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After Tyrion had passed out, Sansa blew out the candles and curled up in bed, stifling her sobs on the pillows. She hated that she felt bad about her last question to him, what would happen if she never wanted him to be intimate with her. It had slipped out before she could stop it, and when she had realized he was not going to force the issue, it somehow made it all worse.
Now he slept soundly on the chair, the space beside her in bed empty and cold on her wedding night.
Had he been cruel, like Joffrey, she would be crying for a different reason now. But all she had to blame was herself for her own carelessness toward a man who had tried to be kind to her, a rarity in King’s Landing. She was a traitor’s daughter, they said, she deserved no kindness – mostly at the goading of the King. But Tyrion ignored Joffrey, for the most part, except for when he needed to offer counsel or do something to ensure the King’s protection.
Eventually, she thought of her father, her mother, her brothers. Her thoughts always went back to them at night – even Arya. Sansa did not know whether her sister was alive or dead. Dead, most likely, but somehow, it did not bother her as much as the others. Perhaps the uncertainty was a cushion, or perhaps she did not love Arya as much as she should. You are sisters, their father had told them, you need to be looking out for and loving one another, not fighting each other when we are already surrounded by enemies. Sansa sobbed harder, thinking of her failures, how her determination for her life to be like the songs had made her blind to Joffrey’s true nature at first. She thought of Lady, her wolf, and the tears poured from her as though they would never stop.
“Sansa.”
She gasped as she heard his deep voice. Her voice thick with her grief, she answered, “I thought you slept.”
“How can I, when my wife is clearly upset about something?” He rubbed at his eyes and kicked his legs over the side of the chair, sitting up to look at her. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough for her to see his features clearly.
Margaery’s words about Tyrion had come back to her. Women like all kinds of men, she had told Sansa, and Tyrion is not the worst Lannister. “I—I’m sorry, my lord. I feel overcome sometimes, is all. You have not made me unhappy, my lord,” she said. It made her feel a bit better to apologize to him, even if she could not bring herself to admit she felt guilty for her mean words earlier.
“Tyrion,” he corrected her.
“Tyrion,” she agreed softly.
“I am glad to hear that I am not the cause of your distress.” He looked as though he wanted to move to approach her, but instead, he patted the seat next to him. “Come. Talk. Perhaps it will make you feel better.”
“I am sure you are very tired, my… Tyrion,” she said. “I would not wish to keep you up or burden you with my troubles.” Sansa felt self-conscious about only wearing her night dress as well and found she liked it better securely under the covers. She knew he had drunk copiously throughout their wedding and wondered if he would even remember this conversation in the morning.
“The thing about being tired is that it usually does not help me sleep. The more tired I am, the less likely I am to sleep, unless the maester kindly mixes me a sleeping draught. Unfortunately, I doubt that would be possible tonight, given my father’s orders. He very much wishes for us to consummate this marriage, as you know.”
Tyrion stood and stretched, a funny sight to Sansa as there was not much of him to stretch out. She rebuked herself inwardly for that thought and looked at the floor. She missed her own chambers, her solitude and freedom to cry whenever she pleased. Sometimes Shae caught her, but that was all right. Shae was just Shae, and she was good at comforting people. Sansa watched Tyrion, thinking she would not be cruel to him again, not if she could help it. She heard his bones pop as he purposely cracked his back and sat down again. “Maybe I want to talk,” he said. “You would be indulging me, not burdening me.”
She could see this was a losing battle. She nodded, stood, and pulled a sheet from the bed to cover herself. She sat beside him on his long chair and folded her hands in her lap, waiting. Her face was still wet with tears, but she did not care about that.
He did. He reached up to push some of the wetness aside with his thumb. “Sweet lady,” he said, “I know you are miserable here. But things will get better. I promise you.”
“How can you know that?”
“I know it because you are under my protection now. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
She wished she could believe him. Father had wanted to protect her, but he had lost his head. The Queen had claimed to be on her side, to be protecting her, but Cersei had only been playing a game all along. Even Margaery had not come through, though Sansa still liked her very much. Her dream of wedding Ser Loras had been crushed in the dirt, much like her favor long ago… and now here she was with a new person claiming to be her protector, the one who would make all the bad things go away. She wondered how he would fail.
“That’s very sweet of you, Tyrion,” she finally said, “but I doubt that anyone can protect me. Especially when it comes to Joffrey. He is the King, and he gets what he wants.”
“Has he made threats toward you? Tonight?”
She nodded, thinking of Joffrey’s promise to visit her bed. Sansa found that she could not speak of it; the words would not come, and all she could do was shudder as the mental picture of what Joffrey might do became clearer in her mind. She felt a warm hand on the small of her back. Sansa shivered more at the touch, but as she listened to the sound of Tyrion’s soothing voice, she found that this time the response did not stem so much from fear or repulsion.
“I will make it clear to him that he is to stay away from you,” Tyrion promised.
“He is the King.” She did not want Tyrion losing his head, too. Joffrey had threatened several times, and she feared that one day he would act on his threats.
“As he reminds me almost every other hour.” Tyrion rolled his eyes. “King One-Balled Shit-for-Brains, first of his name, protector of nothing and tormenter of all, more like.”
Sansa gasped again and looked around them. She knew they were perfectly alone, but logic did not always win out against her fear of Joffrey. She saw the look on Tyrion’s face of pure loathing and giggled despite herself. That made him smile. He brought his hand back to his lap. He seemed to be trying hard not to touch her too much. Sansa thought she didn’t mind his touch, as long as he did not expect it to lead to something else. She wasn’t ready for that… perhaps she never would be, as she’d suggested, but she hardly expected him to sleep in this cold chair every night.
“Will you… will you come to bed, Tyrion?” she asked. At the confusion in his eyes, she added quickly, “This chair does not seem very comfortable. No wonder you can’t sleep. I won’t cry anymore. Not tonight.”
“Not tonight,” he echoed, melancholy in his tone. “Well, I guess one must accept small victories as they come. I’m glad you are not crying anymore, Sansa. You are much too beautiful and too smart to be so sad – though I suppose intelligent people are more prone to sadness.” He moved his hand again and seemed to rethink what he wanted to do. Then he instead used it to move off the chair, and he reached for her hand. Sansa took his, keeping her sheet up with her other hand, and he led her to the bed – their bed.
She took her place and spread out the sheet so that it could cover both of them, and then she pulled the quilt over top of it. Despite being covered adequately, she felt her face warm as he watched her movements with his mismatched eyes. She did not feel as though they were going right through her clothes as sometimes Joffrey’s or even the Hound’s eyes seemed to do. There was something else in Tyrion’s expression, something almost sweet, but Sansa could not quite place her finger on it. She had not often been looked at in that way. It was almost like how she would have hoped her knight to look at her, back when she believed in the songs and the stories. She could see it in Tyrion’s eyes, he adored her. He adored her, and for now, she felt safe.
He lay on his side and faced her. Sansa looked at him for a few moments as she propped herself up on her arm, then took a deep breath and leaned forward to press her lips against his. She did not give him her tongue, and he did not try to deepen the kiss himself. His hand found hers, and his fingers wound around her palm tightly. The sweetness of it took her breath away. He smelled a little like wine, but not in an offensive or overwhelming way. His lips were surprisingly soft, his manner always gentle, his movements slow. She knew that was for her benefit, so that he would not frighten her.
Life did not need to be like the songs, she realized. Margaery had been right. Tyrion was no Ser Loras in his appearance, but already, he had been kinder and more interested in her than Loras ever had. Her conversations with Loras had never flowed so easily, and she never could have told him about her deepest fears. Their friendship simply had not been like that. Tyrion had tried to make her feel safe, at least, and he made her feel understood, and Sansa could appreciate that. She knew the feeling probably would not last, but while it was here, she wanted to enjoy it. It was a nice distraction from everything she had been thinking about several minutes ago.
She pulled back and looked down at their hands. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. About what if I never…”
Tyrion shook his head. “You needn’t be sorry for anything, Sansa. I understand. Take all the time you need. And if that happens to be forever… well…”
She could tell he was trying hard to come up with something positive to say. She squeezed his hand, and before she could stop herself, she said, “It won’t be.” She rested her head on her pillow. “You can hold me, if you’d like.”
At first, he did not respond. As she felt his warmth nearer and his arm around her middle, she thought his hesitance was only to feel out her words, as they were so different from what she’d said earlier. She closed her eyes. In here, away from the ridicule and stares of everyone, Sansa realized she liked Tyrion Lannister.
“Goodnight, lady wife,” he whispered.
“Goodnight… husband.”
His arm tightened around her for several seconds. After a while, she heard his breathing become steadier as he drifted off to sleep. Her conscience clearer, it did not take long before she slept too. As usual, knights did not visit her dreams that night, but neither did the monsters.