She hates King's Landing — it's full of heat and biting flies and weeping at night, carrying in from the darkened, desolate alleys below, through the lace-wooden shutters and curtains.

Sansa hates all of them, every Lannister, every person who stood by and watched her father's death and her public humiliation afterwards, every soul who rejoiced at the word traitor and cheered on. There is so much hatred now inside her that Sansa hardly believes when she walks, the ground underneath her feet doesn't tremour in her wake.

Tyrion Lannister… despite being a Lannister, he has been good to her, yes. He has not forced her to bed with him, not even at the command of acting as Sansa's lawful husband, and keeps his distance for most hours.

Shae glares at him often when he does interrupt them.

It's odd. Shae is also good; she's kind and sweet, always defending her, keeping Sansa protected… and yet, she doesn't act like everyone else. She forgets her manners, raises her accent-thickened voice in protest and stares in tight-lipped defiance at the other ladies-in-waiting.

She's not from King's Landing, with her lack of modesty and meekness.

"I don't want to have his children," Sansa mutters, airing out her thin, ivory night-gown. She dismisses the plate of strawberries and sweetgrass. "I don't want him to bed me. Not ever."

Shae tuts, gathering up linens and dropping them restlessly on the cot, walking up to her.

"No, I do not want that either," she admits, plucking up a glistening, pink-red strawberry. Shae's fingers touch lightly around Sansa's chin. "But you are expected to—don't be like that," she chides quietly, encouraging Sansa to lift her head. "Eat. Eat."

Sansa furrows her brow and opens her lips, her teeth sinking into the fruit's juicy, sour-sweet marrow. A thrum of warmth overcomes her at Shae's little, mischievous smile.

"That's very good, isn't it," Shae says with calmness and assurance, wiping a thumb over Sansa's bottom, moist lip. It's a slow, slow and repeated motion. Those dark, large eyes gaze over Sansa's features studiously. "My lady… have you ever pleasured yourself?"

"N-no… it's improper."

Even mentioning the possibility causes Sansa's cheeks to flush. She's heard about a woman's pleasure from the daughters of her father's bannermen and the stewards. The older ones giggle over their needlework and exchange furtive, smiling looks, while Sansa and the other girls roll their eyes and pretend to not be listening intently to every word.

Shae's hand lowers. "Knowing how may help you when your husband needs you to bear a child," she explains, looping her arm through Sansa's and guiding her from the table. "I think it's only fair that you experience pleasure at the same time he does."

"I didn't know it worked like that," Sansa whispers ruefully, peering up through her lashes.

"My poor, dear Sansa." The other woman coos as if deeply sympathetic, framing her palms against Sansa's face, "You deserve all of the happiness this world can offer you. Do you understand?"

After a silent, dutiful nod, Shae grins softly and carefully pulls open the night-gown. The air feels stifled and hanging with dampness to Sansa's bare body. Shae treats her gently, tugging her arm and leading them onto the huge, feathered bed, crawling upright between Sansa's legs.

Sansa flushes harder under the bold, naked attention, when Shae's warm, slender fingers grope hers, curling their hands to her mound and stroking downwards. She resists the urge to cry out or squirm or kick her away. Shae wouldn't hurt her. Not ever.

"Like this, my lady…" Shae whispers, running Sansa's fingers over her opening, tickling and pressing gently onto the folds of satiny-soft flesh until there's wetness spilling out.

Her breathing picks up, hitching when Shae's fingertips graze over the sensitive, tiny nub.


Sansa bites on her lips, blue eyes squinting and tossing her head when Shae rubs their fingers harder to her cunt. Cunt. She's touching herself — in such an abandoned, filthy way. In a place where her husband would give her a son, but it's Shae inside her now, burrowing a forefinger carefully into her tightness, easing Sansa's whimpers and confusion with shushing, reassuring murmurs.

"I'll take care of you, my sweet girl," Shae murmurs breathlessly, bestowing a sticky-hot, affectionate kiss to Sansa's knee. "My lady… Sansa…"

It's her own name that drives Sansa over the edge, tensing and releasing all of her muscles. The pleasure in her belly dips, then crests, until she gasps out and arches, quivering.

Shae helps her become grounded once more, rubbing her sopping-wet cunt in small, pressured circles with both of their hands, before leaning over Sansa and embracing her. "You did wonderfully," she says, grinning and pushes her nose against Sansa's, nuzzling.

"Does… it always feel like that…?" Sansa asks, panting and going cross-eyed from staring.

"Better — with the right person, of course."

Thank the gods she's found her then, Sansa tells herself, relieved.



GOT isn't mine. Prompt came from asoiaf kink meme under "Sansa. First orgasm." and there's still not enough femslash that exists in this world. Also I'm still participating in Kinktober this year and this one is for "masturbation" plain and simple. Any thoughts/comments appreciated!