And If You Wrong Us, Shall We Not Revenge? (Sansa & Petyr, T)
Title: And If You Wrong Us, Shall We Not Revenge?
Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASoIaF
Characters/Pairings: Sansa & Petyr
Rating: T
Words: ~1.055
Warnings: Spoilers for AFFC
Written for: bloodofpyke's AU Comment Ficathon prompt Sansa kills Petyr...
Summary: How cruel it was, that in the end only Alayne Stone could have saved Sansa Stark...
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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? - William Shakespeare
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Poison is a woman's weapon, he told her, lips twisted (always twisted) into that mockery of a smile.
She swallowed her apprehension then, feared what he would ask of her this time, wondered whether it would be any easier than what he's asked of her all those other times (a blind eye to her aunt's wayward step out the moon door, a kiss for her father).
She doesn't swallow now, doesn't even hesitate as one foot precedes the other towards the kitchens, the vial a cool--though surprisingly insubstantial-- intruder where it is tucked away between the warmth of her breasts.
Sansa Stark would have turned heads entering a kitchen unannounced, would have garnered a litany of "my ladies" and flustered bows.
Alayne Stone's presence does no such thing, merely stirs a few quiet murmurs and inclined heads. It's better this way, she thinks, the vial pressed against her intimate flesh a sufficient reminder.
Littlefinger taught her that, she remembers (always remembers), that there is almost always a profit to be found in the dismissal of others, a virtue of sorts in going unnoticed.
The twisted irony is not lost on her.
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He escorts her to supper himself that evening, three sharp raps on her door before he promptly enters without her bidding. There is less regard for Alayne Stone's privacy than there ever was for Sansa Stark's, she's learned.
"Sweetling," he tips his head, smirk intact and arms spread wide in acclaim.
She does not miss the way his eyes take her (all of her) in, the way they spare the dull brown of her hair only a hint of a glance--the way they rake over her face and figure with a hunger that does not phase Alayne Stone in any discernible way.
"Father," she greets him softly, as she reaches for his proffered arm.
"You're a vision," he tells her, again and again and again.
Sansa Stark's father never showered her with such compliments, was a man of few words--a man of the North with more winter in his veins than she could have ever boasted. Alayne knows better than to resent him for it now, looks back at the pride in his eyes--the softness of his tone-- with an ache in her heart Sansa would never have fathomed.
"You're far too kind," she responds smoothly, though her hesitation does not go unnoticed, and she's nearly thankful that this is a lesson she has never quite mastered--that he does not read it as anything besides the sporadic vestiges of her childish bashfulness.
He pecks her lightly on the cheek before they leave the room, and there is little she can do to quell the relief that floods through her (can only hope that he cannot read the promise behind her wane smile).
She's seated beside him, as is always the case, an honor she knows few--if any--bastard daughters could boast. Alayne takes pride in the fact that her eyes do not so much as flicker towards the bowl placed before him--she knows better than that (he taught her better than that).
"Your betrothed is eager to set a date for the wedding," he smirks, watches her carefully as he sips his wine.
Sansa's father had been reluctant to give her away for reasons she'd scarcely understood then, but knows all too well now. The memory comes unbidden (as they always seem to), but she relishes in the anger that has become her constant companion. She wonders if he has forgotten her father (she knows better than to ever entertain the idea that he has forgotten her mother), and the anger is so acute it takes more effort than it should at this point to turn up the corners of her lips--to play the role she's been cast.
"I am honored that he would so gladly have me for his wife, baseborn as I am," she hears herself say, and the amused twinkle in his eyes does not go unmissed.
"Any man would be fortunate to have you, birth aside, my dear daughter," he whispers before placing his hand atop her own as he reaches for his spoon with the other.
She wonders (not for the first time that night) what her lady mother would think, what her father would think, and there is a sinking at the pit of her stomach that she cannot quite deter.
How cruel it is, that in the end only Alayne Stone could have saved Sansa Stark.
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It's sudden, as sudden as it has been with Joffery the night of his wedding.
One minute he's making idle conversation between mouthfuls, and the next he is clutching at his throat--frantically heaving for breath and watching her with a clear accusation in his eyes.
you did this, she can almost hear him spitting, and when she rises from her seat, face blank with what could easily be perceived as shock, it is far from an act.
It does not take long for the servants and the men sworn to protect him to bustle in, for them to pull at her arms in the hopes of sparing her the sight of her father writhing and choking for his life. But she does not acquiesce, will not afford him the dignity she did not (could not) afford her own father.
They do not let his body hit the ground, and so he merely slumps against the arms at his sides when it's finally over.
She can sense the confusion, can hear the unspoken questions and a part of her (the part that can still feel the countless lashes on her back, that can still taste the wine on his tongue) revels in it, revels in the fact that for once--just once--it is them who know nothing and she who knows everything.
She knows better than to think that songs will ever be sung in Alayne Stone's favor, and she supposes she should be thankful that Sansa Stark has reconciled with their frivolity long before Petyr Baelish's lifeless body would lay before her.
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Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASoIaF
Characters/Pairings: Sansa & Petyr
Rating: T
Words: ~1.055
Warnings: Spoilers for AFFC
Written for: bloodofpyke's AU Comment Ficathon prompt Sansa kills Petyr...
Summary: How cruel it was, that in the end only Alayne Stone could have saved Sansa Stark...
+
If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? - William Shakespeare
+
Poison is a woman's weapon, he told her, lips twisted (always twisted) into that mockery of a smile.
She swallowed her apprehension then, feared what he would ask of her this time, wondered whether it would be any easier than what he's asked of her all those other times (a blind eye to her aunt's wayward step out the moon door, a kiss for her father).
She doesn't swallow now, doesn't even hesitate as one foot precedes the other towards the kitchens, the vial a cool--though surprisingly insubstantial-- intruder where it is tucked away between the warmth of her breasts.
Sansa Stark would have turned heads entering a kitchen unannounced, would have garnered a litany of "my ladies" and flustered bows.
Alayne Stone's presence does no such thing, merely stirs a few quiet murmurs and inclined heads. It's better this way, she thinks, the vial pressed against her intimate flesh a sufficient reminder.
Littlefinger taught her that, she remembers (always remembers), that there is almost always a profit to be found in the dismissal of others, a virtue of sorts in going unnoticed.
The twisted irony is not lost on her.
+
He escorts her to supper himself that evening, three sharp raps on her door before he promptly enters without her bidding. There is less regard for Alayne Stone's privacy than there ever was for Sansa Stark's, she's learned.
"Sweetling," he tips his head, smirk intact and arms spread wide in acclaim.
She does not miss the way his eyes take her (all of her) in, the way they spare the dull brown of her hair only a hint of a glance--the way they rake over her face and figure with a hunger that does not phase Alayne Stone in any discernible way.
"Father," she greets him softly, as she reaches for his proffered arm.
"You're a vision," he tells her, again and again and again.
Sansa Stark's father never showered her with such compliments, was a man of few words--a man of the North with more winter in his veins than she could have ever boasted. Alayne knows better than to resent him for it now, looks back at the pride in his eyes--the softness of his tone-- with an ache in her heart Sansa would never have fathomed.
"You're far too kind," she responds smoothly, though her hesitation does not go unnoticed, and she's nearly thankful that this is a lesson she has never quite mastered--that he does not read it as anything besides the sporadic vestiges of her childish bashfulness.
He pecks her lightly on the cheek before they leave the room, and there is little she can do to quell the relief that floods through her (can only hope that he cannot read the promise behind her wane smile).
She's seated beside him, as is always the case, an honor she knows few--if any--bastard daughters could boast. Alayne takes pride in the fact that her eyes do not so much as flicker towards the bowl placed before him--she knows better than that (he taught her better than that).
"Your betrothed is eager to set a date for the wedding," he smirks, watches her carefully as he sips his wine.
Sansa's father had been reluctant to give her away for reasons she'd scarcely understood then, but knows all too well now. The memory comes unbidden (as they always seem to), but she relishes in the anger that has become her constant companion. She wonders if he has forgotten her father (she knows better than to ever entertain the idea that he has forgotten her mother), and the anger is so acute it takes more effort than it should at this point to turn up the corners of her lips--to play the role she's been cast.
"I am honored that he would so gladly have me for his wife, baseborn as I am," she hears herself say, and the amused twinkle in his eyes does not go unmissed.
"Any man would be fortunate to have you, birth aside, my dear daughter," he whispers before placing his hand atop her own as he reaches for his spoon with the other.
She wonders (not for the first time that night) what her lady mother would think, what her father would think, and there is a sinking at the pit of her stomach that she cannot quite deter.
How cruel it is, that in the end only Alayne Stone could have saved Sansa Stark.
+
It's sudden, as sudden as it has been with Joffery the night of his wedding.
One minute he's making idle conversation between mouthfuls, and the next he is clutching at his throat--frantically heaving for breath and watching her with a clear accusation in his eyes.
you did this, she can almost hear him spitting, and when she rises from her seat, face blank with what could easily be perceived as shock, it is far from an act.
It does not take long for the servants and the men sworn to protect him to bustle in, for them to pull at her arms in the hopes of sparing her the sight of her father writhing and choking for his life. But she does not acquiesce, will not afford him the dignity she did not (could not) afford her own father.
They do not let his body hit the ground, and so he merely slumps against the arms at his sides when it's finally over.
She can sense the confusion, can hear the unspoken questions and a part of her (the part that can still feel the countless lashes on her back, that can still taste the wine on his tongue) revels in it, revels in the fact that for once--just once--it is them who know nothing and she who knows everything.
She knows better than to think that songs will ever be sung in Alayne Stone's favor, and she supposes she should be thankful that Sansa Stark has reconciled with their frivolity long before Petyr Baelish's lifeless body would lay before her.
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