Resolve nearly crumbled, undone by memories of black cells, fresh parchment, the dust and rabble of a square filled. Only that which Baelish gifted her — Alayne, sheltered, innocent, uncaring towards southron machinations — allowed the girl to cling on in stubborn silence. No child of the Faith would care so strongly towards another executed traitor. All expectation of investment or emotion faded away with ruby hair, buried underneath the dull facade of bastardy; at last she gathered it around her as a shroud, a shield from words calculated in their indifference. Sansa would provide him no excuse for true anger. Though the Lord veered loquacious in a way wine and privacy often encouraged she sensed no lack of control, no wild careening indulgence beyond current fiction. So long as he did not stray beyond its boundaries neither would the girl, clever as she was.
Each blow now edged her a little further across the desk, toes and torso both stretched in subtle retreat from stinging retort. Such positioning made it all the more difficult to keep pale thighs demurely pressed together; already Sansa felt the faint tickle of evening air between them, threatening a choice between greater hurt or greater shame. Aloft she stood, even as a third strike assaulted tender rump, its insistent burn assuring now that any pain inflicted would linger long after a few calming breaths. Resolute, she felt not into the tempting comfort of gentled hands. Their touch served to make each hit that followed all the worse, a vicious deception, one filtered away as the girl instead worked to focus upon his words.
Myranda had asked no prying questions, made no untoward insinuations. Her only fault lay in unmasked disappointment that it was the bastard girl, rather than she, who stood to gain a young knight’s hand. If only Baelish had journeyed with him, he would have seen! It was only a festival. No matter, it had still earned her the rod of his hand. To a single word Sansa clung — complacency. Even as he held her firm against ancient weirwood she protested with neither speech nor movement, determined by unshattered vanity to grant no satisfaction beyond submission. Yet she had underestimated Baelish’s strength. That final slap of palm to flesh forced from her a startled, pained cry; though quickly stifled, its brief echo still rang in telling call. Ink advanced towards her as an insidious tide. Backwards the girl retreated, impeded by that pressure along her spine, fearing an ebon stain across chest or hands defying reasonable explanation. Would he mark her where all could see as well? “Your preferences are mine, Father, I swear.” If one tumbled out the moon door then the other would surely follow. “I never meant to make you doubt.”