Curiosity and its satiation provided some of her greatest pleasures, be it in the marriage bed or beyond. Yet like a fawn, wobble-legged and shy, Sansa could but rarely be coaxed from innocent glen without first prancing about exposed fringes, testing fear and bravery alike. She wished for boldness, every time celadon took on silvery tinge, every night when barely callused hands swept over her flesh in needful, unfamiliar patterns. Yet ladies of Westeros suffered from a great dichotomy, both expectations of pleasing their husbands and a standard of purity so high many septas failed to maintain it. This line wavered and blurred as girls turned to women; mothers, handmaids, elder sisters all conspired to impart sufficient knowledge that a bride did not enter her lord’s bed utterly bereft. Circumstance had removed from Sansa all such guidance, necessity of survival ensuring she found no confidence in ladies’ maids, nor even Randa; while Lord Royce’s daughter spoke most scandalously of past liaisons, a proper girl of the Faith — as Alayne was raised — took little interest in carnal transgressions.
Instead her education came almost entirely from Petyr. At first his suggestions were cloaked in euphemism, always framed with respect to Harrold and his wants; only once her disinterest made itself plainly known did Baelish’s advances , his instructions, deliver themselves upon a bolder tongue. By virtue of her indefatigable need to please, alongside what ravenous curiosity the Mockingbird cultivated, Sansa became a lover uniquely sculpted to his tastes. With his blessing, so too did she learn what pleasure came from selfish pursuits, embarrassment slowly giving way to hunger as the skilled lord demonstrated how his wife might find fulfillment in their couplings. Yet in those uncertain years, where Sansa Stark still lived but hundreds of miles from home, beleaguered by a cruel betrothed, a household decimated, all friends and blood scattered in the beginnings of war, she learned first the art of caution. Even now, months after an exchange of vows, a copper-haired bride tended to look for a husband’s approbation before acting.
Never did he require her to seek it for very long, however. Baelish brought her close, a warm trickle of water joining cooler droplets escaping from dark ruby tendrils. In some indeterminate way his skin felt differently, separated from hers by a thin sheen of oiled bath water; rather than press tightly against one another Sansa instead moved in small, constant shifts, a subtle writhing meant to keep her well situated upon his lap. Rewarded with the rumbling sound of approval thoughts raced ahead, remembered how Petyr felt inside her, longed to know that again. The Mockingbird Lord had taught her patience, however, that drawing out one’s experience might raise it to heights ever more satisfying. Rather than hurry, wayward hand slowed, all the better for Sansa to lean against him; in such a manner she could feel every dimple formed by clutching fingers, how mollient palm swept over a rosy nipple in glancing tease.
Flesh encouraged flesh, the swelling of his member spurring longer, firmer strokes. That rare boldness moved slim fingers lower, toying with him until Baelish at last bestowed susurrous reward. What galvanizing pleasure that granted! Men were selfish and uncaring, so wagged many women’s tongues; abed they took what delighted them most, leaving no warm remembrance of affection upon their tired wives. Yet even in her least selfish acts, when Petyr reached his shuddering conclusion unaccompanied, she found satisfaction in the knowledge of what role she played. At first a deliberate glimpse behind that careful mask, slowly Sansa would see her husband as no other could: bare, vulnerable, hers. What greater pleasure could one so guarded give?
“Your new bride leaves you lonely?” Surely not, for ten fingers might suffice upon which to count those nights that bird and wolf did not tangle themselves beneath piled furs. His mouth traced a path of embers down ivory throat, red-hot ash fluttering and falling to spark a thousand fires along her limbs. Sansa wanted nothing more than to set him afire too. “Or do you speak to before?” she whispered, breath stirring silver wings. “When I was just a maid? And every other suitor believed himself above you?” Between their legs she angled him nearer, hips lifting so that his swollen head might brush against her entrance. A single shift, but one encouraging push from Baelish would find him seated fully within his wife. “Would you think of me then…as I sometimes thought of you?”