First Nights

(Sansa)


A/N: This chapter wasn't supposed to be about Sansa again. I'm working on what was supposed to be the next chapter (it's from Jon Snow's perspective, for those who are curious), but I finished this first and felt it belonged here. The next chapter will be up before long!

I know this is an odd mix of book/show events, but I like both versions.


iii.

He has a gift for her, he says, a wedding gift, and so she follows him, uncertain, but she remembers a necklace and a kiss and a promise of love, and perhaps he is only trying to be kind once again. Over here, he says, where they can't see us, and yanks her arm, leading her out of sight of the crowd. He has no necklace this time, although he does kiss her, and mumble, in breaths even more heavily scented with wine than her new lord husband's, how it's wrong, all wrong, how he is the one who loves her. They are in an alcove, and he pulls a curtain to block them from sight, pushing her to the floor. A whimper escapes her throat as she feels the stone beneath her, cold even through the layers of her wedding finery. He shoves up the heavy skirts of her gown. "Try not to rip it," she cautions, echoing the queen's words from only hours before. "It was very costly."

Looking at her, he scoffs. "I am the king, and I'll rip what I like." He leers and tears a strip of lace from her skirt, then reaches up, his nails brushing against her thighs. Ripping aside her smallclothes, the finest linen she's ever worn, he presses a finger against her most private place, and then he isn't against her, but inside her. She shivers and shrieks, but his hand is against her mouth before her cry is audible. Her skirts fall between them, and she wriggles away, but he's on her again, shoving her skirts at her, telling her to hold them. His fingers fumble with the fabric, and she takes it without thinking, in shock as she watches his hand at the tie of his breeches. It isn't right, this is her wedding day, and there are people who might see. But somehow, it's not wrong, either. He's very close, and so she cannot quite see when he undoes his breeches, or the part of him that he now pushes between her legs. She doesn't protest again, only giving a soft cry into the shoulder that's suddenly against her cheek, at the unfamiliar feeling against her. Her legs widen. Did she spread them further? She isn't sure. But he touches her there, and then there's a sharp stab of pain.

He moans, his breath hot against her hair. "Sansa, my Sansa." She shivers, and the way he breathes into her makes her skin tingle. It doesn't hurt where they are joined anymore. She supposes they must be joined, still, since Joffrey is still moving against her, thrusting his body toward hers. There is a new feeling inside her, something is in her, and there is wetness, too, between her legs. It doesn't feel bad. In fact, it almost feels good. But then his teeth replace his lips, and she cries out, biting her lip too late. She doesn't want anyone to see them. What would that mean for her?

His breaths are rough and ragged as he claws at her shoulders, as if he is trying to shred her gown with his fingertips. "You're mine," he says, his whisper harsh. "I'll have you again tonight, any night, if I please. My uncle can leave or he can watch, it's all the same to me, but you're mine. Always."

"Until your last day," Sansa echoes, her own voice wavering as his fingers press in to her collarbone, then rise to rest against her neck. This boy is Joffrey, but somehow he isn't. It's easy to pretend the last months have never happened, so simple to shove them away deep in her thoughts and enjoy this embrace.

He looks at her with eyes that are somewhat glazed. His smile is slightly crooked, but it is there. "You remembered," he said. "Of course you remembered. You are my lady. It should be you," he says again, and there is a boy's petulance in his voice, but also a man's steel. Perhaps he is not such a child, now.

He gasps and shudders suddenly. Sansa still is not quite sure what is happening, but Joffrey clings to her tightly, his arms awkwardly wrapped around her chest. She finds it hard to breathe but thinks it unwise to say so. Finally he lets her go, gathering a fistful of the curls that trail from her neatly arranged hair and tugging them briefly. He clumsily kisses the corner of her mouth, and his mouth is not as wet as it was when he kissed her earlier, during the dancing. She almost thinks she likes this kiss.

Then he stands and turns away, clothing himself again as she sits on the floor. When he turns back he looks down at her, and his face lights up at something.

"Your blood." His voice is high and excited. "Your maidenhead. It's mine, I took it, not my uncle. You're mine, you're really mine!"

Sansa grows cold as she realizes exactly what has just happened. She is no longer a maiden. When she lies with her new husband tonight (a thought that makes her tremble), she will not bleed.

"What will I do?" she wails, feeling ill. "What will I tell Lord Tyrion?" During the brief span of time that she was crushed in Joffrey's embrace, she had forgotten what led to them being in this room together. But now, she remembers, and her heart thumps rapidly, painfully, as her head spins. It's all gone terribly wrong.

"Why should I care what you tell him? There's nothing he can do. I'm the king." Joffrey curls his lip, likely at the thought of his uncle. He has finished dressing and has his hand on the curtain that is all that hides them from whoever might be in the hall beyond.

"He can't do anything to you, but he can punish me. Tell everyone I'm not a maiden. I'll be worthless. Cast out." Sansa fights back a sob.

"He won't," Joffrey promises. "I'll have him killed first. You belong to me. You'll never leave King's Landing." He turns and stalks off without another word, shoving the heavy drapes closed with one hand.

Sansa's protest at being left alone, disheveled, ruined, dies in her throat as she thinks of baby birds, shuddering in their nests alone, waiting for mothers who will never return. She has already given up hope that she will ever leave King's Landing, but upon hearing the finality in Joffrey's tone, she can no longer keep back her tears. She's not only crying for her home, for the loss of everything she's ever loved. Once again, Joffrey has taken something from her that she cannot get back.

Although Sansa knows that she cannot spend what's left of her wedding celebration weeping behind a curtain, she cannot stop her tears. Her gown is still askew, and she hopes that she hasn't been bleeding on the skirts, but she cannot bring herself to care overmuch. It's hard to catch her breath, and she still has not collected herself when unsteady footsteps stop outside the alcove. At first, she almost doesn't notice them, but the sigh of fabric as the curtain is drawn back startles her into silence.

It is Lord Tyrion, her husband of a few hours. She tries to cover herself but she is not quick enough, and his ugly face twists into an even more frightening visage.

"So even my bride is no longer entirely my own. I should have expected no less from the king. I assume it was the king who was just here, as when I passed him in the hallway, he wore the cruelest look of satisfaction on his face that I have ever seen. And there is blood on your legs, unless someone has been very careless with their wine. I can't imagine how it could have spilled underneath your skirts, though, so I rather suspect that it is, in fact, blood."

Sansa hides her face in her hands. She cannot face him. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, again and again. "I'm sorry, my lord." It's true that he's ugly, like a gargoyle, but he has never been unkind to her. If only he were a bit handsomer, perhaps she could have brought herself to not mind the marriage. Maybe she could have liked him, even loved him, in spite of the fact that he was a Lannister. But he must hate her now.

There is a long, hard sigh and more footsteps. He is approaching her. She cringes, stiffening further when she feels a hand on her shoulder. Will he hit her?

"Look up, Sansa."

She raises her head slowly. The look on his face is bleak.

"We are all subject to the whims of the king. It is nothing to apologize for. I must instead apologize to you. I was not here to protect you. I have been your husband for less than a day, and I have already broken my vows." He drives his fist into the palm of his hand. "I cannot think that anything about this day is like the wedding you imagined."

Her own bitter laugh surprises her. "No," she agrees.

"Are you all right? Did he hurt you much?" He kneels next to her and tugs at her dress, straightening it, smoothing it with one awkward hand.

"No," she tells him. "I'm not hurt."

He offers his arm. "Would you prefer to speak no more of this?"

She looks at him blankly, then nods, once, wiping at her tears with her sleeve. "If it pleases my lord, I should like to forget it." Placing her hand in Lord Tyrion's, she rises. Her legs are shaky, and one pricks with pins-and-needles.

"Let us leave this farce of a wedding. It has been a long day, and I expect you would like to sleep, as tomorrow will likely be another long day. The days are all long, in this place." His face twists into something like a smile, and he leads her from the room.