A Holiday by Decree
~~Day 11~~
Sansa barely repressed a shaky breath, as finally fully settled into the plush cushions, Tyrion closed his eyes before her.
She had truly never been in such a position with a man, let alone much of anyone for that matter. For years and years of her life, whether it was in the political or domestic arena, Sansa had so often been on the defensive or on the attack. This was different though: while she held the reins in this scenario, it was not by way of struggle or conquest.
Tyrion had yielded to her because he wanted to.
And now he waited, as all that remained was for her to make the first move.
She ghosted a hand out over him, and then abruptly stopped. In motion, and particularly with the attention he seemed to always command whenever he spoke, Tyrion was a veritable force. Sansa had personally experienced the way he could fill a room with his deep, booming voice, enthusiastic gestures and compelling thoughts. It was in those times, she often thought nothing of how there was anything different about him outside of how unusually captivating he could be. As she sat on her legs over him though, the pipe smoke finally doing its job of softening her reluctance, it struck her how suddenly small he looked.
The thought that his man with stunted arms and legs could bring her harm felt crazy. She swallowed to ground herself in the moment, as she saw clearly once again that he could be nothing further from the monsters that lived in her past.
If anything, she realized it was really she who could hurt him that moment, as he lay on his back, palms up, arms and legs splayed before her.
But no - it was with absolute trust that Tyrion could lay before her like this, and for her part, she knew she would never hurt him willingly - and never ever like those who had hurt her.
Her heart drummed faster at the recognition of that which she craved at last laid out before her in the form of this man, whom she had come to care so deeply for.
Trust, love, acceptance: they were all there - all Sansa needed was to reach out and touch them.
Still, Sansa's first touch was tentative. Safely, she laid her hand over the soft cream silk of his right shirt sleeve before slipping her fingertips down to the bright, golden link at the cuff.
Despite his unusual form, Tyrion clearly made a point of fine dressing. Even as a girl, despite the fact that she had been afraid of her then stranger-husband, she remembered wondering if they had to touch, what the thick embroidery, fine cutouts, and flashy Lannister gold on his silk and leather jerkins might have felt like. Thinking of it, running her hand over them now felt more naughty, but as her confidence built, she remembered that she was of course there for more than Tyrion's clothes.