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Sansa’s skin is marble-smooth, marble-pale; arms and legs and belly all done in muted tones. There are delicate veins, too, hinted at beneath her flesh; Tyrion follows them with his fingers, tracing along their branching paths. She’s ticklish, in places: along the inside of her elbow and the top of her shoulders. He kisses away the sensation, gazing at her until she blushes and looks aside.
He loves her hair, all copper-red, like shining coins, like silk. It spreads out on her pillow, ribbons and rivers of it, dripping down the edge of the bed. When she’s in his lap, braced over him, it showers down, falls about his face and hides hers. It’s dark there, in the shelter of her hair, and when she kisses him it’s with her eyes wide open.
Her hands are elegant, with long fingers. Tyrion watches them move swiftly as Sansa sews, as she moves a kingdom’s coffers from one ledger to the next. He’s seen the darting feather of a quill jump across a piece of parchment, a single careful fingertip following her words. Her hands beckon, enfold; they grasp a dagger inexpertly up against his throat. They tremble, sometimes, get cold, often. She places them in his and he treats them like a treasure, gentle touch and cautious movement, a callused thumb brushed along her palm.
She fumbled with the laces of his jerkin, hands shaking, no longer deft or clever. He moved her hands aside and put them in her lap, and spoke to her, softly. Honestly. Until she dimmed the lights and climbed into bed, and helped him peel away his layers, dropping clothing to the floor. It was Sansa’s hands that explored his new scars: she mapped them with her fingers, the ridges and the shiny, pink skin; decided that they were flesh, like him, like her, and moved on to his belly button.
Her mouth is a curious thing, pretty and bland. She uses it to make polite comments, to soothe and smooth over social interactions. He’s watched her lie, watched her blend truth into falsity with polished ease. Sansa whispers to him, sometimes, low and just above his ear: - hissed directions when he’s rude, murmured compliments when he’s witty; remarks and observations that make him snort on wine and earn him sharp glares.
(He can make her mouth fall open, slack and glossy-wet. Can use his own to kiss her neck, her collarbone, her ribs; can draw surprised sighs from her with how he lies between her legs, tongue and lips and fingers, too, until she falls apart.)
Her eyes are blue, and lovely, clear and far too sharp. They track ravens across the sky, and the meandering of servants; pin her bannermen when she needs to, then her eyes soften, just a little, and so do they. When she’s tired, they grow ringed with shadows and he coaxes her to bed. In her sleep they are shut firm, a tiny wrinkle forming between her brows. He asks her what she dreams about, what fancies her mind conjures. She smiles to herself in response, mouth like a rosebud: tightly bound, and secret.
On his best days he can make it bloom.