Chapter 1, Sansa I
Tyrion Lannister was indeed drunk, but not nearly as drunk as he'd pretended to be as he'd led Sansa out of the Great Hall and away from his family and the rest of the attendees at their wedding feast. Between Joffrey's threat to rape her and Tyrion's threat to geld him, Sansa still wasn't entirely sure how they'd managed to leave the feast without a bedding ceremony or even so much as a randy jape, but she was thankful for the reprieve, no matter how it came about.
He opened the door for her and bowed his head as she walked into his chambers before him. She took a shaky breath as she heard the door shut behind her. After a moment, she looked to him, waiting for whatever would come next, waiting for some sort of instruction, but nothing happened. With a deep breath, he turned his attention to a table across the room and made for it. There, he poured himself yet another cup of wine for the evening.
"Is that wise, my lord?" she asked him, finding her voice for the first time since speaking to Joffrey.
"Tyrion, Sansa," he slurred, still pouring wine to the top of his cup. "My name is Tyrion."
Of course. He's my husband now. The thought didn't frighten her as much as she thought it should, but it wasn't particularly comforting, either. "Is that wise, Tyrion?" she asked again.
He put down the flagon and turned to her, cup of wine raised in hand. "Nothing was ever wiser," he answered in a sing-song tone. He turned to the chaise by the table and sat on the end of it. For what seemed like the longest time, he simply stared at her. She wished he would say something, for she had no idea what he might want to hear. She looked around the room, looking anywhere but the bed or her husband, hoping to find something to strike up an innocent conversation on, but her mind was blank as she took in the Lannister crimson and gold furnishings and tapestries that decorated her lord husband's chambers.
"Astoundingly long," he said after a long silence.
"What?"
"Neck. You have one," he added in a half-whisper, pointing to her. She didn't know what to say to that. Thank you? Should she comment on him? No, she didn't think he'd like that at all...
He made to take another drink of wine, but before the cup reached his lips, he lowered it again. "How old are you, exactly?"
She swallowed before answering. "Fourteen."
His eyes widened at her answer and his face fell, and she wondered if she'd said something wrong, or said it in the wrong tone.
He shook his head and looked down. "Well, talk won't make you any older." He's ashamed, Sansa realized. She'd heard of his reputation, the Imp, the pervert; he'd made it clear he didn't ask for this marriage, but Sansa hadn't considered that he would mind her being too young. The way Shae had made it sound when she'd spoken with her about Petyr Baelish, Sansa had assumed men preferred women as young as possible, so long as they'd flowered.
Tyrion stood then. He put on a bravado, cup of wine still in hand. "My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage." She knew he meant to turn the words into a joke, to know he didn't want to do this, and she believed in that, but it didn't change their meaning. It didn't ease the butterflies flitting about her belly.
His words from earlier in the day echoed to her. "Do you drink wine?" Sansa looked to her husband, still waiting on her for a reaction to his pronouncement, then took a few steps to the table and poured herself a cup of wine to match her husband's. As Sansa drank, she saw out the corner of her eye as Tyrion lifted his glass in mock toast with her. Sansa set her cup down, and Tyrion drained the rest of his.
She didn't look at him. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not any of it. Not Joffrey, not the wedding, not him, not the feast, none of it. But her mother's words came back to her, her Septa's words about how she would do her duty. With a deep breath, she turned away from her husband and went to the bedside. Hands shaking, she began to undress for him.
First was the neckpiece. She fumbled at the ties; the queen had lent Sansa some of her own handmaidens to help her prepare for her wedding, and one of them rather than Shae had done the laces tighter than Sansa was used to. But eventually her fingertips pried away the knots, one by one, and the metal and silk piece came away from her neck and waist. She lay it to the side and began working at the laces to her gown. One lace at a time, that's all she thought of. Any thought of Tyrion, or what was to come, and her fingers started to quiver uselessly. The laces, that's all there was in this moment.
Finally, the laces were done, and her gown came free. Nervously, she opened it wide, pushed it down her shoulders, and pulled it away from her. She carefully folded the gown over in two and laid it aside with the neckpiece. Next, she quickly nudged off her doe skin slippers, the last easy part. She took a deep breath before tucking her fingers under the shoulder of her shift. Just as she started to push it off of herself, Tyrion said firmly, but not unkindly, "Stop."
She put the strap of her shift back in place before turning to him. "My lord?" she asked before remembering she should call him by his name now.
He was close, only a few steps away. She hadn't heard him approach, but she blushed at how obvious it was that he'd been watching her disrobe.
He screwed his eyes shut and looked down. For a moment, Sansa pitied him. He really doesn't want to do this, she thought. No more than I do. After all she'd been through, she never would have thought she'd share sympathies with a Lannister, but here they both were, and sympathy was the only word to describe her feelings for both of them forced into this marriage of duty.
Eventually, he looked back up at her before taking slow steps toward her. Sansa took a sharp breath, involuntarily, and she knew he'd seen it. He frowned, but continued toward her. When he stood at her side, however, he looked down, pulled a stool out from under the bed with his toe, stepped upon it, then sat on the high bed, facing her, his eyes level with hers.
"May I take down your hair, Sansa?" he asked, his voice soft. Sansa looked in his eyes, and there was no malice, just a gentle questioning. Slowly, she nodded, and she turned her back toward him. As his fingers gently took up one of the two braids that tumbled down her back, gooseflesh prickled at the back of her neck, but she ignored it. She felt him carefully unweave the braid up to the base of her neck, run his fingers through the freed strands of hair, then move on to the second braid. When those were done, his fingertips moved to the braids atop her head, more intricate than the first two. Tenderly, he unwrapped braid after braid, untying ribbons and taking out pins. Only a few times did he tug on a strand by accident, and every incident was promptly followed with a softly murmured apology. When asked, she turned her head to the left and right to ease his task, and finally, she tilted her head back for him to unweave the last large braid at the top of her crown. When it was loose, his hand gently guided her neck to straighten. Her scalp twinged at the freedom, and she gave a soft, "Thank you."
For the longest time, Tyrion simply ran his fingers through her hair. He hadn't seemed that drunk when he approached her, but maybe he was. She'd seen Robb and Jon and Theon do plenty of stupid things when drinking. Robb had spent almost an hour after the feast at Winterfell for the royal family just scratching Grey Wind's ears because he thought they looked funny that evening. The memory almost made her chuckle, but she hadn't completely forgotten where she was. But whether Tyrion was drunk, thinking, or simply enjoyed her hair, she didn't particularly mind. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was home, and it was her mother's fingers brushing through her hair rather than her Lannister husband's.
His hands gathered up her hair then, and gently moved her tresses over her shoulder. He hesitated a moment before placing his hands softly on her shoulders. She took a breath, but his touch was light, gentler than she had any right to expect. At first, he simply rubbed light circles into her shoulders with his thumbs, but then he began to knead her shoulders tenderly.
"Relax, Sansa," he told her quietly, and she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Until he'd started to work on her shoulders, she hadn't realized how tense she was. "What was my promise to you this afternoon, before I took you to Baelor's for our wedding?"
Sansa thought back to earlier in the day; it seemed so long ago already. "You promised you wouldn't ever hurt me."
"Do you believe me?"
Sansa recalled his behavior toward her since he'd arrived at King's Landing: offering his condolences for her father's death; rescuing her from the beating by the Kingsguard; making sure she was alright after the riot in Fleabottom; seeing after her before the Battle of the Blackwater. Whenever they'd shared words at feasts or dinners, he'd always spoken kindly to her. Even when he told her she was to be wed to him, he broke the news as gently as he could. And now, when he could have let her be stripped of her clothes in the bedding ceremony and taken her maidenhead as soon as they entered the bedchamber, he had instead protected her dignity and modesty in front of the court, and then gently touched her, soothed her, tried his best to relax her. "Yes, my lord. I believe you."
She felt him edge forward on the bed, and his knees brushed against her hips on either side. She gave a quiet gasp at being so close to him, so close to a man. Her mind reeled back to that alley in Fleabottom, when that man had struck her to the ground and sat atop her, laid his filthy, stinking weight on her and whispered in her ear, "You ever been fucked, little girl?"
Sansa lurched forward out of Tyrion's grasp and wrapped her arms around herself, holding herself as her heart pounded with the memory. She felt like she was gasping for air.
"Sansa?" She heard him get down from the bed, but he didn't touch her. "Did I do something wrong?"
After a moment, she shook her head and turned back to him. He stood on the footstool, still level with her, his face drawn in concern.
"Forgive me, my lord," she said, her voice coming back to her. "I had a bad memory."
"Of what, if I might ask?" Concern was writ on his features, and a frown tugged down the corners of his lips.
"The riot."
He nodded. "Clegane told me you were attacked, but that you weren't hurt."
Sansa nodded. "Even so, it still gives me bad dreams sometimes."
"I have nightmares from it as well, every now and then." He gave her a sympathetic smile and reached out for her. Slowly, she took his hand and stepped back to him. "Sansa... if you're not ready for this tonight, we can wait."
Sansa thought he was sincere, but she shook her head. "I can do my duty. It was... it was just a moment, my lord."
He looked at her carefully, looking for something in her face, before he gave a small nod and looked down at their hands. Her right hand lay in his, and he covered it with his left, gently rubbing the back of her hand before moving it up her arm to cup her elbow. She stepped closer to him and stood only inches apart. His hand wandered up her arm to her shoulder, then across her collarbone until it reached her necklace. His brow furrowed.
"Where is this necklace from?"
Sansa looked down and remembered what she'd worn. "King Joffrey gave it to me when I was his betrothed," she said softly. "It's the nicest I own, so the queen thought I should wear it."
At that, a frown came to his lips. His hand released hers, and he reached up to the chain. Gently, he pulled the chain around until the clasp was in the front, and he undid the necklace and unceremoniously tossed it to the bedside table. "In the morning, I'll give you a new necklace my wretched nephew hasn't touched, and a dozen more after that if you like. Would that please you?"
A smirk played at his lips, and Sansa mirrored him as she nodded. She didn't care about the necklaces, exactly, but she enjoyed the way he'd said "wretched nephew."
"Good. Joffrey can't touch you now. I promise you that, I won't ever let him hurt you again." Sansa thought back to Joffrey's threat and wondered if the door was bolted. But she wouldn't let Tyrion see her uncertainty. She wouldn't show any Lannister her fear, not anymore, no matter who it was or what their intentions were.
His eyes fell to her neckline, and Sansa saw him sway a bit as he stood on the stool. "You really are stunningly beautiful, Sansa."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Tyrion," he corrected.
"Tyrion," she said, and he closed his eyes for a moment as she said it.
When he opened them again, the green in them looked darker, smokier somehow. It gave her a queer feeling in her belly, but she didn't shy away from it. "Close your eyes, Sansa," he commanded softly, and she complied.
She focused on her breathing, his, as his hands met hers again at her sides. But he didn't take her hands. Instead, he let his fingertips dance across the skin on the back of her hands. It tickled a bit, but it made her more anxious than anything. They were fleeting touches, and they made her shiver in... what, trepidation? Anticipation? She wasn't really sure. His fingers trailed up her arms then around her shoulders to her neckline.
Her lips opened in a soft gasp as his fingertips found a path to the tops of her breasts that peeked out of her shift. Her eyes opened, and she looked into his and saw hunger, concern, lust, guilt, hesitation. His fingers stilled on her chest, and she realized he was silently asking permission. She gave a small nod, and his hands trailed up to her shoulders and gently pushed the straps away from her shoulders. Softly, the linen dragged down her arms, over her breasts, and came to a rest above her hips.
Instinctively, she made to cover her exposed breasts, but Tyrion's hands caught her wrists. Sansa felt like a child in her modesty, but Tyrion simply turned her palms upward and kissed them each as he sat back down on the bed behind him, pulling her forward with him. Gently, he guided her hands to rest on top of the blankets on either side of him. She pressed her palms into the bedding, and Tyrion took her face in his hands.
"You're beautiful, Sansa," he whispered huskily. "Please don't ever hide that from me." His fingers brushed over her cheekbones before he leaned forward and kissed one cheek softly, then the other. Her breathing hitched as she realized he would kiss her lips now. They'd kissed during their wedding ceremony, but that had been quick; Sansa had been so nervous about all of it that that kiss had been over before she'd even registered it.
He looked into her eyes for a moment, and Sansa felt her lips part in anticipation. Gentle as a whisper, he pressed his mouth to hers, and Sansa closed her eyes. It was soft; Tyrion's kiss was sweet, not the hard, pressured things Joffrey had forced on her after her father had been killed. Her stomach fluttered. This is the Imp! Sansa tried to remind herself, but with his lips slowly moving with hers, tenderly brushing against her mouth, with her skin tingling as his hands slid from her face to her neck to her shoulders to the sides of her breasts, finally coming to a stop at the curve of her waist, she couldn't think of him as the Imp, as a Lannister, as anything other than the man who had protected her for no reason other than to keep her safe, the man who was making her feel all these new and strange feelings, the man who was now her husband, and would be for the rest of her life. Sansa had been resigned to their marriage ever since he'd told her of it weeks past, had tried to find any way to live with it. Now, however... if he was this gentle a husband in everything, she might one day find happiness, just as Margaery had suggested.
He withdrew from her, and she opened her eyes again. "Are you alright?" he asked, and she nodded. His gaze raked across her, up and down, and again she wanted to cover herself, but she kept her palms on either side of him where he'd placed them. She was his wife, and this was what he wanted of her. She could do this; she could do her duty to him.
His lips returned to hers, this time with more urgency. He was still gentle, but Sansa could feel a need from him that had been restrained before now.
"Touch me," he whispered between kisses, and Sansa started. Touch his manhood, or... ? "Hold me, Sansa, please," he whispered again when she hadn't moved. Hesitantly, Sansa brought her hands up to his shoulders, and he groaned into their kiss. His tongue danced across her lips, and his hands pulled her closer, wrapping tight around her waist as he drew their bodies together. Taking his lead, Sansa wrapped her arms about his neck, and he groaned again. His hands danced up and down her sides, and she could feel his fingers splayed out to take in as much of her skin at once as he could.
Sansa tried to regain control of her breathing, but it was no use; she was gasping for air around Tyrion's kisses. One of his hands went to the back of her head, his fingers tangling into her hair, and her breath hitched at the sensation. There was a tense coil of something deep in Sansa's belly, and Sansa shifted her hips instinctually, trying to alleviate it, but all she managed to do was grind herself against Tyrion where his legs had parted to allow her between them, eliciting a groan from her husband at the contact. Tyrion's hand in her hair tilted her head to the side, and his mouth left hers to trail kisses along her jaw. "Sansa," he whispered in her ear, and she shuddered at the sound. The coiling in Sansa's belly intensified, and her mouth opened to let an involuntary moan escape.
Tyrion's breath left her ear, and he began to run kisses down her neck to her collarbones, his hands placed on the sides of her breasts, until finally, his lips came to her breasts. He was hunched over, and he looked up at her, the same look in his eyes as when he'd paused before letting the top of her shift down. She nodded her permission, and without delay he took one of her nipples into his mouth. Sansa's head fell back, and she let out a soft cry at the sensation. Never had she ever imagined anything could feel like this. Tyrion's fingertips played at the nipple not occupied by his lips and tongue, and Sansa was nearly overwrought with the feeling.
"This feels good to you, Sansa?" she heard his voice ask as if from far away, and she brought her head back upright and tried to regain some semblance of composure as she met his gaze. She didn't trust her tongue to make coherent words, so she merely nodded. The corner of Tyrion's mouth lifted at that, but Sansa could tell by the wrinkling at the corners of his eyes that he was holding in a bigger smile than what he let on. His eyes were soft as he regarded her. "I really do want to please you, Sansa. You deserve better than me, but I will always do my best to please you, in everything."
Before she could reply with courtesies to insist politely that he was a lord, that he was deserving of her, and that she was honored to be his wife, the kinds of things she'd be expected to say under normal conditions, he turned to her other breast and paid it the same attentions, and Sansa's words were lost in the melee of sucking and licking and wetness that Tyrion placed upon her.
His hands trailed down to her shift, and she looked at him and simply nodded before he'd asked, and Sansa saw a smirk on his lips as he took to her breast again while his fingers worked at the ties holding her shift in place. In moments, the garment dropped to Sansa's feet, and she was naked save for her smallclothes.
Tyrion's lips remained on her breasts, placing wet kisses between them as his hands trailed from her belly down her navel to the hem and laces of her smallclothes that hung from her hips. His fingers trailed lazily from side to side, and her breath hitched every time he put pressure on her hip bones. The coiling in her belly was almost unbearable, and a soft whimper escaped her. "Please," she whispered, so softly she wasn't sure he'd heard, but his lips left her breast, and she felt him look up at her as her head still lolled back from the overwhelming sensations he was putting her body through. She didn't even know what she was begging for—more? A different touch? To stop? She was clueless as to what she wanted, but all she knew was the tension in her belly had traveled to her woman's parts, and it was equal measures of pain and pleasure, and she couldn't bear it as it was any longer.
"Sansa," Tyrion murmured, and he straightened, taking her head in his hands, and she focused her eyes on him. His lips were parted and red and wet, and his eyes were dark with lust. "Trade places with me, my lady."
The words didn't make sense until he stood and stepped away from the bed. He took her hand and led her to sit where he had. "Lie back, Sansa," he commanded gently, and she leaned back onto the bed slowly until her head was on the soft blankets that covered what would soon be their marriage bed. His fingers undid the laces of her underclothes, and then he looked at her again. "Would you lift your hips for me?"
Sansa nodded and complied, and in one smooth motion, Tyrion wrapped his fingers around the top of her small clothes and pulled them gently away from her womanhood and down her legs and over her ankles and feet, and then they were gone. She was entirely naked in front of her husband, and all she could think about was the unbearable tension between her legs that begged for release.
"Do you trust me, Sansa?" he asked as he looked down on her from his bedside footstool.
"Yes, my lord," she told him. She didn't think a nod would suffice to answer that question.
"Open your legs for me."
She'd thought the bedding would take place in the bed, and he would have unclothed, as her mother and septa had told her that much about the wedding night and what happened in a marriage bed, but maybe he was different, because he was a dwarf? She wasn't sure, but she complied with her lord husband's wishes in any case. She opened her knees and closed her eyes. She felt him take her ankles softly in hand and moved them so her feet rested on the edge of the bed just wide of her hips. He shuffled, and Sansa prepared herself for the breaking of her maidenhead, but then she felt his lips at her knees, and her eyes fluttered open. His fingers trailed up and down her calves as he placed kisses and licks along her knees and inner thighs, up and down, teasing and taunting. Ready as she was, the coiled tension had sparked a flame that burned hot as wildfire within her, and she whimpered and squirmed under his ministrations.
"Relax, Sansa," he said with a mischievous smile as he knelt on the stool, bringing his face level with her womanhood.
"What are you—?" she began to ask, but as he placed his lips upon her there, a primal moan wrought from her lips, and there wasn't a thing in this world she cared for so long as he didn't stop until the fire inside her was quenched.