Sums and Kisses
For the eleventh round of the asoiafkinkmeme--these characters belong to GRRM
Lord Tyrion Lannister was a brave man who had led charges against several armies of men and Others, on horseback and on the back of a dragon. He reminded himself of this as he collected Casterly Rock’s books of accounts and prepared to meet his wife, Lady Sansa. She had, much to his displeasure, refused even once to look at the book of accounts, telling the steward to present them to her lord husband himself. When the steward told her, with many hems and haws, that the lady of Casterly Rock was expected to do the accounts each week, she had insisted he give the books to Lord Tyrion instead. The steward had done so, even as he shook like a blancmange handing the books to his lordship.
He found her in her bower, where she usually broke her fast, sitting at her sewing amongst her women. When she caught sight of him, Lady Sansa immediately smiled and sent the other ladies away to their various tasks, urging him to come closer with the merest glance of her eye. Her expression changed as she saw what he held in his hands.
She pouted, "Why do I have to look at those boring old ledgers? They make my head ache." Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears. "You're my husband--you should rescue me from them, instead of inflicting them on me. You are cruel to me, my lord-and on such a lovely morning, too!"
"But, my dear sweet little wife," Tyrion said gently and kindly--he was always so gentle and kind to his lovely wife--"you must take charge of the accounts. You're managing the whole household so well--my aunts Genna, Dorna and Darlessa tell my how the servants and smallfolk adore you. Now, you must take charge of the accounts also-and I know you can do that too.”
She sighed. “I always hated sums-Arya was better at it than I ever was.”
“Well, sweetling, you are here-and Arya is at the Dreadfort, with her blacksmith. You did the accounts at Winterfell, did you not, while all of us were away fighting at the Wall? You were such a clever girl; rebuilding your family home, being so charming to the Dragon Queen...”
“I had a lot of help,” she whispered. “With the accounts and the rebuilding. Asha and Brienne advised me-they’d both helped their fathers. And Lord Harlaw taught me how to keep a simple book of accounts, which anybody could manage. Your books are very complicated, my lord-and I’m afraid of making a mistake and losing your esteem. You won’t shout at me or call me stupid if I get a sum wrong, will you?” she asked, gently placing her hands on his shoulders and drawing him closer, as she gazed adoringly into his eyes.
“I would never dream of shouting at you, my dear wife,” he exclaimed, horrified.
“Then you must teach me,” she said, entangling her fingers through his curls and drawing his face closer to hers. “You must show me how to keep your accounts correctly. You must tell me how to read the accounts.” And she kissed him on the gash that replaced most of his lips, gently inserting her tongue when he gasped in surprise.
She tasted of lemons, he noted absently-had she been nibbling lemon cakes again? He hoped she did not mind that he’d been at the spiced wine so early in the morning-he had developed a taste for red Dornish, with cloves and cinnamon and nutmeg and the peels of oranges, lemons and limes.
“You taste nice,” she told him, lifting her head, gazing into his dazed eyes. “Cinnamon and cloves and nutmeg and orange and Dornish red.” She stroked his bearded cheek, her fingernails gently scraping his beard. “I think men who taste of Dornish red-not too much, just enough, just like you-taste very nice, very manly. Very virile and tasty.” And then she kissed him again, going much deeper, holding the kiss longer. He never knew he could hold his breath and still stay alive for so long.
He did not know how long he had been standing before her, nor did he know when the offending books of accounts of Casterly Rock (so carefully maintained and examined by the lords of the castle for hundreds of years!) fell from his hands and he fell into his wife’s warm and welcoming embrace.
She held him close to her as she gently kissed his face-soft, sweet kisses that travelled from his forehead to his nose, the corners of his eyes and as much of his cheeks she could reach. She cuddled him as she kissed him-he had never been held like this before, with such tenderness. And then she let him go, gently and reluctantly, as she giggled mischievously.
“I will keep the accounts my lord, as you command. But,” she smiled roguishly at him, “you will have to teach me how. Just as you have taught me so many other things. Much more pleasant things.” And then she gave him a very unladylike, suggestive wink.
He tottered out on his legs, clutching the books to his chest, after agreeing to sit over the accounts with his wife after the evening meal, in his solar. She had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to this latter condition, wondering aloud, with an innocent expression on her face, why they could not sit in their bedroom or her bower instead, which were so much more comfortable. He had agreed to reward her with kisses for each sum she got right and she had promised him, with a naughty smile, not to get a single sum wrong.
He did not know which of them had won this round of negotiations, but he looked forward to introducing his wife to the intricacies of book-keeping as eagerly he did to their nightly sessions of love-making. If, he mused, he had managed to transform his wife’s cold disdain, which had sorely tried his patience in the early days of their marriage, to warmth and tenderness, he would find it no problem to transform her fear of numbers, of making mistakes, of losing the esteem of those she respected, to confidence in her abilities as chatelaine of Casterly Rock.
Lord Tyrion Lannister was a brave man who had led charges against several armies of men and Others, on horseback and on the back of a dragon. He reminded himself of this as he collected Casterly Rock’s books of accounts and prepared to meet his wife, Lady Sansa. She had, much to his displeasure, refused even once to look at the book of accounts, telling the steward to present them to her lord husband himself. When the steward told her, with many hems and haws, that the lady of Casterly Rock was expected to do the accounts each week, she had insisted he give the books to Lord Tyrion instead. The steward had done so, even as he shook like a blancmange handing the books to his lordship.
He found her in her bower, where she usually broke her fast, sitting at her sewing amongst her women. When she caught sight of him, Lady Sansa immediately smiled and sent the other ladies away to their various tasks, urging him to come closer with the merest glance of her eye. Her expression changed as she saw what he held in his hands.
She pouted, "Why do I have to look at those boring old ledgers? They make my head ache." Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears. "You're my husband--you should rescue me from them, instead of inflicting them on me. You are cruel to me, my lord-and on such a lovely morning, too!"
"But, my dear sweet little wife," Tyrion said gently and kindly--he was always so gentle and kind to his lovely wife--"you must take charge of the accounts. You're managing the whole household so well--my aunts Genna, Dorna and Darlessa tell my how the servants and smallfolk adore you. Now, you must take charge of the accounts also-and I know you can do that too.”
She sighed. “I always hated sums-Arya was better at it than I ever was.”
“Well, sweetling, you are here-and Arya is at the Dreadfort, with her blacksmith. You did the accounts at Winterfell, did you not, while all of us were away fighting at the Wall? You were such a clever girl; rebuilding your family home, being so charming to the Dragon Queen...”
“I had a lot of help,” she whispered. “With the accounts and the rebuilding. Asha and Brienne advised me-they’d both helped their fathers. And Lord Harlaw taught me how to keep a simple book of accounts, which anybody could manage. Your books are very complicated, my lord-and I’m afraid of making a mistake and losing your esteem. You won’t shout at me or call me stupid if I get a sum wrong, will you?” she asked, gently placing her hands on his shoulders and drawing him closer, as she gazed adoringly into his eyes.
“I would never dream of shouting at you, my dear wife,” he exclaimed, horrified.
“Then you must teach me,” she said, entangling her fingers through his curls and drawing his face closer to hers. “You must show me how to keep your accounts correctly. You must tell me how to read the accounts.” And she kissed him on the gash that replaced most of his lips, gently inserting her tongue when he gasped in surprise.
She tasted of lemons, he noted absently-had she been nibbling lemon cakes again? He hoped she did not mind that he’d been at the spiced wine so early in the morning-he had developed a taste for red Dornish, with cloves and cinnamon and nutmeg and the peels of oranges, lemons and limes.
“You taste nice,” she told him, lifting her head, gazing into his dazed eyes. “Cinnamon and cloves and nutmeg and orange and Dornish red.” She stroked his bearded cheek, her fingernails gently scraping his beard. “I think men who taste of Dornish red-not too much, just enough, just like you-taste very nice, very manly. Very virile and tasty.” And then she kissed him again, going much deeper, holding the kiss longer. He never knew he could hold his breath and still stay alive for so long.
He did not know how long he had been standing before her, nor did he know when the offending books of accounts of Casterly Rock (so carefully maintained and examined by the lords of the castle for hundreds of years!) fell from his hands and he fell into his wife’s warm and welcoming embrace.
She held him close to her as she gently kissed his face-soft, sweet kisses that travelled from his forehead to his nose, the corners of his eyes and as much of his cheeks she could reach. She cuddled him as she kissed him-he had never been held like this before, with such tenderness. And then she let him go, gently and reluctantly, as she giggled mischievously.
“I will keep the accounts my lord, as you command. But,” she smiled roguishly at him, “you will have to teach me how. Just as you have taught me so many other things. Much more pleasant things.” And then she gave him a very unladylike, suggestive wink.
He tottered out on his legs, clutching the books to his chest, after agreeing to sit over the accounts with his wife after the evening meal, in his solar. She had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to this latter condition, wondering aloud, with an innocent expression on her face, why they could not sit in their bedroom or her bower instead, which were so much more comfortable. He had agreed to reward her with kisses for each sum she got right and she had promised him, with a naughty smile, not to get a single sum wrong.
He did not know which of them had won this round of negotiations, but he looked forward to introducing his wife to the intricacies of book-keeping as eagerly he did to their nightly sessions of love-making. If, he mused, he had managed to transform his wife’s cold disdain, which had sorely tried his patience in the early days of their marriage, to warmth and tenderness, he would find it no problem to transform her fear of numbers, of making mistakes, of losing the esteem of those she respected, to confidence in her abilities as chatelaine of Casterly Rock.