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Sansa had once dreamed of this day. Of walking into the Great Sept, to a crowd of adoring lords and ladies, with her gallant prince standing in front of the High Septon, all waiting for her. Her prince would be so handsome, and she would be beautiful. He would wrap her in his cloak, made of some light fabric from the south instead of the heavy wool ones of the North, and she would never know sadness. She would be a wife, a queen.
Life would be a song.
*
When Joffrey broke off their betrothal, Sansa was the happiest she had been since she came to King’s Landing. She was still a captive, but she felt free in a way she hadn’t been before. Joffrey would have a new toy to occupy his time (her sympathies to Lady Margaery), and she would just be Sansa Stark, hostage of the Crown.
Still in danger, but perhaps less tormented. Joffrey’s time would be taken up by Lady Margaery, and Sansa could fade into the background, unbothered and alone. No more beatings, no more humiliation, no more being forced to stare at heads on spikes or made to kiss a sword.
What a naive thought that had been.
Barely a week had passed since her betrothal’s dissolution before Sansa found herself sitting across from the Queen Mother. Her Grace was dour-faced, no cooed little doves here, no sweet smiles there. Once, Sansa had thought the Queen was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Then she learned all too well how everything that glitters wasn’t golden.
“In a fortnight’s time, there will be a wedding,” Cersei said, delivering the news without any enthusiasm.
“A wedding?” Sansa repeated before she could stop herself. A fortnight was much too soon for a royal wedding, she knew. Nor did it make much sense for Cersei to be telling her about the royal wedding anyway.
Cersei’s unpleasant expression tightened further, lips pursing. “Yes, a wedding,” she said, speaking slowly the way Sansa had witnessed people speak to Hodor back at Winterfell. “Yours.”
“Mine—?”
The Queen Mother rose abruptly from her chair, walking over to the pitcher of wine and pouring herself a glass. “Yes,” she snapped after she had taken a sip. “You are to wed someone from House Lannister, as a show of your loyalty to the Crown instead of your traitor brother.”
Protests rose to Sansa’s mind immediately: I don’t want to marry a Lannister, I’m supposed to marry Willas, my brother is not a traitor. She knew better than to give voice to any of them.
“Who am I to wed, Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as she could.
Cersei pursed her lips even tighter together, her knuckles turning white around her wine goblet. “That doesn’t matter right now,” she said dismissively. “It is only important that you know you shall be wed, and to someone from House Lannister.”
Sansa disagreed that was the only important part, or even the most important part, but once again kept such thoughts to herself. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said deferentially.
Cersei had dismissed her then, leaving Sansa worried and confused. She didn’t know the entirety of the Lannister family tree, but she knew of Cersei’s two unwed brothers, as well as that there had to be numerous cousins. Ser Jaime would be ineligible as a member of the Kingsguard. That left the Imp — Lord Tyrion, and Sansa couldn’t help but flinch at the thought. While he had helped stop some of Joffrey’s abhorrent behavior toward her, she also knew Tyrion’s reputation for drinking and visiting brothels, and she couldn’t imagine having such a man as her lord husband.
(Vainly, she also couldn’t imagine seeing past Tyrion’s dwarf stature and disfigured features.)
There could be any number of Lannister cousins; she knew vaguely that Tywin had brothers and a sister, but didn’t know about their children. Or if any of them were even in the capital. Or if they could be in the capital in a fortnight for a wedding, when there were armies everywhere.
Not that it truly mattered to Sansa who was to be her husband if he was a Lannister. She would still be trading one gilded cage for another, though hopefully one less sadistic than Joffrey had been. She would still be married into a family at war with hers, a family that had branded hers traitorous and killed her father. She would be kept here in King’s Landing, instead of going away to Highgarden with the Tyrells.
Sansa walked back to her chambers, her head held high, the mask she often found herself wearing around the Red Keep in place. She had gotten better at hiding her emotions, even when she felt them as keenly as she did right now. She managed to maintain her stoicism until she reached her chambers, when finally, the tears couldn’t be held at bay any longer.
*
The morning of her wedding, Sansa moved methodically, following orders from her handmaidens to stand, sit, lift her arms, lift her feet, and so on until she was dressed and styled for the occasion. She almost felt as if it wasn’t truly happening to her, the way she sometimes had felt in her worst moments with Joffrey. Looking into her looking glass, she didn’t recognize herself. There she stood, with her red hair twisted into tight braids around the crown of her head, in her gown of ivory and silver, a maiden’s cloak around her shoulders, and she felt no true acknowledgment of her circumstances.
That wasn’t Sansa Stark looking back at her; it had to be someone else.
Just as she felt her awareness come back to her, her eyes beginning to itch with tears, Queen Cersei entered. She glanced at Sansa, seemingly appraising her without truly looking. Satisfied with her quick study, she turned on her heel and ordered Sansa to follow her.
Sansa’s feet obeyed the Queen Mother without Sansa’s mind truly thinking about it. Her thoughts now were on her family. Her mother, who should have been here with her to help her get ready. They would have sewed her maiden’s cloak together, making sure every stitch was perfect. Her father, who would have walked her arm-in-arm to her husband. He would look so out of place in a sept, but it wouldn’t matter because he’d be there with her. She’d even take Arya, who still hadn’t been found. Or Jon, because her loneliness had truly come to her wanting to see any of her blood, even if they bore the name Snow.
Cersei stopped her in front of the doors to the sept. “Stay here,” she said, barely looking back as she continued walking. “Someone will let you know when to walk in.”
Sansa stood there awkwardly with two Lannister guards. They were silent and stone-faced, which she supposed was better than how she’d been treated by some of the Kingsguard. It didn’t make her feel any less alone, any less a prisoner.
When she heard footsteps approaching, she glanced up to see who it was. She very well might have bolted from the spot, except she froze like a doe.
Once, she would have thought Joffrey looked quite handsome in his velvet doublet, rich and golden. She had long been disabused of such a notion. She could only see his cold, cruel green eyes and the twisted, taunting smirk of his mouth.
“My lady, what a happy day,” he said to her smugly, sauntering to offer her his arm. “I know you must have been quite sad when our betrothal was dissolved, but I assure you, you’ll forget all about me when you see your new groom.”
Sansa flicked her eyes from his face to his offered elbow. “What are you doing, Your Grace?” she asked, trying to sound as calm and unaffected as she could manage.
“Why, since your traitor father is dead, and your equally traitorous brother is not here, I will escort you down the aisle,” he said, as if giving her a great gift. “You are, after all, a ward of the Crown.”
A prisoner of it, she thought, but wisely did not say.
Instead, she swallowed her pride as she had done every day since she stood outside the Great Sept and took his arm. “You honor me, Your Grace,” she said, staring ahead at the doors.
With a gesture from Joffrey, the guards pulled them open, and Sansa got her first glimpse inside at the crowd. Of course, the entire court was there, her eyes sweeping over faces that had watched and said nothing while she was stripped and beaten in the throne room. A stone dropped in her stomach, and she had to force herself forward, had to remind herself better to survive than to give up now.
As they walked further in, she turned her eyes to the septon and finally landed upon her husband-to-be. She had expected some nameless Lannister cousin she’d only recognize by his blond hair and green eyes, or the scarred face of Lord Tyrion. In fact, she thought Joffrey and Cersei would find it hilarious if she were to be married to Tyrion, so she truly expected to have to look down upon her new husband.
Instead, she had to force her gaze up when she realized the man standing there was taller than she thought. Even standing a few steps below the septon, he still stood taller than him.
Sansa gasped, halting in her steps. “No,” she whispered, and heard Joffrey’s cruel chuckle beside her.
“Come, my lady,” he said to her in a low, mocking voice. “We mustn’t keep my grandfather waiting.”
Sansa didn’t remember telling her legs to walk. She didn’t remember standing next to Tywin Lannister as Joffrey removed her cloak (somehow managing to grope her breast as he did so, though she barely noticed that either). She didn’t remember the tears falling, or repeating the words the septon told her to say.
She remembered turning to her now-husband after he cloaked her in his colors, a bloodred weight holding her in place, and having to look up to see his eyes. They were empty, she thought, except for the golden flecks buried in the green. How fitting. He bent his face toward her, her eyes shutting then, as he barely brushed his lips against hers.
She shivered at the rasp of his beard against her skin.
*
For much of her wedding feast, Sansa felt similarly out of her body as she did for the preparation and the wedding. She scarcely could believe that she was seated next to Tywin Lannister, though the numerous lords and ladies giving their congratulations and well wishes only reinforced that the ceremony had been real. A few of them looked at her with pity as they congratulated her, while others looked amused. Every glance weighed on her, settling in her stomach like so many stones. Despite not eating a single then before the feast, she still hadn’t touched any of the plates brought to her.
“You should eat,” a voice rumbled beside her, and she realized with a start it was Lord Lannister. He had craned his neck so that he could speak to her softly.
Sansa stared at him without speaking for a moment. “Yes, my lord,” she said finally, glancing back down at her plate but not making a move to eat.
She heard him sigh beside her, but he didn’t speak again. She realized that those were the first words he’d said to her since exchanging vows in the sept. Those very well might have been the first words he had spoken directly to her since he arrived in King’s Landing, for that matter.
And now he was her husband.
Sansa knew she wasn’t the first woman to be wed to a man she had barely spoken to, but somehow knowing it and living through such a fate were two separate things. Nor was she the first young woman wedded to a much older man; she thought of her Aunt Lysa married to Jon Arryn. She wondered if this was how Lysa felt on her wedding day, at her wedding table. She barely knew her aunt, but felt a strong kinship to her for their circumstances.
When it was time for the dancing to begin, Sansa didn’t even glance at her husband. She had no illusions about them leading the dance; she couldn’t imagine Tywin wasting his time knowing a single step. Instead, Joffrey and Margaery led it off, without so much as a conversation happening between Sansa and Tywin. She assumed that had been discussed beforehand, just another part of her wedding of which she had no say.
As other couples took to the floor, Sansa watched, lamenting how much she had liked to dance, once. She couldn’t even remember the last time she did. Watching at least allowed her to prepare when Joffrey began to approach her, his smile devious.
“My lady,” he said once he was at their table. “Or should I say Grandmother?”
Sansa forced her lips to form a polite smile instead of a frown. “Your Grace,” she replied, deigning to ignore his comment no doubt meant to rile her. She thought she caught a hint of movement from Tywin, as if he had stiffened in his seat.
“It seems such a shame for you to sit here without dancing.” Joffrey extended his hand, his next words a mere formality of an offer. “Might I have this dance?”
He was the King; she couldn’t refuse him no matter how much she wanted to. Careful to not show her resignation, she went to stand and accept his hand, when she felt a different hand on her arm. Turning, she looked at Tywin, surprised to see him standing as well.
“No,” he said, in an effortlessly commanding tone. She wondered if he always sounded that way. “It is unseemly for a bride’s first dance to be with someone other than her husband, Your Grace.”
Sansa stood there, uncertain of what to do, aware that Joffrey was scowling now. Then Tywin offered her his hand, with a no less imperious, “My lady.” She stared for a moment, before remembering her courtesies and she placed her hand in his, letting him lead her to the floor. Joffrey, surprisingly, held his tongue, though his face was pinched in displeasure, his eyes like daggers as she looked away.
Once they had joined the other dancers, Sansa easily assumed the position, placing one hand on his shoulder and letting him hold her other hand. His other hand was high on her back, a respectable position and hold, maintaining a respectable distance between them. She took a deep breath, preparing for some sort of awkward shuffle, and was pleasantly surprised when he began a competent box step to the music.
“Thank you,” Sansa murmured after a moment.
“For dancing with you?” Tywin clarified, raising an eyebrow as he looked down at her.
Sansa pursed her lips, uncertain if she could elaborate or not. “No,” she said after deciding, because he was her husband now, and she supposed she owed him some honesty. “For not allowing me to dance with him.”
Tywin looked away, his sharp green eyes finding something more interesting to examine. “No need to thank me,” he said, his voice low, his jaw tight. “He dishonors his House and the Crown with his behavior.”
Sansa kept her mouth shut that time, because that could have been a test. He could be trying to see how far she would go to talk poorly of her King, his grandson. Instead, she focused on their dance, on the way he led her across the floor. He even guided her into a spin at the appropriate point, and she couldn’t hide her expression.
“There is also no need to look so surprised,” he remarked when he had pulled her back into the standard hold. “I have done this before, my lady.”
She felt her cheeks flame, a curse of her pale skin. “Of course, my lord,” she said, looking down at her feet with her embarrassment. “I merely thought that things such as dancing would be… beneath you.”
He made a grumbling sort of sound in his chest. “Well. You are not wrong in that,” he said, but there was something… almost warm about his tone, though she knew she must be mistaken. She didn’t think he could speak in any inflection that wasn’t commanding or indifferent or, at worst, disdainful.
The dance continued then, without any more words exchanged, until Sansa heard, “May I cut in?” She stopped dancing, looking into the handsome face of Ser Loras Tyrell.
Nominally, the question was addressed to Sansa, but they both looked to Tywin for the answer. He dropped his arms, stepping back. She noticed the way his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed when he saw Loras. Immediately, she dropped her gaze, clasping her hands in front of her and trying to look non-threatening. She’d seen Joffrey staking ownership on his property enough to know what came next.
“Of course, Ser Loras,” Tywin said instead, his voice curt but not unkind.
“Thank you, my Lord Hand,” Loras replied, taking her hand as her husband left and returned to their table. As they began to dance, he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “My grandmother thought you needed rescuing.”
Sansa blushed slightly, glancing away from him for a moment. “Well, thank you, ser. Your chivalry is appreciated.”
As they danced, Sansa felt eyes on her. She thought at first it must have been Joffrey, waiting for his moment to strike, but as Loras spun her around the floor, she realized it was Tywin. He was watching them dance, with the same tight expression he had worn when he gave Loras permission to dance with her. Her heart beat faster when she saw it, a sudden lump in her throat causing her breath to catch.
Loras noticed her gaze, following it back to Tywin, and his eyes were soft, pitying, when he looked back at her. “Another dance, my lady?” he said, preparing to lead her into the next.
“I shouldn’t,” she replied softly, her mind already caught up in all the ways her husband might react. She was his now, and she had experienced Joffrey being a cruel, spiteful creature at the drop of a pin. His grandfather very well could be the same, for all that she knew about the man.
“I’ll escort you back to the table, then,” Loras suggested, though Sansa shakes her head at that, too.
“No, that’s not necessary. Thank you, ser,” she said, then with a respectful nod of her head, quickly turned and walked back to take her seat beside her husband. By the time she had reached the table, he had seemingly found something else more interesting, but he also didn’t acknowledge as she sat down beyond a cursory My lady.
The dancing continued for a bit, until Joffrey stood up from his chair. He clapped his hands together, the musicians and the dancers stopping and looking at their king. “For the final dance, I would like to request a song,” he said, holding up his wine goblet and looking over to Tywin and Sansa. “The Rains of Castamere.”
Sansa kept her face carefully blank as the first notes began to play, but Tywin stood up suddenly.
“No,” he ordered, loud enough to be heard over the music which promptly stopped. He was staring at his grandson, and though Sansa only had a partial view of his expression, he looked thunderous.
Joffrey hesitated, his bravado momentarily shaken. “Grandfather,” he said, finding his courage. “We must celebrate your great deeds on this day!”
Tywin cocked his head, regarding the king carefully. “I said no. Let’s end this now,” he said, his voice low but clear.
“Of course,” Joffrey replied, clapping his hands together again. “Of course! The happy couple would like to get on to their wedding night! Time for the bedding ceremony!”
“There will be no bedding ceremony.”
“Grandfather! Where is your respect for tradition?” Joffrey protested, taking a step forward. “I am the king,” he added, the threat implicit.
Sansa looked from her husband’s back to Joffrey, trying to not show her fear. She didn’t want a bedding ceremony any more than it seemed Tywin did.
“This feast is over,” Tywin said, turning his back on Joffrey. He met Sansa’s eyes, nodding at her. “Lady Lannister and I will retire now.”
Sansa rose to her feet without a word, following him out of the dining hall. She felt the eyes of all those people on her, and she ducked her head, hoping no one could see her blush or the wetness that pricked at the corner of her eyes.
*
Her lord husband was a tall, long-legged man, and even with her own above average height for a woman, she found herself walking quickly to keep up with him. She tried not to consider what he was so eager for, as he led her to the Tower of the Hand. She had been up here before, when her father was the Hand of the King, and Sansa felt more tears in her eyes, but they didn’t fall.
Tywin opened the door to what would be her chambers, letting her walk in first. Sansa’s gaze swept around the room, looking but not truly seeing, until they landed on the small dining table. There was a plate there, covered by a silver lid, and she frowned as she saw it.
“Go on,” Tywin said to her, walking past her and heading for the writing desk in a corner.
Sansa looked at him, confused. “I don’t understand, my lord,” she said slowly.
He didn’t look back at her as he sat down and reached for a piece of parchment. “You didn’t eat at the feast.” He nodded in the direction of the table. “Eat.”
Sansa stared for several more heartbeats, then approached the table. She carefully lifted the silver lid from the platter, as if it was a trap of some kind. Instead, all it revealed was a plate with fruits, cheeses, bread, and a few choice slices of meat. She looked across the table, then up to her husband.
“There is only one plate,” she remarked.
Tywin didn’t respond at first, but when she continued to stare, he sighed. “As I said. You didn’t eat.” He looked up at her then, his expression somewhat annoyed. “The plate is for you.”
Sansa took her seat then, beginning to nibble on some of the cheese. “How did you know to have it up here?” she asked, watching him carefully.
“While you were dancing, I asked one of the servants to make you a plate and have it waiting here.” He said it so matter-of-fact, like it was nothing at all for him to notice and think about such a concern.
She didn’t know what to make of that, or his behavior at the wedding feast, either. The way he had told her to eat then, as well, and then took her to dance so Joffrey wouldn’t. How he stood up when Joffrey tried to play that dreaded song again, and called for her clothes to be torn from her body in that frightful tradition.
They didn’t speak while she ate her fill, as Sansa found herself startlingly hungry. She had barely broken her fast before she had to get ready for the wedding, and then hadn’t touched much food at all. She hadn’t had an appetite, and now, her belly was forcefully reminding her of its existence. Tywin worked, writing letters or reading them, the scratch of his quill almost comforting in the silence of the room.
When Sansa finished, having made significant progress in clearing the amount of food, she replaced the lid over the platter and pushed away from the table. She glanced up at Tywin, watching him write for a moment, but still she didn’t speak. Soon, his task complete, he set down the quill and looked up at her. His eyes landed on her covered plate, then he stood up from his desk.
She studied him the way a prey animal watched a predator as he walked over to the wine pitcher. He poured two glasses, bringing one over to her and setting it down, then he took his seat at the table.
“Sansa,” he said carefully, his expression quite serious as he regarded her. “Do you know why I married you?”
She inhaled, not expecting such a blatant question. “I believe so, my lord.” She didn’t touch her wine goblet; she wasn’t much fond of it. “You hope to secure a claim on the North by our marriage.”
Tywin nodded, taking a sip. “Correct. So you understand, then, that I expect you to do your duty?”
Sansa had, on some level, known this already. Hearing it said out loud made it true, made it real. It made her stomach flip and sink all at once, her eyes instinctively glancing over at what was to be her marriage bed. Just because he hadn’t wanted the embarrassment of a bedding ceremony, did not mean he would not bed her. She swallowed.
“Yes, my lord,” she said, her voice suddenly very soft. She reached for her goblet then, taking a sip of the wine and then taking a much longer drink of it. She hated the taste, but hoped it would ease the nerves taking root in her belly. She regretted eating now, all that food like lead weighing her down.
Hearing him shift in his seat, she looked back at him, his mouth open as if he was about to say something else, but then he closed it again. Then he stood up, moving toward the bed. “Shall we, then?” he said, looking back at her.
Sansa took another long sip of her wine, then also rose from her chair. She nodded once, sharply, and tried to steel herself for what was about to happen. She walked over to the bed, keeping her gaze pointedly on it instead of looking at him. Her hands shook as she reached for the hidden laces of her gown, but she managed to undo them just the same, removing first the outer layer and then the next until she was just in her shift. She felt Tywin’s eyes on her, but couldn’t look at him.
Before she slipped off her shift, he murmured, “Let me.” He came closer to her and though he hadn’t touched her yet, she sensed his hands hovering near the sleeves.
Her breath caught for a moment, but then she released it and nodded, her hands falling back to her sides. His fingers brushed against her shoulder as he slid it off one, and then the other, until the fabric pooled at her feet.
Sansa closed her eyes, though she didn’t know why. She was still facing away from him. It felt comforting somehow, to be in darkness. His hand pressed to her shoulder, lightly, curling around and steadying her. The next thing she felt was the warmth of his body, close to her own, and then his breath on the nape of her neck. His lips pressed against the top of her spine and warmth radiated out from the spot.
She bit down on her lip as he kissed the skin next to it, and then a path to her shoulder. Her breath began to quicken just slightly, her skin prickling with heat. She hadn’t felt anything like this before, the responsiveness of her own body under a man’s touch.
Tywin’s kisses were methodical, tracing the curve of her shoulder before he started back toward her neck. He kissed up the length of it and Sansa shivered when he reached a sensitive spot near her jaw. He lingered there, kissing it again, and this time, Sansa’s lips parted on a soft moan.
She heard herself, her skin flushing immediately with her embarrassment. She almost pulled away, ashamed as she was, but as if he sensed she was about to do so, one of his arms lightly wrapped around her waist.
“You don’t have to stifle yourself,” he murmured in her ear, kissing beneath it. “I want to hear you.”
Sansa almost frowned at that, thinking this wasn’t something she was supposed to enjoy. This was a duty to be done, with a man she didn’t know, like her septa had taught her.
With his hands on her hips, he urged her to turn in his arms. She looked up at him, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he held her gaze and then dipped his head, finding her neck again. Facing him now, she realized he had undressed when she did, though modesty kept her eyes focused on the part of the wall she could see.
Sansa thought she was separating from her body again, like she had for the wedding. Except every time her mind tried to wander, to achieve that meditative state, Tywin did something to bring her back to herself.
His hands at her hips guided her back onto the bed. He helped her lie down, his body covering hers. She had braced herself, knowing just enough about what husband and wives do to expect his next action.
Except it hadn’t come.
Instead, he had bent his head and kissed her collarbones. His tongue dipped into the hollow there, and she had let that little sound slip free again, her body shifting beneath his.
His hands skimmed her ribs, her breath catching at the feel of his calluses against her unblemished skin. She panted as one hand cupped her breast, so different from the rough way Joffrey had touched her at the wedding. She felt heated, like the hot springs at Winterfell, her limbs going molten.
“Oh,” she gasped, louder this time, when his thumb rubbed her nipple. It tightened, hardening under his ministrations, and somehow sent fire from her breast to her core. She didn’t know she could be so sensitive, her heartbeat thudding as he squeezed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“That’s it,” he said to her softly, his voice rumbling against her chest as he kissed a path down it.
She wondered why hearing him speak like that also made her blood heat, before all thought slipped her mind as his mouth traced the curve of her breast. She shuddered and then moaned when his tongue wrapped around her nipple. Her hands had been at her sides since he lowered her onto the bed, but one reached up of its own volition to cradle his head.
He didn’t seem to mind as her fingers pressed into the fine gold and gray hair. Somehow, she forced her eyes open, lifting her head to look down at him. It wasn’t the sight she had imagined seeing, back in the days before she came south. He wasn’t a gallant and dashing young prince, with a full head of blond hair or a dazzling smile. He was fit for his age, however, and she could see the strong muscles of his back, the corded length of his forearms.
And perhaps whether he was handsome or not mattered less when his hands on her made her feel like this.
Tywin lifted his head, looking at her as one hand slid down her stomach. Sansa blinked, returning his stare, wondering what he was doing – and then she felt his fingers between her thighs. She gasped, startled as he touched her there.
Her eyes squeezed shut as he stroked her core, and she flushed, she could feel her skin heat. She was slick, his fingertips spreading it, sliding over her with unerring precision. It felt good, in a way that was confusing to Sansa.
Her septa had told her such things would hurt, that this was merely a duty to perform as a wife. That it was necessary to have babes and that was it.
So far, it hadn’t hurt. In fact, she hadn’t expected Tywin Lannister to be so gentle. She hadn’t expected the way he kissed her neck or her breasts. She didn’t expect him to whisper in her ear, “Relax,” as his finger circled the entrance at her core.
He pressed it in slowly, letting her feel every bit of his finger as her body adjusted to having something inside her. It felt strange. She could feel it moving, the way he curled it slightly, or pulled back and slid it back in.
Sansa thought he muttered something into the air between them, but she didn’t quite catch it. She made a questioning sort of noise that soon turned into another moan as he inserted a second finger.
“Oh,” she gasped as it began to feel more pleasant, her body heating, her muscles and limbs almost liquid as she writhed beneath him. “Oh.”
His thumb found the button at the apex at her core, stroking over it, and Sansa clenched. She didn’t even mean to, it simply happened, and kept happening with each stroke and thrust.
The dark behind her eyelids shattered in a rainbow of light, her mouth falling open in a soft cry.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers moving gently, slowly. Then he removed them, adjusting his body over hers until she felt his manhood hard and heavy between her legs.
Sansa had no real frame of reference for this part of a man’s anatomy, but it felt more substantial than his fingers. Her core throbbed, like the pulse thudding in her ears. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Tywin could hear her heart too.
At the first press of his manhood inside of her, Sansa gasped, her head snapping back on the pillow, her body arching.
He was gentle and slow, easing himself inside of her, but Gods, it felt like too much. Like she was being stretched inside out, even after his fingers had loosened something inside her.
“So tight,” he groaned, and she whimpered in response. He reached for one of her hands, drawing it to his shoulder. Immediately she latched on, her nails biting into his skin. His lips brushed along her jaw, traced her fluttering pulse in her neck.
Then he began to move.
It felt nothing like his fingers. Somehow it was impossibly better. With each thrust, she gasped, the slight pain receding quickly in the wake of pleasure. She began to moan again, but it felt deeper in her throat, more intense somehow as he moved inside her. She almost couldn’t believe it was her making those sounds.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders, holding tight as he pushed up on his hands, the angle of his thrusts shifting. Like this, Sansa could look up at him, and see his face, though she had to strain to keep her eyes open. For a moment, though, she stared at him, surprised by the intense expression he wore as he took her.
Then, she felt that surge of pleasure again, and his hand was back between her legs, pressing just above where they were joined. Sansa couldn’t contain her cry, her legs suddenly wrapping around his hips instinctively.
He pounded into her, and then groaned into her neck, his hips driving against hers. Then he stilled.
Sansa felt her body thrumming, a warmth settling over her not unlike the hot springs at Winterfell. She breathed deep, her hands still on his shoulders, her legs still wrapped around him. He shifted above her again, his softening manhood slipping from her, and her eyes opened. She was surprised he was looking at her too, the strangest expression on his face, and then it was gone.
Tywin rolled off of her, leaving her exposed to the cooler air of her chambers without his body to cover her. Her skin was sweat-slicked, and his seed was leaking out of her. She could feel it, and her stomach turned at the realization.
Tywin Lannister had spent his seed inside her. She knew from her lessons with Septa Mordane that a woman didn’t always get a babe from the first coupling, but it was always a possibility. The thought sickened her, because Tywin Lannister was fighting a war against her brother, because his daughter and his grandson had killed her father and tormented her.
He had bedded her, and she had let him without a fight, without even a token protest. He was her husband, after all, and it was his right. Except she had also enjoyed it, hadn’t she? The sounds she made, the way she had felt. She closed her eyes, pursing her lips together as she felt sick remembering her wanton behavior.
The bed shifted, and Sansa instinctively opened her eyes. She watched as he dressed, his back to her. She forced her eyes to not look at his body, to not let her curiosity get the better of her.
When he finished, he smoothed his hands over his doublet, and barely glanced at her. “Good night, my lady,” he said, and then he was gone.
Sansa was alone.
She should be thankful he had left her, that he had done his duty and then walked away. Sharing her bed with him for the night, waking with him in the morning… she shivered unpleasantly at the thought.
But lying there, with the sweat from the exertions drying on her skin, and the mess on the rapidly-cooling sheets, Sansa realized she felt lonely. The same sort of crushing loneliness she had felt since her father was beheaded.
And that, for even if only the length of their bedding, she hadn’t felt like that when Tywin was with her tonight.