Sansa
She wanted, dreamed, and prayed to the Old Gods and the Seven that the Lannisters would turn on one another. It was pleasant, it was her game, and she would have derived satisfaction from it. It was her revenge!
Oh, how delighted she was with yet another antics of that idiot Joffrey, when he humiliated Tyrion; or when the Kingdlayer and Joffrey's relationship soured; or when Cersei once again revealed her disdain for her younger brother.
A word here, a hint there… It had turned out to be so easy—and so exciting!
Sansa also tried her best, acting with utmost caution, to convince her new friend, Margaery, that Joffrey was a real monster and a sadist.
That conversation had taken place a few days before their wedding, and back then Sansa sincerely believed she had achieved her goal.
But Joffrey disappointed her. She tried several times to get his attention, to provoke another outburst of cruelty and another scandal. Tyrion would have intervened—and the fun would have begun.
It had always been that way. Until the wedding…
On the day of the royal wedding, Joffrey quite unexpectedly behaved as if he had forgotten everything, and now Tyrion was once again his uncle and a good man.
Yes, that wedding brought many surprises. People sang, danced, and enjoyed themselves, but Sansa watched it all with gloom and disappointment.
She wanted to dance—but not with Tyrion! She would not have enjoyed it; she would only have made the entire hall laugh.
She wanted to chat and laugh with friends. But in all the Red Keep she had no one left but Margaery, and Margaery clearly had no time for her.
And then Tyrion made her drink several cups of wine, and Sansa became drunk. Very drunk.
And at night, what she had once desired with all her heart—and what she had recently feared—finally happened: Tyrion possessed her and deprived her of her virginity.
Now, remembering that night, she still could not decide what she felt more: disgust, or something else entirely.
Once in her chambers, she had struggled to undress and climbed into bed, lying on her side. For some reason she had not even considered that Tyrion might come to her, for in the past few weeks he had demonstratively ignored her, and she had somehow convinced herself she was in no danger.
And she fell asleep.
She woke up to the sensation of someone's very skilled and infinitely gentle hands caressing her body. At first Sansa froze, clenching her legs tightly, pushing her husband away and jerking toward the far edge of the bed. In the darkness she could see only Tyrion's short silhouette, but from his hesitation and silence she realized she had hurt him with her violent reaction.
But Tyrion said nothing—only moved closer and began kissing her again. He kissed her hands, her shoulders, her neck—slowly and skillfully—making her straighten in the bed again. And he did not kiss her on the lips, as if sensing she would find it unpleasant at that moment.
At first, Sansa felt a huge, icy lump settle in the pit of her stomach. But she was used to the cold. It was familiar; it embodied the North and its strength.
She sobered slightly and understood where this was leading. Sansa clenched her teeth and realized that nothing could be changed. But was this how she had imagined her first man?
A wave of disgust seemed to flooded her, from the roots of her beautiful, autumn–leaf-colored hair to the tips of her toes.
Tyrion was in no hurry. His hands continued their work, caressing her breasts and body. He kissed her and couple of times said something in an unknown language. His voice was gentle and mysterious, and Sansa found herself involuntarily intrigued by the sound of it. Her name was mentioned several times.
With shame and great surprise, Sansa realized that something else was beginning to stir deep in her lower belly. A warmth appeared there, which slowly but surely began to melt all her ice.
She did not want to feel it, but her own body betrayed her!
At first, it was a timid, barely audible desire that grew with every minute, like a forest fire. And then—she became truly aroused. Perhaps the wine helped here too, but after a while Sansa felt a desire she had never known before. Between her legs she was slick and aching, yet still Tyrion was still in no hurry.
And when his hand finally slid there, into her most secret place, Sansa no longer wished to push him away. On the contrary—her whole flesh just screamed for him not to stop, for him to go further.
Deep down she knew that none of this was real, that none of it was true.
She ran her tongue across her dry lips and closed her eyes shut. In the darkness behind her lids, other hands touched her, other lips. It was not Tyrion but gentle Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Then Loras became Renly Baratheon, laughing and kind. After him came the breathtakingly beautiful face and figure of the silver prince Rhaegar Targaryen, whom she had once seen in a portrait at Castle Darry—where her own father had killed her direwolf, Lady.
The knights took turns in her mind, one dissolving into the next, and at one point she shuddered—for before her mind's eye, obeying some unknown whim, flashed Joffrey: so beautiful on the outside, and so terrifying within.
Another man followed the king, then another—the endless procession of imagined lovers let her endure what was real.
She felt hot—Tyrion was doing something unthinkable, and the North, her North, melted away. In that moment he entered her fully, and a few heartbeats later Sansa drowned in the all-consuming flash of her first climax. She was even frightened by its power—as if a great sun had settled inside her, exploded, and was now capable of tearing her into thousand glowing fragments.
(End of chapter)
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