The newlyweds stood on opposite sides of the bedroom, each occasionally catching the other’s eye and then quickly looking away.
The awkward silence was oppressive.
“Well,” Tyrion started and then trailed off, his quick wit for once failing him. He gave up, momentarily defeated and made for the large flask of Dornish red that had been calling out to him. He poured himself a generous helping, expertly quaffing half of the glass. He then filled a second cup and offered it to his new bride.
Sansa gladly accepted the goblet and tried to mirror his actions, though quickly coughed as the strong vintage burned her throat.
Tyrion chuckled and handed her his silk handkerchief, which she accepted and dabbed at her chin, where the wine had dribbled. She lowered her hand and stared at the dark red droplets, and suddenly was reminded of another man’s cloth that had been offered to her. True, the weave of the scrap of fabric had been coarse, just like the man, though the gesture had been more meaningful. Instead of red wine, it had been stained with her blood.
Lost in her reverie, she jerked her head up when Tyrion cleared his throat.
“Erm, yes, lady Sansa. I recognize the indelicacy of our situation. The demand that we consummate our union and that proof be provided…well, I’m afraid that if we don’t, uh, comply, our current situation, as unpleasant as it is, could turn quite….lethal. And, as ugly as my head may be, I’m quite committed to keeping it firmly attached to my neck, if you catch my meaning.”
His eyebrow raised sardonically and a smirk played at the edges of his mouth, though he noted that his efforts only elicited a shy, sad smile and subtle nod from her.
She approached the bed and with her back turned to him, began to tug at the lacings on her bodice in acknowledgement to his perceived request.
She stiffened when she felt a small hand stilling hers, but nonetheless allowed him to turn her around.
She kept her eyes averted until he spoke. “Lady, please stop. We should talk.” He stepped up to a bedside stool and hopped onto the mattress, patting the space to his right. She obeyed, sitting to his side, but far enough away that their legs weren’t touching.
“Sansa. Please look at me,” he pled, his voice breaking.
She raised her head and held his gaze, her defeated blue eyes painful to behold.
He reached out and clumsily held her hand. “I have no intention of physically consummating our marriage.”
Startled, she opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it and sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.
“As you probably know, my heart and, uh…other parts belong to another,” he chuckled.
Her eyes widened but she nodded, inadvertantly letting out a small giggle. “Yes, lord. I—am aware of your, um, relationship with Shae.”
He smiled and nodded. “Yes, she is my lady. My love.” He preened mockingly. “I know it’s hard to believe that such a virile and renowned lover as myself, now belongs to only one woman.” His eyed glinted and his smile became wicked. “And should I stray from that path, I would no doubt be made from a stallion to a gelding in one swift cut.”
Sansa let out a snort and then quickly covered her mouth in horror at the unladylike noise.
In response, Tyrion laughed, this time loud and unrestrained, full of relief at the break in tension.
However, he sobered after a few moments and continued. “I plan on spending my wedding night with my love, though please, I mean no offense to you, dear lady.”
Her eyes opened wide in response, but she remained speechless.
He nodded his head to her unspoken question. “Yes, that leaves us with a bit of a problem, doesn’t it? I cannot bed you, and yet bedded you must be. Simply spilling a few drops of blood on the sheets will not suffice. Not with the practiced eyes that will be scrutinizing our, um, efforts.” At these words, he felt his nerve starting to leave him, and so hopped off the bed to retrieve their wine.
He handed her goblet to her before he climbed back up. Luckily, he had thought to refill his drink and took another huge gulp in an effort to bolster his courage. The next topic of conversation had to be handled delicately in order for his plan to come to fruition.
He nodded to her, encouraging her to drink her wine. She obliged with a small sip but remained silent.
Taking another large swallow, he continued. “I have taken the liberty of choosing my “bedding proxy” if you will.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Yes, my dear, I’m sure you don’t,” he muttered. Steeling himself, he continued. “You will have a visitor tonight. A man. He will bed you, but never fear, he will not harm you.”
Sansa gasped and began to breathe quickly. “I’m sorry, lord, but I can’t fathom bedding some man who I don’t even know…I just,” and here she paused, finally overwhelmed, and allowed her suppressed tears to flow freely.
Tyrion reached out a hand to her cheek. “Sansa. Listen to me,” he spoke quickly, alarmed at her tears. “You must trust me. The man I have chosen is one that you would not object to—based on Shae’s words and my own observations, I believe it will be a mutually pleasing act of subterfuge.”
She was able to still her sobs to mere sniffles before she was able to speak. “How can you just pass me to some strange—.“
“He is no stranger, my lady,” he interrupted. Seeing her tearful expression turn curious he took it as his cue to cut his losses while he was ahead. Tipping his head back as he drained his glass, he hopped off the bed and waddled over to the corner bookcase.
Sansa watched in fascination as he moved a book on a shelf, causing the case to slowly glide outward. He grabbed one of his candles off a nearby table and winked at her.
“I chose this room as mine for a reason.” He turned to leave, but not before he left her with a parting message.
“He’ll arrive later tonight, through this entrance, so his, uh, comings and goings will not be noted. I suggest you make yourself ready for him.”
With those cryptic words, Tyrion departed as the bookcase swung back into place, leaving a very bewildered Sansa sitting on the bed.
Sorry for the delay. My eldest sister died in December, which really impacted my ability to write. I'm not completely happy with this short chapter, which I feel is a bit hackneyed (or the next, which is pretty much done), but thought I'd get it out to you anyway.
Later that night...
Sansa had been a nervous wreck after Tyrion had left, pacing the room and only pausing occasionally to sip more of the wine. She had finally consumed enough of the alcohol to somewhat calm her nerves, but she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to obey Tyrion’s directive to “make herself ready” for the unnamed man.
First and foremost, she understood that she’d need to be out of her wedding gown if any sort of bedding was to take place. Given that Shae nor any other handmaiden was unavailable to assist her, she had to awkwardly struggle to get out of the complicated dress, but she finally was able to shed the heavy thing. Although beautiful, she hated it.
Draping it over a chair, she changed into a silk dressing gown and removed the pins from her hair, brushing it free to hang to her waist.
Disrobing actually made her more nervous--made her situation seem all the more real. She began pacing again. She eyed Tyrion’s stock of wine in the corner of the room, but she resisted. She still had a mild high from the amount she had quaffed and didn’t want to completely lose her wits. But then again, how could she…spread her legs for some strange man? Gasping in panic, she desperately tried to push such disturbing thoughts from her mind.
She continued to pace for some time, until finally, the wine and the stresses of the day finally crashed upon her. Moving as if she was underwater, she crawled into the spacious bed, the size of which she found somewhat puzzling given the small stature of the owner. Peeling back the linens, she leaned over and blew out the remaining candle on the nightstand. The fire was burning itself out but continued to cast a soft radiance throughout the room.
Snuggling into the soft linens, she sighed. She struggled to keep her eyes opened, as she was still so very anxious about her planned visitor, but despite her best efforts, her eyelids felt as if weights were pulling them down.
She fell into a deep sleep.
She awoke with a gasp, her eyes struggling in vain to make sense of the dark, unfamiliar room. The fire had died and only a dim orange glow from the embers burned from the fireplace.
She knew immediately she was not alone.
Her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, making out a tall dark figure standing at the foot of the bed. The light of the moon shining from the window kept his face shrouded in night.
It mattered not. She knew his name.
“Sandor,” she whispered, her soft voice betraying a mix of relief, trust, and longing.
“Aye, little bird, it’s me.”
He continued standing motionless though she could recognize the subtle tell that belied his nervousness: he could not hide that his broad shoulders rose and fell in time with his shaking breaths.
The silence became unbearable.
“I’m…I’m so glad it’s you,” she offered.
He was quiet for several moments until he questioned, “Are you?”
“Yes,” she replied immediately, wanting him to see the truth in her words.
Her answer was the impetus for him to break his stillness. He came forward in two great strides and knelt at the side of the bed.
“All of this, Sansa, the wedding to the imp, tonight, all of this--,” he groaned in frustration as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I have failed you. I haven’t kept my word…”
She sat up and crawled over to him. “How have you failed me?”
“Keeping you safe, little bird. I haven’t kept you safe. The lions have sunk their claws deeper in you with this joke of a marriage. You are truly trapped under the thumb of that little prick Joff. And now, the imp, he expects me to take you…to take….” He grimaced and shook his head as he reached out with a tremulous hand to cup her cheek.
“I can’t do it, Sansa. I won’t degrade you—“
She startled him by jerking up to her knees. His eyes were glued to her shoulder which was bared when her gown caught underneath her legs.
“Please…” she whispered. “Tonight I must prove the loss of my maidenhead. Tyrion told me that the consequences will be dire for us…for me if we don’t---if I don’t…” Her voice trailed off in embarrassment, though she steeled herself to continue. “I’d rather it be with you than anyone else, you are the only one that I would want to….”
She stopped, too mortified to continue and sunk in defeat, her eyes downcast.
Sandor was overcome with emotion. The situation was beyond his wildest reckoning. Unwittingly, he thought back to when the imp had first approached him. Initially, Sandor was enraged, his hand shooting out to choke the smug bastard as he held him up against the wall, misshapen legs kicking madly for purchase. Between his retching gasps, the dwarf had quickly sketched out the deadly consequences for lady Stark should Sandor be unable to….assist them.
Sandor had begrudgingly removed his choking grip and allowed him to elaborate. The imp had first gestured to his flask of Dornish red, which he asserted was needed to “clear the burn from his gullet.” As he spoke, Sandor was actually touched by his obviously genuine concern for the little bird. He was also not more than a little intrigued, but when Tyrion had said that Sansa was in the dark about his intentions, Sandor had sunk in defeat. How would such a beautiful, perfect maiden take to being defiled by such a hideous beast?
Sandor growled as much to Tyrion, but the imp had merely laughed at him and left his chamber with a parting, “She will not object to your visit, Hound. Trust that.”
Sandor had snarled in fury and thrown his wine flask at the door after the imp had left, but he knew deep in his heart that he would not turn down the opportunity to be with the woman of his dreams…
Sandor was suddenly yanked out of his musings.
“Good gods,” he muttered under his breath. He sat transfixed while the little bird untied the laces of her dressing gown, allowing it to completely slide off her shoulders and down to her waist.
He blinked, at once enraptured and maddeningly unsure of himself as he took in her beautiful rose tipped breasts, which pebbled before his eyes. She lay back on the pillows and gestured to him.
“Come to me, Sandor,” she whispered.
I wanted to thank everyone who left comments on the last chapter. I appreciate to hear that you are enjoying this story, as well as cherish your kind words about my sister. It meant a lot to me. You guys are the best.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
He stared, shocked that not only did the little bird seem unsurprised to see him, but wanting. He still couldn’t believe his eyes at the sight before him. Her upper body was completely exposed, and with the moonlight shining in and the soft orange light emanating from the hearth’s glowing embers, she was so fucking, achingly beautiful. Although…ethereal and seemingly untouchable.
He was never so painfully aware of his scars as he was at that moment. He instinctively pulled his hair over his disfigurement but then growled, embarrassed as he turned away from her in shame.
“I can’t do this to you, Sansa. I’m a low, ugly fucking dog.” He gestured helplessly at his face. “It’s not right, little bird.” He hung his head, defeated as he muttered, “We’ll think of something else. I can…I can take you away from here, we’ll—“
He jerked, stunned, as he felt her arms wrap around his midsection, her face pressed against his back. He hadn’t heard her approach…
He could feel her trembling. “No,” she whispered. “They’ll catch us, drag us back here, and you’d be…he’d have you…” Her voice trailed, seemingly unwillingly to put Joffrey’s cruelty into words.
“Aye, little bird. He’d have my ugly head mounted on a pike. And you, gods know what hell he’d brew for your punishment.” He sighed. “We’d need more time to prepare, I’d need to---“
He was silenced as she moved in front of him, lifting her finger to place on his lips.
She shook her head. “No, Sandor. There is no shirking “my duty” tonight. And if you are not willing to lay with me, then…well….” She gulped as she fought the tears back.
He grabbed her shoulders and gently shook her, inadvertently noticing how her breasts swayed with his jostling. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “Little bird, I can cut my flesh, allow some blood to spill on the sheets, they—“
“No,” she interrupted, sniffling. “Joffrey is to have me inspected on the morrow to verify that the marriage has, er…been physically consummated.”
He gazed at her, as her blushing extended all the way down to the tops of her luscious teats.
He swallowed thickly.
She noticed him eyeing her hungrily and seemed to lose her nerve. She began to clumsily attempt to raise the bodice of her gown to cover herself.
Overcome with a sudden surge of nameless emotions, he reached out to stay her movements.
“Little bird, I…” He swallowed again, when the words stuck in his throat. “I’m not worthy to even clean your shoes, let alone presume to…” His words failed, though his intent was clear as he continued to stare at her as if he were starving.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes huge and pleading.
“Please. I…wish it to be you.” She lifted her chin, looking him straight in the eye, once more emboldened. “It’s you or no one.”
He was speechless at her admission; momentarily dumbfounded. But then the gravity of her words hit him with the force of an avalanche, and he suddenly knew he was lost, and willing to do anything and everything for her. He grabbed her, one hand lacing into her locks, the other at her waist.
He pulled her to him roughly and fell upon her like a ravening beast, devouring her mouth with fevered tongue and nipping teeth.
She let out a surprised gasp, at first stunned motionless, but soon began to tentatively open her mouth and push her tongue back, attempting to mimic his motions. The sensation was strange, but not unpleasing, as half of his mouth was soft and lush, the other rough in texture. But she didn’t balk, as she made sure to lavish her attentions fully to all of him, burnt and hale flesh alike.
Besieged with desire, he scooped her into his arms and placed her on the middle of the bed, keeping his mouth on her the entire time.
After he had quickly divested her of the gown and he his clothes, he made sure to prepare her thoroughly, taking the time to worship every inch of her skin with tongue, lips, and fingers.
All the while, he murmured gruff but sweet reassurances, which were answered by her sighs and soft moans.
His other sexual experiences had been hurried efforts with whores, with the end of a quick physical release his only goal. But this…this was different. She was a maid, and tender in her inexperience. He didn’t want her first time to be unpleasant, though he knew he could not completely spare her pain given his size.
He suppressed his concerns as pure instinct took over. He started with her legs, kissing and rubbing her calves before slowly making his way up her quivering thighs, parting them with an extreme gentleness that belied his stature and usual demeanor.
When his mouth finally made contact with her sweet slit, he was pleased to find it sopping with arousal, her juices slipping down her thighs and arse. He dove in with unabashed enthusiasm, drinking her down as she writhed in abandon. He worked at her cunt with singular focus, only pausing occasionally to gauge her responses. His heart swelled with pride as she moaned wantonly while he watched her thrashing her head from side to side, all the while clenching the sheets in a death grip.
Emboldened by her response, he renewed his efforts, zeroing in on the top of her cleft, where the flesh was swollen and hard, and where he knew she would derive the most pleasure.
She mewled and gasped, as if in surprise at her body’s reaction while she fell headlong into first orgasm with her back arched, toes curled into his muscled back.
He had never beheld anything so beautiful in all of his wretched life. Committing her loveliness to memory, he petted her pretty mound until she calmed and then dove in again, this time slowly adding a finger into her tight channel. He made sure to continue to focus his tongue on the concentrated nerves, so that she was engulfed in ecstasy and began to actually undulate her hips. When he added another finger and scissored them, she was blissfully unaware that he had gently torn her maiden’s veil.
Bringing her to another release, he withdrew his fingers and wiped the bloody evidence on the sheets. Suppressing a quick surge of anger at the thought of the fuckers inspecting her “consummation,” he instead channeled his frustration at his sweet prize. Growling, he kissed her hungrily while slipping his arms under her back, pulling her up and onto him, so that she straddled his massive thighs.
Her head lolled to the side as he nipped down her neck, emitting soft moans that were driving him insane with desire. He pulled her down to press against his rock hard cock, allowing her to feel the evidence of his need.
He bent and whispered in her ear, “Feel me, Sansa? Fuck, girl, do you see what you do to me?”
Her answer was a feminine whimper, which only served to fuel his desire. He wanted her so badly he was shaking.
“Sansa,” he panted. “We have proof enough now. I’ve taken your maidenhead. But by the gods, I don’t think I can stop myself. I have to have you now. Will you let me in, little bird?”
She pushed away slightly to better to look him in the eye. “Yes, take me now, Sandor. Please…”
He was in near agony with the effort to suppress his desire to fuck into her with wild abandon. However, he was able to gently lay her back while still keeping her legs at his waist, so that when he rose on his knees to move forward, his engorged cock was aligned with her opening. Lowering his head, he propped an arm under her back and gripped his member in his fist as he slowly began dipping the head up and down and slightly into her slit, coating it with her arousal. He then slipped his other hand between them to continue working her nub, which immediately brought him the desired response. She began shaking and moaning, distracted by the pleasurable sensations, unaware that she had opened herself up to him more fully. He sheathed himself quickly, as deep as her anatomy would allow him.
He groaned and forced himself to still inside of her. Trembling with need, he first checked with her. “Are you ok, little bird? Are you in pain?”
“Oh, oh…it hurts a little yes, but I’m ok,” she gasped. “I, uh, mainly feel stretched. You’re so big, but it’s—it feels good too. Please don’t stop now, don’t stop,” she begged.
“Fuck, Sansa, fuck,” he cursed as he forced himself with iron will to slowly plunge in and out as she instinctively wrapped her long legs higher up to lock around his torso.
He was stunned at her responsiveness, noting how she arched her back and pulled him in deeper with her surprisingly strong legs, urging him on also with her hands, digging her nails into his back. He hissed at the delicious pain.
As if in a choreographed dream, the lovers spurred each other on, at times frenzied, at other times with slowed tenderness, using tongue, teeth, and lips at each other’s mouths or whatever flesh was most convenient.
It was the single most erotic encounter in his life, seemingly unreal while at the same time, he was fully aware of their coupling. He struggled to continue on, fighting his instinct to come, to show her with his body the depths of his feelings for her. Finally, he could take no more of the sweet torture and was overcome with ecstasy. Unable to stop his orgasm, he roared into a pillow to muffle his voice, knowing that the castle had ears. Pumping his powerful body into hers, he shot his seed deep into her womb. Knowing that the seed might join with her and grow caused him to shudder in a second climax. He blinked several times, until his blackened vision returned and then bent down to gently kiss her lips while brushing her dampened locks from her face.
“Little bird,” he whispered tenderly. “Don’t you realize, I can’t ever let you go now?”
She gazed at him with such a loving expression that it made his breath catch. She reached for his neck, pulling him down into a lazy kiss, all the while smiling as her eyes fluttered, heavy with post-coital bliss.
He watched her sleep for some time, until he could no longer keep away his own need for slumber. But first, he bent down and placed a light kiss on her forehead.
“You’re mine, all mine now. I’ll fucking kill them all if I have to. We’re getting out of this hell-hole soon, little bird. I promise,” he quietly vowed.
He rolled to the side, spooning against her. Reaching out, he pulled her protectively into his massive form before he quickly followed her into oblivion.
The sun shone on Sansa’s face, waking her up with a start.
Panicked, she looked to the side for Sandor, but instead she saw her lord husband sitting next to her, grinning in amusement.
Embarrassed, she reached for the sheet and pulled it up to her chin. “My lord…I apologize, I didn’t mean—“
He stopped her with a chuckle. “No worries, my lady.” He rolled to his side and hopped out of bed, heading to a breakfast that had been brought by the servants.
He popped a grape in his mouth as he gestured to her. “I am going to send for Shae in a moment, who will, ah, see to your needs. I suggest you dress and break your fast and that way we can get the ugly business of the consummation proof out of the way. What do you say, hmm?”
Nodding her head, Sansa sat up, still clenching the sheets to her chin.
As Tyrion turned to go, he halted at her voice.
“My lord,” she called out.
Turning to her, he raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Nodding his head in understanding, he smiled and then closed the door behind him.
FYI-I have an idea for a separate, though related story, sort of a follow-up to this one if there is enough interest. ; )