Chapter Twelve

Sansa broke her fast in her bedchamber the next morning, alone. Her mind had been fraught with indecision, and she had needed the time to clear her head. There were many decisions still to be made about the future of Winterfell, not least of which was just how much she was willing to trust her new husband. Did she dare take him at his word that he did not intend to share her bed again? Even if his promise had been sincere, Sansa didn't know if he was capable of keeping it.

Of course, she had married Tyrion because she trusted him, but this was different. She knew he would never betray her or abuse her, unlike the other men she had been beholden to in her short lifetime. What she didn't know was if he could keep himself from her bed. After all, he was renowned in all of Westeros for his lechery. Could he really give up that particular vice just because they were married now? Sansa sincerely doubted it.

After the morning meal was passed, Sansa left her chamber and headed toward the Great Hall. Since becoming Lady of Winterfell, her mornings were no longer her own. She had messages and petitions waiting for her every day without fail. It was more work than she had expected, even with Maester Wolkan's help, but it was a trial she had no choice but to endure.

The Great Hall was quiet when Sansa entered. At first, she thought it was empty, but then she saw Tyrion sitting at the head table, his head bent over a scroll. The table in front of him was laid out, not with food, but with countless papers and books, much to Sansa's surprise. She had expected Tyrion to still be abed, sleeping off the effects of drink.

Tyrion hadn't seen her come in, and Sansa stopped in the doorway, taking a moment to examine him. He was dressed like a lord, in a Lannister-red tunic. His curly hair was less wayward than usual, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He looked refined and respectable, and for a moment, Sansa was even able to forget that he was a dwarf. There was just something captivating about the way he was sitting there, his brow furrowed deep in thought as he poured over the missive in his hand. In that moment, Sansa almost thought him handsome.

Sansa shook herself. She didn't know where that thought had come from, but it was a silly one, and she refused to entertain it. Instead, she walked into the room, moving toward the table. "Good morning, Tyrion."

He looked up, clearly surprised. "Sansa. How long have you been there?"

"Not long." She stopped on the other side of the table and looked down at the sea of paper laid out before him. It was at least a moonturn's worth of petitions from fellow northerners requesting aid of various kinds. Underneath the pile, she saw the corner of a map of the northern territories and several books whose titles she couldn't see. She looked up at Tyrion. "What is all this?"

"As I see it? It's my responsibility now, as much as yours. I hope you don't mind. I thought I should familiarize myself with some of the outstanding issues that are still under your consideration. Of course, if you'd rather that I didn't—"

Sansa shook her head. "No, no, it's fine. I could use the counsel."

"And I am happy to give it. Please," he said, turning to the chair next to him and removing the pile of books he had left on the seat, "join me."

Sansa was determined to make the most of Tyrion's diplomatic abilities. He was wise, and he knew a great deal about governing. She would not reject his counsel where matters of a political nature were concerned.

Sansa rounded the table and sat beside her husband. He smiled at her, and she smiled tentatively back. She gazed down at the table again, suddenly overwhelmed by the responsibility before her. "Are there really this many unanswered petitions? Sometimes it feels as if all I ever do is read them and answer them."

"They're not all unanswered," he reassured her. "I had everything that has come through Winterfell in the last moonturn brought to me. If I'm going to fully understand what the people need most, I need a clear picture of everything that has already been done for them."

Sansa stole a glance at Tyrion from the corner of her eye. He was looking at the letter in his hand again, and she couldn't help but feel that she had made a very wise decision in choosing him for a husband.

"You're very good at this, aren't you?" Sansa said.

"I like to solve problems. It's one of the few things I'm good at."

"I'm sure you're good at a great many things."

"Not as many as you might think. And most of those are vices, not graces."

He didn't elaborate, and Sansa was glad. She supposed he counted drinking and whoring among his greatest skills. She knew there was more to him than that, even if he refused to acknowledge it.

"May I ask you something?" Sansa said.

"You may ask me anything, dear wife." Tyrion finally stopped reading and looked up at her.

"Now that you are Lord of Winterfell, do you intend to take full command of the keep?"

His eyes narrowed at her. "What exactly do you mean?"

"I mean, I am only the Lady of Winterfell. Now that the castle has a lord to command it, there is really no need for me to be involved in such important matters," she said, nodding toward the petitions strewn about the table.

Tyrion shook his head. "Sansa, Winterfell is your ancestral home, not mine. You know it better, you love it more, than I ever will. You have more right than I to sit at this table and decide its fate."

"But you are a man—"

"And you are a fiercely strong woman who is more than capable of handling all of this on your own. I only offer my counsel as your humble servant. I am yours to command."

"And I yours, my lord."

Tyrion laughed. "Ah, exactly what a well-bred lady is trained to say."

Sansa flushed with embarrassment, but she still persisted. "It is true."

"It damn well better not be true. I admire your strength and your independent spirit. Don't ever compromise either, especially not for me."

"I cannot run Winterfell forever. What will happen when I have children?"

"You will sit in that very chair and nurse them at your breast as you listen to the pleadings of your northern brethren."

Sansa's cheeks blushed an even darker shade of red, and she turned away from her husband, desperate to regain some of her composure. "I assure you, I could do no such thing."

"Well," Tyrion said, putting down the letter he had been reading and reaching for another, "it's a moot point anyway. You've already decided that we won't be having any children."

"When did I decide that?" she asked, her gaze snapping back to him.

Tyrion lowered the letter to his lap and looked at her. "Sansa, you do know how children are made, don't you? You do know that they are not brought by a stork, despite what your septa may have told you?"

"Of course. I'm not a child."

Tyrion looked her up and down. "No. No, you're not, are you?"

"I know how children are made."

"Then you know that there is no chance of us having any."

Sansa straightened her spine, trying to retain some control over the situation. "That's not true. I might already be with child."

"You might. And you might not. If you are not, then both the Stark and Lannister lines will likely die with us."

"If I am not, we shall try again."

Tyrion pushed himself up in his chair as if he was suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, let's hope that you are. For both our sakes."

Sansa couldn't help but feel hurt by his words. Their coupling had been an ordeal for her, but she had thought she'd given Tyrion exactly what a man needed. Had he really been that dissatisfied with the experience? "Was bedding me that much of a trial for you, my lord?" Sansa couldn't keep the bitterness from her tone.

Tyrion's eyes registered shock, and he stared at Sansa for a moment before replying. "It was . . . not ideal."

"But you were satisfied? You did . . .?" She couldn't finish the thought. There were some things that a lady was never supposed to talk about, even with her husband.

"Did what?"

Sansa's blush deepened as she forced the words out. "Fulfilled your duty . . . to completion."

It took Tyrion a moment, but eventually, he figured out what it was that she was asking. "Ah, well, yes," he said, tearing his gaze from hers and squirming in his chair again. "Yes, I did."

"Then why do you wish never to do it again?"

"Because," he said, busying himself with tidying up the papers on the table, "you received no pleasure from it."

"Does that matter?"

"It matters a great deal to me. I have a reputation to uphold." He laughed, but the sound was strained.

"But I will never receive pleasure from such a thing. It isn't possible."

"It's more than possible. It will just take a lot of time, trust, and patience."

Sansa shook her head. "No. I have no interest in taking pleasure from such a vile act. And I hope that you don't really expect me to."

Tyrion stopped his fidgeting. He turned in his chair and gave Sansa his full attention. "My dear wife," he said softly, "I know that you have been through a great deal in your young life and that much of the joy of it has been stolen from you. But there is a reason why men go to brothels and women have bastard children. It's because there is a base, physical need in all of us to—" he stopped as if searching for the right words. "To be joined intimately with another person. The gods have made it pleasurable by design so that we will do it as often as possible and produce scores and scores of children to worship them."

"It may be pleasurable for men—"

"Women too."

"I don't believe that."

"Well then, someday, I'm going to have to prove it to you."

A spike of apprehension pierced Sansa's heart. Tyrion had assured her that he would not force her to do anything she didn't want to do. And yet, now, he was threatening to take her to his bed and teach her a lesson she didn't want to learn. "I would prefer that you didn't. I would prefer that you stay true to your word and keep your distance."

Tyrion held up his hands as if to show that he meant her no harm. "Of course. I would never force you to do anything you didn't want to do."

"That isn't how it sounded."

"Yes, well, what I meant was, if you ever come to me again, I would like the opportunity to make the experience pleasurable for you. If possible."

"It is impossible."

"Yes, I know, but will you at least let me try?"

There was such earnestness in his eyes that Sansa didn't know how to respond. She knew that the chances of her being with child were very slim and that, someday, she would have to invite him into her bed again. Could she stand his attempts at seduction? Would it be a torment for her? Sansa feared it would be. What they had already shared had been an ordeal and Tyrion had barely touched her. How would she feel if he attempted to put his hands on her, to kiss her? She didn't think she could bear it.

And yet, he hadn't asked her for very much. In fact, he hadn't asked her for anything. He had turned down her offer to let him exorcise his baser desires at the local brothel. Thus far, he had proven himself a trustworthy husband. Could she deny him the only thing he had ever asked of her?

Sansa knew she had a duty to foster goodwill between herself and her husband, and that involved compromise. She had to give something on her side. She couldn't just continue to take. Finally, she found the words to reply. "The next time you come to me, my lord, you may do with me what you will."

Tyrion shook his head. "Sansa, I—"

She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. The conversation had gotten far too uncomfortable for her liking. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have some other business to attend to this morning."

"Of course."

Sansa left the Great Hall as quickly and gracefully as she could. The next time Tyrion came to her, he would have full reign of her body, and she shuddered to imagine just what he might do to her. But it was only fair. Tyrion had sacrificed much for her, and the least she could do was grant this one request. She only had to let him try once. And maybe, when he failed, he'd see that there was no point in trying a second time.