First Nights

(Sansa)

A/N: I wanted to write short descriptive scenes from characters who I don't usually write about. Of course, I started with Sansa, who I'm used to writing about... but this story will later include Cersei, Samwell Tarly, Margaery, Catelyn Stark, and perhaps some others.

Warning: This chapter contains a non-consensual (non-explicit) scene.


i.

Her elegant gown whispers to the stone floor as she sweeps along the corridor in her little husband's wake (even Rickon must be taller than him, now). She'd dreamed of such a gown, envisioned the fine silk that her handsome husband would carefully slip from her shoulders on her wedding night. But this odd, disfigured man can only just barely reach her waist unaided. She has almost managed to convince herself that the cold prickling along her arms is nothing more than an evening draft, that it has nothing to do with dreading what is to come, when her lord husband (the words turn over in her head; still, they do not make sense) stops before a door. Following him into the room, she wishes for a cloak, a shawl, anything she could wrap around her shoulders to ward off the chill (ward off this night), but she has nothing.

He drunkenly compliments her neck and informs her that their marriage must be consummated. Well, she expected nothing less, but she turns to the wine. Wine will warm her, will give her courage.

She begins to undress, battling tears (she must do her duty) as the embroidered fabric sighs against her skin, trying not to think of the wedding night she'd imagined. The man sitting on the bed waiting should have been young, tall, strong. He should have sat gracefully on the bed, not swung up with a hop on wine-unsteady arms. He should have had golden hair and a sweet smile… and here she stops, for she is thinking of Joffrey, who has shown himself to be cruel, vicious, unkind, for all that he is handsome. Although she is quite afraid of him, her thoughts stray to him at times. If he hadn't killed her father, would she have known that he was such a monster? Or would she still be blind?

Suddenly the Imp (Tyrion. She must call him Tyrion) tells her to stop, and she is nearly sick with relief at this unexpected reprieve. He promises her he will not touch her until she is ready. She will never be ready, not for him. He can find another woman with his Lannister gold, and she will wait for Robb to come, siege the castle, wake her from this nightmare.

But it is another nightmare she wakes to, when a hand across her mouth breaks her anxious sleep in the cold bridal bed. Joffrey's face hovers over her own, barely visible in the dim firelight. She tries to scream but his hand presses harder. His breath, hot against her ear, makes her shudder. "I promised you a visit, my lady."

She flails against Joffrey, but he does nothing. "Scream, and I'll have you killed." His whisper, heavily scented with wine, burns her cheek. He releases her and she lies shaking, frozen, as he lights a candle. She starts. Does he really mean to have her in his uncle's chambers, on her wedding night? Won't Tyrion see?

Apparently not, she realizes, as she hears a long snore. Joffrey reappears, laughing. "He couldn't do it, could he? I see no bloodied sheets. I knew my uncle wasn't man enough to take you. Well, I'll have you first, and he'll wake to bloody sheets. How will you explain that, my lady?"

All she can do is shake her head, too shocked to even cry. (No, no, no. I thought wedding Tyrion was the worst thing that could happen to me.)

Joffrey leans in, and she flinches, but all he does is caress her cheek with a finger. "My sweet lady," he says. "I did not want to let you go. They made me, you know. If I'd had my way, tonight would be our wedding night." His fingers find her loosened curls and comb through them, ending on her breasts, which are only lightly covered by her nightdress. He rubs them, awkwardly, as if he's uncertain what to do. Dumbfounded, she can do nothing but stare. (He's being kind. It must be a trick.)

His hand rises to her shoulders as his face nears hers. The smell of wine again crawls into her nostrils, and she realizes that he must be even drunker than Tyrion was. He grips her shoulders and kisses her clumsily, once, then again. She finds herself returning the second kiss, and he at once pushes her back onto the bed, his fingers dragging down her chest between her breasts. He shoves her thin gown up around her thighs, roughly running his hands between her legs. She shivers, but she's not sure if it's with cold, fear, or anticipation. Here is her sweet prince, once again. Joffrey plants damp, warm kisses on her neck, her chin, her cheek, and her lips, and she isn't sure if he's aimed them or can't tell what he's doing in the dark. "Sansa, my sweet," he murmurs again and again. "My lady. You'll never betray me."

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so she gives it. "I would never betray you, my king," she promises, although of course she already has.

His hand slips higher, shoving insistently at the top of her thighs, and when his fingers brush her, she feels something, but his hand stills and stops and he slumps against her, his mouth slack against her collarbone as the wine finally takes him.

And then she cries, because she cannot sleep, can do nothing but wait for the morning.