Chapter 1
Candles adorned their chamber, casting a warm glow over the darkened room. Sansa tried not to tremble as Tyrion shut and barred the door behind them. Torn between waiting for his direction and wanting to hide herself away and then cry herself to sleep, Sansa willed herself to maintain her ladylike poise. She allowed herself a glance at him. He looked as uncomfortable as she. He looked uncertainly from her to the bed to the decanter, and with a sigh, he crossed the room to the decanter and poured himself a drink. Strangely, he didn't seem as drunk as he had at the banquet.
"Is that wise, my lord?" she asked.
"Tyrion, Sansa," he sighed. "My name is Tyrion."
"Is that wise, Tyrion?"
"Nothing was ever wiser," he replied, before drinking from his glass.
How uncertain he looked, she thought. For a man who had a quip for every situation and a ready answer for any problem, he seemed quite nervous. Perhaps he was drinking so that he would pass out before he had to bed her. She wasn't sure if he wanted to bed her, and she most assuredly wasn't ready. Trembling, she turned to look at the expanse of counterpane behind her.
"That's our bed," she thought. Gods, she couldn't imagine this strange man kissing her—much less undressing her and doing things with her that husbands do to wives. "He is my husband now," she thought, and her stomach quaked with anxiety. "Sooner or later, he's going to bed me. Here in this room. It's his right." Crossing her arms about herself protectively, she tried not to shake as he gazed at her. A wolf howled somewhere outside the city, and she thought of Lady and felt more alone than ever.
"How old are you exactly?" he asked.
"Fourteen," she said, and she cringed when he winced. Perhaps he would be cruel to her because she disappointed him. But no, surely he wouldn't be mean to her. How many times had he offered his sympathies or come to her aid in the last few months? If not for him, Joffrey would have killed her by now.
"Perhaps he feels because he's been kind to me up to now, it gives him greater right to do as he wishes with me," she thought miserably.
"Well, talk won't make you any older," he said, raising his glass to her. "My lord father has commanded that I consummate this marriage." Sarcasm and misgivings colored his last statement.
She crossed to the decanter, poured herself a glass of wine, and drank long and deep before crossing to their bed. With shaking fingers, she removed her jewelry and then began unbuttoning the front of her tapestry gown. As a single tear rolled down her cheek, she took a shuddering breath and reminded herself that she was a Stark and would do her duty. She steeled her spine as she heard Tyrion's boots on the wooden floors behind her. She could feel the tension in the room, even if she didn't know what it was. She closed her eyes and began pushing her shift from her shoulders.
"Stop. I can't," he said. "I could. I would. But I won't."
"But your father…," she trailed off.
"If my father wants someone to get fucked, I know where he can start," proclaimed Tyrion. "Sansa, I won't share your bed. Not until you want me to."
She slowly turned to face him, confusion and doubt swirling in her chest like fog. Admiration for her and something akin to shame flitted over his face as her eyes met his.
"And if I never want you to?" she asked.
Something she couldn't identify passed across his face. Was it hurt? Disappointment? No, a lord such as Tyrion Lannister could never be bothered by the words of a Stark girl. He had women of all sorts ready to spend the night in his arms.
He raised his glass to her and then drank.
"And so my watch begins," he said. He tried to inject levity into his voice, but failing in that, he stumbled to the red velvet chaise and threw himself upon it.
Sansa retreated to hide behind the canopy, but the isolation didn't make her feel any more at ease. She peeped around the red curtains, and a light whiffling snore filled their bedroom. Excessive wine had claimed Tyrion for the evening. On tiptoe, she stole away from their bed and crept closer to him. She knelt before the chaise and gave herself the opportunity to take in his features which she still found unfamiliar although many times she'd dined with him at King's Landing and many times, he'd rushed to her defense. A rosy blush heated her cheeks as she realized she'd never taken any notice of him at all simply due to his height and surname.
Curly, thick blond hair framed a face that as Margaery had noted was handsome in its own way. Although the injury to his nose didn't improve anything, his features were defined and even. The shape of his eyes was handsome, and as he slept, black lashes fluttered. His lips were full, and although she knew next to nothing about kissing, she reflected that he had a much nicer mouth than Joffrey's twisted, thin one, and that kissing him would certainly be preferable to kissing Joffrey.
She sat back on her heels and studied Tyrion some more. He was small, of course, but his figure was pleasing enough. He was broad-shouldered and thin-waisted. He wasn't her ideal prince, but he was certainly the best Lannister to be married to. After all, he understood—or tried to understand—her feelings of shock and fear regarding their impromptu marriage. He'd never looked at her with anything but kindness. She tried to recall the hue of those kind eyes, and with a certain degree of shame, she realized she didn't even know the color of her husband's eyes.
"I'll find out tomorrow," she promised herself. "I'll never love him, but even Mother and the Septa said that love doesn't have to be present for a marriage to be happy and successful. I'll get to know him a little at a time, and after a lifetime, I'll know everything a wife can know about her husband. Perhaps it won't be too terrible. But tomorrow's task is a small one: learn the color of his eyes."
Tyrion looked cold and uncomfortable on the chaise. Sansa looked at their bed, and she wondered if she should wake him up and invite him to sleep there too. It would be a shame to wake him though. Surely his head would be aching with the amount of wine he'd imbibed at the wedding feast. With decision, she pulled a blanket from their bed and gently covered him with it.
"I don't know why you didn't bed me tonight," she whispered even though he couldn't hear her. "Anyone else would have without delay. But I swear to you that I'll remember this kindness to me forever."
She was suddenly tired and overcome by emotion. Thoughts of Winterfell and her mother's gentle embrace overwhelmed her. How she missed home! How she longed for the cool, clean scent of snow on fir trees and the music of a crackling fire as her father stomped the ice from his boots and her mother told stories to all of them. How she could have used a mother's counsel on this night!
Feeling hot tears stream down her face, she turned and fled to their bed to hide her face among the pillows and wished for sleep.
