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It was after the evening meal, and Alayne and Petyr had retired to his solar for their nightly routine – he writing at his desk and she curled in front of the fire with a book.
Alayne had spent a pleasant day in the Eerie, entertaining young Robin in the morning and then making arrangements for her wedding to Harrold Hardyng in the afternoon. She had been joined by Myranda and Lady Waynwood and, although the choices and decisions were many, she had enjoyed the precision and detail necessary to make something beautiful, just for her. It was the kind of thing Sansa loved, Alayne thought.
She had become engrossed in an epic poem about Florian and Jonquil (still, for some reason, a personal favourite), when Petyr had put down his quill and turned in his seat to face her.
“Alayne,” he began, face stern but with a hint of mischief. “As your wedding draws near, I want to ensure you are prepared.”
She looked up at him from her book. “Yes, father?” Petyr stood, and joined her by the fire.
“Do you understand what transpires on a wedding night? Did your mother tell you?”
Alayne blushed, and struggled for an answer. Her mother, her real mother, had given her a vague talk once, promising to explain more when it was nearer her time to be wed. She had been unable to keep that promise. And then there was her wedding night with Tyrion; it had been an education, but likely not the kind Petyr had in mind. Alayne wondered briefly if Petyr had remembered her marriage to Tyrion when he asked this question. Of course he did, she scolded herself, but between the lies and the play-acting some conversations with him left her unsure of what was “real”, and even less sure of how she was supposed to feel.
Pushing aside these complications, Alayne smiled apologetically. “Only a little,” she admitted. That sounded correct. That was correct. Her answers could be both correct and true sometimes, she decided.
Petyr raised his eyebrows slightly, but said nothing.
She stumbled in the silence. “I mean I... I understand the practical details.”
He grinned wryly, and touched her hand. “Sweetling, if it were merely practical, the only couplings to occur would be the ones intended to produce children.”
Alayne laughed softly, her embarrassment releasing somewhat. He had a way of speaking to her that made her feel comfortable; like she was a confidante. She wondered if this meant that, in their private time together, he was becoming just as unguarded as she.
Petyr continued. “It seems as though we may need to have a... lesson, before the future Lord of the Vale takes you to his bed.”
Alayne stared at him, and for a moment her mind imagined what he meant by lesson.
Taking her hand, he prompted her to stand. She placed her book on the chair and joined him.
“Now,” Petyr began, his grey-green eyes locked intensely into her blue ones. “Practical details alone will not make a happy marriage bed.” He had his hands on her upper arms, and she could feel his heat begin to penetrate her.
“Must the bed necessarily be happy?” Alayne asked, softly. “My husband will do his duty regardless. And as our union is unlikely to last...”
Petyr placed a finger to her lips lightly, but his expression was hard. “You misunderstand me, sweetling.” Removing his finger, he replaced it with his lips.
Alayne closed her eyes and let him kiss her; this was not new in their relationship. Usually the kisses were on her forehead or cheek – long, lingering, but chaste enough to give him plausible deniability. Occasionally, when they were sure not to be disturbed, he would kiss her lips. She liked those kisses best.
Instead of ending after a moment or two, however, Petyr deepened this kiss. He cupped the side of her face and she felt him move his lips against hers in a way that suggested he wanted to devour her. It surprised her, but feeling his desire made her want to continue. Instinctively, she began to mirror his movements.
Pulling away ever-so-slightly, Petyr smiled. Alayne felt his whiskers as he did this, and heard him murmur good just before he returned to her mouth.
After some time of this, he moved an arm around her waist, and she placed her hands on his torso, settling into him. His tongue grazed against her lips, and she parted them for it. Alayne vaguely recalled Myranda telling her about this technique, but that memory dissipated as Petyr encouraged their kiss to deepen. She joined him, willingly, becoming more at ease as each moment passed.
When he finally broke contact, Sansa’s face was flushed and she was breathing heavily. She couldn’t quite remember how this had begun.
Petyr smiled at her – his true smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle and his moustache turn upwards – and gently angled her face away from his. Sansa could barely register her confusion before his mouth was on her neck. Her complaint faded into nothingness as he kissed and sucked her from ear to collarbone, one hand at her nape and the other resting on her hip. She felt herself relax further. Alayne would have been wondering how to reconcile this, how to categorize this, how to bury or hide this, but Sansa didn’t care about the layers of lies. In this moment, all she wanted was to kiss and be kissed.
Carefully, she slid one of her hands up Petyr’s arm, finding the back of his neck. Fingers twitching, she ran them through his hair. “Sansa...” he groaned against her skin. That name... She rewarded him by running her fingernails against his scalp, enjoying how disheveled she was making his dark grey locks.
His mouth found hers again but this time his hands were bunched in her skirts, pulling them up, exposing one leg to the air. They were close enough to the fire that Sansa only felt warmth.
Everything he had been doing to her – that they were doing together – had made Sansa feel good. She began to realize, though, that those good feelings had a centre, a locus; the heat on her lower body was not coming exclusively from the fire. She was used to her stomach fluttering when Petyr kissed her, but the kisses had never lasted long enough for that flutter to evolve, to become the burn and the ache she was experiencing now. As Petyr’s hand ran up her thigh, she wondered idly if he was searching out that ache as well.
He broke off their kiss when his fingers reached her smallclothes. He stared deeply in her eyes again – oh that gaze, sometimes she could barely hold it – and in that pause Sansa knew he was asking her a question.
Hesitatingly, she tilted her face towards his. “Petyr...” she whispered, and kissed him gently.
He pushed aside her smallclothes and Sansa shuddered as his touch reached her.
Petyr slid two fingers along her, causing Sansa to suck in a breath and push herself against him. Gently, he sought her opening and upon finding it started to stroke her in circles. Sansa’s head swam as her ache intensified and as she began to understand just what – and who – she was aching for.
With his fingers still at work, Petyr moved his hand so that his thumb could reach her sensitive nub and apply pressure, mirroring the circular movements he was using below. Sansa gasped, and threw her head back as the pleasure hit her in earnest. He took this opportunity to resume his attention to her neck.
The room seemed filled with noise, but Sansa realized that what she perceived as a deafening roar was just the blood in her ears and her own ragged breathing; the solar was still and the only sound came from the crackle of the fire, the rustle of Petyr’s sleeve against her skirts, and her occasional whimper.
As much as Sansa was lost in his touch, she was aware of the control Petyr was exerting over their activity; his fingers pushed at her entrance but did not claim it. Realizing this, Sansa had a flash of anger at the reminder of her soon-to-be husband.
Those thoughts left her as she felt Petyr press harder against her, encouraging her to move her hips against his hand. Her pleasure intensified and she felt herself begin to lose control. Petyr held her tightly against him and put his mouth to her ear. “Take what’s yours, Sansa.”
With a moan, Sansa climaxed, going stiff and then limp against him. She was vaguely aware that he had laughed, lightly, before she began to quiver in the aftershocks. He left his hand pressed firmly against her until she was finished, only then removing his arm from under her skirts, smoothing her dress, and holding her tightly. Sansa wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck.
They stayed like that as their breathing returned to normal, until Petyr pulled back slightly to look at Sansa. She laughed, blushing, and he chuckled in return.
“Now,” he began, guiding her chin so that she met his gaze. “If your husband is unable to perform this duty,” he kissed her lightly, “You come to me.”
Stunned, Sansa nodded. He released her and, moving to the door, opened it.
Gathering herself, Alayne stepped into the hall.
“Goodnight, sweetling.”
“Goodnight, father.”