She comes to him two days after her marriage. It is not important that she comes to him, or maybe it is, or maybe the length of time is the important part there. Importance depends on the person in question.
Two days and she goes to him.
The room is warm despite the chill outside. Winter has set in, across all of Westeros if the ravens are true, and she wonders if it has reached as far south as Dorne, tries to imagine the stories of that place, the hot sand and sun, cooled by snow and ice. Her mind has wandered, she tells herself better to focus here and now. She must always have her mind sharp, especially in his presence.
Petyr looks up from his desk, pen coming to a rest on his papers, and she lingers over the way his fingers hold it. “Alayne,” he says, “Should you not be with your new husband?”
Her fingers pluck at the fabric of her gown. “He sleeps,” pause as she stops her fidgeting. “And do I need a reason to come visit my father?”
His eyes darken then, and his face goes still, intense in their gaze.
Her mind flits between Alayne and the girl she used to be; some days she is so firmly Alayne, the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish who has wed the heir of the Vale, and others she is a lord’s daughter, heir herself to a castle she sees only in her dreams where it lies in ruins and is blanketed with white as if in sleep too.
They are older now.
She is older, he is too, but that she is older is even more pressing here. She is weary, and tired, and he is safe. He keeps her safe, keeps her close, uses her but is she not using him too. He guides, she learns, she preens, and he is proud. They are enclosed in the wall’s of the Eyrie, their role, their position, their army bought with the price of her name and maidenhead.
Sansa walks towards him. “I find the company of my husband to be lacking.”
He has to look up at her now, head inclined due to him sitting and her standing. His eyes linger over the places where her skin peaks out from behind her clothing. She can tell what he is going to ask before he does, and so it comes to no surprise when he opens his mouth. “He has not harmed you has he?”
She wonders if she says yes if he will do away with her husband. If she will become a widow, Harry the Heir dead and lost to the ground far below the castle. He would do it, she thinks, maybe, she looks so much like her mother now. His mind is clever and the men would still be theirs, they love her now too.
"No," she answers.
He lifts his free hand to clasp her wrist, warm fingers stained with ink stroking the place where her veins show blue. “But he has not made you happy.”
She shifts even closer, her legs bumping against his knees. “My happiness is not important.”
To his credit, he does not lie to her. His eyes narrow the slightest, but he does not correct her. She knows her part, her place, and what has been asked of her. The reward is what is promised in return.
He strokes her wrist again. “Then let me see if I can make my daughter happy for now.”
Two days is all it takes for her to leave her marriage bed. She trades the cold fingers of Harry the Heir for the warm arms that Petyr wraps around her as she falls to lie on her back on the desk. She draws him in with her long legs, and sighs, this is hers.