Protection seemed an unlikely motive to one exposed, doubled over and humiliatingly vulnerable before the only soul whom aloof posturing could not persuade. Stubborn, she still blamed Petyr for rash actions, at least in part. A worldly man, well-tuned to shifting moods, tensions, desires, Sansa expected him to demonstrate such knowledge with her growing restlessness; over supper Harrold would boast of tourney’s attended, households and lands toured, gently teasing his lady with visions of what travels he might take her on should they wed. It was the only time in their acquaintance that clear blue eyes sparkled in genuine appreciation, for despite every danger and lurking threat, one’s cage inevitably grew constricting with time, no matter its gilded frame. Oughtn’t he have seen how avaricious gaze brightened to imagine open air and safety? Isolation diminished marital disdain, a price increasingly seen as tedious yet fair in order to secure her release. Petyr should have known, should have guessed that this might happen, now taking advantage in the most unfair manner.
Flesh still throbbed where his rings struck her, enough for Sansa to suspect the future purplish setting of a bruise. Already he took this farce far more seriously than she had the jaunt which inspired it. Flippant choices did not yield a flippant dismissal, clearly; after just one slap the girl contemplated begging off, admitting her guilt, though a particular Northern stubbornness held her tongue. Let him feel ashamed! Let him make it stop! For surely the risk of discovery had created a similar pit in his stomach, explanations sparking and dying before so sensational a sight.
She could feel regret in Baelish’s touch already, in the softness of his fingers, the tender way they traversed reddened skin. It was as indignation ebbed and gave way to possible forgiveness that he struck her again, so sudden and so harsh that Sansa tasted copper when she bit down to stifle her cry. At last she looked up, not to Petyr, but to watch as that glass vial wobbled to and fro upon its uncertain axis, willing it to come to a peaceful rest. Though graceful his hands were still rather large, long fingers and palm leaving a broad expanse of pained flesh pulsing hotly along her nates, punctuated again by the cruel sting of silver and gold. “I understand, Father.” Sansa’s voice trembled, breathless. “’Twas never my intention to place you in danger.” Apology, however, remained pointedly absent; through hurt and shameful exposure stubborn pride continued to whisper of endurance, that this would all come to an end soon.