Title: The Bastard of Winterfell
Author: PrettyPoppy
Summary: After being convicted of Joffrey's murder, Tyrion Lannister escapes King's Landing and spends the next five years in exile. When he finally returns to Westeros, he discovers that there is a new Lord of Winterfell, a little boy named Eddard Lannister. Although Sansa swears the child is his, Tyrion is too jaded to believe it, even though he once spent the night in Sansa's bed.
Author's Notes: This story begins all the way back in Season Three, but after the prologue, there will be a considerable time jump. Also, this story is canon-divergent. In this version, Sansa is never sold to the Boltons and Tyrion never meets Daenerys.
Although the first draft of this fic is complete, it still needs a lot of work, so I will be posting as I edit. Right now, I don't have a set posting schedule. I will simply update this fic whenever I can. The first draft has 32 chapters and is about 125k words long, though all of that may change as I work through the editing process.
Prologue
Sansa Stark paced the floor in the bedchamber she shared with her new husband, wringing her hands and trying desperately not to panic. The hour was late, and she knew that Tyrion would return to their chamber soon. She had endured a particularly trying day, and she wasn't at all prepared for what she knew she must do as soon as her husband returned.
The day had started like any other. Sansa and Tyrion had broken their fast in their own chamber, and then, Tyrion had gone off to do small council business. Sansa had gotten dressed and joined Margaery Tyrell for a turn around the garden. It had all been quite ordinary and mundane until . . . until . . . Joffrey had found her, just as she'd been making her way back to her rooms for the afternoon meal.
He'd cornered Sansa in a deserted hallway, pushed her up against the wall, and viciously groped her while whispering threats against her ear. Sansa had been unable to do anything but stand there trembling in fear. Had Margaery not suddenly come upon them, Joffrey might have made good on his threats right then and there. As it was, he'd been forced to remove his hands from her person and pretend that he'd just been leaning in to tell her a secret joke about his uncle.
Of course, Margaery hadn't believed a single word, but she'd played along just fine. She'd sidled up to Joffrey, wrapped her arm around his, and led him off in the opposite direction, leaving Sansa free to make her escape.
Sansa had made a mad dash for her room, slamming the door behind her and locking it. She'd spent the rest of the day hiding in her bedchamber, trying to decide what to do about Joffrey's threats.
Even now, she could still hear his words inside her head. You like it when I touch you, don't you? Wait till I put myself inside you. I'm going to make you scream.
Sansa shuddered at the memory, and she stopped dead still. She stared at the door, her heart pounding, her limbs trembling. She could still feel Joffrey's hands upon her, his fingers biting into her breast, his hand trailing up her thigh. Nothing would make the feeling go away. Nothing.
More words flooded her brain as she stood there lost in her own memory. If my uncle can't put a baby in you, I'm going to do it for him. No woman should still be a virgin weeks after her wedding night. Don't worry, my dear Aunt Sansa, I will take care of you, even though my uncle can't.
Suddenly, the door handle rattled, and Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin. She watched as someone tried to push the door open, but of course, it wouldn't budge because it was still locked.
Had Sansa been capable of speech, she would have asked who it was, but she was too terrified to even draw breath. It wasn't until she heard Tyrion swear that she knew who was behind the door.
"Sansa, are you in there? Open the door."
In a great burst of relief, Sansa rushed forward, struggling to unlock the door with numb fingers. Eventually, she got it open and stood back so that Tyrion could enter.
As he stepped inside, he looked up at her and instantly asked, "What's wrong?"
Sansa shook her head, determined to pretend that she was perfectly fine. "Nothing, my lord," she said, both her voice and her manner belying her words.
"Nothing?" Tyrion raised a skeptical brow as he turned and closed the door behind him. Then, he locked it for good measure, something he'd never done before. When he turned back around, his eyes met hers once more. "Would you like to try that again?"
"No, my lord."
Tyrion scowled. He meandered into the room, heading straight for the flagon of wine on the table in the center of the chamber. "You weren't at dinner," he said as he poured himself a glass. "Is there a reason?"
"I wasn't hungry."
Tyrion laughed, the sound short and bitter. "Of course." He took a sip of the wine and then turned and eyed her thoughtfully. "Have you, by any chance, seen my nephew today?"
Sansa looked away, suddenly unable to meet Tyrion's gaze. She wanted to deny that her current state had anything to do with Joffrey, but she wasn't a particularly good liar, especially when she was in such distress.
"I see," Tyrion said. He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, he asked, "Did he hurt you?"
Sansa shook her head again. She still couldn't face Tyrion.
She heard him put his glass down on the table. "Sansa, look at me, please."
It took all her willpower to do as he asked. When she did, she found him staring up at her with deep concern.
"I know you think you can't trust me," Tyrion said. "I know you think you're alone in this. But you are my wife, Sansa, and nothing could be further from the truth. I am your lord husband, and I am sworn to protect you, even against my own family. Even against the king. I would never let any harm come to you. I swear it. By the old gods and the new. If Joffrey has done something to you, you must tell me so that I know how to protect you and I know how much of his cock to have Ser Bronn cut off."
A nervous laugh escaped Sansa's throat at the thought of Joffrey losing his manhood, but she suppressed it as quickly as she could.
"Ah, that's better," Tyrion said, his expression lightening. "Now, will you please tell me what happened? I don't make idle promises or idle threats. If Joffrey has hurt you, he will pay the price."
Sansa studied her husband for a long moment. There were very few people in her life she could trust anymore. She trusted Shae, of course, even though Shae had warned her not to. And she trusted Margaery, although she didn't always quite understand Margaery's motives. And then, there was Littlefinger, but Littlefinger was far from the Red Keep at the moment, and so, she could no longer rely on him. And that was it. The only people she trusted in all of King's Landing. Did she dare add her husband to the list?
"Well?" Tyrion prompted when she didn't answer. "I promise, I'm not going to judge you or punish you for telling me the truth. I just want to know what that bastard did so that I know what to do to him."
The idea of someone, anyone, inflicting punishment on Joffrey was simply too tempting for Sansa to ignore. She'd seen Tyrion stand up to his nephew once before, the day Joffrey had commanded that she be stripped and beaten before the Iron Throne, and she knew he could stand up to him again.
"He . . . the king . . . he . . ."
"Yes?" Tyrion asked, his attention keenly focused on Sansa.
"He came upon me in the corridor as I was returning to my room for the afternoon meal. He pushed me up against the wall and . . ." The words died in her throat. They were so very hard to say. Not just because Joffrey was king. Not just because accusing him of assault was treason. But because Sansa was still reeling from what he had done to her and just speaking the words made it all feel real again.
"Go on," Tyrion said softly. "You're doing fine."
Sansa inhaled a steadying breath and forced herself to continue. "He groped me, and he threatened me. He said if you were not going to put a baby inside me, he would do it himself."
Tyrion's eyes darkened, and his jaw clenched. Sansa could see that he was angry, but whether he was angry with Joffrey or angry with her, she didn't quite know. Could he have been lying to her? Had he told her that he would protect her just to get her to confess the truth? Sansa's heart thudded against her ribs as she waited for him to speak.
"What stopped him?" Tyrion asked, his voice painfully tight. "What stopped him from making good on his threat?"
"Margaery Tyrell came upon us and stopped him before he could go any further. She led him toward the gardens, and I locked myself in here. I haven't opened the door since then."
Tyrion nodded slowly, as if he was taking his time absorbing and analyzing every last word she had said. Sansa waited for him to speak, her breath caught in her throat. It took him longer than she would have liked. By the time he opened his mouth again, she thought she might faint.
"I'm going to assign you a personal guard," Tyrion said, then quickly thought better of it. "Better make that two guards. From now on, you will not go anywhere alone, and that door," he pointed to it with a fierceness that belied his calm, "that door stays locked at all times. Understood?"
"Yes." The word was barely a whisper. It was so weak, in fact, that it almost sounded like a sob.
"Oh, Sansa," Tyrion said, instinctively moving toward her, "please, don't cry."
"I'm not crying," she said, forcing a strength into her voice that she simply didn't feel.
Tyrion stopped, leaving a considerable distance between them. He looked as if he wanted to reach out to her, to take her hands, to offer her comfort, but he didn't. And Sansa was glad. She wasn't ready to take comfort from a Lannister just yet, not even her husband. She had yet to reach that level of desperation.
"I am going to protect you," Tyrion said. "Joffrey may be king, but my father keeps him on a tight leash. I will speak with him about this, and I will make sure that Joffrey never bothers you again."
"Are you certain Lord Tywin won't agree with him?"
"What?" Tyrion seemed surprised by the question.
"You've said from the beginning that your father commanded you to consummate this marriage. Are you sure that he won't simply side with Joffrey? Does Lord Tywin care who puts a baby inside me as long as it's a Lannister?"
Tyrion's gaze grew hard, and again, Sansa wondered if he was angry with her or if his fury was directed at someone else.
Suddenly, he tore his eyes away from her and stared out into the room. "Fuck," he swore violently.
Sansa wasn't used to swearing, though she already knew that Tyrion was quite fond of it. She didn't know what had caused the sudden outburst, but she knew it couldn't be anything good.
It was a long time before Tyrion looked at her again. When he did, there was a clarity in his gaze, a resignation, that made her skin flush cold.
"I wish I could tell you that you're wrong," Tyrion said. "I'd love nothing more than to tell you a fairytale, than to tell you that my father will protect your virtue at all costs. But that would be a lie, and I can't lie to you, Sansa. You're my wife, and I would never lie to you."
"Then what can we do?" Sansa asked, afraid she already knew the answer. "I don't want Joffrey to ever touch me again. I would do anything to keep that from happening. Anything."
There was promise in her words, challenge, defeat. It was all there. All Tyrion had to do was take advantage of it. Sansa didn't want to lie with him, she truly didn't, but she feared the alternative more than she feared going to her husband's bed.
"Sansa." The word was a sigh on his lips. "You don't want to know what we should do."
"Tell me anyway," she replied, her voice hard, steadfast.
Tyrion's bottom lip quivered as he fought with himself, trying to form the words but failing. "I can't."
"Try."
Tyrion sighed heavily, and Sansa could see the disgust in his eyes. "The only way to make sure that Joffrey can't steal your virtue is for you to surrender it to someone else. And, as I am your husband—"
He couldn't finish the thought, but he didn't have to. Sansa already knew what he'd been going to say.
"I would have to surrender it to you."
Tyrion nodded, not a single word passing his lips. It was as if the most loquacious man in all of Westeros had suddenly gone mute, rendered speechless by the thought of bedding his wife.
"And there's no other way to ensure that he won't rape me?" she asked, hoping beyond hope that Tyrion's agile mind might be able to think of some preferable alternative.
"Even if you surrender yourself to me," Tyrion croaked, "nothing can ensure that he will never rape you, except, perhaps, his much-longed-for death."
"But if you bed me?"
"It might put it off indefinitely. If my father knew that our marriage had been consummated, he might be more inclined to keep Joffrey away. But it is no guarantee."
Sansa chewed the inside of her bottom lip, weighing her options carefully. Even though she was married to Tyrion, she was still holding out hope that Robb would come and rescue her, that he'd break down the walls of the Red Keep and carry her away long before she'd ever have to lie with Tyrion Lannister. Then, the marriage might be annulled, and she'd be free to find true love, just as she'd always longed for. Giving herself to Tyrion now would shatter that dream forever, and Sansa wasn't sure she was quite prepared for that. However, the alternative was much worse, and so she warred with herself, uncertain of where her heart and her fear would lead her.
Although she barely knew Tyrion, he had always been kind to her. He had never once mistreated her or struck out at her in anger. He was always kind, patient, understanding. If she went to his bed, she knew there was a chance that he would be just as kind, patient, and understanding there as he was during their walks in the garden or during their morning meals. Giving herself to Tyrion would be heartbreaking, yes, but it wouldn't be violent, it wouldn't be angry, she wouldn't be lying beneath him listening to him spit threats in her ear. He'd be gentle, he'd be considerate. She just knew he would. And even though it would make her ache in the deepest recesses of her soul, it would not destroy her the way being brutally raped by Joffrey would.
And so Sansa finally made her decision.
"I would rather be bedded by you than be raped by Joffrey," she said, the sound hollow in her throat.
Sansa's words hung between them, the air thick with tension. She knew there was no going back. She had made her wishes known, and now, she had no choice but to wait and see what Tyrion would do.
For the longest time, he did nothing but stare at her. He seemed to be just as much in shock as she was. As the silence dragged on, Sansa's anxiety rose like bile in her throat and she fought the urge to break down and cry.
Finally, Tyrion's words cut the silence. "And I would rather that you not give yourself to me out of fear. I told you on our wedding night that I would not share your bed until you want me to. Wanting me to share your bed because you think it's better than being raped by Joffrey is not exactly what I had in mind."
"And yet, that is the reason. The only reason. But I want it just the same."
Tyrion squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He scrunched up his face, as if he were in pain, before swearing softly. When he opened his eyes, he looked at Sansa again. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"I am. If we continue to wait, Joffrey will use it as an excuse to rape me, and I can't let that happen."
"As I've already said, he may rape you anyway. You may be saving yourself nothing by giving yourself to me now."
"I will save myself the horror of having my maidenhood forcibly taken from me. It will be little consolation, of course, if Joffrey gets his way, but at least it will be something. At least, for once, I'm the one making the decision about what happens to me. Not you, not Lord Tywin, not Joffrey, but me. And that's about the best I can hope for right now, but it's enough."
There were tears in her eyes by the time she finished talking, but they didn't fall against her cheeks. Sansa held herself with all the dignity and grace she possessed. She had made a decision – her own decision, for herself – and she was determined to see it through till the end.
"Well?" Sansa asked as Tyrion continued to stare silently up at her.
"Well, . . . I suppose I have no choice but to give you what you want. But only if you're sure."
"I'm sure."
Tyrion sighed, his shoulders slumping with the effort. "All right then. When do you want to do this?"
"Now," Sansa replied, without giving herself even a single moment to reconsider.
"Now?" There was an incredulity in his voice that surprised her.
"Yes, now. Right now. Tonight. Before he has another chance to get me alone. Before he makes things even worse in retribution for having been thwarted today."
Tyrion's eyes seemed to lose their focus as he looked about the room in disbelief. Eventually, his gaze settled on the bed, and Sansa watched him intently, curious to see how he intended to proceed.
"I . . . I suppose it would be best," he said, his eyes never leaving the bed, "if you were to get undressed and get beneath the covers before I join you. I'll dim the lights, if you like, so that it can all be done in the dark."
Sansa's eyes drifted toward the bed as she began to imagine the coming ordeal. She had always dreamed about going to her marriage bed with a man she loved. Her father had once promised to find her a husband who was brave and gentle and strong. That was the man Sansa had always fantasized about being with, but now, she was faced with reality, and reality couldn't have been more different. She didn't hate Tyrion, not really. But she didn't love him either, and she certainly didn't want him. She knew that what they were about to do wouldn't be pleasant, but it wouldn't be unbearable either. She was certain she could endure it, if only to save herself from a worse fate.
The time for talking was done. Without another word, Sansa moved across the room, stopping beside the bed and waiting for the light to fade. She heard Tyrion scrambling about behind her, moving from candle to candle, lamp to lamp, extinguishing each flame in turn. When it was finally dark enough for Sansa to feel comfortable, she began undressing.
Despite her firm resolve, her limbs shook with every movement and her fingers fumbled helplessly at the ties of her gown. She felt like she was reliving her wedding night all over again, only this time, Tyrion wouldn't stop her before she pulled off her shift. He wouldn't declare his intention to forgo his duty, and he wouldn't spend the night sleeping on the divan. No, he would allow her to undress completely, and then, he would join her in the bed and finally make her a woman. All because she feared Joffrey more than she feared her loveless marriage.
"Is everything all right?" Tyrion asked from somewhere behind her in the ever-darkening room.
"I'm fine," Sansa said, her voice quavering with the effort.
"If you've changed your mind—"
"I haven't. Please, finish with the lights."
Sansa turned her attention back to the ties at her waist, and Tyrion continued his work. She pursed her lips together, concentrating with all her might on the silken cord that held her gown together. A few more tries and she finally made purchase, pulling the knot loose and allowing the fabric to fall open.
Sansa shrugged out of her gown, laying it at the bottom of the bed. Then, she reached for one of the straps holding her shift in place and slowly slid it down her arm. The room behind her had grown quiet, but Sansa did her best to ignore it. Whether Tyrion was watching her or not made no difference. She was his wife, and her body belonged to him. If he wanted to watch her, then so be it.
With trembling fingers, Sansa reached up and pulled down the other strap. Then, summoning up all the courage she possessed, she pushed her shift down over her breasts and past her waist, finally allowing it to slip to the floor. For a moment, she just stood there, feeling the cool evening air caressing her naked flesh, wondering where Tyrion was and if he was excited by the sight of her or disgusted by it. Although instinct told her to dash beneath the bedclothes, she was too numb to even move.
"Are you undressed yet?" Tyrion asked, his voice sounding like a phantom's in the near-darkness.
Sansa was surprised that he didn't already know the answer to his own question. He must not have been watching her after all.
"Yes," she whispered, her throat too tight to form anything but a single syllable.
"Then get into bed. You don't want to catch cold."
Without turning around to look at him, Sansa pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. The room was not pitch-dark. Although all the lights had been extinguished, there was still a full moon outside that shone brightly through the unshuttered windows. It was enough light to see the soft outline of the curtains hanging around the bed, but not enough to detect the patterns in the fabric.
Sansa lay on her back, the blankets pulled up to her chest, her fingers clutching them tightly. She knew she had asked for this. She had no one to blame but herself. And Joffrey, of course. Tyrion wasn't coming to her because he wanted to hurt her. He was coming to her because she had asked him to, because she had convinced him to, and she could not fault him for that. No matter how much she wanted to. Despite the pounding of her heart, she wasn't about to be raped, she was about to consummate her marriage.
Sansa focused on the canopy above her as she listened to Tyrion preparing himself for bed. She wondered if he would come to her naked or if he would wear his shift. She hoped for the latter, of course, but it was a small, false hope, and she knew it.
Time seemed to stand still as Sansa waited. She counted the seconds with the beating of her own heart, and it felt like an eternity before Tyrion finally joined her. When he did, he moved up along the other side of the bed, pulled back the bedclothes, and climbed in beside her.
Sansa held her breath, waiting for Tyrion to move. Even though he was at least a foot away, she could feel the heat radiating off his body. She sensed rather than saw that he was completely naked, and the thought terrified her. She wondered if she should try to back out while she still had the chance. But she was certain that, even if she tried, Tyrion would demand that they continue. He was a man, after all, and she had led him this far. Men had needs that Sansa only barely understood, and she knew that sometimes they had difficulty controlling them. Why should Tyrion Lannister be any different?
"Sansa?" his voice came to her in the semi-darkness, soft and low and warm.
"Yes?"
"I know we've come this far, but I have to ask you, one more time, are you sure this is what you want? If you've changed your mind, there's no harm done. We can both just go to sleep and pretend this never happened."
Sansa was stunned silent. It was as if Tyrion had read her mind. He was offering her exactly what she was hoping for, an out, a reprieve, but she knew she couldn't take it. If she did, they'd just have to play out this same little scene the following night, because once she came back to her senses, she would still be desperate to do anything to foil Joffrey's plans, even give herself to Tyrion Lannister.
"No," Sansa said, forcing the word from her throat. "No, I want this. I want it done, and I want it done now. Please."
"As you wish."
Sansa's heart sank, and she closed her eyes, hiding herself in the darkness behind her closed lids, praying to all the gods, both old and new, that she would survive the coming night with as little suffering as possible. She waited for Tyrion to touch her. And waited and waited.
Finally, Sansa opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow, catching her first glimpse of her husband beside her. "What's wrong?" she asked.
Tyrion was lying on his side, looking at her with eyes full of longing and regret. "I know this isn't what you want," he said. "I know you don't want me. I know you're only doing this because you feel you have to. But that doesn't mean it has to be torture for you. I don't want it to be torture for you. I want it to be pleasant, pleasurable even. I want to help you, Sansa. Please, let me help you."
"How?"
"Have you ever—?" he stopped as if searching for the right words. "Have you ever imagined what it would be like to lie with a man?"
Sansa's cheeks burned hotly, and she was thankful that Tyrion couldn't see the flush of her skin in the shadowy room. Of course, she had imagined what it would be like to lie with a man, more times than it was proper for a lady ever to admit. But she couldn't tell Tyrion that. What would he think of her if she told him the truth? He would accuse her of being a slut, no better than a common whore. She would not, she could not, admit to her husband that a single impure thought had ever raced through her mind. She simply could not disgrace herself in such a way, not even if her husband demanded it.
"I . . . I have never—"
"Sansa." Tyrion's voice was firm, almost commanding as he cut her off. "I want to help you. If I'm going to do that, we're going to have to be honest with each other."
"I am being honest," she said, her cheeks growing even hotter. "I have never imagined such a disgraceful thing in all my life."
Tyrion laughed. "And who said it was such a disgraceful thing? Your mother? Your septa? Somehow, I think that Catelyn Stark, of all people, finds nothing disgraceful about spending the night in her husband's bed. After all, she managed to give him five children. Had she found it that disgraceful, I'm sure she would have found a way out of it."
Sansa didn't like Tyrion talking about her parents, but he did have a point. Her mother had taught her not to be afraid of the marriage bed. She had told her about the pain, but also the joy. The problem was, in Sansa's mind, there could only ever be joy if there was also love. But without love, sharing her husband's bed was a duty to be endured, not a pleasure to rejoice in. And there was definitely no love between her and Tyrion. Their coupling was a duty, plain and simple. Nothing more.
"You shouldn't talk about my mother like that," Sansa said. "It's indecent."
Tyrion laughed again, though the sound was softer this time. "All right. My apologies to you and Lady Stark. Though I meant your dear mother no slight. She is a strong woman who knows her own mind, and she should be commended for that."
"Do you think we could get on with it?" Sansa asked, her nerves starting to get the better of her. The sooner they stopped talking, the sooner they could begin. And the sooner they began, the sooner it would be over with.
"Forgive me, my lady. I had no idea that you were so eager for me. I do not wish to keep you waiting."
Sansa wanted to scream. She was in no mood to be teased. But she held her tongue, careful not to give him yet one more reason to keep talking.
But he kept talking anyway. "If we are going to do this," Tyrion said, "then there's something I want you to do for me."
Sansa's heart lodged in her throat. "What . . . what is it?" she asked, the words barely discernable.
"I know you said that you've never imagined what it would be like to lie with a man, and while I would never doubt your word, I would like you to pretend for me that you have done just that."
"What? Why?" Sansa was thoroughly confused. So confused, in fact, that for a moment, she completely forgot to be nervous.
"I know I am not the husband of your dreams. But there must be someone in your past who you adored so fervently that you wanted to . . . marry him."
"Yes," Sansa scoffed, "Joffrey."
"Other than Joffrey."
Sansa thought for a moment. "Well, there was Ser Loras."
She thought she heard Tyrion choke. "Yes. Ser Loras. That will do. Have you ever imagined what it would be like to . . . be married to Ser Loras?"
"Of course. We were betrothed after all."
"Well, then, as much as it pains me to say this – for reasons I think you're a bit too inexperienced to understand – I want you to close your eyes and imagine that I am Ser Loras."
Sansa laughed. She hadn't imagined herself capable of laughing at that moment, but what Tyrion was suggesting was simply too absurd to respond any other way.
"I see you find that amusing," Tyrion said, not a hint of resentment in his tone.
"I'm sorry," Sansa replied, trying to hide the mirth in her voice. "I don't think it's amusing at all."
"In the dark, when your eyes are closed, I assure you, you will not be able to tell the difference between me and the Knight of Flowers."
"I mean no offense when I say this, my lord, but I sincerely doubt that."
"Then close your eyes and let me prove it."
There was more challenge than command in his tone, and Sansa was too proud to back down from a challenge. Especially a challenge issued by a Lannister.
She eyed Tyrion skeptically, and then, when she was certain he wasn't going to admit that he was bluffing, she turned her head on the pillow so she was once again facing the canopy above. Sansa held her breath for a moment before finally closing her eyes. She doubted Tyrion's assertion that she couldn't tell the difference between him and Loras Tyrell in the dark, and she looked forward to proving him wrong.
Sansa exhaled and settled herself into the mattress. When she was finally ready for him, she said, a smile in her voice, "All right, you may begin, . . . Ser Loras."
Sansa had expected Tyrion to close the distance between them immediately, but he didn't. Instead, she felt his hand skim her shoulder, and then, he picked up a stray lock of her hair and let it cascade over her skin, sending a sudden chill rippling down her arm. Although it was an unexpected feeling, it was not altogether unpleasant.
Tyrion paused then, and Sansa waited in breathless anticipation for him to continue. So far, he was right. She couldn't tell the difference between him and Loras Tyrell, but hardly anything had happened yet, and she knew that would soon change.
Eventually, Tyrion reached out again, this time trailing his fingertips up her left arm to graze her collarbone. His fingers against her flesh felt surprisingly soft, and it was easy for Sansa to pretend that there was a different man lying in bed beside her.
From her collarbone, he skimmed his way up along her neck, to tease the sensitive flesh behind her ear. Sansa's skin heated in response, and a soft sigh escaped her throat.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Tyrion glided his fingers down along her flesh, retracing the path he had already tread. Then, when his fingertips reached her wrist, he started his journey upward again, this time, caressing the delicate skin along the inside of her arm, warming her blood even more.
Tyrion took his time tracing the lines of her body, exploring her flesh with just the pads of his fingertips, and nothing more. Not once did he touch anything but her arm and her neck and her cheek, but it didn't matter, because every caress felt like the sweetest sin, and Sansa could scarcely believe that it was Tyrion Lannister touching her so tenderly. The more he touched her, the more she burned, and soon, there was a longing deep inside her that she had only ever felt in her fantasies. She knew what it was, of course, but it was difficult for her to admit it, even to herself.
Sansa thought Tyrion might continue like that all night. After all, she knew that the moment he got on top of her, she'd be able to tell the difference between him and Ser Loras. There was no doubt about that. But Tyrion had other plans.
Sansa didn't feel him move closer. She was simply too enraptured by the sensation of his fingers gliding along her flesh. Without a word, without a warning, Tyrion leaned forward and kissed her neck.
Sansa gasped, and her eyes flashed open. She stared at the canopy above her in disbelief as Tyrion's lips moved against her skin. She flushed warmly all over, nowhere more so than between her legs, as he continued to kiss her, seemingly oblivious to her response.
Sansa's first instinct was to pull away. After all, Tyrion had overstepped his bounds. She wasn't ready for him to be kissing her yet. And yet . . . and yet . . . it felt so good. It felt more than good. Sansa had never felt anything so pleasurable in all her life, and all she wanted to do was drown in the feeling.
Slowly, Sansa's eyes drifted closed, and she succumbed to the pure ecstasy of Tyrion's kiss. Soon, his lips were blazing a warm trail down her neck and across her collarbone, then up again, along her throat and jawline. With each kiss, he moved closer to her lips, and Sansa wasn't sure if she wanted him to make contact there or not.
Sansa had never kissed Ser Loras. She had wanted to, but she never had. The only man she had ever kissed was Joffrey, and she still hated herself for it. She'd been such a little fool to fall in love with him. She wasn't a fool anymore, of course. But she still hated herself, just the same.
And now, Tyrion Lannister was about to kiss her, and instead of being horrified by the idea, Sansa was surprisingly intrigued. She could pretend all she wanted that it was Loras Tyrell in bed beside her, but the truth was, she was acutely aware that it was Tyrion Lannister. It was Tyrion who was making her blood sing, not Loras. And it was Tyrion whose lips were going to capture her own, if only he would move a little bit closer.
Tyrion's fingers stroked her neck as his lips continued their path upward. He kissed her cheek, her brow, her forehead.
Sansa moaned softly, desperate for him to finally kiss her lips. He was her husband after all. He had every right to kiss her properly, and she didn't understand what was taking him so long. If he was going to do it, he should just do it and be done with it. It was unfair of him to torture her so, and yet, he seemed in no hurry to end her torment.
Sansa gripped the bedsheets to keep herself from squirming against the mattress. Her fear had completely dissolved. Now, all she felt was impatience, impatience and need.
Sansa wanted to reach out and touch him, to put her hands on either side of his head and guide him to her lips. But she couldn't. She was no wanton. She was a lady. And she needed to act like one at all times, despite the urges welling up inside her.
Desperate to convince Tyrion to give her what she wanted, Sansa did the only thing she could do. She pleaded with him for mercy. "Tyrion, please." The words were little more than a whisper, but they were enough.
A moment later, Tyrion moved closer, so close that Sansa could feel the bare skin of his chest against her arm. And it wasn't the only thing she felt. There was a hardness pressing against her hip that she knew could be only one thing. Sansa's heart lurched in her chest, but she was too far gone to panic. There was something oddly thrilling about knowing that Tyrion's manhood was ready for her. Instead of frightening her, it heated her blood even more.
And then, suddenly, Tyrion was kissing her full on the lips.
Sansa sighed into his mouth, enraptured by the exquisite pleasure of Tyrion's kiss. His lips were soft, gentle, warm. He tasted like honeyed wine, and Sansa was desperate for more of him. His kiss was nothing like Joffrey's. It wasn't calculated or cold. It was passionate, fiery, real. Before Sansa knew what was happening, Tyrion dipped his tongue into her mouth to taste her, and instead of pulling away, she moaned again, reveling in the sweet invasion.
All thoughts of Loras Tyrell were suddenly gone. Now, all Sansa could think about was her husband, Tyrion Lannister, kissing her and touching her and leading her toward womanhood. Now, she had no fear, no regrets. Everything her mother had told her about the marriage bed was true. And although Sansa didn't love Tyrion, she knew he would protect her and cherish her and see her through this initiation with as much care and tenderness as possible.
Without conscious thought, Sansa's arms moved from her sides, and suddenly, her hands were in Tyrion's hair, pulling him closer. He groaned deep in the back of his throat, and Sansa knew he was pleased. She was glad he was pleased. He was doing her a kindness, and she wanted to return the favor. There was no point in pretending that she didn't want him, that she didn't enjoy what he was doing to her. Sansa didn't want to hold back. She wanted to be a good wife to Tyrion, even if it was only in the bedchamber.
Tyrion continued to kiss her until they were both breathless. When he finally broke the kiss, he pulled back just a little, and Sansa opened her eyes, her arms draped lazily about his neck. They stared at each other in the hazy darkness, so much unspoken between them. Sansa wanted to speak, but she couldn't. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for what he was doing, how much his kindness meant to her. But she couldn't. All she could do was reach up with tentative fingers and caress his cheek.
Tyrion closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, seemingly lost in the feel of her hand against his skin. His flesh was just as heated as hers, and she knew he wanted her just as much as she wanted him.
It took a great deal of courage, but Sansa leaned forward then and placed a gentle kiss against his lips. When she fell back against the pillow, she looked up at Tyrion again to find him staring back at her in silent wonder. She could tell that he wanted to speak, but she prayed he wouldn't. She feared that whatever he might say would break the spell she was under, and Sansa needed the spell to last. She needed to see this through till the end, while she was still enraptured by his touch.
Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa shook her head, warning him against it. She slid her fingers into his hair again and drew him closer, kissing him softly. In an instant, she was lost again, so overcome by the feel of his touch and the feel of his kiss that she could barely think.
Soon, Tyrion's hands grew bolder. His fingers caressed her hips, her thighs, her stomach . . . her breasts. Sansa gasped as his fingertips grazed along one nipple and then the other, sending a spiral of heat straight to her sex.
Tyrion kissed her deeply, then pulled himself away. A small sob of protest escaped Sansa's throat, but there was nothing she could do to make him stay. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, and then lower, to the valley between her breasts.
Sansa held her breath as Tyrion explored her body with his hands and his mouth. He trailed a line of kisses up the side of one breast and then down the other. Then, without warning, he took one aching nipple into his mouth and sucked on it gently.
Sansa's eyes shot open, and she gasped in surprise. She couldn't believe how good it felt to have Tyrion suckle at her breast. It felt wicked and sinful, and oh so very right. Instinctively, Sansa's eyes drifted shut and her hands moved to the back of his head, drawing him even closer. She felt Tyrion smile against her breast, obviously pleased by her reaction.
Eventually, Tyrion pulled away, but only long enough to move to the other breast and lavish it with the same attention.
Sansa felt like she was going to melt into the mattress. Her skin was on fire, her womanhood burning with a desire she had never fully felt before. As much as she wanted Tyrion to continue touching her, she had an even stronger desire for him to push her legs apart and finally make her a woman. It amazed her that she could want Tyrion Lannister, of all people, so completely. But she did. There was something almost magical about his touch.
When Tyrion was done worshipping her breasts, he moved lower, trailing a path of soft kisses across her ribs and down her stomach. As he kissed her, his fingers also trailed southward, skimming along her thigh and then slipping between her legs.
Sansa's whole body stiffened as he made contact with her sex, causing Tyrion to quickly pull his hand away.
Sansa instantly regretted her reaction. She had wanted to see what would happen when he touched her, but her apprehension and inexperience had momentarily gotten the better of her, and she didn't know how to tell him that it was all right, that she wanted him to try again.
Tyrion rested his hand against her thigh, then began gliding it northward once more. Sansa looked down at him again. Without allowing herself a chance to overthink – her heart thrumming in her ears, the blood rushing to her cheeks – she reached for his hand, covering it with her own and guiding it toward her sex.
Tyrion lifted his head, his warm kisses ceasing that very instant. He stared up at her, the questioning in his gaze clearly visible even in the dim light.
Sansa nodded, wanting him to know that it was all right for him to continue, telling him, without words, what she wanted.
Tyrion smiled softly. Then, his eyes still focused on her face, he began to move his fingers between her legs.
Sansa fought the urge to tense again. She didn't want to do anything that might scare Tyrion away. So she kept her breath steady, her eyes locked with his, and watched him as he began to touch her in a way she had never even imagined possible.
Slowly, gently, Tyrion slid his fingers along her warmth, teasing, playing, seducing. He nudged her folds apart and ran a single finger along her length, and Sansa waited in breathless anticipation for him to push himself inside.
But he didn't.
No. Instead, he grazed his thumb against the very top of her sex, drawing small circles against a single, glorious spot hidden beneath her folds.
Sansa nearly cried out in ecstasy. Her eyes closed of their own accord, and she sank even deeper into the mattress, her entire body focused on the single spot where Tyrion was touching her.
Soon, he allowed his other fingers to touch her as well. He stroked along her entrance, while his thumb continued to drive her mad with pleasure.
It wasn't long before Sansa felt as if she was on the brink of something wonderful. She pushed herself firmly against his hand, begging him for something she couldn't even name. The instant she did, Tyrion backed away.
A strangled sob tore from Sansa's throat. She opened her eyes to look down at her husband, silently pleading with him to finish what he'd started. But she could tell by the look in his eyes that he had no intention of continuing.
"Please," she said, the sound so raw that the word was barely recognizable.
"Not yet," Tyrion whispered.
Sansa wanted to argue with him. She didn't understand what he was waiting for. But she held her tongue, simply because she couldn't catch her breath long enough to form a coherent sentence.
Tyrion put his hands on her knees and slowly urged them apart. Then, he climbed between them, and Sansa finally knew why it was that he had stopped. Even though she desperately wanted her pleasure, they were there for a much more important purpose. Tyrion needed to take her maidenhead before they finished, and it would be much easier for both of them if he did it while she still wanted him.
Tyrion positioned himself at her entrance. She could feel his heat against her skin. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with uncertainty.
"Are you sure you want this?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "This is your last chance to turn back."
Sansa knew she wanted it, knew she wanted Tyrion. Suddenly, it had nothing to do with Joffrey anymore. She wanted her husband, she wanted Tyrion, inside her at that very moment.
"Yes," Sansa said, "please."
That was all the encouragement Tyrion needed. He nodded, then leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against her stomach. When he rose again, he locked his gaze with hers, and quickly thrust his hips forward, pushing into her in one swift movement.
Sansa cried out, resisting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. His entrance had been painful, but not as painful as she'd expected. He felt hot and heavy inside her, and she was surprised by just how big he was. She had expected his manhood to be particularly small since he was a dwarf, but that was certainly not the case.
"Are you all right?" Tyrion asked as he held himself still inside her, his hands resting on her hips.
Sansa nodded.
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes. But the pain's gone now."
He smiled at her gently. "Good. Are you ready for me to continue?"
Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, then nodded. She watched as Tyrion slowly began to move his hips. In an instant, her desire flared to life again, burning deep inside her. Sansa wanted to watch him, to stay present in the moment with him, but she couldn't. She was too overcome with sensation. Her eyes soon drifted closed, and all she could feel, all she could think about, was Tyrion moving inside her, driving her onward to some unknown paradise she was desperate to reach.
Foreign, animal sounds poured from her throat, matched in fervor only by the noises Tyrion was making. His movements started off slow, gentle, but soon, he was driving into her with considerable force, and Sansa was clutching the bedsheets with all her might, trying to meet him thrust for thrust. Suddenly, she wasn't a genteel young lady anymore. She was a direwolf hungry for release, hungry for her mate. Sansa pushed herself against him, urging him to penetrate her as deeply as he could, urging him to make her whole.
In no time at all, Tyrion worked her into a heated frenzy. Sansa's entire body was strung tight with anticipation, and she was certain she would break at any moment. A few more fevered thrusts, and suddenly, she crashed over the edge, screaming out Tyrion's name as every nerve in her body pulsed with pleasure.
Tyrion continued to move inside her, sending little shivers of ecstasy radiating from her womanhood as he desperately fought for his own release. Soon enough, a great roar tore from his throat, almost like a lion's, and he spilled his seed deep inside her.
Tyrion collapsed against Sansa, resting his head against her breasts. She was too tired to push him away, but even if she'd had the strength, she wouldn't have made him move. His weight was a welcome comfort. Without conscious thought, she wrapped her arms around his back and gently stroked the curls at the nape of his neck.
Sansa had never imagined that inviting Tyrion into her bed would feel like this. She had thought it would be an ordeal, a tragedy. But it was nothing of the sort. He was a kind and gentle lover, the kind of man poets wrote songs about. He knew how to touch a woman's body and her soul, and Sansa would be eternally grateful to him for what he'd given her that night. He had saved her from Joffrey, and he'd made at least one of her girlhood dreams come true.
Sansa could have stayed like that forever, but Tyrion had other ideas. When his breathing had finally returned to normal, he pulled himself away from her, climbing from between her legs and lying on his back beside her.
Sansa instantly felt bereft. She sat up, reaching down to grab for the covers which had somehow found their way to the bottom of the bed during their encounter. She covered herself to her chin, and then lay back against the mattress, missing Tyrion's warmth and wishing he was still in her arms.
Tyrion reached for the corner of the blanket, pulling it over himself so that they were both now lying naked beneath it. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the canopy. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice sounding warm and small in the near-darkness.
"Yes," Sansa replied, hugging herself tightly.
"I'm glad. I'm glad that you're safe, and I'm glad that you let me love you properly. Thank you, Sansa. You've given me a gift, and I won't forget it."
Sansa was startled by his words, almost baffled by them. He was the one who had given her something, not the other way around. Yes, she had surrendered her maidenhead to him, but as her husband, he had already been entitled to it, so she'd hardly given him anything. She wanted to thank him for what he'd done for her, but he didn't give her the chance.
"Good night, Sansa," Tyrion said before she could utter another word. He turned on his side, giving her his back and effectively putting an end to the conversation.
Sansa stared at Tyrion's back for the longest time, wondering if she should try to talk to him. There was so much she wanted to say, but she simply didn't have the words. Although Sansa had discussed such matters with other women – her mother, Septa Mordane, Margaery Tyrell – she had never talked to a man about such things, and she didn't know how to broach the subject. She wished, more than anything, that Tyrion would just turn around and crawl into her arms again. It had been so long since she'd held anyone in her arms, so long since anyone had held her, and she was desperate for the contact.
But she couldn't ask him to come to her. She simply couldn't. He had done her a kindness, that was all. Their relationship had not suddenly changed because of it. They were still strangers forced into a marriage that neither one of them wanted. Just because they had found pleasure in each other's arms, didn't mean that they now had feelings for each other. Sex was sex, not love. And Sansa Stark was wise enough to know the difference. It didn't matter that her heart still beat wildly from the memory of Tyrion's touch or that her soul ached a little with want of him. It wasn't love. It was lust, plain and simple. And Sansa knew she must do her best to remember that.
