Chapter Text
Sansa
Sansa had the strangest feeling that she was dreaming.
Surely, this must be a jape. All of it. Any moment now, Joffrey would burst through the door (probably with some of his flunkies, there for the entertainment) and laugh in Sansa’s face. Pointing. Cackling. With a dozen red faces pointing and cackling with him.
She only didn’t know what cruelty, precisely, he would reveal. She could imagine him, too winded from laughing to get the words out smoothly, saying, “Did you really think I’d let you off that easily? Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl! Even a sellsword is too good for you! No, here’s your real groom…” Then he’d have someone lead a pig into the room. A pig with a small cape around its neck. He’d have Ser Meryn drag her to the sept to repeat the ceremony with the pig, down to the kiss.
But she could just as easily imagine the opposite happening. Joffrey coming in and saying, “Gotcha! Much as a traitor’s sister is a fine match for a lowly, foul-mouthed sellsword, Mother said I’m not to waste you. My grandfather’s recently arrived. He’s a widower, you know. He said it wasn’t enough to spill Stark blood on the battlefield, he’d like to spill some on the mattress.” Sansa shivered to think of that dour, intimidating man taking her as a bride. He’d be so cruel, so careless with her maidenly body, she just knew it. Though Joffrey seemed almost reverent of his powerful grandfather, and despised Sansa. He would more likely view his grandfather as too good for the traitor’s sister. If anything, he’d give Sansa to… she stifled a gasp… to the imp, his deformed uncle, a known lecher and drunk. And yes, Lord Tyrion had protected Sansa to some degree, even risking the king’s wrath to do so – and this sellsword protected me, too, that day – but he was still a Lannister. He protected Sansa because she was collateral against her family’s treatment of Ser Jaime Lannister, their war prisoner. That was all. She’d heard he was a drunk and a deviant and clearly he was cruel – using wildfire to burn all of honorable Stannis Baratheon’s brave men. Even the smallfolk of the city hated him, as evidenced by their words and actions during the riot. They were hungry and blamed Tyrion Lannister for it; they must know something Sansa didn’t. Perhaps Tyrion was hoarding all the food in some secret storage rooms or silos so his wretched family would never go hungry even if the people around them starved.
It didn’t help that he was even uglier than he’d been before the battle. One could see right into his skull through the holes where his nose used to be. It was… rather hard to look at.
And, worst of all, he was a Lannister. Sansa would rather marry the pig. She’d even rather be bedded by the pig, if such a thing was possible.
Regardless, she didn’t know what to do now, as she stood in her bedchamber with the sellsword who had draped a cloak over her shoulders in the castle sept a few moments ago, with only the king and some of his Kingsguard as witnesses, and very much at the king’s prompting. At least the sellsword – Ser Bronn of the Blackwater – had been knighted. Then again, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros and the late Ser Mandon were also knights. And Bronn had been knighted by the old lion himself – surely that meant the man had done some favor for the Lannisters beyond fighting in the battle. Perhaps he’d done some foul, dishonorable deed for them and, to pay his debt, the old lion was giving Sansa to him.
I’m supposed to go to Willas Tyrell, future Warden of the Reach, who is handsome, with kind eyes and a sharp mind. I was supposed to go live in Highgarden, where the air smells like roses and hay, not fish and filth.
I was supposed to be free from this cage, no longer a mouse stuck under the lion’s paw.
“Listen,” the sellsword, Bronn, reached for the back of Sansa’s head and – despite her peep of protest – pulled her against him. His neck smelled like leather and sweat, and his bristly stubble was rough against her nose, which she crinkled in distaste even knowing worse was to come.
She felt his head turn until his mouth was right against her ear.
“I’ll explain it all in detail when time ain’t of the essence, but we done this to protect you, alright? They was gonna marry you to the imp, and Tyrion knew you wouldn’t want that – prolly even less than he did. Sorry, but I was the best he could come up with on short notice.”
Sansa, shocked, pushed herself away – or the man let her – and stared up at him. Of late, she rarely had to look up at a man, but the sellsword was tall and wiry, with gaunt cheeks to match his slim build. Combined with his dark hair, sharp nose, and grey-green eyes – one of which seemed smaller than the other – he looked cruel and dangerous, but also earnest. She blinked at him, wondering if it could be true. Well, she knew anything could be true, but why wouldn’t Lord Tyrion want to marry her?
Because you’re a Stark – his enemy, the answer came instantly, and she felt her cheeks flush in indignation. How dare he not want to marry her?! She knew her worth. Eldest daughter of the Warden of the North, with kings’ blood in her veins, and one of the oldest – if not the oldest – names in all of Westeros! She was also pretty and tall and slender and had a lovely singing voice and could embroider circles around any lady in this city! But he would refuse her all because she was a Stark?! Was he truly no better than Joffrey, who looked at her and saw nothing but a traitor?
The sellsword lifted a brow and spoke in a quiet voice that no one outside the room would hear, “Here I figgered I might deserve a bit a’gratitude for my valiant effort…”
“The word is ‘figured’,” she hissed, “and why should I feel gratitude? Lord Tyrion was so appalled by the notion of marrying me that he instead gave me to you – no offense, Ser, but you must realize this is quite the uneven match – and thought I’d be grateful? Did you two have a good laugh about it? I’m sure the king found it hilarious. Did you promise you’d—” she snapped her lips shut as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and she could see how it all unfolded. Joffrey and his twisted little uncle conspired to wed Sansa to some lowborn man (or was he a mere commoner?!) to shame her, to turn her into a laughingstock throughout the entire Seven Kingdoms. But where that might be enough entertainment for Lord Tyrion, Joffrey would take it further, wouldn’t he? He’d want her to suffer more than humiliation, and he chose this cutthroat to do it.
Her face must have revealed her fear, for at the same moment she went to take a step back, the sellsword stepped forward, grabbing both her arms and pulling her against him again. Cruel, thin lips were pressed to the shell of her ear as he spoke quickly, “I ain’t gonna hurt ya, girl, but the king thinks I will. How else ya think the imp convinced him to marry you to me? That little blond cunt was chomping at the bit for the chance to tie you to some lowly scoundrel. Woulda been the Hound if the big fucker didn’t run off, and while he got noble blood, I like to think I’m the better catch. But the imp’s brain is as big as his mouth, and he knew just how to play the little shit so he’d give ya to someone who don’t answer to the king, but that the king thinks does. I ain’t gonna hurt ya, but the king needs to think I do, else he might take matters into his own delicate little hands, ya understand? Now, as soon as the old lion finds out he’ll be dragging us back to the septon to undo what his grandson did, but if there’s blood on these sheets and no maidenhead ‘tween yer legs, that’ll be a lot harder to do. So, which is it, girl? You want me? I ain’t got riches or lands or a fancy name – though I’m on my way to getting two, and I figger you just gave me the third – but I don’t get off on hurtin’ women, never have. And I got a reputation for bein’ a greedy motherfucker, so if anyone else tries to get fresh with you, it would be perfectly in character for me to introduce ‘im to my two favorite ladies. And ‘fore you get jealous, know that I’m talking about Slim Sally and Lucky Lucy,” he briefly patted something on the front of his belt – likely a dagger – then something on his hip – likely a sword, “Anyway, what was I sayin’? Oh, yeah… so you can stick with me, or take your chances on the lion annulling this here marriage and giving you to his son, or his own self, depending on how pissed he is at his son.”
Sansa swallowed, “How do you know he’ll marry me off again?”
“Hmm, s’pose I don’t, but the little lord seemed mighty convinced it was only a matter of time.”
Only a matter of time. But how much time? Enough time for Lady Tyrell to get me out of the city so I can go marry Lord Willas? How long will that take to plan? What if it doesn’t work? What if we’re caught? The Tyrells would be considered traitors, and I’d be considered even more of a traitor than I am by virtue of my Stark blood.
All at once she realized what should have been obvious…
The Tyrells will never risk that, not when they are so close to having Margaery as Queen Consort. The only way they’d wed me to Willas would be with the permission of the king, and his grandfather. And Joffrey would never let me go to Highgarden to be happy with handsome, kind, smart, Willas Tyrell. He wants me here, always, where he can degrade and mock me, maybe even beat me again.
Later, she would tell herself that it was self-preservation that drove her to do what she did, but it wasn’t so strategic as that. It was resentment, loathing; a compulsion to do the opposite of what the Lannisters wanted of her. Joffrey wanted her married to someone who’d be cruel to her. This sellsword – Ser Bronn – had never been cruel in their few interactions. He never so much as looked at her in a way that made her feel like a piece of meat to a hungry dog. And he was giving her his word now – for however much that might be worth – that he wouldn’t hurt her.
And Tywin Lannister wanted her wed into his own family. So far as she knew, Ser Bronn was of no relation to House Lannister.
And Cersei? Well, Sansa had no idea what sort of groom she’d want for Sansa, except that it would be someone who answered to the queen, or at least her father or son. Not her dwarf brother, as Ser Bronn clearly did.
Thus, it was with a rush of thrill and power at the notion that this was a way to strike back against the Lannisters without actually committing treason (had King Joffrey himself not given her away to Ser Bronn?) that she brought her lips to the sellsword’s. Bronn’s, you ninny, stop calling him ‘the sellsword’! She had little experience in the art of kissing, but she figured the man wouldn’t expect a girl her age to be proficient, and maybe she didn’t care. Not caring was quite unlike her, but she was so elated to have this rare opportunity to win one against the family who’d beaten her down at every turn, that she could think of nothing else.
Bronn seemed shocked at first, then began kissing her back, taking the lead in what was a fairly simple act, and one that came quite naturally. Their lips parted so their tongues could dance and it shouldn’t be anything but disgusting, yet for some reason it made her tingle between the legs, much like Ser Loras’ smiles and shoulders did.
The room seemed to be getting too warm, and Sansa felt a bit dazed when Bronn began hungrily kissing her neck while his hands held her waist. She could feel that the tips of his fingers met on her back, just as his thumbs met on her tummy, and the realization made her tingle some more. Or maybe it was the pleasant tickly feeling of his lips and tongue on her neck that caused such a reaction; apparently her skin was quite sensitive there. And maybe the feeling of warmth between her legs was due to the warmth in the room, but it seemed that the knight’s ministrations were equally to blame.
When did I start panting like a winded dog? And why don’t I care that I’m about to give my maiden’s gift to this common rogue? Why am I not mourning what will never be with Lord Willas, or any number of handsome, refined, fair-haired lords in this realm? Why is the smell of his unperfumed sweat not making my stomach ill? Why is the scratch of his beard an almost pleasant sensation? Why does my woman’s place feel as hot and damp as a swamp? Why is it his hands are going to my neckline, but I’m not afraid?
She let out a shriek when her body was suddenly jostled in time with a tearing sound. Mouth agape, she looked down to find the bodice of her dress had been ripped down the middle, revealing her corset and shift underneath. Slowly, she craned her neck back up to meet Ser Bronn’s gaze.
He shrugged, “Need to be convincing.”
Sansa nodded, understanding he meant to leave some evidence that he treated her roughly during their bedding, if only to satisfy the king and any others who didn’t think Sansa Stark deserved a gentle touch.
“And,” Bronn grinned so widely and crookedly that it was a bit startling, “I wanted to do it, anyway.”
She smiled back, blushing to realize that this man, who was not lordly but certainly worldly, wanted her. The notion was as flattering as Joffrey’s smiles had once been, but more genuine, she hoped.
Bronn’s left hand came up to her cheek, “You’re a pretty girl,” he spoke quietly, “and there are plenty of things I’ll teach ya, if ya let me. But we need to be rid of that pesky bit of flesh ‘fore the king gets bored.”
The nervousness she’d been successfully avoiding flared within her belly, and she took a deep breath as she nodded. Bronn gave her a smaller smile, but something in it was terribly warm and endearing. Or, perhaps, she was seeing what she wanted to see. He kissed her again, more gently than before, and it served to quell her nerves somewhat, but not entirely. Her body wanted what it wanted, but her mind was beginning to wonder if she’d made the right choice just when she felt herself go airborne for a moment, only to land on her back on her feather mattress. Quicker than such a tall man ought to move, Bronn was above her, kissing her neck some more while his firm thigh was nestled between her legs, pressed tight to her woman’s place. She blinked up at her bed canopy, marveling at the feeling that shook every thought out of her head. Her brain didn’t even seem to be in control of her body anymore. Her hips had taken control of the situation, moving up and down to rub her center against Ser Bronn’s hard thigh.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispered in her ear, “bet yer wishin’ that was my cock, huh?”
She had been wishing that, but didn’t know how this veritable stranger would know, and was not going to admit something so debauched, though she supposed her continued humping of his leg was answer enough.
“You and me both, darlin’. But I figger it might not be as fun as yer imag’nin, the first time at least. So how about we take care of you first?”
She didn’t know what ‘take care of’ meant, but her head nodded of its own volition, and in the next heartbeat Ser Bronn was pulling her dress off the rest of the way, then her underskirt, then her smallclothes, leaving her in only stockings and shift. Embarrassment and self-consciousness made her entire body blush but then Bronn’s warm, rough fingers were pressed to the specific place that’d felt good when rubbing against his thigh, and there was officially no room in her brain for anything but pleasure. Even Bronn’s words, which he groaned into her neck, sounded distant. “That’s it, girl. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with this, ya hear? Damn but you’re wet. Lucy ain’t the only one who’s lucky.”
Sansa couldn’t remember which weapon was Lucy, but figured she had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. Breathless from pleasure, her dry tongue managed to say, “Lucy’s digging into my hip.”
“Oh that ain’t Lucy. That’s Lil’ Bronn, though don’t let the name fool ya.”
That made no sense, but she really didn’t care. The pleasure seemed to be building up to something that couldn’t possibly be sustainable, but that she was desperate to reach – a mountain she needed to climb to the apex, even if only for the entire thing to collapse under her in a rush of rocks and loose dirt.
“That’s it, girl,” Bronn goaded her, as if he knew she was trying to reach that apex, but how could he know? Was this man a mind-reader? Oh, who cares?! We’re so close now! We? Yes! You and me! her woman’s place shouted… and kept shouting, though not with any discernible message, just a repeated acknowledgement that this felt better than anything Sansa had ever felt, and if she could just get a little farther it would feel even—
“Oh, gah,” was what came out of her mouth before it was hastily covered by Bronn’s right hand, while his left never stopped moving rapidly against her woman’s place. Was she screaming against his hand? How mortifying. Or not. Who could tell? Gods was she warm. Her entire body was damp and hot, and as Bronn mumbled pleased curses in her ear, she realized that she was downright slippery between the legs. She’d felt slippery down there before, but nothing like this. Was something wrong? Had she gotten her moon-tide? But no, she’d have felt cramps and her breasts would’ve been swollen and she’d have had annoying pimples sprout near her hairline.
All at once it became too much, and she clamped a hand around Bronn’s wrist. His fingers left her tender spot, thank the Seven, but only to slide down to her sacred place. She flinched in panic but Bronn was quick and clever and it seemed she only knew after the fact that he had penetrated her with a long finger. She could feel his other fingers, curled in a fist, against her opening, and knew his finger was as far inside her as it could go. A melancholy swept over her to know a piece that she’d been born with was gone, and yet she swelled with pride and arousal to know she’d given it not to Tyrion or Tywin Lannister, not to Joffrey, not to some lackey beholden to the queen. As she so often did, she fantasized about saying all the things she routinely swallowed. She fantasized about Joffrey calling her to court, intent on embarrassing her in front of dozens of noblemen and women.
“You could’ve been wed to me, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Instead were wedded and bedded by an illiterate sellsword with no name and no landholdings. What do you think of that, hm?”
“I’m thrilled to have given my maiden’s gift to a more deserving man.”
“A… WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
“I said, I’d have sooner given my maidenhead to an illiterate sellsword or even a wild pig than to you.”
Maybe she was even glad to not have given it to Lord Willas. What did he know of her suffering? What did he know of the war, of the Battle of the Blackwater, of the pain of losing a father, two brothers, a sister? Maybe Bronn the sellsword was more worthy. He had put his life on the line, whether for king or coin (who was she kidding; it was the latter). And he had been there, that day in the courtyard, when Ser Meryn ripped Sansa’s dress and smacked her thighs with his sword. Lord Tyrion had told Bronn to kill Ser Meryn the next time he spoke, and Bronn had looked not just able but willing to obey that command.
A second finger slipped in, and she felt the stretching and mild pain she’d expected with the first finger – or that she would’ve expected if she’d had time to think about it – but she also felt a pleasant pressure. The part of her that had experienced such euphoria moments ago was throbbing again, as if connected to some part inside her tunnel that Ser Bronn was stroking. This time she wasn’t slowly climbing the mountain but racing toward the summit almost faster than she wanted to. It was something to be savored, like a lemon cake, but she was scarfing it down.
She wasn’t sure why, but she turned her eyes to the left, and met Bronn’s. He was watching her so intensely, with a look of something like awe, or maybe… desire? Their eyes locked. His were the color of the air before a summer thunderstorm – green-tinged grey. Hers she knew were often compared to a tranquil, cloudless sky – the kind that comes after the storm has washed everything clean.
His hand slipped away from her mouth and his lips immediately replaced it, but at the same moment her own lips were parting to suck in a breath as the pleasure reached its fuzzy-but-glorious apex again. It felt like she sucked the air right out of his lungs, but then his lips closed around her lower one, nibbling and pulling. His fingers kept rubbing her on the inside until she grabbed his wrist a second time.
She melted into the pillow, boneless, and couldn’t be bothered to blush as she heard the wet sound of Bronn bringing his fingers away, then the rough sound of him wiping them on her bedcover. Through half-closed eyes she watched him stand and hurriedly remove his clothes, starting with the belt that held Sally and Lucy. Was it because Ser Bronn must rest his hands on them a hundred times a day that she felt jealous of the inanimate objects that he cared for enough to name?
He was down to smallclothes before she knew it, and his eyes had never left her face, but hers left his then. He was as compact, as lean and hard, as she’d suspected. Thin but not scrawny, with not a lick of fat to be found. His clavicles were prominent, his arms long and tan, the forearms covered in fine dark hair. His nipples were brown, unlike hers, which were blush-pink. His were centered on breast muscles that were covered in sparse, curly dark hair that faded into a faint trail down his belly, only looking thicker lower on his belly. She could see his ribs and rib muscles on either side of his torso, and a deep trench bisected him vertically from sternum to navel, forming a narrow valley between hard, tight abdominal muscles. His lower belly was flat in the middle but indented on each side along his hipbones.
During her appraisal she spied a few scars, one near the end of his collarbone on the left side, another just above his left hip, and the longest by far, running diagonally down and around his side from just beneath his right armpit, presumably disappearing somewhere on the back side of his ribs. There were also a couple places on each forearm where hair didn’t grow and the skin looked paler than elsewhere, and Sansa thought they might be burn marks from hot embers. He probably was used to tending his own fires; so far as she knew, he employed no servants. He employs no servants because he is a servant. A hired sword. I married a hired sword. Oh no, what will Mother think when she hears this? I pray she never does, nor Robb.
“None of that now, girl,” Bronn spoke knowingly as he bent at the hip to lean his hands on the bed. It made him look predatory, and yet she was not afraid. How could she be afraid of the man who gave her such pleasure? All Joffrey had ever given her was pain.
“Guess I gotta kiss you some more, hm?”
She nodded. She liked the way he kissed and – even more – the way his kisses made her body feel warm and her head feel light.
He climbed over her slowly, “So it’s one less thing for ya to worry ‘bout, I ain’t gonna spill in ya.”
“Spill?”
Bronn chuckled lightly, “Eh, how’d you highborns say it? Plant my seed in your field?”
“Oh,” she blushed, “But… mustn’t you… do that… to consummate our marriage?”
His grin slanted up to the right side of his face. He still looked like a rogue, but it suited him, “Nah, you just need to sheath my sword in that sweet lil’ cunny. I can put my seed on your belly, and I will, ‘cause I think you’re a bit young to be whelping.”
“I’m not a dog,” she frowned indignantly.
Bronn snorted, “No, you’re a wolf.”
“And if you put… it… in my belly, won’t that… eh… seed my field?” her cheeks flushed so much it felt like she had sunburn.
“On your belly. Meanin’, on the outside. But if the king or anyone else asks, tell ‘em I put it inside ya. You know ‘cause you could feel it drip out later, after ya stood up.”
“Oh!” she peeped. Did the man not hear himself?!
“Settle down, girl. You want me losin’ my head for not followin’ the brat’s orders?” he lifted a brow.
She sighed, “I suppose not. I’d be a widow, and then the Lannisters would marry me off to someone even worse.”
Bronn chuckled, “Thanks.”
“Oh… I meant… and it would be terrible if you lost your head, too.”
Bronn rolled his eyes, “You’re lucky I like a challenge, darlin’.” With that he dove down and nipped at her neck so quickly she burst out a giggle, then smothered it with her hand. He kept at it, nipping and nibbling and nuzzling her neck like an eager puppy, and Sansa laughed behind her hand, and realized she hadn’t laughed in… months? Certainly not this glad laughter. Perhaps some delirious laughter, or fake laughter done to placate one of her hosts.
But even as it amused her it also re-lit the fire that burned in the core of her. The one that felt like emptiness and achiness and want.
“Gonna make a woman of ya now,” Bronn mumbled against her jaw, and she felt and half-saw him untying his smallclothes with one hand, then lowering them, then pivoting to lay between her legs completely, and she felt it stroke against her wet flesh, making her flinch when it touched her nub with a bit too much pressure, but she couldn’t see what it looked like because Bronn stayed close, hovered over her with only one forearm holding up his weight.
“It won’t hurt our cause if ya scream some,” Bronn whispered, and Sansa was about to ask what he meant when multiple things happened at the same moment:
Her ears picked up the sound of the metal latch of her door clicking.
Her woman’s place felt searingly full; she sucked in a gasp of air at the sharp pain of it.
Bronn pushed back onto his knees, bringing her with him with a hand clenched in the front of her shift, then slapped her cheek, backhanded, and growled, “I told ya to keep yer yap shut!” and dropped her back to the bed.
She might’ve been terrified of her husband, if not that someone much more terrifying walked into the room.