Sansa
Exhaling a shaking breath through her nose, Sansa remained leaned against the wooden door frame and slid slowly to the floor as the strength left her legs immediately. Her heartbeat wildly against the confines of her chest, deafening.
What was that? What had just happened? Sansa shakily knit her fingers together as she forced her body to relax and remain calm, forcing her breaths in and out, though it felt as though no benefit was coming to her lungs. Just dizziness and an overwhelming sense of nausea.
She had inadvertently thrown herself into Ramsay Bolton's cross hairs, there was no doubt of that, by daring to talk back to him and reject the man's unwanted advances. The gods only knew how many of the Boltons' unspoken rules she had just broken.
"I'm sorry, Tyrion," Sansa heard herself mumble as she craned her neck upwards to look at the rows upon rows of books, thinking that her lord husband would like this library very much once the wenches had given the place a good cleaning, and if they were not up to the task, then by the gods and the Light of the Seven, she would do it herself.
It mattered not that she was a noble, she could not—would not—one of her favorite places within Winterfell's walls lay in disgrace and in a state of waste like this.
"I—I wasn't…strong enough for this place," she whispered, hating hearing the crack and faltering dip in her voice. Sansa bit the inner wall of her cheek as she felt an uncomfortable pit in her stomach.
Ramsay Bolton had acted as if what he had almost demanded of her were simple and naught out of the ordinary.
She'd heard the rumors.
Though she had not wanted to believe the gossiping of the smallfolk and servants, so it was not as if she were completely ignorant on that matter. Sansa wasn't a stupid fool. Ramsay had been staring at her with such rage and melancholia in his eyes, and Sansa had thought for certain she had been about to let herself ravaged right there in the hallway, and then there was the strange way he had regarded her.
Such pain and torment ridden on his face and in his eyes, the likes of which she had not seen before.
It was the very last thing she expected to see in those sparkling azure eyes of the bastard's, for what could a Bolton man, who grew up with such privilege, surrounded by everything he could possibly want and then some, ever know of struggle or misery?
It did not make any sense, and all these conflicting thoughts were swirling around in Sansa's tired head. She would not dare let herself think this, and yet, she was doing it anyway, how Lord Roose Bolton's son had almost looked ashamed of the way he was.
Sansa blinked back briny tears and bowed her head, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat. "I—I am not strong enough for this. Were you here, maybe, but…"
"Please don't talk about yourself like that, Lady Sansa. I did not come all this way to hear you berate yourself in this manner. You are strong," a new voice interrupted, coming from her left, and Sansa's heart raced in her chest, adrenaline surging through her veins, spreading rapidly like Wildfire.
Someone…someone else was in here. Again! How many more times must she endure being trapped in a small confined space with a Stranger?
Sansa stifled a groan and a mewling whimper and wildly looked around. Sansa could feel the panic begin and the tension grew in her face and limbs, her mind replaying the incident that had transpired with Ramsay Bolton in the corridor only moments ago.
Her breathing became more rapid, shallower, as she wildly looked about the library, her eyes darting to the left and right for the source of the voice.
Sansa gasped short spurts of tired breaths and wearily glanced around as the voice continued to resonate throughout all corners of the dust-covered library, though it sounded nearer in proximity than it had before.
"Are you alone?" the man's voice asked, and just the single question was enough to send a chill of fear down her spine.
She gulped and swallowed past the lump in her throat nervously between pained, shaking breaths and wildly glanced around for something—anything—with which to defend herself in the even that Ramsay had returned to finish what he had tried to start.
Spotting a rather large golden iron poker prong used for tending the fireplace near one of the bookshelves by her feet, she kicked off her slippers and thought that sufficient enough to ward off any attackers that were intruding upon her sanctuary.
She knelt hastily to pick it up, her fingers curling into protective fists around her only weapon as the voice neared her again, and she caught faint glimpses of a shadow.
What if it's Stannis Baratheon? Sansa's mind felt like it was going on overdrive, for she had heard the whispers in the walls of Winterfell, how the self-proclaimed King Baratheon was rumored to be league in with a Red Witch of the highest order.
Steeling her nerves, determined not to let this intruder in the library feed off her fear, Sansa curled her fingers tighter around the poker and felt the coolness of the metal.
The man's magnificent voice rang from beyond her line of sight, and thanks to the fact there was barely a single lit candelabra in this dusty library, she could not see the intruder.
"Who's there?" she whispered and bit down hard on her bottom lip in fear.
Sansa barely felt herself inhale a sharp breath and hold it, waiting with bated breath as Tyrion stepped from the shadows, stealing her breath and the very heat from her body.
Suddenly, her defenses were little more than parchment paper, paper that was being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops from her eyes.
Her husband's face came from the shadows, handsome features suspended between a strange grief and elation.
She winced as she felt her ironclad grip like steel slacken and drop the poker to the ground, where it clattered to the ground by her bare feet with a loud clang, louder than she would have liked. Sansa winced visibly, thinking that there was no way in the seven hells and the gods above that someone on the outside hadn't heard that noise, for the echo still reverberated off the library's walls, and dared to peek over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. Nothing but silence.
The two of them were still alone.
Tyrion met her gaze and scowled, though there was no mistaking the playful glinting sheen in his cobalt eyes. "I would have thought that would have been obvious, milady. I would hope that you would have been able to recognize the sound of your husband's voice upon hearing it," he teased, glancing around to the left and right, as though he half expected Ramsay or even the Warden to return and escort him out. "You don't want to know what Bronn had to promise one of this place's serving girls in order to sneak me in here to see you." He scrunched his nose and pulled a face
Sansa refused to look away, even as her lips trembled and her shoulders heaved with emotion as her husband stepped further into the light, finally revealing his hiding place, unwilling to back down. Her dark lashes brimmed heavy with tears of relief, her hands clenched into shaking fists, in a desperate battle against the grief of thinking she had swayed him from coming, how she remembered how he'd looked at her that night.
A lone tear traced down her cheek, and just like that, the floodgates opened. Her blue eyes looked as if the oceans had been encased inside of small glass marbles, and then her smooth orbs appeared to be cracked. This magnificent ocean had started to flood and leak as the little beads of water streamed down Sansa Stark's pale cheeks.
"I—is it really you?" Sansa whispered hoarsely, feeling waves of relief as Tyrion silently nodded. Sansa felt the giggle escape her lips as Tyrion's mouth formed into a smirk. "Please tell me Ser Bronn is going to sheep shift Ramsay Bolton's bed for her."
Tyrion blinked, surprised by her outburst, but she could have sworn she saw him smirk.
"N—no one saw you come in here after me? Ramsay? The—The Warden? Are you certain no one saw you? B...but how?" breathed Sansa breathlessly.
Tyrion mutely shook his head and took a hesitant step forward, into the light. "The benefit of being a dwarf, milady. We're often ignored, which makes it beneficial to slip past undetected if I should so choose to, and given our marriage is looked upon with scorn here, I thought it best not to draw attention to myself. We—we came in through the crypts," he explained, a pained expression on his face and in his cobalt blue eyes.
Seconds passed, Sansa's brain taking in, struggling to comprehend that he was not merely another hallucination, a specter of her nightmares sent to torment her in sleep.
Her brain could not formulate a thought, at least not one based in any language, and if she did not touch him soon, the very veins in her blood and fibers would tear themselves apart. Before she could so much as draw in air that she knew her lungs needed, her body melted into his form as she remained kneeling on the ground so that she could look into Tyrion's cobalt blue eyes.
She did not bother to hide the smile that tugged at the edges of her lips as she reached out a shaking hand to ghost the pads of her fingertips along his sharp, smooth jawline. "You…you shaved," she whispered teasingly, blinking back briny tears that threatened to escape from her eyes. "For me? You did that for me?"
Tyrion nodded, a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks. "Y-yes. You…you said that I looked better without a beard and you preferred your men to be clean, Lady Sansa…"
There was no mistaking the hesitation in his voice, and Sansa smiled. How the ground between the two of them was erased, she would never recall, but one moment he was standing a few feet in front of her, and the next, they were morphed into a single being. The surprising warmth of her body met Sansa's ice cold, frigid skin, giving her hope like he always had, even back in King's Landing when everything was wrong.
One of his hands clasped around Sansa's lower back, rubbing gentle circles on the small of her back, and his other came to rest at the back of her skull, his palm pressing in softly as he stroked her hair. With each soft touch, more tears fell, tears neither of them bothered to wipe away.
After what felt like ages separated from the one man who she could trust above all else to treat her well and to keep her safe from these wretched snakes in the night, these Boltons, she knew the two of them had the chance to make new memories together and wasting time was not something they could no longer afford.
Time was a luxury that they did not simply have anymore, and it was an element that had never been on her side, nor Tyrion's for that matter, what she knew of him. Sansa let out a wistful sigh as she could feel the heart that beat within as she felt her ironclad grip on her husband tighten, her back still resting against the barred wooden door. His hands were folded around her back, drawing her in closer to his small form.
She could feel her body shake, crying for the missed time she would never get back, crying to release the long tension of these long weeks without Tyrion by her side, to silently apologize for the words she had said to him that fateful night in the dungeons.
Tyrion pulled his head back slightly to study her face and wiped her tears falling in graceful tracts down her pale cheeks with a calloused finger, and even this roughness brought more relief than Sansa believed her heart could hold. She smiled as she realized he was practically eating her with his eyes, his blue eyes wandering up and down the length of her form in her purple silk gown and matching corset, running his hand through her hair, as if he himself could not quite believe that this was not part of an almost forgotten good dream.
As his lips met hers, his kiss was sweet, gentle, and tasted of Sansa's tears. Her husband's kiss was one steeped in a passion that ignited a strange, foreign feeling of warmth spiraling through Sansa's body, setting the blood in her veins aflame.
It was the promise of realness, of the primal desire that lived within them all. And with it, Tyrion told Sansa that he was awake, connected within, that he embraced himself, who he was, rather than attempting to be anything that he was not.
Sansa wanted to speak as he reluctantly pulled away first, pulling back to study her face, but all she could croak was, "Don't go. Don't leave me, Tyrion. You cannot leave me alone with these people. All of them are monsters. If you be no dream, do not leave or I should like slit my wrists in the morning. I cannot—will not—marry Ramsay."
Tyrion's mouth painted a soft smile and he nodded once before folding Sansa in his arms again.
"I only heard a little of what happened, the things you said to him just now. I commend you on your bravery, milady, but I do not think that was wise of you," he confessed, his pained look deepening. "Bolton's bastard is going to remember your words," he began hesitantly, a pained look in his eyes as he toyed with the ends of a strand of her hair. "Did he hurt you?" he demanded, his words escaping him as a low growl as he felt that all—too familiar hot spark of anger within his veins.
Sansa mutely shook her head. "N—no," she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking as she drew Tyrion closer and rested her chin atop of her husband's mop of curly hair.
"Good." Tyrion's voice echoed. "You will tell me if he does." The request was not made lightly, and she recognized it as a command.
Sansa nodded mutely, feeling an inexplicable tightening in her chest.
"I only want you to be happy, Lady Sansa. I do not want you to suffer anymore on my account, wife."
At his last word, he faltered slightly, but immediately turned his head to the side to cough once to clear his throat.
"Are you all right?" Sansa asked, surprised when Tyrion waved off his wife's concerns with a brush of his hand, and when he did not look at her, she began to grow annoyed and cupped his chin in her hand, tilting his head upward, forcing him to look at her. "Talk to me," she encouraged. "Something ails you, husband. What is it, love?"
He seemed to melt a little at her term of endearment. "What do you think of me?"
Sansa shivered at his query and repressed the tremor that went down her spine, and instinctively wrapped her arms around him as much for warmth as much to seek comfort herself. "Kind. Caring. Far too good to me than perhaps I deserve," she croaked hoarsely, hearing the crack in her voice as she lowered her voice an octave. "I—I was horrible to you when I first met you, a—and I did not…I do not deserve the things that you say to me, and let alone that of your companionship," she protested.
Her husband made a muffled noise at the back of her throat and Sansa blinked, pulling away from the sweet embrace of resting her chin upon the top of his hair and she furrowed her brows. It took her a moment to realize Lord Tyrion was laughing.
"I've been told my company is quite exquisite," he teased playfully, but his grin faltered, and he adapted a more somber expression when he did not see his wife laugh.
"It is." Sansa quickly nodded her agreement. "I can think of no one else who I would rather spend the rest of my natural days with, for you have been nothing but good to me, and…you—you spend so much time trying to get people to love you, Tyrion, and you'll end up the most popular dead man in all Seven Kingdoms, when all you need is right in front of you. I hope that you can see that for yourself, my husband," Sansa swallowed down hard as her vision blurred as she lost herself in Tyrion's cobalt blue eyes, which were moistening and glistening with unshed tears.
Any words she wanted to say to her husband were drowned by an immense flood of emotions. Her heart swelled and strained against her chest, cutting her breaths short.
"I…I care for you, Lady Sansa. I love you. With all that I am, though I know I am not much. You know that I have never wanted another, needed another, but you. Don't you know? It's you," Tyrion murmured into the shell of her ear, and that sent an incredible heat coursing through Sansa's entire body, for she knew he did not say those single three words lightly. For him to say those three words was an incredible feat.
Instead of answering him immediately, Sansa pressed her lips to his and gave him a low, slow burning kiss. She could feel his body stiffen involuntarily, seemingly surprised by her reaction to his words. Sansa bit down on the inside of her lip as she pulled away, struggling to temper down her urge to meet him again halfway for another warm kiss.
She was not disappointed, for this time, it was Tyrion who initiated, and the next thing she knew, Tyrion had slammed his lips to hers and very nearly knocked the air from her lungs. Sansa hardly had a moment to react before he pressed his tongue to the seam of her lips and, at her grant of access, delved into her mouth. It was a very strong, sensual kiss, with the strong scent of Honeywine being exchanged in the intermingling of their breaths.
Her arms reached up and tangled around his strong, thick neck. In an instant, Sansa had pulled away and arched up into his lean chest, moaning in the contact of Tyrion's body heat against her own as he fumbled for the lacing strings of Sansa's corset and the back lacing of her purple silk gown with shaking fingers.
Sansa let her eyes close, letting her thoughts wander where they pleased. She could very nearly feel the slight burn of the wine as it rolled off her tongue and seeped down her throat with every push of his tongue against hers.
As usual this last week and leading up to this very moment, her thoughts wandered back to a part of her that Sansa kept secret and locked away from polite society.
When Sansa realized what was happening and feeling the incredible heat that had begun to pool between her legs. They ran in succession in her head, imagined scenarios of the two of them spending a night beneath the sheets of their marriage bed spending the rest of their lives in love's embrace, in this darkness which they knew they could not fight, tremulous and tender, sweet yet sinful.
These lustful thoughts set Sansa's skin alight again and pushed her to acknowledge what she had been attempting to deny for a while on those nights when she would sleep alone, wishing Tyrion were next to her, her only solace, her light in the dark. The strong and unrelenting need, this urge that Mother had always warned her to save for her husband, and now, her husband was right here in front of her.
With each passing day leading up to this night, Sansa had found the wait had become to her more and more unbearable. And why did society dictate the two of them wait, her conscience had asked this question of her several times. Sansa knew where her heart lay, and what she wanted. Who she wanted.
Sansa drew in a deep breath and turned her face towards the crook of Tyrion's neck. Without even thinking, she gave him a kiss, starting a trail of small kisses at his collarbone and trace her lips up to his perfect ear. She gently nipped at his earlobe, and she felt him laugh and move at the gesture.
"I would not let another, especially that boorish fiend of a vicious little bastard Ramsay Snow lay a hand on me," Sansa murmured, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "I…" She bit her bottom lip in hesitation and swallowed back her nerves. "I wish to know…what it feels like to love someone. A—and…I'd like for that…to be you. I do not think that Ramsay will want a wife who is no longer a virgin, nor one who is already hopefully with child. I-I must admit, I don't know how long these things take, but we have to try," she added, a pink blush deepening on her cheeks. "And I still owe you an heir. This is the only way."
His response was a gentle lingering kiss to her forehead. "You know that I would love you until the end of the world." Though Sansa furrowed her brows together in quandary as she took note of her husband's ashen face, and the look of pure unadulterated terror in his azure orbs and on his face was not exactly what she expected.
Though truth be told, she did not know herself what she wanted his reaction to be, she merely craved the assurance that Tyrion would never leave.
"A—are you sure you want this?" Tyrion stammered, his face draining of color as he met her gaze. "Do you know what you want, a—are you certain you know what you're talking about…?"
But the man's protests were cut short as she reached up a finger to his lips, effectively shushing him. "Yes." Slowly, she approached Tyrion and took him by the hand, which was trembling as well, so in that regard, Sansa was not alone. "If you do not wish to love me yet, then you may tell me, Tyrion," she whispered softly, splaying her hand across his chest. "It is fine to say no if this is…not what you want, husband."
"I—it's not…that…" He looked away from her, his poor cheeks a brilliant shade of red. "I…" Sansa waited patiently as her husband gathered his thoughts, her thumb stroking the back of his hand, the pads of her fingertips ghosting over his brilliant yellow gold wedding ring.
After a beat, he blew out a huffed breath of agitation and finally turned his gaze on her, which was equal parts confused and concerned, and he was looking at his wife as though Sansa had sprouted antlers. "You are so beautiful, my wife, but…are you sure this is what you want?" he said, his voice quiet, cracking.
She grinned down at the floor beneath their feet as she had folded her legs cross-legged under the skirts of her purple silk gown. Sansa leaned in and cupped his chin with her free hand, gently making Tyrion look at her. She locked her soft, icy blue gaze on his, ignoring the swooping sensation in her stomach.
"What I ask to know now is if you wish it as well. I cannot convince you, and I do not wish to on this night if you are not ready, Tyrion. I can only be truthful in what I want, and that is you. I will not give myself to the Warden's son. I won't. I would rather share the experience with someone who is kind to me, and good to me, and I know that will not be Ramsay Bolton. Besides…" She bit her bottom lip and looked away for a moment. "If there is a chance we could sire an heir and relatively soon, then perhaps that will entice Roose Bolton to call off the wedding. It's a bit of a long shot, but it's the best I can think of," she said.
Tyrion stared at her, incredulity shimmering in his gaze. "…Me…you are sure?"
The word fell from his lips like a dirty secret, whispered and quick and in disbelief.
She nodded, swallowing down her nerves again. "You. Yes. More than anything, Highness." Sansa's cheeks burned something fierce. She had never spoken so plainly before, and certainly not about this.
Still, it had to be said, and Sansa waited patiently as she could while Tyrion silently worked through his disbelief. Where this behavior was coming from, she did not know, and she hoped that her husband did not doubt her convictions.
At this point, Sansa knew she could only guess at what he was thinking.
Sansa only hoped that whatever answer he offered reflected his feelings and that he did not lie to her about what it was that he wanted. The silence wore on, but Sansa refused to take another move to close off the gap of space or move to undress out of her attire before she heard a clear yes or no.
Eventually, Tyrion traced a hand up her arm, his thumb running over her forearm. His shimmering blue gaze never left hers, not once.
"You are certain…" he breathed.
"Quite sure." Sansa promised, her heart leaping into her throat. "But are you?" Sansa swallowed nervously past the lump forming in her throat.
With a deep, shaking exhale, her husband slowly nodded. "Yes. I am." Sansa rested her forehead against his, her breath ghosting over his lips as he shivered in pleasure and both fear and exhilaration at what was about to happen. "We shall go slow tonight. Is that all right with you?" Sansa smiled at Tyrion, her smile gingerly tugging on her lips, and Tyrion could not help but feel drawn towards it. He wanted it to stay.
As her soft lips stretched even wider, his eyes drifted towards his wife's, and he was surprised to see a look that mirrored his own. One of elation and terror. Elation at having found his soulmate, the one who he would spend the rest of his life in utter devotion to, never stray from, and terror at the thought of ever losing this celestial-like woman that now lay on top of the desk.
She glanced down at one of the paperweights in the shape of a red X as it brushed against her thigh. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and kicked at the map with her leg, shooting her bare foot out from underneath her purple silk gown and kicking the map she was almost laying on top of with a good swift kick. She noticed Tyrion looking, a strange little frown on his face. She grinned.
"It's Ramsay's desk," she whispered into the shell of his ear, and she was not disappointed as she relished in the sound of his laughter. "This sort of revenge is even better than sheep shifting his bed," she giggled, and let out a snort through her nose. "He won't know a thing, I don't think. I think we can be quiet," she giggled.
It was then that he knew he truly cared for her, perhaps even loved her.
He did not want to lose her. Tyrion did not want to turn into a random image that floated deep within the recesses of Sansa Stark's memory one day. He did not want to be the smile that squeezed her chest somewhere far away if he were to ever die in some king's battle someday soon. Tyrion did not want Sansa to leave him behind.
Where she went, he wanted to go too. Tyrion did not want Sansa to go. He wanted Sansa and her sweet, beautiful smile to stay.
She noticed him looking and smiled, biting her bottom lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout, quirking a brow at him.
"I want you to have me like you want me to stay. Convince me to stay with you if that is what you wish. I want you to make love to me like you mean it," his wife whispered. "Love me, Tyrion? Please?"
It was the use of the word please that ignited something deep within Tyrion.
How her hand alit on Tyrion's face, moving down past his bare and prominent collarbone. He let out a tiny moan as her gaze drifted downward towards his chest, at the dozens of hundreds of angry red and white scars, courtesy of both his Father, his sister and brother when they were much younger.
"Until the end of the world, Soph. And after," he promised, leaning down to capture her lips with his, careful to be gentle as he moved on top of her.
She was his wife, and if the day came where he ever hurt her, then he might as well slay himself. Already, his brain felt like it was on fire. His wife, with the hair like winter ember flames, a beautiful fire, his beautiful angel with the fingertips of flame that Tyrion knew that he did not deserve such a delectable creature as she in his life. Their little tryst on top of the desk in the barricaded library already felt warm as Tyrion heard Sansa gasp as her fingertips lightly traced down all of his scars.
"You're staring, Lady Sansa," he commented, stifling a bemused smile as she blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze and made to turn away, a light pink blush speckling along Sansa's cheeks as she squirmed beneath Tyrion. Sansa attempted to wriggle her way from out underneath him, but his hand shot out and slid across Sansa's hips, stalling her movements. "I never claimed that I did not like it, wife," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He let out a groan as he could hear the hoarseness and desire in his own voice for the angel that lay on the mattress beneath him, as his free hand not gripping onto her waist slipped underneath the skirts of her purple gown, his fingers trailing along her smooth inner thighs delicately.
She was warm already as his fingers ghosted along the skin of her thighs, her body instinctively to her husband's tender touch. "Do you trust me not to hurt you?" he asked her.
"With my life." Her answer was immediate and left his wife's lips before Tyrion had even completed asking his question. "Until the end of the world."
Tyrion mutely nodded, swallowing with nervous anticipation. "Show me," he encouraged, his fingers tightening on her thighs, raking down her legs as he practically growled with the sheer effort to restrain himself. "How you want it." Tyrion could hear the urge and desperation in his voice, relishing in Sansa's tiny little gasp of surprise as he leaned down for another passionate kiss. "Together," he promised, as his lips captured Sansa's gently, his movements slow, tender, loving.
The cold desolate library already felt warm. It was hard for him to hold back as he allowed himself to become lost in the sensation of loving his wife, an experience that he had heard Jaimie talk of in excruciatingly graphic detail regarding Cersei, though to Tyrion, that never sounded like love. Not like what the two of them were currently experiencing in the moment. Oh, he was well versed in the ways of sex and pleasure, but that was merely satisfying an urge, but this? This was different.
It was hard for him to make their moment last forever, but was that not always the way, so caught between the new sensations of their experience and extending a moment with his wife that he never wanted to end. He would be content to spend the remainder of his days on top of this wretched desk with Sansa Stark if she'd have him.
He loved so many things about her. How patient she was with him, though she too was as nervous as he was. The way that her mouth was soft as she gasped for breath when he would pull away from a kiss that was both soft and hard at the same time. Slowly, Tyrion ran his hands down his wife's body. Her skin was flawless, smooth, perfect, soft on her hips, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her light moans. Sansa's breathing became cracked and uneven, the stars becoming novae in her eyes.
She twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck as the two of them moved in tandem on top of the desk that, Sansa knew if Ramsay were to find out what she had initiated, he would be furious, though the sweet, sweet of revenge was sweeter, though it did not stop her grin from forming as she grinned into the kiss that her husband planted on her lips, whispering things to her into the beautiful shell of her left ear, shuddering as he gently nipped at her earlobe, much as she had done to him but a few moments ago, and whispered something to his wife.
Something for her ears only, whispered words of love, promises that he would be with her forever, always by her side. Slowly, he ran his hands down her body. Her skin was flawless and smooth, soft on her hips as he spread her thighs with his fingers and the first moan left her lips, the sound half muffled.
When she kissed Tyrion, his brain lit on fire and the warmth spread throughout his entire body, the heat his wife gave off was scorching. Her kisses were both his salvation and his torment, his purpose, and his anguish.
Tyrion lived for them and he knew he would die with them one day in old age after a long, healthy life together, the two of them, with the memory of them forever on his lips. He dedicated his life to being with Sansa Stark wholly on this night in the library, their safe haven for the night, for he knew that if he ever lost his wife, then he would lose himself and become incomplete.
For she was the new half that made him whole.
He lowered his lips to hers, capturing her mouth in a greedy kiss. "It's been a few weeks has it not, Sansa, beloved," he whispered devilishly, a smirk on his handsome features. "I've missed our time together," he said tenderly and quietly.
His wife opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped her. "Shush," he commanded, raising a gentle finger to her lips, shushing her. He continued with his efforts to please her, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her whimpers and feeling her body shift beneath his. Sansa's breathing became uneven, cracking, and she jerked forward as she climaxed, the stars becoming novae in her eyes.
His wife twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck, the beautiful shell of her ear, shuddering as he gently nipped her earlobe and whispered promises to her, promises of what's to come in their moment. Her thighs were still parted beneath him as he entered her, thrusting greedily, her body wrapping around his shaft, all heat and moisture.
She's warm, so warm, and when he's inside her, he's home. He'd make love to his wife every day if he could. Sansa made a sound in her throat but this time, just this time, he does not listen as he claims her, his hands wound tightly on the edges of the table before drifting to the back of her head, finding purchase in her hair, his fingers entangled in her hair, his hair falling in his eyes and shading everything.
His wife panted for breath, her breasts hitching with each breath she drew in, her body reacting to his touch, moving in sync with each of his thrusts. He let out a groan and buried his face in her hair as he climaxed.
For a moment, he stayed over his wife, his arms trembling slightly, then drew away and dressed quickly, to see Sansa standing upright, a dazed and stunned look in her heavily lidded cobalt eyes. He ran his hand down her thigh gently, feeling her tremble as his touch left a static frenzy in their wake, as he leaned down and kissed her gently. "Love me?" she whispered, a lascivious smile that he can't help but smile back at and return lovingly.
"Always," he promised lovingly, leaning up to kiss her again. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll always love you. Until the world ends, and after."
That was good enough for her.
Sansa met Tyrion's piercing blue eyes and blushed, though she did not avert her gaze. Growing up, as a little girl, Sansa used to believe glacier eyes were ice cold, that they knew no warmth and never shared loved. That's what she used to believe. But now she knew as she looked into her husband's eyes the truth.
That the hottest fires always burn blue.