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Pride and Pack

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Even though he is observing her solely through his peripheral, Tywin Lannister’s authority is unquestioned.

"Lady Sansa, I will make this brief." His words hold nothing of the malice she is used to from others in his family, but even a simple statement makes her tremble before the Hand of the King. "You understand we are to be wed on the morrow?" He continues, yet somehow the words don't cross the air as a question, more of a demand requiring acknowledgement.

"Y-yes my lord." It is all she can do not to weep at that cold bit of honesty. However, Sansa has spent nearly all of her tears already, last evening, after she as a bride had been set aside by an atrocious boy-king only to be retrieved by his grandfather.

"Good," that same grandfather says. "I am sure you understand the importance of this union." His glare is of such intensity he might as well be holding a blade to her throat, his curt intonation further digging of that steel. "It is, of course, of benefit for both House Lannister and House Stark to be bound by marriage. Our sons will rule both the West and the North, of that you can be assured." There is no greed in his tone; it holds no arrogance, no sentiment, but is crafted entirely in certainty.

Cutthroat indeed, her mind rattles out. Lord Tywin's certainty is palpable to her, a stab of something solid through her guts, and the thought of spawning children with this man terrifies her in a way that makes her feel as though her life is ending.

Out of habit, away from any notion of mortal danger, Sansa is about to correct him, politely, remind him that her brother Robb rules in the North and only his sons will hold that claim, when Lord Tywin's eyes flash from formal to something she cannot name, then back to clinical and unforgiving.

"However," he drawls, but in a way that is nowhere near lazy. "I require assurances of my own.” Again his voice is devoid of any emotion, and it cuts through the treacherous path her thoughts were walking. “I have heard varying accounts of your treatment in your time here and, while I'm sympathetic, I neither have time nor patience to investigate every grievance in order to determine both your plight and your virtue."

Sansa hears only the word 'virtue' and, by their own volition, her courtesies attempt a gentle defense. "I have not been dishonoured, my lord-"

"So you say, my lady." There is no reprimand. "However, trust is a game best left to those of a simple mind." Only judgement.

Sansa blinks fast as though struck, and she has been, in a way. Here sits one more person who regards her word as a noble-born lady as all but worthless. It does not prevent her mouth from trying to stutter out something helpful.

"I-I can be... A Septa can..."

But speaking to Lord Tywin Lannister about matters of a feminine nature is as easy as igniting snow into flames.

A sharp look ends her stuttering attempts at clarification.

"Again, my lady," he says carefully, an impact on every syllable. "My trust begins and ends with my own vision, I will be attending to the matter myself."

Attending the... matter... himself?

"My lord, that's highly improper..." The words are flung before she can consider them. She has just called The Great Lion of Casterly Rock improper, an infraction that will surely see her put to death. Lowering her eyes, she offers sincerely, "I apologize my lord-"

"There's no need to apologize." His own sincerity rings with equal parts annoyance and impatience. Lady Sansa meets his eyes as he speaks further. "You are correct, but your choice is to either allow my examination, and we will marry tomorrow; or don't, remain a lady of the court, and be left to the whims of your king."

Suffering humiliation privately or publicly is not much of a choice, but considering she has already endured the latter, she feels she could surely endure the former. Ultimately, the conclusion of each scenario is horrid, marry Tywin Lannister or become a mistress to Joffrey; this is simply the lesser of two evils.

...She hopes.

Sansa squares her shoulders, swallows her hesitations, lifts her chin and speaks with hastily mustered confidence. “Carry on my lord.”

His expression gives nothing away. He regards her for several more heartbeats, for a foolish moment she hopes that he can see what he needs from there, until he motions for her to step closer - a wave of two fingers, like he is ordering a servant to refill his wine. The notion is beneath her, but her feet for get their station and move of their own accord.

As she approaches his side, he stands briefly to push back his chair a slight distance from the table. Sitting back down he envelopes her wrist in his hand, not ungently, and pulls her until she is standing in front of him, their knees almost touching.

Without preamble, Lord Tywin says, “Please remove your smallclothes, my lady.”

The pleasantries do not detract from the staggering vulgarity of the request, and it makes Sansa's heart freeze momentarily for the shock of it.

She is looking over his head, focusing on a random point on the wall behind him, trying to school the blush she feels creeping up her neck. Tears pool in her eyes before she blinks them back and remains intent on that spot on the wall. She proceeds to bunch her skirts up and over her hands in order to get to her undergarment. Sansa finds she has to look at what she is doing if she wants to strip the article quickly, and in doing so, she notices Lord Tywin looking away.

She considers that if she were to perform this same task with an audience of Kingsguard, they would certainly be watching her every move. Lewdly, in fact. And that truth only makes Lord Tywin's modesty more confusing - considering what he is about to do.

Tywin regards her again when he has heard her skirts still, and gives a near-whispered thank you.

She feels his hands rest on her hips - not groping or pawing at her - gripping her through the fabric of her skirts until he has her lifted and sitting on the table. When he places his fingers around her ankles she inhales quickly through her nose, surprised at the sudden intimacy.

“Lady Sansa look at me. " His tone is even, but softer; she follows his order. “It may seem to the contrary, but I promise you,” his voice shifts to something she considers rather ominous, “your character will not be brought into question.”

In a juxtaposed gesture, he starts rubbing small circles where his thumbs are resting.

Sansa understands quite well that to question her reputation would mean questioning his, but it is hard for that to sink in when she is registering only the feeling of his hands. They are soothing, and that is most frightening of all.

Propped on the table her vantage point is higher. It is something new to look down on anyone, let alone Lord Tywin. She would not say she feels any more in control, but the perspective is refreshing. He is still looking at her with unbidden intensely, but at this angle the green of his eyes isn't as fierce.

Sansa finds it in herself to let her legs relax some in his clutch. His thumbs are still drawing little circles, she wistfully interprets that as appreciation for her efforts. 

Tywin lifts her ankles slowly, allowing her to brace her hands behind her for support. When she is fully stable, he places each of her feet on their respective chair arms.

Her knees fall together naturally, still covered by her gown. She has lost eye contact with him because of her new position, but she doesn't need to see him to know that his face is stoic and his glare is made of pure intimidation.

Sansa feels his hands start to move from her ankles upward, gathering her skirts as they go. He makes no move to spread her legs once the fabric is past her knees, he just keeps pushing until it has bundled at her middle, then removes his hands. She is left with the back of her gown still under her, and that suits her just fine; the indignity of the forthcoming deed is enough, she would rather not sit bare upon the table top as well.

Settling into the lull of silence in the room, Sansa can feel the warmth of his breath where her legs are pressed together, then the brush of his hands trailing from her ankles, up her calves and shins, rounding out until he is palming her knees.

Lord Tywin's palms are hot, but steady...

Lady Sansa knows what is to happen next... 

The pressure he applies to spread her legs is restrained. She does not fight him, simply follows his lead, and her thighs open wider as his hands move smoothly down the fleshy inner span, then stopping midway. They make eye contact again, and while he is not as flushed as she is, his eyes remain placid, she can see plainly that his breathing has deepened.

A certain kind of power is obtained when you see a god waver. Lord Tywin Lannister, for all his supremacy, is only a man, and if someone were to have told her this, before, she would not have believed it. Witnessing it for herself, though... Trust begins and ends with one's own vision.

She is the one watching him now. Memorizing every twitch of his mouth and blink pattern he makes as he visually assesses her most private of areas. When he takes in her gaze again he doesn't even move his head, he simply flicks his eyes to meet hers. His intensity has deepened and he looks as though he is about to consume her completely, as any lion would its prey.

Sansa finches. Not entirely out of fear.

Tywin keeps his left hand on her thigh and slowly moves his right toward the heat at her center. Refocusing his attention on that part of her, he uses his middle and forefinger to part her folds.

Sansa swallows back the mortification that threatens to surface, instead choosing to watch his jaw clench, and the edges of his mouth almost hint at a smirk - the look reminds her of someone who has just won a wager.

He flicks his stare at her again as he removes his fingers from the lower edge of her folds and absentmindedly moves his hand back to her thigh. It is when she half moans, half gasps, that he realizes the backs of his knuckles have brushed the little nerve bundle at the top of her slit.

It is now her turn to breath heavily.

Lord Tywin takes his cue from her reaction, every movement with a purpose, at a speed that ensures she is not only watching him, but understanding his actions as well. He first raises his hand to his mouth and licks the pad of his thumb, then returns it to the center between her legs, his fingers splaying in the little patch of coarse auburn hair, his thumb sliding over and around that same sensitive bump.

The noise that is ripped out of her is so primal, it is nothing she has ever heard before. She doesn't even know it is her that has made it, until the echo off the walls is thrown back into her ears. But before she can even think about it, before she can think about anything, her head lolls back on its own and her chest pushes out the air her throat then forms into another moan.

She is at the mercy of the man touching her... and he knows it.

His thumb moves in a steady cadence, circling her sensitive flesh then dipping into the folds where his fingers were before. It is wet there like she has never experienced. 

She is getting overwhelmed, a tingling heat is building low in her belly and his thumb now feels slick. It is moving easily in and over her cleft, and that good feeling is crashing into the first one.

The hand he has kept on her thigh is now noticeably kneading into her skin and muscle. What would normally be an uncomfortable grip is now just another sensation added to the mix. When it seems he notices his grasp on her, he loosens it, and she quickly presses her own hand over his as if to instruct him to continue. He twines his fingers with hers instead. An act that forces her to look at him for true.

His face is no longer wooden, it has an element of some thing she can only call vulnerability, and in catching her looking, he untangles both his hands and uses a quick fluid motion to lift her, turn her, and set her down again on his lap.

She is facing outward, her back against his chest, her legs on either side of his. She is trying to regain her bearings when his hand is back at the slick wet heat of her. He is doing no more than holding his palm and fingers against her, his other hand is clamped onto her hip and is pushing and pulling her pelvis in a motion and rhythm that reestablished the aching throb settled deeply inside her.

Her hip will have bruises, of that she is sure, but the discomfort is, again, nothing more than an enhancement to what she is already feeling.

Sansa puts her hands out in front of her, gripping the edge of the table at the onslaught of what has been building since Lord Tywin first touched her. As her vision blurs and her hearing blocks out everything except the blood rushing in them, she anchors her arms and pushes back, grinding herself on his hand and his lap, looking for every possible point of friction she can find.

Through it all, as she spirals into the best feeling she has ever had, she can hear him groan her name, feel him buck up into her arse, meeting her desperate grinding with his own.


Composure comes back to her in allotments: hearing, vision, control of her extremities. Her fingers are still digging into the table in front of her and she can see where the waxly polish of wood has been scraped in her frenzy.

When her breathing steadies and evens out, it is then that she accounts for the man behind her: His arms have wrapped themselves around her middle, not restricting at all, just holding there, and his forehead is resting on her upper back. She can feel the humidity of his ragged breathing through the material of her gown.

through it all, as the world slides back into place, Sansa pieces together the understanding that whatever she experienced, he must have as well. She cannot put a name to it, and rather prefers it remain unknown, for the fact it came at the hands of Lord Lannister utterly conflicts with how she feels about it.

Sansa moves to rise, mustering as much dignity she can to wriggle off Lord Tywin's lap. He offers no resistance save a grunt when she moves, his arms unfolding themselves from around her. Yet she notices his hands stay close, his fingers touching her dress so lightly she wouldn't have known they were there if she had not swayed into them as she rose.

Standing, her back to him, positioned between him and the table, she uses one hand to steady herself and the other to sweep flat the skirts of her gown - trying her best brush away the dawning indiscretion and be as presentable as possible for her walk back to her chambers.

She straightens, making no effort to leave.

Sansa takes a few moments before testing her voice. "Your assurances have been met, my lord?"

She would never admit that Lord Tywin is pleasant, but the voice of his soft reply indicates perhaps an edge of satisfaction.

"Yes, my lady."

Feeling somewhat triumphant, Sansa allows herself an inward smile as she dares to walk away without his leave, sparing not even a glance behind her.


He watches her, her impeccable posture and careful steps, and continues to stare at the door once she is gone. Tywin wants to admonish himself for being so weak, for losing control, but he cannot seem to be bothered.

He is brought out of his contemplation when he notices a small white square on the table in front of him. It is only on closer inspection that he notices the square is actually fabric, with a small ribbon that has been tied in a delicate bow. He is confused only momentarily until he allows himself to smirk, genuinely, in recognition.

There in front of him, folded daintily, as only the thoughtfulness of a maiden would make them, are the smallclothes of Sansa Stark.

Slipping the gift from the table and running his thumb over the intricate stitching, he speaks knowingly to himself.

"Assured, indeed."