Baelish chuckled. In his grasp the wine goblet slowly rotated, etched silver catching the light of the fire in winking glint. “How prudent of you.” How superstitious; he found her cautionary whims of groundless matters amusing. Incredulity and fears towards Harrenhal’s curse, of old gods and their cruel favoritism, of fortune tellers and their swindling tongues – all such matters of inherent gullibility made her somehow more innocent. More child-like. How possibly could he forget she was still just a girl? “Surely you must have been curious? What does this world hold for Alayne Stone?” From across the room he stared at her, his eyes deceptive in their undazzled vagaries. A single tap of his index finger against the cup rang out mutedly with a metallic ting; it was all that came in reply to her ungracious statement regarding jealousy and its most severe manifestations. It seemed to cause a shift in his very person, a darkening of gaze and a heavier set to his shoulders. Sansa challenged him with dangerous reckonings, playing with the very fire she decried. Did she truly think herself immune to his murderous machinations – or did she simply not care? Her willingness to not only defy him but to flaunt her defiance rankled him. Bold, she grew, under the dark dye of another identity, believing herself to be safety buried beneath layers of peasant skirts and an unwashed face. That look he gave her was flinty and utterly unfamiliar.
She knew him less than he believed if still she knew not what pleased him. Stolen kisses in the snow; uninvited touches and broken barriers; the unbidden hitches of her breath. “Events not taking an unexpected turn, not having to make excuses for or cover the sloppy tracks of wayward daughters…obedience and respect. All such things satisfy me. All such things please me.” Towards the fire and its sinuously weaving flames his eyes slanted. A frown furrowed. “I find your antics equal parts irritating and disappointing. Though I suppose it is fair for you to test your limits.” Given whose daughter she was either afforded her more latitude or less – depending on who you might ask. Only one person’s opinion on the matter mattered.
“However, as much as I might appreciate your pithy bid at independence I cannot allow you to escape such blatant disregard of my wishes without reprisal. Alayne…” he paused. “You well know of the Faith’s dislike for disobedience, mm? Natural that a girl who grew up in care of the sept would understand the need for correction? More than most, I am certain.” The cup was again set down, Baelish’s hand rising to finger at his beard just beneath a blossoming smile. The curtain of their ruse was heavily draped, and Baelish stepped back out from around his desk, standing only just beside it. “Would you please submit yourself to proper consequence?” With a helpful gesture of his hand in graceful flourish he motioned for her to step near, and, indeed, to present herself for punishment. “Over the desk will be fine.” It was obvious then what he meant for her to do, and what he intended for her consequence to be. The smile on his face told her he had planned for this outcome all along.
No crone however aged and wise could predict the future of a ghost. Indeed, Alayne Stone stood as even less than spectral figure, never having died, never having lived; she spun on and on, a story currently caught up in its telling, past and present and future all known to their creator alone. If Baelish would only give some hint as to when intersecting lines of Stone and Stark might at last diverge again, perhaps such youthful restlessness would find in his assurances placation. Every plan divulged dealt in uncertainty, dependent upon a boy’s affections, rippling consequences of actions which would not come to light for weeks to come. Though possessing great discretion — alongside that healthy fear of royal reprisal — learn’d manners still might pale when confronted by a young woman’s needs. Since departing Winterfell the girl bore many chains: first golden, binding her in holy promise to a prince; then silvery, befitting high-born captive; at last the brassy insult of marriage to a dwarf, before submitting herself to the base metal of bastardy after fugitive flight. Little wonder, mayhaps, that what scraps Petyr fed his muzzled wolf could entirely assure her unwavering cooperation.
Frustration guided her tongue far more than ignorance. Oh, well did Sansa know what best pleased her self-interested rescuer; yet to speak aloud of inappropriate colors and gems boded less danger than to recall how his lips had tasted upon hers. Control. That above all else satisfied Petyr Baelish. A rounded and buffed nail, soiled by the thinnest line of dirt from her afternoon excursion, picked at inlaid jewel; when merriment ended ‘twas easier to acknowledge, silently, what risk she had assumed for them both. Obediently did fair blue eyes descend, regarding rush-strewn floors with the girl’s first showing of remorse. Winter’s swift arrival certainly aided her contrition, swearing off future transgressions simplified by lack of opportunity. A few evenings of meager suppers, a father’s punishing silence — those Sansa could abide in exchange for her few hours spent twirling beneath an autumn sun.
“Correction?” She looked up. Septa Mordane chastised her charge rarely, more oft than not setting lines or recitation to clear a child’s mind of raucous distraction. Yet such a smile would not grace the lord’s mouth for cursive repetitions from the Seven-Pointed Star, nor would he find such delight in hours of prayerful reflection. I shall find some common girl to take your whipping… Mortification burned hot as coals upon both cheeks, the flush trickling down her throat, her nape, her chest. Sansa clutched the goblet nearer her waist, gaze darting from Petyr’s growing satisfaction to the scattering of scrolls and books across his desk. She mustn’t cause a scene; not when he presented himself with such cool gallantry in the face of her deception, more understanding than many father’s might dare. Her steps rang sharply through cool air, amplified by high stone walls and quiet expectation. Turning as though she might take Baelish’s seat the girl set aside her drink, well beyond arm’s reach, leaving both palms flat atop smooth wood-grain. Tall for her age, such a pose necessitated a slight bend to her waist, though only that — and a rosy blush — betrayed how readily she understood what would best please him.