#destructively

He let a triumphant smirk play on his lips for a split second. Sansa was becoming better and better at playing this game. But he had invented it. And no matter how far she would come, how high she would climb, it would be because he had led her there, and he would be one step ahead of her. Always. He smiled courtly. “Certainly, sweetling.”

Sansa took the salt shaker in her delicate hand, this hand that had done such wonderful, wicked, sinful things to him. Petyr sometimes wondered if Sansa knew just how mad she drove him with desire, just how many hours he wasted dreaming of all the nights they had spent together, and all the nights that were yet to come... If she knew, she hid it well.

Unexpectedly suddenly Sansa looked up from her plate and let her gaze roam over his face, searching for something, anything, to give away his thoughts. Petyr knew she would find nothing. After a while her eyes locked in his. He held her gaze. And once more it seemed as if the world around them had disappeared, as if time had stopped. Once more it seemed as if he was the young boy again, scarcely fifteen. The young boy who was naive and stupid and who thought he knew what love was. The thought made him chuckle softly. He had fought a duel for love as a boy, and he had made a small fortune with the business of love as a man, but he had never truly known love. Not until Sansa.

Of course he had not planned to fall in love with her. Petyr was a careful man, and love was nothing but a complication, an unstable variable in his brilliant schemes. Too great a risk. So he had ignored his feelings. First, shortly after he had spirited Sansa away from King's Landing, he had ignored the admiration he felt for her strength, her resilience, her survival. Then, after he had brought her to the Vale and made her his daughter, he had ignored the lust coursing through his veins every time her hair reflected a ray of the autumn sun, or her laughter filled the air with the sound of music. He had lost this fight the night she had stolen into his chambers for the first time and he had found her lying in his bed, naked and willing. But even then, he had vowed he would never love her, for love was the most dangerous feeling of them all.

The worst part was, Petyr did not even remember when he had lost this fight. All he knew was that he loved her, truly and fiercely and destructively. And that she was furious with him.

He knew why she was furious with him, too. Their fight – although he was reluctant to call it that, for neither of them had raised their voice in the slightest – had happened three days ago, after he had told her he would leave the Vale to attend the wedding of one of Lord Robert's bannermen. Her eyes had sparkled for a second after he had told her, and her lips had parted to give away one of her warm smiles, so rare in King's Landing, so abundant in the Vale. “Can I come with you, father?”

Father. Every time she spoke the word, it sounded almost like a prayer, pious by day, sinful by night. He smiled warmly. “Nothing would delight me more, sweetling. But it proves too great a risk. If anyone recognized you–”

She interrupted him then, and that was enough to tell him that she was enraged. “If they recognized me, they'd smile and say 'Look, it's Littlefinger's bastard,' ” she purred, her voice sweet as honey. “There is not a single Vale lord who has not seen me yet, and they all know me as your loyal, loving daughter.”

Petyr knew she would say that. “Seeing you here, with me, is quite different,” he reminded her. “At the Eyrie, and the Gates of the Moon... You belong here, sweetling. It is apparent in your every move. This is your home.” He had not waited for her to object, to insist that Winterfell was her home, and that nothing would ever change that. He already knew this, and she knew that he knew. “If you leave here, however,” he continued, “things will change. People will look at you differently, more thoroughly. They will look at you, and see how beautiful you are, and remember a certain Sansa of House Stark, princess of Winterfell, who disappeared after King Joffrey's assassination, and how beautiful she was. I would not risk it.”

After all the wicked things she had done with him, she still blushed faintly when he called her beautiful. For a few moments, he could almost sense her internal struggle, her loss for words, her futile attempt to think of something to say that would persuade him. Then she forced herself to smile. When she spoke, her voice was perfectly restrained. “As you say, father. You know best.”

But she had been furious with him then, and she was furious with him now. Somehow, even after everything she had been through, a part of Sansa was still the young girl who dreamed of knights and romance and never-ending love, and who could imagine no greater joy than to attend a wedding and dance all night and be wooed by an endless string of suitors. She insisted King's Landing had hardened her, and she was right. But it had not changed who she was. He loved that about her.

After dinner she excused herself and retreated to her chambers with an apologetic smile. “I wish it was not so.” She feigned disappointment. “But I really have to catch up on my needlework. I'm sure you understand.”

Petyr could not help but smile. Needlework. It was such an obvious pretense. But he could not help admire her dedication to their dispute. Sansa Stark certainly knew how to hold grudges. It made him feel an unknown mixture of pride and concern. Pride, because he had taught her well, and she was a good student, always quick to learn. Concern, because he had never imagined she would use her skills, the skills he had taught her, against him. Petyr sighed and refilled his cup. One more cup of wine, he allowed himself, to help me think. But not more. He was not the kind of man to lose his wits on the bottom of a barrel.

But somehow the wine did not help tonight, and the more Petyr thought about the situation, the more it angered him. Sansa had never treated him like this before. Oh, they had disagreed before, often and vehemently. But it had never lasted this long. As soon as the last candle had been extinguished in the chambers, Sansa had always found her way into his bed, an eager student again, willing to be taught. And taught her he had.

But for the past three nights, his bed had remained cold. It was all rather insolent, he thought. Did that girl really think she held this much power over him? That she could bring him to change his  mind by denying him herself? Did she really think he was that lecherous?

He snorted back a laughter. If that girl had thought she could make him plead and beg for forgiveness, she had erred immensely. Petyr was neither erratic nor irrational. He had forbidden Sansa from accompanying him for her own safety. And his patience was not endless. If she wanted to sulk and take offense, so be it. Two could play this game.

Her door was closed, but he did not let that stop him. Without knocking he entered her chambers. Sansa was sitting on her bed, a dim candle on an intricately carved oaken table next to her. And in her hand–

“Needlework,” Petyr observed with a smirk.

She did not look up at him. It was both endearing and infuriating. “Yes, I had told you.” With steady hands she brought the needle down and finished the stitch.

“I would have imagined you'd be done by now,” Petyr replied softly. “After all... the night is still young. There is so much more you could do.”

He thought he saw a sly smile play on her lips for a brief moment, but he could not be sure. When she spoke, her voice was firm. “Needlework is a perfectly pleasant way to spend an evening,” she informed him. “Not everyone spends their nights plotting to overthrow a kingdom.”

“Plotting to overthrow a kingdom?” Petyr repeated, mock indignation in his tone. “My dear, sweet daughter, how could you accuse me of those deeds? If anyone heard you! I would never dream of doing such dreadful things. My work is much finer than that, and of much less treasonous quality. I weave the fabric of this kingdom, and attend to it where it needs mending. I bring together loose threads and intertwine them, and I fringe the kingdom's hems. Why, you could almost say I am doing needlework myself.”

This time, she could not hide her smile. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes sparkled in defiance. “So you agree with me, father. Needlework is a perfectly pleasant way to spend a night.”

Petyr knew no one with half as much wits as Sansa. Except for himself, of course. “Ah, there you are incorrect, sweetling,” he bantered. “You had said it was a perfectly pleasant way to spend an evening, and in that, I agree with you. As for the nights, however... not half as much.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I could not possibly imagine what you are referring to, father,” she cooed innocently. “And now please let me return to my needlework. I am certain now that you have... needlework of your own.” She almost sneered the word.

“Of course, sweetling,” Petyr replied coolly. Needlework, he thought... And an itch to scratch.

He stayed in his chambers all night, not knowing if he should be amused or affronted. Finally he decided to be angered, but if his anger should be aimed at himself or Sansa he could not determine. She truly was an impudent person, there was no doubt about that. But since when had he let impudence vex him? It had all been much simpler before she had come along, when he had still plotted and schemed in King's Landing and the whole court had been nothing but puppets on a string for him. It really had been a simpler time. Annoyed at his thoughts, he reached for the flask. One more glass of wine...

One glass turned to two, and two glasses turned to three, and before he knew it he felt warm and hazy. He was not quite drunk, not yet, but he was not exactly sober either. And his thoughts still circled Sansa. Determinately he stood up. It could not go on like this. Three days was enough. It was time he ended Sansa's ridiculous behavior before that girl flattered herself more than she already did.

Her door was closed, the same way he had left it. Once more Petyr did not knock before he entered. And once more he was glad he did not. When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light in her chamber, he saw that Sansa was already sleeping, her long auburn locks flowing over the pillow like a waterfall. Her chest rose and fell softly with every breath she drew. Her lips were slightly parted, and from the look on her face Petyr could tell that she was dreaming.

He stood in silence for a moment, watching this beautiful woman. In the past months Sansa's face had become slightly sterner, more austere. The strain of playing their dangerous game, hiding her true identity, had left its mark on her face. But in her sleep, all the concerns had disappeared. In her sleep, she was carefree again. It would have been a sin to wake her now.

So Petyr quietly took a step toward her and, with delicate hands, took up a strand of her hair and let it run through his fingers. Had it really only been three days since he had last touched her? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on her hair.

Sansa opened her eyes and smiled. “What are you doing here, so late at night?”

Petyr chuckled softly. “I came to tell you how insolent you have been, and how cross I am with you.” He playfully let a finger run over the back of her nose.

“Insolent?” asked Sansa innocently. “I have been the soul of courtesy, father!”

Petyr leaned closer now, so close that their lips almost touched. He could feel her beginning to tremble under his gaze. Good. “And did you really think that would fool me, sweetling?”

He had expected her to give in and put her lips on his, to look down and mumble an apology. But Sansa held his gaze. “I had thought that, even if I had not fooled you, you would be gallant enough not to let it be an issue. But I see my assessment of you was quite wrong.” Her voice had a sharp edge to it.

Petyr felt reluctant admiration for her. Sansa had always known how to fight with words like other men with swords. “It grieves me to hear you say this,” he answered, a mischievous tone in his voice. “I have always striven for gallantry.”

“Striving for a goal and achieving it are quite different,” she replied, her voice cold as ice. “You of all people should now that.”

It was then that Petyr Baelish knew he had to have her. That woman was driving him insane. She was unpredictable, furious, at times downright vicious. Mad flames raged within her, hidden under an armor of icy courtesies and skilfully dealt slights. She had the manners of a queen and the ambition of a villain. She was ferocious as wildfire and fierce as a snowstorm. She was a story of defeat and victory, a poem of virtue and temptation, a song of ice and fire.

Petyr crafted his response well before he replied. He had to stir her just a little bit more, make her even more furious with him than she was now, spark the savage fire inside her until she was ready to erupt. It was what he loved doing most: Tease her until she lost her mind, until the flames inside her had all but consumed her, until all she could think of was coming to a fiery crescendo with him.

“In that you err again, my sweet daughter,” he whispered, still so close to her that he could feel her breath on his skin. It had become forced, a little more frantic... She would not be able to fight her desires much longer. “I need only look at you to know that I have achieved more than I ever could have hoped for. Gallantry is but a minor detail, as long as I have you.”

She snorted back an angry laugh. “And what makes you think you have me? Do not flatter yourself, Petyr.”

She had used his name to address him, he noted, something she had not done in quite some time. It meant his strategy was slowly coming to fruition. Just a little more... “I would not dream of it.” Petyr moved even closer and softly put his lips on hers. She drew back as if he had burned her.

“Seven hells,” she snapped. “Can you not tell I am furious? I am not in the mood to play one of your stupid games tonight. I do not want you here, Petyr. Leave me alone. Please.”

“As you wish, sweetling.” Petyr let no emotions ring in his words. “Forgive me. Good night.”

He raised his hand and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear before she could stop him... Not that he expected her to try and stop him. He knew Sansa loved it when he played with her hair, even now. Especially now. Then he turned around and, without saying another word, left her.

As soon as the doors to his chambers had closed behind him, Petyr allowed his lips to part into a full-blown grin. That had gone perfectly. Before the night was over, Sansa Stark would come stealing into his chambers again, fiery and furious and dying to feel his hands on her... It was only a matter of time. All he had to do was wait.

She made him wait longer than he had anticipated. As the first rays of the sun were creeping up on the mountains, Petyr once more wondered whether to feel proud or concerned. Sansa was becoming fiercer with every passing day. If he was not careful, it would only be a matter of time before she outwitted him... But he was always careful.

When she finally entered his chambers, the night was almost over. She was standing in his door frame, wearing nothing but her nightgown. In the light of the rising sun, the fabric appeared almost sheer. Or was that just because he knew so well what was underneath it?

For a small eternity she just stared at him, hunger burning in her eyes. He held her gaze, his eyes just as greedy. When she finally broke the silence, her voice was hoarse with lust.“Good morning.”

He smirked triumphantly. “Do not say that, sweetling. It is still night.”

She had to smile. “As you say, father. You know best.”

Those same words she had said to him at the end of their fight... They had sounded defiant then. Now they sounded obedient. Petyr began to feel lust coursing through his veins. “You err again, sweetling,” he teased. “You showed excellent judgment when you decided to come here.”

She responded by grasping the hem of her nightgown and, in one fluent motion, pulling it over her head. It landed on the floor with a soft thump. Her eyes found his, a challenging look on her face. She slowly began walking towards him.

The desire, the greed, the need to finally be one with her again was almost too much to bear for Petyr, but he forced himself to stand unmoved, to make her come to him. It seemed like aeons passed until she had crossed the room and stood before him, trembling with lust. He eagerly took her face in his hands, let his fingers run through her hair, let his eyes roam over every inch of her face. She was so beautiful. And she was his. He had led her astray, and she had followed him willingly, and now she was his temptress, his salvation, his lover. He leaned forward to finally feel her lips on his, but she stopped him.

“Do not think you have won, Petyr, just because I am here.”

“Of course not,” he whispered.

And then, finally, she gave herself to him.