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After the feast, Tyrion stumbled back to his bedchamber, wondering the whole dim, cold walk over if he had gone too far with their drinking game. He had seen his brother heading off towards Brienne’s rooms though, so perhaps all would be well come morning when the wine had worn off. Once his door was firmly closed, and the hearth stroked back to life, Tyrion sloppily poured a fresh cup of wine from his ever-waiting jug, then cast his gaze around his empty room. “To killing the frozen bastard,” Tyrion muttered to echoing silence. He raised his cup, then raised it to his lips.
The wine had just barely begun to slide down his throat when a knock sounded at the door, and he coughed, startled. Tyrion wiped at his sticky bearded, then crossed the room and pulled open the door. “My lady,” Tyrion said, the surprise evident in his voice as he gazed up at Sansa. Her cheeks bore an unusual pink flush, and her fingers wrung nervously, though she quickly hid them behind her back. He cleared his throat, then cracked the door open wider. “I fear I’m a little too drunk for pleasant conversation.” Sansa strode in anyway, and after closing the door behind her, he turned to stare at her. Sansa roamed the room, looking at this and that, though she never stayed still for long. After a minute of waiting for her to respond, Tyrion cleared his throat again and gestured towards the dresser. “Would you like some wine?”
“No thank you,” Sansa responded, her feet finally stilling and her gaze sliding over to him. “I’ve had enough already.”
“Not as much as everyone else at the feast,” he pointed out.
Sansa smiled, and her hands fell back her sides. “I’ve been around enough drunk men to know I should leave before they start brawling and vomiting.”
Tyrion let out a huff of approval. “You’re not the only one,” Tyrion said lightly. “I happened to see Brienne retire to her chambers, followed by my dear brother.”
“Ah,” Sansa mused, her smile widening. “And why did you leave, my—Tyrion.”
Tyrion gave her a smile, and he tried not to let the sad truth leak through it. “Loneliness,” he said softly. Perhaps it was the wine and the foggy head it gave him. Or perhaps it was memories of the battle playing in his thoughts. But he thought she deserved the truth, this girl he used to call his wife.
The smile fell from Sansa’s flushed face, and she surprised him by moving over to the bed. Sansa perched on the edge, as if it were a dangerous thing. “I am too, you know. Even with Jon and Bran and Arya back in Winterfell. I feel,” she said, taking a shaky breath. “I feel as if they think of me as the silly little girl they once knew. The one who dreamt of princes and a happy ending.” Tyrion nodded—he wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. So he drained his cup, set it down on the dresser with a hollow thud, and joined her on the bed. When she did not flinch at the groan of the mattress, Tyrion reached for her hand. Hers was cool and pale, and her eyes drifted to her fingers wrapped around his own. She took a breath, then her words came out in a whisper. “You said we should have stayed married. When were in the crypts.”
“We were about to die,” Tyrion said, chuckling.
“But did you mean it?” Her head lifted, and she met his eyes. Hers were wide and desperate, and the pretty shade of blue seemed to pool with some deep pain she didn’t quite let escape.
“Do I think you ever wanted to marry the Lannister’s very own demon monkey? No,” he said, sighing. He patted her hand, then drew his away. “But I like to think we could have made it work. We could have been happy in time.”
Sansa blinked, then said hesitantly, “I still think we could be happy.”
Tyrion’s brows lifted in surprise. “You want to marry again?”
“I want a family,” she said softly, her eyes falling back to her lap. “And I’m not sure it counts as marrying again if we were already wed once before.”
“Don’t you want to find that prince of your childhood dreams? Marry a handsome lord and give him handsome children?”
She shook her head, and the long curtain of her fiery hair brushed against his shoulder. “I don’t know any handsome lords, and the one I could be married off to might be cruel or violent or uncaring.”
“All things I am known across the realm to be—”
“No,” Sansa said sharply, before he could continue on in his jest. Her eyes met his again, and this time there was an icy hardness to them, a defiance. “I know you’re not. You were kinder and better than any of the other men who ever wanted something from me. Every other man I have known since my father’s death has wanted to hurt me, kill me, or fuck me. ”
Tyrion pressed his lips together. He had not been expecting such words from Sansa, not ever. And while she believed he never wanted something from her, a twisting in his gut told him to tell her the truth. “Thank you my lady, but you must know that I never was immune to a desire for you. Even if I promised to never share your bed until you wanted it. If we were to marry again…”
He felt her take his hand, and he nearly flinched away in surprise at her touch. “I would eventually welcome you, Tyrion,” she said quietly, her eyes sincere. “It might take me a while, but it would not be because I don’t want you. Only because of—of him and what he’s done to me.”
Ramsay. Tyrion wished he could have seen the monster’s death. Tyrion raised his other hand and, after it hung hesitantly in the air, he cupped her cheek. “I would never hurt you,” he said fiercely as his thumb dragged over her soft skin. “And I would never share your bed when you did not want it.”
Sansa lowered her eyes, and she leaned into his touch. “I know,” she whispered, her breath warm as it passed his fingers. Tyrion watched her chest begin to rise and fall more quickly, watched her eyes flicker from his eyes to his mouth. “Do you want to kiss me, Tyrion?” she whispered.
Tyrion nearly pulled his hand away in surprise. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
“Yes.” She nodded, just slightly to confirm it, before Tyrion drew her closer. His lips met hers with the gentlest of touches, chaste and sweet and almost child-like. As her lips began to part and her hand fell on his knee and his other hand found her waist, he wondered if she had ever truly been kissed before. It seemed that way, for when she pressed closer and Tyrion slipped his tongue between her lips, a startled breath escaped from her throat. So he pulled away even though their hands remained on each other, and he watched a tiny smile slowly spread across her face.
“Did I please you?” she asked, her brows pulling together with concern.
“I should be asking you that question,” Tyrion answered. The pressure of her hand on his knee kept his body yearning for more from her, but he knew better than to push on this strange night.
“You pleased me very much,” Sansa said shyly as her flushed cheeks grew pinker.
Tyrion smiled at her, and he reached out to gently tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Would you like me to kiss you again?”
“If we can someday have that happy ending…” Sansa began, returning his smile with a beautiful and rare grin of her own. “Then yes, Tyrion, I would like you to kiss me again.”