Tyrion Lannister...

the-lost-wolfling:

The corset they’d put her into for this wedding symbolized more than a woman’s figure. It caged her, forced her into the “proper” shape, and stole her very ability to breathe. Sansa could feel her heart pressed against her ribs, fluttering like a captured bird, and the fearful tears were not yet dry in the corners of her eyes. Cersei’s spies hovered about her and gave her not even a second to catch her breath—the lost Stark child stood on the edge of a knife while the world pushed her every which way, and it took all her strength to sit there and not break down.

Tyrion hadn’t meant to push her towards the edge. She knew that, could see it on his face after he asked his question and she could only stare, throat tight, realizing that she couldn’t speak under all this pressure. If she let go of any words at all, they would all rush out and she would collapse. Don’t make me speak, she begged with her eyes and somehow he understood. The concern in his eyes was palpable and then he was stepping in, embracing her instead of asking. His arms were small but secure, and she trembled before resting against his shoulder, letting go of the breath she couldn’t remember holding.

One of her maids made a slight grunt and Sansa ignored her. She could breathe again, even as he squeezed her tight and stroked her neck. Her throat stopped hurting, her eyes squeezed too tightly shut to sting. This was her wedding day and it was the next step of the nightmare that began at the Sept of Baelor. All she wanted was to sob out the rest of her tension until she was exhausted but free, knowing that he would listen as he always had. That was not allowed them, not today, but she held onto this brief respite. She breathed as deeply as her corset would allow while clinging to Tyrion. Beyond the two of them, one of the maids fidgeted and then hurried into the antechamber. The other made another slight noise, disapproving and intrusive. He is to be my lord husband in a few hours. If he wants to hold me, he can.

And yet, was that not the source of her tension? Only a few weeks before, they would have sold her to Joffrey to submit to his every whim. To be his prisoner had been helplessness enough—to be his wife would have been a living death. The boy king had been the first, but not the last, to make her tremble at his touch. Yet since she was a maid, that had been her final protection; she had to be kept pure for her husband.

Sansa trusted Tyrion when he said he would not consummate their marriage. Every repetition of the words, every awkward assurance, every hesitant embrace. Awkward it might be, but Sansa believed in it all, and more so for how awkward it was. Joffrey had been so smooth in his lies. Tyrion was honest, if not talented. Even now he still sought her comfort and permission.

Yet for all that trust, Sansa could not let go of the fear. What if he desires me? What if he tires of being good to me? What if… The thoughts cycled through her head and she let out a shuddering breath. Tyrion’s fingers were warm against her neck, then, gentle and reassuring. He needed her not to be afraid. I don’t want to be afraid either.

It could have been a few minutes or an hour before she finally breathed in deeply, putting her lady’s face back on. Now was not the time to indulge fears. She had to try.

Sansa slowly pulled back from Tyrion’s embrace and beheld the worried wrinkling of his face, the concern in his eyes. She shook her head. “There is nothing else. I…I will do this.” Swallowing hard, she straightened her back, sliding her hands down the pleats of her skirt. “Willingly.” It was a lie, the willingness part, but for the good of them both they had to stick to it. They would be wed, would endure everything it meant, for the security that came in the end. Sansa’s heart still beat fast as she looked at Tyrion—her friend, and soon her lord husband as well—but she did not fear him.

Once Tyrion had imagined what his marriage might be like.  He had been young then, and ignorant, and his sister was the only one he could think of who knew anything of marriage.  (Her whole life had been spent waiting for it, after all.)  Cersei had never much appreciated his presence, but he’d went to her anyway, asking who she thought he might be matched with, and what the affair would be like, and if the two of them would be in love, while she brushed out her golden hair, her face watching him from the mirror.  A look Tyrion couldn’t understand had flashed across Cersei’s face then - something like hurt and bitterness and a wild sort of helplessness - and for just a moment, he was sorry for asking.  Just a moment, before the slap of her hand left his small cheek stinging and his eyes welling with tears.  Her voice shook, frightened and frightening both, as she told him there wasn’t a girl in the world who would take his hand with a smile.  Probably his father would make the poor girl marry him, the way he’d made her stop trailing after Jaime when he’d decided it was too much.  The thought had made Tyrion’s stomach twist unpleasantly, and he’d run from the room before she could see him cry in earnest.

Not long after that, he’d had stopped considering marriage altogether, turning his mind to dragons and adventures on the other side of the world and things he could do alone if there was no one who wanted to be in his company.  It wasn’t until Tysha that the idea crossed his mind again.

Well, his sister had been right about one thing, Tyrion thought as he held Sansa at arms’ length - her eyes were still damp and huge in her face, and the tip of  her nose was red.  His bride was not smiling.  Tyrion tried out a smile for her, letting himself feel the way it stretched his scar tight across his face.  Uncomfortable, but not unbearable.  Would it be so outlandish to hope for as much for his marriage?

Sansa put on a brave face, to be sure, but already he’d promised her so many things he’d failed to deliver.  Home, her mother, protection, at the very least, a plan.  In his defense, he’d had one when he promised it (even as he told himself he would make her no promises).  There was no way he could have known what was to happen in the battle against Stannis’ fleets, no way he might have guessed that his face would be split in two and with it the small base of power he’d crafted for himself out of the lies and venom of King’s Landing.  If someone had told him that he and the Stark girl would be betrothed to each other before the year was out, he’d have said there was better chance that Moonboy would take up the Maester’s chain.  And yet… here they were.

His brother and his bride to be still as far away from where they should be as ever.  What reason had he given Sansa to trust that he would keep her from harm - husband or not?  As it turned out, he had barely been able to keep himself alive when madness had truly descended on the city.  (And really, hadn’t that been more Pod’s doing than his?  He’d just laid there, choking on mouthfuls of blood around the name of the brother he’d failed to bring home.)  Sansa had done more good for him than he had ever done for her, Tyrion was sure of it now.  It had been Pod that dragged him from the chaos that had been Tyrion’s own doing, but only Sansa had sat with him through the interminable nights and days, while he’d sweated and pissed himself and, when he was especially weak, cried because he couldn’t stop any of it.

Gratitude was a feeling unfamiliar to Tyrion, but it threatened to overwhelm him as ran his hands up and down Sansa’s arms, squeezing gently.  He hoped his touch was more reassuring than his face; his hands might be cold with sweat, but the ornate sleeves of Sansa’s gown would do to mask that.  It was instinct that brought Tyrion to press his scarred lips to her cheek, there then gone, lingering only long enough for her to feel the kiss. She was so precious to him, yet their union was the last thing he would have chosen.  It was wrong; this whole thing was wrong, a perversity of the promises he had made her. Even as he swore to protect her, wrapping the bridescloak around Sansa’s shoulders in the sight of gods and men, that would be only be further proof that he had failed to do so in the first place.

Linger any longer, and his father would come looking for him, Tyrion knew that.  (Are you still thirteen, that you fear your father’s wrath? a voice inside him hissed.  Could you not put a stop to this, too, if you valued her estimation over your father’s?)  He bowed as much as dared, knowing that if he bent too deeply, dizziness would threaten to topple him over. “Are you ready, my lady?” He held out his hand, willing himself to conjure some minimal amount of gallantry.  (Give her courtesy.  Give her that at least.  Make this seem as if it something other than a farce.  Make this seem that it is what she desires. What she deserves.)  ”It may not be custom for a lord to accompany his lady to her own wedding, but, well, I don’t look much of a lord today anyway.”

(Source: paying-my-debts)

the-lost-wolfling:

That morning, Sansa had woken from a nightmare. In it, she’d been led in her bride’s gown to the Sept but it had been Joffrey standing there, a smile ice-cold on his wormy lips. Whimpering, she’d tried to run, but Meryn Trant was suddenly behind her and gripping her arms so fiercely that she could feel the bruises blossom under the silk. Joffrey had leaned in to kiss her and then she’d woken with the taste of bile in her throat. Dawn had yet to break through the shroud of darkness and so Sansa had lain still, breathing deeply, twisting her hands in the blankets to remind herself that she was safe.

Her maids—Cersei’s spies—came to tend to her as soon as dawn arrived, and she’d nibbled at the sweet porridge and sipped the milk. Then they’d brought her gown and the sight of it brought back the dream suddenly. Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes—she pushed away the food and swallowed hard.

Any other day, she would have tucked her fears deep in her heart. Most days gave her opportunity to see Tyrion, and he had a way of settling her mind for a while—or at least a way of distracting her from the terrors her own mind created. As he grumbled more often than necessary, he had his own insecurities and worries and projected them onto anyone nearby without thinking. Sansa had dealt with worse. It was a slight cost to pay, to have the comforting safety of a friendship with Tyrion Lannister. There was a sort of peace in thinking of others’ cares instead of one’s own. At least for a few moments. Yet today of all days, such a tactic would not succeed. Today was the day that, at Tywin Lannister’s command, her cares and her friendship with Tyrion would be forced together in an unnatural bonding.

At least it is not Joffrey, she’d told herself as she always did. But Joffrey would be there, and nightmares had no logic. Sometimes neither did King’s Landing.

Regardless of how she fought tears, the wedding day carried on. The girls had bathed her, scrubbing her till her pale skin shone, trimming and polishing and perfuming her until she looked like a noble Lannister bride and not a tired girl. A bride without a home, family, or even honor. A bride who, after months of picturing this day including only Joffrey, could not face her duties with anything but revulsion and panic. Somehow she couldn’t keep all the tears back.

“It’ll be alright, my lady,” one of the maids whispered as she helped Sansa into her petticoats. “You just lie still tonight and close your eyes, and it’ll be over quick enough.”

Startled, Sansa’s thoughts were suddenly dragged from her nightmares by the woman’s unexpected remark.

“With the Imp?” The other maid snorted before Sansa had time to collect her wits to respond. “He’s no green boy when it comes to the bed. My lady had best hope she’s drunk enough so it’s all a blur.”

It was so very crude and Sansa’s cheeks flushed almost painfully. She’d forgotten the more common fears that brides were supposed to have, and what the world saw in this marriage hurt both her and Tyrion—humiliated them. In her own chambers Sansa could not let such casual cruelty stand. “That is enough,” she ordered, though barely above a whisper. “Tyrion is good to me. I’m not—I do not cry because of him.” No, not anymore. As her nightmares were keen to remind her, there were far worse fates than tonight’s. He won’t touch me. It is only for show, all this affair.

The women fell silent obediently and laced her into the silvery-grey gown, fitting it to her like a second skin. With the corset pushing up her small breasts and the full skirts widening her hips, Sansa saw a woman in the mirror. A fraud, a costume, yet it was so hard to see where the child ended and the woman began, save at the hint of tears still lingering in her eyes. They could make her look like a woman, and that was the only truth they cared about.

But if her friendship with Tyrion had brought her nothing else, it had given her the belief that she could play her part. If they make me say words, it means nothing. I won’t mean them. If they make me wear a Lannister cloak, it means nothing. I am not theirs. They can make me do everything they want, but I won’t be changed. When I’m alive and free, none of this will matter anymore.

Finally, as they started arranging her hair, Sansa stared her pale mirror-self in the eyes and told herself that she could be strong. She hoped that she knew what that meant.

And so Sansa was all nerves long before her maid opened the door to let Tyrion in.

When he called her lovely, had it been anyone else she would have accepted it as mockery. He was always too kind to her, this man they were forcing her to marry. “Thank you,” she said, and glanced down to see if her hands were still trembling. They were. With effort, she stilled them.

Though she’d grown accustomed to him over the past weeks, and had not expected anything pleasant to appear once the bandages were removed, the sight of Tyrion’s scar almost made her flinch. It was a cruel-looking gash, tearing through his oddly-shaped features to knock his whole face almost sideways. More than ugly, it looked painful. He did not look like a man ready to wed—he did not look quite firm on his own feet. Worry creased her brow, distracting her once again. “Please, Tyrion, you must sit. Are you unwell?”

She was lovely, as lovely as Tyrion had ever seen her - and also as terrified.  Sansa’s hair had been pinned up, leaving her shoulders exposed, as white as milk and peppered with goosepimples; she shivered lightly even as sweat dried on Tyrion’s skin.  Her maids had done what they could to disguise the dark smudges beneath her eyes, but these past few weeks had made Tyrion so familiar with Sansa’s face that he could easily read the tiredness there.  She hadn’t slept well the night before, he knew, if she’d slept at all.  Powder might have been enough to fool the rest of King’s Landing, but not Tyrion, whose hand Sansa had not long ago pressed against her mouth to muffle her desperate sobs.  It pained him to think that she might have sobbed again last night, pressing her face into her pillow in the absence of anyone who might comfort her.  If only he had been there…

But if she had spent the last night crying, it had been no one’s fault but his own - who was he to offer her comfort?  Tyrion’s stomach clenched painfully at the thought, and he forced himself to swallow past the growing thickness in his throat.  Wasn’t Sansa everything he had wanted?  Young and beautiful and, if not entirely willing, then at least not disgusted by him.  How different would he have felt about this match only a few months prior?  Tyrion closed his eyes in resignation.  Yes, he’d told Sansa that he’d been unable to refuse his father - and it had felt that way in the moment Tywin Lannister bade him marry the girl or watch Joffrey take her as his wife instead - but surely that had been an empty threat, meant to move Tyrion to acquiesce.  Tyrion had suspected it even then.  His father had always known how to play him as well as a singer played his harp, and not for the first time, Tyrion wondered if he’d masked his desire to fashion himself Sansa’s protector at all. 

Even if he had masked it, he’d not done it well enough.  In the end, he’d done exactly what his father had wanted him to do, of that Tyrion had no doubt - and was there not a small part of himself that too rejoiced at their union?  At the knowledge that it was to him Sansa would look first for comfort and security - if only out of necessity?  Would he have let the opportunity pass, let her look for these things in another, had there been some other choice?

The world was spinning, and heat was rushing to Tyrion’s cheeks, leaving him light-headed and his limbs weak; his legs trembled beneath his weight.  Distantly he could hear Sansa’s concerned voice, asking him if he was well, suggesting he should sit, but he barely had time to think that sitting might be a good idea before his blind groping for a chair was interrupted by one being thrust under him.  Tyrion scrubbed a hand over his face as he collapsed into it, careful to avoid the raw flesh there; he must have looked worse than he thought if even Sansa’s maids had thought him like to fall over. 

On a level with Sansa, the ridiculousness of their match was more apparent than ever.  Tyrion could feel her eyes on the scar; it wasn’t the first time she’d seen it, but it was still as new to Sansa as it was to himself.  Fidgeting, Tyrion fought the urge to run his fingers along the freshly knitted flesh; picking at the wound would only call further attention to it.  Not that Sansa would ever say anything of it - except to ask whether or not it pained him.  She was far too polite - and far too conscious of his delicate pride - for anything else.  If only he could say as much for his own manners…  It shamed him to think that he‘d called upon Sansa this morning so that he might offer her what support he could, and here she was, inquiring after his well-being.  Again.  As if the past month devoted entirely to his health had not been enough.

“I…” he began, croaking on his words, “I can’t say that I’m well, Sansa, but I feel significantly better upon seeing you.”  Tyrion tried a smile, but found it difficult, even when he had far more reason to smile than his child-bride.  Their exchange was hardly a fair one - Tyrion had been given the most beautiful maiden in King’s Landing, and Sansa had been given… him.  It was no surprise her eyes were so sad.  But no… Sansa would not appreciate his self-pity, and he knew her better than that.  “I know tradition dictates that I’m not to see you, but I had to speak with you for myself.  Sending Pod wouldn’t do.”  He took a deep breath and gestured to the boy hovering behind him.  “We’ve had this discussion already, I know, but I need to hear you say it just once more before we go through with this thing.  Tell me, Sansa, that while you didn’t choose this marriage, you enter it willingly.  That you don’t fear me.  That you know of no other course you’d take in its stead.  One word, and I’ll call the whole thing off.”

Sansa’s eyes were watery but resolute - such a brave girl, braver than she knows - and Tyrion felt himself break under the weight of her trust.  It might have stung to see distrust there - uncertainty as to where his hands might wonder after the candles had been blown out - but this was, perhaps, worse.  He ached to remind her of his promise never to touch her, to hold her as his dearest friend and nothing more, but the eyes of her maids - Cersei’s maids - were on him, so it was here that their charade had to begin.

Still, Tyrion had to do something to reassure her - to show her that her trust was not misplaced - even if he could scarcely reassure himself over the pulsing of blood in his ears and through the wreck of his face.  Rising with some difficulty, he crossed to Sansa, the urge to go to her not worth fighting; that was a fight he would never win.  Her servants were there, and Pod besides, watching open-mouthed and silent.  Had Tyrion laid claim to even the smallest measure of self-control, he would have held back.  He and Sansa were not yet married; this was not proper.  But Tyrion had never cared a shit for propriety - and did even less now.  It felt only natural to wrap his arms around Sansa and squeeze as tightly as he dared, willing her to relax in his embrace as she had the afternoon of the riot.  As he ran his hand along the back of her neck, chilled and clammy, he felt her let out a shuddering breath against his shoulder.

His heart swelled with a sudden burst of affection, and his throat tightened dangerously.

 My lady wife.

(Source: paying-my-debts)

The morning of his wedding, Tyrion looked himself up and down in the mirror; he found no surprises.  The scar was just as ghastly as it had been the last time he’d looked at it - approximately five minutes earlier.  He couldn’t keep his eyes off the thing.  Red and raw-looking, the flesh had barely had time to knit together before he was to show off his new face to the entire court.  Beautiful.  The maesters told him the wound was healing cleanly - but if that was the case, Tyrion shuddered to think what he would have looked like had it not been.  Tyrion grimaced, the movement twisting the mass of flesh unpleasantly.  Sansa had been characteristically kind when she described the scar to him, whispering, “The maesters said they couldn’t fix it all,” as she’d knelt at his bedside while he wept for the loss of beauty he’d never possessed. 

He’d imagined then how he must look - already so disfigured from birth - but the reality of it was harsher than even his imagination.  The scar ran from just below his right eye - he’d been lucky to keep it, Sansa had remarked one day while helping him eat his breakfast, and Tyrion had quipped, with badly disguised bitterness in his voice, that it was only one more eye to look at himself with - and split his face right down to his lip.  The worst of it, though, was his nose - what there was left of it.  His assailant’s blade had left a yawning hole where it should have been, still leaking puss and snot sometimes, when he neglected to wipe it away.  Even Tyrion, who had long ago learned to face disappointment in the looking glass, could hardly stand to look at it.

Disgusted, Tyrion turned away from the glass, his stomach queasy - and not only from having to face himself.  While Tyrion had picked disinterestedly at overcooked eggs and underdone bacon, Pod had laid out his finest attire this morning - a red velvet doublet embossed with gold paired with supple leather riding boots.  Tyrion had briefly considered donning the garb - his house’s colors, his father would approve - before deciding that the doubtlessly painful act of buttoning the doublet would hardly be worth the end result.  No tailor was capable of making clothing fine enough that it might distract from his ruined face.  And he didn’t give a shit what his father thought.

So instead he’d chosen a simple green tunic - Sansa might have been playing the strong lady-wife-to-be since Tyrion’s injury, but she was still a girl, and didn’t need reminding of the family she was marrying into.  Careful to avoid the mirror, Tyrion belted the tunic around the middle and didn’t protest as Pod helped him into the riding boots.  They added a few inches to his height, and if that was what it took to lessen the height difference between he and Sansa, Tyrion would wear the damned boots.  Sansa had promised she wasn’t ashamed of him, and Tyrion had been surprised to find he believed her, but still - if it would spare Sansa even a little of the humiliation sure to come with their wedding, Tyrion could do at least this small favor.  Sansa.  Westerosi tradition said it was bad luck for him to see his bride before the marriage ceremony, but Tyrion supposed it would be difficult for their union to be more marred by bad luck than it was already was.  He needed to see her before this farce began - needed her to know that he could still put an end to all this, even if the choice was all but denied her.

Pod loping at his heels, Tyrion began the slow trek from his tower.  The boy was stuttering away behind him - though Tyrion knew Pod’s stride could easily have overtaken his own had he let it - questioning whether his lord should be doing this, where his lord might be going, if his lord remembered his own wedding was to begin in little more than an hour and did he want to be late.  At first, Tyrion ignored him, reminding himself inwardly that the boy had saved his life so killing him would hardly be fair, but by the fifth step, Tyrion could not have answered if he’d wanted to.

It had been three weeks since Tyrion first awoke to find Sansa by his bedside and half his face missing.  Those first few days of lucidity had been terrifying; each time he woke, he’d been confused all over again, pain wracking his body and heat crawling under his skin and nothing making sense.  Sansa had been the one constant, sometimes curled up in the chair she’d pulled nearer his bedside, looking like she might have been asleep until she felt him looking at her; sometimes doing needlework or looking through his bookshelves.  But she was always there.  (When Tyrion, desperate and half out of his mind with pain, had begged Sansa to stay, he’d never expected she’d take her vow so seriously, but apparently she had, and Tyrion could not say he wasn’t grateful.)

Until the time he’d woken to find his father at his bedside instead.  It had made him shiver to imagine how long his father might have been standing there, watching him twitch in sleep, and for a moment, he’d studied Tyrion dispassionately, finally asking when Tyrion imagined he’d be well enough to wed.  Tyrion half-suspected his father would have called Sansa up to his chamber and had them married at his bedside had the public nature of their union not been so important, and the thought had made him smirk.  That would have been the wedding he’d have chosen - short of no wedding at all.  But Tywin had been impatient rather than amused and had set the affair for a fortnight from the day he’d visited Tyrion.

Three weeks had hardly been long enough for his body to heal, Tyrion was learning, as he limped heavily down the winding stairs.  Even at the peak of his health, stairs were always a nuisance, and this was the first time he’d attempted them unaided since he’d been so unceremoniously skewered.  He growled something unintelligible at Pod when the boy tried to place a cautious hand on his arm, shame at his own weakness making his patience thin.  Tyrion had begun refusing milk of the poppy as soon as he’d felt his wits returning to him, so he had naught but wine to dampen the pain - and he’d been reluctant to get drunk before the ceremony.  The occasion was sure to be ridiculous enough without the added spectacle of Tyrion wretching at his bride’s feet.  There was a stitch in his side, and his shoulder thudded in time with each step on the stone staircase by the time he reached the landing.  His body heavy and his head strangely light, Tyrion mopped the sweat from his brow, leaning heavily on the door to Sansa’s chambers.

Tyrion allowed himself to rest there for a moment, and then the door was moving, forcing him to again take his own weight.  It opened to reveal one of Sansa’s handmaidens (whose face twitched just barely, Tyrion noted, at the sight of his scar - Sansa must have prepared her) and behind her, Sansa, sitting atop a stool as another handmaiden put the finishing touches on an elaborate mass of braids at the top of her head.  His Sansa, he‘d called her when he‘d first awoken from that nightmare of blood and fire, though he‘d never spoken it aloud.  There was a look of surprise on her face, but Tyrion could scarcely think past the relief he felt just upon seeing her.  To know that neither of them, at least, had to face this thing alone…  “Sansa,” he breathed, “you look… lovely.” 

knight-of-pansies:

paying-my-debts:

knight-of-pansies:

paying-my-debts replied to your post: And what would you have me do? Cut the boy’s tongue out?

I do what I can to ensure the Lady Sansa’s protection. Do forgive me if I’d rather offer her hope than despair.

You offer her false hope.

Instead you could teach her ways in which to protect herself from that monsters assaults. I am sure you know a few ways in which to block someone’s rather barbaric and nasty verbal quips from getting to you in a negative manner.

Have you considered that I’ve not yet had ample time to instruct the Lady Sansa in such arts? It’s not as if we’re already married. How would it look if we locked ourselves away for long hours to perfect insults directed at our king? I wasn’t born with such a quick tongue, you know. Such things take time.

And yet you have the time to assure her of things you know you cannot bring to fruition, and bring her gifts that your nephew pisses on.

 I am sorry— I press upon matters that you cannot control. I am just… upset at the thought of a maid being in such distress. I think of if my sister were in the same situation and I become irritated.

I understand your concern, Ser Loras. And I would be lying if I did not admit that I find some small comfort in playing the part of the Lady Sansa’s protector. But words, while painful, are surely not as lethal as mailed blows, so I see no lie in my promise to keep her safe. I myself have lived through enough insults, after all.

Clearly I am no knight such as you, but I do what I can with the skills I have - until such a time that I might teach Sansa those skills for herself. She’s more than capable of wielding words as swords, I’ve no doubt.

the-lost-wolfling:

only-tywin-dared-speak:

paying-my-debts:

king-joffrey:

Had any whores lately or is your betrothed satisfying enough?

You will not reference what my betrothed and I do in our own quarters. That is no one’s business but our own. Although I can understand that your own lack of love-life might lead you to seek excitement from that of others.

…

Tyrion, did you already bed her?  We haven’t even had a wedding yet.

And Joff, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

N-no my lord, he hasn’t. I swear he hasn’t.

No, father. He hasn’t. I was merely illustrating a point - that the young Joffrey should keep his worries on his own bedroom - and not on mine.

knight-of-pansies:

paying-my-debts replied to your post: And what would you have me do? Cut the boy’s tongue out?

I do what I can to ensure the Lady Sansa’s protection. Do forgive me if I’d rather offer her hope than despair.

You offer her false hope.

Instead you could teach her ways in which to protect herself from that monsters assaults. I am sure you know a few ways in which to block someone’s rather barbaric and nasty verbal quips from getting to you in a negative manner.

Have you considered that I’ve not yet had ample time to instruct the Lady Sansa in such arts? It’s not as if we’re already married. How would it look if we locked ourselves away for long hours to perfect insults directed at our king? I wasn’t born with such a quick tongue, you know. Such things take time.

king-joffrey:

paying-my-debts replied to your post: You must have forgotten, the lady Lady Sansa is no longer your betrothed. Find another poor girl to torment.

Yours in no way whatsoever.

Had any whores lately or is your betrothed satisfying enough?

You will not reference what my betrothed and I do in our own quarters. That is no one’s business but our own. Although I can understand that your own lack of love-life might lead you to seek excitement from that of others.

When I promised you my protection, I meant it. No one shall touch you - my vile nephew least of all.