With great haste, Sansa rushes down the stone corridor towards the marketplace courtyard. The heat hits her body like a punch to the gut in her cumbersome dress, as she steps in to the dusty summer air. The courtyard is heaving. From a few metres away, she spots Petyr Baelish over a crowd and attempts to gain his attention.
"Lord Baelish!" She pushes through the crowd of commoners; ignoring the muttered abuse, the made-up whispers.
Finally, within reaching distance, she reaches out and grabs his arm. As he turns from his conversation, he is greeted with the young girl's face; flushed red, eyes puffy from crying. He looks concerned.
"Lord Baelish, please! You have to help me... my father..."
Mindful of the fact that they are far from alone in the thriving courtyard, Petyr places a firm hand in between her shoulder blades and ushers her through the bustling crowd, subtly looking back and forth for prying eyes.
"Perhaps we should step inside..." He suggests, as he leads her through to the doors of his brothel. She follows him eagerly; he is her only hope in King's Landing of saving her father from Cersei's evil clutches. Her mind dances with thoughts of his suffering.
As they follow the stone steps up, they are soon greeted by marble flooring and drapes of burnt velvet and satin spilling from the walls. The smell of incense is so strong that it burns their nostrils. Before long, the sound of women's pleasurable screams fill Sansa's innocent ears and she feels her cheeks burn with embarrassment as she realises where they are. She lowers her head so as not to catch any unwanted eyes and continues to follow, even more closely, behind Littlefinger.
He leads her to a separate room. The walls in this room are free from fabric, but painted a shade a purple, so deep that it's almost black, and littered with portraits and works of art. There's pieces of extravagant looking furniture scattered around the room; including a decorative chaise lounge against the back wall and a wardrobe, which is open, with all manner of lavish outfits hanging inside. The dark brick walls hold in the sun beating in from outside. The whole room is steaming hot like a sauna. There is a large desk in the middle of the room, chair facing the window. On the desk lies a scroll marked 'Matter of Urgency'. Were it any other day, Sansa would have been intrigued as to what was inside, however, the only thought in her mind is her helpless father.
Petyr extends one arm out, offering her a seat at his desk. She begins speaking before she's even taken a seat.
"Lord Baelish, I thought perhaps you might be able to help me. Cersei has my father locked away in the dungeons underneath the Red Keep... you're the only person left in King's Landing that he and my mother trusted! …"
Her pleading eyes glisten with tears as she continues to explain at length. She watches as he circles the room; listening and stroking his beard, looking absently outside at the blue skies. Always scheming. The sun catches the embossed gold detail on his robes, making Sansa squint. He is already aware of everything that she is telling him, he was, of course, the main cause of it. Though it would seem that she wasn't privy to that information. Just as he'd planned.
"... Lord Baelish you're my only hope. Please help me to save my Father!"
His eyes flick over to meet hers. Gods, she looks like her mother. The colour of her eyes not dissimilar to the summer sky that he was just admiring, long eyelashes that touched her round cheeks when she blinked and untouched, peach coloured lips; all framed by a mane of shiny, red hair - falling past her waist.
"It seems that perhaps we might be able to help one another Sansa..."
For the first time, she falls quiet. The sounds of grunting man a few rooms away make Sansa blush once again.
"If you want to save your father, it's important that you listen to me and follow my every instruction. Do you understand?"
Desperate to help her father, Sansa nods meekly. Petyr grips the back of the seat on which she is sat, and goes back to looking out the window only this time down at the busy streets of King's Landing. The sun beats in through the glass, drying Sansa's tears and highlighting her perfect cheek bones.
"Look down at all of those people out there, Sansa; King Joffrey's people."
Sansa screws up her face in frustration; she hated him so much, yet they were due to be married in just a few months. Petyr begins to softly run his fingers through Sansa's long red hair. She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat.
"Each and every one of those people out there are completely selfish, Sansa. Not one of them would stop to help you or I. I'm afraid to say that money is the source of most men's happiness..."
Littlefinger walks around to the side of her chair and places a finger and a thumb on her chin. Her skin is velvet soft against his older, rough fingers. He lifts her chin gently so that she is looking at him, and leans in slightly.
"Although... there are other things in life which present us with such feelings."
He removes his hand from her face and takes a seat on the arm of the chair right next to her. Her infant figure barely fills the dress that she is wearing, and he is able to see down a gap between her corset and the beginnings of her young breast.
"I'm not sure I understand Lord Baelish. I haven't heard from Rob or my mother, I don't have any money..."
He slides his large hand underneath her hair and on to the nape of her neck. The hair on her body stands on end as she feels the unfamiliar grasp of the man's hand on her in such an intimate area. Her nipples harden in to nubs. She cannot comprehend why.
"Oh, my dear. Money won't help you now, I'm afraid. What you need is influence, power..."
His other hand slips under the material covering her breast and brushes over her hardened nipple. She gasps involuntarily, Petyr feels a stir in his pants. He tightens the grip on the back of her neck and traces his finger around her adolescent nipple before pinching it softly between two fingers. Her pink lips open as if to object, but no words leave her mouth. Her eyes stay with his, filling once again with salty tears.
"What exactly is it that you want, Lord Baelish?"
Her swollen bottom lip trembles and Petyr's pants stir again. What opportunity!
"Everything. I want everything..." He stands and holds out his arm, as if to offer her it.
"...and please, call me Petyr."
She rises nervously from her seat and accepts his arm, walking with him over to the window frame. Winter had not yet touched King's Landing. The streets below were vibrant; packed with market stalls and entertainers; the rich, the poor, the very poor, all together in one big pit of drunkenness.
They stand together in the frame of the large window, watching the colourful faces pass by. Sansa forgets for a moment, and loses herself in her thoughts and in the commotion below. Petyr remains silent. He watches her; her nose as small as a button, the facial structure of a Goddess, yet cheeks still plump like a child's, her lips irresistible. So much like her mother.
He bites at his bottom lip, Sansa notices nothing. A crowd is forming around something in the middle of the square - she furrows her brow as she struggles to see through the hazy rays of sunshine.
Petyr unlocks his arm from hers and instead places it around her waist, snapping her from her daydream. She turns to look at him - his face is very close to hers. She can feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
"Sansa, you look so much like your mother - has anyone ever told you that?"
He turns to face her and takes her face in both of his hands. He plants a soft kiss on her forehead, the light perspiration from her skin left coating his lips. He glances down to see that her breast is still threatening to spill from her tunic. His cock strains against his slacks.
Her eyes are dewy with fear as he leans in to kiss her lips. The harsh light of the day shines down on them; his leathery hands and lined face a contrast against her snow-white complexion. Her freckled cheeks flush pink while his rough lips press against hers, his moustache scratching at her upper lip. She is so much smaller than him, a fully grown man.
His greedy tongue explores her young, inexperienced mouth and was not met with much enthusiasm from the young Princess. This is all new to Sansa; her mind is racing.
With desperate hands, the older man begins unlacing her pink corset. Her young, modest breasts peek out from under the folds of material and Littlefinger takes one of her pink nipples in his mouth, flicking his tongue at it.
Sansa closes her eyes and stifles any noise from escaping her mouth. She understands the immorality of the situation, yet a warmth builds lustfully between her thighs. Her thoughts stay firmly with her father, whatever it takes.
Petyr's lips trace a line up her collarbone and to her neck, where he gently bites at her virgin skin. From above him, Sansa draws her attention back to the square. The crowd grows larger. She can just about make out a platform in the middle of them now.
He slips the dress off her shoulders and down to her waist, leaving her breasts completely exposed. Sansa tries pathetically to cover her modesty with her arms but he moves them back down by her sides.
"Don't. Let me see you." He breathes.
The sunshine warms Sansa's naked body as the older man slides her dress finally over her hips and down to the ground. He orders her to step out of it and kicks it aside. Her blossoming body is all soft curves; tight and flawless. Petyr can't help but stand back and admire her for a moment.
With the weight of his own body, he pushes Sansa's young frame against the glass panels of the window. She has no choice but to watch the any bodies in the streets of King's Landing now. The glass is hot against her skin.
While holding her steadily pressed against the glass with one hand, his second snakes down the small of the teenager's back and settles on her pert backside.
Sansa tries to concentrate on the pleasant heat beaming in, the faces in the square below. Once more, she begins to softly cry.
"Shhh... oh no, shhh my sweet Princess. I'm not going to hurt you..."
His large hand plucks at the flesh of her arse behind before reaching eagerly underneath, between her thighs. She is unshaven, his fingers tangle with a modest sprout of red hair, before brushing against her virgin clit. Sansa's body twitches and reacts to the new feeling. Having never explored with masturbation before, this sensation is completely unknown to her.
Tingles shoot through her body and seem to settle in her belly, yet her groin burns with the strength of one thousand fires as Petyr's rough fingers brush again and again over her swelling nub. He begins to feel the wetness building up between her folds, leaking out on to his palm. He twitches agonisingly against the cotton of his slacks. He continues to please her with one hand while unbuttoning his tight pants with the other to release his aching cock.
Sansa writhes against the hot glass, fighting back both tears and an orgasm. The warm feeling rises up in to her stomach, her chest, and comes out of her mouth as a howling cry. Littlefinger notices her pleasure and, without hesitation, pushes the tip of his solid cock against her quivering hole, feeling her tight virgin slit contract around him. The feeling is ethereal.
Sansa has her eyes closed. The kohl she'd used this morning on her eyes has smudged down on to her cheeks. Her mother had showed her how to apply makeup just a few months ago. The addition of the heat pushing against her cunt is enough to send waves of orgasm through her tiny body. She wails against the glass as her muscles contract and release over and over again. The feeling possesses her whole body, it escapes out of her mouth in weak sobs.
Watching her small pink slit spasm from behind, feeling her sticky skin and her body shaking under his open palm; it's all too much for Petyr. In one sudden move, he forces his entire length inside her body. It rips her out of her orgasmic trance as he tears his way selfishly in to her. Grunting, he begins to take her, right there in the window.
The pain immediately brings Sansa back to reality. She reaches a shaking hand upwards for something to steady herself on against the glass, her body is in complete control of the older man behind her. Her wetness begins to make it easier and, as the pain melts away, she is met with more pleasure. She blushes as she remembers suddenly who it is behind her.
Peter pays no mind to the worry in her face; he watches intently as his thick member disappears inside her, glittery strands of liquid coating his shaft. Still sliding slowly in and out, he lifts Sansa more upright so that he can whisper to her.
His breath in her ear sends shivers down her body, goose bumps form around her areolas. He bites at the lobe of her ear, enjoying how it makes her body tense.
His green eyes flick over to the crowd, the sight Sansa had been intrigued by at the start of this experience. Over ten minutes had passed and two men were now standing on the platform, talking to the crowd. Petyr's pumps slow down to almost a halt, yet he remains inside her; torturously hard and twitching. Ready to fill her untouched womb with his thick seed.
He reaches around her and turns her head towards him, kissing her messily. He pushes deep to the back of her belly, enjoying the warm flesh engulfing his cock. When she turns back her head, she lets out a deafening scream.
A few of the crowd members turn to look up at the window but are unable to see, due to the low sun, and turn back around. The two men who were on the platform outside carry out Septa Mordane, Sansa's former Septa who was taken prisoner a week earlier. They drag her by her arms, roughly up the wooden steps. Her feet drag on the dirt behind her. Her ankles are broken, her face is purple and bruised. The crowd cheer once more.
Sansa jerks forward suddenly and presses against the window to watch.
"Lord Baelish, please we have to do something! That's my septa!"
Petyr watches the scene unfold outside through evil, glistening eyes. He feels his dick throb with anticipation inside the young girl.
"Stop it! Stop this!" She struggles away from him and begins pound on the glass with her fists.
"That's my septa, she's innocent! Please!"
A few of the crowd members turn to look again. A guard whispers something to another and they both disappear around the side of the building.
Petyr pulls her back from the window with force and his hand clamps hard over her mouth. He holds her solidly in place. The tears roll down her white cheeks and over Littlefinger's hand, her wide eyes sparkle with fear as she watches the men push her septa down forcefully on to the platform.
"Don't look away Sansa. This is the only way you learn."
Still hard, Petyr enters the young princess for the second time. Sansa winces as he does so. The older man can clearly see the glowing redness around her slit caused my his girth, that only makes him more excited. She's still wet, however, and pushing deep in to her body expels her sticky juices in silvery strands down to the carpeted floor. Petyr begins to pump slowly in and out of her again. His hand is still clamped over her mouth, holding her head towards the window pane.
"Fear is a weakness. You must be strong like your Mother."
His lips are centimetres from her ear. Her tears spill over Petyr's hand as she watches the men read the Septa's charges from a scroll. She is oblivious to the Lord, frozen in the fear. Her body shakes with terror. Petyr appreciates the vibrations as he glides in to her, her fear making him harder.
One of the men grabs a large sword from the side of the platform, and Sansa tries once more to struggle away from Petyr but he holds her in place.
"Sansa, it's so important that you understand."
As he raises his sword over the Septa's head, Sansa tries to scream again but the older man's hands muffle her attempts. He starts to fuck her young body with intent, the sound of his hips slapping against her backside fills the room. He feels the head of his cock press again and again at the back wall of her tiny cavern.
"You must understand the danger that you are in here."
Septa Mordane pleads for her life, someone in the crown throws a rotten lettuce, knocking her back on to all fours. The warm sun disappears momentarily under a patch of cloud and goose bumps litter Sansa's perfect complexion. Lord Baelish looks down momentarily at the flawless round mounds of his lover's arse and tears roughly at her flesh with his spare hand. He feels his orgasm building in his chest, threatening to come howling out at any minute.
"Trust... no one... my Lady Sansa."
He struggles through the waves of pleasure overcoming his body. The executioner brings down his weapon over the Septa's head. It takes less than a second for it to reach the nape of her neck, but for Sansa it feels like an eternity. The crowd cheer almost in close motion, she can't ignore the speed at which Lord Baelish is moving inside her. She feels his hand leave her mouth as he grabs her hips with both hands and pulls her towards him, matching his strokes.
His length bruises the back of her vagina. She can feel his pounding in her stomach.
Then, the sword cuts with one swift strike through Septa Mordane's neck, severing her head; like a knife cutting through butter.
Sansa feels her body lose all strength and collapse where she is stood. Petyr uses all of his strength to hold her upright and use her body for a last few important strokes. He also watches as the Septa's body falls in to a slump on the platform. Her head rolls out of sight. Sansa's limp body vibrates with pathetic sobs and pure fear around his twitching cock, they both watch as the blood pours in buckets out of the Septa's stumped neck. It sends waves of pleasure through Littlefinger's twisted body.
He lets go of Sansa who falls in to a heap on the floor. In an instant, he kneels over her tear covered, freckled face, coaxing out his orgasm. She sobs and looks up at him with desperate eyes. He will help her, yet this is everything that he wants. His orgasm washes over her perfect face, pumping out with pressure like the blood pouring from Septa Mordane's corpse.
Petyr cries out with pleasure. Sticky strands of white coat Sansa's plump cheeks and pink lips. Her tongue darts instinctively out to clean them and she cringes at the bitter taste. Petyr smirks, still knelt above her, cock in hand. She's a picture of ruined innocence and beauty on his office floor.
He pulls up his slacks and offers her a hand. She lies wearily on the floor, weeping. After a few seconds, she uses the desk to raise herself to her feet.
Sansa awkwardly avoids eye contact with the older man. He wipes her face clean with a handkerchief, and she feebly nods her head in gratitude. Her face is stern now. Her heart breaks for Septa Mordane.
"So, now what?" She asks. Petyr places the flat of his hand on the side of her face and hand her the dress he'd discarded on the floor.
"Now, you are mine. Not to worry, Cersei will not let her son marry the daughter of a traitor."
He buttons his shirt and walks to the desk, taking a quill and writing on some spare parchment. Sansa slowly steps back in to her pretty dress, her hair damp with sweat.
"I will do my best to help your Father."
As young Sansa Stark begins to slide out of the room, she turns back to look once more at Littlefinger. Her heart feels heavy, confusion fills her head. He's opening the scroll on his desk with a small knife. It's addressed to Ned Stark, Hand of the King. A small smirk curls on the edge of his lips as he reads the words from Catlyn to her husband. He would soon be executed. Such a poetic justice.
He notices Sansa still watching and smiles, eyes twinkling with deviance.
"Don't worry, sweet girl, I am here for you now."