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Snow had fallen in the Vale, long before umber had been rinsed away from fire.
Flurries had whipped along the coast the entire journey to White Harbor, long after secret words twined two breaths into one.
Frozen drifts had piled on both banks of the White Knife, as they made their slow journey ever northward, wrapped in furs by day, each other by night.
Not once had Petyr groused about the coming winter, though the set of his shoulders and line of his lips showed clearly enough his distaste for chill winds and soggy flakes. Had they been returning to Winterfell under any other circumstances, with any more certainty of what might greet them, she would have found the man’s discomfort amusing. Frosty temperatures were felt just as acutely by Sansa, though not down to her bones; cheeks and nose and ears turned pink, and it was a fool who ventured outdoors without armor made of wool and hide, but the weather only bit so deep for a Stark.
Even so, it was Petyr who splayed his glove-sheathed palm across the small of her back, who took care to speak against the shell of her ear, even when all else was silent, in a fruitless bid to warm his wife’s flesh. The gestures were accepted, but not returned – only once did Sansa offer to take his hands in hers, a movement met with gently sneering words on the sight of a regent comforting her consort.
Upon their arrival, Lord Baelish and his newly minted Queen in the North were forever in each other’s presence, though never together. First there was the small council to finalize and contend with, liege lords none too pleased at the mockingbird perched upon the auburn wolf’s shoulder; then on the heels of such a private debacle came a feast, a showing of the strength and wealth returned to the castle keep, now that its heir was in her rightful seat. Any possessiveness in the Vale, on the vessel that carried them to her home, had vanished – Sansa was a ruler now, not some catspaw of a minor lord. No whispers brushed fiery tendrils from her face, no fingers skittered over her skirts. Autonomy was the mummer’s show now.
In their bed, however, Petyr tangled against her, on her, under her, using his northern bride as a blanket of choice to ward off a frigidity that grew impossibly greater when the weak sunlight finally disappeared beneath the horizon. She indulged him with roving hands and heated kisses, letting him extract whatever comfort was required to sleep through the night.
Finally, one blustery afternoon as they inspected the battlements, a near constant stream of curses and reprobation over the cost falling from his frost-bitten lips, Sansa took a firm grip of his elbow and dismissed the squire taking careful note of each copper Baelish predicted would be thrown at the tumble of stone.
“Come. Nothing of significance will be accomplished with you in such a state.” Already, the queen was picking her way back to the yard, the hand upon his arm as much a cry for balance as an insistence that he follow her command. “And how does my queen propose to remedy it, hm? Light a bonfire? Convince winter to turn back to spring?” In spite of his chattering scoffs, Petyr allowed himself to be led over cold, packed soil towards the godswood. “Or shall we simply pray to the old gods for bright skies and balmy winds?” he asked with a bark of a laugh. “There is no shelter there; if you are going to keep me from restoring your precious castle, at least allow me the luxury of a lit grate, your grace.”
Wordlessly, she directed him, not to the weeping weirwood, but to the steaming pools about its base. “Get in, Petyr, before you crack a tooth with all that shaking.” Sansa’s manner was as brisk as the clime, knowing her husband would not respond well to being coddled. By the look he gave her, a bystander would think Baelish had just been ordered to slit his own throat; the pair, however, were alone in the grove. With an exasperated sigh, she reached up for the clasp of her own heavy cloak. “Here, see? It will feel far better than any fire.” Using no more ceremony than was required, clothing was removed and folded, layer by layer, until she was down to no more than a shift. “If you keep all of that on, you will be colder when you leave,” she admonished, peeling the final curtain of fabric away, shivering in the air for no more than a breath before crouching and sliding into the nearest pool.
Whatever inclination Petyr had to turn on his heel and retreat to a blazing pile of logs was swiftly abandoned at the presentation of his wife’s unmasked form. Heat he did not know his body contained began to pool in his groin, urging the man to tug and fidget at numerous hooks and laces with fumbling digits until he was as naked as his wife, shuddering heavily up to the moment clear water washed over his skin. Baelish expelled a gusty sigh, as if the springs were forcing the cold from every corner of his body, inside and out, while Sansa could do nothing but smile knowingly.
“Far better, isn’t it?”
After a handful of deep breaths, his eyes slanted to her face, the grin curling along her lips. “Nearly, Lady Baelish. Very nearly.” Careful to not let even his shoulders emerge from the water, he took the few short steps across the mossy bottom to stand before her. Lean arms wrapped tightly at the base of Sansa’s ribs and he buried his nose in the soft slope of her neck, stubble raising a faint pink rash along her flesh. Petyr’s chest rumbled with approval. “Far better, now.”
Chuckling, her own hands slipped to run parallel to his spine, imparting a warmth no longer required. For a long while they stood there, submerged and surrounded by steam, pressed to the side of the pool, together. When Sansa began to think it would be a pleasant place to sleep, wedged between Petyr and the green cushion of the spring, her husband’s lips began to experimentally press along her shoulder; lower, against her belly, she could feel his cock begin to stir.
“Not here,” she said lazily. “We could be seen.” Her mind turned to the crying red eyes of the heart tree, the old gods said to reside here still. “Let them watch,” he growled in return, and whether Baelish meant the gods or the guards or whichever northerners happened to amble past was unclear, though his larger intentions were clear as the winter sky.
Hands slid along her back to cup beneath Sansa’s bottom, pressing gently into the furrow between curve and thigh. It was an instruction he had given her before, and so her arms moved between them, twining around Petyr’s neck as her legs hooked behind his hips. “If we’re seen…” Any worry he swallowed before it could be given life. Mouth thoroughly occupied with her lips and that perfect, warm tongue, Baelish ground into her center, fully hard now; under the water, it could not be said for certain if her arousal matched his, though the arch of her spine and soft moans did not lack encouragement.
Pressing her into the pool’s side, one hand left Sansa long enough to align himself with her entrance; when she felt that familiar pressure, her legs tightened, encouraging his cock to slide home, forcing her head to fall back, mouth open in a soundless groan when their pelvises met. Petyr’s burrowed once more where neck and shoulder sloped together, kissing and sucking and scraping as he began to move within his wife.
Baelish’s need to stay as sheltered within the hot spring as possible overrode his desire to fuck the queen, his queen, that exquisite being atop him, allowing so many liberties all other men could only dream of; preservation of warmth, then, restricted his motion to circular grinding, punctuated by a sharp thrust deep within her.
What their coupling lacked in raw physicality, it accounted for in closeness. Wet fingers left his nape to fist in Petyr’s grey-threaded hair, holding his lips to that sensitive place and providing leverage for Sansa to exert her own control. Restricted though it may be, their position made it all too easy for her to chase her pleasure, rocking in a slow, heavy beat against her husband; the rhythmic brushing of that small nub against his groin, the nudging movements of his cock far inside her, the shocks of pleasure brought on by teeth and mouth – all combined to wind tight the coil between her legs.
Soon, far sooner than she anticipated, her motions turned greedy. Knees bent and relaxed while hips tilted and swayed, drawing him deeper, drawing him closer, until the pleasure built to a painful precipice. “Come with me,” she urged, mindless of just what his own state might allow. The rapid scrape of stubble told Sansa he had nodded, and so she continued, heels digging into the small of Petyr’s back while she worked against him, soft pants broken by longing mewls when her climax flitted closer and further away once more.
Then his body went tense, nails printing half-moons in her haunches as he shoved her into the pool’s edge, driving himself as deep as he could while his climax barreled down on him. Desperate now, Sansa clung to him with impossible tightness, jerking her hips up and down and up and down until she joined her husband, a primal moan joining the opaque cloud hanging over the steaming water as each writhed and thrust against the other.
As quickly as they had reached their summit, the queen and her consort took ample time descending, small ripples of pleasure disturbing their peace and the still surface of the pool, Petyr continuing to leisurely move while Sansa ran idle kisses along his brow and cheek and throat. Even when he turned too soft to remain inside her, he kept them wrapped together, letting her chase what fleeting sparks remained.
“I told you this would be more pleasant than a fire,” she japed breathily, finally catching his eye, nose brushing alongside his.
Baelish’s smirk was rounded by the sated lust still on his features, but still it came. “One could not say, my lady, until you accompany me before one in such a manner as well.”
That evening, he was forced to admit her victory, though the loss was not a bitter one to suffer.