Fic: Postscript to Love
I wrote this for got_exchange.
Title: Postscript to Love
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Sansa/Littlefinger, past Littlefinger/Catelyn and Littlefinger/Lysa
Word Count: 2,045
Summary: Sansa learns more about the workings of Petyr's heart.
Note: Inspired by the recipient's prompt "When Love cast me out, it was Cruelty who took pity upon me."
Warning: dub-con
Her father was waiting when Alayne entered her small bed chamber. What is he doing here?
The knot that had clenched tight in her chest loosened as she noticed her maid was also present. It wasn't much safety, not when Petyr could command the woman gone with a word, but it was something.
"Sweetling, where were you so early in the morning? I have something for you."
"Robert woke from a nightmare and would not settle until his nurse fetched me."
Petyr's mouth tightened ever so slightly at the mention of his stepson, but then he smiled at Alayne and drew her nearer while gesturing grandly to something displayed on her bed.
It was a gown of pure winter white velvet, with silver thread embroidered at the neckline and the cuffs of the sleeves. It was finer than anything Alayne Stone had ever worn. It was not a gown for a bastard girl; this was a gown for a great lady.
Sansa was excited. Surely this meant Lady Waynwood and Petyr had finalized their arrangements. This must be the gown for her to wear when Harry announced his betrothal to Sansa of House Stark. She ran her fingers over the soft weave of the cloth. She had not had anything this nice since she fled King's Landing, and it was even nicer knowing that she was closer to going home to Winterfell.
"You must wear it tonight. We’ll feast, just the two of us."
Sansa was confused and she must have let it show on her face.
"You like your name day gift, don't you, daughter?"
Sansa Stark's fourteenth name day had passed without remark, but then Sansa had no father nor mother left alive. Alayne Stone was lucky to have a father who loved her enough to give her gifts. She thanked him with a smile. "Of course, Father. Thank you. It is very beautiful."
Petyr caressed her cheek. "As are you, sweetling."
For a moment she feared he would kiss her in an unfatherly fashion, but he remained mindful of Maddy’s presence. He only brought her hands to his lips and pressed chaste kisses to her knuckles. “Until tonight.”
Alayne spent the day sewing with Myranda Royce and the ladies of the castle. The talk was all of the raven that had come two days prior bearing the seal of a lord long thought to be dead. Jon Connington claimed to be fighting to take back the Iron Throne for Aegon Targaryen and urged all loyal subjects to support the rightful king.
"Aegon my left foot," said Randa.
"How could an impostor hope to pass himself off as a Targaryen," argued Melessa, the wife of a household knight.
"Aegon's mother was that Dornish princess," argued another woman. "Might be he looked like a Dornishman and not a Targaryen."
"Aegon had the Targaryen look," said the old septa. "I remember everyone saying so when his birth was announced."
"How many people who saw the little dragon prince are still living today?" Randa demanded.
Alayne kept her head down as she worked on her embroidery. Maester Luwin had once told Sansa that the people of Lys all had the same silver hair and purple eyes for which the Targaryens were so famed. She supposed any common Lysene could pass himself off as a Targaryen if he chose and none could prove he wasn't.
Everyone said Sansa Stark looked like her mother Lady Catelyn. Her aunt Lysa had even made her dye her auburn hair a dark brown to lessen the Tully look. Sansa was perpetually terrified that someone might recognize her. She could not imagine what it would be like for people to doubt her true identity. It would be a nightmare of a different sort, to be disbelieved and called a pretender.
Alayne went to see little Lord Robert after the end of the day’s work. She showed him the new doublet she’d made for him. He was pleased with it and would not stop rewarding her with hugs and kisses.
However his mood turned when she told him she could not stay to feed him his supper. “You have to,” he insisted. “I command it!”
“Alas, my lord, it is your stepfather who gives the commands until you are a man grown, and Lord Petyr has commanded me to dine with him.”
The boy lord opened his mouth and began to wail.
“Sweetrobin-”
He shrieked louder and began to flail his arms, working himself into the full throes of a fit.
Alayne fled.
Yet once she’d bathed and dressed in her beautiful new gown, her cousin was forgotten. She gave a happy twirl, wishing she could see what she looked like. Lady Lysa had owned a large mirror - a real mirror from one of the Free Cities, not mere polished steel - but it had been left behind in the Eyrie when they descended for the winter.
“Your father was very generous, m’lady,” her maid Maddy said.
Sansa wondered what Littlefinger wanted in exchange for his generosity, but Alayne refused to let her name day be spoiled.
A cozy little feast had been set up in Petyr’s solar. There were fresh pears from the glass garden, spiced venison pies, roasted fowl, a flagon each of fine Arbor red and some strange pale wine - and there were half a dozen little lemon cakes.
Sansa gave a cry of delight when she saw them and couldn’t resist nibbling one right away. Petyr smiled at her pleasure but there was an unusual edge to his smile and when he helped her into her chair, she thought she detected the faint smell of strongwine.
“Are we celebrating something other than my name day, Father?”
“Indeed we are.” Petyr chuckled. “It was eighteen years ago I lost my duel with Brandon Stark.”
Alayne did not understand. One did not celebrate a loss.
“You see, that day is my name day. It is more my true name day than the day my mother birthed me. The man I am now was born that day.”
Sansa recalled what he had told her once. “It was the day you learned life was not a song.”
Petyr’s eyes had a faraway look. “In the songs lovers defy laws and kings for their love. A man can fight monsters and endure all sorts of ill if he knows his lady love loves him too. Well, my lady love loved me well enough to give me her maidenhood. But come morning when I challenged the brute her father had betrothed her to, she spurned me and gave him her favor to wear. Still, I thought she would understand how well I loved her when love gave me the strength to slay Stark.”
He was quiet for a moment, but Alayne did not dare break the silence.
“But love was not enough. Stark nearly killed me. He would have killed me, had your mother not begged him to spare my life. She did love me - but not enough to marry me. Stark was the heir to Winterfell and I was heir to sheep shit. I learned that day how little love was worth compared to power and wealth.”
Sansa had been to the Baelish towerhouse out on the Fingers. It was a mean and dreary place. She thought Lady Catelyn had made the only sane choice in choosing to be mistress of Winterfell instead of wading through sheep pellets. She could not say that to Littlefinger though.
“Brandon Stark won that duel, but you won,” Alayne said to her father. “He is long dead and you are alive, and you are the most powerful man in the seven kingdoms.”
Petyr smiled, but again there was a trace of something unpleasant on his face. He sounded jovial, though, when he announced, “I have another surprise for you, sweetling. Close your eyes.”
Alayne did as she was bid. She heard Petyr rise from his seat and then return and set something down on the table.
"Now open them."
She gasped at the sight of the necklace. It was an ornate working of red and blue stones set in silver, all gleaming brilliantly in the candlelight. It must be worth a queen's ransom.
"Rubies for your hair and sapphires for your eyes," Petyr told her softly.
Alayne's hair was mahogany, not ruby. And a baseborn girl could not wear such extravagant jewels, especially not in the colors of her father's wife's house. It was a gift for Sansa, who remembered well the last jewels Littlefinger had given her by way of the fool Ser Dontos. I wore the amethyst hairnet and Joffrey died… and now I am wanted for regicide.
"Does it please you?"
"It is very lovely, my lord." Petyr's last gift had been poison. Sansa wondered if this one was too.
"Father," he corrected. "You needn't be so formal with your father."
"It is lovely, Father."
"Did your mother ever own anything like it?"
Lady Catelyn had owned fine jewels, as befit the Lord of Winterfell's lady wife, but none so ostentatious. This necklace was more the sort of thing Cersei Lannister might wear to flaunt the wealth of Casterly Rock. "Not like this," she answered.
"I imagined not." Petyr was staring at her but she knew he was not seeing her. "It makes me very happy to be able to give you this."
"I am grateful, Father," she answered. She did not know what else he wanted to hear.
“I can give you anything your heart desires,” he said, his voice low. “And my own heart desires you.”
Littlefinger had named his price at last. He rose from his chair and came to stand behind her. He brushed her hair to one side and draped the necklace around her throat. The costly jewels felt as heavy as a millstone.
The man who might have been her father, had her mother chosen less wisely, drew her to her feet. His normally cold eyes burned with lust. “My beautiful Sansa,” he murmured, his mouth mere inches from her own.
This was a man who destroyed what he could not possess. Sansa did not want to be destroyed and there was no one to save her. She did the only thing she could. She closed her eyes and accepted his kiss.
He was gentle enough, she could not fault him on that. He kissed her and caressed her in ways that called forth a shameful wetness from her body and there was little pain when he claimed her maidenhood.
Sansa did not weep. She tried to mirror his love back at him. When he told her he loved her, she told him she loved him too.
She did not allow herself to feel the full horror of what had happened until she was back in her tiny bed chamber. She’d always been a good girl. Her septa had had naught but praise for her. And her parents… Her father Lord Eddard had fought a war to avenge his sister’s dishonor. And her mother Lady Catelyn had not given her maidenhood to Petyr Baelish. Aunt Lysa had admitted as much when she said Petyr called her sister’s name the night he deflowered her.
"A bath," she ordered Maddy brusquely. "Quickly."
She undressed as quickly as she could and crawled into the tub as soon as it arrived, having the servants pour bucket after bucket of steaming hot water over her.
Sansa longed to shove the Stark dress into the fire and fling the Tully necklace in the privy. But Alayne was a bastard and could not afford to be sentimental. The jewels were as good as gold dragons and easier to carry, and the gown would make her look like a proper lady, which would surely help win men to her cause.
Alayne rose from her soiled bathwater and toweled her body and hair dry. She wrapped herself in a coarse woolen blanket and seated herself by the window. Snow was piling ever higher outside as her thoughts gathered shape into a plan. One day her father would learn to his sorrow what sort of daughter he’d made.
Title: Postscript to Love
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Sansa/Littlefinger, past Littlefinger/Catelyn and Littlefinger/Lysa
Word Count: 2,045
Summary: Sansa learns more about the workings of Petyr's heart.
Note: Inspired by the recipient's prompt "When Love cast me out, it was Cruelty who took pity upon me."
Warning: dub-con
Her father was waiting when Alayne entered her small bed chamber. What is he doing here?
The knot that had clenched tight in her chest loosened as she noticed her maid was also present. It wasn't much safety, not when Petyr could command the woman gone with a word, but it was something.
"Sweetling, where were you so early in the morning? I have something for you."
"Robert woke from a nightmare and would not settle until his nurse fetched me."
Petyr's mouth tightened ever so slightly at the mention of his stepson, but then he smiled at Alayne and drew her nearer while gesturing grandly to something displayed on her bed.
It was a gown of pure winter white velvet, with silver thread embroidered at the neckline and the cuffs of the sleeves. It was finer than anything Alayne Stone had ever worn. It was not a gown for a bastard girl; this was a gown for a great lady.
Sansa was excited. Surely this meant Lady Waynwood and Petyr had finalized their arrangements. This must be the gown for her to wear when Harry announced his betrothal to Sansa of House Stark. She ran her fingers over the soft weave of the cloth. She had not had anything this nice since she fled King's Landing, and it was even nicer knowing that she was closer to going home to Winterfell.
"You must wear it tonight. We’ll feast, just the two of us."
Sansa was confused and she must have let it show on her face.
"You like your name day gift, don't you, daughter?"
Sansa Stark's fourteenth name day had passed without remark, but then Sansa had no father nor mother left alive. Alayne Stone was lucky to have a father who loved her enough to give her gifts. She thanked him with a smile. "Of course, Father. Thank you. It is very beautiful."
Petyr caressed her cheek. "As are you, sweetling."
For a moment she feared he would kiss her in an unfatherly fashion, but he remained mindful of Maddy’s presence. He only brought her hands to his lips and pressed chaste kisses to her knuckles. “Until tonight.”
Alayne spent the day sewing with Myranda Royce and the ladies of the castle. The talk was all of the raven that had come two days prior bearing the seal of a lord long thought to be dead. Jon Connington claimed to be fighting to take back the Iron Throne for Aegon Targaryen and urged all loyal subjects to support the rightful king.
"Aegon my left foot," said Randa.
"How could an impostor hope to pass himself off as a Targaryen," argued Melessa, the wife of a household knight.
"Aegon's mother was that Dornish princess," argued another woman. "Might be he looked like a Dornishman and not a Targaryen."
"Aegon had the Targaryen look," said the old septa. "I remember everyone saying so when his birth was announced."
"How many people who saw the little dragon prince are still living today?" Randa demanded.
Alayne kept her head down as she worked on her embroidery. Maester Luwin had once told Sansa that the people of Lys all had the same silver hair and purple eyes for which the Targaryens were so famed. She supposed any common Lysene could pass himself off as a Targaryen if he chose and none could prove he wasn't.
Everyone said Sansa Stark looked like her mother Lady Catelyn. Her aunt Lysa had even made her dye her auburn hair a dark brown to lessen the Tully look. Sansa was perpetually terrified that someone might recognize her. She could not imagine what it would be like for people to doubt her true identity. It would be a nightmare of a different sort, to be disbelieved and called a pretender.
Alayne went to see little Lord Robert after the end of the day’s work. She showed him the new doublet she’d made for him. He was pleased with it and would not stop rewarding her with hugs and kisses.
However his mood turned when she told him she could not stay to feed him his supper. “You have to,” he insisted. “I command it!”
“Alas, my lord, it is your stepfather who gives the commands until you are a man grown, and Lord Petyr has commanded me to dine with him.”
The boy lord opened his mouth and began to wail.
“Sweetrobin-”
He shrieked louder and began to flail his arms, working himself into the full throes of a fit.
Alayne fled.
Yet once she’d bathed and dressed in her beautiful new gown, her cousin was forgotten. She gave a happy twirl, wishing she could see what she looked like. Lady Lysa had owned a large mirror - a real mirror from one of the Free Cities, not mere polished steel - but it had been left behind in the Eyrie when they descended for the winter.
“Your father was very generous, m’lady,” her maid Maddy said.
Sansa wondered what Littlefinger wanted in exchange for his generosity, but Alayne refused to let her name day be spoiled.
A cozy little feast had been set up in Petyr’s solar. There were fresh pears from the glass garden, spiced venison pies, roasted fowl, a flagon each of fine Arbor red and some strange pale wine - and there were half a dozen little lemon cakes.
Sansa gave a cry of delight when she saw them and couldn’t resist nibbling one right away. Petyr smiled at her pleasure but there was an unusual edge to his smile and when he helped her into her chair, she thought she detected the faint smell of strongwine.
“Are we celebrating something other than my name day, Father?”
“Indeed we are.” Petyr chuckled. “It was eighteen years ago I lost my duel with Brandon Stark.”
Alayne did not understand. One did not celebrate a loss.
“You see, that day is my name day. It is more my true name day than the day my mother birthed me. The man I am now was born that day.”
Sansa recalled what he had told her once. “It was the day you learned life was not a song.”
Petyr’s eyes had a faraway look. “In the songs lovers defy laws and kings for their love. A man can fight monsters and endure all sorts of ill if he knows his lady love loves him too. Well, my lady love loved me well enough to give me her maidenhood. But come morning when I challenged the brute her father had betrothed her to, she spurned me and gave him her favor to wear. Still, I thought she would understand how well I loved her when love gave me the strength to slay Stark.”
He was quiet for a moment, but Alayne did not dare break the silence.
“But love was not enough. Stark nearly killed me. He would have killed me, had your mother not begged him to spare my life. She did love me - but not enough to marry me. Stark was the heir to Winterfell and I was heir to sheep shit. I learned that day how little love was worth compared to power and wealth.”
Sansa had been to the Baelish towerhouse out on the Fingers. It was a mean and dreary place. She thought Lady Catelyn had made the only sane choice in choosing to be mistress of Winterfell instead of wading through sheep pellets. She could not say that to Littlefinger though.
“Brandon Stark won that duel, but you won,” Alayne said to her father. “He is long dead and you are alive, and you are the most powerful man in the seven kingdoms.”
Petyr smiled, but again there was a trace of something unpleasant on his face. He sounded jovial, though, when he announced, “I have another surprise for you, sweetling. Close your eyes.”
Alayne did as she was bid. She heard Petyr rise from his seat and then return and set something down on the table.
"Now open them."
She gasped at the sight of the necklace. It was an ornate working of red and blue stones set in silver, all gleaming brilliantly in the candlelight. It must be worth a queen's ransom.
"Rubies for your hair and sapphires for your eyes," Petyr told her softly.
Alayne's hair was mahogany, not ruby. And a baseborn girl could not wear such extravagant jewels, especially not in the colors of her father's wife's house. It was a gift for Sansa, who remembered well the last jewels Littlefinger had given her by way of the fool Ser Dontos. I wore the amethyst hairnet and Joffrey died… and now I am wanted for regicide.
"Does it please you?"
"It is very lovely, my lord." Petyr's last gift had been poison. Sansa wondered if this one was too.
"Father," he corrected. "You needn't be so formal with your father."
"It is lovely, Father."
"Did your mother ever own anything like it?"
Lady Catelyn had owned fine jewels, as befit the Lord of Winterfell's lady wife, but none so ostentatious. This necklace was more the sort of thing Cersei Lannister might wear to flaunt the wealth of Casterly Rock. "Not like this," she answered.
"I imagined not." Petyr was staring at her but she knew he was not seeing her. "It makes me very happy to be able to give you this."
"I am grateful, Father," she answered. She did not know what else he wanted to hear.
“I can give you anything your heart desires,” he said, his voice low. “And my own heart desires you.”
Littlefinger had named his price at last. He rose from his chair and came to stand behind her. He brushed her hair to one side and draped the necklace around her throat. The costly jewels felt as heavy as a millstone.
The man who might have been her father, had her mother chosen less wisely, drew her to her feet. His normally cold eyes burned with lust. “My beautiful Sansa,” he murmured, his mouth mere inches from her own.
This was a man who destroyed what he could not possess. Sansa did not want to be destroyed and there was no one to save her. She did the only thing she could. She closed her eyes and accepted his kiss.
He was gentle enough, she could not fault him on that. He kissed her and caressed her in ways that called forth a shameful wetness from her body and there was little pain when he claimed her maidenhood.
Sansa did not weep. She tried to mirror his love back at him. When he told her he loved her, she told him she loved him too.
She did not allow herself to feel the full horror of what had happened until she was back in her tiny bed chamber. She’d always been a good girl. Her septa had had naught but praise for her. And her parents… Her father Lord Eddard had fought a war to avenge his sister’s dishonor. And her mother Lady Catelyn had not given her maidenhood to Petyr Baelish. Aunt Lysa had admitted as much when she said Petyr called her sister’s name the night he deflowered her.
"A bath," she ordered Maddy brusquely. "Quickly."
She undressed as quickly as she could and crawled into the tub as soon as it arrived, having the servants pour bucket after bucket of steaming hot water over her.
Sansa longed to shove the Stark dress into the fire and fling the Tully necklace in the privy. But Alayne was a bastard and could not afford to be sentimental. The jewels were as good as gold dragons and easier to carry, and the gown would make her look like a proper lady, which would surely help win men to her cause.
Alayne rose from her soiled bathwater and toweled her body and hair dry. She wrapped herself in a coarse woolen blanket and seated herself by the window. Snow was piling ever higher outside as her thoughts gathered shape into a plan. One day her father would learn to his sorrow what sort of daughter he’d made.