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Sansa shivered, pulling her arms tighter around herself in an effort to conserve body heat. The prison she’d been dragged to to while unconscious was cold and damp, and her summer dress did little to shield her from the bare concrete and unforgiving iron. They’d even taken her shoes, as if she would’ve been able to stab someone through the bars with the dull point of the heel. She wished she were back in Winterfell; not even its icy stone could ever be this cruel. If they’d never left home, traveled south at the bidding of a king and his monstrous offspring, none of this ever would’ve happened.
Chill seeped through the thin cloth, freezing her down to her bones, but she held onto the sensation as something she could understand. What she could not make her mind accept was the possibility of never seeing her father’s warm, kind face, never feeling his arms wrapped around her in the tight, secure hug he always gave her, never hearing his deep, rough chuckle at the antics of her rowdy siblings. She’d fought with all she had, scratching and clawing against the secure hold of the guards, pleading at Joffrey to stop, but to no avail. She hadn’t been able see that her prince was a demon in royal red until it was far too late. Her proud, powerful father knelt before the executioner, submitting to his fate with a meekness she’d never seen in him before, even as his own death came upon him. The swing of the ancient ceremonial sword through his neck had been a horrible, uncategorizable sound, the thud of his head hitting the ground even more unthinkable. The last thing she remembered with any clarity was her father’s eyes unblinking, wide open and empty, staring up at her from the dais as if in supplication, and she shrieked as something tore loose inside herself. Bits and pieces of what followed after came in flashes, as if she were watching from outside her own body.
Sansa stared at her hands. They were clean, not a mark or drop of blood on them, but should have been covered in red; she’d killed the guards holding her back, instinctively scratching and clawing for her opponents’ exposed skin, then Joffrey, pulling the life from him before he could call upon the fire he was so proud of showing off, that he delighted in torturing others with. After her former love lay cooling at her feet she sought more, striving to kill every last one of them. She’d made it halfway to the haughty queen mother, heedless of the flames the woman was trying to burn her with in her own grief, when she’d been slammed in the back of the head with something blunt and heavy. As she felt her knees collapse beneath her, she spun, the world around her narrowing to a point before winking out completely, she saw the half-burned face of her assailant staring at her with an expression of near-awe. He’d probably done it out of expediency, but perhaps he thought he was being kind--otherwise she was sure they would've shot her, or worse, given the chance. Trying to sort through the echoes of the dead in her mind gave her a headache, but she could easily discern Joffrey’s pitiful wail, crying in his final moments like the scared little boy he was, over and over, trapped in a loop of eternal suffering.
She hadn’t ever felt this power before, this evil hiding under her skin. The rest of her family had always been talented; Arya could change her shape, change her face, and delighted in surprising her at every turn, Bran had unnatural foresight, Rickon was able to turn himself to immovable stone, her mother could freeze and boil water at will, even Jon shared her father’s lupine traits with Robb, but until an hour ago Sansa had none, only the grace and manners of a highborn lady she’d worked so hard to develop. All her siblings except for her and Jon had the Tully affinity for water as well, and delighted in playing games at the bottom of the lake for hours she and her half-brother were unable to partake in. She'd always envied them and their gifts, hiding the pain behind calculated indifference. She couldn’t help but think herself a disappointment to her parents, though they never let on or even hinted such. The sense of exclusion, of difference, hurt all the same, however. How cruel were the gods that she would acquire the means to save her father only after he was dead?
A trio of guards stared at her impassively from the other side of the bars, dressed in armor from head to toe, masks covering even their faces, shielding themselves from her new-found deadly touch. Suddenly, the harsh screech of metal on metal signalled the opening of the jail’s heavy door. She expected the queen or her brother, or perhaps Ilyn Payne to fetch her to join her father at the executioner’s block, nearly anyone else but the man with the easy smile that never reached his eyes, dressed in all black save the purple lining of his suit and silver flashing on his fingers.
“Open the cell, please,” Petyr Baelish requested mildly, his focus trained on her. The men with automatic weapons looked at him like he was mad, clearly hesitant to follow the order. When they didn’t acquiesce he spared them a derisive glance, sneering, “Crown’s best and bravest, aren’t you?”
At the dig they obeyed with bad grace, one pressing a button on the wall next to him with the others keeping their guns trained on her as if she was going to try to rush out of the cage at them. Baelish calmly stepped into the cell and took no care of the door shutting and locking behind him, striding over to her as if they were meeting for a stroll in the garden rather than in the deepest recess of the Red Keep.
“Lady Sansa,” he intoned quietly in greeting, his voice a rasp she hadn't heard him use for anyone else but her. Littlefinger always gave her a strange sensation deep in her belly whenever he touched her or looked at her. She wasn't sure what to make of it, of him--the odd little man with sharp beard and sharper eyes, all fine clothing and smiles. He always stared at her with badly concealed hunger, the want he never quite managed to hide readily apparent to her even across in a crowded room, or when he was engaged with another; it was so obvious she wondered how anyone else hadn't noticed--particularly her father--but it seems no one ever did. He’d always taken a little too much pleasure in touching her, his lips pressed too firmly for too long against her hand or cheek, his hand lingering on her arm or shoulder, standing too close to her, invading her personal space. That he of all people would come to her now made sense in a strange way. “Are you cold, my lady?” He shrugged his fine silk jacket off his shoulders and made to put it around her, but she shrank back.
“Don’t--I could kill you,” she stammered. She didn’t trust the power lurking under her skin, had no idea how to control it, or if she even could.
An uncanny fire came to his gaze, but he appeared unsurprised, and she wondered how he could've possibly known what she really was when she herself had no idea. “I’ve no doubt you could, my lady. But fortunately for me, I’d not stay dead for long.” She looked up at him, startled, and he gave her a small grin. “Very few know, Sansa. I myself had no idea I had any powers until I woke up in a pool of my own blood. I suppose I have something to thank your uncle Brandon for after all.” For once his eyes matched the smile on his face but neither were free of darkness.
She’d known he had loved her mother once, fought for her hand and lost against her father’s brother, whom she had never met. The revelation of his abilities, however, was almost astonishing, as the apparent deficit was one of the many disparaging things she’d heard about him at court before--alongside unkind words about his profession, his low-born status, rumors about certain proportions his nickname bred like flies, and the like. That he would choose to keep it secret made sense; less so was his decision to gift her this knowledge.
“I've died many times in many, many different ways,” he continued as he slowly moved toward her. “I imagine your touch would be the sweetest death of them all,” he murmured huskily, draping the jacket around her. Enclosing her fingers within his, the cool metal adorning them contrasting with the warmth of his skin, he sat close enough beside her that she felt the heat of him pressed against her from hip to shoulder.
“Lord Baelish,” she stuttered, unsettled by his proximity but relieved by it at the same time.
“Please, call me Petyr,” he requested, as he had nearly every time they’d spoken, but she'd not permitted the impropriety thus far.
“Petyr,” she answered shakily, finally giving in, and hearing his name on her lips must’ve pleased him by the contented hum she could practically feel.
“What did they do to you, dear girl?” He caressed her cheek where the butt of a rifle had split it open, and she felt her skin begin to knit together under the pad of his thumb. The hungering beast inside her pulled energy through the live wire where he touched her, his life force a depthless well for her to draw from, so unlike the others. She thought he might flinch away but his smiled widened. His hands sought other places they’d hurt her, the bump on the back of her head melting underneath his fingers, the bruises fading as his palms passed over them.
“Do you want to make them pay?” Baelish finally asked, hands cradling her face as he stared deeply into her eyes, and she felt almost naked under his scrutiny.
She nodded, and the cracks in the wall holding back her rage and pain finally made it give way, splintering her into pieces, sobs wracking her already exhausted form and tears blurring her vision. For his slight build he felt solid against her, wiry but stronger than looked. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her to himself with gentle pressure, and she let him pull her into his lap. He wasn't safe by any means, this treacherous man her father had warned her against, but he was warm and unafraid and kind to her in his own twisted way; she had the foolish notion of feeling protected in his arms. He called himself a friend but she knew to be wary of his honeyed words and enigmatic motives.
One hand threaded itself into her hair, kneading at the base of her skull, the other roaming over her as his eyes had before, soothing her as her father used to, but the way he held her wasn’t paternal, not at all. He drew his hand up and down her back, relishing the skin that had betrayed her without a hint of fear, tracing her spine with his fingers, brushing over her side from just below her breasts down over her hip, along her thigh to the hem of her dress, the subtle curl of his fingers reaching under the fabric a bit further each time before making the same return journey upwards, heedless of their audience. She let herself sink into blissful oblivion, hiding away from the overwhelming pain by burrowing into the warmth where they touched. She shivered but clung to him, lulled by the dangerous man stroking, savoring her deadly skin, mouthing words of comfort in between kisses to her brow.
“You and I will work terrible wonders together, sweetling,” he murmured, his eyes cold green flame; he sealed the vow with a press of his lips against her own, and she trembled.