#pxs

The First Kiss

The first kiss was hardly a kiss at all. Not a real kiss, with sucking and nibbling and tongues. No, the first kiss was much more innocent than that or so he would have led her to believe.

Sansa had been forced to attend her dreadful aunt Lysa’s birthday party and being the perfect child that she was, would not dare challenge her parents on such a matter (or any matter). Wearing the dress her mother had instructed her to, she had greeted her aunt with all the feigned enthusiasm she could muster and resigned herself to an evening of boredom and avoiding her cousin, Robin, as much as was possible.

Lysa’s one and only son was a scrawny, spoiled child whose every word sounded like a whine. On that particular evening, he had gathered together all the younger children in attendance - Sansa’s younger sister and two younger brothers included - and coerced them into a game that he called The King’s Service. A made-up game where he, of course, was the King, and the other children were his subjects that had to do various tasks to prove their loyalty.

At thirteen-years-old, Sansa regarded herself as too mature for such childishness - and frankly knew it was a ploy to make the children do Robin’s bidding - so she snuck out of the parlor to seek refuge from her cousin and the boring adults that were already well into their cups. She retreated up the stairs and into the library, the only place in her aunt’s house that she enjoyed. She had concluded that no one would likely be interested in books when wine was flowing so freely downstairs.

It was a large room with bookshelves lining all four walls, as well as a few rows of shelves in the center of the room, making it almost like a real library, only smaller. All the shelves were crowded with books upon books and even more books. Sansa often wondered why her aunt had bothered with such a place for she had no knowledge of the woman ever reading. For Sansa, on the other hand, libraries and the books that filled them were a place of wonder and excitement. In books she could be anyone, go anywhere, and do anything that she dared to imagine.

She walked slowly down the rows, running her fingers along the book’s spines, and stopped when she spied a copy of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. She took it from the shelf, opened it, and flitted through the pages, allowing the smell of the old paper to waft up to her nose. 

“It’s a first edition you know.”

Sansa jumped, startled, dropping the book in her hands. As she knelt to pick it up, she heard quick footsteps coming toward her across the hardwood floor. Just as her hand touched the book, another larger, masculine hand grabbed it from her.

“Sorry...Uncle Petyr,” she stammered, standing upright and looking up at her aunt’s husband. “You scared me.” She felt her cheeks burn with humility, knowing she was about to receive a reprimand for dropping the likely valuable antique in her uncle’s hands.

“It’s all right, sweetling. Accidents happen. Why aren’t you down at the party? Or playing with Robin and his minions?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’m too old to play their games.”

“But not quite old enough for the games in the parlor? Hmm?” He raised an eyebrow, a playful expression in his eyes.

“I guess not. Why aren’t you at the party, Uncle Petyr?”

“I’m not much of a party person if I’m being honest. Nor do I find amusement in artificial conversation.”

He turned and walked back across the room, returning to the desk that Sansa hadn’t noticed when she had first entered and that he had likely been watching her from the entire time. Sansa followed him. “What do you mean, artificial?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” he answered, taking his seat.

She did know what he meant. Conversations that take place where you pretend to care about what the other party is saying. Pretend to find them funny when they tell a joke and release a forced, slightly exaggerated laugh. Pretend to like them. But she had never heard anyone admit to these things.

But Petyr Baelish wasn’t just anyone. Sansa had known the moment she had met her aunt’s new husband, that he wasn’t like any other person she had ever known. It wasn’t something he had said or even done, necessarily; it was a feeling. His sapphire blue eyes hid so much more than what appeared on the surface, a doting, husband and his new wife. Sansa could see that it was a façade but no one else around them seemed to notice. Only her. And when his eyes met hers, she swore that he was aware of her knowledge.

In truth, something about him made her feel uneasy and slightly uncomfortable but that same something made her all the more curious. Being near Petyr Baelish was quite like being too close to the edge of a steep cliff. One knew that it was dangerous but was powerless to fight the urge to step closer to that edge for just a tiny peek at how far down the fall would be; and possibly even more fascinating, what lay below?

“Would you like a drink, Sansa?” he asked, going into the desk drawer and taking out a bottle of dark brown liquid and two glasses that he sat atop the desk.

“I’m not allowed to drink alcohol.”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk turning up the corner of his mouth. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

She thought this over for a moment, wondering if it was some sort of trick to get her into trouble. But her father would likely strangle him for giving it to her and so, she decided they were on an equal playing field. Plus, she couldn’t deny that she was curious, she had never tried alcohol before and longed to know why adults loved it so much and what about it made it too dangerous for kids to drink. It was exciting. “Okay.” 

“That’s my girl.”

Her stomach fluttered at his choice of words. It was a good feeling, but she didn’t fully understand it. Her father had sometimes referred to her as his girl, but it didn’t garner the same reaction.

Petyr filled each glass about a quarter of the way full and returned the bottle to its drawer. She waited for him to hand her a glass, but he did not. “Come here, sweetling.”

Her eyes darted to his, then down at the floor and her heart rate instantly sped up. At the moment, the desk separated them and even at that distance he made her feel strange. Now he was asking her to go around the desk and stand at his side.

“I won’t bite. I promise. Come along.” He smiled but his eyes did not.

Returning her eyes to the floor, she slowly made her way around the desk, stopping a couple of feet in front of him. He turned his chair to face her. “Come now, sweetling, I promised I wouldn’t bite but I’m afraid I don’t have another chair, so you’ll have to sit on my lap.”

Her heart rate accelerated instantly. Alarm bells were going off in the young girl’s head and a small voice in the back of her mind, a voice that sounded very much like her mother's, told her to turn around and leave the room. Warning her that if she did as he asked there would be no going back. A pact would be sealed. Leaving would be the right thing to do.

But Sansa Stark was so tired of doing the right thing. 

She closed the distance between them and carefully placed herself upon his lap. One of his arms immediately wrapped around her back and his hand grabbed her hip, holding her in place. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.

“There. Not so bad, is it?” She shook her head, eyes finally looking up into his own. He smiled and handed her one of the glasses. “Now try this.”

She took it with both hands and took a rather large gulp that she immediately regretted. The liquid tasted awful and burned like fire going down her throat. He chuckled, no doubt at the face she was making.

“Yuck. Why do people drink this stuff?”

“It gives some men courage.”

“Does it give you courage?”

He regarded her with watchful eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth his only reply. 

That flutter in her stomach returned and she was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was sitting on her uncle’s lap in a dimly lit room. She had never been so close to another adult male’s body, except her father’s. Petyr’s scent filled her nostrils - mint and sandalwood - and it was almost intoxicating. Or perhaps it was the alcohol now burning in her stomach, she wasn’t sure.

He took the glass from her hands and placed it on the desk and the lack of it, although small it was, made her feel as though a barrier had been taken down between them. She placed her hands in her lap, fidgeting.

“You are an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Sansa. Do you have very many boys chasing you yet?”

She shook her head, unable to fight a smile at his praise.

“Are you blushing? I think that might make you even prettier. If that were possible.”

Sansa wasn’t sure what to say, not used to compliments from a man other than her father. But when her father gave her such praise it didn’t feel so sinful and everything about her current circumstances felt very much a sin, though technically Petyr had not done anything that would be considered wrong. At least she didn’t think so.

“I think you’re probably very smart too, aren’t you, Sansa?”

“I guess so.” She shrugged and met his eyes again, the look in them intensifying the warmth she had felt in her stomach since swallowing down the alcohol. She couldn’t read the expression there, due in part to her young age and inability to recognize such emotions yet, but she could sense the danger, nonetheless. Oddly enough, it gave her no notion to jump from his lap and leave. 

Like all girls her age, Sansa had been warned of strange men since she was old enough to talk but Petyr Baelish wasn’t a stranger. With that being said, she knew that a man did not have to be a stranger to bring harm to a young girl. Not necessarily the type of harm that comes from violence but the type of harm that can come from a man with impure urges. On countless occasions Sansa’s mother had warned her away from any man that tried to touch her in inappropriate places and alluded to many other things of an adult nature that should never take place between a man and a child. Was Petyr one of those men?

“What on earth is going through that head of yours, little one?” he asked, snapping Sansa out of her thoughts and back into the present. Back into the room where she sat on her uncle’s lap and still tasted the bitter liquid of the alcohol on her tongue.

“Um...I don’t know." Her voice trembled at the thought that those penetrating eyes of his would be able to see into her own and know exactly what she had been thinking. If he could, he must have found it rather amusing because the corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smirk.

“Are you comfortable?” 

She only nodded. Then he took his right hand, the one that wasn’t wrapped around her waist, and placed it on her leg just above her knee. Her dress was long enough that it fell well past her knees but even through the fabric Sansa felt a sudden current from his touch that spread and rushed up through her entire body, a tingling warmth like nothing she had ever felt before.

“What about now?” Petyr asked.

“I’m alright,” she answered, at once regretting speaking because the shaking of her words would reveal her trepidation.

“Do I frighten you, sweetling?”

For a split second she thought to lie and blurt out a resounding “no”, but she stopped herself. For some reason she felt that she could be honest with him and not offend him in the slightest. In fact, she was almost positive. He didn’t strike her as the type of person who became easily offended. Or shocked or anything for that matter.

“Maybe a little,” she answered softly.

“Rightly so.”

For the most part, Sansa had kept her gaze fixed on her hands or anywhere but his face and eyes but when he uttered those words her head snapped up quickly to see what she would find there. He chuckled at her reaction, and she found only amusement in those sapphire eyes. Feeling her cheeks blush she looked back down at her hands. What was he laughing at, she wondered, feeling somewhat stupid suddenly?

“Are you mocking me?” she asked.

“No sweet girl, only teasing.” His voice sounded very apologetic which only seemed to make Sansa feel even more stupid for being so easily riled. “Fear isn’t always such an awful thing. Sometimes the things we are frightened of can be terribly exciting, wouldn’t you agree?”

Do I? She wasn't entirely sure, for she was only 13 years old and had yet to do very much living. Fear was a normal reaction to danger and Sansa wasn’t familiar with danger. She grew up in a wealthy, somewhat religious family that tried very hard to keep all of its children on the straight and narrow. Sansa, being the second oldest, and the oldest girl of the Stark children, already carried heavily the burden of responsibility that comes with setting a good example for one’s younger siblings. She was often the basis of comparison when her parents were scolding her younger and wilder sister, Arya. Why can’t you be more like Sansa? Sansa is always such a little lady. Sansa makes straight As and has never gotten into trouble at school.

But she remembered a few times when the idea of not being the perfect daughter had brought her quite a thrill. It was only a minor thing really and could hardly be considered dangerous in the true sense of the word, but on a few occasions, she had sneaked her cell phone after her parents were asleep and stayed up extremely late texting her friend Jeyne and cruising the internet. She had been terribly afraid of getting caught. The Stark children who were old enough to have cell phones, which was only her and her older brother Rob, had to turn their phones in to their parents every night before dinner. The rest of their evenings were devoted to homework, family time, and then showers. One night Sansa was absolutely dying to text Jeyne. Earlier in the day Jeyne had heard from another girl at their school that Joffrey Baratheon had told someone that he had a crush on Sansa. Joffrey was the richest, cutest, and most popular boy in school and Sansa was elated and overjoyed at the possibility that he might like her. She and her friend had talked about it at every opportunity possible all day long, but it wasn’t nearly enough, what with classes and schoolwork getting in the way. That night, Sansa left her room and pressed her ear to the door of her parent’s bedroom. When she was sure the only noise she could hear was her mother’s soft snoring, she slowly opened their door and crept quietly towards the dresser where she knew her parents kept the phones.

She remembered the insistent pounding of her heart and how all her senses seemed to be heightened in fear of getting caught. She remembered the rush she had gotten, a feeling that tingled and rippled through her entire body all the way down to her toes, when she made it out of their room and back into the hallway without being noticed. She had stayed up for quite a while, texting Jeyne, and giggling under her covers before returning the phone back to her parent’s dresser. The thrill and excitement returned the next morning at breakfast when, half expecting her parents to have noticed the phone slightly out of place, she realized that they had no clue as to what she had done the night before. That their perfect, well-behaved daughter who always followed the rules, had broken several the night before.

“I think you do agree,” Petyr said. “I know you’re a very good girl, Sansa, but I think that maybe underneath that there is a naughty girl dying to be set free.”

Petyr Baelish was dangerous, of that Sansa was certain. She knew because every time she was near him, he became the edge of that extremely high cliff and when she stepped closer, she felt her stomach drop. And there she sat perched on that very edge, not only ignoring her intuition telling her that she might fall but feeling excitement from it. He was frightening. Not outwardly, in plain sight for everyone to see, no. To everyone else he probably seemed smart, cocky, perhaps a man who thought highly of himself but was approachable and non-threatening. But Sansa could feel it. She could feel the insidious cunning behind eyes that gave little away as to his true intentions.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?”

“Um... I don’t know. Marry a handsome man and be a good wife and a good mom, I guess.”

Petyr didn’t reply immediately. He looked at her for a moment, pursing his lips and then shook his head. “Is that all you want? You don’t want to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a... a movie star? Do you even want that at all or is it just what you think girls are supposed to want?”

Sansa wasn’t quite sure how to answer, no one had ever asked her that, not the last part. People always asked kids what they wanted to be, but no one ever asked her if she wanted more or insinuated that her reply was a programmed response. “I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Well, you should. You are far too smart to be hidden away in a house in the suburbs with baby vomit on your blouse and a toddler underfoot planting Legos for you to step on. All while you prepare a dinner to have on the table in time for a man to get home from work that will eat it while whining to you about his long, difficult day and never once ask you about yours. Only to leave you with the dishes so he can plant himself on the sofa and watch television until it’s time for bed, where he’ll roll away from you with hardly a word and leave you wondering where it all went wrong.”

Sansa looked at Petyr then, struck by both fascination and fear. Adults never said such things to her or to any children. They never told them blunt and honest truths. Why was he speaking to her as though they were equals? Then she wondered if the picture he had just painted described his own marriage. Not all of it, of course. Her Aunt Lysa was hardly the type of woman that would leave spit-up on her clothes for more than the amount of time it took her to run and change, nor did she cook, but Sansa felt that something about the general statement of unhappiness rang true. Petyr told people how happily married he was and how lucky he was to have found Lysa but when Sansa thought about it, she knew that she had always felt that he was performing. It was an excellent performance, and others seemed to buy it, but she had noticed that when Lysa went to kiss Petyr he would turn his face so that her lips would land on his cheek instead of his mouth and she had never once seen him kiss her. She had noticed that he pulled away just slightly when her aunt would reach to touch or embrace him, and he never stayed in those embraces for very long.

“We should be friends, Sansa, don’t you think?”

“Friends? You’re my uncle.” She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by friends. Friends were friends and family was family, rarely ever one and the same.

“Only by marriage. I feel that you and I have a connection that goes a little beyond uncle and niece, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sansa nodded, unsure if she understood what he meant.

“And you can tell me things, sweetling. Anything. Things you wouldn’t normally tell anyone else, and you can trust that I will not tell another soul. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” she answered and in this, she did believe him.

“Good. But that works both ways. Whatever I tell you, you keep to yourself. Whatever happens between us, stays between us. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

He smiled. “I knew you would. Now…” He tucked a few strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek, back behind her ear. “You should probably get back downstairs before someone comes looking for you. But would you grant your dear uncle and friend a kiss before you go?”

She assumed that he meant to give her a kiss on the cheek, or for her to kiss him on the cheek, nothing more. Her parents asked for kisses all the time and that’s what they always meant. So, she said yes.

But he did not kiss her on the cheek. He took her face into his hands, leaned forward, and pressed his lips directly onto her own. It was soft and chaste, and he did not hold them there for very long before releasing her, but Sansa’s heart drummed wildly against her chest. No one had ever kissed her on the lips before.

He licked his lips after and gave her one of those smiles that did not quite reach his eyes. “Best run along now. We’ll talk again soon.”