,  defiling her , could have made him come again.
           Sansa tested the consistency of it between her fingers (did the idea
of  tasting  his desire cross her mind? Would she do it if Petyr asked?) before
wiping the  mess  on her ruined dress. No matter – Petyr would buy his daughter
a hundred, a thousand more, for what she'd done.
           He could feel his heart in his fingertips and toes. The waves of his
pleasure drowned out all sounds but the erratic  badump badump  crashing
against his ribs.
           Petyr stared at Sansa. Wondered if he looked as wild as he felt –
and that was only from her hand. Gods knew what would happen had Sansa offered
to use her mouth.
           Seconds paused, minutes. Waiting for his body to come back down from
that lovely high. Slow blinks, slow breaths. Tucking his cock back into his
breeches but not bothering to lace up. Petyr offered his hand to Sansa to  come
forward , setting her on his knees. She did, careful to avoid ruining her dress
further. They stayed like that in silence, her breathing and his heart and the
quiet flickering of torchlight the only sounds. Until finally Petyr felt
comfortable enough that his voice wouldn’t betray the quiet coolness he tried
for. “I think it would be kind to  thank  my daughter for being such a
wonderful pupil, don't you?”
           Sansa's eyes widened – but her own need was overtaking logic,
overtaking any notion that  this was wrong . Because how could it be, when the
ache between her legs felt strangely good? So Sansa nodded.
            I'll show you what good feels like.
           Carefully he gripped Sansa’s hand and maneuvered her to sit beside
him atop the bed. Kissing her  thank you  on her lips. Then continued the
journey until she was lying atop his furs, her hair a halo of soft curls
framing pink-tinged ivory skin.
           He'd be lying if he said he never dreamed of something like this.
           Petyr tangled a hand in her hair, wishing it was the vibrant auburn
that he loved. Swiped thumb along her cheek, her jaw. She was warm. Staring up
at him, pressing her face into his touch.
           Sansa was so fucking  sweet . But he had to know: “Have you ever
touched yourself, sweetling?”
           Sansa – again, that realization that something  improper  was
happening, something she likely should say no to but couldn't form the words
(or didn't want to?) – shook her head. “No, Father.”
           A lightness filled his heart. Tonight was a night of firsts, then. A
night of firsts that Petyr got to willingly take from her. But he didn't want
to test his luck whether Sansa would offer  another first.  Maybe, but not
tonight.
           “Lift up your skirts, sweetling.”
           Her fingers worried at the hem, fighting against her own whispers of
logic that told her to  stop.  That told her (probably):  he's your father
(technically).  He's far older than all those shining knights you once dreamt
of. The look in his eyes is the furthest from kind or pure .
           Up Sansa’s fingers went, bringing along the fabric in a soft rustle.
           Petyr watched intently the growing expanse of her thighs. Counted
the moles as they appeared (two on one leg and one on the other). Marveled in
how smooth they were, how pure.
           Wondered the possibility that he could leave marks up and down her
skin. A secret, shared by them in locked rooms, of what vulgar sins they lost
themselves to.
           When the dress rose above her small clothes, Sansa waited patiently,
dutifully. Petyr couldn't help running the tips of his fingers up, from her
ankle to knee to just beneath the  obstruction  of fabric. Under his touch, he
felt Sansa shudder.
           Petyr’s fingers crossed one leg to the other via the bridge of her
smallclothes, lingering above where he could smell her desire. Lightly pressing
into her until she couldn't help let out a small gasp. It was a heady drug –
her scent, her responses to his touch – urging him forward. “And your
smallclothes, sweetling.”
           She did, as slow as she could muster. Not nearly fast enough for
him.
           Red. Beautiful auburn red, short tight curls splayed between ivory
skin. He wanted nothing more than to drown himself between her legs.
           Petyr licked his lips, dragging his gaze back up to blue. What did
he look like, he wondered. Crazy, feral, his own desire taking control. Logic
holding on just enough to prevent him from plunging himself inside her.
           He left a soft kiss on her jaw. Another on the corner of her lips.
Whispered into her mouth, “For my beautiful daughter, I'll make you feel as
good as you made me.”Petyr dragged his fingers up her leg again, stopping at
her entrance. “Ask me to touch you.”
           Sansa waited half a heartbeat before she said, “Please, Father.
Please touch me.”
           Her cunt was as wet as he hoped. And her cries - gods, it was the
most beautiful music known to man.
           Petyr fucked her with slow, sure strokes. She was already wet and
wanting - from touching him, a vulgar thought that got him wanting again. Sansa
was overwhelmed with his touches, with the way played with her clit.
           He was torn: between letting her moans fill his ears, or devouring
the taste of her pleasure with his mouth.
           Eventually he did, kissing her with an open mouth. Biting her lips
as his fingers flicked her clit. Relishing in the way her body arched into it.
In the sounds that echoed from her own soul deep down into his.
           Petyr entered a second finger inside her, moving faster, faster.
Quietly urging her:  come for me sweetling .
           She did.
           Sansa rolled her head back, riding the waves of her pleasure as
Petyr continued thrusting his fingers inside her, drawing it out for as long as
possible. If he made sure this felt fucking amazing… It was likely Sansa would
creep into his chambers late at night, asking him for more.
           And he would be  rude  to deny her such things.
           Petyr released her mouth. Watched her as she experienced true
pleasure - a thousand times better than the crisp taste of a lemon cake, or the
white snow drifting through the godswood reminding her of home. Peaceful.
Beautiful.
           He trailed his fingers along her slit,relishing in how she  still
rolled her hips into the movement. Relishing in how wet she had become.
Because of me .
           He felt his cock twitch again. Begging his mind to forget all logic
and take his sweetling then and there. Sansa  wanted  it, too – she never would
have touched him or let Petyr touch her if she didn't.
           Petyr wanted her for weeks, months. A few more days wouldn't hurt.
Not when Sansa shuffled into his rooms late one night, lifting her shift over
her head, sliding her body down onto his between sheets. Moaning as he thrust
into her until all she knew was his name.
           Yes, it would be so much fucking better that way. And not too long
now.
           Sansa’s eyes were open now, her soul finding its place back inside
her skin. Petyr lifted his fingers from her cunt, lapping over her need with
slow, meticulous strokes of his tongue. Not wanting to waste any.
           She had watched him lick her need off his fingers, eyes wide, mouth
parted. Petyr saw the hardened tips of her nipples poking through the heavy
dress. Sansa’s gaze was glued to the sight of him sucking fingers clean, even
long after her sweetness was gone. Petyr smiled at her. Did she picture his
tongue sucking and licking at her cunt, as precise and thorough as his fingers?
Because gods knew Petyr had. Often.
           Sansa was out of breath, her voice low as she said, “Do you think
I’ll be good enough for Harry?”
            That  question again. Which wasn’t without reason – Petyr’s entire
plan rested on the fact that Sansa had to woo the boy. To earn his affections,
earn the honor of carrying his child and carrying the Hardying name (though in
truth Arryn had a better sound to it. And  Baelish …well, that was merely a
childish dream). She had to do all of that before their dear Sweetrobin fell
into a sickness the Maester would be unable to cure him of. Petyr still needed
to determine if the Maester was the best choice to inherit blame Robert's
death. After all, Petyr or Sansa had no idea how lethal sweetsleep was, and the
Maester should have known better to give the little lord so much.
           But Sansa. Sansa was clever. And beautiful.
           “Of course, sweetling.”  Harry isn’t good enough for you . Petyr
urged Sansa up to sit beside him, place a single soft kiss on her lips. She
must have tasted her need on his. But Petyr couldn't let the kiss linger – no
matter how desperately he wanted to – because then he would never want to say
farewell. His body was already screaming at him not to let her go. To push her
back down onto the furs and continue his lessons. “We've a long day ahead of
us, daughter. You'd best get some sleep.”
           Dutifully, she combed fingers through her hair, lowered her ruined
skirts down over her thighs. The picture of perfect propriety. Assuming no one
got close enough to detect the certain lingering  sin  that clung to her skin.
“Thank you for the lesson, Father. Good night.”
           “Good night, Alayne.”
           He hoped –  knew –  that she would be dreaming of him just before
she fell asleep.
           Petyr decided it then. Well not then, he'd decided long, long ago.
But gods if tonight didn't cement the thought in his mind. Harry would  never
have Sansa, not truly. She was Petyr's.
           He would make sure of that.
 
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