Cersei was a Lannister, through and through. She could weave her way with words, if only her temper would not get in the way. She could play the games of intrigue much better, if she could keep her temper. Luckily, she felt no need to be angry at Sansa, just manipulative and cruel. Tyrion supposed he should be grateful Cersei had never turned on him as she had turned on her own little brother.
Now that was a smile, a warmer one. One that made it easier for his own mouth to retain its easy smile. Dropping her hands, he went over to the pile of slim volumes, plucked up one of them, and moved back to the bed. "Slide over, my dear Sansa, and we will see where poetry takes us."
He climbed up, beside her, no closer than their arms touching, and cracked open the volume. "Let us see ... ah yes, this should do it." He leaned back against the pillows, keeping his voice low-pitched, smooth with a touch of burr.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee..."
Sansa makes her way to the middle of the bed, giving Tyrion room to get up on his side. She leans back against the pillows, resting her head near her husband's so she can see the book as he reads. The more she pressed herself close, the more comfortable she seemed to feel with it. She was still nervous but she didn't fear him like she did other men.
Halfway through, her eyes stray to his hair, as if she is noticing how golden it is for the first time. Or maybe she's appreciating it for the first time, looking at it this closely.
His voice is also soothing like this, just listening to him read to her. She has another small epiphany in realizing she's always enjoyed the sound of his voice. She hums softly, approving of the poetry thus far.
And so, there was his pretty wife, curled up against him, her breath stirring his curls as he read. He tried not to swallow, to give into his sometimes more baser nature. This after all, was a seduction -- not a ravaging.
So he looked over at her, giving her a crooked smile, as he flipped the page. "That seems to have gone over well enough, so let us try another one."
He flipped through the pages, until he found a likely one. A little sad, but she did like the dramatics of poetry. Funnily enough, he found himself enjoying it himself.
"When I summon my sighs to call for you, with the name love inscribed upon my heart, And Laudable sound at the beginning of the sweet accents of that word comes forth. Your Regal state which I encounter next doubles my strength for the high enterprise, that “Tacitly the end cries, “for her honor These better shoulders for support than yours.” And so, to Laud and to Revere the word itself instructs whenever someone calls you, A lady worthy of all praise and honor – Unless, perhaps, the Lady be offended A mortal tongue be so presumptuous to speak of his eternally green boughs. Praise you, praise you!"
"Me? Gods no." He gave her a little smirk, as he turned the page once more. "Can you imagine all the inappropriate imagery I would bring to poetry? Tis better to keep the word safe from me."
He paused, then ventured quietly, "I have ... considered, time to time, writing my own accounts on the wonders of our country."
She was absolutely delightful when she laughed. He was going to have to make her laugh more often, he decided.
He gave her a faintly ironic eyebrow, before drawling out, "Would you be satisfied with a scribe for a husband, instead of a warrior lord? I'll admit, I like the life of the intellectual more. Fewer people trying to kill me."
"Why not both? You're already a warrior and intellectual." At least, as far as she was concerned, he was capable of being both. If he wanted to. She was still surprised he could handle himself on the battlefield but also grateful for it.
As for his mind, he was one of the smartest she had ever encountered. Also wise, when the mood took him.
"You know, you think more of my skills than my family does - outside of Jaime." He looked over at her, his look softening. "I suppose that's wifely affection for you - blinding you to obvious flaws."
She lays her head back on the pillow, still looking at him, "Everyone has flaws. But you have also proven you can hold your own on the battlefield. And that you have a sharp mind and even sharper tongue."
"I think you could be better than them." And that's not flattery. It's bold sincerity. Mostly because she already thought he was better than them.
He looks over at her, thumbing the pages thoughtfully as he considers it. Then he asked her, with all frankness, because why not? "Do you think I am fit to help you rule Winterfell?"
There. Said. Invitation and question, all in one. Would she like to go to Witnerfell, and would she like him to take her, and would she ...care if he helped her with her father's estate? Could he stay with her?
She's stunned into silence at the blunt, and quite unexpected, question. It was the exact thing Cersei had posed to her that set this whole thing into motion. So, she cannot hide her surprise.
But her answer is full of certainty, "I do."
"You hold no ill will towards my House, you have never been cruel to those beneath you. You have shown others kindness when your family has not. I truly believe you could make Winterfell strong once more." In some ways, Tyrion was like her father. But he was different in the ways that helped him survive King's Landing and the people in it.
Her father... had been too honest, too merciful with those that were not to have been trusted.
He's shocked her - good. It means her answer will be honest, as will her expression. He'll be able to tell his way through the lie. Yet did he expect a clever lie from a Wolf? From a Stark?
No. Not with the way she lifted her chin - just like her father, like her brothers, even the bastard one. The clear look in those eyes of hers, determination and truth.
He tilts his golden head at her, before a crooked smile appears. "You know ... many consider your demure beauty your best feature. I have to say, Sansa, I like the wolf in you better. Clear, direct, spine of steel. Someone who can survive my family ...your beauty is considerable, but your strength is what draws me in."
The smile tips a little sadly, even as he flips a page in the book. "Makes me wish for impossible things, no less. Ah me. It is your turn to choose a poem, my dear Sansa. That way, I can melt into your golden voice, and dream of ways to steal us off to Winterfell."
She has had to learn to lie for most of her time here. Not a particularly good liar. But good enough to live this long.
With Tyrion, she finally felt able to be more open. At least mostly open. There had been a time she had thought his open dislike of his family had been an act to lure her into damning herself to the dungeons. But when she saw he was like that with nearly everyone, she slowly began to believe he was more honest than any of his family members. Certainly more honorable.
When he starts to compliment her - not simply her beauty, but her strength, the wolf in her - she can feel a flush run through her. And a push give in her chest. Her heart swells and, for an instant, she gives into the urge she feels. Especially when she hears the last part: "dream of ways to steal us off to Winterfell"
She moves forward and wraps her arms around Tyrion, holding him close and tightly, face pressing into his gold curls. He breath hitches sharply, the tell-tale sign of her trying to hold back tears. Oh, to go home. To Winterfell and see it be rebuilt.
All while knowing, in her heart, that Tyrion would rule fairly and honorably.
He is particularly surprised, when her arms are suddenly around him, and she was pressing her face to his golden curls. He wrapped his hand around her arm, leaning into her. Letting her hair fall over his face, he curved up a small smile over his face.
He had felt this way once, before. He prayed to all the Gods that he would be able to honor her the way he was never able his first wife. Hope to the Gods that he could protect her now more than he had Tysha. He made a silent vow to himself, right then, that he would never let his family hurt her. Nor any child that came from them. Nor another Stark, if he could help it.
He tipped his chin, and brushed his lips against her cheek. "So ... what shall we do first when we get to Winterfell? I shall rely entirely on your good taste."
After she receives the kiss to her cheek, Sansa turns her head enough to kiss his cheek in return. Followed by another and another. All of them soft, gentle.
She eventually finds his lips, her arms still around him, her hair still posing as a red curtain around them as she shares her first kiss with her husband. It's more tender, with far more heart than the one she had shared with Joffrey. Back before she knew he was the true monster of the world.
Well he was not expecting that, those soft lips brushing across his cheeks. He makes a soft noise, low, glad that he did not whimper as her lips brushed over his eyelids, down across his broken nose, over the scar. His hands, stubby fingers still stained with ink, go to rest on her arms, stroking that soft material of her robe.
Those hands still, as her lips pressed to his. Sweet tasting lips, and he makes another soft noise, but he doesn't crush this winter rose. He lets it blossom, lets his eyes close and his breath quicken. Lets her lead this dance. He is not ... taking what he wants. He is ... receiving what she is willing to give.
She parts long enough for a breath, hot against his lips, before she leans down for another one, longer with a little more pressure behind it.
Her darts out without thinking about it, licking his lips and hers as she pulls back off. A hand has strayed to the collar of his tunic, fingers idly twisting one of the buttons before finally undoing it.
Her eyes stay on Tyrion as she moves her hand down to the second one, willing to stop the moment he told her to, if that was what he wished.
He sighed out a long breath as her mouth moved away from his, after the sweet taste of her tongue and the warm glide of their mouths moving together. He looked up at her and felt that surge as he so often did, of lust and just pure want.
She looked at him, as if she was waiting for him to tell him to stop. He cupped her cheek and drew her mouth to his, kissing her back as hungrily as he was able, without frightening his suddenly fierce lady wolf.
Sansa doesn't resist, her brows going up some in surprise at being pulled back down for a kiss. And one much more passionate. She tries to return it as best she can, not wanting to freeze up but actually wishing to enjoy it. The passion and gentleness with which she was being treated.
Her hand continues to undo the buttons until she can slip a hand past the gap in his undershirt, fingers finally touching skin. Curious and soft on his chest.
He eases back, a little, remembering that she had the less experience between the two of them. Just because he was a ravening beast of a man did not mean he got to ravage the wolf maiden. He softened his mouth, running his stubby fingers through those long red tresses slowly.
He sighed as she touched his chest, trying not to think of his misshapen body.
Once her lips are free, she licks them, slowly pressing kisses to Tyrion's chin and then his neck. Followed by his collarbone. Then his chest once she has his tunic and shirt open more. She looks up at him to make sure it's alright.
Her hands then move lower, removing his boots one by one, dropping them over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Her hand pauses over one of his feet, "Do they hurt you tonight?" She has seen him rub at them and his legs before before coming to bed.
He can already feel his body reacting those kisses reacting to those kisses, and those touches, and he closes his eyes tight to make sure he doesn't go completely mad. He opens them to find her looking back at him, and he exhales, nodding his head a little. He is fine, more than.
He winces, only a little, when she pulls the boots off, and her question catches him slightly off-guard. "Some ... but they always do. Sad little things, aren't they?" His mouth twisted a little, "Good thing I exercise my mind a great deal more regularly."
She keeps her hands gentle, the pressure light as she slowly begins to massage one foot, "Better than mine. They are so big, I was afraid they would never stop growing."
He makes a little noise that he hopes is a groan and not a whimper, but it does feel exquisitely good to have those muscles worked over by slender fingers. He tched softly, "Lady Wolf, your legs are glorious. Tall, fair and strong, just like their owner ... I should like to worship them later if I may."
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Now that was a smile, a warmer one. One that made it easier for his own mouth to retain its easy smile. Dropping her hands, he went over to the pile of slim volumes, plucked up one of them, and moved back to the bed. "Slide over, my dear Sansa, and we will see where poetry takes us."
He climbed up, beside her, no closer than their arms touching, and cracked open the volume. "Let us see ... ah yes, this should do it." He leaned back against the pillows, keeping his voice low-pitched, smooth with a touch of burr.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows,
and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee..."
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Halfway through, her eyes stray to his hair, as if she is noticing how golden it is for the first time. Or maybe she's appreciating it for the first time, looking at it this closely.
His voice is also soothing like this, just listening to him read to her. She has another small epiphany in realizing she's always enjoyed the sound of his voice. She hums softly, approving of the poetry thus far.
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So he looked over at her, giving her a crooked smile, as he flipped the page. "That seems to have gone over well enough, so let us try another one."
He flipped through the pages, until he found a likely one. A little sad, but she did like the dramatics of poetry. Funnily enough, he found himself enjoying it himself.
"When I summon my sighs to call for you,
with the name love inscribed upon my heart,
And Laudable sound at the beginning
of the sweet accents of that word comes forth.
Your Regal state which I encounter next
doubles my strength for the high enterprise,
that “Tacitly the end cries, “for her honor
These better shoulders for support than yours.”
And so, to Laud and to Revere the word
itself instructs whenever someone calls you,
A lady worthy of all praise and honor –
Unless, perhaps, the Lady be offended
A mortal tongue be so presumptuous
to speak of his eternally green boughs.
Praise you, praise you!"
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He paused, then ventured quietly, "I have ... considered, time to time, writing my own accounts on the wonders of our country."
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The latter, however, has her lifting her head up, "I think you should."
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He gave her a faintly ironic eyebrow, before drawling out, "Would you be satisfied with a scribe for a husband, instead of a warrior lord? I'll admit, I like the life of the intellectual more. Fewer people trying to kill me."
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As for his mind, he was one of the smartest she had ever encountered. Also wise, when the mood took him.
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"I think you could be better than them." And that's not flattery. It's bold sincerity. Mostly because she already thought he was better than them.
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There. Said. Invitation and question, all in one. Would she like to go to Witnerfell, and would she like him to take her, and would she ...care if he helped her with her father's estate? Could he stay with her?
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But her answer is full of certainty, "I do."
"You hold no ill will towards my House, you have never been cruel to those beneath you. You have shown others kindness when your family has not. I truly believe you could make Winterfell strong once more." In some ways, Tyrion was like her father. But he was different in the ways that helped him survive King's Landing and the people in it.
Her father... had been too honest, too merciful with those that were not to have been trusted.
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No. Not with the way she lifted her chin - just like her father, like her brothers, even the bastard one. The clear look in those eyes of hers, determination and truth.
He tilts his golden head at her, before a crooked smile appears. "You know ... many consider your demure beauty your best feature. I have to say, Sansa, I like the wolf in you better. Clear, direct, spine of steel. Someone who can survive my family ...your beauty is considerable, but your strength is what draws me in."
The smile tips a little sadly, even as he flips a page in the book. "Makes me wish for impossible things, no less. Ah me. It is your turn to choose a poem, my dear Sansa. That way, I can melt into your golden voice, and dream of ways to steal us off to Winterfell."
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With Tyrion, she finally felt able to be more open. At least mostly open. There had been a time she had thought his open dislike of his family had been an act to lure her into damning herself to the dungeons. But when she saw he was like that with nearly everyone, she slowly began to believe he was more honest than any of his family members. Certainly more honorable.
When he starts to compliment her - not simply her beauty, but her strength, the wolf in her - she can feel a flush run through her. And a push give in her chest. Her heart swells and, for an instant, she gives into the urge she feels. Especially when she hears the last part: "dream of ways to steal us off to Winterfell"
She moves forward and wraps her arms around Tyrion, holding him close and tightly, face pressing into his gold curls. He breath hitches sharply, the tell-tale sign of her trying to hold back tears. Oh, to go home. To Winterfell and see it be rebuilt.
All while knowing, in her heart, that Tyrion would rule fairly and honorably.
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He had felt this way once, before. He prayed to all the Gods that he would be able to honor her the way he was never able his first wife. Hope to the Gods that he could protect her now more than he had Tysha. He made a silent vow to himself, right then, that he would never let his family hurt her. Nor any child that came from them. Nor another Stark, if he could help it.
He tipped his chin, and brushed his lips against her cheek. "So ... what shall we do first when we get to Winterfell? I shall rely entirely on your good taste."
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She eventually finds his lips, her arms still around him, her hair still posing as a red curtain around them as she shares her first kiss with her husband. It's more tender, with far more heart than the one she had shared with Joffrey. Back before she knew he was the true monster of the world.
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Those hands still, as her lips pressed to his. Sweet tasting lips, and he makes another soft noise, but he doesn't crush this winter rose. He lets it blossom, lets his eyes close and his breath quicken. Lets her lead this dance. He is not ... taking what he wants. He is ... receiving what she is willing to give.
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Her darts out without thinking about it, licking his lips and hers as she pulls back off. A hand has strayed to the collar of his tunic, fingers idly twisting one of the buttons before finally undoing it.
Her eyes stay on Tyrion as she moves her hand down to the second one, willing to stop the moment he told her to, if that was what he wished.
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She looked at him, as if she was waiting for him to tell him to stop. He cupped her cheek and drew her mouth to his, kissing her back as hungrily as he was able, without frightening his suddenly fierce lady wolf.
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Her hand continues to undo the buttons until she can slip a hand past the gap in his undershirt, fingers finally touching skin. Curious and soft on his chest.
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He sighed as she touched his chest, trying not to think of his misshapen body.
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Her hands then move lower, removing his boots one by one, dropping them over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Her hand pauses over one of his feet, "Do they hurt you tonight?" She has seen him rub at them and his legs before before coming to bed.
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He winces, only a little, when she pulls the boots off, and her question catches him slightly off-guard. "Some ... but they always do. Sad little things, aren't they?" His mouth twisted a little, "Good thing I exercise my mind a great deal more regularly."
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Did that come out as a purr? It might have.
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