To Dance and Drink
Title: "To Dance and Drink"
Author: prettysirenx/PrettySiren
Rating: MA/NC-17
Genre(s): smut, angst, fluff
Spoilers: Takes place after AFFC, but no legitimate spoilers. Just imaginings.
Disclaimer: These wonderful dollies belong to GRRM.
Warnings: A bit of smut. Enjoy!
Notes: I promised on Tumblr that there would be a fic (preferably with a bit o' smut) within the fortnight. I think I'm *just* under the wire. This does have a bit o' smut. I hope it suffices! Unbeta'd.
There was to be a ball in honor of the Lord Protector at the Gates of the Moon. Randa Royce was a very vivacious hostess. No expense would be spared.
Petyr and Sansa sat in the solar that was given to him for his personal use. He was reading and writing letters with automatic precision, like he was made to do it. His expression rarely changed; it amused Sansa, who kept peering up at him over the top of her book.
“Father,” she said carefully. “The ball is coming up; I’m sure I’ve never seen you dance.”
He stopped writing immediately. Expression crept onto his face; even in profile, she could see a twinkle in his eye. He looked at her, smirking. “My dear Alayne, you are assuming that since you’ve never seen it, it must never have happened.”
She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I cannot attest to your dancing ability until I’ve seen it. All the ladies are asking me if you’ll be a desirable partner; it’s embarrassing not to be able to have an informed opinion on the matter, my lord. After all, you are my lord father-I should know whether or not you are able to dance.”
Petyr looked to the serving girls who were clearing away their supper and told them, “You may leave us.”
They curtseyed out and closed the door.
He looked at Sansa with mischief in his eyes. “I rarely dance.”
“Then I must teach you.”
Petyr was interested, she could tell. She waited eagerly for him to push aside his paper and stand up. He offered her his hand with confidence and flair, if not technically correctly. She smiled gleefully, put her book aside, and curtseyed to him, taking his hand. Touching his skin sent a thrill through her. He pulled her to him close and she flushed.
“That’s not exactly how it’s done, my lord,” she said, looking down.
“But don’t you think it’s much better this way?”
Yes. Sansa kept her eyes cast downward and spoke clearly, seriously. “My lord, you must learn to dance correctly. People respect and fear you outside the great hall, but they will love you if you charm them on the dance floor.”
“Well thought,” he said, separating from her, but not letting go of her hand. “Is that a strategy you intend to employ? Sansa Stark was known for her graceful dancing. But can Alayne Stone dance?”
“Alayne Stone must dance,” Sansa said firmly. “As a bastard, she must have a saving grace to make her more…” she searched for the right word, “…genteel.”
“How can anyone accuse Alayne of being anything but?”
She tried so hard not to allow him to make her blush, but practically anything he said induced it lately. She cursed herself for not building up a tolerance. If anything, she was becoming more susceptible. She forced herself to focus.
“You must bow to me,” she said.
“Willingly,” he replied. Despite his obedience, he clearly thought of it as a game. Everything was a game to him, even when it was serious. It scared and excited her.
He lingered too long in his bow; his eyes gazed openly at her breasts, which were bound tightly in a square-necked bodice; the tops of them rose in pale, rounded mounds, showing full and well how she was now really and truly a woman grown. She smiled to herself as she indulged him with a curtsey, dipping low so that he was sure to see a better view. She was so discreet; she was sure even he did not know she was playing with him.
She rose and he rose in turn. She was mulling over in her mind where to start when she heard the sweet sound of a harp plucking below. The Gates of the Moon had their own court musicians, and Randa had been putting them through their paces, making sure they knew all the latest songs. The song had a slow yet playful lilt and was perfect for a simple dance.
“We clasp our right hands and walk in a circle,” she said. “The music is on a four-count. Listen to the rhythm and step with each beat. Then, after coming full circle, we swap to our left hands and repeat.” They went through those motions. He couldn’t help but put his own swagger into it, but Sansa thought his movements very sweet. He was especially swift when it came time to swap hands.
When the second circle was finished, he asked, “Now, what?”
Sansa started flushing again. “Well, it depends on the dance, I suppose. We might be obliged to change partners and go down the line until we meet again.”
“That seems very dull,” he said with a frown. “I’d rather dance with you.”
She felt dizzy as she added, “Or, we could go into hold. It is one of the most elegant dances.”
“Then I must learn it.” He was over halfway serious.
“Here,” she said. She took his left hand and put it on the small of her back; she took his right into her own.
“Isn’t this the way the smallfolk dance?” he asked incredulously, the first hint of legitimate confusion.
“It is indeed inspired by the dances of the smallfolk, but my septa taught me that simplicity is elegant.” She smiled. “Now, remember, we stay on time with the music. One, two, three...”
“Four.”
They began moving, and it was surprisingly smooth. He had an innate sense of timing, both literal and figurative. A lute joined the harp and some fiddles; the music picked up in pace and they followed suit. Soon, they were all over the solar, moving like they were the literal expression of the music, which became almost frenzied. They laughed and smiled, and it was so much fun.
“Lift me!” Sansa told him. “Lift me high.”
He did as she commanded. She never thought of him as being a particularly physical man, but he lifted her with ease, as though she weighed nothing. He spun her around until they fell on the settee in a bundle of tangled limbs and laughter.
“I’m a horrible dancer,” he admitted.
“You’re not horrible. You’re much better than I imagined,” she said, patting him on the chest. “In fact, I will say you are quite good. And we will practice and you shall be great.”
“I should enjoy being great,” he replied with another laugh.
He was so beautiful in that moment. Sansa realized he was probably always that beautiful when he was just Petyr, her protector, her friend, her…She fingered the toggle on his tunic as she thought about that last one. He was so much more than that. She’d only been realizing it lately. And maybe she could show that more.
“You are great,” she told him. “You are so great, so great that I-“she smashed her lips against his. It was usually the other way around, but it didn’t mean she didn’t want it. He’d stopped kissing her so much; lately, she’d been aching for it. She realized he probably thought she didn’t want him in return. Perhaps she wasn’t sure before, and maybe she would never be entirely. But never had anyone cared for her the way he did; never had anyone made her so happy over the smallest of things. He was this ray of light in her life and she had to not only tell him, but show him.
So, she kissed him. She kissed him hard and kept kissing him until his mouth gave way to hers, kissing her back, for once being the submissive one as she explored him, learned his lips, and memorized their minty taste.
She took his hand and put it on her chest where her breasts welled up, heaving as she breathed heavily with passion. She already straddled one of his legs and ground herself into him. Maybe she was clumsy, but she just wanted him to know.
“Sansa,” he groaned.
“Sometimes I lie naked in bed and run my hands over my body, pretending they’re yours,” she blurted. “My nipples get hard and I get wet down there. I don’t know what it means, but it feels like a thirst unquenched.”
He swallowed. “I know of unquenched thirst, sweetling.” He gently took her hand and placed it on the hard bulge between his legs. It throbbed as it grew harder still. “I dream of how you taste each night.”
“Will we ever drink of each other?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “We will. I’ve promised you many things, Sansa. And this is another: when the time is right, I will make love to you.”
“I was hoping you’d fuck me,” she said, blushing. She’d never said that word before.
He smiled, his eyes smiling too. “I promise that as well.”
“Am I to die until then?” she asked with a groan. “Am I to go mad?”
She tugged on the front lace of her bodice. She wasn’t wearing corset or shirt. Her breasts spilled out and into his hands. He squeezed them and kissed them, moaning with frustration, pleasure, and want. She took her bodice off and threw it to the floor. Topless, maybe he would be inspired or persuaded. It didn’t take long. He threw her back on the settee, raised her skirts and put his tongue to her wet, tender, pulsing flesh.
Sansa shoved a pillow into her mouth to keep from screaming. As good as it felt, she knew there was more. She would keep him to his word.