Yes! Oh yes, she wished for an end to punishment demeaning and cruel, yet no refrain of Sansa’s desire dared accompany that first song. To surrender was to fail, to cede ground tenuously held. Already Baelish boasted control of every realm within her life save that, perhaps, of dreams; what other advantage would he later take, to know that her conviction faltered so easily despite prior resolve? Flesh might bruise, pride might suffer, but under Mockingbird tutelage she learnt what great benefits came when one considered the long game. If he meant to teach discretion then so be it: never again would Myranda tempt her into straying from a father’s plain-spoken edict. But if it was obedience blind and mute he sought, despite inviting words for challenge, then Baelish would find himself met with only silent refusal.
Were hubris her telling flaw then avarice was his. Meandering fingers betrayed an intent divorced from censure or control, that hunger first revealed before a castle built of snow. On this very desk he indulged it a second time, promising instruction, guidance, though before the end Sansa offered some of her own. It was here Petyr told her of the match and then here she proclaimed through the hazy glow of satiation that she would not have it. Not forever. Not with Harrold. Did it distract him, Sansa wondered, to sit before its pale expanse, letters of the realm scattered all about, and know that once her flesh had warmed ancient wood? Did he enjoy such reminiscence, or despise it? “Never,” she swore. Loyalty had been proven time and again, the opportunities for confession, for escape more numerous than ever he let on. Sansa saw them, let them pass. Every so-called secret passed along to girlish friends stood as much a fiction as name and hair, mere facsimiles of whispers shared with Jeyne beneath piled furs of wolf and fox and bear.
When she was a Stark.
“Petyr…” Only then did she realize how far his fingers wandered, how close they came to chastity concealed. Sense-memory recalled what pleasure he introduced to their last encounter, now a confusing muddle of stinging flesh and unsettling anticipation, setting nerves alight; hair rustled, neck turning to survey only Baelish’s shadow, the man himself a mere sliver of being at eye’s corner. “It was innocent, I promise.” Quite unlike now, a tempered silence filled with waiting. A twist of ankle moved her neither closer nor further, merely shifting beneath that grazing touch, an expression of what tension now drew every limb into rigid check. “I would never tell.” Tell what? Her name? Their plans? This? Fresh shame broad and bright as amaryllis petals bloomed within her belly, pushed forth by Petyr’s restraining hold. For even as thoughts raced to and fro seeking reprieve Sansa knew this shift could only please her, his touch between her legs far preferable to his anger painted out in splotches of cerise across pale curves. She wanted this instead. “Please, please — believe me.”