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Sins of the Father

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He pushed inside her, then out. In and out. In and out. It didn’t take long for Tyrion to spill his seed – but he did. He had hoped to pull out in time, but it was futile. Tyrion was afraid of hurting her if he pulled out too quickly. He daren’t hurt such an innocent soul: lying on her back with her legs spread, moaning softly into the crook of his neck. Tyrion kissed his wife softly and pulled back, lying beside her.

His breath was hot against her skin, smelling of wine and garlic from the feast. Sansa never thought she would give herself to her husband: her grotesque little husband who she was revolted at the sight of. Somehow he looked beautiful, lying beside her, sweat sticking his blonde hair to his face, his breathing quickening as he fell asleep. Sansa watched his chest rise and fall with every heartbeat he took.

He wasn’t really sleeping; he just couldn’t stand what she might say to him afterwards.

She knew he wasn’t asleep, but she enjoyed watching him.


Tyrion visited her bedchamber the following night. Sansa lounged on the bed, her elbow propping her up by the candle light, reading her book. Tyrion had recommended it to her. It was one of his own, a new one he had purchased a few weeks ago and had read in a record time. He suggested it to Sansa who read very little in comparison to her husband. She read it to please him. It was not a very riveting read, more informal and non fictional than she preferred, but she read it regardless if it pleased him.

“How has your day been?” Tyrion asked.

“Pleasant, thank you.”

Tyrion stripped off his leather boots, pouring a glass of water for himself. "Your handmaiden says you seldom left your room."

"I've been reading, my Lord."

"Tyrion," he corrected. "Is there something the matter?"

In general or just today? She wondered but would not dare speak it. Instead, she asked him another question: a question that had been prompted by the previous night's events. “Do you want children, Tyrion?”

He looked at her. He could not tell if she was being serious or not. Half expecting her to start laughing, he tentatively edged towards their bed, seating himself on the lounger beside it.

“Do you?” She nodded. “Not because it’s your duty, but because you want to?”


“Even with me?”

Tyrion noticed she hesitated. “You are my husband.”

“I know I am not your first choice, nor your second or your third. Our children would not be as beautiful as yours and Joffrey’s might. If the God’s are cruel, they might curse one of them to be a dwarf. Think carefully when I ask you again if you want children.”

“I used to think beauty was the only thing that mattered,” Sansa admitted. “I was blind to Joffrey’s repulsiveness because he was beautiful. But now I see how wrong I was. You are right in saying that you are not handsome on the outside, but on the inside you are as beautiful as Joffrey. Inside Joffrey, he is as ugly as you.” She has never spoken to me like this before. Does she truly hate me, or can she confide in me after last night? “I don’t want you to share my bed again, Tyrion. Not until I ask you to again.”

He was a fool to think she would want him again, as he so badly wanted her.


After the small council meeting, Tywin asked for his son to stay behind. He reluctantly obliged. Tywin had rid the room of wine after, and Tyrion was longing for the taste.

“Varys’ little birds tell him that blood was found on your wife’s bed sheets.”

“Really?” Tyrion feigned amusement. “She must have had her moon blood as she slept.”

Tywin was irritated. “I have had a long day, Tyrion. Men say that Jaime is but a three day ride from the Red Keep and I wish to see to it that he is welcomed accordingly. Now answer me: did you finally bed the Stark girl?”

“Yes,” Tyrion grumbled.

“Good. Are you doing your duty as a husband?”

It seemed foreign to Tyrion that he was discussing such topic with his father. “She has not welcomed me back.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrion admitted. “Perhaps my cock was too big for her that she has to spare time to heal.”


She rubbed her belly.

She was with child.

She had life growing inside her: a tiny little baby she and Tyrion had made together on that one night in bed. She had not bled for two moons, but she thought it was down to fright; she never thought she would be given a child after just one try.

Sansa was overwhelmed, and as she stood in front of the mirror, rubbing her stomach, she felt overcome with a burning desire of love for this child. This baby that was conceived with both of them half drunk and staggering to bed, laughing about how ridiculous the King was at his wedding. They had fallen into each other’s arms and Sansa had asked Tyrion to have her. This was how her baby was made.


“My Gods...” Tyrion muttered. “So soon?”

She knew better than to be surprised that he was not overcome with excitement. “Two moons. I’ll give you a baby in seven months and we’ll present him to your father and your sister and the King.”

“If he’s a boy,” Tyrion began. “We can live at Winterfell.”

Sansa beamed and she kissed her little husband on the lips. “It will be a boy. I just know it.”