
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3677769.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Lysa_Tully_Arryn, Petyr_Baelish_&_Sansa_Stark, Petyr
      Baelish/Sansa_Stark_(one-sided), Petyr_Baelish/Catelyn_Stark_(one-sided)
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark, Brynden_Tully, Lysa_Tully_Arryn
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Drunk_Sex, Dubious_Consent, Unreliable_Narrator, Time
      Skips, One-Sided_Attraction, Character_Study, Canonical_Character_Death
  Collections:
      got_exchange
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-05 Words: 1526
****** Drag It Back Under Control ******
by theoldgods
Summary
     Lysa Tully first bests Petyr when he’s a drunken child, and although
     he wins in the end, her influence stubbornly refuses to fade.
Notes
     This was written for sternflammenden/housecreepy for the 12th round
     of got-exchange on LJ, for the prompt "it's beyond my control." The
     teenaged sex is largely as Lysa suggests in ASoS, which is to say of
     drunken, dubious consent—if that's a squick for you, please be aware.
     (There is no Petyr/Sansa sex, in case the tagging is slightly
     confusing on that point.)
     Many thanks to the got-exchange community, as always!
Petyr doesn’t want to boast, but he’s damned good at being drunk, for a first-
timer. It’s been two, maybe three hours, and while the world is rushing around
him, making Cat’s hair shine ever brighter in the gloom, his heart is finally
light. He’s never drunk this much this quickly, but then again, he’s never
before been rejected by Catelyn Tully, whose kisses were so forthcoming as long
as they were only pretend.
He stumbles nonetheless on his way to the privy, and that proves to be his
downfall, at least in the eyes of Brynden Tully. The Blackfish, as he’s taken
to calling himself of late, has no real love lost for the son of a minor
lordling, least of all one who is too close to Lord Tully’s two precious
daughters, and he’s waiting outside the hall when Petyr attempts to reenter.
“I think that is enough ale for you, Master Baelish.” The Blackfish’s hands are
sturdy as he wraps them around Petyr’s shoulders and begins walking him toward
the exit. “Let me help you out, so that you do not fall again.”
“Yes, my lord,” Petyr agrees, smiling at the ceiling, as a voice in the back of
his head screams something incomprehensible even to him; he assumes that, like
most things, it’s related to Cat. The Blackfish’s grip is painful as they
ascend the stairs to his small bedchamber, but Petyr’s bitterness dies when,
out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of burnt auburn.
Sure enough, he’s been alone with his mattress and a chamberpot for no more
than five minutes when the door creaks open and she enters, her long hair
hanging unbound past her shoulders. Her face is milk-white and pinched, far
moreso than usual, and even though she’s entered his bedchamber without
invitation, she cannot meet his eyes with her own.
“You deserve better,” she tells the rushes underfoot, and that’s when he
processes, with the part of his mind that never does anything aside from think,
even when the rest of him is drowning in ale, that this isn’t her, exactly,
isn’t Cat. When she moves toward the bed, he crawls further back onto it, never
taking his eyes off her. “You deserve ever so much more, my poor sweet Petyr.”
I do, he agrees silently, focusing on how her hands twitch, so unlike those of
her sister. 
They’re all right nonetheless when they’re wrapped around him, fumbling at
Petyr’s breeches. They’re even better when they’re there, right up against his
cock, which is flopping uselessly beneath her vibrating fingers.  Her breath is
hot on his neck as she fumbles with her skirts, and although the world spins
around them in ever-tighter circles, Petyr gasps in delight when her bare cunt
rubs against him.
“I’ll be so good, you’ll see, you’ll see,” she whispers again and again as his
cock finally begins to fill with blood, pulling his drunken thoughts southward.
“You’ll see—ah!”
She slides right onto him, and then it’s his hips undulating, her breathing
harsh above him as she moans softly with each thrust, his skin burning where
they touch.
Oh, Cat, my Cat, he thinks as the pace picks up. I knew you would see it at
last, I knew you would come, I knew.
It’s a fantasy, of course, not much different from any of the ones he spins
each time he puts his own hands down his breeches. He knows this in his
thinking brain, floating high above the drunk part of him that is thrusting
frantically up, up, up into her cunt, mentally making all the little
replacements that steady her hands, soften her face, make her hair shine just a
little bit more. It’s beyond his control, nonetheless, until he finally comes
with an uncontrolled thrust that dislodges her almost completely.
“Oh, Petyr, sweet Petyr, yes,” she murmurs as she fully disentangles herself
and lies down next to him. Her hair cascades over his arm, and he feels
himself, as if from a distance, shudder. He closes his eyes instead of coming
up with anything to say.
Some time later, Petyr opens his eyes to find that it’s still dark outside and
that an auburn head is resting on his chest. For a moment he cannot breathe for
the joy that fills him, until he remembers her voice mumbled into the rushes,
how bony her fingers were. His happiness leaks from him as she stirs, slowly
lifting her head to meet his gaze.
“Petyr, I must go.” She kisses his chin, his neck as she slowly sits up,
eventually placing her lips on his.
The touch makes bile flood the back of his throat, makes one of his legs jerk
uselessly before he drags it back under control. His head is beginning to ache
more fiercely than it ever has before, but he must say something, he knows, to
put the situation to rights, reassert himself in the light of what he already
can sense is a drunken escapade he wasn’t nearly as in control of as he first
thought.
When she eventually breaks the kiss he finds the words, and he lets himself
smile, dopily, a drunk, infatuated virgin.
“Thank you, Cat.”
And oh, it’s worth it, for the way her body finally, blessedly, goes completely
still above him. He remains grinning like a halfwit as her feet find the floor
and she disappears, a rigid, pallid doll in the moonlight.
===============================================================================
Nothing irritates Petyr quite as much as his inability, for the first several
days after Marillion pushes Lysa Arryn out of the moon door, to avoid her
ghost. He dreams of her, of their two sweaty couplings under the roof of
Riverrun, and in his dream he is eager and willing, thrusting as she screams
how very much she wants to give him a baby at last, how she’ll give him a son
named Hoster or a pretty girl named Sansa. 
It’s Alayne, he thinks, stupidly, upon awakening. He’s fallen asleep while
reading again, reviewing laws and trial procedures for their murderous singer,
and the smell of paper in his nostrils is unpleasant. He sits up as quickly as
he can, sneering at the page that tears.
It’s Alayne, and she’s not yours, he tells Lysa again as he gets to his feet.
In the predawn air, only a few servants are moving around the Eyrie; he pads
down the hall, accompanied by Marillion’s desperate wailing songs, to the
kitchen, where he’s befriended the cook with a few salacious tales of his
skills with Alayne’s mother. The cook herself is nowhere to be found, but
Alayne stands barefoot over a platter.
“I would offer you all the lemon cakes in the world, sweetling, if I knew they
would make you never sad again.”
She does not startle, and Petyr’s chest swells with pleasure. In that moment
all the hair dye and drab clothing in the Vale cannot hide her parentage, the
thick strain of Cat that runs through her ramrod-straight spine and up to the
slow, sleepy turn of her head in his direction. He feels heat at his groin,
just a touch, and smiles.
“Some sorrow is surely necessary, Father, to keep us humble,” Alayne murmurs,
setting down her half-eaten slice of lemon cake. “Forgive me if I’ve woken you.
Shall I fetch the cook?”
“Let someone in this poor household sleep if they can,” he says, approaching
her and her desserts. “I’ll help you instead, shall I?”
Her shoulders freeze as he leans over her for his own slice of lemon cake. It’s
barely noticeable—she is good and only getting better the longer she spends as
Alayne—but he feels it nonetheless. Worse, for a moment all he sees is pale
Lysa in the dark, frozen in horror and offense above him.
Petyr wants nothing more, in that moment, than to take her head in his hands
and whisper her name into her ears, lest he forget that she is Cat and not
Lysa. He contents himself with kissing the top of her head instead and
breathing in the scent that he’s decided is Cat’s, all Cat’s, that touch of her
that no time or appearance can erase.
“It’s been hard, I know, poor sweetling,” he says eventually, once they’ve
finished their lemon cake. “We will take care of that dreadful singer soon
enough and then life will go on.”
“I miss…” Alayne sighs, then, and shakes her head. “She threatened me. She did.
But I miss Lady Lysa. And I miss my mother.”
“No more sorrow, sweetling,” Petyr tells her, speaking so that he won’t begin
shivering, burrowing his face into her hair. “It’s too late for both of them,
poor women, but not for us.” He wraps his arms around her, and for a moment
it’s Riverrun and he’s hand in hand with Catelyn and Lysa Tully in the
godswood, one girl on each side of him, their laughter indistinguishable in the
spring air. “You are your mother’s daughter. Take it from me, who knew them
both so very well: they could not be more different from one another.”
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
