by Lara Wilson

It's her wedding night and her husband has told her he won't touch her. Relief is her initial reaction, but then Sansa frowns. As her hands fiddle with the blanket pulled up over her breasts, she watches as Lord Tyrion settles next to her, covered only to spare her the sight of his small body.

But, before he pulled the blanket over them both, she caught a glimpse of him and his manhood isn't that much smaller than her older brothers' when she'd spied on them the year before after sword drills had left them in need of baths.

And Sansa isn't stupid. While she's scared and lost and confused, a part of her still loving Joffrey, she was raised to wed a landed man at the least, and she knows her duty is to give him comfort and children.

She needs a child to secure her place. Marriage to a Lannister isn't enough to protect her, deep inside she knows that truth. Giving her husband a child, a son, hopefully that will be enough to keep the blade from her neck.

And, at the very least, the sheets must bear her blood in the morning.

Taking a deep breath and steeling her spine, Sansa releases the blanket, then lifts her hands to pull her hair away from her breasts. She sees him watching the movement and a shiver goes through her.

"Cover yourself and sleep," Tyrion says, almost gently, but there is something in his voice that gives her the courage to push the blanket from her hips. Slowly she stretches out her legs and moves down the bed until she's reclining next to him, her head on their shared pillow.

He's still watching her and she sees him lick his lips. Sansa knows nothing of seduction, but maybe her slim, pale nude skin is enough.

"I told you this isn't necessary." His voice is even gruffer now and his adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. She lets one of her hands slide across her stomach to rest just under one breast.

"I would be your wife for real," Sansa manages to murmur, trying not to clench her whole body in fear. She is scared, but not of him, more of the unknown, both of the next few minutes and the rest of her life.

Tyrion closes his eyes and, for a moment, she fears she's failed, but then he reopens them and they're glittering darkly. He pushes down the blanket and now she's the one swallowing convulsively as the shaft between his legs has hardened and risen. Dimly she notes that his stomach is flat, his thighs large and muscular. He isn't...ugly.

"Do you know what to do?"

The question startles her. Her lady companion told her only that she was to lay on her back and spread her legs and her lord husband would do the rest. Her mother told her only little more, hinting that it could feel good after the initial pain. Sansa starts to part her legs and his hand is on one, stopping her.

"You'll need to be on top."

Sansa blinks at him in confusion, then feels herself flush. She knows of the entrance between her legs which was made to fit a man's staff. She never knew she could take it inside herself as a man could push it in.

"I'll guide you," Tyrion says more gently and together they move her until she's straddling his hips.

When his fingers dip between her legs, she squeaks in surprise, but he's oddly nimble, touching her more than even she has when bathing.

And something begins to feel good, just as her mother hinted at. Experimentally, Sansa rocks her hips against his fingers and she sees him almost smile. An odd giddiness hits her as she realizes she's done something right, and, tentatively, she reaches down and glides her fingers across his chest. She's not brave enough to touch the swollen staff bouncing lightly against his stomach as he breathes, but she comes close, and he seems to appreciate it.

His fingers move faster and she can feel herself growing wet, moisture dripping from her. It causes her to still in embarrassment and his other hand finds her hip, moving her again.

"It's a good thing, my lady," Tyrion says, his voice laden with encouragement and something she can't recognize.

"Do you wish me to touch you...there?" she whispers, eyes averted.

He barks a soft laugh, drawing her eyes to him to see that he is smiling now. "Not if you wish to lose your maidenhead tonight." She must look confused as he adds softly, "I don't wish to spill myself yet," then two of his fingers push into her and she gasps in surprise and finds herself shuddering, barely holding herself up with her hands on his chest and the bed.

"Now, sweetling," and he's pulling his fingers from her to wrap around the base of his shaft. They're wet and sticky and Sansa squirms in embarrassment. There's a tight, anticipation between her legs and her thighs are trembling. "Lift up." Obeying, she looks down to see him guiding himself towards her entrance, then his free hand cups her hip and pulls her slowly down.

Sansa can't contain a moan of pain as he stretches her, but she clenches her teeth around her lower lip and pushes down as his other hand takes her thigh and gives a sudden tug.

Something tears inside her, but the pain is bearable, and then she's seated upon his hips, and while she's breathing hard against the burning and the fullness, there's still something else building. It's not quite pleasure, but maybe it will be if she moves.

So, she does, and Tyrion grunts in what sounds like surprise, his fingers tightening on her. There will be bruises on her hips in the morning and that makes her feel a bolt of pride. She moves her hips again, rocking slightly, feeling him shift inside her, rub against her passage. It still hurts a bit, but not enough to stop.

"Is this...is this right?"

"There is no right or wrong," he breathes out, "but it's good, yes. Lean forward and down."

Puzzled, she obeys, thinking he wishes to kiss her, but his mouth latches around one of her nipples and a sharp zing of pleasure goes from there to the places he touched between her legs. "Oh," she moans and rocks a bit harder. There, the swollen flesh at the apex of her feminine cleft brushes the coarse hair at the base of his manhood, and it feels good.

As Tyrion's tongue plays from nipple to nipple, Sansa lifts her hips, then pushes back down and smiles as he groans against her flushed skin. She does it again, rubbing her body against his and, when she feels the need to squirm, she does so.

His hands cup her breasts to push her back up and his manhood shifts again inside her and the fullness, the need she finally realizes, swells. As he pinches her nipples, she moves faster on him, the pain a distant thing as pleasure takes over. She notes him moving beneath her, his hips raising to thrust against her, and she feels his staff losing its earlier smooth rhythm.

Sansa knows he will spill his seed into her and she prays her body is receptive to a child, but she no longer fears the marital act. The pain is gone and pleasure is growing and there is pride as well. Her husband is enjoying her. She's bringing him the comfort of her body.

What began as a frightened duty has become something more.

As Tyrion grips her tightly and shakes, pulsing wetness into her, Sansa moans and accepts him, her inner muscles tightening in response until she feels him slip from her. Trembling, she starts to move off him, and startles as he stops her. Their eyes meet and she sees the smile and the smirk in his that make her blush even more.

"Oh sweetling, it's not over," he croons, and his fingers find that spot between her thighs again, pressing and rubbing until something overwhelms her and she cries out, shuddering as her body seems to burst.

Tears spill from her eyes, but she's not crying from fear or pain, and when he helps her off him, she curls to him, one hand over his heart, and she feels his hand stroke over her hair until she drifts to sleep.

The last thing she hears is his amazed murmur of 'wife'.


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