Chapter Text
As they approached the dining room, the sound of laughter and conversation drifted out into the hallway. Petyr squeezed her hand gently, his expression a mask of perfect politesse as he turned to her.
“Here we are,” he murmured. “Ready to face the throngs of people and pretend we weren’t just tangled together moments ago?” She gave him a sly smile, batting her lashes and leaning in to whisper.
“Always, my lord.”
Petyr chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He leaned in close, whispering back in a tone only she could hear.
“I do love that wicked sparkle in your eye. You’re just begging me to take you apart again as soon as we’re alone, aren’t you?”
Gods, he melted her insides so easily. But she put on her best public face and pretended she wasn’t already imagining him taking her right there in the dining room.
Petyr grinned. He knew exactly what she was thinking, but he kept his own expression carefully neutral as they took their seats. When Lord Arryn approached and sat before her a plate piled high with the choicest venison, a twinge of jealousy twisted in Petyr’s gut.
“Quite the generous portion for you,” he remarked lightly. “Lord Arryn seems to know how to treat a pretty maiden.” She smiled, the picture of innocence.
“Apparently complimenting a man’s hunting skills gets you far.”
Petyr tried to keep his expression neutral, but he couldn’t help the slight frown that flickered across his face. She noticed the tiny expression and it pleased her, thrilled her.
“Yes,” he responded, his tone a touch sharper than usual. “I suppose flattery will get you far. But I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
It was a bit satisfying to see him barely concealing his jealousy after his escapade with Lysa Arryn, but she pretended not to notice.
She turned to Lord Arryn with a sweet, appreciative smile. “The stag must have been quite massive. How many prongs, my lord?”
Arryn preened under the praise, clearly pleased by her interest. “Ah, thank you, dear. It was indeed a large stag, one of the finest I’ve brought down in years. Twelve prongs, if you can believe it. A true monarch of the forest.”
“Imagine!” She widened her eyes in convincingly impressed wonder, though Petyr knew every note of it was false. Pride and jealousy warred in him as he watched her performance, pride at how flawlessly she played the game he had taught her, jealousy that she was playing it on another man unbidden.
Throughout the meal she continued: subtle compliments to Arryn, wide-eyed interest in his tales, laughter just bright enough to carry. Petyr watched, admiring her skill even as it gnawed at him. She was playing the game beautifully.
Oh how she loved the way it was needling him. And he bloody well deserved it. I did learn from the best, did I not? she thought, with satisfaction. She knew she would pay for it later but she couldn’t bring herself to stop.
Finally, pushed past endurance, Petyr leaned close and whispered for her ears alone, “Keep flattering that old fool, sweetling. Do you suppose he could do anything for you I couldn’t do better? Why do you think Lysa Arryn found her way into my bed?”
The barb struck true. Her hand slipped; wine splashed across the white linen like fresh blood. She recovered swiftly as the servants moved forward to erase the accident, murmuring apologies as her perfect mask slid back into place. But the damage was done.
Petyr’s eyes glinted with satisfaction and a flicker of remorse he quickly buried.
The evening dragged to its close. Violetta offered one final performance, her voice soaring through the hall until even Lysa’s jealousy was momentarily silenced. When the last note faded and polite applause rippled, she excused herself with a curtsy and fled to her chamber
Petyr lingered, schmoozing, charming, giving her time to stew. With every lord he flattered, every lady he smiled at, his thoughts circled back to her, the way she’d laughed for Arryn, the wine spilling like an accusation, the hurt she’d tried to hide. Jealousy and desire coiled tighter.
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Violetta retreated to her chamber, the polite mask slipping the moment the door closed behind her. As a guest of the Arryns, she couldn't vent properly. No screaming, no flailing, no shattering vases against ancient stone. Instead, she paced the narrow room, seething in silence, Petyr's cutting words echoed relentlessly.
It wasn't fair. She knew she'd been cheeky at dinner, perhaps impudent, flirting with Lord Arryn just enough to needle Petyr after his indiscretion with Lysa. She'd wanted him to feel a fraction of her hurt. But he couldn't take it. H'd struck back at her deepest insecurity, and now she was left stewing, the sting fresh and raw.
It was quite late when he burst into her room. She had been pacing, frustration churning. He turned the key in the lock with deliberate care, then advanced on her like a storm about to break.
“You ought to apologize for your little spectacle tonight,” he growled, pushing her against the wall in a possessive grasp.
“No,” she spat, irritable, but pulled him closer, letting him claim her lips. Her refusal only fueled him. He growled in frustration, grip tightening as he kissed her fiercely, hungrily. Their anger and need ignited, bodies pressing together in aggressive pants and kisses. Grievances spilled in stutters and gasps between touches.
“You needn’t be so cruel,” she managed. “You know...”
“I’ve half a mind to whip you,” he rasped, “use you... take you home... lock you away...”
“And yet you’re still so—” she gasped, “you make me so angry.”
“You drive me mad with anger,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “But you also drive me mad with desire.”
She was frustrated, filled with intense desire for him, angry at his treatment, angrier that it didn't diminish her want. If anything, it heightened it.
In the heat, she bit down hard on his flesh to muffle her moans. He nearly cried out, stifling it with his own hand, pain and pleasure mingling.
“Tell me you are mine,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Tell me you want no other.”
“You already know...”
He growled, pressing harder. “I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you admit that you’re mine. That you belong to me and no one else.”
Lost to passion, the trained words spilled out. “I’m yours, Lord Baelish.”
His body shuddered. “Yes. You’re mine. You belong to me and me alone. My sweet, perfect little toy.”
“I am yours,” she whispered, “but I am not a toy.”
He chuckled darkly. “Oh, my sweet thing, but you are. You’re mine to do with as I please. My pretty little doll to play with, to mold and shape however I desire.”
“I really can’t stand you sometimes.”
His possessive smile widened. “Oh, my dear, it’s that sass of yours that makes you so enjoyable to play with. It is amusing how you think you can resist me, think you can defy me, but in the end, you’ll always give in. You’re mine, and you know it.”
“You ought to be kinder.”
He kissed her as he retorted, “You ought to be better behaved.”
“But you didn’t seem very amused at dinner, did you?” she taunted.
His eyes flashed. “Oh, my dearest, I was not amused by your little performance at dinner. You were being a brat, baiting me, trying to get a reaction out of me. And you succeeded. I don’t like it when you behave like that, not in public.”
“I’m not sorry,” she said, “especially not after your response.”
He growled, grip tightening. “You’re pushing your luck. You think I don’t know how to make you apologize? I can make you say anything I want, and you’ll beg me to forgive you for behaving so terribly.”
She shivered at the threat but refused to back down. “I won’t.”
His eyes flashed with anger and desire. “Oh, you want to test me? You want to see how far I’ll go to keep you in line? Trust me, Dove, you do not want to find out the answer to that question. You’re mine, and I won’t let you go.”
She tried to pull away, but his strong grip held her fast.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered roughly. “You can fight and struggle all you want, but you’re mine, and I won’t let you go. You’re going to learn your lesson, one way or another.”
“Petyr!” She called his name angrily, accusatory, afraid, and quite a bit louder than she had intended.
He grinned wolfishly. “Darling, if we were at home, I would let you scream as loud as you like while I teach you your lesson. But since we are not, I suppose we’ll have to find something to stuff that pretty mouth of yours until I’m ready to use it.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silk handkerchief, gliding it through his fingers with a wicked grin. “I think this will do nicely to keep you quiet.” He pressed it against her lips, forcing it in gently but firmly. She struggled, but it was no use.
He watched with satisfaction as the gag muffled her, reducing protests to moans and whimpers. He cooed, mocking and already a bit triumphant. “That’s it, my sweet. No use fighting it. Just accept it. You’ll be quiet now, and I won’t have to listen to any more of your insolent little outbursts.” He stroked her hair, taking time to inhale, to feel her, warmth and softness even at her most vicious unyielding.
He continued, voice low, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? When naughty little girls act out, it’s because they need attention. My dear, I’m all too happy to provide.”
He spent hours taunting, teasing, using her as he pleased. At first she struggled angrily, resisting to no avail. It gave way to tearful, frustrated resignation, humiliated by her helplessness and her body's continued desire.
When he finally released her for the night, he was smug and fully satisfied. She was a quivering mess, marked with bruises and abrasions, leaking with forced pleasure.
“Oh, my darling,” he said, looking down at her, “you did so well for me tonight. I know you resisted at first, but in the end, you couldn’t help but give in to my will. You’re mine, my dear, and don’t ever forget that.”
She said nothing. He grabbed her face, pulling her sharply to face him. “Dove, when I speak to you, I expect a response.” His tone was sharp and demanding.
Her voice trembled. “Yes, my lord.”
He smiled slightly, pleased. “That’s better, my sweet. You see, it’s not so hard to obey and answer me when I speak. Good girls do as they’re told, and you’re my good girl, aren’t you, darling?”
“Yes, my lord,” she sniffled.
He sighed contentedly. “That is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, my love.”
Torn, she sought the comfort he now provided in gentle words and touches, so different from moments before. She had no fight left, though the injustice still stung. His touch was soft, tender as he held her again.
“I only wanted you to feel it a fraction of how I felt…” she confessed. He grimaced, and took a breath as he held her close. Coddling her into his chest so she couldn’t see his face. Clever little mimic was playing his games against him. Imperfect. But she learned quickly. She always had. He just had to make sure that he was all parts of the game. The risk as well as the reward, and he’d keep her tethered to the board, his alone to move.