Chapter Text
There was always an excuse in her mind when she did things such as this
The storm raged outside, violently, unseen behind pitch black windows that simply shook from the nights wind and rain. There were all too frequent flashes of lightning, followed quickly by the inevitably rumble and crackling of thunder.
Sansa padded lightly down the long hall, a guest in this great house, as her aunt made abundantly clear. This was not her home.
The excuse was that she was scared. The weather was so frightful, so violent. It was true it was what kept her up, what kept her on edge as the panes of glasses rattled, the branches of the trees scraping across them so that she tossed in bed, unable to sleep, unable to settle.
But even as she felt her way through darkened halls, towards the faint outline of light that emanated under the door of one of the many rooms of the vast estate, Sansa knew she wasn't truly scared. It was only the weather after all. She had weathered far scarier forces in her life.
Once she reached the wood panelled double doors, she rested against them and breathed, and listened, her hands only rested gently on the brass handles. She could hear the faint sounds of a television, a mans voice, not his, and the kind of music that hinted to a film from years passed. He was always watching older films. Films she'd never heard of, but he always says she should have.
For a few heartbeats more, where it felt as if that heart beat resided in her throat more than her chest, Sansa leant her forehead to the door and thought of what to say.
'I'm scared' she could say, but would he find it endearing or would he find it pathetic? She could say it sweetly, with her lips parted and her big eyes wide, and would he take the chance to comfort her if she acted the part of a frightened child? Bring her in close and put his arm around her, where she could press herself closer every time the thunder cracked?
She decided perhaps she was more scared of this weather than usual, and excused herself.
She wore her silk satin shorts and a thin strapped camisole, soft pink in colour. It was cold but they were her prettiest pair of pyjamas, and her favourites. She had started out of her room and simply not though to put a robe on over the top, as skimpy as it was, as much as the peaks of her nipples showed through the thin material. She excused herself.
With a gently click, she turned the handle, and pushed open the door. It creaked entirely too loud in the silence, and at once she was met with Petyr's turned head, as he sat reclined on the sofa.
This was one of his little hide aways. A smaller room of the manor, un-touched by Lysa. A little informal living room, with warm plush sofa's draped in throws, and a tv, and only a warm glow from old lamps. So many rooms here were cold, intricately arranged, designed to impress, not to comfort, but this room was not like those. It was hidden and private and his. It smelled like him. Like his cigarettes, his cologne, the scent that was just naturally him.
He looked at her with inquisitive eyes but said nothing as she stepped inside, hovered by the door frame, still holding on to it.
“I couldn't sleep.” she said with a small voice.
He smiled then. Not kindly. Knowingly.
Smugly.
“Little wonder.” he said, gesturing to the curtained windows, doing little to muffle the violent storm outside “Come. I don't mind the company.”
She was beckoned over and what relief took her. What fear. How she relished both the feelings as she closed the door softly behind her and made her way over so shyly.
He was dressed in his own pyjamas. Soft cotton, dark blue, and matched and monogrammed. His dresing gown was light but burgandy and navy striped. He was almost as put together as he was in day time, though Sansa glanced over how relaxed he looked. How he lounged. His hair was even slightly out of place and she rather thought it was charming that way. To be able to see a great and important man so much more relaxed than anyone else got to see him.
He moved his feet off the sofa to beckon her to a certain spot, close to him, and Sansa fixed her eyes on the screen of the TV as she nestled her legs beneath her, curling up into the cushions. Her bent kneed grazed his thighs, the smallest of contact, but it thrilled her nonetheless. It was not on purpose, she excused herself.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” he explained, as the film played on, feeling him shift in position. She was sure it was just him getting more comfortable, and by his merit she did the same, excusing them both as they moved in closer to each other.
“I didn't know that was a black and white film.” she said.
“This one is, made in 1934, one of many different versions, but I'd say it's by far my favourite.”
“You've seen it before then?”
He nodded, eyes at the screen “Many times. I've read the book about three times in my life too, as much of a doorstopper it is. One of the greatest classics, in my eyes.”
Sansa tried to follow the story but she found she couldn't. She'd come into the storyline half way through. The noise outside was still a distraction. Petyr's hand had found it's way to her leg. She found herself relaxing into him as the movie progressed. Too tired, to comfortable, to at ease to find anything wrong with the way his hand now played at her waist, toyed with the material of her camisole to touch delicately at bare skin.
There were always excuses.