A/N: Tyrion Lannister is my favorite character in ASoIaF – he is brave, loyal, a seeker of justice, and so witty one never gets bored with him. And naturally, I think it would be really cool if he is rewarded for all his sufferings with the love of gentle, beautiful and tender-hearted Sansa. This story takes place after Sansa is taken to the Vale by Petyr Baelish, shortly following SoS.
"Not too long now, my lady," her husband said reassuringly.
She could barely manage a nod, shaking violently and drawing her cloak tighter around herself. Her mind was yet incapable of handling it all – being saved from the Vale where she had been, she realized, a prisoner all along, at Littlefinger's disposal; Tyrion's equally miraculous flight from captivity and sudden reappearance; a journey of escape so smooth and quiet it must have been thoroughly and genially planned. But what surprised her most was that he came for her. Why did he do that? There was no Winterfell anymore. Poorer than a pauper, Sansa had nothing. What made him risk his life, then? A vague sense of duty to a woman who was never really his wife?
She shuddered as she thought of the fate he saved her from. Soon, she would have become Littlefinger's mistress, as he had planned all along, from the moment his greedy eyes beheld her blossoming young beauty. She felt immense relief, knowing they were getting farther and farther away from him. She wished the horses could go even faster.
"Your lord father must have placed quite a prize on your head, my lord," ventured Sansa.
Tyrion looked up at her in surprise. An actual bold statement from his meek wife? True, she had grown up a lot in their time apart. Her features became more womanly, the soft curve of her breast more ample… he averted his eyes from her. He knew his journey towards safety and freedom would have been much easier without her. On this matter, though, he felt he had little choice.
"I hardly think my lord father could do anything of the sort," he said, trying to appear indifferent, "after I left a crossbow arrow in his bowels."
Sansa was shocked, but not as much as she would have been before she left King's Landing. She felt an odd sense of savage triumph.
"You… you killed your father, my lord?" she asked in a faltering voice.
"As you can surmise," Tyrion said briskly, "I'm now an irrevocable outcast. I would have topped it off nicely by dealing with my sweet brother and sister, too – but you can't have everything in life."
Sansa was relieved when the seemingly endless ride came to a halt and they found, in a small, obviously prepared especially for them, snug and warm inn all the comforts she could wish for: a blazing fire in the grate, a hot bath, fresh robes, and a promise of super, which she was supposed to take with her husband, Bronn, and the rest of his people downstairs.
"I hope this dress fits you tolerably well, my lady," said Tyrion while they were quenching their hunger with bread, cheese, apples, boiled eggs, cold meat and hot spiced wine, "I had no way to warn you about our plan of removing you from the Vale, so I had these clothes and shoes prepared for you, in place of those you'd be leaving behind in the Eyrie."
"It was very thoughtful of you, my lord," she said, burying her eyes in her plate, so as not to meet his mismatches ones. "Coming here to take me with you must have cost you a lot of time and risk."
She voiced his very thoughts. Tyrion grinned. "A Lannister pays his debts," he said.
Sansa flinched, and she knew he noticed it. A Lannister. But what right does she have to feel displeased, if his excessive feeling of marital duty meant saving her from the clutches of Littlefinger?
"Tomorrow, we will be already at sea," said Tyrion, pouring them both more wine, "on our way to the Free Cities. I have gold, I have connection there. We'll be quite comfortable. And," he added after a brief pause, "there is something else – something that will gladden your heart, my lady."
He paused again. "I received intelligence that your sister Arya is in the Free Cities too, alive and well. I will do my best to find her once we are there. And I wrote to your brother, Jon Snow, at the Wall, telling him what we are up to. Now, don't look at me like that, Sansa. He is a bastard, but he has your father's blood, which is not to be disregarded now you have lost almost all your kin."
You bloody fool, Tyrion told himself as he saw her eyes well up with tears. She is going to cry, of course. Is this going to be like King's Landing all over again, him lying in the darkness of their bedchamber, listening to her quiet tears, not daring to put a comforting hand on her shoulder?
Sansa, however, composed herself quite soon. "Arya, alive. Thank you, my lord. This is more than I could have hoped for. I thought she was lost for sure. And… are you certain it was safe to send a message to the Wall?"
"I took every precaution I could think of. I knew Jon was not ignorant of what has been going on all over the Seven Kingdoms, and was sure he would be concerned about you. Once I had the opportunity, I thought it was basic decency to let him know. I consider him a friend."
Finally, the dinner was over, and they were left alone in the room that was given to them for a bedchamber – a warm, cheery room, with a merry fire in the grate. The linens were no match for the silky bedcovers in her chamber at the Eyrie, let alone King's Landing, but the bed was wide, with large soft pillows and a heap of warm blankets that gave off a smell of clean linen.
Sansa felt a sense of satisfaction creep over her. She was away from the Vale, well-fed, in a warm bed, and far beyond the reach of Littlefinger. But there was awkwardness too, after sleeping alone for so long.
"There is but one bed," Tyrion said pointedly, to dispel whatever suspicions she might be having concerning his intentions, "but it's roomy enough for both of us, and there are blankets aplenty."
And without further ado, he kicked off his boots, shook off his cloak, and climbed in, drawing a feather blanket over his head.
Later, Tyrion woke from his soft slumber. For a moment he wondered what could have woken him up, exhausted as he was after two days or riding almost non-stop, then realized with a sinking feeling that his lady wife was crying her heart out. Oh no, he told himself, here we go again.
He turned towards her, put a hand on her arm, and spoke, trying to sound reassuring:
"Sansa, I understand. Your losses are immeasurable – your loved ones, your home, all you ever knew, all that ever made you feel safe… but please, do try and get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long and difficult day." As the suppressed sobs didn't stop, merely became more stifled, he went on. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable if I got up and took a walk – perhaps some time alone could do you good –"
Sansa sat up and swept at her eyes with the back of her hand. The tears clinging to her long eyelashes were visible even in the light of the single candle that was still burning. To his surprise, Tyrion felt a soft hand reach and squeeze his. She never did that before.
"My lord," she said, "in all the time I spent at the Vale, I thought there might not come a day when I can properly thank you."
Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.
"From the start of our marriage," continued Sansa, "which, I know, was not planned or desired by you, I have seen from you nothing but kindness and patience. From the very beginning – you shielding me from the mockery of the rest of your family; your concern for my comfort and happiness; now you, for no other reason but duty, risking your life to bring me to safety –"
"I have sworn to protect you, Sansa," he interjected, "on the day when I wrapped the cloak of house Lannister around your shoulders."
He saw her eyes swim with tears again, and cursed himself for dragging house Lannister into this.
"I should have knelt beside you that day," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "I've been terribly stubborn, and caused you to make a fool of yourself in front of everyone."
For a moment, he caught the sweet fragrance of her hair – a scent he had tried to block out of his mind and senses since their first night together, when she stepped out of her smallclothes and he saw fear and revulsion in her eyes.
"It doesn't matter, Sansa," he said, speaking lightly, but she shook her head.
"Don't try to fool me, my lord. I know it mattered – say you forgive me, if you can, but don't tell me it meant nothing."
"It certainly didn't matter enough for you to dwell on it now. Of all the slights I received in my life, that was a minor one – and of course, I gladly forgive you, my lady," he added, "now, how about some sleep?"
Sansa, however, showed no inclination of doing so. She propped herself up on a pillow and spoke again:
"At our wedding, Ser Garlan told me you are a bigger man, and would make a better husband, than I think. He was right. You have been as good a husband as any woman could wish for – and far better than I could have hoped for, that's for sure. I have done nothing to be deserving of this, my lord. But I want things to change from this day on. I want you to have my maidenhood tonight."
Her voice was so quiet and shaky that Tyrion thought he had misheard. One look at her face, though, was enough to make him sure of what she meant.
He let out a little laugh and said, trying not to sound bitter:
"Gods be good, Sansa. You don't have to do this. I know you don't want to – you could never want me." What woman would? What woman ever did?
"But it is my right," she insisted, "we have been married nearly a year, and I'm still a maiden. I am within my right to demand my claim as your wife… unless you… you don't want me anymore," she finished uncertainly.
Doesn't want her?.. The burning shame he felt for desiring her in the face of her deep grief and obvious, cold indifference!.. He looked at her again, carefully studying her features. There was no sudden passion on her part, that's for sure, and he would be a fool to expect her to be somehow woken to his charms. What was etched in her face was defiance and determination. But there was no disgust, and no pity, for which he was grateful. Her hand reached towards his again, and it was firm and warm.
"My lord – Tyrion," for the first time, she said his name out of her own volition, "you are my husband. My good, kind, brave husband. I want to try. I thought you were willing to try too, on the night when we wed – but perhaps you have changed your mind?"
He didn't answer. There was no need to. His eyes, his body – everything betrayed what he felt, a longing hidden too deeply and too long to continue suppressing. With a gesture of the defiance he saw in her eyes, Sansa pulled up and over her head the simple woolen nightgown he prepared for her, and lay on her back, waiting, her eyes closed. Her arms and legs were covered with goosebumps, but she made no move to cover herself.
"I don't really know what to do," she said, "you will have to show me."
"Sansa," her husband said softly, "open your eyes. Look at me."
She dutifully obeyed. She sat up and studied the face of the little man in front of her – the ugly, scarred, malformed face, the mismatched eyes, the coarse beard; he was no handsomer than on the night they were left alone in their bedchamber for the first time, nor any bit less of a Lannister – but they are seeking his head now just as they are seeking mine, she thought, Queen Cersei and her vultures. He saved me from beating, she thought further, and bedding, and now from Littlefinger, without expecting anything in return, without even claiming what was rightfully his. Hesitantly, she cupped his cheek and leaned forward to kiss him.
Tyrion's head was swimming as he buried his fingers in her soft auburn curls, pressing her close to him, drinking deeply from the sweet mouth he felt against his scarred lips. There was an intoxicating ache in his heart and his groin, an intense urgency like he never felt before; he drank just enough wine at dinner, he hasn't had a woman – any woman – for many months, since Shae's betrayal, and he had wanted Sansa since the day of their wedding – she was so beautiful now, lovelier even than she was then, and as willing as she was ever like to come to him. As he broke off the kiss to pull his undershirt over his head, Sansa blew out the candle, so that their room was lit only by silver stripes of moonlight.
She was stunning even in this dim, cold light, though, her skin smooth like cream and soft as velvet. He kissed her warm slender neck and beautiful shoulders, and the delicate curve of her breast, and her belly and thighs and the sweet softness between them – until she grew warm, then hot; until she breathed heavily and gasped, and finally moaned and shuddered and arched her back, her fingernails digging into the bedcovers. Then he climbed atop her and heard a sharp intake of breath as he took her maidenhood, feeling a strange mixture of lust and tenderness and sorrow.
Afterwards, they lay in silence for several minutes; he didn't dare to look at his wife, yet felt he ought to say something. There was blood on the sheets that were now tangled around them.
"I must have hurt you," he said quietly. To his relief, she looked in no distress.
"Not too much," she assured him, "I was a maiden, and maidens bleed. Surely my lord knows that."
How would he know? He had no maidens, only whores; girls in brothels and serving wenches and camp followers. He looked at her, sweet and innocent, touched by no man but him, gentle-born and so lovely – his wife. Part of him wanted her to understand. Part of him just wanted to weep.
"This is the first time I'm in bed with a woman without being expected to give her gold or silver, silks or jewels; the first time a woman came to me – not out of desire, I know; no, be quiet, Sansa; but at least out of gratitude and respect, and not for love of coin. I hope I have your trust, my lady, and maybe with time I will gain a little affection."
She didn't answer at once, but he saw a wide smile spreading across her face. Was this such a ridiculous notion?
"Oh, Tyrion," she sighed, grinning openly for the first time since he knew her, "I'm pretty, am I not? But do you realize you are the only man who has ever wanted me without thinking of Winterfell?"
He did think of that once, as a matter of fact, but the hope was long gone now, together with Winterfell. He didn't care, though; not when she put her arms around him and he rested his head on her soft shoulder, dizzy from the scent of her skin. She was warm and soft and yielding, and though he was naked as his name day, he saw no revulsion in her eyes now. Her body subtly told him that his touch had not been unpleasant – which was as much as he could hope for at the moment. He already started to drift off when he heard her say:
"My lord husband, may I see Jon's letter?"