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..
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Tywin tells her that the details of war are never pretty, are never meant to be relayed as tales of fancy and intrigue. Only fools and liars, and those relegated to the periphery of war, are ever so inclined to such stupidity.
He knows of her father, 'the Lord of the North', and his exploits in the last Great War. There is a reason Ned Stark refuses to share his history, and it sits directly at the gates of Stalingrad. Ned Stark led the victory in the War of the Rats, when winter descended like a vengeance from the gods. Snuffing the German momentum like breath to a candle, but never offering mercy the Russians either. But the Russians know how to live under the plague of long nights, and knew how to then as well; sleeping only enough to stay madness - any longer and the snow seduces, lulls your willing body to an icy death.
Sansa's face is set to a rictus of fascination and horror, and that first day, after he finishes speaking, Tywin sees a mind deserving of the truth. The girl wants to hear these things not to bask in excitement, but to learn from human error and never repeat those mistakes.
She is worthy, he thinks.
She is also beautiful. Young and modest and blinded by infatuation - first with the arrogant glamour of his grandson, second with the smooth honesty of his chronicles of war.
Sansa is taken with Joffrey though not taken by the boy. It's a cleverly hidden form of tolerance gifted to those from the North. Tywin has seen it often enough. And again he finds himself intrigued with the girl.
He offers her stories in exchange for company. But he is a Lannister, and terms and negotiations are his strength, allowing provisional changes to the verbal contract at his discretion.
It is during one of their conversations that Tywin exercises an amendment by placing his hand over her knee. She flinches at his touch but doesn't move away. Tywin hasn't stopped speaking, his voice ever-cloying in its grotesque recollect of trench warfare and the necessity of culling your own men in order to advance twelve feet on the front-line.
His words swirl with death and dust, but his hand is full of life and lust - slithering down her leg to the hem of her skirt, then up again against the silk of her hose.
By the time his fingers are caressing her wet juncture, and his story has shifted to describe the sound a dying horse makes in the cruel landscape of war, Sansa is panting, her own hand clutching at his wrist through the thick drape of fabric.
"Have you been fucked before?"
It takes her a moment to recognise a crass question beyond the usual voice of his stories. Her own voice a testament to how jarring it is.
"N-no. I... No."
Tywin's body is hovering hers now, his lean forward prompting her to lean back further on the settee in his study they've designated to accommodate them for their aural exchange.
"You're going to be," he says. The settee now designated to accommodate them for something altogether different.
Sansa makes a noise in her throat, Tywin doesn't bother to interpret it. Either way he will be inside this girl, and he would much rather her feel as though it's her choice.
"You are so beautiful," he coos. The girl blinks at him, then smiles shy and wide. "I need to have you. Can I have you, beautiful girl?" The words are silken, his voice is purr beside her ear.
Tywin is fully atop her working her undergarments down and her skirt up as he speaks his question, and when Sansa says her shaky yes there is little left for him to do but unzip and place his cock.
He drags his blunt tip the length of her wet slit, teasing her clit and smirking as her head wags one way then the next. She has never felt these things before and, oh, how Tywin does enjoy a virgin.
Probing with his fingers, Tywin locates his goal, slipping to the knuckle through the gap in her hymen. The girl is no longer writhing, no longer wriggling under him, her eyes flicker in a latent kind of panic as she understands what it is he is about to do. The permanence of it.
He removes his finger and places his cock where it's meant to be. She stills, barely breathes, and Tywin takes the time to anchor one knee on the settee and one foot on the floor. He snakes one arm under her shoulder, his hand lightly grasping the back of her neck - petting there like he knows she needs. With his free hand he props her thigh against his hip and curves his fingers down and under her arse - holding her in place for the inevitable.
Without fail, the pressure of him pushing forward, invading her, causes her hips to curl. The body's natural reaction to discomfort and pain is to move away, and what is a veteran of war but a master of pain. He presses ahead, not with a thrust that would snap that scrap of tissue, but with a steady weight to tear it away and ease her body to accepting his.
She's sweating; beads of it cluster on her forehead and above her top lip, and her chest is heaving to suck in calming breathes. She's in pain, to be sure, but there are no tears or sobs for what she is no longer.
He is seated fully in the tight clench of her cunt for a few moments when Tywin can finally drag his eyes away from the stretch of pink flesh sheathing his cock. Her eyes are a wonder - steel and arousal - it makes him dizzy. It makes his cock twitch and balls tighten.
He'll come soon, but he wants to at least feel the girl first.
A slow stroke out then back in, back to the deepest part of her, and she groans like they've been fucking for years.
It's too much. She's too much. He's thrusting in earnest, in urgency, and her groan becomes lengthy and pitches higher.
Relinquishing her arse, he brings his thumb to her clit and plays - rubs and circles and strokes. He can't hold out when her cunt grips him in a stuttering clench; he shoves himself hard and deep, and comes with an intensity that makes his vision speckle.
The only thing heard in Tywin Lannister's study in the heartbeats after are the panting gasps of two people desperate to become normal once more.
But normal is the last thing they will ever be again, and they both know it.