A/N Tyrion and Sansa actually do consummate their marriage. This story has been posted before, but I've done some heavy editing and made it a bit better, though I'm still not entirely happy with this chapter. This will be a three-shot, but there's only smut in chapter 2.

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones isn't mine.

"Tyrion, if a Lannister babe is not growing in that girl by the time the year is out, I put one in her myself! Am I clear?"

Lord Tywin was calm, as always. Tyrion had always found his father's level tone maddening.

"Yes, Father,"

He had sworn to Lady Sansa that he would protect her, always. But he could not see any way that he could talk his way out of this. This threat, perhaps promise would be a more appropriate word, changed everything. Tyrion hoped his marriage to Sansa would go unconsummated forever. She was unspoiled, innocent and well, he was a disgusting cripple who had fucked hundreds of whores over the years. She deserved better.

Tyrion stood up and stalked out of his father's office. There was no point keeping this news from his wife, as it would disturb her even more than it did him. As he left the room, he shot an evil glare in his father's direction before navigating the castle towards Sansa's chambers. Being mid-afternoon, of course, it was perfectly possible that she wasn't there, and undertaking some leisure activity deemed appropriate for the innocent girl. Knocking on the door, he quickly discovered that she was not there, and endeavoured to find her later. It would be impertinent to disturb her if she was with Lady Margaery or some other noble woman.

He made his way to his own chamber, where he sat at his desk and opened a book. He was unaware as to which book, and could not focus on the words. All he could think of was the naivety and innocence of the girl he was supposed to fuck tonight. She was no woman, though she had bled. She was innocent to the ways of men, to the ways of war. Unfortunately, his father was learned in those ways, which was the real reason why she had been forced into this position.

Tyrion had grown up a cripple, an outcast. He never expected to be a tool to be commanded by his father in this way. No one had ever wanted him. He never expected to be married for politics. Whoever he was given to would see it as an insult. That was why he took comfort in his whores and his wine. It made him feel like someone cared. This line of thought lead him to the night he fucked his first woman. It was some whore, when he was sixteen. He was never one to even consider saving himself for marriage, mostly because he never believed he would marry.

But Sansa, she was a noble girl, who had grown up with all the correct habits and interests, taught to be the best things a woman could be. She was obedient and innocent, but had also learned, in the years since she had come to King's Landing, to understand the evils of the world. She had already been through such an ordeal, what with Joffrey's constant torment and the deaths, murders, of much of her family.

But then, perhaps it was better for him to take her, and not have his father rape her. That would scar her more. Tyrion had slept with so many whores that he knew practically everything there was to know about fucking, and he knew how be gentle with Sansa. So perhaps he was protecting her, in some twisted way.

Sansa walked through the palace gardens with Lady Margaery. Both women had been raised in a proper fashion, making them pleasurable company for each other, especially considering their shared love of King Joffrey. They chatted idly, occasionally commenting upon the beauty of the flowers, freshly opened out as the late spring turned into early summer.

Sansa spoke about her husband, sharing hushed comments about his height, or his slowly healing battle scars. Margaery spoke of her betrothal to Joffrey, and the plans for the celebrations, which would take place in a few weeks.

As the sun began to fade for the day, both women headed for their chambers to dress themselves for dinner. However, no sooner had Sansa selected a gown for that evening, there was a knock at the door.

"Sansa," the voice outside said. "It's Tyrion. May I come in?"

Quickly handing the dress to her handmaiden, she murmured, "Of course, my lord."

He pushed open the door and stumped in. He instructed the handmaiden to wait outside, as this was not something that she needed to hear.

"Sansa," he began. "I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you,"

Her eyes opened wide. What could it be? She felt rude for not saying anything, but could find no words until she knew what this news was.

"Sit," he offered, pulling a chair out for her before seating himself opposite her. There was no wine. "I have spoken to my father. He is unhappy that we have chosen to leave our marriage unconsummated for so long. He demands that a babe reside within you before the year is out. Do you understand what this means?"

She offered a feeble nod, and she was fighting to keep control of her emotions. Her cheeks were red, and a tear was forcing its way out of one eye.

He continued, "I know that I vowed never to touch you, but I also promised to protect you, and my father has threatened to do it himself if I do not. And trust me, this is no idle threat. He would rape you in a heartbeat if he believed that it would benefit the Lannister family."

He paused there, as a mist formed over her blue-grey eyes. She could not quite process what he had just told her, but she was filled with an instant dread. She really did not want to do that with Tyrion, but she would much rather do it with a man who at least cared for her than be raped by Tywin. She wanted to hate Tyrion for telling her this, but his tone was protective and genuinely concerned. So it was Tywin she really hated. Tyrion, the twisted, unwanted cripple, wasn't the worst Lannister after all.

Tyrion, who was better composed than Sansa, went outside and told the handmaiden to apologise to those at the dinner table as his wife was feeling unwell and asked her to bring their food up to Sansa's chambers. Quickly, a full platter of food was brought before them, mercifully accompanied by a jug of wine. Tyrion allowed himself only one cup. He knew that he must stay as sober as possible if he wanted to control himself properly tonight.

They sat in a companionable silence for a time following their meal, each trying to think about anything but their impending task. Finally, Tyrion stood up, reaching up to rest a comforting hand on Sansa's shoulder. She had barely touched her food, he noticed. Poor child. There was no way to make this any easier.