Time Heals
For asoiafkinkmeme, essie007's prompt--Sansa/Tyrion--2,515 words
These are not my characters--they belong to GRRM
They have been married some years now-she is now a woman of twenty, wise in the ways of courts, politics and housewifery. Physically, he is still the same person she was forced to marry all those years ago by Queen Regent Cersei and King Joffrey the Unworthy (as the smallfolk now call him); he still makes unmannerly jests and japes despite being the Hand to their Graces the Kings and Queen of Westeros; and he has the oddest friends in Westeros, after her sister Arya, King Jon and the late Lord Stannis Baratheon. However he no longer treats her as a silly little girl who likes songs and stories about tall, handsome, blonde knights but listens to her gravely when she tells him firmly that he must eat or rest, else he will make himself ill.
She wonders if he treats her differently because she spends more time with Maestress Sarella than in listening to bards, watching tourneys, gazing at handsome young knights or gossiping with other women at court. They decide to stay married after the war, to maintain peace between their families, but they have little time to devote to their marriage. He is busy with matters of state, and she is busy rebuilding her relationships with her brothers and sister and her uncles, even as she helps them rebuild Winterfell, the Riverlands and the Vale. He cannot forget that she had once told him that she would never want him-and she feels she needs to really know him before she gives him more power over her person. The circumstances in which they were married were so dire that she could never have loved him-perhaps now, they can at least be friends before they become lovers?
But she notices the little things-that he is kind and friendly to Arya and Rickon, the two most difficult members of her family. He is affectionate with Bran and Jon, and tries very hard to be polite to Sweetrobin, who is very jealous of him, as well as her uncle Edmure and granduncle Brynden, who look at him with their lips pursed in disapproval. Nowadays, Tyrion does not drink as much as he used to when they were first married-nor does he keep mistresses or a whore. At first, she wondered if he had fallen ill with some foul disease when he went to Essos, but Grand Maester Samwell assured her these fears were groundless-he had treated Tyrion for some wounds he had received in battle and could say with confidence that he was free of disease. She simply assumes that he has grown tired of his old way of life-that his work as Hand keeps him far too busy for his former pastimes.
She does not know why, after all these years, she has begun to yearn for motherhood. She had thought she would be satisfied being a sister, a niece, a cousin and an aunt. Is it the sight of Robb’s twins, Ned and Bob, whom Jeyne brings to court, or that of little Catelyn, her uncle Edmure’s daughter, which ignites the longing within her to have children? She is determined to have her husband’s children, for she will not take a lover and have Tyrion bring up another man’s children as his own, as King Robert did. She is not a Lannister-she is a Stark and a Tully; she will do the honourable thing, the right thing. Besides, she knows what it is like to be the last of one’s line-she had suffered much when she believed that all her brothers, other than Jon, were dead; that Arya was lost or dead; and that her father, mother and Robb had been foully done to death by the Lannisters. She knew how fond he was of Tommen and Myrcella-she knew Jaime was the only sibling who had loved him. And he has lost all three of them, a loss she wants to make up to him by giving birth to his children. Of course, Lancel and Janei and several more of his Lannister cousins are still alive, but he is the only one of his family still alive, just as she had been when Joffrey died.
She is a little nervous when she speaks to Tyrion about her need to have a child one evening, as they sit in the solar after their supper. She has never felt very comfortable at the thought of being alone with a man, even with Tyrion who has always been kind to her. She cannot forget how Joffrey ordered the knights of his Kingsguard to tear her dress and beat her to punish her for her brother’s victories. Nor can she forget how the Hound and her lord husband rescued her from him that time. But they were not there to save her from Littlefinger’s unwanted kisses and caresses in the Vale, when she pretended to be his bastard daughter and fall in with his plans, so that she could flee with Sweetrobin when his suspicions were lulled. She was able to flee-she thanks the gods that she did not become his victim, unlike her aunt. So although Myranda Royce extols the joys of love and shares each juicy detail of every conquest she makes in King’s Landing for her edification, she still thinks of marital intercourse as a rather painful duty that she must endure if she wishes to have a child of her own.
When she speaks of her desire for a child to her husband, he looks at her thoughtfully. He has never asked her what transpired between herself and Littlefinger-she does not know what to make of his reticence. He asks her what she knows of the relations between men and women; she repeats some things that Myranda has told her. Her face turns redder than a beetroot when she does this and his mismatched eyes twinkle wickedly; she can tell he is trying not to throw back his head and laugh aloud at what she says. He waddles up to her on his stumpy legs and gently kisses her lips-she is glad she is seated on a chair by the fire, her embroidery in her lap, so that she is at the same height as him. It is a sweet kiss, not as clumsy as Sweetrobin’s nor as cruel as the kiss she had thought the Hound gave her on the night the Blackwater burned.
His eyes are still gleaming with mirth when he asks her gravely, “Has your maid done our beds?”
“Yes,” she says, surprised. “She does so while we are at supper. Why do you ask, my lord?”
“Because,” he says in a grave tone of voice but with mischief in his eyes, “we must begin as we mean to go on. Sitting here and talking about it will not help you get with child, but the two of us going to bed will. So put aside your embroidery,” he picks it up from her lap, “and put it in your basket. Now come on-let’s get to it. We have much to do if we want to become parents.” He takes her hand and she gets up from her chair.
They go to their bedroom. Their bed has been made and their nightclothes are laid out neatly on the pillows. The candles in the room are lit-all is ready for them. She is glad neither her maid nor Tyrion’s squire are there in their apartments-she would not know how to face them if they had seen her walk into the room hand-in-hand with her husband. She is at a loss for what she should do next-she did not think her husband would take her up on her offer so enthusiastically. She watches him undress and begins to follow his example. She is about to put on her night shift when he gently pries it from her hand and puts it on the stool nearby. He stands there looking at her, as naked as his name day, a hungry look in his eyes. She recalls that look in his eyes from her wedding day.
But she is no longer that scared and angry young maid of three and ten, forced into a marriage of convenience by her family’s enemies. She is now a woman of twenty who has chosen to stay in this marriage and she will not fear him. She is a Stark and she will be brave. She looks him in the eye as if to ask what he wants her to do. He takes her hand and guides her to the bed, where she sits down. And then he stands up in front of her, just as he did in the solar, and he begins to kiss her gently and sweetly-somehow, his kisses remind her of the first drops of rain on roses, as his mouth travels leisurely from one corner of her lips to the other, to the corner of her eyes, the tip of her nose, her chin, her cheeks... She begins to enjoy the sensation of his lips on her skin and she thinks it would only be fair to return the favour. So she kisses him back shyly when he kisses her lips yet again, and she kisses his face, which has now, over the years, grown dear and familiar.
She can feel her face turn rosy with his kisses, which grow deeper, hungrier, as he kisses her mouth again and again. She feels that she has forgotten how to breathe, and so has he. She does not know which one of them opens their mouths first, because she can soon feel their tongues touch. He draws closer to her-she can feel one of his hands on her shoulder, as his other hand gently cups her breast and his fingers gently caress her nipple till it peaks and grows hard. Now it’s not just her face that flushes with heat-she can feel as if she is on fire, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.
She does not know how she comes to be lying across the bed, her legs somewhat spread out, as his lips and his hands travel down her neck to her breasts. She can feel the need to cry out growing within her, as he gently nibbles and sucks at her nipples, while she gasps for air and her heart hammers like a horse running a race. She feels she will burst into flames as his lips and his hands travel down her body, to her tummy, to her navel, to...down there. She is terrified she will scream-not from fear or terror, but from sheer excitement.
He is kneeling between her legs now-she can feel him caressing her folds, first with his lips, then with his fingers. She holds back her scream-she does not want Brienne or some other member of their guard battering down the door and finding the two of them like this. She is about to say something when he lies down on top of her-he is almost as small as Sweetrobin used to be. She hugs him close. He begins to suckle at her breasts, just like Sweetrobin used to do-but she used to hate that then, so why does she like this so much now? And then he enters her.
At first, she feels she will burst-he is a small man, but his man’s staff is not small at all. But then, she can feel herself open up as he goes in deeper. Their bodies seem to meet in a rhythmic series of thrusts and counter-thrusts as the excitement within her grows, rising to a crescendo, until she feels she will explode, like a barrel filled with wildfire, and burn King’s Landing down. She does cry out, as does he a little while later, and then his organ flops out of her, like a large eel. She lies back, looking at the ceiling of her bedroom, hugging her husband, wanting to laugh for joy. She can now understand why Myranda carries on so about her many conquests, but she is content with this.
A little while later, she rouses and straightens herself a little. She feels somewhat sore. Tyrion is dozing at her breast, snoring gently. She smiles and gently kisses his forehead. She lays him down on his side of the bed, with many small kisses of love and gratitude, and tucks him in. She moves somewhat stiffly to her side of the bed and gets under the covers.
She must ask Sarella how often a man and woman must bed each other, before the woman becomes pregnant. She will do so casually-although Sarella is the most discreet woman at court, she does not want the world to know that she and her husband have finally consummated her marriage. She acknowledges to herself that he was, as he had boasted, the Knight of Flowers in the dark.
The next morning she wakes to a warm kiss from her husband.
“How do you feel?” he asks her gently.
“A little sore and stiff,” she says shyly.
“What you need is a soak in a tub of warm water,” he tells her as he bounds out of bed, pulling on his nightshirt. As he is about to leave the room, he turns to her and asks, his eyebrows raised. “Are you sure I did not hurt you?”
“No,” she says, puzzled. “Why?”
“Are you certain I should not send for Sarella to see you? You do trust her, don’t you?”
“I am fine, Tyrion, really...there is no need to disturb her. I will have the soak you suggested and I will be fine. All you need to do is send for Maddie...”
He stands there, and grins at her shyly. “Was it all right for you? You weren’t ...”
She blushes and says, “I was afraid I would shout or cry out.”
“Oh? Why?” he asks her, trying to sound innocent, although his eyes are dancing with mischief.
She is about to speak when she hears a knock on the door. It is Maddie, her maid, with a tray of food for them to break their fast-she is told to leave the tray in the solar. Sansa also tells her to bring a tub of hot water up to her room. When Maddie goes, she looks at Tyrion and explains.
“I was there, you know, when my aunt married Lord Baelish-and her ladies and I could hear her all night after they were bedded. I did not want to cause any embarrassment for you with the guards...”
He laughs and kisses her, again and again. “You could never embarrass me, dear wife,” he whispers against her lips. “You know,” he said gravely, “we will have to do this quite often, if you really want to have a child. Are you sure you want to?”
She smiles and says, “Yes, my lord, I do.”
These are not my characters--they belong to GRRM
They have been married some years now-she is now a woman of twenty, wise in the ways of courts, politics and housewifery. Physically, he is still the same person she was forced to marry all those years ago by Queen Regent Cersei and King Joffrey the Unworthy (as the smallfolk now call him); he still makes unmannerly jests and japes despite being the Hand to their Graces the Kings and Queen of Westeros; and he has the oddest friends in Westeros, after her sister Arya, King Jon and the late Lord Stannis Baratheon. However he no longer treats her as a silly little girl who likes songs and stories about tall, handsome, blonde knights but listens to her gravely when she tells him firmly that he must eat or rest, else he will make himself ill.
She wonders if he treats her differently because she spends more time with Maestress Sarella than in listening to bards, watching tourneys, gazing at handsome young knights or gossiping with other women at court. They decide to stay married after the war, to maintain peace between their families, but they have little time to devote to their marriage. He is busy with matters of state, and she is busy rebuilding her relationships with her brothers and sister and her uncles, even as she helps them rebuild Winterfell, the Riverlands and the Vale. He cannot forget that she had once told him that she would never want him-and she feels she needs to really know him before she gives him more power over her person. The circumstances in which they were married were so dire that she could never have loved him-perhaps now, they can at least be friends before they become lovers?
But she notices the little things-that he is kind and friendly to Arya and Rickon, the two most difficult members of her family. He is affectionate with Bran and Jon, and tries very hard to be polite to Sweetrobin, who is very jealous of him, as well as her uncle Edmure and granduncle Brynden, who look at him with their lips pursed in disapproval. Nowadays, Tyrion does not drink as much as he used to when they were first married-nor does he keep mistresses or a whore. At first, she wondered if he had fallen ill with some foul disease when he went to Essos, but Grand Maester Samwell assured her these fears were groundless-he had treated Tyrion for some wounds he had received in battle and could say with confidence that he was free of disease. She simply assumes that he has grown tired of his old way of life-that his work as Hand keeps him far too busy for his former pastimes.
She does not know why, after all these years, she has begun to yearn for motherhood. She had thought she would be satisfied being a sister, a niece, a cousin and an aunt. Is it the sight of Robb’s twins, Ned and Bob, whom Jeyne brings to court, or that of little Catelyn, her uncle Edmure’s daughter, which ignites the longing within her to have children? She is determined to have her husband’s children, for she will not take a lover and have Tyrion bring up another man’s children as his own, as King Robert did. She is not a Lannister-she is a Stark and a Tully; she will do the honourable thing, the right thing. Besides, she knows what it is like to be the last of one’s line-she had suffered much when she believed that all her brothers, other than Jon, were dead; that Arya was lost or dead; and that her father, mother and Robb had been foully done to death by the Lannisters. She knew how fond he was of Tommen and Myrcella-she knew Jaime was the only sibling who had loved him. And he has lost all three of them, a loss she wants to make up to him by giving birth to his children. Of course, Lancel and Janei and several more of his Lannister cousins are still alive, but he is the only one of his family still alive, just as she had been when Joffrey died.
She is a little nervous when she speaks to Tyrion about her need to have a child one evening, as they sit in the solar after their supper. She has never felt very comfortable at the thought of being alone with a man, even with Tyrion who has always been kind to her. She cannot forget how Joffrey ordered the knights of his Kingsguard to tear her dress and beat her to punish her for her brother’s victories. Nor can she forget how the Hound and her lord husband rescued her from him that time. But they were not there to save her from Littlefinger’s unwanted kisses and caresses in the Vale, when she pretended to be his bastard daughter and fall in with his plans, so that she could flee with Sweetrobin when his suspicions were lulled. She was able to flee-she thanks the gods that she did not become his victim, unlike her aunt. So although Myranda Royce extols the joys of love and shares each juicy detail of every conquest she makes in King’s Landing for her edification, she still thinks of marital intercourse as a rather painful duty that she must endure if she wishes to have a child of her own.
When she speaks of her desire for a child to her husband, he looks at her thoughtfully. He has never asked her what transpired between herself and Littlefinger-she does not know what to make of his reticence. He asks her what she knows of the relations between men and women; she repeats some things that Myranda has told her. Her face turns redder than a beetroot when she does this and his mismatched eyes twinkle wickedly; she can tell he is trying not to throw back his head and laugh aloud at what she says. He waddles up to her on his stumpy legs and gently kisses her lips-she is glad she is seated on a chair by the fire, her embroidery in her lap, so that she is at the same height as him. It is a sweet kiss, not as clumsy as Sweetrobin’s nor as cruel as the kiss she had thought the Hound gave her on the night the Blackwater burned.
His eyes are still gleaming with mirth when he asks her gravely, “Has your maid done our beds?”
“Yes,” she says, surprised. “She does so while we are at supper. Why do you ask, my lord?”
“Because,” he says in a grave tone of voice but with mischief in his eyes, “we must begin as we mean to go on. Sitting here and talking about it will not help you get with child, but the two of us going to bed will. So put aside your embroidery,” he picks it up from her lap, “and put it in your basket. Now come on-let’s get to it. We have much to do if we want to become parents.” He takes her hand and she gets up from her chair.
They go to their bedroom. Their bed has been made and their nightclothes are laid out neatly on the pillows. The candles in the room are lit-all is ready for them. She is glad neither her maid nor Tyrion’s squire are there in their apartments-she would not know how to face them if they had seen her walk into the room hand-in-hand with her husband. She is at a loss for what she should do next-she did not think her husband would take her up on her offer so enthusiastically. She watches him undress and begins to follow his example. She is about to put on her night shift when he gently pries it from her hand and puts it on the stool nearby. He stands there looking at her, as naked as his name day, a hungry look in his eyes. She recalls that look in his eyes from her wedding day.
But she is no longer that scared and angry young maid of three and ten, forced into a marriage of convenience by her family’s enemies. She is now a woman of twenty who has chosen to stay in this marriage and she will not fear him. She is a Stark and she will be brave. She looks him in the eye as if to ask what he wants her to do. He takes her hand and guides her to the bed, where she sits down. And then he stands up in front of her, just as he did in the solar, and he begins to kiss her gently and sweetly-somehow, his kisses remind her of the first drops of rain on roses, as his mouth travels leisurely from one corner of her lips to the other, to the corner of her eyes, the tip of her nose, her chin, her cheeks... She begins to enjoy the sensation of his lips on her skin and she thinks it would only be fair to return the favour. So she kisses him back shyly when he kisses her lips yet again, and she kisses his face, which has now, over the years, grown dear and familiar.
She can feel her face turn rosy with his kisses, which grow deeper, hungrier, as he kisses her mouth again and again. She feels that she has forgotten how to breathe, and so has he. She does not know which one of them opens their mouths first, because she can soon feel their tongues touch. He draws closer to her-she can feel one of his hands on her shoulder, as his other hand gently cups her breast and his fingers gently caress her nipple till it peaks and grows hard. Now it’s not just her face that flushes with heat-she can feel as if she is on fire, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.
She does not know how she comes to be lying across the bed, her legs somewhat spread out, as his lips and his hands travel down her neck to her breasts. She can feel the need to cry out growing within her, as he gently nibbles and sucks at her nipples, while she gasps for air and her heart hammers like a horse running a race. She feels she will burst into flames as his lips and his hands travel down her body, to her tummy, to her navel, to...down there. She is terrified she will scream-not from fear or terror, but from sheer excitement.
He is kneeling between her legs now-she can feel him caressing her folds, first with his lips, then with his fingers. She holds back her scream-she does not want Brienne or some other member of their guard battering down the door and finding the two of them like this. She is about to say something when he lies down on top of her-he is almost as small as Sweetrobin used to be. She hugs him close. He begins to suckle at her breasts, just like Sweetrobin used to do-but she used to hate that then, so why does she like this so much now? And then he enters her.
At first, she feels she will burst-he is a small man, but his man’s staff is not small at all. But then, she can feel herself open up as he goes in deeper. Their bodies seem to meet in a rhythmic series of thrusts and counter-thrusts as the excitement within her grows, rising to a crescendo, until she feels she will explode, like a barrel filled with wildfire, and burn King’s Landing down. She does cry out, as does he a little while later, and then his organ flops out of her, like a large eel. She lies back, looking at the ceiling of her bedroom, hugging her husband, wanting to laugh for joy. She can now understand why Myranda carries on so about her many conquests, but she is content with this.
A little while later, she rouses and straightens herself a little. She feels somewhat sore. Tyrion is dozing at her breast, snoring gently. She smiles and gently kisses his forehead. She lays him down on his side of the bed, with many small kisses of love and gratitude, and tucks him in. She moves somewhat stiffly to her side of the bed and gets under the covers.
She must ask Sarella how often a man and woman must bed each other, before the woman becomes pregnant. She will do so casually-although Sarella is the most discreet woman at court, she does not want the world to know that she and her husband have finally consummated her marriage. She acknowledges to herself that he was, as he had boasted, the Knight of Flowers in the dark.
The next morning she wakes to a warm kiss from her husband.
“How do you feel?” he asks her gently.
“A little sore and stiff,” she says shyly.
“What you need is a soak in a tub of warm water,” he tells her as he bounds out of bed, pulling on his nightshirt. As he is about to leave the room, he turns to her and asks, his eyebrows raised. “Are you sure I did not hurt you?”
“No,” she says, puzzled. “Why?”
“Are you certain I should not send for Sarella to see you? You do trust her, don’t you?”
“I am fine, Tyrion, really...there is no need to disturb her. I will have the soak you suggested and I will be fine. All you need to do is send for Maddie...”
He stands there, and grins at her shyly. “Was it all right for you? You weren’t ...”
She blushes and says, “I was afraid I would shout or cry out.”
“Oh? Why?” he asks her, trying to sound innocent, although his eyes are dancing with mischief.
She is about to speak when she hears a knock on the door. It is Maddie, her maid, with a tray of food for them to break their fast-she is told to leave the tray in the solar. Sansa also tells her to bring a tub of hot water up to her room. When Maddie goes, she looks at Tyrion and explains.
“I was there, you know, when my aunt married Lord Baelish-and her ladies and I could hear her all night after they were bedded. I did not want to cause any embarrassment for you with the guards...”
He laughs and kisses her, again and again. “You could never embarrass me, dear wife,” he whispers against her lips. “You know,” he said gravely, “we will have to do this quite often, if you really want to have a child. Are you sure you want to?”
She smiles and says, “Yes, my lord, I do.”